Little Girl Gone (4 page)

“So there you have it,” Thacker said. “I want you people to get out there, rip these twin towns apart if you have to, and find that kid.”

“Yes, sir,” Dillon said.

“What I want from you,” Thacker said, turning toward Afton, “is to do what you do best. Function as a liaison between the Dardens and MPD. Work as closely as you can with Max, since he's going to be lead detective.” Thacker paused and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Just remember, you're not doing any detecting. You're community liaison officer.”

“Right,” Afton said. Now she was the one who looked unhappy. The liaison thing hadn't really been her ultimate career choice. She'd much rather be an integral part of Max's team, sniffing around for clues, cowboying after the bad guys. But her master's in social work had made her a natural candidate for her current job, and she was lucky to get that at the time. Now she seemed stuck in limbo. But hope springs eternal and Afton harbored a secret plan. Do a superb job, continue taking classes in law enforcement, wow everyone with her investigating prowess, and sneak in the back door. If there even was such a thing.

“Everybody listen up,” Thacker said, pulling himself to his full height and addressing the entire table now. “Any dealings with the Dardens, try to have Afton present. She's been specially trained for this. This is sensitive stuff and—”

“Women are sensitive by nature,” Afton finished. Her voice carried a slightly acerbic tone. She was about to say something else, then stopped. Thacker had always been fair with her and she didn't want to piss him off too badly. He had, after all, taken a chance on her. Plucked her from the ranks of data entry clerks and elevated her to the liaison role.

“You got that right,” Thacker said, looking annoyed. “So everyone make sure you're
damn
sensitive!”

*   *   *

SUSAN
and Richard Darden were hunkered down in Thacker's office. They'd already spent hours with the FBI and the Minneapolis PD; now they were waiting for a visit with Afton before they headed home.

In the locker room, Afton shucked out of her fleece top and grabbed a navy blue blazer from her locker. It was a conservatively cut Talbots blazer that she kept for just such meetings. She struggled into it, and then, feeling a little breathless and unsettled, headed for her meeting.

“How are they doing?” Afton asked Angel Graham as she breezed into the deputy chief's outer office. Angel was Thacker's secretary and had been his right-hand counsel, confessor, and provider of homemade coffee cake for at least a dozen years.

“Not so good,” Angel replied. She was seven months pregnant and looking fretful. “I feel so bad for them,” she said, nodding at the closed door and absently massaging her stomach through a fuzzy pink sweater. “Guilty even.”

“Don't be,” Afton told her.

*   *   *

HELLO,”
Afton said. She tried to keep her voice sympathetic but calm as she eased into Thacker's office to meet Susan and Richard Darden. “I'm Afton Tangler, community liaison officer for the Minneapolis Police Department.” They shook hands, Richard looking stoic and somber, Susan leaking tears like crazy.

“This is our attorney, Steven Slocum,” Richard said, indicating a tall, hawk-nosed man who hadn't bothered to stand up.

“Nice to meet you,” Afton said, shaking hands with Slocum, wishing he wasn't here.

Afton sat on a straight-backed chair directly across from the Dardens and tried to focus every inch of her being on them. “I want to offer you my deepest concern and assure you that the department is doing everything possible to solve this case,” she said.

“So is the FBI,” Slocum said stiffly. “They already have a team in place at the Dardens' Kenwood home.” He snapped open the latch on his briefcase as if to punctuate his sentence. “Have for the last ten hours.”

“Obviously they're taking the lead in this,” Afton continued. “But the MPD is working with them in complete concert, doing everything necessary to assist. I know our crime scene team is there as well. I want you to know, however, that if there is anything, anything at all, that you need,
any question you want answered, any issue that needs to be resolved, I'm here to run interference for you. So please feel free to contact me.” Afton handed each of the distraught parents one of her business cards. “Twenty-four/seven, day or night. Don't hesitate to call.”

Richard Darden rubbed her business card with his thumb, then put it in his inside jacket pocket and nodded.

“The media,” Afton said, “is going to hound you relentlessly. Your first instinct may be to shy away from them but just remember . . . if we use them to our advantage, they can reach millions of viewers and listeners.”

“Got it,” Richard Darden said. He looked like he was ready to get the hell out of there.

Susan Darden continued to leak tears. “Our baby,” she began in a halting voice. “Elizabeth Ann. She . . . she took her own sweet time to arrive.”

