Blood Vines

CHAPTER NINE

Thursday, February 18

10:10 A.M.

Reed had suggested to Alex they meet. She’d agreed, seeming relieved when he offered to come to her. Just over an hour later, he glanced at his in-dash GPS. The positioning system had him arriving at Patsy Owens’s San Francisco address in six minutes. He had made good time.

Reed turned his thoughts to the meeting ahead. Patsy Owens had called him, claiming she had information about the baby’s remains. Now Patsy was dead by her own hand. Alex had been in the dark not only about the call but her years in Sonoma as well.

What did it mean?

They’d made little progress so far on the identification. They were still awaiting word on the pacifier pattern and the diaper had proved no help-there simply hadn’t been enough left for an identification.

His cell phone sounded. “Reed here.”

“Investigator Hwang, SFME.”

“Thanks for returning my call. I understand you investigated an apparent suicide last night. A Patricia Owens.”

“That’s right. Looks pretty clear-cut. Self-administered overdose. Had a history of mood swings and two previous suicide attempts. My office is performing an autopsy tomorrow morning. Why the interest?”

“The woman called me yesterday afternoon, said she had information about a case I’m working.”

“Sucks. Sorry I can’t give you more.”

“Call me if anything changes.”

He agreed and hung up. Minutes later, Reed eased to a stop in front of Patsy’s home. A slim, dark-haired woman waited on the front porch. She stood as he climbed out of the car; he saw she was dressed casually in blue jeans and a bulky white sweater.

She had grown into an attractive woman. In fact, she bore a striking resemblance to her mother. For a split second, it threw him. As if he had been transported back in time. He chalked it up to having refreshed his memory by looking at some old family photos before driving down.

He reached her and smiled. “Alexandra? Detective Daniel Reed. It’s good to see you after all these years, though I wish the circumstances were better.”

She silently studied him a moment, as if attempting to dredge up recognition. She frowned slightly. “Me, too, Detective. Come inside.”

He followed her in. Beautiful old place, he thought, moving his gaze over the interior, taking in both the big picture and the details. Canvases everywhere. Photos on the mantel.

The place had a chaotic feel. It wouldn’t be a comfortable place to live. Or grow up. He wondered if it had always been this way.

“Let’s talk in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was a sunny room. Less cluttered. A couple cups in the sink, plants in need of watering. A newspaper open on the counter.

She saw his gaze. “I left it where I found it.”

He nodded and crossed to it. The San Francisco Chronicle: Bay Area/State News. Short piece. His name and numbered circled.

“I tried her back several times,” he said, “it just rang.”

“Mom didn’t believe in answering machines. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it over to the café-style table. They sat, facing each other. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I have so many questions.”

“Actually, that’s my job.” She smiled. He went on, “I’m sorry about your mom.”

The pain was fresh; tears flooded her eyes. To her credit, they didn’t spill over. “Thank you.”

“I spoke with Investigator Hwang. He said your mother had a history of mood swings and had previously attempted to take her own life.”

“Yes. She was… troubled. When you knew her, what was she like?”

“I was only ten.”

“You must have some recollection of her.”

He thought a moment. “She was kind. Gentle. She seemed happy.”

The tears welled again, this time spilling over. She wiped impatiently at them. “You say I was five when we left Sonoma. Was I happy?”

“You seemed to be. You were a pistol, always into everything. A chatterbox. You used to drive Rachel crazy, the way you followed her around.”

“Rachel?”

“Your stepsister, Alex.” He said it gently, giving her a moment to digest the information, then leaned forward. “Alex, your mother called me the same day she took her life. She said she had information about the baby from the news story. Do you have any idea what that information may have been?”

A bitter sound slipped past her lips. “Actually, I was hoping you could tell me that.”

He studied her a moment, looking for a trace of deception. “I think she was wondering if the baby we found was Dylan.”

He saw her stiffen slightly. Saw the combination of fear and curiosity race into her eyes. “Dylan?” she asked, voice shaking.

In that moment, he wondered if she could be playing him, then rejected the thought. She really didn’t know.

“Your brother,” he said softly. “Dylan Sommer was your baby brother, Alex.”