Let Thy Children Come: Hammer & Sharpe Noir Mystery Thrillers, #1

By David E. Feldman

Two days before Halloween, seven-year-old Kyle Robinson does not return home from school, and private investigator, recovering addict, and avowed cynic Sam Sharpe is hired by his parents, Sheila and Arthur Robinson, to find the boy. Sharpe soon finds himself entangled with local crime lord Wallace North and his savage enforcers.

Meanwhile, Judah Hammer, a tough ex-con with a good heart, is release from jail after serving three years for manslaughter, and returns home to his large and loving family. Judah's father, a well-respected banker, is killed by a bomb that goes off at his bank, and Judah suspects that North is behind his father's death.

This noir mystery thriller includes a strong cast of fascinating, ongoing supporting characters, from vicious killers to femme fatales, and multiple riveting interwoven stories.

Fans of Robert Crais, Lee Child, John Sandford will love this first in series, Let Thy Children Come, Hammer and Sharpe Noir Mystery Thrillers: Book 1, by the author of the 6-book award-winning Dora Ellison Mystery Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David E. Feldman
• Release date: May 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224959099

David E. Feldman

David E. Feldman has written six books of his own and has ghostwritten many others. He has made three films, won 2 film awards and won a playwriting contest. He has an MLS degree in Library & Information Science. You can find his books on Amazon.com and elsewhere, under his name, David E. Feldman. They include: A Gathering Storm, Dora Ellison Mystery Book 2 Not Today, Dora Ellison Mystery Book 1 Pilgrimage from Darkness Nuremberg to Jerusalem Bad Blood, a Long Island Mystery Born of War: Based on a Story of American Chinese Friendship How to Be Happy in Your Marriage - A Roadmap He has also released Storm Warnings, A Dora Ellison Short Story Prequel His author website: https://www.davidefeldman.com/books.shtml His ghostwriting website: https://longislandnyghostwriter.com/ His film, Everyone Deserves a Decent Life (directed, produced) won the Alfred Fortunoff Humanitarian Film Award at the Long Island Film Expo, 2014. His film, Let Me Out! (Written, directed, produced) won Best Psychological Thriller at the 2009 New York International Film Festival. His play, Love Lives On, was a winner of the inaugural Artists In Partnership Inaugural Playwriting Contest. He has also been the owner of eFace Media (eface.com) these last 31 years, where he writes marketing and branding copy.

Book preview

Prologue

Sheila Robinson was on her way home from her part-time job at the library. She was a children’s librarian and loved her job—particularly performing book talks. She had grown up with an ever-growing love for reading and had immersed herself in theater groups in high school and college. Book talks were an opportunity for her to combine her loves of books and performing. An added bonus was when any of the children fell in love with a book she recommended.

She pulled up in front of the babysitter Janie Kerrigan’s house and found Janie, her once long blonde hair was newly bobbed, waiting on the sidewalk with five-year-old Emma. Sheila unlocked the car doors, allowing Emma to climb into the back seat, then rolled down the passenger side window and leaned toward Janie.

Everything okay? she asked.

She’s been talking all day about buying her costume, Janie said, laughing, as she leaned into the car. And her stomach’s been fine. Emma had social anxiety issues that manifested as an occasional loose stomach.

We’re buying the costumes today, Sheila said, waving as she raised the window.

Yay! Emma exclaimed from the back seat.

Buckled? Sheila asked.

Yup, Emma assured her, then asked, So, we’re going to the store to get my nurse costume now?

Sheila smiled at her daughter’s excited face in the rear-view mirror. After we pick up Kyle.

He’s gonna be a eng-ear, Emma announced.

He is. Sheila glanced from the road to her daughter’s image in the mirror and back again. She worried that the costume store might not have an engineer costume, or that whatever they did have would not suit Kyle, who had his own precise ideas about just about everything. When the world did not match Kyle’s preconceived notions—watch out!

Her mind riffled through his likely reactions to the store’s costume options. Too childish, not engineer enough, too girly ... She suspected that her too-smart-for-his-own-good seven-year-old would come up with some new criticism of his own.

She sighed and focused on his cherubic little face in her mind, letting such disturbing thoughts drift away like clouds. She had learned the technique in a guided meditation in her favorite meditation app. Let your disturbing thoughts drift away like clouds while breathing in peace and breathing out tension.

