here,” Mr. Tisdale answered. “She’s from Florida. Her father’s deceased, but her mother and one of two sisters still live there. I can get you names and numbers if you want.”
“That would be great,” Parks said. “Any friends?”
“Yeah, a few. A Candace something. And a Melissa and Natalie. I’m not sure about last names. I know them, but I can’t think—”
“It’s okay.”
“You can check her iPhone. Everything’s in that. Schedule. Appointments. People’s information. The names will all be in there.”
“Mr. Tisdale, we didn’t find an iPhone or purse or wallet or any identification of any kind on your wife’s person,” Parks explained. “Could she have left them here?”
“Not possible. She had her phone attached to her twenty-four seven. And leave without her purse or wallet? No. She had all her cards in there. She left with them. I remember that.”
“Okay, so—”
“Then how did you know it was Allison?” Mr. Tisdale asked. Parks could tell that for a second the man had hopes that maybe the police had identified the wrong woman and that his wife was and could possibly still be alive.
“One of my men identified her from her realtor sign in the front yard,” Parks said. He let the explanation hang in the silence for a moment, and when he was sure it had been a ccepted, he continued. “How did your wife get to Mulholland from here?”
“She drove,” Mr. Tisdale said. “You found her car, right? Maybe that’s where her personal stuff is. She drives a silver BMW convertible.”
“We’ll get an APB out on the vehicle and try and locate it,” Parks said, trying to reassure the man, who was starting to get worked up.
“We’ve got BMW Assist,” Mr. Tisdale continued. “Call them and they can activate the GPS tracker on the car. They’ll tell you where it is.”
Moore made her way back into the front room and handed Mr. Tisdale a glass with a brownish liquid in it.
“Thought you might like something a little stronger,” Moore said, smiling.
Tisdale simply held the glass, staring at it as if it was a foreign object he had no idea what to do with.
“We’ll do that, Mr. Tisdale,” Parks continued. “Thanks.”
Parks caught Moore’s eyes as she slightly shook her head from side to side.
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“I don’t think so. Like I said, nothing special or out of the ordinary with us. I have no idea why someone would do this to her.”
6
I t was seven o’clock that evening as Parks and his team assembled around a table in the downtown LA conference room of the Detective Bureau of the Office of Special Operations. The Special Operations building was only a few years old, the result of the city finally agreeing to spend some money on the department, hoping to give the LAPD a major facelift in the eyes of the public. It was also built in hopes of ridding the communication barriers between divisions and eliminating some of the overlap that occurred when it came to certain duties. This late in the day there wasn’t a lot going on in the office as the other detectives had mostly finished their shifts and were already headed home. The detectives generally worked nine to five, but their schedules were adjusted frequently according to each case’s requirements. Detectives tried to be accommodating to people’s personal time and schedules when interviewing witnesses, neighbors, work associates, and the like. But that didn’t always work.
Every now and again Parks would catch one of the r emaining stragglers staring at him, shake their heads or even flip him off, then go back about their business.
Parks sat at the head of the table; to his left sat Rachel Moore and Jake Fairmont, while opposite them on his right was Jackie Isley and Milo Tippin. Assistant Chief Hardwick entered the room and stood near the doorway to observe and find out where the team was on the case.
Various wrappers from vending machine junk
“That would be great,” Parks said. “Any friends?”
“Yeah, a few. A Candace something. And a Melissa and Natalie. I’m not sure about last names. I know them, but I can’t think—”
“It’s okay.”
“You can check her iPhone. Everything’s in that. Schedule. Appointments. People’s information. The names will all be in there.”
“Mr. Tisdale, we didn’t find an iPhone or purse or wallet or any identification of any kind on your wife’s person,” Parks explained. “Could she have left them here?”
“Not possible. She had her phone attached to her twenty-four seven. And leave without her purse or wallet? No. She had all her cards in there. She left with them. I remember that.”
“Okay, so—”
“Then how did you know it was Allison?” Mr. Tisdale asked. Parks could tell that for a second the man had hopes that maybe the police had identified the wrong woman and that his wife was and could possibly still be alive.
“One of my men identified her from her realtor sign in the front yard,” Parks said. He let the explanation hang in the silence for a moment, and when he was sure it had been a ccepted, he continued. “How did your wife get to Mulholland from here?”
“She drove,” Mr. Tisdale said. “You found her car, right? Maybe that’s where her personal stuff is. She drives a silver BMW convertible.”
“We’ll get an APB out on the vehicle and try and locate it,” Parks said, trying to reassure the man, who was starting to get worked up.
“We’ve got BMW Assist,” Mr. Tisdale continued. “Call them and they can activate the GPS tracker on the car. They’ll tell you where it is.”
Moore made her way back into the front room and handed Mr. Tisdale a glass with a brownish liquid in it.
“Thought you might like something a little stronger,” Moore said, smiling.
Tisdale simply held the glass, staring at it as if it was a foreign object he had no idea what to do with.
“We’ll do that, Mr. Tisdale,” Parks continued. “Thanks.”
Parks caught Moore’s eyes as she slightly shook her head from side to side.
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“I don’t think so. Like I said, nothing special or out of the ordinary with us. I have no idea why someone would do this to her.”
6
I t was seven o’clock that evening as Parks and his team assembled around a table in the downtown LA conference room of the Detective Bureau of the Office of Special Operations. The Special Operations building was only a few years old, the result of the city finally agreeing to spend some money on the department, hoping to give the LAPD a major facelift in the eyes of the public. It was also built in hopes of ridding the communication barriers between divisions and eliminating some of the overlap that occurred when it came to certain duties. This late in the day there wasn’t a lot going on in the office as the other detectives had mostly finished their shifts and were already headed home. The detectives generally worked nine to five, but their schedules were adjusted frequently according to each case’s requirements. Detectives tried to be accommodating to people’s personal time and schedules when interviewing witnesses, neighbors, work associates, and the like. But that didn’t always work.
Every now and again Parks would catch one of the r emaining stragglers staring at him, shake their heads or even flip him off, then go back about their business.
Parks sat at the head of the table; to his left sat Rachel Moore and Jake Fairmont, while opposite them on his right was Jackie Isley and Milo Tippin. Assistant Chief Hardwick entered the room and stood near the doorway to observe and find out where the team was on the case.
Various wrappers from vending machine junk
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