Chapter 42

Bellingham, Washington

Wednesday to Thursday, March 11–12, 2020

I don’t know what life was like in anyone else’s household on the first morning of “distance learning” in March of 2020. I

can tell you it was hell at our place, and very little learning occurred.

A gloomy Mel, still agonizing over George Pritchard’s suicide, left for work early, leaving Kyle and me to duke it out with

something that was, to all intents and purposes, totally unworkable. The portal he was supposed to use went through endless

cycles of downloading without ever letting us enter. Hours into the process we finally gained entry, but then in one class

the video didn’t work, and in another the sound didn’t. At the end of the day, he had managed to be marked present in only

a single class, but missing the others wasn’t for lack of trying on our part.

When the official end of the school day finally put us out of our misery, Kyle went out to the garage to work off some of his frustration by beating the hell out of his drums. As for me? I took Sarah for a walk.

I had been so busy with the two cases that I had been neglecting Sarah. The good thing about Irish wolfhounds is that apparently

they don’t hold grudges. She was delighted when I took down the leash and asked if she wanted to go out.

As we strolled along—I wasn’t up to doing a brisk pace—I couldn’t help but think about Kyle. We had spent the day in the trenches

together waging battle with the school district’s unforgiving collection of technological screwups. I had enjoyed his wry

humor every time our efforts were dealt another setback, but it wasn’t until Sarah and I were out walking that I realized

how much I liked the kid.

Ashland is far enough away that, although we’d been together for holidays and special occasions, I had never really known

Kyle. Now I did, and I was seeing him not as a grandchild, but as a person, one nearing adulthood. He was likable and responsible.

When faced with a family problem, he’d had brains enough to ask for help instead of simply grinning and bearing it.

But what bothered me that afternoon was the likelihood that Mel and I were about to lose him. As we walked along, I explained

the situation to Sarah, not that she understood a word of it, but saying it out loud seemed to help.

“We’ve all enjoyed having Kyle around,” I told her, “but he’s going to be leaving us soon so he can go help his dad. We’ll

all miss him when he’s gone, but he has to do what he has to do.”

Because that’s exactly who he is , I told myself, someone who helps. He came here to help his friend Gabe, so why wouldn’t he go back to Ashland to help his father?

That’s when Hank Mitchell and Mr. Bean showed up. Hank wanted to know how school had gone that day. I told him it was a mess. I also thanked him again for dinner, but I didn’t mention how having dinner with them had been the tipping point in bringing down a serial killer. I’d tell both him and Ellen about that eventually, but not until the brass at Seattle PD gave the go-ahead.

As we got close enough to our garage to hear Kyle banging away, Hank mentioned that Kyle had asked him to stop by on Saturday

for another jam session, and that he was really looking forward to it.

Did I tell Hank Mitchell that Kyle would most likely be heading back to Ashland in the near future? No, I did not. I was already

feeling blue at the prospect. In my opinion, misery does not like company.

The second day of distance learning was marginally better. Kyle managed to be marked present in three of his classes that

day, and all the teachers involved felt obliged to assign homework. Since he was already working from home, that seemed more

than slightly redundant, but I managed to keep my mouth shut on that topic.

Halfway through the day, Marisa Young called me from Fountain Hills. “Serena’s here,” she told me. “She flew in yesterday

afternoon and brought her teddy bear with her. When I gave it to her all those years ago, I never dreamed that one day it

would help bring her back to me. But after she got here, we had a come-to-Jesus conversation, and I laid down the law. Since

her driver’s license was fraudulently obtained, she’s going to have to go through driver’s training and have a valid license

before I’ll allow her to drive a car.”

“I’ll bet that was a tough pill to swallow,” I put in.

“Yes, it was, but at this point, it’s my way or the highway. To live with me, she has to be one hundred percent real. She spent today working with people in New Jersey to obtain her original birth certificate. No birth certificate means no driver’s license, and that means no car.”

Wow. Marisa Young may not have had any kids of her own, but she obviously had a solid handle on how to be a parent. There

was part of me that wondered if the leopard could really change her spots. On the other hand, people do change—I’m a walking/talking

example of that. But the thing is, the person involved has to want to change. Maybe Marisa’s judicious use of carrots and

sticks could make that happen.

“And then there’s the baby,” Marisa continued.

“What about the baby?”

“It turns out the father is Mr. Got Bucks. He owns several car dealerships in the Seattle area. He may not have wanted this

baby, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t his.”

“It’s a girl?”

“Definitely a girl,” Marisa answered. “I’m having my attorney draft a letter informing him that, pending a paternity test,

he will be expected to pay child support. If he doesn’t do so voluntarily, we’re fully prepared to take him to court.”

This all sounded good, but was Marisa tough enough to make it work in the long run?

“And what does...?” Before I could finish my question, I paused long enough to get the name right. “And what does Serena

del Veccio think of all this?”

“I think she’s grateful,” Marisa said. “I think she’s tired of being Caroline Richards or whoever else she’s been over the years. I think she’s tired of lying. We’ve been in touch with someone inside the US Marshals Service. In their opinion, there’s no longer any reason for her to remain in hiding. In fact, I think it’s likely that once both Sal and his father were murdered, Serena and Tricia were no longer in danger. Too bad no one from the Marshals Service ever got around to letting them know.”

“So how’s Jeremy doing?” Marisa asked a moment later.

“Not well, apparently,” I replied. “I think he’s still somewhat bewildered. He’s also alone and lonely and begging Kyle to

come back home.”

“Is he going to?” she asked.

“Beats me,” I answered. “The jury’s still out on that, but probably.”

“Will you be sad to see him go?”

“Very.”

After the call ended, I sat there for a while thinking about two different teddy bears—Serena del Veccio’s and Benjamin Harrison

Weston’s. When Seattle’s Teddy Bear Patrol first started and we were required to carry teddy bears in our patrol vehicles,

I thought it was a goofy idea—right up until I needed one on the day Ben Weston’s family was killed. Now, years later and

as a result of the relationship that original teddy bear had started between a wiseass cop and a traumatized little boy, a

serial killer was finally being brought to justice.

Who’d a thunk it?