She pulled into her driveway and Emma was unbuckled, out of the car, and waiting impatiently at the front door before Sheila had even shifted the car into park.

She took off her sunglasses, put them in her work-day pocketbook which hung from the crook of her elbow, and took out her keys as she got out of the car. Stopping at the mailbox on her way to the front door, she paused, thumbing through the mail, before opening the door with her key. While Kyle was allowed to have his own key, which was kept hidden outside, he was required to lock the door from the inside when he was alone and to never answer the door.

Arrow, the family’s Jack Russell terrier, had begun to bark as she approached. Once she opened the door, the dog began leaping up against her thigh, barking wildly—his usual greeting.

Emma pushed past her and ran through the downstairs, calling out for Kyle, then marched up to the bedrooms and was back down again before Sheila had time to do anything more than finish looking at the mail.

He’s not here! Emma announced from the doorway between the living room and the dinette. Her tone was petulant, and Sheila knew that her daughter was afraid that they would not be going to the costume store.

Sheila didn’t answer because, at first, she didn’t understand. She glanced around the living room and stepped into the kitchen, scanning for crumbs. There were none, and the house didn’t smell like toast. Toast and crumbs were sure signs of Kyle’s recent presence.

Emma stamped her foot, frustrated by her mother’s confusion. Kyle’s! Not! Here!

Sheila frowned and retraced her daughter’s steps—around the downstairs, then up to the bedrooms. She stood in the doorway to Kyle’s room for a long moment. Her eyes traversed the posters of Aaron Judge and Saquon Barkley as she stood, listening. She turned and stepped into the bathroom, mindlessly pulling aside the shower curtain, then hurried downstairs and stopped at the bottom of the stairway, her hands on her hips.

Her eyes went to the couch. No book bag. She allowed herself to be annoyed—which was preferable to the terror that was clamoring at the edge of her consciousness.

She called out in her no-nonsense voice, Come on out, Kyle! Ha, ha, ha! Very funny. Now, come on out. She allowed a hint of warning to creep into her tone. Kyle...

Sheila listened and sniffed. Arrow had followed her through the house and was jumping up on her legs again. She reached down to scratch his head and behind his floppy ears and rubbed a thumb along the arrow of white fur on the top of his head that had inspired his name. Where’s Kyle, Arrow? Where is he? Where is he?

Arrow, who knew Kyle’s name, ran the circle of hallway that led to the kitchen and out its other side toward the den and back into the living room where Sheila was standing. He did this twice but offered no new information about her son’s whereabouts.

Kyle wasn’t here.

Kyle’s routine was the same every day; he retrieved the key from its hiding place outside to let himself in, then made a toasted white bread sandwich with Jif Creamy Peanut Butter and Smucker’s Concord Grape Jam, and brought that and a glass of milk into the living room to play his Mario + Rabbids video game. He did these things in exactly the same order—every afternoon, without fail.

Sheila heard nothing except for the ticking of the round, gold clock in the center of the mantelpiece. She hurried out the front door and around the corner, to the stone path on the side of the house. She lifted the third stone ... and found Kyle’s key, still there.

Now, she was certain. Kyle had never arrived home from school.

PART 1

Chapter 1

Arthur Robinson leaned back in his black leather office chair, exhaled, and closed his eyes. He was exhilarated. Finally, life was breaking his way. He had wanted to bill his clients on a scale that matched that of the most successful lawyers, some of whom had been college friends, and now he was doing exactly that with his new client, Pavel Minsky.

Minsky wasn’t the actual client; he was a lawyer who represented the client who must, Minsky insisted, remain anonymous. As far as Arthur was concerned, he was handling finances for Minsky himself and a company called Laramie Furniture Ltd., which was a shell company set up to obscure the client’s name and identity. All of this was fine, as far as Arthur was concerned. None of his business, he happily confirmed to Minsky.

He was charging 400 dollars an hour for advisory services, which entailed working on documents that would be converted by someone on Minsky and the client’s end to the company identity of their choosing. His job was to help them navigate federal and state financial laws and the requirements in setting up and running their holdings, the details of which would not be available to Arthur. Thus far, he had been paid $40,000, an advance for one hundred hours, with additional advances payable on the first of each month.

