Page 38 of Crosshairs

A long driveway seemed to wind up the heavily wooded lot. I thought a driveway like that would’ve led to a mansion. Instead, what stood at the end was a modest, one-story, middle-class house landscaped with manicured ornamental bushes and well-trimmed grass. It was the sort of place you’d expect a teacher or a mechanic to live in.

Trilling asked, “What do we do if Wendy is here?”

“We question her.”

“I mean, tactically, one of us should stay by the car.”

He was right. I try not to argue with anyone who’s right. Trilling stood at the rear of the car as I walked up the short path, onto the porch, and knocked on the front door.

As I waited, I looked down and saw the doormat. It said,ALL WHO ENTER THIS HOUSE ARE LOVED.

A woman in her sixties with short gray hair answered the door with a smile. I could tell right away that she was Wendy Robinson’s mom by her eyes. They were almost exactly the same as Wendy’s.

I introduced myself and showed her my ID. Trilling stood by until I gave him a signal.

Mrs. Robinson didn’t ask the usualWhat’s this about?She knew what this was about. From this small but important detail, I could tell the cops had been here about Wendy before. Mrs. Robinson invited us inside, and I motioned for Trilling.

I waited at the front door for him. As he stepped onto the porch and saw the welcome mat, he smiled and asked, “Are we sure this is the right place?”

It was true. Wendy Robinson had warmed to us but hadn’t exactly given off “love everyone” vibes. I said, “Kids don’t always reflect their parents’ traits.”

Trilling said, “Thank God. Otherwise, I’d be in prison too.”

I did a double take at this revelation from my partner, but he didn’t elaborate.

Mrs. Robinson called out from the kitchen, telling us to make our way to the living room. She put on a pot of coffee for us without even asking. That was old-school polite.

The interior of the house was exactly as I’d expected: neat and orderly to a fault. It took us a moment to settle onto the couch with a low coffee table in front of us.

Mrs. Robinson came in and said, “What has my Wendy done now?”

I had told Trilling I wanted him to start the interview. When he said, “Mrs. Robinson—” she interrupted and said, “Call me Bev.”

Trilling gave her a charming smile, shook his head, and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m afraid I can’t. I have too many memories of my mom pinching me for not using proper manners.”

She smiled and said, “Good boy.”

“That’s what my mom would say.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Why do you assume we’re here about Wendy?”

“I have four daughters. Each exceptional in their own way. But only one of them draws the attention of the police. She can be a wild one. She joined the Army to avoid a battery charge. You’re not the first police who’ve made the trek up my driveway to talk to me about my daughter. I’m afraid I haven’t seen her in over two months. And I’m afraid I’d rather not know why you’re looking for her. I just want to make sure you won’t hurt her.”

We assured her it was in everyone’s best interest for us to find her daughter. We checked to make sure we both had the right phone number for Wendy. Then we even asked Mrs. Robinson to call Wendy herself, to see if she could figure out where herwayward daughter was staying. Just like our calls, she got no answer.

Mrs. Robinson said, “Last time she was here was to practice with a rifle. There are no other houses around, and she said there were no ranges in the city.”

Both Trilling and I leaned forward. Mrs. Robinson didn’t know where Wendy’s rifle had come from, but she told us it wasn’t here at the house. Then she took us into the backyard and pointed out to us where a large old sheet of plywood was propped up against some trees in the distance.

As we walked toward it, I saw groupings of bullet holes in four different parts of the four-by-eight-foot sheet.

Trilling said, “Wrong caliber. These holes are likely made by .223s. We’re looking for maybe a .308.”

“That doesn’t mean she only has one rifle.”

We couldn’t find any bullets to dig out of trees for forensic examination, but we told Mrs. Robinson that we might be back.

She walked us to our car, where I handed her a business card with both of our cell phone numbers. She agreed to call us if she heard from Wendy. Then Mrs. Robinson said, “Can you help her?”

“She may not need help. Right now we just want to talk to her. She lied to us, and we need to know why.”