Cemetery of Angels (25 page)

Two children were reported missing. That qualified as important.

A hopeful thought fluttered through his head. Maybe the missing kids had turned up alive and giggling in the time it had taken to drive over. But somehow he had a bad feeling. Somehow he knew it wasn’t going to be that simple. Life rarely was. And he already had adverse premonitions about being here.

The creepy feeling suddenly irritated him. He lifted his hand to hit the door again. Then the door came open.

“Yes?” asked a defensive male voice.

A man in his thirties with a haggard, tired face — the face of a graduate student who had been up all night — loomed into view and answered.

Van Allen caught a blast of suspicion. He pulled his gold shield from the breast pocket of his worn jacket. “LAPD,” he said. “I’m Detective Ed Van Allen.”

“There are already some cops here,” Bill Moore said.

“In uniform?”

“In uniform.”

“That would be standard, sir,” Van Allen began. “They took the ‘911’ call. The follow-up on the case, assuming you need one, is done through the detective bureau.”

He paused. When Moore made no motion to move, Van Allen saw fit to add, “That’s me, sir. Detective bureau.”

Bill Moore gave him a look that landed between subtle distrust and overt dislike. Then…

“Yeah, all right. Come on in,” Moore said.

“Thank you.”

Moore led Van Allen into his home. Almost immediately, Van Allen didn’t like Moore. Outwardly, however, Moore was capable of being polite. After a few more seconds, he turned and offered a hand.

“I’m William Moore,” he said. “Sorry if I seem upset. But I
am
upset. We called the police. Our children are missing. I had no idea how many police would be involved. Are there more coming?” He sank back into a chair, a man on the edge of hysteria.

“Only if I call for them,” Van Allen answered.

“There are already two cops here,” Moore said. “Did I say that?”

“You did,” said Van Allen. Then the detective explained again that the uniformed men had already put out a “Missing Juveniles” report on the police radio. From here on, Van Allen said, the case would be handled by the detective bureau. He had drawn the case as the chief investigator.

Moore looked Van Allen up and down.

“Oh,” Bill Moore said coldly. “Look, I’m sorry, but this whole thing is already an awful lot to bear.”

“I’m certain it is, sir.”

“Halloween was tonight,” Moore said. “The kids were going to go out. Am I not making any sense? My world is upside down. I want my children back.” Van Allen found himself reaching for the old standby lines of comfort.

“We’ll do everything we can. The sooner we get started, the better.” Moore exhaled hard.

“I’ll go get my wife,” he said.

Moore disappeared into another downstairs room. Van Allen stood alone in the living room, feeling like a fish out of water, looking at the thousands of dollars’ worth of renovations that had been made to Mrs. Dickinson’s decrepit old place.

He waited. One of the uniformed men came into view, gave him a nod, and went out to work the radio in the sector car. A few moments later, Rebecca Moore came into the living room with her husband. Her eyes were red and moist. But she was composed.

Van Allen offered her a hand, and then found himself reaching for more of the stock lines of reassurance that he always used in cases of disappearance. As he spoke, his hands went on automatic pilot. He retrieved his fountain pen and a small notebook from his inside pocket. The first pages of the notebook were covered with his jottings from the Billy Carlton tomb desecration.

“I think we need to have a discussion,” Van Allen said to the Moores. “Is there a good place to talk?”

“Right here’s fine,” Bill Moore said. He motioned toward a new sofa.

The Moores sat down.

Van Allen pulled forward a chair, which allowed him to keep his injured right leg straight. He caught the Moores watching him nurse his limp. He felt awkward around these people. They were both nearly twenty years younger than he, and things like that had started to eat at him recently. An obvious disability only worsened his uneasiness.

“I pulled a muscle the other day,” Van Allen said, attempting to explain away his limp. “Normally I don’t have leg problems. Used to jog fifteen miles a week.”

“Uh huh,” Bill said.

“Mr. Van Allen, what do you think has gone on here?” Rebecca asked.

“I have no way of knowing,” Van Allen said, “until you’ve told me as much as you know. Then we’ll do everything we can. That much I can promise you.”