“You don't have to talk about this,” Richard said, but Susan shook her head defiantly.

“Please,” she said, “I want to, it's important to me.”

Afton leaned forward, gently placed a hand on top of Susan's clasped hands. “Tell me.”

“We tried for three years,” Susan said. “Endured two miscarriages, had to go through three rounds of IVF. But I finally got pregnant with Elizabeth Ann. She was our own little miracle. When she was born, I never knew such happiness could exist.” Her voice cracked and she sobbed quietly, defeatedly, for a few moments. “Please, she's everything to us.”

“The FBI and MPD are pulling out all the stops on this,” Afton said. “They're good people, smart people. They'll find her, I know they will.”

“Bless you,” Susan sobbed.

A
FTON
cracked open the door to the conference room and peered in. Max was sitting by himself at the table, looking somber and a little tired. “Hey, Max,” she said. “Got a second?”

Max glanced up. “Sure.” Manila folders and pages of notes were spread out around him. Max was old school, not always in sync with technology. Case in point: He had a perfectly good HP laptop sitting on his desk, but claimed to prefer actual paper and handwritten notes.

Afton slipped into the chair across from Max. She was feeling edgy after her meeting with the Dardens. She figured that talking to him might help alleviate some of the pent-up anxiety and fear that had spilled over into her psyche.

Max seemed to read her mind. “You talked to the Dardens?” he asked.

Afton nodded. “And their lawyer.”

“Yeah,” Max breathed. “I heard they brought their lawyer along. Slocum.” He said the man's name like he was referring to a steaming heap of manure. “The one who got that crazy football player off on the rape charge.”

“I remember that,” Afton said. “The so-called Love Boat Incident.” She hesitated. “So you've huddled with the FBI?”

“I talked to Keith Sunder and Harvey Bagin from the local field office
late last night. And Don Jasper, one of their top guys, a couple of hours ago. Jasper flew in from Chicago. Apparently he has a shit load of experience when it comes to child abductions.”

“Sad,” Afton said. “That he's garnered so much experience, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Max agreed. “It's a tough deal.”

Afton gazed at Max. She liked him and had worked briefly with him six months ago. When two young Hispanic boys had been shot to death in a gang-related incident, she'd been brought in to help break the news to their mother. That had been a rough one. Martina Alvarez, a single parent working two jobs, had been devastated by her sons' deaths. Afton had stuck close to Mrs. Alvarez for several weeks, helping her notify family back in Juarez, making funeral arrangements, and always lending a sympathetic ear. In the end, she'd even managed to convince Mrs. Alvarez to join an advocacy group consisting of parents of murdered children.

Of course, what Afton had secretly wanted to do was track down the miserable bastard who shot Mrs. Alvarez's boys and put a bullet though his worthless skull.

But no, she had to be content to sit on the sidelines and make nice like a social worker.

“What's your next move?” she asked Max. He had been making jottings when she came into the room. Little scratches on a yellow legal pad.

“The FBI are the big dogs,” Max said. “They're going to interview the Dardens some more, follow up on pizza places, run through their database of known and suspected kidnappers, and canvas the Kenwood neighborhood. I've been reviewing my notes from a phone conversation I had with the lady who organized the doll show. Muriel Pink. I'm probably gonna go pay her a visit.”

“When?”

Max glanced at his watch. “Now.”

“Can I come along?”

Max shrugged. “She lives over in Wisconsin.”

“Where in Wisconsin?”

“Hudson.”

Hudson was just across the state line. Straight east on the other side of the Saint Croix River. “No problem,” Afton said. “It's practically a suburb. I'll even drive if you want.”

“In the Jag?” Max asked, suddenly interested.

Everybody in the department seemed to know that Afton had gotten a Jaguar XKE and a Lincoln Navigator as part of her divorce settlement. She lived in a tiny house in South Minneapolis with her two kids and her sister, but she owned two luxury cars. How was that for crazy?

Afton nodded. “Sure,” she said amiably. “We can swing by my place and pick up the Jag.”

“Okay,” Max said. “But maybe don't tell Thacker that I let you come along, okay?”