He had already begun celebrating—with Patti, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She worked out of the hotel that was part of the new casino, restaurant, and hotel complex at the old mall—now called the Northland. While he paid her an escort fee, a number that would have once stunned him, she did not behave like an escort. She behaved like a lover.

Sure, he loved his wife, his Sweets, and he was a family man with two young children. But he was now a member of the business elite, and this was what elite businessmen did. They had women on the side—beautiful women. They worked with extremely wealthy clients and they kept beautiful women on the side, then went home to their doting wives and loving families.

Arthur was finally a success—a truly happy man.

Then the phone rang.

SHEILA WAS HYPERVENTILATING as she called the attendance office at Kyle’s elementary school and was put on hold while Marion, the school secretary, checked to see if Kyle was listed as absent.

When Marion returned, she said, He’s not listed as absent, which means he was here.

Well, he didn’t come home, Sheila said and felt the first flush of panic. Oh, my God. Oh, my God!

Marion was suddenly all business. Why don’t you call some of his friends’ parents? I’ll take your number and reach out to the school nurse and Kyle’s teacher, Mrs. Boyce.

Sheila was grateful for Marion’s take-charge response. She needed to feel like someone was doing something. She ended the call and scrolled in her phone’s address book to the letter C. Jake Conklin was Kyle’s best friend, and Robert and Lila were Jake’s parents. She tapped the number and switched her iPhone to speaker.

Hello? It was Lila.

It’s Sheila. Is Kyle there?

Kyle? Hang on, let me check. I think Jake’s out back with Stoolie. Steven Stoolie Weiss was another of Kyle’s friends. The three boys were thick as thieves. A moment later, Lila returned.

No, he’s not.

Shit. Sorry, Sheila said. He didn’t come home from school, and if he’s not with Jake or Stoolie...

Hmm, Lila began.

Gotta go. Sheila ended the call. It was time to call Arthur. Before pressing his number, she turned on the TV in the living room, put on Sesame Street, and found Emma still standing in the foyer. Her daughter was swiveling at the waist, spinning to either side and swinging her arms as she spun—a behavior she seemed to enjoy for some reason and which Sheila didn’t question. She picked Emma up and carried her to the couch. I’ll bring your cereal in a minute, Sheila said, then hurried back to the kitchen.

Honey Nut! Emma called after her. With raisins!

She laid her phone on the counter, put it on speaker, and pressed Arthur’s work number.

Hey. Hearing Arthur’s voice allowed her insides to relax a little.

Hey. She tried to think of what to say, but her mind was whirling, and the words weren’t coming.

What’s up, Sweets?

She took a long deep breath and let it out slowly. Kyle didn’t come home from school, and he’s not with Jake or Stoolie.

Did you—

I called the school. He was there today. The secretary’s checking with the nurse and his teacher and is going to get back to me.

Well—

She cut him off, breathlessly. I was thinking of tracing his route from school. Maybe he ... ohh, I don’t know! She overfilled Emma’s bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and had to sweep a small mound off the counter and into her palm. She threw them out, then rooted around in a drawer for a mini box of raisins. Emma demanded raisins in her cereal; she was very particular and quite like her brother in that way. But I don’t think I should leave Emma. She found and opened a box of raisins.

His voice was calm. Hang on, Sweets. He was soothing her with his tone. "Let’s think about this. He’s not with Jake or Stoolie. Who else is there?"

There’s no one—at least no one whose house he’d go to after school without coming home and asking me first. It was true. Kyle came straight home from school every day. He probably would not even have gone to Jake’s or Stoolie’s without letting her know, and he definitely would have had his sandwich before going anywhere. That was Kyle’s way, and that boy was set in his ways. She knew her son.

She put a hand to her chest. The panic was roiling her stomach and rising in her throat—a fist squeezing her gut, threatening to erupt and spew the contents of her insides all over the kitchen. She put down the box of raisins and laid a hand on the counter, steadying herself.

Arthur said, Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m leaving work now, and I’ll trace his walk home. Let’s see what the nurse and his teacher say. Maybe I’ll stop at the school. He could have stayed at the schoolyard to join a pickup game of ball. Kyle had discovered baseball the previous year when he’d joined a t-ball team, which Arthur had helped coach. He was thrilled to find that with practice he could hit, catch, and throw as well as boys a year or two older, and had begun carrying his mitt everywhere. Despite being only seven years old, Kyle was eager to join any game that would have him.

