Little Girl Gone (12 page)

N
OW
she has to stay on the case,” Max said.

Thacker countered. “She's not a trained investigator.”

They were sitting in Thacker's office this Tuesday morning. Max was pleading his case for keeping Afton on the job, while Thacker scratched his head, looking dubious.

“Doesn't matter if she hasn't come up through proper channels,” Max said. “She's got all the right instincts. Last night proved it.”

“Hey,” Afton said. “Do I get to say something here?”

“No,” Thacker said. He leaned back in his chair, grabbed a yellow pencil, and twiddled it like a drummer would.

“Just let Afton stick with me for a couple more days,” Max said. “Until we talk to the babysitter and huddle with this Binger guy who got fired by Darden.”

“Farmer can handle that,” Thacker said.

“Okay, then just until Dillon gets back,” Max pushed.

“Which might not be anytime soon,” Thacker said. He blew out a glut of air. “On top of full-blown food poisoning, he's flirting with pneumonia. He's tossing down antibiotics like they're Pop Rocks.”

“So where does that leave us?” Max asked.

“Maybe send flowers?” Afton asked. She was only half joking.

Thacker glowered at her. “Are you really okay?”

“Yeah. Hell, yes,” Afton said. She wasn't really, she was sore beyond belief, but she wasn't about to tell either of them that.

“No ill effects?”

Afton forced a cheery smile. “None.”

“Okay, well . . . okay,” Thacker said. “Afton can stay. But only because we're so damn shorthanded. Between this kidnapping situation, the Bloomington Avenue double homicide, and that pharmaceutical heist, we're all chasing our tails like a pack of wild monkeys.”

Afton had been holding her breath. Now she let it out slowly. She'd just noticed a little wooden sign on Thacker's desk that said, W
HEN
Y
OU
C
HASE
T
WO
R
ABBITS
,
B
O
TH
G
ET
A
WAY
. She wondered if that was a Thackerism or an ancient Chinese proverb?

“Anyway,” Thacker said, hunching forward, “as long as Afton's going to hang around, I need to bring you both up to speed. There's been a new twist in the Darden case . . .”

Max and Afton exchanged glances. “What?” Max asked.

“Susan Darden called the Homicide desk last night just after eleven o'clock,” Thacker said. “She was in a full-blown panic. Seems that Richard hasn't exactly been a good and faithful husband.”

Max let loose a low whistle.

Afton perked up. “What'd he do? Have an affair?”

“Apparently Mrs. Darden overheard her husband talking on the phone,” Thacker said. “He was whispering sweet nothings to their former nanny.”

Afton fished for the name and came up with it. “Jilly Hudson?” She knew the FBI had interviewed the former nanny, even though Hudson hadn't been considered a suspect. Now she wondered if the girl's status might change. Sure it would. Of course it would.

“Isn't she just a kid?” Max asked.

“She's twenty-three,” Thacker said. “Old enough to know better.”

“So is Darden,” Afton put in.

“Anyway,” Thacker said, “Darden's apparently been enjoying a full-blown,
class A, convenient, extramarital love affair with Miss Hudson for a couple of months. And it started right there in his own little love nest.”

“Not anymore he's not,” Max said.

Thacker continued. “Mrs. Darden was so off-the-chain furious when she found out that she demanded we send over a cruiser. By the time the responding officers arrived, she'd tossed her husband out on his ass. Apparently his shit was lying all over the front yard, too. Suits, shirts, underwear, golf clubs . . . everything scattered in the snow.”

Max scratched his nose. “Sounds kinda crazy. Like a scene out of an Adam Sandler movie.”

“Susan kicked him to the curb,” Afton said softly.

“I guess,” Max said. He patted his jacket for his notebook, didn't find it, and said, “Don't we have Richard Darden scheduled to come in for a second round of questioning this morning?”