Rebecca sighed, trying to stifle the terror, in addition to the unbearable sense of violation. Who could have been in her home? Who could have taken her children? During the first minutes of the meeting, Van Allen sought to cover the most basic details. He took a description of the children, and put it out immediately on the police radio, plus an Amber Alert that went statewide. Rebecca also provided for him a recent photograph of Karen and Patrick together. Two more uniformed men turned up a few minutes later. Van Allen sent one of the men to police headquarters immediately so that a copy of the picture could be transmitted to all Los Angeles precincts, plus those in the suburbs.

“What are our chances?” she asked, her voice starting to falter. “To find our children… alive?”

“The sooner you give us everything we need to work with,” Van Allen said again, “the better the chances.” She nodded. She looked around.

“Is this all we get? Four street cops? And one detective?”

“No, not all,” Van Allen assured her. “This is all you see right here. And a forensic unit will also be by to check for fingerprints or any other potential evidence. But there will be dozens of people working on a case like this, if necessary.” A male voice, her husband’s, softly asked,

“What do you mean by, ‘if necessary?’”

“We might locate your children in fifteen minutes,” the detective said. “From my lips to God’s ear, right? And yet, the sun might set today without our making any progress. Men and women will be assigned as necessary and if necessary.”

“You make it sound so routine,” Rebecca said. “And half my family is missing.”

Bill gave her hand a squeeze.

“The disappearance of a child gets the department’s highest priority,” Van Allen said. “We also don’t have problems calling in the FBI.” Moore snapped to attention.

“The FBI. Is that necessary?”

“Well, it could be,” Van Allen answered, surprised. “I would think you would want them. They have magnificent computers. Nationwide networks of information. Informants. Thousands of dedicated people. We have similar facilities statewide and citywide, too. But I would hope you would want as many available resources as possible on your side.” He paused. “I know I would.”

“Of course,” Rebecca said.

“But our kids could be right in the neighborhood somewhere. They could have just wandered off.”

“Any particular reason you suggest that?”

“No,” Moore admitted after a slight pause. “I’m speaking hypothetically.” He paused again. “Do we have to notify the FBI right away?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“I told you. I don’t like them. I’m hoping my kids turn up alive right away. I don’t want to unleash some huge law enforcement apparatus before we have that chance. We’ll have newspaper and television reporters all over our front lawn. Hell, I would think local connections and possibilities would have to be hit hard first.”

“They will be. I assure you.” Van Allen knew he was off to a rocky start with William Moore. He wondered if the young architect was on some sort of hostility inducing chemical. Van Allen eyed Mr. and Mrs. Moore back and forth. “Now I need to ask you some questions. May I?” Moore nodded. His approval was grudging and impatient.

“Please go ahead,” Rebecca said. She tightly clasped her husband’s hand.

“What time did you see your children last?” Van Allen asked.

“They went to bed at eight o’clock,” Rebecca said. “Sometimes they stay awake a little. You know how kids are.” Van Allen nodded. He knew.

“Did you go upstairs with them?” the detective asked. Rebecca looked at her husband and let him answer.

“We both did,” Bill said. “I walked up with Patrick. I put him in bed. That would have been about quarter past eight.”

“And what about the girl. Karen?” Van Allen asked. “Already asleep by then?”

“Both the kids were up a little late,” Rebecca said.

“Any particular reason?” Van Allen asked. Neither parent answered for a moment. Van Allen caught the pause.

“Something unusual happen last night, Mr. and Mrs. Moore?” the detective asked softly.

“Maybe a little too much Halloween,” Bill Moore said. “Kids get excited.”

Van Allen would have bet a month’s paycheck the Moores were lying. He could taste it. “Were they going to go out tonight?” Van Allen asked. “Trick-or-treating?”

“They were,” Rebecca answered.

“With other kids?” Van Allen inquired.

“I was going to take them,” said Rebecca. “They were going to go with me. You know. They’re young.” Her hands were wrenching a paper tissue now. The detective nodded. He looked down and made several notes.

“Okay, so you saw your son and daughter in bed and asleep last night. Before you retired, yourselves.”

“That’s correct,” Rebecca answered.

“And nothing unusual happened during the night?” Bill speaking:

“No, sir.”

“No signs of a break-in, obviously.”

