Little Girl Gone (14 page)

“Not really,” Ashley said. “I was pretty out of it by then.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about that night?” Max asked.

“Yeah,” Ashley said. “Mr. Darden was a creeper.”

“How so?” Afton asked.

“You know, like a lech,” Ashley said. “Like he wanted to
do
me.”

There was a sudden hubbub outside in the hallway, voices raised in excitement and a scramble of footsteps. Afton got up to see what was going on. She came back into Ashley's room a moment later and looked pointedly at Max. “Channel 7 just showed up.”

“Oh my God!” Ashley said. “Are those the TV people? Do they want to talk to
me?
”

“I suppose,” Max said. He didn't sound happy.

“I can't go on TV looking like this,” Ashley squealed. “It's impossible. Wait a minute.” She reached over and grabbed a hand mirror off her nightstand. Then she held it up in front of her face and carefully peeled back the bandages that held her nose splint in place. She pulled off the splint in one smooth move.

“Do you think you should be doing that?” Afton asked.

“Whatever,” Ashley said, frantically combing her hair and arranging her coverlet. “Okay. Now they can come in.”

Portia Bourgoyne and her camera crew brushed past Afton and Max as they came into the room.

“Try not to screw this up, too,” Max said. He was in a snarly mood.

Portia blew him off royally. “Are you kidding? This kidnapping story is the best thing that ever happened to me. You think I want to work in a
mid-market, jerkwater town doing fluff pieces on food shelf volunteers and polar bear plunges? This is my ticket to a network job where I can do hard news.”

“Like Ebola and suicide bombers?” Afton asked. “Good luck with that.”

“If you think this kid's gonna make you a network star,” Max said, “you're sorely mistaken. She can barely remember her own name.”

Portia just smirked. “Don't worry about me, sweetie. I've got more than one trick up my sleeve.”

J
UST
as they popped out of the parking ramp, ready to head back to the department, Don Jasper, the Chicago FBI agent, called. And he sounded frantic.

“I'm over here in Woodbury,” Jasper said, his voice high-pitched and strangled amid all the static. “At Synthotech. I need you to run something down for me.”

“What's that?” Max asked.

“Our field office just received an anonymous tip. Somebody saw a man toss a bundle into a Dumpster down behind Rush Street Pizza at Twenty-fifth and Lyndale. You know where that is?”

“Yeah. A bundle, you say?”

“The caller thought it looked like a baby.” Jasper's voice was so loud and insistent that Afton could hear his words blaring from Max's cell phone. “They're sending a black-and-white to the scene but if you could . . .”

“We're on our way,” Max said. He cranked his steering wheel hard, executing a skidding U-turn right in the middle of Marquette Avenue. Cars honked, a bus jammed on its brakes and swerved, and Afton hung on for dear life. It was like being in the middle of a NASCAR race. Or if somebody really had dumped the Darden baby, it might just be a life-and-death race.

*   *   *

HOLY
shit!” Afton cried. Skidding into the pizza restaurant's back parking lot, Max almost plowed headlong into a black-and-white cruiser as it also converged on the scene, its light bar pulsing red and blue.

“Easy, easy,” Max said as he twirled the steering wheel hard and slid, nose first, into an enormous pile of plowed snow. They were still moving, in fact, as Afton flung open the passenger side door and jumped out.

She was focused on only one thing—the dark green Dumpster that was shoved up against the back of the building. It was stuffed to capacity with bags of trash, and big hunks of wet, floppy cardboard spilling over the sides. The words D
ARREL
'
S
S
ANITATION
were stenciled on the front.

Max caught up to Afton and then the two uniformed officers caught up to him.

The officer, whose name tag read P
INSKY
, had a hangdog face and a worried expression. “The information we got said a child might have been stuffed inside?” he asked, his breath pluming out in the cold air. “A baby? Is this the . . .”

“We hope it's not the Darden kid,” Max said. He put a hand on the Dumpster and glanced around. “Somebody want to give me a boost?”

But Afton had already stuck her toe on a protruding handle and, with an agile leap, landed on top of the one metal flap that was closed. A dull clang resonated in the cold air.

“Be careful up there,” the second cop cautioned her. He was younger and looked more athletic.

“Studer, get up there and help her,” Pinsky ordered.

But Afton was single-mindedly focused on her mission. “I got this,” she said as she bent forward and yanked open the second metal flap. The pungent odor of stale beer, rotten tomatoes, mouse droppings, and dirty socks assaulted them. Your basic sickly-sweet aroma.

Studer made a face. “Jeez.”

“See anything?” Max asked.

