The 6th Target

"Go on," Conklin said.

"The records show that the Whittens have a child named Erica. She's a math prodigy, solving grade-school problems at only four. I looked up the Whittens on the Internet, and I found this interview in the Boston Globe."

Another piece of paper came out of Mary Jordan's handbag. She put a printout of a newspaper article on the table, turned it so we could read it, then summarized it for us as we read.

"This story appeared in the Lifestyle section last May. Mr. Whitten is a wine critic, and he and his wife were interviewed at home. Right here," Jordan said, pointing out a paragraph toward the end of the article, "is where Mr. and Mrs. Whitten told the reporter that their daughter Erica had gone to live with Mrs. Whitten's sister in England. That she was being privately schooled.

"And that seems sooooo weird to me," Jordan told us. "Like, unbelievable. The Whittens hired a na

Rich and I exchanged looks as Jordan continued.

"Maybe I wouldn't have thought anything of it if it hadn't been for Paola's murder and Maddy having been kidnapped," Jordan said. "I just don't believe Erica Whitten is living in England. You think I'm crazy?"

"You know what I think, Mary?" I said. "You have the instincts of a good cop."

Chapter 88

JACOBI COUGHED SPASMODICALLY BESIDE ME. The air was blue with smoke from Tracchio's vile cigar, and the speakerphone crackled on his desk.

The line was open to the Whittens' home in Boston, and FBI agent Dave Stanford came back on the line.

"The Whittens are clearly rattled," he said, "but I got the story out of them. Their youngest daughter, Erica, was kidnapped along with her na

Was this it? Finally, a string that co

But if Erica had been kidnapped eight months ago, why in hell hadn't the Whittens reported it to the police?

"No one saw the kidnapping," Stanford continued, "but the Whittens found a note under their door about an hour after the time Erica and Helga were expected home from Erica's school. A half-dozen photos came along with the note."

"It was a ransom note?" Macklin asked, his voice a muted explosion.

"Not exactly. You got a fax machine over there?"

Tracchio gave Stanford the fax number. Voices inside the Whitten house could be heard in the background – a man and a woman quarreling softly but urgently. The woman's voice said, "Go on, Bill. Tell them."

Stanford said, "Everyone, this is Bill Whitten."

Bill Whitten said hello, and Tracchio introduced himself and the rest of us in a general way. Whitten's fear and anger had tightened his throat so that his voice was a strangled croak.

"You have to understand what you're doing to us," he said. "They said if we called the police, they'd kill our little girl. Our house could be bugged! They could be watching us now. Do you understand?"

The fax machine behind Tracchio's desk burped, and a sheet of paper clattered into the tray.

"Hang on a second," Tracchio said, lifting the fax out of the machine. He put the paper on his desk for us to read.

WE HAVE ERICA. CALL LAW ENFORCEMENT, AND SHE DIES.

IF WE FEEL ANY HEAT, SHE DIES.

AND THEN WE'LL TAKE RYAN .

OR KAYLA . OR PATTY .

KEEP QUIET, AND ERICA WILL STAY HEALTHY. YOU WILL RECEIVE A NEW PICTURE OF HER EVERY YEAR. YOU MAY EVEN GET A PHONE CALL. SHE MAY EVEN COME HOME.

BE SMART. BE QUIET.

ALL YOUR CHILDREN WILL LIVE TO THANK YOU.

The note was eight months old, but the cruel language made the horror jump off the page. It felt as fresh as if the crime had just happened.

All the faces around the desk registered shock, but it was Macklin who grabbed the paper, gripping it as if he could wring the kidnapper's throat by proxy.

Tracchio retrieved a second page from the fax machine.

"I can't make out the pictures," Tracchio said to Stanford.

"Erica was photographed against a blank white background in the clothes she was wearing when she was taken. The other photos are snapshots of the Whittens' older kids at school. And there's one of Kayla shot through her bedroom window. We'll have the whole package analyzed."

I was thinking, Sure, they'll try to collect prints and traces from the envelope and its contents, but what Stanford isn't saying in front of the Whittens is that every dead Jane Doe in the country will be compared to the stats and DNA of both Helga Schmidt and Erica Whitten.

There was no doubt in my mind that the letter and the photos were a ruse to buy time.

Erica Whitten and Helga Schmidt were both dead.

But what had the kidnappers gained?

What did they want?

I was reeling with violent images featuring small girls and their equally helpless na

Chapter 89

CONKLIN AND I STEPPED OUT of the Blakely Arms elevator onto a carpeted hallway on the sixth floor and saw two cops halfway down the hall outside the door to apartment 6G. I recognized Officer Patrick Noonan, who was bucking to move into homicide.

"What happened here, Noonan?"

"A bloody mess, that's what, Sergeant. The victim's name is Ben Wyatt. He's been living in the building for about a year."

Conklin held up the police tape and I ducked under it, Noonan still talking. "The assailant came through the door," Noonan told me. "Either the door was open, the vic let him in, or the perp had a key."

"Who called it in?"

"Woman next door. 6F. Virginia Howsam. H-o-w-s-a-m."

Conklin and I entered the victim's sparely furnished apartment. A halo of blood pooled around the man's head, a dark puddle on the polished oak floors.

He was a black male, early thirties, fit, wearing shorts, a thin gray T-shirt, and ru

I bent to get a better look. His eyes were closed and his breathing was labored – but he was still alive.

Paramedics clattered through the door, crowded around the victim, and on the count of three lifted him into a stretcher.

The paramedic standing closest to me said, "He's unconscious. We're taking him to San Francisco General. Could you step aside, Sergeant? Thanks."

The sirens were wailing up Townsend as Charlie Clapper and a couple of his crime-scene investigators entered Wyatt's living room, then crossed the floor to the treadmill.

"The cord to this thing's been cut," Clapper said, showing me where the clean separation had been made, as if with a sharp knife. "You saw the victim?" he said to me.

"Yes. He's alive, Charlie. At least he is now. Looks like he was really clobbered from behind."

As with Irene Wolkowski, whatever instrument had been used to bash Ben Wyatt's skull had been removed from the apartment. And also similar to the Wolkowski crime scene, very little else had been disturbed.

No doubt there was a co

What was that co