I pulled out the records and saw the little tiny footprint. No one could have predicted that innocent little foot would turn out to be the foot of a vicious killer.
“He bought the Paris ticket under ‘Shandling,’” Bailey said.
I put down the birth record. He’d purchased the tickets to New York under his real name. “Why would he use the alias?”
“Maybe because it doesn’t matter anymore, because he’s outta here.”
“I suppose. Or maybe it’s a deliberate mislead? Like, in case we hadn’t caught on to his true name yet, he used his alias again to make us believe he’s going to Paris?”
“But if he’s trying to distract us, why not buy two tickets and make it seem as though Hayley’s still with him?” Bailey asked.
“Not worth the expense?” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Too many possibilities,” Bailey said. “Not enough answers.”
“Have we made any progress on trying to nail down where the e-mail ransom note came from?”
“I’ll check. But it doesn’t matter. We already know Brian sent it. The most we’ll get is his IP address.”
“I’m just hoping for something to back up Legs Roscoe-”
“What? He’s rock solid. A little weird maybe, but solid.”
“Some corroboration wouldn’t hurt. Anyway, what about the calls on Russell’s cell-the ones after the kidnapping? Any progress on those?”
“Not yet. We’re working on it.”
Damn. I could feel Brian slipping farther away by the minute. Another boom of thunder exploded outside and now the rain fell in torrential sheets. The downpour was so heavy, I could hear it pounding the pavement below. Workers who were just five steps from their offices got drenched before they could reach the door.
I looked up at the heavy gray sky. I usually prefer bright, sunny days, no matter how hot. Not today.
Hayley’s murder was the lead story on the evening news. Hairsprayed news anchors on every channel salivated as they blasted the headlines across the country. I knew it was a harbinger of things to come if the case ever went to trial. But I didn’t get time to worry about it.
Forty-eight miles northwest of downtown, the canyons and hills above Malibu, still only thinly covered by shallow-rooted grasses and young shrubs after the rampant wildfires of last summer, shed layers of earth under the pounding rain. Mudslides sent filthy rivers pouring across all four lanes of Pacific Coast Highway. At the end of the highway closest to Santa Monica, the ebbing ground dislodged rocks and heavy boulders, one of which hurtled off the California Incline with meteoric force and landed on the roof of a car, crushing the driver’s skull. The car spun sideways, forming a blockade, and four vehicles behind it piled into each other like dominoes.
