Little Girl Gone (20 page)

“And she was . . .”

“It's a mess,” Hadley cried. And this time he sounded anguished. “Worst I've ever seen!”

I
F
Max could hardly believe Muriel Pink had been murdered, neither could Afton. They both stared straight ahead as Max banged onto the entrance ramp to I-94, ignoring the speed limit as they sped across town heading for Hudson.

“How could this happen? How could this happen?” Max muttered.

Afton could only keep repeating, “I know, I know.”

They flew through downtown Saint Paul's Spaghetti Junction, rocketed through Woodbury, flew past the Minnesota Highway Patrol weigh station, and finally crossed over the bridge that ran above the Saint Croix River. As they swerved onto the icy off-ramp, Afton said, “Easy, take it easy. You're gonna fly right off this curve and take us straight into the river.”

“That damn Portia,” Max seethed. His knuckles were white from his death grip on the steering wheel; his face was as red as a Roma tomato. “That interview aired last night and set somebody's whiskers a-twitching. God, somebody should have known.
I
should have known. We should have had somebody watching Muriel Pink. At the very least brought in the Hudson Police.”

“You couldn't have known,” Afton said.

“It had to be that damn doll lady,” Max snarled. “She figured out where
the old lady lived, then came back and finished her off. Murdered the poor old bat.”

“You don't know that.”

“That's the funny thing,” Max said. “I
do
know that.” He glanced over at her. “And so do you. Tell me you don't have the same gut feeling that I do.”

“Okay,” Afton said as they passed the local Dairy Queen, barely squeaking through a yellow light. “I do.”

*   *   *

MURIEL
Pink's neighborhood looked starkly different from the last time they'd been there. Squad cars with flashing lights, an ambulance, and several unmarked FBI vehicles clogged the street in front of the murder house. On the front walk and in the side yard, crime scene investigators marked, measured, and cataloged footsteps in the newly fallen snow.

Grim-faced neighbors stood in clumps of two and three, watching the spectacle. Their faces were as gray and shocked as Afton figured hers must be. Muriel Pink's murder was unforeseen. But yes, in hindsight, someone should have been worried about her and put some security precautions in place.

“Son of a bitch.” Max swore under his breath as he stepped from the car. They'd been forced to park a block away. Now they were running the gauntlet of watchers and law enforcement.

Max badged both of them through two different rings of security. Then, rounding the corner of the house, they caught a glimpse of Don Jasper. The Chicago FBI agent was standing at the back door, talking to a crime scene tech in a navy jumpsuit. When Jasper saw them, he motioned for them to come forward.

“How bad?” Max asked as he and Afton crowded onto a sagging back porch.

“Bad,” Jasper said. His affable nature and normally twinkly eyes seemed dulled by what he'd just witnessed. “See for yourself.”

They pressed into the kitchen, where it was crowded and stuffy with at least a half dozen people jostling around. Cameras strobed wildly and Afton surmised that Muriel Pink must be lying in the middle of that maelstrom of activity.

Max elbowed his way through the crowd, Afton practically riding his coattails. He stopped abruptly and they saw her. Muriel Pink was lying on the linoleum floor, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, her face as yellowed and crinkled as old parchment paper. Her floral robe was flung open revealing the fact that her torso had been slashed from sternum to stomach. An enormous pool of blood had congealed around her and soaked up into her clothing. An older white-haired man in green scrubs was leaning over her. Afton figured he might be a local doctor, doing his turn as county coroner.

“Who found her?” Max said to no one in particular.

A Saint Croix County sheriff's deputy turned to answer him. “Neighbor. When the old lady didn't come over for her usual cup of coffee, the neighbor got worried and peeked in the back window. Saw this.”

“Damn,” Max said. “Somebody really went to work on her.”

The officer removed his Smoky Bear hat, as if in deference to the slain woman, and ran a hand over his blond brush cut. “Carved her up pretty good.”

“You ever see anything like this before?”