Whatever the case, Sheila was certain that he would have come home before going out to play to ask permission and eat his sandwich.

She knew her son.

SHE WATCHED FROM THE lawn as Arthur pulled up in front of the house. She felt an odd combination of lost and shot out of a canon. Stay with Emma, she said as Arthur got out of the car, and she started toward the sidewalk. "She’s watching Sesame. I’m going to walk Kyle’s route home from school."

Arthur, who was tall and fit with graying blond hair and wore dark blue slacks with a light blue dress shirt and a white tie, caught up with his wife in two long strides and grabbed her by the wrist.

Hey, you’re hurting me! She looked back at him resentfully. He had pulled harder than he’d intended.

He let go. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! But look, I just came from doing that. We need to go to the police and report him missing. If he’s at a friend’s, he’ll come home or call—or the kid’s parents will call. But in the meantime, we need to report him missing, and with a missing kid, it’s all about speed.

Sheila turned and faced her husband. Her face crumpled. Kyle’s not missing! she wailed. I don’t believe that. It’s only been a few hours. He’s just ... somewhere ... one of his regular places, she insisted, but the fear was creeping in.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Use whatever words you want. He’s seven years old, and we don’t know where he is, and we need help. The police are that help." He was speaking now as though to a child.

Sheila was trying to compose herself; her face had taken on a stubborn pout. A defiant part of her was in denial, and another part of her knew that. He’s just ... out playing somewhere. He got caught up in playing and forgot to come home. We’ll give him consequences.

Arthur shook his head impatiently. He grabbed the air with both hands as though shaking her by the shoulders, then gritted his teeth and turned away for several seconds before turning back to her. If he is—great. He’ll come back and I’ll apologize, and yeah, he’ll have  ...consequences. But if he isn’t. If someone—

Arthur! She would not allow him to speak the unspeakable.

He shouted, his face reddening. We! Need! Help!

Sheila’s eyes clouded over with petulance. Go ahead, call the damn police!

No. We’re going there. With a missing child, every second counts! I’m not waiting here until they can spare a car to come by. We need to get their attention.

Stop, Sheila screamed. Just, stop!

A red-robed woman with dark blonde hair done up in a bun stepped outside the house across the street. On her feet were furry pink slippers. Is everything okay?

Yes, fine, Sheila automatically called back, waving. She suddenly felt ridiculous and turned to face the woman. No! It’s not, she said. Kyle, our son, is missing!

The neighbor, whose name was Krista, gasped and took a few steps down her walk, a hand to her cheek. Is there anything I can do?

Actually, there is, Arthur said. "Would you mind watching Emma while we drive over to the precinct? She’s in the house watching Sesame."

Of course! Krista said. I have a pot of egg noodles boiling. Let me just turn them off. She turned and hurried back up her walk and disappeared into her house.

Seconds later, a man in dress pants and a white T-shirt, with short curly graying hair and reading glasses perched low on his nose, emerged from the same house carrying a newspaper. Stan was Krista’s husband. He owned a company that manufactured custom-designed lighting.

Artie! he called. What’s this about Kyle? He strode half the length of the path between his door and the sidewalk.

He’s missing! Sheila cried, her degree of upset growing by the second. She stood at the intersection of the path to her door and the sidewalk and took a long look down the street in both directions. Her face was a mask of worry as she strode back toward her front door. She’d been doing this every few minutes—walking to the street and taking hard looks in both directions.

She hurried to her garage door and stared through one of its dirty windows, wondering if Kyle might have opened the garage and taken his bike. Terror was rapidly infiltrating her mind, urging her to drive around the neighborhood as fast as she could, checking every street, every house, and every yard.

Krista emerged from her house and joined her husband on the walk. Together, they crossed the street toward the Robinson’s.

Arthur walked back toward his front door, beckoning Krista to join him while Sheila and Stan waited on the sidewalk.

Emma! Arthur called, as they disappeared inside.

WHILE SHEILA AND ARTHUR stood in the Towson Police station’s vestibule, a female police officer took down Kyle’s description, what he was wearing, a list of the belongings he had with him, and the name of his teacher. Sheila explained that she had already reached out to the school, which had confirmed that he had been in school that day. The officer explained that his information would be immediately logged into the National Crime Information Center Missing Persons file, which Sheila found both comforting and terrifying.