Afton nodded as she watched Max gather up his stuff. He was a grade one detective, married and divorced twice, who now had sole custody of his two sons. The scuttlebutt around the department was that Max was probably on the lookout for a third ex–Mrs. Montgomery. And Afton could see why women found him charming. Max was in his mid-forties, easygoing, and still attractive in a roguish kind of way. Silver hair, hooded dark eyes, still in pretty good shape. The proverbial silver fox, albeit Minnesota's version.

“Just out of curiosity,” Afton said, “have any other babies been reported missing?”

Max's head was bent again. Studying his notes or just resting his eyes?

“Not in recent months,” he said.

“But babies have gone missing?”

“Not here in the metro.” Max touched the eraser end of a pencil to his forehead and scratched distractedly. “There was one in Rochester last year. Another one over in River Falls ten months ago.”

“River Falls is maybe fifteen miles from Hudson,” Afton said.

Max shrugged.

“Were the babies ever found?”

Max closed his notebook and focused his attention on Afton. “Rochester yes, River Falls no.”

“If that reborn lady also lives in the Hudson area, there could be a connection.”

Max cranked back his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Doesn't appear to be. The Rochester baby was a family squabble. Kid was recovered and put into foster care. The River Falls baby never did turn up, so who knows?” He indicated a handful of pages. “That's the faxed report from the River Falls PD and the Wisconsin DCI.”

Afton knew the Department of Criminal Investigation was Wisconsin's equivalent to Minnesota's own BCA, or Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, which had statewide jurisdiction.

Max pushed the pages toward her. “Have a look if you're interested, and it sounds like you are.”

Afton took a few minutes to skim the reports. Then she tilted back in her chair and asked, “What makes somebody snatch a baby?”

The venerable detective gave her a long look. “Some reproductively challenged fruit loops can't stand the cards they're dealt so they take matters into their own hands. That's one scenario. Then there are the scumbag baby brokers out there who take
orders
for babies, for Christ's sake, right down to hair and eye color.” Max paused. “Then there's the worst possible reason of all.”

“What's that?” Afton asked, not sure she really wanted to hear what Max had to say.

“Sport.”

*   *   *

MAX
was hungry so they swung into a Wendy's to grab a late lunch.

“One Baconator,” Afton ordered into the speaker. When Max snorted, she added, “Hold the onions.” And to him, “Hold the judgment, please.”

“You can eat a big-ass burger like that and still stay skinny?” Max asked.

She ignored his comment. “What do you want?”

“Double cheeseburger,” Max said. “Man cannot live by bread alone; sometimes he needs a little grease.”

“There you go,” Afton said.

They nibbled their way along I-94, blotting drips and drops of
mayonnaise, talking about the Darden case, Afton asking a million different questions.

Max had to hand it to her. Afton had some interesting theories and insights. Maybe a few too many, but her heart was in the right place. She was persistent and dedicated, traits that generally made for a good investigator. And she was fairly decent company. Especially on an errand that would probably prove to be exactly that, an errand.

“Is this pretty standard?” Afton asked. “That you would cross jurisdictions like this without clearing it? I mean, what's the protocol?”

“I'm part of MPD's newly formed squad. It's called the Mutual Aid and Multi-Jurisdictional Squad. MAMJS. Gives the MPD a little more leverage in investigating outside our boundaries.”

“So you've got free rein to chase down bad guys outside of Minneapolis?”

“Something like that.”

“Bet the BCA hates that.”

“That'd be about right.”

They were cruising along at seventy miles an hour, just passing the Highway Patrol weigh station, when Afton asked, “How old are your sons?”

“Fourteen and seventeen,” Max said.

“At that age they must be . . . a handful.” Afton figured princess parties and My Little Pony were infinitely preferable to filthy sneakers and stinky hockey jerseys.

Max rolled his eyes. “You have no idea.”

They drove for another ten minutes, both mulling over their own thoughts. Wondering about the missing Darden baby, formulating questions to ask this doll lady.

“How come you got two luxury cars?” Max asked suddenly. He'd cranked back the passenger seat in the Jag until it was fully reclined, then fiddled with the heater until he'd achieved the absolute perfect temperature. For him.

“It all came down to Mickey having cash flow problems, but owning a
large inventory,” Afton explained. Mickey had been the kids' stepfather but had never formally adopted Tess and Poppy. Thus, he was off the hook for any child support.

They spun across the Interstate bridge that arced over the Saint Croix, the river looking icy and turgid beneath them.