“Not exactly like this,” the deputy said. Then he paused. “Well, maybe once when I arrested a couple of hunters. They'd shot a doe, but didn't have a proper deer license. They were hurrying to . . .” He gestured futilely, not finishing his sentence.

*   *   *

AFTON
stepped around the circle of onlookers and walked quietly into the living room. A brass clock over a small red brick fireplace ticked reassuringly. Dolls smiled out from the shelves of a bookcase. A pair of fuzzy white slippers were tucked next to a well-worn lime green easy chair. An AARP magazine was spread open on a nearby end table. But Muriel Pink was never again going to sit in here and enjoy her cozy little home and read her magazines.

Just who were they dealing with? Obviously, a person so callous they would break into a person's house, beat the crap out of the babysitter, steal a baby, and then double back and stab an old lady witness. Sometimes the world was a pretty sick place.

“Afton!” Max called. “Afton!”

Afton spun around to find Max huffing toward her. It was clear he hadn't cooled off. If anything, he seemed to have doubled down on his anger.

“We're not going to get anything here,” Max told her. “Between the FBI, local law enforcement, and crime scene techs, they've got it under control.” He drew a deep breath. “But there's only been one officer so far who canvassed the neighborhood.” An expectant look filled his face.

“What are we waiting for?” Afton said.

*   *   *

BACK
outside, the gawkers who had been standing on the front lawn had all but disappeared. Their absence was either a result of freezing temperatures, the fact that being on the fringes of an investigation was pretty boring, or the Saint Croix County deputies shagging them away. The only evidence that something unholy had taken place here was the string of law enforcement cars and vans snaking around the corner.

Max took one side of the street, Afton took the other. She knocked on the doors of three houses before she found someone who was at home. But when she introduced herself and asked the woman if she'd seen anyone walking around outside last night, the woman shook her head. No, she hadn't seen or heard anything until the police has shown up at poor Mrs. Pink's home a couple of hours ago. And wasn't that an awful thing?

Afton continued to plug away, but was having miserable luck. And by the set of Max's shoulders as he covered the other side of the street, he was striking out, too.

It wasn't until Afton hit her sixth house that a woman named Ellie Schroeder remembered seeing someone walking down the street last night.

“What time was this?” Afton asked her.

“Oh, pretty late,” Schroeder said. “Maybe ten o'clock?” Schroeder was thin and mousy looking, wearing baggy slacks and a sweatshirt that said, W
ORLD
'
S
G
REATEST
G
RANDMA
. “But I don't think the person I saw was your killer.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he was carrying a pizza box,” Schroeder said.

Inside her chest, Afton's heart did a slow-motion flip-flop.

Schroeder went on. “I just assumed it was Mr. Foster from down the block.” She leaned in and squinted at Afton. “He's a divorced dad, and when his kids stay over, he usually buys pizza.” She said it disapprovingly, as if Mr. Foster should be grilling a medley of organic carrots and broccoli instead.

“Mrs. Schroeder, wait a minute, will you?” Afton was excited. This was the same MO the kidnappers had used when they'd strong-armed the Dardens' babysitter. She ran across the street, grabbed Max, and pulled him back to Mrs. Schroeder's house.

“Tell him,” Afton said to Mrs. Schroeder. “Tell Detective Montgomery exactly what you saw.”

Max listened to her carefully, asked a couple of questions, and then said, “Could you identify this man again?”

“It was pretty dark.”

“But if we sent a police sketch artist over, you'd give it a try?”

“Absolutely,” Schroeder said.

“And which house does Mr. Foster live in?”

“That one.” Schroeder pointed to a nondescript two-story home that was two doors down.

“I knocked on the door there,” Afton said. “Nobody's home.”

“Do you know where Mr. Foster works?” Max asked.

Schroeder gave a tight nod. “Certainly. He works at the Heartland Insurance Agency right down on Main Street. Next to the ice cream parlor.”

Max threw his cell phone at Afton. “Get him. Get Foster on the line ASAP.”

