The 6th Target - James Patterson [26]
Chapter 35
PAOLA RICCI’S ROOM in the Tylers’ house was compact and feminine. A poster of an Italian soccer team was on the wall opposite her bed, and over the headboard was a hand-carved crucifix.
There were three main doors in the small room, one leading out to the hallway, one opening into a bathroom, and another that connected to Madison’s room.
Paola’s bed was made up with a blue chenille spread, and her clothes hung neatly in her closet — tasteful jumpers and plain skirts and blouses and a shelf of sweaters in neutral colors. A few pairs of flat-soled shoes were lined up on the floor, and a black leather bag hung from the knob of the closet door.
I opened Paola’s handbag, went through her wallet.
According to her driver’s license, Paola was nineteen years old.
“She’s five nine, brown haired, blue eyed — and she likes her weed.”
I waggled the baggie with three joints I’d found in a zipper pocket. “But there’s no cell phone here, Richie. She must’ve taken it with her.”
I opened one of the drawers in Paola’s dresser while Conklin tossed the vanity.
Paola had white cotton workaday underwear, and she also had her days-off satin lingerie in tropical colors.
“A little bit naughty,” I said, “a little bit nice.”
I went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet. Saw her various lotions and potions for clear skin and split ends, and an opened box of Ortho Tri-Cyclen, the patch for birth control.
Who was she sleeping with?
A boyfriend? Henry Tyler?
It wouldn’t be the first time a nanny had gotten involved with the man of the house. Was something twisted going on? An affair gone wrong?
“Here’s something, Lieu,” Conklin called out. “I mean, Sarge.” I stepped back into the bedroom.
“If you can’t call me Boxer,” I said, “try Lindsay.”
“Okay,” he said, his handsome face lighting up with a grin. “Lindsay. Paola keeps a diary.”
Chapter 36
AS CONKLIN WENT TO SEARCH Madison’s room, I skimmed the nanny’s diary.
Paola wrote in beautiful script, using symbols and emoticons to punctuate her exclamatory writing style.
Even a cursory look through the pages told me that Paola Ricci loved America.
She raved about the cafés and shops on Fillmore Street, saying she couldn’t wait for nicer weather so that she and her friends could sit outside like she did at home.
She went on for pages about outfits she’d seen in shop windows, and she quoted her San Francisco friends on men, clothes, and media stars.
When mentioning her friends, Paola used only their initials, leading me to guess that she was smoking pot with ME and LK on her nanny’s nights out.
I looked for references to Henry Tyler, and Paola referred to him infrequently, but when she did, she called him “Mr. B.”
However, she embellished the initial of someone she called “G.”
Paola reported charged looks and sightings of “G,” but I got the clear impression that whoever he was, she was more anticipating having sex with “G” than actually having it.
The person mentioned most often in Paola’s diary was Maddy. That’s where I really saw Paola’s love for the child. She’d even pasted some of Madison’s drawings and poems onto the pages.
I read nothing about plans, assignations, or vengeance.
I closed Paola’s little red book, thinking it was the journal of an innocent abroad.
Or maybe she’d planted this diary to make us think so.
Henry Tyler followed Conklin and me out to the front step. He grabbed my arm.
“I appreciate your downplaying this for my wife, but I understand why you’re here. Something may have already happened to my daughter. Please, keep me up to date on everything. And I insist that you tell me the truth.”
I gave the distraught Henry Tyler my cell phone number and promised to check in often during the day. Techs were wiring up the Tylers’ phone lines, and inspectors from the Major Crimes Squad were canvassing the houses on Washington Street when Conklin and I left.
We drove to Alta Plaza Park, a historic, terraced gem of a place with breathtaking views.
Along with the nannies and toddlers and dog owners recreating within the park