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“Not ‘simplify’ or ‘send her Fi,’” he said aloud.
Johnson was nodding and smiling grimly as he rolled his chair back and reached for his jacket. “Semper fi. Walter was in the Marine Corps.”
“As was Edmund Tate. My guess is they knew each other, and Tate recognized Walter chasing Kara that night.”
“I thought the attacker was masked.”
“He could’ve pulled it off when he gave chase.” The scene played out in his mind, the terrified seven-year-old running through the forest. A huge man running desperately after her. The cop on the porch hearing screams and recognizing the attacker. “Tate wasn’t chasing Kara.” Thomas reached for his sidearm, slipped it into the holster on his belt. “Walter was.”
“Tate just intercepted the chase, cutting across from his yard and running out onto the ice,” Johnson said.
“And what happened to Walter? Why did he back off? Because he saw Tate?” Thomas asked aloud, his thoughts spinning.
“Maybe, or just to get the hell out of there. He might have decided to get as far away as possible before anyone showed up.”
“Call the Seaside PD,” Thomas said as with a clunk, the department’s aging furnace kicked into higher gear. “Have them keep an eye on Robinson until we get a warrant.”
“Got it,” Johnson said, her eyes narrowing with a self-satisfied gleam. “My ex-brother-in-law is a cop there and we’re cool. He’s close to my son. I’ve already texted him while I was on the phone. He’ll let me know where that son of a bitch is ASAP.”
Thomas should have felt a little buzz of anticipation, the jolt of adrenaline that always came with an impending arrest for cracking a case, but something was off about this one. Walter Robinson was involved, he was certain of that, but it all didn’t make sense.
Why would Walter show up at the McIntyre house on Christmas Eve and slaughter the entire family, including his own son?
What had happened to his daughter, Marlie, who, according to Brittlynn Atwater, was supposed to run away with Chad that night?
Where the hell was Chad Atwater? Why did he run?
“Something’s off,” he said.
“What do you mean? We’ve got him!”
“Maybe.” As Johnson peered over his shoulder, Thomas started typing on his computer keyboard. He pulled up the file on Walter Robinson again, but he was antsy as he read the information, felt as if he was spinning his wheels here at his desk.
He needed to move, get out of the office.Dosomething. Just as Johnson did.
But Thomas couldn’t afford to arrest the wrong man.
Thomas read the info. Robinson’s current address was still Seaside, where he worked as an electrician. Independent. He had been in the marines, where he’d been a medic, and after being discharged had married Zelda Donner. They’d had two kids, the boy named for Zelda’s family, Donner Robinson, and a daughter, Marlie. Zelda and Walter had divorced and Zelda, pregnant with Kara, had married Samuel McIntyre, himself the father of two, his namesake Sam and Jonas, the wild card.
But he’d never been in serious trouble with the law. There was nothing on his record but parking tickets and a fine for poaching, hunting deer out of season.
“He’s our guy!” Johnson insisted.
“Yeah, but it’s not all adding up.”
“We’ll bring him in for questioning, put on some pressure, give him a chance to tell his side of the story again. See what he has to say.”
“Let’s see what we find in his place, once we get the warrant.” They were close, but a big part of the case didn’t make sense. He studied the pictures that Johnson had left on his desk of the crowd, or Walter Robinson and the girl who could be his daughter. Where the hell was she?
“Fine. I’ll double-check with the Seaside PD,” she said, and left him to study the footage of Walter Robinson in front of the television cameras, asking for information on his missing daughter. He’d seemed shell-shocked, but he’d just lost his son. Was it all an act? Was he a stone-cold killer just trying to cover his own tracks? Thomas picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser end on his desk. He was missing something, something vital, but what was it?
His cell phone rang, jarring his thoughts.
He picked up. “Cole Thomas.”
“Yeah . . . um, this is Mia Long. We met at the hospital.”
“I remember.”