After flicking through several pages, she found her answer. A fire had swept through the hospital in which Michaels was supposedly born. Though no one had been killed, most of the records and computing systems had been destroyed."
She leaned back in her chair. If she was a gambler, she'd put money on the fact that the fire had been deliberately lit. It was just a little too convenient.
"Iz, search through Emma Pierce's file. See if there's any mention of when she retired from the military."
The bony foot tapped again. "March 2040."
Basically the same time as Michael Sanders appearance. Coincidence? Probably not.
"Does Mary Elliot still work for Silhouettes?"
"Retired five years ago. Currently resides at the Greensborough home for the aged."
If she was in a home, then the odds of her remembering anything of note were not good. Still, it was worth a chance. She grabbed her handbag and placed the photo of a young Rose Pierce inside. "Book me a car, Iz. If anyone's looking for me, I'll be with Mary Elliot."
Chapter Twelve
Gabriel glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time. He hated stakeout duty. Hated sitting alone in a car watching a dark apartment. Especially when there was a murderer at large who could easily slip through their carefully laid net.
Jeanette Harris had been spirited away to safety. In her place was an SIU agent, a multishifter who'd assumed Jeanette's form. The apartment itself was wired — no one would get in or out without raising an alarm.
Yet he had a vague suspicion it wouldn't be enough.
He scratched the back of his neck and looked around. A paperboy pedaled slowly down the street, flinging papers haphazardly at each house. Sometimes they landed near the front door, but more often than not, they burrowed deep into bushes. The kid gave him a cheerful grin as he passed, and the next paper soared over the front fence and splattered against a window. The faint sound of curses could be heard. The kid chortled as he pedaled away.
Gabriel smiled and glanced back at the apartment building across the road. Nothing had moved. The black dog still sat guard near Jeanette's front door, and the sparrow hawk was lost amongst the shadows within the branches of the gum. Two more SIU agents, in human guise, watched out back.
If the murderer was a cop, she'd know of the precautions taken both here and with the remaining adoptees. If she had any sense, she'd back away and bide her time.
But something told him that wouldn't happen. The increasing urgency and violence in each of the murders pointed to a killer running out of time.
His viaphone beeped twice into the silence. He flicked the answer button. "Stern here."
Stephan appeared on screen. "Did you read the file from Sam?"
He pressed a button and saw the second call was from her. "It's just arrived."
"Apparently the only request for information on the adoptees, outside yours and her's, came from one Michael Sanders."
Sanders. The State Police officer with the strange eyes. "You've requested he come in for an interview?"
"Yes, but he's off duty and not home. I've got a team watching his apartment."
"Good." He glanced at the rear view mirror and frowned. The paperboy had disappeared. Odd, given that this was a cul-de-sac, and the only way out of the street was the way he came in. "Call you back, Stephan. I've got to check something."
He hung up and climbed out of the car. For a moment, he stood still, listening to the sounds of the morning. The wind was chilly and thick with the scent of rain. The flow of traffic from the nearby Western freeway was a steady hum, as was the usual morning noises as people woke and readied for work. The only thing missing was the trill of birds waking to greet the dawn.
Given the early hour, they shouldn't be silent. And usually, the only reason they did fall quiet was if there was a predator near — or something that looked like a bird but wasn't.
He reached again for his viaphone. "Brigg's, Francis, keep alert. Something's happening."
"Will do."
He pocketed the viaphone and headed down the court. Two houses from the end, he found the kid's bicycle, thrown under a large tree, papers scattered everywhere.
The house, a two-story, slab-style building, showed no sign of life. The windows were dark, and he couldn't hear any movement. Frown deepening, he walked down the driveway and around to the rear of the house. Again, nothing.
He scratched the back of his neck irritably, and returned to the street. Jeanette Harris' apartment block looked undisturbed and silent. He shifted shape and rose skyward.