Read Online Thread of Fear by Laura Griffin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Griffin
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Everyone who worked child abductions was haunted by the Polly Klaas case. Just hours after the twelve-year-old was snatched from herslumber party, police detained a man on a trespassing complaint at some property not thirty miles from Polly’s house. Unaware that the man was wanted on a parole violation, the police helped him pull his car out of a ditch and sent him on his way.
Weeks later that trespasser—Richard Allen Davis—confessed to killing Polly and led investigators to her body.
Child abductions were a nightmare, but Sullivan remained hopeful, in large part because of Fiona Glass. He had faith in her drawing, and now that he’d finally met her, he understood how she’d earned her reputation.
Psychic, some said. Others called her telepathic. When these high-profile cases came up, those labels got a lot of media play. Sullivan dealt in facts, not magic. Fiona wasn’t psychic, but she was gifted. He had no doubt that when they finally tracked down this UNSUB, he’d be a dead ringer for the picture she’d drawn. The woman was highly intuitive. He’d seen her in action, spied on her methods while standing silently outside the bedroom where she’d worked with Colter Sherwood. She had amazing instincts with people, somehow knowing precisely how to coax out vast quantities of information they didn’t even realize they possessed.
Sullivan flipped through his file until he found the brief write-up on the woman he was about to meet. He reviewed a few key facts before getting out of the car, leaving the file behind on the front seat. He liked to do interviews empty-handed. People tended to clam up when they thought he was taking notes, although most times that’s exactly what he was doing. Sullivan locked the Taurus, crossed the sidewalk, and entered Second Go Round.
The resale shop’s owner led Sullivan to the back as she reiterated what she’d said in the preinterview.
“It’s Ron,” she declared. “I’m sure of it. It’s like I told that agent on the phone, I got a knack for faces. There’s not a doubt in my mind.”
She shoved aside a rolling clothes rack and stepped through a narrow doorway. Sullivan followed her into the dimly lit back office.
“’Scuse the mess,” she said.
The room smelled like mildew and vanilla air freshener, and “mess” was something of an understatement. Giant piles of clothes lined the cinderblock walls—shirts, pants, dresses. A large black bin on wheels was filled to the brim with shoes. Another similar bin held child-size jackets and coats. Along the very back wall, a set of clear plastic boxes overflowed with socks, belts, and other items Sullivan couldn’t make out. It was difficult to see clearly. The sole light in the room came from an antique-looking floor lamp with a fringed yellow shade.
“He used to sort the merchandise,” the shopkeeper said. “People drop off whatever. It’s all mixed up.” She nodded toward several clothes racks crammed with hangers, but no clothes. “I been short-handed since he left. ’Specially with the New Year’s rush—people cleaning out closets and whatnot.”
The back door had been propped open with a rusty shopping cart, and Sullivan wondered whether this was for light or ventilation. He stepped over a pile of men’s sweaters. “You said he filled out an employment application? Do you have it on hand?”
“Sure.” She walked over to a black metal desk hardlyvisible beneath a heap of papers. “I got it filed here somewhere.”
Sullivan mentally composed a description of the witness. Her platinum blond hair was twisted atop her head in some kind of bun, and several frizzled strands fell in her face as she shuffled through the desk. She’d given her age over the phone as forty-nine, but Sullivan put her closer to sixty.
“Here it is!” She tugged a paper loose from the drawer and held it out for him.
“Thank you.” He took the form and stepped closer to the back exit where the light was better.
Ron
Weeks later that trespasser—Richard Allen Davis—confessed to killing Polly and led investigators to her body.
Child abductions were a nightmare, but Sullivan remained hopeful, in large part because of Fiona Glass. He had faith in her drawing, and now that he’d finally met her, he understood how she’d earned her reputation.
Psychic, some said. Others called her telepathic. When these high-profile cases came up, those labels got a lot of media play. Sullivan dealt in facts, not magic. Fiona wasn’t psychic, but she was gifted. He had no doubt that when they finally tracked down this UNSUB, he’d be a dead ringer for the picture she’d drawn. The woman was highly intuitive. He’d seen her in action, spied on her methods while standing silently outside the bedroom where she’d worked with Colter Sherwood. She had amazing instincts with people, somehow knowing precisely how to coax out vast quantities of information they didn’t even realize they possessed.
Sullivan flipped through his file until he found the brief write-up on the woman he was about to meet. He reviewed a few key facts before getting out of the car, leaving the file behind on the front seat. He liked to do interviews empty-handed. People tended to clam up when they thought he was taking notes, although most times that’s exactly what he was doing. Sullivan locked the Taurus, crossed the sidewalk, and entered Second Go Round.
The resale shop’s owner led Sullivan to the back as she reiterated what she’d said in the preinterview.
“It’s Ron,” she declared. “I’m sure of it. It’s like I told that agent on the phone, I got a knack for faces. There’s not a doubt in my mind.”
She shoved aside a rolling clothes rack and stepped through a narrow doorway. Sullivan followed her into the dimly lit back office.
“’Scuse the mess,” she said.
The room smelled like mildew and vanilla air freshener, and “mess” was something of an understatement. Giant piles of clothes lined the cinderblock walls—shirts, pants, dresses. A large black bin on wheels was filled to the brim with shoes. Another similar bin held child-size jackets and coats. Along the very back wall, a set of clear plastic boxes overflowed with socks, belts, and other items Sullivan couldn’t make out. It was difficult to see clearly. The sole light in the room came from an antique-looking floor lamp with a fringed yellow shade.
“He used to sort the merchandise,” the shopkeeper said. “People drop off whatever. It’s all mixed up.” She nodded toward several clothes racks crammed with hangers, but no clothes. “I been short-handed since he left. ’Specially with the New Year’s rush—people cleaning out closets and whatnot.”
The back door had been propped open with a rusty shopping cart, and Sullivan wondered whether this was for light or ventilation. He stepped over a pile of men’s sweaters. “You said he filled out an employment application? Do you have it on hand?”
“Sure.” She walked over to a black metal desk hardlyvisible beneath a heap of papers. “I got it filed here somewhere.”
Sullivan mentally composed a description of the witness. Her platinum blond hair was twisted atop her head in some kind of bun, and several frizzled strands fell in her face as she shuffled through the desk. She’d given her age over the phone as forty-nine, but Sullivan put her closer to sixty.
“Here it is!” She tugged a paper loose from the drawer and held it out for him.
“Thank you.” He took the form and stepped closer to the back exit where the light was better.
Ron
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