“When she hears or plays music, the notes appear to her in color. It’s a fantastic gift —”
“It’s a neurological condition,” Henry Tyler said impatiently. “It has nothing to do with her abduction. This has got to be about money. What else could it be?”
“What can you tell us about Paola?” I asked.
“She spoke excellent English,” Tyler said. “She’s been with us only a couple of months. When was it, sweetie?”
“September. Right after Mala went home to Sri Lanka. Paola was highly recommended,” Mrs. Tyler said. “And Maddy took to her instantly.”
“Do you know any of Paola’s friends?”
“No,” Mrs. Tyler told us. “She wasn’t allowed to bring anyone to the house. She had Thursdays and Sunday afternoons off, and what she did on those days, I’m sorry, we really don’t know.”
“She was always on her cell phone,” Tyler said. “Madison told me that. So she had to have friends. What are you suggesting, Inspector? You think she was behind this?”
“Does that seem possible to you?”
“Sure,” said Tyler. “She saw how we live. Maybe she wanted some of this for herself. Or maybe some guy she was seeing put her up to it.”
“Right now, we can’t rule anything out,” I said.
“Whatever it takes, whoever did it,” Henry Tyler said, his wife starting to break down beside him, “just please find our little girl.”
Chapter 35
PAOLA RICCI’S ROOM in the Tylers’ house was compact and feminine. A poster of an Italian soccer team was on the wall opposite her bed, and over the headboard was a hand-carved crucifix.
There were three main doors in the small room, one leading out to the hallway, one opening into a bathroom, and another that connected to Madison’s room.
Paola’s bed was made up with a blue chenille spread, and her clothes hung neatly in her closet — tasteful jumpers and plain skirts and blouses and a shelf of sweaters in neutral colors. A few pairs of flat-soled shoes were lined up on the floor, and a black leather bag hung from the knob of the closet door.
I opened Paola’s handbag, went through her wallet.
According to her driver’s license, Paola was nineteen years old.
“She’s five nine, brown haired, blue eyed — and she likes her weed.”
I waggled the baggie with three joints I’d found in a zipper pocket. “But there’s no cell phone here, Richie. She must’ve taken it with her.”
I opened one of the drawers in Paola’s dresser while Conklin tossed the vanity.
Paola had white cotton workaday underwear, and she also had her days-off satin lingerie in tropical colors.
“A little bit naughty,” I said, “a little bit nice.”
I went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet. Saw her various lotions and potions for clear skin and split ends, and an opened box of Ortho Tri-Cyclen, the patch for birth control.
Who was she sleeping with?
A boyfriend? Henry Tyler?
It wouldn’t be the first time a nanny had gotten involved with the man of the house. Was something twisted going on? An affair gone wrong?
“Here’s something, Lieu,” Conklin called out. “I mean, Sarge.” I stepped back into the bedroom.
“If you can’t call me Boxer,” I said, “try Lindsay.”
“Okay,” he said, his handsome face lighting up with a grin. “Lindsay. Paola keeps a diary.”