The officer took down a list of Kyle’s closest friends’ contact information and his usual activities outside of the home. Other than visiting a friend, playing ball at the schoolyard or in a local street, or riding his bike around the immediate neighborhood, there wasn’t much to offer.

The officer took copies of photos of Kyle from Sheila’s phone and asked that as few people as possible be allowed into the family’s house. To the degree possible, nothing was to be disturbed. Officers would be dispatched to the house to survey and gather evidence.

Evidence of what? Sheila wanted to know, though she knew what they meant. Her mind kept showing her useless images of where Kyle might be and with whom—of his little angelic face, alone and frightened.

Finally, Sheila and Arthur were told that a detective would be assigned to their case and to expect to hear from him soon.

Arthur asked if the police had dogs that could search for Kyle, and the officer explained that this was a possibility that would be considered and addressed at the proper time.

When? What did that mean?

Sheila wanted to know if they should contact the newspapers but was told it was too soon for that, and to let the police do their jobs according to procedures. She was assured they would contact her soon.

She felt anything but assured.

Chapter 2

Sam Sharpe woke up with something jabbing him in his right side. In his dream, it had been a Ruger GP100, held by someone from another part of his life—another time, another place. Someone he thought was dead. He squinted into the light cascading through his east-facing office window, reached behind him, and pulled his keys out from under his right hip. He sat up, laid the keys on the low faux marble tabletop opposite the faux leather couch he’d been sleeping on, and tried to determine the source of the incessant beeping that was grating against the inside of his head.

He rose from the couch, went to an otherwise empty shelf along the south wall and pressed the start button on his single-cup Keurig machine, then turned to survey his sleeping area. He had brought two small suitcases with him, one of which included his gun, a Staccato CS, two sixteen-round clips, and a MacBook computer that contained old case files he didn’t need, and digital manifestations of his mental detritus. His mind was messy, so his computer was messy. Probably because his life was messy. Messy, yet strangely spartan.

As the machine whooshed and dribbled out his coffee, he shook his head at the news on his phone. The headlines disgusted him. People disgusted him. Greed, incompetence, and corruption were everywhere. As usual, the world was about to end, and maybe that was a good thing.

He brought up a Narcotics Anonymous meeting on his phone. Since Covid, many twelve-step meetings had migrated to online platforms, which Sharpe found easy and convenient. This particular meeting ran 24/7/365—it was always on—so he signed on whenever he had a free hour. After nearly a year, the meetings not only continued to keep him clean, but they kept him focused and spiritually fortified—resistant to the despair, violence, and loss that were a part of his work and life.

Sharpe was starting over. He was attempting to leave his mistakes behind him and forget the past. For now, his focus was business. If he was to live here in Towson, he’d need clients—accounts. So he’d rented this little office with some of the two grand he’d managed to scrape together and bring with him. An apartment would have to wait until he had an account or two. He would eventually hire an assistant, but for now, he had no need for one without any clients.

He’d fallen asleep thinking about how to go about finding work and had literally dreamed up a few ideas.

He flipped open his two little suitcases and laid them on the couch. He took off yesterday’s shirt, and removed his toothbrush, toothpaste, and razor from the outer pocket of one of the suitcases, then headed down the hall to the bathroom.

As he stood at the sink, he took out his phone and pressed the button for his satellite radio station, which permanently played the music of the Grateful Dead.

Unbroken Chain. That’ll do.

He shaved, carefully skirting the edges of his beard and mustache. It wouldn’t do to go downtown with bits of toilet paper clinging to his face. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, then ran wet fingers back through his graying hair.

Shit. He’d forgotten to buy scissors. He peered at himself in the mirror from several angles and decided to wait before stopping at the drugstore. He suspected he would buy the scissors, then come back here and realize he needed four other things. The forgetting and later remembering could go on for a week.

He went back to the office, took off his pants and underwear, and donned another set of clothes, frowning that he hadn’t ironed anything, but pretty sure that most of the wrinkles wouldn’t show once he’d worn the clothes for an hour or two. He slipped his shoes on and realized he should probably buy shoe polish, so he started a list on his Google Drive.

Scissors and shoe polish.

And floss.

And detergent.

