"He's off duty too. Who else do you want—"
"Listen to me, you ignorant bastard, and I'll tell you what I want. Get off your ass and find him; then have him call me at this number!"
Days were short in March, and the sun was already going down when the Bell Harbor exit off the interstate came into view. Paris needed directions to Sloan's house, but each time she called Kimberly's number at home, she got an answering machine.
Kimberly was probably still at work, Paris thought frantically. She told herself to stay calm, to think of other ways. She suddenly remembered that Kimberly worked in a boutique, and Sloan had talked about the owner. The owner had an old-fashioned woman's name, and the boutique was named after her. Paris had been especially interested in the kinds of designer merchandise that… that… LYDIA carried.
She grabbed the car phone and asked for the number of Lydia's Boutique. She was so relieved that she almost laughed when Lydia grumbled about a personal phone call for Kimberly.
"This is Kimberly Reynolds," the soft voice said, sounding understandably curious about the identity of her caller.
"This is Paris, Mrs. Reyn… Mother."
"Oh, my God. Oh, thank God." She was squeezing the telephone receiver so hard that Paris could hear the sound in her own phone.
Paris flipped on her lights and slowed to an exit speed that wouldn't hurtle her into the traffic backed up at the stoplight near the end of the exit ramp. "I'm in Bell Harbor. I have a problem. I need to find Sloan right away."
"She should be at home. It's after five, and she was working an early shift, but if she's working on a case, she often works later."
"I'm just exiting off the interstate. Could you give me directions to her house from…" Paris paused to read the street sign. "… From Harbor Point Boulevard and the interstate."
Kimberly complied with a gentle eagerness that touched Paris's heart even though it was pounding with anxiety. "Sloan keeps a spare key in a place you'd never think to look," she added, and told Paris where to find it "If she isn't home yet, you could go inside and wait for her," she added.
"Thank you very much." Paris was already making a left turn in accordance with Kimberly's directions. She suddenly realized she didn't want to end this first conversation with her mother yet. Holding her breath with uncertainty she said, "Do you think I could come over and see you later?"
A teary laugh escaped her mother. "I've been waiting for thirty years to hear you say that. You… you won't forget?"
"I promise I won't."
Minutes later, Paris found Sloan's house. A light was on inside, and a plain white, late-model car with an unusual license plate that read BHPD031 was parked in the driveway.
Certain that BHPD stood for Bell Harbor Police Department, Paris found a parking spot on the street in front of the house, grabbed up her purse, and got out of her car. The wind had picked up, and a few raindrops spattered the driveway. Although night had fallen, the street seemed safe and well-lit. Her plan was to knock on the door, tell Sloan what was going to happen, and then drag her out of that house immediately. Paul could take care of the rest.
The plan seemed perfectly sensible and easy to accomplish, yet the closer she got to the front door the more uneasy she felt. She stepped onto the porch and lifted her hand to knock; then she hesitated for another look around. Across the street on her right, the beach was partially lit by large mercury-vapor lights on tall posts, and the light was bright enough to illuminate a female figure walking quickly along the sand in the distance and then breaking into a run. Paris recognized her and was so relieved and happy that she called out to her without thinking about the noise of the wind and surf.
"Sloan—" Her greeting turned into a muffled scream as the door suddenly opened, a hand clamped over her mouth, and she was dragged inside.
51
The threat of rain that had made Sloan break into a run turned out to be little more than a few raindrops, and she changed her pace to a slow walk. Normally the ocean soothed her; it sang to her, but since she'd returned from Palm Beach, she'd found no consolation there. Before she went to Palm Beach, she'd loved her quiet hours alone at home. Now she couldn't stand to be there, either.
Bending down, she picked up a smooth round stone; then she wandered back toward the waves, and with a flick of her wrist, she tried to make it skip across the water. It should have skipped; instead it hit the water and sank. Because of the day she'd had, this seemed absolutely fitting.
She'd gotten home at a little after three o'clock and spent most of the intervening time sitting on an outcropping of rock to the north of the picnicking area.
She'd watched clouds roll in and obliterate the setting sun while she tried to hear the music. On still evenings, the sea played Brahms lullabies to her; on stormy nights it was Mozart Since she'd come back from Palm Beach, the music was gone; now the sea harangued her; it gave her keening sounds and bleak whispers that plagued her even in her sleep.
It complained to her that her great-grandmother was dead but her killer was free. It whispered to her that she had loved and lost because she'd let everyone down. It counted off her losses with each pitch and toss of the waves. Edith… Noah… Paris… Courtney… Douglas.
Sloan stood there, her hands in her pockets, listening to the bleak refrain, and it sent her back to her house even though she knew she wouldn't be able to escape it there either.
She cut across the street at an angle, head bent, tortured with memories, followed by the sad, urgent whispers. She was so preoccupied that she'd nearly reached the back door before she looked up and realized her house was dark at the back. Since she'd returned from Palm Beach, she'd started leaving a light on in the kitchen and one in the living room so she wouldn't walk into a dark emptiness. She'd turned the kitchen light on earlier; she was sure of it.
Wondering how she could specifically remember doing something that she obviously hadn't done at all, Sloan reached for the back door; then she saw the small broken pane of glass and jerked her hand back. She whirled, flattening herself against the house; then she ducked into a crouch.
Keeping below window level, she made her way toward the front of the house, noticing the living room lamp was still on. She did a swift calculation of probabilities and appropriate responses: she had absolutely no way of knowing if there was someone still in there or why they'd broken in. Thieves broke in quickly and got out quickly, but they wouldn't normally turn out some of the lights.