Afton stared down at mounds of black plastic garbage bags, hunks of frozen pizza, assorted beer bottles and cans, and stacks of ripped cardboard. “Not yet.” Her heart was filled with dread but she steeled herself.
This was too important to wimp out now. “I'm gonna have to . . . uh.” She grabbed a fat garbage sack and tossed it out onto the snow. It landed with a heavy splat. Cardboard, beer cans, and bottles followed in quick procession as the smell got progressively worse. “I still don't see any . . . Oh shit.”

“What?” Max asked. He was standing on tiptoe now, trying to peer into the Dumpster.

Afton bit down on her lower lip. Right under her right boot, stuck below a pizza box, was a dirty white blanket.
Please no.

“There's something here,” she said.

“Careful,” Pinsky cautioned.

Afton reached down and gathered up the bundle. As she straightened up, her foot slipped on something slimy and one leg started to slip down into the unsteady pile of trash. She hurriedly passed the bundle to Max and caught herself on the lip of the Dumpster.

“Let's get you out of there,” Studer said. He reached up to give her a helping hand.

But Afton was focused on one thing. “Is it the baby? Is it Elizabeth Ann?” she asked as she scrambled down the side. “Should we call an ambulance?”

Max carefully unwrapped the dirty blanket.

“Holy crap,” Studer said, his face going slack.

They all stared wordlessly at a huge pair of blue eyes that had sunken into a cracked plastic face.

Pinsky was the first to find the words. “Holy shit, it's a broken doll. I really thought it was gonna be that dead kid.”

Studer's mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments and then he croaked out, “But it almost looks like it's alive.”

“That's because it's a reborn doll,” Afton said.

Studer frowned. “A what?”

Afton and Max stared at each other.

“Cameras,” Afton said.

Studer stowed the doll in the backseat of his squad car while Afton, Max, and Pinsky took turns ducking into the pizza place, a pet grooming business, the Pressed for Time One Hour Dry Cleaner, and the Cut &
Curl. In talking to the managers in all the businesses, they found only one shop that had a camera positioned outside. The dry cleaner.

The manager, actually the owner, was a harried-looking man who introduced himself as Joey Debow. He was skinny, had dark slicked-back hair, and looked to be in his early fifties.

When they gave him a quick rundown, and told him what they'd just discovered in the Dumpster behind the pizza place, Debow said, “This is about that missing baby, isn't it? You thought it might be that kid.”

“We did,” Afton said. “But now we'd like to figure out who dumped the doll. Because it's . . . well, strange.”

Debow nodded and ushered them past racks of plastic-bagged clothes into his back office so they could all view his surveillance tapes.

Which really weren't tapes at all.

“It's just a motion-activated camera,” Debow explained. “Duane, my sixteen-year-old, was the one who set it up for me. It just records for a couple hours, pauses, then records again over the old stuff.” He sneezed hard, said, “This damn sinus drip, excuse me,” then pressed a button on a small monitor. “I don't know if this will help or not, but you're more than welcome to look.”

“Can you take it back to about a half hour ago?” Max asked.

Debow fiddled with some more buttons and a picture came up immediately. They watched patiently for ten minutes as a couple dozen people streamed by, and cars and buses zipped past on the street. Finally, lo and behold, there was a man dressed in an old brown coat with a ratty fur collar, a coat like immigrants sometimes wore when they came trooping through Ellis Island back in the thirties. The man was walking down Lyndale Avenue and clutching a bundle.

“Holy crap,” Pinsky said. “That's gotta be your guy.”

“It could be,” Max said.

“The question is, why is he doing that?” Afton asked. She wondered if it was supposed to be some kind of ruse or decoy. Or, God forbid, a practice run?

Max looked at Debow. “Can we have this tape?”

“It's a CD. Go ahead and take it,” Debow said, trying not to sneeze again. “Hope you find that poor baby.”

*   *   *

WHEN
they returned to the parking lot, Studer had already looped black-and-yellow crime scene tape around the Dumpster and between two light standards to cordon off the premises. “Already called in the crime scene guys,” he told them.

Now they all stood around blowing out plumes of steam, stomping their feet to stay warm, and fending off a half dozen looky-loos who seemed to enjoy the leisurely pace of not having a day job.

“You realize,” Afton said, “this place is, like, twelve blocks as the crow flies from Kenwood.”

“Yeah,” Max said, “but look around. It's a whole 'nother universe.”

And he was right. This stretch of Lyndale Avenue was populated by Vietnamese green grocers, loan offices, Mexican restaurants, and thrift shops. Whereas Kenwood was old-world stone mansions clustered around picturesque Lake of the Isles, this area was strictly working class. Mom-and-pop businesses were interspersed with fading apartment buildings, duplexes, and small bungalows. It was, as a sociologist might say, still in the process of gentrification.

Max thanked the two officers, who said they'd wait there with the doll for the crime scene techs to arrive.

