“I don’t know.”
“You’d try to draw her out, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And how? By forcing her to show herself. You might post something about her long-lost daughter being on death’s door. You, if you’re a cop, might be able to find out some details about the hospital, the town, the doctor. Maybe you even find out from the adopted daughter herself, I don’t know.”
“Risky,” Loren said.
“What would make him think she’d still be looking up her old name like that?”
He thought about that. “I’m not sure. But of course that’s not all you do. You try to follow up on any old leads. You go back over the case step-by-step. But if she’s out there, if she’s got a computer like everyone else in the free world, maybe she’s going to be curious and Google her old name. It’s bound to happen, right?”
Loren frowned. So did Matt. The same thing kept troubling him.
“Those pictures on my camera phone,” he said.
“What about them?”
He was thinking about how to put it when the waitress popped up to their booth. “Another drink?”
Matt took out his wallet. He plucked out a twenty-dollar bill and showed it to her. “Do you know Kimmy Dale?”
“I only want a yes or no,” Matt said. “Twenty bucks.”
He handed her the twenty and took out another.
“Is she here?”
“Just yes or no again?”
He handed it to her. He took out three more. “You get these if you tell me where she is.”
The waitress thought about it. Matt kept the money in sight.
“Kimmy might be home. I mean, it was weird. Her shift is supposed to run until eleven, but she just ran out an hour ago with some lady.”
Loren turned to him, but Matt did not blink. His face kept still. He took out another twenty. He also took out a photograph of Olivia. “Was this the lady Kimmy left with?”
The waitress suddenly looked scared. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Loren was already up and starting for the door. Matt dropped the dollars and followed her.
“What’s up?” Matt said.
“Come on,” Loren called back. “I already have Kimmy Dale’s address.”
Kimmy put the videotape into the player. “I should have known,” she said.
Olivia sat on the futon and waited.
“You remember that closet in the kitchen?” Kimmy asked.
“Three, maybe four weeks after your murder, I bought this big vat of vegetable oil. I got on a stepladder to put it on the top shelf and behind the lip on top of the door, I saw this”—she pointed with her chin toward the screen—“stuck up there with duct tape.”
“Have you watched it?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I should have—I don’t know—gotten rid of it. Given it to the police, something.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Kimmy just shrugged.
“What’s on it?”
She looked like she was about to explain, but then she gestured toward the screen. “Watch.”
Olivia sat up. Kimmy paced, wringing her hands, not looking at the screen. For a few seconds there was nothing but static. Then it snapped to an all-too-familiar scene.
It was filmed in black and white. The date and time were stamped in the corner. A man sat on the edge of a bed. She did not recognize him.
A male voice whispered, “This is Mr. Alexander.”
Mr. Alexander—if that was his real name—started undressing. From stage right, a woman appeared and started to help him.
“Cassandra,” Olivia said.
Olivia frowned. “Clyde was taping customers?”
“Yes,” Kimmy said. “But with a twist.”
“What sort of twist?”
On the screen, both participants were naked. Cassandra was on top of the man now. Her back was arched. Her mouth was open. They could hear her purported cries of passion—they couldn’t have sounded more fake if she’d used a cartoon voice.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” Olivia said.
“No,” Kimmy said, “I don’t think you have.”
Kimmy hit the fast-forward button. The onscreen activities became more hurried. Changing positions, quick shifts. It didn’t take all that long. The man was done and dressed in fast-forward seconds. When he left the room, Kimmy let go of the button. The tape slowed back down to normal speed.
Cassandra moved closer to the camera. She smiled into the lens. Olivia felt her breath grow deep. “Look at her, Kimmy. She was so young.”
Kimmy stopped pacing. She put a finger to her lips and then pointed it at the screen.
A man’s voice came on. “This is a souvenir for Mr. Alexander.”
Olivia made a face. Sounded like Clyde Rangor trying to disguise his voice.
“Did you have fun, Cassandra?”
“I had lots of fun,” Cassandra said in the flattest monotone. “Mr. Alexander was just great.”
There was a brief pause. Cassandra licked her lips and glanced toward someone who was out of the shot, as if waiting for her cue. It came soon enough.
“How old are you, Cassandra?”
“Are you sure?”
Cassandra nodded. Someone off camera handed her a sheet of paper. “I just turned fifteen last week. Here’s my birth certificate.” She put the document close to the lens. For a moment the picture was blurry, but then someone worked the focus. Cassandra held it up for nearly thirty seconds. Born at the Mercy Medical Center in Nampa, Idaho. Parents were named Mary and Sylvester. Dates were clearly visible.
“Mr. Alexander said he wanted someone fourteen,” Cassandra said, as if reading her lines for the first time, “but then he said I’d be okay.”
The camera went back to static.
Olivia sat in silence. So did Kimmy. It took a while for the full weight of what Clyde Rangor had done to hit her.
“My God,” she said.
“Clyde didn’t just blackmail them with prostitutes,” Olivia said. “He set them up with underage girls. He had their birth certificates for proof. He even pretended that the johns were the ones who requested pubescent girls, but either way, even if you claim that you thought the girl was over eighteen, that’s a serious crime. This guy, this Mr. Alexander, he didn’t just risk being embarrassed or found out. He could be ruined. He could end up in jail.”