“One o'clock,” Thacker said. “I can't wait to hear his explanation about this—or maybe I can.” The phone on his desk suddenly shrilled. “Hang on.” He picked it up. “Yes, Angel?” He listened intently. “What?
Now?
” He straightened up in his chair and frowned. “Okay. Well, put her in Conference Room C. That's right, the one that looks like a big orange Creamsicle puked its guts out.” Thacker hung up and shifted in his chair. “Change of plans.”

“What's up?” Max asked. “Is the FBI stepping on somebody's toes?”

“No. It appears that Mrs. Darden just showed up
here.
I mean right now this minute. And she's asking to talk to the person in charge of her daughter's investigation.” He cocked a finger at Max. “That would be you, my man.”

“Okay.” Max made a motion to stand up.

“Not so fast,” Thacker said. “Susan Darden also wants to see your sidekick here.” This time he pointed at Afton.

“Me?” Afton squeaked. “Why?”

“Damned if I know,” Thacker said. “But I'm betting that, between the two of you, you'll wring it out of her.”

*   *   *

SUSAN
Darden wasn't so much sitting in an uncomfortable orange plastic chair as she was crouched in it. Every muscle was tensed, her normally
flawless complexion was red and blotchy, and her fingers drummed relentlessly against the Formica table. Even though she was a hot mess, Afton noted that she wore a spectacular winter white pantsuit with gold braid trim.

Max held the door open for Afton as they shuffled into the room. “Hello,” Max said, nodding at Susan Darden. He was according her the distant respect a mongoose might give a cobra.

“Hi,” Afton said. She wasn't sure what to expect either. Would the woman go postal and start hurling invectives at her? Would she remain calm but seething? It looked like they were about to find out.

Afton and Max slid into chairs across the table from Susan.

“I appreciate your meeting with me like this,” Susan said. Her lips barely moved and her voice was low and contained.

Max tipped a hand as if to say,
Go on.

Susan cocked her head. “Obviously you heard what happened?”

“Just briefly,” Afton said. Her face was fixed in a neutral position, but deep down she was dying to hear the full story.

“Why don't you tell us what happened,” Max said. He was staying cucumber cool, too.

“That asshole was
cheating
on me,” Susan spit out. Then, wraithlike, her face twisted with pain, she lurched forward in her chair and barked, “Richard was planning to see
her.
Our precious daughter's been kidnapped, I'm a complete basket case, and all he can think about is that little
tart
.”

“We're sorry about that,” Max said. “We really are. But how exactly do you think your husband's, um, extracurricular activity affects this particular situation?”

Susan paused to gather together her thoughts, and then said, “What if it's a plot?”

“A plot against you?” Afton asked.

“I don't know,” Susan said. “What if Jilly took the baby? Or the two of them conspired and are holding the baby somewhere?”

“And they would do that . . . why?” Max asked. He wasn't buying the conspirator theory, but he was giving her the benefit of the doubt.

“To drive me crazy,” Susan said. She twisted the ring on her right hand,
an enormous moonstone set in gold. “It
is
driving me crazy. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't focus. All I can think about is Elizabeth Ann.”

“You know we're doing our best,” Max said. “We've been working in concert with the FBI, following up on a number of leads.”

“I get that,” Susan said. “I saw the two of you on TV last night. You were down in those woods checking to see if that poor frozen baby was Elizabeth Ann.” She hesitated and then her voice grew softer. “That's when I knew that both of you cared deeply. I finally comprehended that finding my baby is important to you, too.”

“We understand your pain,” Afton said. “We're parents, too.”

Susan pulled a hanky from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “I thought for sure that little baby was Elizabeth Ann.”

“But it wasn't,” Max said. “Which really is a blessing of sorts.”

“Know this,” Afton said, leaning forward. “If it
had
been her, we would've called you immediately.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Afton said. “We wouldn't have let you spend one extra second worrying if it was her or not.”

“It's always better to have an answer,” Susan said.

“Yes, it is,” Afton said.

Everyone was quiet for a moment, and then Susan gazed at Afton and said, “You're a mom, too?”

“Yes, I have two girls,” Afton said. “And Max has two boys.”

“So then you know,” Susan said.