Afton did a fast Google search, located the number, and got Foster on the line. When she told him why she was calling, he sounded stunned.

“Mrs. Pink?” he said. “Dead?”

“Let me give you to Detective Montgomery,” Afton said, passing the phone to Max.

Max did a little more explaining to the somewhat excited Foster, then said, “This may sound like an odd question, but did you order a pizza last
night around ten o'clock? Did you pick one up and carry it home? Or have one delivered?”

Max's brows pinched together, and he shot a look at Afton. The answer must have been no. He thanked Foster, and then asked him to call either the FBI or the Hudson Police if he suddenly remembered anything that might be of help.

Max thumbed the Off button on his phone. “No pizza last night.”

Schroeder's face went white and she touched a hand to her throat. “So that was the killer I saw?” She looked stunned.

“Could have been, ma'am,” Max said.

*   *   *

IT
had to be the same guy,” Max told Jasper. “The same guy who cold-cocked the babysitter.” Max and Afton had done a quick dog-and-pony explanation to a grim-looking Don Jasper.

That was the spark that lit the flame. Suddenly Jasper was snapping his fingers, gathering his posse. Radios crackled to life and backup was called for. More FBI, state police, and uniformed officers. Jasper was demanding backup for his backup.

As the furor boiled up around them, Max pulled Afton aside. “We gotta go talk to Susan Darden again. Now she's the only one we know who really got a decent look at this doll lady.”

Afton was all for it.

“But who the hell
is
this doll lady?” Max chewed on this problem as they hurried to his car. “Do you think she knows Susan or Richard Darden?”

“Maybe she worked with Darden,” Afton said.

“At Novamed? That thought never occurred to me.”

Afton shrugged. “It's a possibility.”

“So how does she relate to the pizza guy?”

“I don't know,” Afton said. “Could be . . . his girlfriend? Or maybe, I don't know, his mother?”

I
T
was a subdued Susan Darden who opened the door for Afton and Max that evening. Dressed in a pale peach cashmere hoodie and matching pants, she looked the perfect picture of a young upscale mommy. Except, of course, for the swollen red eyes, missing husband, and kidnapped child.

“Come in,” Susan urged as Afton and Max stomped snow off their boots and stepped from darkness into the flood of warm light that bathed her front hallway. “It's still so cold out.” She closed the enormous door as a hiss of freezing air blew in.

Afton and Max shrugged off their heavy coats and hung them on a brass coatrack. Max did a little extra clumping to extricate the snow from the waffle weave soles of his boots.

“This way, please,” Susan said.

She led them into her living room, a fairly grand space in Afton's estimation. Two enormous white tufted sofas faced each other across a red-lacquered Chinese-style coffee table. Drapery hung in artful swags on the windows. Oil paintings and framed prints hung on the walls and above the white marble fireplace. Afton recognized one, a contemporary graphic of pill bottles that she thought might have been done by the artist Damien Hirst.

“You have a lovely home,” Afton said.

“Thank you,” Susan said almost absently. “I suppose it is.”

“Nice Oriental carpet,” Max said. “Real springy.”

“Silk, I believe,” Susan said. “Persian. A kilim pattern.”

They were standing in a semicircle, everyone a little on edge, until Susan finally said, “I'm sorry, where are my manners? Please come and sit down.”

That made things a little better.

Once Max and Afton were settled on one sofa and Susan on the other, Max didn't bother to mince words. “You know about the woman in Hudson? That she was killed?”

Susan nodded ever so slightly. “The woman who was in charge of organizing the doll show, yes. Chief Thacker called me late this afternoon.” She crossed her arms in front of her and hugged herself tightly. “I'm afraid I might be next.”

“We're going to send some personnel over here to stay with you,” Max said. “Since you don't have your . . . Since you're here by yourself.”

“My sister is flying in tonight,” Susan said. “From Denver.”

“That's good,” Afton said. “But we'll still have a female officer inside your home and park a cruiser on the street. Twenty-four/seven if that makes you feel any better.”

