Failure to Appear by J. A. Jance Page A

Tanya," she whispered miserably. "Tanya Dunseth—my Juliet. She must have been only eleven or twelve, but I recognized her instantly. I'd know that profile anywhere. What's going to happen to her?"
    Full of brisk reassurance, Alex patted the back of Dinky's hand. "Nothing's going to happen to Tanya, and no one's going to hold it against her. She's the one who's been victimized. After something like that, it's even more of a wonder that she's been able to do what she's done. What a remarkable young woman!"
    "But you don't understand," Dinky added shakily. "I recognized the man, too. The one in the videotape. He's younger than his picture in the paper today, but I never forget a face. It's him all right."
    Suddenly, it all came together for me. "Martin Shore?" I asked in astonishment. "Martin Shore is the one on the tape?"
    Dinky nodded.
    "The dead man," Alex said, shaking her head. "I can't believe it."
    "It's true," Dinky replied, her face suffused with grief. "I don't know what to do."
    "This is important," I said at once. "We have to take the tape to Detective Fraymore, no question."
    Dinky shook her head. "I was afraid that's what you'd say. Why?"
    "Because it's against the law to conceal evidence in a homicide investigation, that's why. We're talking motive and opportunity here. I, for one, don't want to be charged with being an accomplice after the fact, and neither do you."
    By now the restaurant had filled up. During our low-voiced, highly charged discussion, I had twice waved off the proprietor of Cowboy Sam's New Bistro. Now he approached us more determinedly. "Would anyone here care to see the wine list?" he asked.
    I took several twenties out of my billfold and fanned them out on the table. Then, using a cloth napkin to protect any possible fingerprints, I picked up the box containing the videotape.
    "The lady isn't feeling well," I said to Cowboy Sam, nodding in Dinky's direction at the same time. For her part, Denver Holloway did indeed look violently ill. "I'm afraid we won't be able to stay for dinner. Not tonight."
     

CHAPTER
    7

    O ther people went to see Shrew in the Elizabethan that night. Alex and I didn't. Instead, we accompanied Dinky Holloway and spent most of the early evening closeted in Ashland's surprisingly modern city hall along with Detective Gordon Fraymore. He listened to what Dinky had to say in total silence. When she finished, he used a handkerchief to preserve fingerprints when he picked up the tape.
    "Right back," he said. "I'm going to take this down the hall and have a look-see." He was gone a long time—half an hour or more. Back in the office again, he placed the tape in the middle of his cluttered desk.
    "Looks like Shore all right," he muttered. "I thought there might be somebody else in the film as well, maybe another male we might have seen before or possibly even another kid. They sometimes do that—use more than one, but not this time."
    "You watched the whole thing, didn't you?" Dinky said accusingly. "That's disgusting." Alex nodded in grim agreement, her lips pursed into a thin line of protest.
    The expressions on both their faces said neither one of the women was buying Fraymore's excuse for watching the movie. I think they thought he was down the hall getting his rocks off. I wasn't fond of Gordon Fraymore, but I knew what he was up to. I didn't fault him for watching whatever was in that video because, unlike Dinky and Alex, I knew why he was doing it—because it was his job.
    I think the general public has come to accept the idea that objects equal evidence. The video case, the letter, the envelope, all might possibly contain trace evidence or latent prints that could prove valuable. What is less apparent is the importance of the tape itself and what information might possibly be gleaned from it.
    It's a lesson I learned the hard way back in the mid-seventies when I was a new guy to Homicide and there was no such thing as videotape. Vice brought in an especially ugly