“Now what?” Afton asked.

“Climb in,” Max said. “I got an idea.” He turned down Lyndale then suddenly sliced right onto Twenty-fourth Street.

“We're taking a detour?” Afton asked.

“I want to take an extra five minutes.” Max nosed along slowly, then turned down a narrow alley that was basically two churned-up ruts in six inches of packed snow.

“What are you looking for?
Who
are you looking for?”

Max pursed his lips. “Aw, just this guy I know. He's a kind of . . . contact, I guess you'd call him.”

“A snitch?” Afton said.

Max lifted a shoulder. “Something like that.”

“Does this guy have a name?”

“He's just known around town as The Scrounger,” Max said. “Here.” He slowed to a crawl and then stopped. “This is his place.”

The Scrounger lived in what looked to be a shabby duplex with a falling-down three-car garage out back. The backyard was heaped with junk—tires, old bicycles, snow blowers, lawn mowers, rolls of metal fencing, railroad planks, old oil barrels, and a pile of demolished swing sets.

“This is his place of business?” Afton asked. And then, “What exactly is his business?”

“Scrounging,” Max said. “He drives around in this beat-up old black pickup truck looking for stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“Junk that people toss into the alley. Or that's been left on the street. You name it.”

“What does he do with it?” Afton said.

“I don't know, he repurposes it.”

“Isn't that just a fancy name for selling scrap metal?”

“I suppose,” Max said.

“How do you know this guy, or shouldn't I ask?”

“Popped him a couple years ago on a B and E. But the thing is, he's kind of a charming guy. Well-spoken, reads a little William Carlos Williams, sneaks into Orchestra Hall when the good conductors drop into town.”

“You took pity on this Scrounger guy because he's got taste?” Afton gazed at the junk-strewn backyard again. “Well, maybe he does when it comes to the arts.”

“Let's just say we have a well-oiled quid pro quo going on.”

“And you think The Scrounger might know something about that doll we just found?”

“Not that specifically,” Max said. “But he's connected, he knows this neighborhood.” He nodded to himself. “And maybe even the whack job who planted the doll.”

S
ITTING
behind a battered wooden desk at the Family Resource Center in New Richmond, Wisconsin, Marjorie Sorenson was hardly recognizable. In her long black wool skirt and prim white blouse, with her hair combed neatly back and held in place with a crisscross of bobby pins, she looked like a nun. Or at least one who'd recently kicked the habit.

Not only that, Marjorie had cleverly appropriated the demeanor of a nun. No longer the caustic, tough-talking kidnapper, she spoke to the young woman sitting across from her in a measured and thoughtful tone of voice.

At the same time, Marjorie noted that the girl was clearly frightened out of her wits. She'd come creeping into the Family Resource Center looking like a tentative rabbit, all hunched over, her face a mask of pain. She'd asked to speak with one of their counselors, and Libby Grauman, the director of the center (which was really not about family resources at all, but distinctly pro-life) had directed the girl to Marjorie.

Marjorie volunteered two mornings a week. She typed (badly), filed (haphazardly), and helped counsel the pregnant, unwed teens and twenty-somethings who came tiptoeing in. The ones who had nowhere to turn, whose boyfriends had skulked off at the mere hint of a bun in the oven.

She'd been given her role at the center because of her professed belief
in the sanctity of life. But Marjorie thought of herself as a kind of wolf on the prowl. Someone who was smart, cunning, and had a discerning eye for the weak and easily manipulated. In other words, those particular young women who were more than willing to put their names on a hastily produced document and sign away their babies.

“How far along are you?” Marjorie asked. She was filling out a form as she spoke soothingly to the girl.

“Three months,” said the girl, who'd identified herself as June. Just June. She wore a dowdy dress, scuffed brown boots, and a coat that was definitely of the thrift store variety.

She probably didn't have two nickels to rub together, Marjorie thought, as she kept up her gentle patter.

“And you're living at home?” Marjorie asked.

“For now,” June said. “After this . . .” She patted her stomach. “I'm gonna go live somewhere else.”

Marjorie didn't ask where because the girl probably hadn't figured that out yet. Maybe never would.

They'd been talking for twenty minutes and Marjorie suspected June was going to be one of the easy ones. She had that trapped-animal look about her. All she wanted was to be done with her pregnancy problem and get rid of the evidence.

“I'm so glad you found your way to us,” Marjorie said, giving her a smile and revealing pink gums. “If you sign an agreement to carry your baby to full term, the Family Resource Center can guarantee that we'll find a wonderful loving home for it.”

“That sounds . . . good,” June said. Her boyfriend had already left for Afghanistan and her parents were ready to disown her. Living in a small farming community didn't give her a lot of options.