“The officer and the police car,” Susan said. “That would be excellent.” She gave a little shiver and then said, “Are you going to tell me what happened? Chief Thacker didn't reveal much of anything when he called. Just that the doll show organizer had been killed and that you were going to drop by.”

“We believe Muriel Pink was murdered sometime last night,” Max said.

Susan wedged herself into the corner of her couch and pulled up her knees. “How?” she asked in a small voice.

“Stabbed,” Afton said. “Someone broke into her home and stabbed her while she was fixing a cup of hot chocolate.”

“We believe,” Max said, “that Muriel Pink's murder was the direct result of a TV interview she did with Portia Bourgoyne from Channel 7.
Going on really just a raw hunch, Bourgoyne linked Pink with the doll lady suspect in your daughter's kidnapping. The interview aired on Channel 7's
News at Six
last night.”

“I didn't see it. But I'm guessing that you believe the kidnappers saw Mrs. Pink being interviewed?” Susan asked. “And they got worried?”

“That's exactly what we think,” Afton said. “Mrs. Pink seemed to be . . .
recalling
a few more details.”

Susan's face crumpled, and her hand crept up to her mouth. “So the kidnappers are also killers?”

“It's beginning to look that way,” Afton said.

“And you believe it's the same two people who broke in here that night,” Susan said slowly. She seemed to be trying to orient herself. “The man who knocked Ashley down and tied her up, and the woman who stole Elizabeth Ann.”

“That's right,” Afton said.

“So the
man
is the killer?” Susan asked.

“We don't know anything for sure,” Afton said. “It's all speculation so far. But we think that might be the case. There were some, um,
elements
to the Pink murder that looked amateurish.”

“And it wasn't Al Sponger,” Susan said.

“Highly doubtful,” Afton said. “Unless he's got a doppelgänger twin running around out there.”

“Sponger is under surveillance right now,” Max said. “But we don't believe he's competent enough to mastermind a high-profile kidnapping. Or to commit murder.”

“I never thought he was the kidnapper,” Susan said. “Even when the FBI came over yesterday and asked me a whole bunch of questions about Sponger, I never really thought it was him.”

“Sponger's not entirely off the hook,” Max said. “After all, we're looking for two suspects.”

“And he did toss out a toy doll,” Afton said. The FBI had briefed Susan Darden on that as well.

“When Sponger was working here, did he ever come into the house?” Max asked.

Susan lifted a hand to her forehead. “Let me see . . . Yes, I believe so. I think he might have asked for a glass of water or something.”

“Did he ever see the baby?” Afton asked.

“I think so. Seems like I was always in the kitchen warming a bottle. I'm sure I had the baby with me in her little bassinette.”

Afton and Max exchanged glances.

“But Sponger's not in custody?” Susan asked.

“He was,” Max said. “But we didn't have enough to hold him.”

“But we're watching him,” Afton said.

“In case he might . . . lead you to . . .” Susan broke off her sentence.

“That's right,” Afton said. “But let's not fixate on Sponger right now. We've got him covered, and if he even itches his big toe, we're going to know about it.”

“Okay.” Susan's voice was thick but controlled.

“We'd like to ask you about the woman at Novamed,” Max said.

Susan dropped her head and then peered up at them through a fringe of blond bangs. “You know about that?”

“It came up yesterday when we were talking to Richard,” Afton said.

“I don't know who she is,” Susan said. “Because I didn't want to know. All I know is that it happened.”

“And you believed your husband,” Afton said. “Believed him when he said there was no impropriety on his part.”

Susan considered this. “I believed him at the time.”

“We're wondering,” Max said, “if there's a remote possibility that Molly, the doll lady, could be the same woman who harassed Richard at Novamed?”

“That would be an awfully big coincidence, wouldn't it?” Susan asked.

“Yes, it would,” Max said. “But like I said, we're looking at all the angles. Trying to tear everything apart.”

“Okay.” Susan shifted on the couch and bounced her knees nervously.

“If the doll lady works or once worked at Novamed,” Afton said, “then that could be where she first came into contact with Richard.”

