Dale stopped at a street gutter and flipped to a fresh page. He sketched a new map of storm drains and made a note in the margin:
*Maps of city drainage system, abandoned cisterns & old coal mines—5 mile radius?
That kind of search could take weeks, even months. Geographically, the South Side was the biggest area of the city. It started south of the Racoon River, stretching east to Easter Lake and west all the way to the airport. At the southernmost fringes, it turned to vast, flat fields of corn. The South Side had once housed the largest coal mine in Polk County, and now the underground was like a block of Swiss cheese, dotted with old, abandoned mines. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of places to hide a body.
Dale continued moving the pencil over the paper, and soon it was filled with his meticulous sketches and labels.
His chest ached, the muscles tight with stress, and he drew a long, deep breath to try to stretch them out. He should bump up his next appointment with Dr. Smith. Get a refill on those sleeping tabs she sometimes gave him.
A suit approached him. “Goodkind? I’m Agent Miller.” One of the FBI agents from Omaha. “Got any nearby rap sheets for me?” He snapped a piece of gum in his mouth. Dale hated it when adults chewed gum. It made them look juvenile and unprofessional. He ignored the chomping and opened his sketchbook to the first page, squinting at his notes, now barely legible in the thickening darkness.
“Several guys with records in the neighborhood. Two for sexual assault, but they’ve already been interviewed, alibied, and cleared. We’re still working on the pervert list.”
Miller bit the gum between his front teeth. “Give me vehicles again.”
“BOLO went out early for a car seen in the vicinity, but the witness descriptions are sketchy. One saw a light-blue two-door sedan, then another described a gray or silver Camaro. Possibly late seventies.”
Miller handed him a sheet of paper. “Routes and names of paper carriers on the South Side. Start interviewing them first thing tomorrow. Newspaper is working closely with us on it. Fully cooperating.”
“Thanks.” Dale tucked it between two pages of his sketchbook. “I’ll work on the van drivers for the drop-offs first thing in the morning.”
“Good.” Miller planted his hands on his hips and stopped chewing. “I hear you worked on the West Des Moines case two years ago.”
Dale closed his sketchbook. “Yeah.”
“So, what’s your take on this one?”
Dale stared at Miller. “Honestly? We haven’t got jack shit. Just like last time.”
Miller looked sharply at him. “Then find something, goddammit,” he muttered, and walked away.
Dale slapped his sketchbook against the side of his thigh. He shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t helpful.
He dug his fingers into the back of his neck again. Two nearly identical cases, two different jurisdictions, and he’d been assigned both.
Impossible.
“Are you a cop?” a small voice called.
Dale turned around. A young boy straddled a red ten-speed bicycle on the corner across the street. He was heavyset, and the bike looked too big for him. He had to balance on his tiptoes.
“I am,” Dale answered.
“Are you looking for the Stewart kid?” the boy asked.
“Yeah.” Dale glanced around. “You know him?”
“No.”
“Are you out here by yourself?”
“I live nearby.” He jerked his head south. “That way.” A dark stain streaked the front of his white T-shirt. I’m a Pepper. He’s a Pepper. She’s a Pepper. The jingle played in Dale’s head.
“You should go home,” he said. “You shouldn’t be out here alone, especially after dark.”
“You won’t find him,” the boy said.
“Who?”
“Chris Stewart. He’s probably dead already. Like that Klein kid.”
Dale cross his arms and widened his stance. “Why would you say that?”
The boy looked away. “I just know.” He looked back at Dale and pointed at his holster. “Is that your gun?”
Dale touched the hard pistol butt resting against his hip. “It is.”
“Have you ever shot anyone?”
“No. Luckily, I haven’t had to.”
The boy bit his lip, considering Dale’s answer. “Would you ever kill a bad guy? Like the guy who took Chris?”
Dale frowned. “What did you say your name was?”
He started to cross the street, but as soon as Dale stepped off the curb, the boy abruptly turned the bike around and began pedaling, his chubby legs pumping furious circles. Within seconds, he was coasting down the hill.
Dale stopped and watched, perplexed, until the boy made a left-hand turn onto a street near the bottom of the hill. He jotted down a note:
Heavyset boy on red bike, light brown hair
Age: Possibly 11? 12?
Lives south of Hillcrest. On Clark or Cutler?
He glanced back in the direction the boy had ridden. He needed to figure out where the kid lived and pay him a little visit as soon as possible.
CHAPTER 4
One day, fifty minutes missing
Awake by seven AM, Crystal studied a trio of college applications and brochures spread across her desk. She’d narrowed down her choices to two in-state journalism programs, Iowa State and the University of Iowa, but her first choice was the University of Miami. On a whim she’d toured the campus last summer while visiting her father and had fallen in love with everything about it, but especially their journalism department and student-run paper The Miami Hurricane. Ever since, she’d been dreaming of eventually working as an investigative journalist at a major newspaper in a big city, like the Miami Herald.
Crystal laid her hands over the application and felt a knot of anxiety twist deep in her gut. U of M was a private school, and out-of-state tuition was something like $5,000 a year. She looked up from the papers and sighed. Just above her desk on a low shelf was an unnerving row of porcelain dolls, gifts from her mother. Tina had ordered the collectibles from the Sunday flyers and given one to Crystal for three consecutive birthdays. So far, she’d received Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, Scarlett O’Hara from Gone With the Wind, and Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Their fixed expressions and creepy glass eyes stared back at Crystal.
On the floor next to her desk was the latest doll for Crystal’s eighteenth birthday a few weeks ago: Princess Diana in her wedding gown, still in the box. It was Tina’s prized purchase and had cost a fortune. Money that could’ve been saved to help Crystal with school. The dolls represented just how much her mother didn’t understand her. Crystal switched on her clock radio, rolling the AM dial until she found a news report. She sipped lukewarm coffee from a chipped ceramic mug and read the headline of the Register:
MISSING PAPER CARRIER BELIEVED KIDNAPPED
Boy, 13, disappears early Sunday. His partly folded papers left behind.
With a special magnifying glass for reading small print, she scrutinized a grainy photo of Christopher Stewart’s shy smile on the front page, his dark, shaggy bangs falling over his brow. The caption beneath read Christopher Thomas Stewart didn’t talk to strangers.
She opened a red spiral notebook and started taking notes—the Stewarts’ home address just a few blocks from her own, Chris’s timeline from yesterday morning, scant witness statements. The reward for any information was already up to $5,000.