The Only Witness (11 page)

Josh glanced guiltily at the half sandwich left on his plate. "Guess I'll be using my fellowship money for my food from now on."

If only she had fellowship money, too. A student loan. Anything to fall back on.

He laid a hand on hers. "We'll cope, right?"

Although she couldn't imagine how, she murmured, "Of course."

Reassured, he picked up the remaining sandwich half and went back to reading the paper. It was nice of him to make it sound like they were a team, but Josh was only here until he finished the research for his thesis on animal language. Thank god he hadn't yet chosen his exact focus. She hoped it would take him years to do his research; she needed every second of assistance she could get from him.

Neema scooted over, signing
gorilla good
kiss
as she pressed her mammoth black lips to Grace's cheek. When she knuckled back to her
National Geographic
, Grace noticed that half her sandwich was gone. Neema sat with her back to them, hunched over the magazine, hiding her face.

Josh looked up from the paper, grinning as he chewed the last bite of his sandwich. "Feeling ripped off?"

"You have no idea," she told him.

Chapter
8

Thirty-eight hours after Ivy disappears

Finn grabbed the coffeepot and refilled his cup and Dawes's, although he could no longer feel the caffeine. He suspected Dawes couldn't, either. The other detective had dark circles under his eyes and looked at least five years older than he had two days ago. Finn knew he looked the same. He'd fallen asleep in the recliner again last night, woken up to the dog whining to go out, one cat in his lap, the other on the chair back above his head, and cat fur covering his tongue.

"No, ma'am, that's the Hartley house," Dawes said into his cell phone. "That's Addison Hartley with her baby Miranda." He rolled his eyes at Finn. "Yes, ma'am, I'm absolutely sure. Thanks for checking with the police department; we appreciate your help." He flipped the phone closed and made a note on the pad in front of him. "That's the twenty-sixth reported sighting of Ivy Rose Morgan. Did you know we have five other red-haired babies in the area?"

Up to now, Finn had only been vaguely aware of
any
babies in the area. He certainly hadn't paid attention to which ones had red hair. "Could you write down their names and addresses for me? And, uh, thanks for taking all those calls."

Dawes yawned widely, and then said, "No problemo. Makes sense for me to take them. I already know who they're talking about half the time."

Finn summed up his side of the investigation for Dawes, which didn't take long, since most of it had already played on the news for the whole town to appreciate. "Larson and Melendez are following up on tips, and they'll interview the two girls missing yesterday from Brittany's class."

Dawes took a sip of coffee. "Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield are accounted for—work for him, golf for her and then dinner together with friends at the country club after. And FYI, they're pissed about the attention and the allegation that Charlie is the baby's daddy. Especially Mrs. Wakefield."

Finn quirked an eyebrow.

Dawes added, "Because she's been down this road before?"

Had to be juicy gossip, the way that Dawes was stringing it out. "Just spill it."

"I keep forgetting you're not a native." Dawes leaned forward. Strands of his unruly gray-blond hair slipped down onto his forehead. "There's a gal up in Chelan County who has ten-year-old twin boys who look a lot like Travis Wakefield. And if someone were to check the Wakefields' bank accounts, I do believe they'd find a check headed in that direction every month."

"Ah." So the Wakefield family would know well the cost of illegitimate babies.

Dawes sat back. "On the day Ivy disappeared, Charlie went to track team practice at seven a.m.—they even had their team photo taken that day." He slapped a copy of a photo of the table. "Then he was in classes from ten a.m. until two-thirty. The university police faxed the attendance sheets." Dawes splayed the pages—three class rosters—on the scratched tabletop. "After classes he says he went to the library. According to his roommates, he spends a lot of time there. But so far nobody's been able to vouch for that."

Finn picked up the track team photo. Twenty young women and men, all glossy hair and smooth skin, stood in traditional formation, arranged by height. In the front row, the girls were turned three-quarters with one hand on their hips, appearing more like cheerleaders than track stars. Their uniforms were navy running shorts and a long-sleeved light blue jacket with a navy zigzag design down the forearms.

"That's Charlie." Dawes pointed to a blond kid in the middle row. "He has a track scholarship. They call the team Lightning. How the heck can you cheer for Lightning?"

"There are cheerleaders at track meets?" Finn tossed the picture back onto the table.

"Probably. But what do you yell—zap 'em?"

Finn was too tired to participate in Dawes's pointless tangents. "And the phone company was sure Charlie Wakefield's cell phone spent the day in the Cheney?"

"All calls came from the local towers, including our messages to him."

