hunch. Especially not now, when we have new leads. And Rhea’s life might depend on our speed.”
Zoe’s face flushed. “It’s not a hunch.”
“It is.” O’Donnell shook her head. “Don’t give me that look—I’m not blowing you off. I’m telling you it can’t be done. There are just too many of them.”
“What if I narrow it down?” Zoe asked. “Give you a short list of ten names?”
O’Donnell hesitated. “You think a short interview will do? Fifteen minutes?”
“Yes.”
O’Donnell nodded. “Do it.”
Zoe’s foot jerked repeatedly as she worked through the list that Patrick Carpenter had provided for the police. As O’Donnell had already pointed out, it was incomplete, in more ways than one. It seemed as if Patrick had sat down, with no reference aside from his imperfect memory, and jotted down names. Several names appeared on the list more than once. Some were only the first name, or the last name, and a few congregation member names were written in their short form. These issues also caused some conundrums. For example, both Josh Wilson and Joshua Wilson were listed as congregation members. Were they the same person, simply denoted differently? Or different people?
Some had a phone number or address, but most didn’t. With enough time and patience, she could probably locate some of them, but she was running short on both.
She took out her phone and dialed Patrick Carpenter. The phone rang unanswered for twenty seconds, and Zoe hung up. She considered just driving over to meet him. But she couldn’t be sure if he was at home, at the church, or with his wife in the hospital.
She dialed Albert Lamb instead. He picked up almost immediately.
“Hello?” He sounded weak, as if he’d been fading away since his daughter’s murder and was now almost gone.
“Mr. Lamb, this is Zoe Bentley.”
He sighed. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to go over the congregation members list with you.”
“Mrs. Bentley, I’m tired. It’s been a long . . .” His sentence stretched as if he tried to pinpoint the time frame. Long day? Long week?
“I understand. But a woman has been abducted. We have very good reason to believe the man who killed Catherine is responsible. He’s from your congregation, Mr. Lamb—there’s no doubt. And the woman’s time is short.”
A pause. “I’m at home, Bentley. Can you come over here?”
She stood up and grabbed her bag. “I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 50
“I don’t know who half of these people are,” Albert said, studying the list with bloodshot, puffy eyes.
He looked even worse than last time, but it was the smell that was really getting to Zoe. He smelled of sickness, and stale vomit, and anguish. She was almost sure he still wore the same clothes from a few days earlier. His dog watched them with big wet eyes from the corner of the room.
“This is a list we got from Patrick,” she said. “They’re members of your congregation.”
“I know . . . I mean, the names are familiar. But I’m having a hard time connecting them to people. Catherine was the one who remembered everyone. If she were alive, she would give you a detailed list of each and every one of them, including their profession, their hobbies, and their favorite food. She was like that. I don’t know how the church will function without her.”
If they could talk to Catherine, she could just tell them who’d killed her, who Glover’s accomplice was, and get it over with. The thought came unbidden, accompanied with a flash of impatience and followed by guilt. Albert was trying to help, and it wasn’t his fault that every moment made him think of his dead daughter.
“What if you saw pictures?” Zoe suddenly asked. “Of the people? Would you be able to connect them to names?”
He nodded hesitantly. “I’m good with faces.”
She took out her laptop and turned it on. She opened the most recent folder, double-clicking the topmost picture. The image popped up on the screen, and to Zoe’s relief, Catherine wasn’t in it. It was a picture in church, five members of the congregation sitting on a pew, smiling at the camera. Glover wasn’t there, either, but there was one familiar man who Zoe had a hard time placing.
Albert made a hiccupping sound, and for a second, Zoe thought he was about to burst into tears. But he actually smiled, just slightly. “The woman on the left is Harriette. Next to her is John, her husband, and then—”
“John what?”
“Hobbs.”
Zoe wrote the image number in her notebook and the