“Maybe she developed a thing for him,” Max said. “Or saw you at one of their social functions—you did attend corporate functions, didn't you?”

“Yes.” Susan wrinkled her nose. “A few. You're saying this doll lady might have become obsessed with Richard?”

“It's a possibility,” Max said. “And if she's seen you in the past—and then she saw you that day at the Skylark Mall . . .” Max grimaced. “Maybe seeing you triggered something in her brain and she took advantage of the situation.”

“Oh my God,” Susan said. “But I . . . I don't know who the woman was that supposedly harassed him. Um, did you ask Richard?”

“His attorney advised him not to reveal her name.”

“Slocum,” she spit out. “What a weasel. I suppose he'll represent Richard in the divorce, too.”

“We're in the process of obtaining a court order and will pay another visit to Novamed's headquarters tomorrow,” Afton said. “So we can put a name to a face.”

“If I saw her, then I could identify her,” Susan said.

“That's right. So we'll interview her and snap a picture,” Max said.

“This is like an endless nightmare,” Susan said.

“I know it is,” Afton said. “But you're doing well, you're holding up remarkably well. And we will get your baby back, I know we will.”

“Bless you,” Susan said, just as there was a muffled ring. She fumbled in the pocket of her hoodie and pulled out her cell phone. “Excuse me, this is probably my sister,” she told them. She punched a button, said “Hello?” and listened. Susan's face, which two seconds earlier had been filled with concern, suddenly clouded over with anger. “Richard,” she spit out. “What do you want? If you're calling to . . .
What?
” Susan suddenly stiffened and her eyes filled with fear. “What are you saying? Uh, uh, uh . . .” She dropped the phone to her chest, trembling, looking as if she was about to have a seizure.

Sensing a disaster in the making, Max lunged to Susan's aid. But all she did was thrust her phone into his outstretched hand.

“Listen to this,” she moaned. “Talk to him!”

“Richard?” Max said into the phone. “This is Detective Montgomery. What's the problem? What's going on?”

“Did she get the call?” Richard screamed. “Did she get the same call that I did?”

“Slow down, slow down,” Max said. “What are you talking about?”

But Richard was in full-blown hysterics. “The ransom call! Did the kidnappers call Susan, too?”

“Ransom call?” Max said, which caused Afton to spring up off the sofa.

“Yes,” Richard said. “Just now! Like, fifteen seconds ago.”

“Who called you?” Max asked. He was making urgent motions for Afton to take notes. “Was is a woman?”

“It was a man,” Richard said. “He asked for two million dollars in exchange for Elizabeth Ann.”

“Two million dollars,” Max repeated, more for Afton's benefit than Susan's.

“Oh my God,” Susan breathed. “She's alive.” She made a grab for the phone. “That means she's alive?”

But Max shrugged Susan away, trying to remain completely focused on what Richard Darden was telling him. “When are you supposed to deliver the money, did he say?”

“He said he'd call back tomorrow with explicit instructions as to time and place,” Richard said. He gave a bitter snort. “He said he wanted to give me enough time to get the money together.”

“Where are you now?” Max asked. He listened carefully, and then said, “Okay, you stay right where you are. I'm going to call Don Jasper and some of the other FBI guys to come over and get you. Don't make any more calls with that phone. In fact, just hang up and sit tight. Somebody's going to be there in about five minutes.”

“Okay, okay,” Richard said. “Tell Susan about this, will you?”

“Yes. Just hang up now,” Max said. “And I'll see you shortly.”

Max pressed the Off button and stood there, holding the phone.

Susan crawled across the sofa toward him. “There's a ransom demand?”
she asked, even though she'd heard everything Max had said. “That means she's alive, right? That my baby's still alive?”

“Yes,” Max said. “It's probably a good sign.” He handed Susan's phone back to her, and then pulled out his own. I've got some critical calls to make. But by the time I finish, there'll be an officer here to stay with you.”

“Thank you,” Susan whispered.