“I was always going to sell both cars and buy something more practical,” Afton said. “Maybe a Ford or Honda . . .”

“But you like driving what you got,” said Max, a Cheshire cat grin spreading across his face.

“Yeah,” Afton admitted. “I guess you could say that.”

*   *   *

MURIEL
Pink, the woman who'd organized the doll show, lived on Flint Street, a couple of blocks up the hill from the main drag in Hudson.

Afton and Max turned down a tree-lined boulevard where each two-story house was practically identical to the next. As if they'd been given an allotment, each house had two trees in the front yard and a driveway leading neatly up to a double garage.

Afton pulled to a stop in front of a tall, narrow house and checked the address. Yup, this was it. Another white, two-story house with a slightly American Gothic vibe to it. Still, the sidewalk was shoveled, the slightly tilting bird feeder was stocked with oilseed, and the place looked well maintained.

“You ready to do this?” Max asked as they climbed out of the car.

Afton nodded as they approached the house. The front yard was a mash-up of animal tracks—dogs, squirrels, birds, maybe a raccoon or two. At the base of an evergreen tree a pile of feathers marked the scene of the crime where a neighborhood cat or marauding raccoon had murdered a bird.

Afton and Max knocked on the door and were greeted by Mrs. Muriel Pink herself. She was a small, frail-looking woman with a tiny waist and pouf of white hair. Probably in her late seventies, she wore a belted housedress and a pair of white slip-on sneakers.

“Are you the FBI?” Pink asked them in a high, thin, agitated voice.

“No, ma'am,” Max said. “We're from the Minneapolis Police
Department. I'm Max Montgomery and this is Afton Tangler. You and I spoke on the phone about an hour ago?”

Pink barely glanced at Max's ID as she ushered them into a tidy little house that felt like it was heated to around ninety degrees. Afton thought it was like walking into a thermal underground cavern.

“Would you like something to drink?” Pink asked. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Ice water would be great,” Max said. His forehead was already beading up with sweat.

“Second that,” Afton said.

Pink puttered about her neat little fifties-era kitchen where dolls were displayed everywhere. On top of cabinets, on doll stands, posed on the counter, sprawled on the radiator. Afton wondered why the radiator dolls hadn't melted into a sticky rubbery mess.

“You have an impressive collection of dolls,” Afton said, peeling off her jacket. If it was one degree hotter in here, she was going to have to rip off her sweater and strip down to her camisole.

Muriel Pink set their glasses of water on the table in front of them. “Oh my,” she said, laughing. “This is nothing. You should see my piano room and bedroom. Dolls everywhere.”

“I can just imagine,” Max said. Afton kicked him under the table.

“So,” Pink said, finally easing herself into a kitchen chair. “You wanted to talk about that kidnapping?” She gave a little shiver. “Although I don't see how something like that could be tied to yesterday's doll show.”

“Mrs. Pink,” Max began. “As I mentioned on the phone, a three-month-old baby was kidnapped from her home last night. Interestingly enough, one of the last people the baby's mother spoke to was a woman by the name of Molly who had a booth at your show.”

Sadness reflected in Muriel Pink's eyes. “Such a terrible, sad thing.”

“Which is why we're following up on every possible lead,” Max said. He pulled out a hanky and mopped his face. “You mentioned to me on the phone that you had an exhibitor list?”

Pink's brows knit together. “It's more of a partial list,” she told them. “We had a couple of walk-in exhibitors.”

Afton and Max exchanged glances. “Does that happen often?” Afton asked.

“More often than you'd think,” Pink said.

“Do you have their names?” Max asked.

“Better than that, I've got their checks,” Pink said. “I haven't deposited them yet.”

“Do you remember a woman by the name of Molly?” Afton asked. “She was displaying some reborn dolls?”

“Molly,” Pink repeated. She stood up, shuffled over to a highboy stuffed with dolls, and picked up a black notebook. “Let me take a look.” She thumbed through a few pages and glanced up. “I'm sorry, I don't have anyone on my exhibitor list by the name of Molly.”

Max looked startled. He reached a hand out. “May I see that?”

“Certainly,” Pink said, handing the notebook over to him.

Max pursed his lips as he searched Pink's list. “Just to make sure,” he said, “this is the list of exhibitors for yesterday's doll show at the Skylark Mall.”