“The timing works,” I said. “Qeesha left Idaho a couple of years ago, plenty of time to hook up with Wedd, get pregnant. What I find interesting is Adriana didn’t follow her to L.A. but she did leave home, right around the same time. Reverend Goleman suggested she needed a life change. Meeting Qeesha, seeing her independence, might’ve inspired Adriana. She’d run the day care at the church. She found child-care work with the Van Dynes, then the Changs. San Diego’s close to L.A. so it’s not illogical she and Qeesha would reconnect. Maybe that post office box of hers was her own bit of naughty intrigue, allowing the two of them to correspond in secrecy. Allowing her vicarious entry to Qeesha’s world without actually participating. But four, five months ago that changed when Qeesha called for help and Adriana went down to L.A. with the Changs—a break of her usual routine. That’s the same time Sommers saw Qeesha pregnant and unhappy. What if Qeesha sensed she was in danger—she’d seen something frightening in Wedd’s attitude—and wanted support? Or a witness?”

He looked over at the building. The painters had paused, were sitting at the curb eating burritos. “… Those bugs. Wax. If Wedd’s our guy, he’s something other than human.” Head shake. “All those women, he’s got some kind of charisma going.”

“Women who aren’t seen more than once or twice.”

He stared at me. “Oh, no, don’t get imaginative. Too early in the day.”

He started the car but kept it in Park. His left hand gripped the steering wheel. The fingers of his right hand clawed his knee. He rubbed his face.

I said, “Sorry.”

“No, no, now it’s my head’s going in bad directions. What if the baby wasn’t unwanted, Alex? What if it was wanted in a bad way? Literally. For some kind of nut-cult ritual.”

His normal pallor had leached to an unhealthy off-white. I felt my own skin go cold.

He said, “Dear God in Heaven, what if that poor little thing was farmed.”

CHAPTER
28

A woman stood near the entrance to the division parking lot. Tall, lanky, long-legged with frizzy yellow hair, wearing a maroon pantsuit with shoulder pads a couple of decades too big, she consulted a piece of paper as she checked out entering vehicles. A badge was clipped to her lapel.

I said, “Department bean counter?”

Milo said, “Your tax dollars at work.” He rolled up behind a black-and-white and a blue Corvette that was someone’s civilian ride. Both cars passed the frizzy-haired woman’s scrutiny. When Milo pulled up to the keypad, she looked at him, waved the paper.

“Lieutenant Sturgis?” She approached the driver’s side.

Milo said, “Another survey? Not today,” began rolling the window up.