Brody Law. Carol Ericson
toe of his Converse sneakers against the linoleum floor, shoving his hand in the front pocket of his jeans. “I promise.”
She smiled. “That’s better. Are you satisfied, Mrs. McKinney? I don’t think Eli needs to go to Principal Yarborough.”
Mrs. McKinney huffed. “I suppose not, but we can’t have these kids wandering around the playground and talking to strangers.”
“Okay. That’s settled, then. You can walk to the line with me, Eli.” She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers.
He buried his hand deeper in his pocket and jutted out his lower lip. “But he gave me something.”
“Candy?” Mrs. McKinney snapped her head around. “Did he give you candy, Eli? Hand it over.”
“N-no.” His big brown eyes met Elise’s. “He gave me something for you, Miss Duran.”
Elise’s stomach dropped and she grabbed on to the back of the chair. “What do you mean, Eli? The stranger you were talking to at the gate gave you something to give to me?”
“Yes.” He bobbed his head up and down.
Viola cleared her throat and whispered, “Maybe it was your crazy ex.”
Maybe it was Sean. “Was he a police officer?”
“Yes, Miss Duran.” He slid a sideways glance at Mrs. McKinney that tried to put her in her place.
Elise’s pulse quickened. It must’ve been Sean checking up on her, but he should’ve just come into her classroom. He should know better than to bother the children.
“What did he give you?” Mrs. McKinney’s eyes narrowed.
Eli dragged his hand out of his pocket, a crumpled piece of white paper in his fist. “Here. He gave me this.”
Viola raised her brows and shook her finger at Elise. “Why is a cop coming to school and sending you notes?”
Elise’s cheeks warmed as she flipped open the folded piece of paper. The words swam before her eyes, and the blood in her veins turned to ice water.
“What does it say, Elise?” Viola took a step forward.
Elise raised her eyes from the note and blinked, bringing Viola’s face, lined with worry, into focus. Then she glanced down at Eli, his usually sweet face contorted by fear.
She dropped to her knees in front of him and tweaked his nose. “Thank you for bringing the note to me, Eli. But promise me you’ll never talk to a stranger like that again.”
“I promise, Miss Duran.” His lower lip trembled. “I-is the note bad?”
“This?” She waved it in the air. “Not at all. Mrs. McKinney’s going to take you back outside to play, but stay in the kinder yard.”
A tremulous smile wobbled across his face. “Yes, Miss Duran.”
Mrs. McKinney shot her a worried look. “Let’s go, young man. I heard you’re the only kindergartner who can hop on one foot all the way across the blacktop, and I want to see that before the bell rings.”
Elise mouthed thank you over Eli’s head and transferred his grimy little hand from hers to Mrs. McKinney’s.
When the door closed behind them, Viola spun around. “What is in that note?”
Elise took a deep breath and read aloud. “‘One plus one equal 187. Six plus twelve equal 187. Thirty-seven plus forty-nine plus 122 plus twenty-eight equal 187. 187 for you.’”
Viola cocked her head and plucked the note from Elise’s fingers.
Elise rubbed her damp hands against her skirt and swallowed. “I have no idea what it means, but it’s probably related to something that happened this past weekend.”
“Elise, you know my husband’s a cop with the Oakland P.D.”
“Yeah, I know that, but I’m sort of already working with the SFPD on this.”
Viola shook her head. “It’s not that, but I know what 187 means in cop-speak, anyway.”
“What does it mean?”
“Murder.”
“Why is he doing this?” Elise sat on a table strewn with colorful wooden blocks, one leg crossed over the other, kicking back and forth.
“For fun. For attention. He’s a sick SOB. The rules don’t apply to him.”
Sean paced in front of her. The Oakland P.D. had already been out to question the boy and get a description, which had been useless—a white man with a baseball cap and sunglasses is all Eli could give them. Oh, yeah, and the stranger had a badge.
That last bit of information had punched him in the gut—not as if any Tom, Dick or Harry couldn’t get a fake badge to fool a kid.
The teachers on playground duty hadn’t been much more helpful than Eli. Mrs. McKinney had seen him from a distance. The stranger must’ve seen her barreling toward him because before she’d made it halfway across the field, he’d hightailed it out of there. He’d completed his business anyway. He’d given Eli the note to give to Elise.
Why was he harassing Elise? It wasn’t good enough for him to taunt the lead detective on the case?
“How did he know where I taught? Do you think the kids are safe?”
Sean stopped pacing and flicked the leaf of a plant growing in the well of an egg carton. “He had your purse, your wallet, your phone. He probably figured out the name of your school from something in your purse.”
“My paycheck stub.” She hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I had picked it up from the mailbox that night and crammed it into my bag.”
“That made it easy for him.”
“And the kids?” She hopped from the table and took up the pacing where he’d left off. “Do you think he’ll do anything to the kids? I couldn’t stand it if something happened to any one of them.”
She covered her face with her hands and choked out a sob.
Despite his better judgment, he readied himself to go to her, to comfort her, but she looked up at him with dry eyes and a tight mouth.
“If he so much as touches one of these kids, I’ll take care of him myself. I still have my .22 at home.”
Her ferocity called to him even more than her pain. On his way to her side, he tripped over one of the little plastic chairs, which tipped over and bounced once before he caught it.
He righted it and then put an arm around Elise’s rigid shoulders. “He’s not interested in those kids, but the Oakland P.D. is going to have a patrol car here during school hours for the rest of the week. Doesn’t hurt that one of the officer’s wives works here.”
“Viola Crouch. She teaches kinder with me. She’s the one who told me what ‘187’ meant.” She shivered beneath his arm. “If he knows that and has a badge, maybe he’s a cop.”
Sean dropped his arm and turned away. “A lot of people know that 187 is the penal code for homicide, especially if they follow crimes, and anyone can pick up a fake badge.”
“I’m sorry.” She touched his back. “I didn’t mean to insult you or your profession, but it does happen, doesn’t it? I read somewhere that a few arsonists actually become firefighters or arson investigators.”
“It happens.” What was happening to his cool, calm demeanor? He’d always prided himself on his poker face, and now he was allowing all kinds of emotions to spill over for this woman to read. Or could she just see through his barriers easily?
“I