“I do and I don't,” Afton said. “I know the love a mother feels for her children, but I've never experienced the terrible pain you're going through right now.”

“It's awful,” Susan whispered.

“Tell us more about the plot,” Max said.

Susan waved a hand. “I don't know that it's a legitimate plot. On the other hand, I wouldn't put it past Jilly. She's a strange girl. Very focused and driven. When she sees something she wants, she doesn't hesitate to go after it.”

“And you think Jilly went after Richard?” Afton asked.

“Well . . . yes, I do,” Susan said.

“You're thinking she stood a better chance with the baby out of the way?” Max asked. Susan winced at his words and Max said, “I'm sorry, but we need to be absolutely clear about this.”

Susan picked at an invisible piece of lint on her lapel. “Yes, I think Jilly would stand a better chance without the baby. It's . . . The baby served an important part in keeping our marriage together.”

“Okay,” Max said. “That's all we need to know.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Susan asked.

“It means,” Max said, “that we're going to severely sweat the two of them.”

“That's the best news I've heard yet,” Susan said. “But Richard is . . . well, let's just say he's honed his skills at being evasive.”

“Of course he has,” Max said. “He's a corporate big shot. Still, we're fairly skilled in our interview techniques. And there's always the threat of incarceration.”

“That sounds good to me,” Susan said. She showed a faint smile. The first one they'd seen from her.

“While we have you here,” Afton said, “would you mind if we went over a few things?”

“I guess,” Susan said.

Afton consulted her notes. “Are you familiar with the Wee Ones Daycare Center on France Avenue?”

Susan shook her head. “No. Why?”

“The woman who owns it had some trouble recently,” Afton said.

“Concerning a child?” Susan asked.

“Actually, it was a tax issue,” Afton said.

“Oh,” Susan said. She looked thoughtful. “You know, I never considered taking Elizabeth Ann to day care.” She curled her lip. “But I was pretty darned hot to hire a nanny. Although I hesitate to call Jilly Hudson that now. Considering . . .”

“I doubt she'll be putting nanny duties on her résumé for a long time,” Max said.

Afton leaned forward and said, “If you can manage it, I'd like to hear a little bit more about the doll show lady. The one who called herself Molly.”

“There's not much to tell,” Susan said. “I was at the Skylark Mall buying a pink snowsuit for Elizabeth Ann and I kind of stumbled upon this doll show.”

“And you met a woman named Molly who created reborn dolls,” Afton said.

“Yes,” Susan said. “At first it seemed a little weird, but when you see one of them, when you actually hold one in your arms, there's something . . . kind of compelling about it. Something magical.”

“So you'd say this Molly was fairly polished at sales,” Max said. “At drawing in customers.”

“She drew me in,” Susan said bitterly.

“What else can you remember about her?” Afton asked. “I know you sat down with a police artist and did an Identi-Kit sketch, but the one I saw was fairly generic. It could have applied to a lot of females in the forty-to-fifty-year age range.”

“I'm sorry about that,” Susan said. “My memory . . .” She touched a hand to her head. “It's terrible.”

“Don't apologize,” Max said. “At least it's a starting point. But what we'd really love is some little detail or snippet of information that might be lurking in your memory. Something you picked up, but haven't shared with us yet.”

“I have no idea what that might be,” Susan said. “I mean, I've been over this about a dozen times with the FBI. I even looked at that nanny cam footage, but it was too dark and grainy to really see anything.”

“We know that,” Afton said. “And we appreciate it. But if you could just scrape up a little bit more information on this Molly person. Even if you just shared your impressions, it would help us.”

“Well,” Susan said. “She was a thin woman and not all that attractive.”

“How'd she wear her hair?” Afton asked.

“Kind of mousy and straggly. Brown, with little touches of gray.”

“So your general impression was . . .” Afton prompted.

“That she'd lived kind of a hardscrabble life,” Susan said slowly. “She had this careworn look about her. And her hands . . . they were rough and raw, as if she'd done a lot of hard work. Like maybe she'd worked in a factory or on a farm.”