Marjorie dug a file folder out of her desk drawer. “Let me show you something.” She pulled out a glossy color photo of an eager-looking young couple. “These are the kind of people who would love your baby as if it were their own, and give it every opportunity in the world.”

June bit her lower lip and studied the photo. “They look nice.”

“In fact, this particular couple,” Marjorie said, “own a lovely home in Evanston, Illinois. They're both college graduates and hold down good jobs. The husband is a VP at Wells Fargo bank and the wife is currently working at an interior design firm.” Marjorie smiled. The stock photo she'd pulled out of a frame from the Ben Franklin had served her well. “But as soon as they adopt, the wife wants to quit her job and devote herself to being a full-time mother.”

“They sound perfect,” June said as tears glistened in her eyes.

Marjorie fingered a sheaf of papers, and then slid them across the desk to June. A pen followed. “Why don't you sign this agreement right now and I'll get things rolling.”

The young girl suddenly shivered, as if an ill wind had just swept in and chilled her to the bone. She paused, considered her predicament for a moment, and then slowly signed the papers. After all, what other option did she have?

*   *   *

MARJORIE
hummed to herself as she typed up her report. Across the room, Libby Grauman stood up from her desk and slipped into her coat. She headed for the door and paused.

“I'm going to run over to the Hamburger Hut and grab some lunch. You want me to bring something back for you?”

“No thanks,” Marjorie said. “I brought a bologna sandwich from home.”

“Okay then.” The director was gone, closing the door firmly behind her.

Marjorie waited a full five minutes. Just in case Libby came back for something. When the coast seemed to be clear, she quickly dialed a long-distance number.

After wheedling her way past two different gatekeepers, her contact came on the line. “Yes?”

“I've got three,” Marjorie said.

“You've been busy. I hadn't heard from you in a while so I wondered if maybe . . .” Then, “How old?”

“I've got a three-month-old girl, one that's due any day now, and another in six months or so.”

There was a long hesitation. “Three months, you say? Is this another kid from that Amish group you're hooked up with?”

“Not this one, no,” Marjorie said. “In fact, she's special. Blond hair, blue eyes. The perfect baby for those fancy pants clients of yours.” When her contact didn't reply, she said, “Hey, I ain't got all day here. You want her or not?”

“A girl.” There was a sharp intake of air and then her contact said, “Jesus, Marjorie. Do you really think I'm that stupid?”

“I think you're in this as deep as I am,” Marjorie said, putting a touch of venom in her voice.

More breathing on the other end of the line. “It's the Darden baby, isn't it? Christ, are you crazy? It's been all over the news. The FBI was brought it to investigate!”

“So what?” Marjorie said.

“Damn it, you did this to me once before and I warned you—never again. This just leads to big problems.”

“Big money, too,” Marjorie said. “This is one cute kid.”

“But a terrible risk.” Another pause. “I don't know that our arrangement from here on is going to work out all that well.”

“Then try harder,” Marjorie snarled. “You have clients, I deliver. No questions asked.”

“You really are crazy, you know that? You take way too many chances.”

“That's my problem. I'll deal with it.”

“Ah, but now you're making it
my
problem. This isn't just some abandoned kid from a crack whore. Or some bastard kid that a bunch of religious fruitcakes don't want. This is dangerous business. There could be major repercussions.”

Marjorie's voice came out in a low hiss. “Don't you
dare
try to dime me out. You're just as complicit as I am. Maybe more.” She thought her contact might hang up on her, but they didn't. She knew they were still on the line because she could hear wheezy breath sounds.

“Okay, okay. I want 'em,” came the response. “The two little ones anyway.”

“Good. Start lining up your people,” Marjorie said. “Tell 'em the three-month-old is on the way, and the other one, the baby, is due any day now.
And don't forget to put a nice fat wad of cash in the mail for me. You remember the post office box number?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. So . . . when do we meet? When can we make the exchange for the, uh, three-month-old?”

“Soon,” Marjorie said. “No more than a couple of days. I'll call you.”

“Use a pay phone, okay?”

“Still don't trust me?”

“It's just the smart thing to do, Marjorie.”

“Sure, whatever.”

*   *   *

HANDS
clenched, jaw working like crazy, Marjorie's contact hung up the phone.

This was the last time. Just these two private adoptions and then it was over and done with forever. The money was good . . . well, actually, the money was tremendous. It was amazing what upper-crust white bread couples would pay for a baby. But dealing with Marjorie simply wasn't worth it. She was too unstable. Too crazy. The one time she'd set foot in the office, she'd scared the crap out of everyone.

On the other hand . . . there might be a clever way to handle this. A way to make a final bundle of money and then step away from this dirty business for good.

Yes, there was more than one way to skin a cat.