Shit—and deodorant. He dug through his things and found the remnants of a stick of deodorant and swiped it on.

HE HAD A CUP OF COFFEE with a cheese and onion omelet at the Towson Diner and asked the waitress questions a tourist might ask about the town. Fortified with caffeine, he made three stops before returning to his office. He was thinking that if he could kick the blow and the weed, he could do anything—maybe even get over what he’d done.

He had once lived by his own version of a quote from Yeats: Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

But that was then.

Now, his grim focus was defined by another Yeats quote: Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.

He’d never cared much about how he lived, and he still didn’t. Sleeping in his office was fine. What he needed was accounts—and maybe, when he could afford it—someone to help organize the work.

His first stop was the Law Offices of Charlson, Bain, and Woods, which had the biggest sign on the main thoroughfare. He gave the petite, tight-lipped woman with the light brown pixie cut at the front desk a few of the cards he’d had made online. Divorce cases were his specialty, he explained, and he was the only private investigator in Towson, as far as he knew—freshly listed on Google.

The receptionist looked at his cards, picked up a phone, and moments later he was in the office of LaMarr Bain, a tall, dark, well-dressed man with a hurried but focused manner and a very expensive suit. Bain told him they’d been dividing their divorce surveillance between an employee at a nearby photo studio and a retired police officer, whose son had gone to primary school with the son of one of the other partners. A professional investigator would be welcome and would probably find work with a few of the junior lawyers, as long as the jobs went well, and the word of mouth was good.

Encouraged, Sharpe visited the Welfare Office and explained to a young woman with a bright-pink complexion, short blonde hair, and enormous holes in her ears that he was available to be hired to check up on welfare cheats. The woman thanked him and took his card.

Neither welfare, socio-economic issues, nor politics interested Sharpe, who believed the wider world to be a dangerous place inhabited by people driven by an assortment of insatiable desires. Life, he had found, was often brutal, regardless of one’s background, income, color, or religion, and Sharpe made it his business to take a dim view of just about everyone and everything.

He visited the Social Security Office, where he waited for several minutes at the counter in a quiet waiting room where the only sound was the news emanating from a television mounted in an upper corner and the occasional name called by one of two middle-aged women behind a hard plastic sliding window. He cleared his throat, but no one reacted.

Finally, he called out, Excuse me, Miss?

Sharpe was soon directed to a tiny office, where a young man, who appeared to be about eleven years old, listened impatiently while he explained that he was there to offer help surveilling disability cheats. The young man took his card, thanked him, and pointedly turned toward a computer screen without further comment. After a minute or two, the young man looked at Sharpe as though surprised he was still there and said, Thank you. Clearly a dismissal.

It was early evening when Sharpe returned to his office. He put his toiletries and clothing back in the suitcases and had just googled laundry near me on his phone when he heard a light tapping on his office door.

Door’s open, he called, sitting up.

The door slowly opened to reveal a gaunt, red-eyed young woman with disheveled shoulder-length blonde hair and watermelon lipstick.

Sharpe said, Come in. Have a seat. Afraid I can’t offer you coffee. He tried to look apologetic.

The woman came in and sat in one of the two folding metal chairs he had set between his desk and the couch. She clenched her fists in her lap, staring down at them. When she spoke, it was without looking up.

My name is Sheila—Sheila Robinson, and my son, Kyle, never came home from school today. She looked up with a plaintive look at Sharpe. He’s seven. I went to the police, but I know that the longer he’s missing the more likely... She swallowed and tried again, The more likely... She began to sob quietly, and Sharpe looked around but saw little besides his two suitcases, which were on the couch where he had slept. Otherwise, the room was entirely bare, except for the desk he sat behind, the chairs, and the shelf with the Keurig.

He rose. I’ll be right back, he said, and walked out of the office and into the hallway, leaving the door open. He returned a moment later with several wads of folded toilet paper, which he handed to the woman.

Sheila took them and nodded her thanks.

Sharpe asked the obvious questions. Are you sure he isn’t out playing and forgot to check in? Who were Kyle’s closest friends? Had there been any recent changes in his routine, or the family’s? Had she spoken to his friends’ parents? Had there been any recent conflicts in his life? Could she think of anyone who, for any reason, might want to harm Kyle? Was Kyle happy at home?

She gave him an angry look at the last question, then said that the police had asked