have?”
Carl flipped through his notes. “We don’t have any leads. At this point, we do believe it was a kidnapping.”
Mr. Rivera narrowed his eyes. “You have no suspects on the robbery?”
Carl shook his head. “None. The only fingerprints we found were Amanda Murphy’s, in the door frame.”
“Then it had to be The Hand.”
The Hand. The robber was so-called because the first few burglaries, a decade ago now, each had a crayon-traced hand, minus the fingerprints, on the unbroken glass of the jewelry case. He had quit leaving the calling card years ago, but the name had stuck.
“I’m hesitant to blame every robbery on him.”
“He was in the area. We know he was in Utah. Why not Idaho, too?”
“Kidnapping has never been a part of his game.”
Mr. Rivera pressed his index fingers to his forehead. “And you don’t know where his base is?”
The Hand always vanished. Sometimes for months, sometimes years, only to reappear again and disappear as quickly. “The Hand’s a cat thief. High-tech burglar. He’s not been a top priority because he’s more of a nuisance than a danger. However, if he really took the Swan Lake Necklace in Houston, which included two homicides, and kidnapped the girls, he has managed to jump a little higher on the list.”
Mr. Rivera shook his head and jumped off the swing. “Thank you for speaking with me, Detective. If I learn anything, I’ll be in touch.” He went inside.
Carl stood there a moment, a slight frown creasing his brow. That hadn’t gone how he had expected. He looked over the notes he had taken. He would check these sources.
He needed a reward. The last of his Claussen pickles were calling him.
Chapter 8
The low murmur of voices in the hall under the attic woke Jaci. She felt sore from lying on the wooden floorboards all night.
A movement next to her distracted her. It was Sara, curled in a fetal position, arms around her head.
“Sara! You’re back.”
Sara lifted her face, her eyes blank.
Amanda sat up and let out a cry. She grabbed Sara into a hug. “Where were you?”
“Here,” Sara answered. Her voice sounded empty and dull.
Something wasn’t right. Not sure what to say, Jaci wandered to the small round window. She saw The Hand walk out the front door. The yellow Camaro sat in the circle drive, driver sitting at idle, passenger door open.
Jaci snapped her fingers. “You guys, come here. He’s going somewhere.”
Amanda joined her. The Hand was giving instructions to someone in the doorway. Three of his men were with him. Jaci recognized two of them. Grey, the guy with the fat lips, and the dark-eyed one with razor eyebrows—was his name Eli?
“Where is he going?” Amanda asked. Her shoulders touched Jaci’s as they each tried to peer through the tiny opening, barely bigger than one of their heads.
The Hand glanced up at the window, his face implacable as he saluted in their direction. Then he slithered into the passenger seat and the car sped away.
Just as the vehicle pulled around the house, another car pulled up, one with a red and blue rack of lights on top and white-on-blue lettering on the side. Jaci gripped Amanda’s hand. “It’s the police.”
“They found us!” Amanda cried.
The trap door swung open, and one of The Hand’s musclemen poked his head up. “Come on down.”
He was taking them down? They must not have noticed the police car. If they could just be seen—or get someone’s attention.
The man’s head popped out of view, and the girls followed him down the ladder. He waited for them below. She tried to remember his name, but came up empty. He looked kind of like Homer Simpson, so she dubbed him Homer.
“Someone’s coming to see you.” Homer smiled without mirth. “You need to use the bathroom and get cleaned up. Come on.”
They followed him downstairs to the bathroom on the main floor. They turned a corner to see two officers, laughing and talking to Grey and another man.
Jaci and
Carl flipped through his notes. “We don’t have any leads. At this point, we do believe it was a kidnapping.”
Mr. Rivera narrowed his eyes. “You have no suspects on the robbery?”
Carl shook his head. “None. The only fingerprints we found were Amanda Murphy’s, in the door frame.”
“Then it had to be The Hand.”
The Hand. The robber was so-called because the first few burglaries, a decade ago now, each had a crayon-traced hand, minus the fingerprints, on the unbroken glass of the jewelry case. He had quit leaving the calling card years ago, but the name had stuck.
“I’m hesitant to blame every robbery on him.”
“He was in the area. We know he was in Utah. Why not Idaho, too?”
“Kidnapping has never been a part of his game.”
Mr. Rivera pressed his index fingers to his forehead. “And you don’t know where his base is?”
The Hand always vanished. Sometimes for months, sometimes years, only to reappear again and disappear as quickly. “The Hand’s a cat thief. High-tech burglar. He’s not been a top priority because he’s more of a nuisance than a danger. However, if he really took the Swan Lake Necklace in Houston, which included two homicides, and kidnapped the girls, he has managed to jump a little higher on the list.”
Mr. Rivera shook his head and jumped off the swing. “Thank you for speaking with me, Detective. If I learn anything, I’ll be in touch.” He went inside.
Carl stood there a moment, a slight frown creasing his brow. That hadn’t gone how he had expected. He looked over the notes he had taken. He would check these sources.
He needed a reward. The last of his Claussen pickles were calling him.
Chapter 8
The low murmur of voices in the hall under the attic woke Jaci. She felt sore from lying on the wooden floorboards all night.
A movement next to her distracted her. It was Sara, curled in a fetal position, arms around her head.
“Sara! You’re back.”
Sara lifted her face, her eyes blank.
Amanda sat up and let out a cry. She grabbed Sara into a hug. “Where were you?”
“Here,” Sara answered. Her voice sounded empty and dull.
Something wasn’t right. Not sure what to say, Jaci wandered to the small round window. She saw The Hand walk out the front door. The yellow Camaro sat in the circle drive, driver sitting at idle, passenger door open.
Jaci snapped her fingers. “You guys, come here. He’s going somewhere.”
Amanda joined her. The Hand was giving instructions to someone in the doorway. Three of his men were with him. Jaci recognized two of them. Grey, the guy with the fat lips, and the dark-eyed one with razor eyebrows—was his name Eli?
“Where is he going?” Amanda asked. Her shoulders touched Jaci’s as they each tried to peer through the tiny opening, barely bigger than one of their heads.
The Hand glanced up at the window, his face implacable as he saluted in their direction. Then he slithered into the passenger seat and the car sped away.
Just as the vehicle pulled around the house, another car pulled up, one with a red and blue rack of lights on top and white-on-blue lettering on the side. Jaci gripped Amanda’s hand. “It’s the police.”
“They found us!” Amanda cried.
The trap door swung open, and one of The Hand’s musclemen poked his head up. “Come on down.”
He was taking them down? They must not have noticed the police car. If they could just be seen—or get someone’s attention.
The man’s head popped out of view, and the girls followed him down the ladder. He waited for them below. She tried to remember his name, but came up empty. He looked kind of like Homer Simpson, so she dubbed him Homer.
“Someone’s coming to see you.” Homer smiled without mirth. “You need to use the bathroom and get cleaned up. Come on.”
They followed him downstairs to the bathroom on the main floor. They turned a corner to see two officers, laughing and talking to Grey and another man.
Jaci and
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