Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [4]
“Thank God you’re here.”
“We’re going to do everything possible to get your daughter home safely and quickly. May we enter the house, ma’am?”
“Please.”
She stepped back.
The gang, which had been pawing the driveway impatiently, trampled through the door.
It was like opening day at the big sale at Target.
In a matter of minutes they had fanned out through the house, hoisting metal briefcases and coils of wire.
Mrs. Meyer-Murphy stared. Strangers were chugging up her steps and opening her closets.
“What are they doing?”
“We’re taking over your home.”
Wide-eyed. “You are?”
“Where is your husband, Mrs. Meyer-Murphy? Who else is in the house?”
Inside the door a heap of helmets and Rollerblades sat underneath a hat rack. She led me through a living room dominated by a fireplace of river rock. Family pictures on the mantel. I would get to those. A Santa Monica uniform was leaning over a coffee table, reading off the top of a pile of newspapers that had spilled onto a rose-patterned rug. There were shoes all over the place, kid sneakers and grown-up running shoes.
“My little one’s at school,” said Lynn Meyer-Murphy. “I took her to school, was that wrong?”
“Not at all. I’ll send an agent over.”
The tears—“I didn’t know what else to do!”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Meyer-Murphy. Beautiful home.”
There were gingham-covered sofas, distressed-pine tables, quilts and old-fashioned brass lanterns—artfully arranged but incongruous. The country style of the inside seemed to have nothing to do with the Spanish style of the outside. Or maybe the purple door held a symbolism that I missed.
“This morning, around six o’clock, I actually drank a martini. Is that crazy?”
“Understandable.”
“But it had absolutely no effect.”
As we passed through an arched doorway I noticed a cluster of miniature watercolors—tiny corsets and hats and high-button shoes. Commercial quality, obviously trained.
“Those are nice.”
“They’re mine. I’m a clothing designer and my husband is the manufacturer. A good idea at the time,” she added dryly.
In the kitchen the husband was half seated on a bar stool, talking on the phone. Lynn threw up her hands at the sight of him.
“Ross. Get off.”
He held up an index finger, telling us to wait while he continued to talk, focused on the floor.
“Ana Grey with the FBI.” Badging him. “I need you to hang up the phone immediately.”
He lowered the receiver. “It’s my phone.”
I stayed cool. I did not engage his anger.
“The lines need to be clear in case your daughter calls.”
“Oh, really? I never thought of that.”
He had the body type where the fat goes to the shoulders, round and bulky on top, a waist pinched by a belt too tight for those fancy jeans, stocky powerful legs. Balding. A light beard, color indiscriminate, which he was rubbing up and down.
“This is my husband.”
“She’s Meyer,” he said dolefully. “I’m Murphy.”
I gave it a smile.
Ramon hustled in, whipping a screwdriver from his tool belt.
“The police already hooked something up,” the dad said, indicating a small tape recorder attached to the phone.
“I know, sir, but we have to install our own equipment.”
“How are we doing?”
Now Andrew entered the kitchen, trailed by another Santa Monica police officer, statuesque, with blonde hair in a French braid. She had been the first responder. Her arms were strong and capable beneath the tight-fitting midnight blue uniform but her broad Slavic cheekbones were oily, eyelids heavy with fatigue. She had been on her feet for hours. Seeing another female on the job was a relief for both of us; we exchanged brief smiles.
“I just want to say one thing.” The dad pivoted on the bar stool. His