No way out

Chapter Twenty-seven

There was enough to tie the disappearances of Evan and Cara Martin together with the disappearance of Timmy Montgomery to ask whether it was possible. All three kids were of the same age and lived in the same part of town. Although they vanished two years apart, there was reason to look for other connections.

Did the families know one another? Even if they didn’t, did they have friends in common? Did their kids go to the same schools? How else might they have crossed paths?

Those questions focused on the possibility that the kids were taken by someone who knew them, but that theory didn’t suffer much scrutiny. If Jimmy Martin killed his kids to punish his wife for her real or imagined sins, it was unlikely he’d have had any reason to kidnap and kill Timmy Montgomery two years earlier. The same would no doubt be true of any member of the Montgomery family.

If there was a connection, it was more likely that the kidnapper/killer preyed on small children, indifferent to whether his victims came from happy or unhappy homes, caring only whether he could have them. And that meant he probably lived in Northeast, probably hadn’t started with Timmy and wouldn’t stop with Evan and Cara. It was an incendiary conclusion that would terrify families from one end of Northeast to the other.

Adrienne Nardelli had ducked my question about a connection, and that was enough to scare me. Regardless of why she had avoided answering me, it was clear she wasn’t going to share anything she had, at least not until I had something to offer her in return. Her lack of cooperation made my job harder but not impossible. I left a message for Simon Alexander describing what I needed and left another for the one friend I still had at the FBI, Ammara Iverson, asking for a favor, hoping I hadn’t gone to the well once too often.

The bones dug out of the woods above North Terrace Lake would distract Nardelli, not because one victim was more important than the other but because the job demanded that she work the cases at the same time. A housewife had disappeared from her Northeast home a few months ago, her husband refusing to cooperate with the police in their investigation. Without a body or other evidence of a crime, the husband had gone on with his life, raising their kids. Maybe the bones were hers, or maybe they were those of a prostitute who’d gone with a john into the woods for her last trick. Regardless, missing kids and bleached bones would divide and subdivide Nardelli’s time and attention.

I was no better off than Nardelli. I’d spent last night at Truman Medical Center worrying and wondering about Roni Chase, her relationship to Frank Crenshaw, and the possibility that her boyfriend Brett Staley had killed Frank, with or without Roni’s help.

The murdered and missing don’t take a number, waiting their turn, hoping people like Adrienne Nardelli and me can work them into our schedule. No matter how long they have been silenced, they scream for our attention, refusing to take no for an answer, and I never stop hearing their voices. Lucy may have shut out everything except the voices of the Martin kids, but Nardelli and I couldn’t. We’d keep doing the same thing: press on. Because that was the only thing we knew how to do.