“None,” Rebecca said.

“Any sign of a struggle? Any bloodstains?” Van Allen asked gently. Rebecca bit her lower lip and shook her head.

“Good,” Van Allen answered softly. “That’s actually a positive sign. No struggle.” He thought for a moment. “Is there a relative or friend in the neighborhood whom they like? Whom they could have sneaked off to visit?”

“We’re new here, as you know,” Rebecca said. “No real close friends.”

“And no relatives,” Bill Moore added. Van Allen nodded.

“Have your children ever disappeared like this before?” the policeman asked. “Maybe playing a trick. Anything like that?” The Moores responded with a pair of heads shaking. No, again.

“And nothing unpleasant happened that might have made them angry with you?” Van Allen pressed. “Anything at all, no matter how trivial, which might have caused them to run away?” Again the Moores answered in the negative.

Van Allen thought for a moment, still making some notes on his pad. Finally he looked up.

“So we know they were in the house, both of them, at about 8:15 P.M.”

“We know they were here later than that,” Rebecca said.

“Tell me how you know,” Van Allen asked.

“I checked the kids myself,” she said, calming somewhat. “Just before Bill and I went to bed. That would have been…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to think back to establish the precise time.

“We watched the late news,” Bill reminded her.

“That’s right,” Rebecca said. “Then I went to our bedroom. It takes me about fifteen minutes to get ready, and I always check Karen and Patrick right before I retire. So that makes eleven forty-five.”

“You both retired at the same time?” Van Allen asked. There was a moment of hesitation.

“No, I stayed up last night,” Moore said.

“Until when, sir?’

“I watched David Letterman.”

“The whole show?”

“All of it.”

“I missed it myself last night,” the detective said. “Frankly, I often prefer Jay Leno. Or maybe an old movie on cable. Of course, I watch the Lakers, but who doesn’t? Who did Letterman have on?”

The only thing that Moore could remember was the Spanish actress Paz Vega. In so many words, he remembered the hemline of her skirt. Rebecca gave him a sour look.

“Figures that’s what he’d remember,” she said. “Our kids are about to be kidnapped, and he’s leering at some actress.”

“If anyone had told me they were going to be kidnapped,” Bill Moore snapped back, “don’t you think I would have done something?”

Her look was unforgiving. The detective’s gaze hopped back and forth.

Moore reached for an architecture book and turned back to the policeman for support. “I was also reading a professional journal,” he explained. “I lie on the couch at night and read till I’m ready to sleep. I’m a new partner with my graduate school roommate in his firm. His name is Jack McLaughlin. He has offices in Brentwood, off San Vincente near Barrington. Jim subcontracts to me.” Van Allen found himself nodding.

“You can read a professional journal and watch television at the same time?” Van Allen asked. “I’m impressed.”

“Sometimes I like something going on in the background. It helps me concentrate. White noise, you know?”

“I know,” Van Allen said.

Van Allen eyed the sight lines that Moore would have had on the sofa. Line of vision to the TV. Line of vision to the stairs. Moore’s account made sense so far.

The detective turned back to Rebecca.

“Mrs. Moore? How long would it have taken you to fall asleep?” he asked.

“I get up at six-thirty every morning,” she answered. “I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.”

“So, Mr. Moore, you were the last one awake. So was it you who locked the doors to the house?’

“No, I locked them,” Rebecca answered. “At about 10:00 P.M.”

“And neither of you opened any door after that?”

“No.”

“No.”

“Neither of you needed to check a car? Put garbage out? Grab a bit of air?”

“No.”

“No dog to walk? No cat to put out,” Van Allen asked.

“We don’t have any pets,” Moore answered.

They both agreed that the doors had stayed locked. Van Allen pursed his lips and looked up.

“Forensics might come up with something when they arrive,” the detective said. “But neither door shows any sign of tampering. Nor does any window on the first floor. That might leave a second floor window, but all of those appeared to be locked, too. Nor is there any sign that a ladder was pushed to the house.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. I’m trying to understand. It’s like one of those puzzles,” Van Allen said. “What’s wrong with this picture? Your children are not in this house. But how could they have left? The door locks, the windows, are not the type that can be sealed from the outside. We agree on that?”