"But he never answered, so all that proves is that the cell phone stayed at home. Ivy disappeared a few minutes before six p.m.—how long does it take to drive from Cheney to Evansburg?"

Dawes made a face. "Around three and a half hours. Unless you're a teenager—then you can probably do it in less than three. Charlie's racked up a few speeding tickets."

"Where did he spend the night?"

"At his house. He says he was home a little after eleven. His roommates verified that."

"Two thirty to eleven." Finn said. "That's a big hole of time. Is the local PD asking neighbors, library personnel?"

"Supposed to be doing that. But it's a university town, so there's the campus force and then there's the Cheney department, and you know how that goes." Dawes rolled his eyes.

Finn knew what Dawes referred to—universities had their own security staffs that handled most issues on campus, and there were often jurisdiction disputes with the surrounding police departments. Thank god the local college used the Evansburg police instead of running their own show; it made handling cases a lot easier.

Finn groaned at the timeline. "Charlie could have driven here, snatched Ivy, and driven back."

"Could have." Dawes scooped up the fax pages, slid out of his chair and stretched.

"And ditched that baby anywhere in between." Finn thought about the doll baby corpse in the cornfield.

"Let's hope
that's
not the way it goes." Dawes swallowed hard, regarding Finn with weary eyes. "He's coming back tonight; I'm going to grill him then. If I still can't verify where he was when the baby disappeared, I'll take a trip down to Cheney."

"Good idea. Check with the lieutenant."

"Already know what he'll say."

Finn did, too—there was no money in the department budget for travel or overtime or anything else. With tax revenues continuing to drop, the city and county, even the whole dang state, had been running in the red for nearly three years. Now the department was making noises about cutting a couple of uniforms from the force. Just since Finn had arrived, the budget for local government had been cut by a third. Teachers were paying for their own chalk. Dawes would have to eat his own travel expenses if the lieutenant okayed the road trip. There needed to be a big sign posted somewhere—
No taxes, no services.
The Statue of Liberty might be a good spot.

"The list of YoMama users came in this morning," Dawes told him.

"I'll get Miki on matching YoMama users to criminal records." Finn's cell phone chimed and he picked it up. The screen flashed a reminder that he was due in court in thirty minutes. "Speaking of criminals. Damn, I don't have time for court."

"Aarrooo!" Dawes howled, finishing with a grin.

"Shut up." Finn rose from the table and held out a fist. "Back into the fray. Let me know if anything turns up on the Wakefields."

Dawes bumped Finn's hand with a fist of his own. "Ditto on the Morgans. Catch you later."

An hour later Finn was still cooling his heels in the courthouse waiting room. The sound was turned down low on the flat-screen TV stuck up in the corner, but it was still audible. He couldn't believe how quickly the Northwest News Channel had picked up the story from KEBR, not to mention how often they were replaying it.

He paced in the small room. Any minute now he'd be called to the witness stand. Thank god the jurors in the ARU case were not listening to this crap. He hoped none had tuned in during their lunch break.

"…at the home of the distraught mother on Anderson Street, police used a dog to follow what they believed might be an important lead."

The reporter stepped back from the camera, which then zoomed in on the background scene of a couple of uniforms digging up the Morgans' garden. Finn stood at the periphery, slouching a little, his shirt protruding over his belt. Shit, did he always look that sloppy? He sucked in his stomach now, reached down and felt along his waistline, ran his fingers down his trouser zipper. All secure.

Then back to the reporter and the family. Finn had watched it so often he had every detail memorized.

"Goldilocks was our cocker spaniel," Susan Ciscoe explained to Alysson Lee. "She passed away three weeks ago. We buried her there, next to the fence."

Brittany stepped into the frame, close to the camera, blotting out her mother and the reporter behind her. "Why isn't anyone out searching for my baby?" she wailed. "Ivy is only two months old. She's out there somewhere. What are the police doing to find Ivy?"

The shot shifted from Brittany's tearful visage to the KEBR news desk, with its ever-dramatic and interchangeable student Barbie and Ken doll anchors. Ken leaned toward the camera, his blue eyes serious. "That is the question right now—what
are
the Evansburg police doing to find little Ivy Rose Morgan? Officers are reported to be searching trash bins for clues. Why? We called to ask those questions of Detective Matthew Finn, the officer in charge of the investigation. He has never returned our call."

Finn strode angrily from the room. He couldn't tell them that they were looking for a tiny corpse, could he? Still, he probably should have called them back, given them some platitude about how they were pursuing every lead.

The cadaver dog had turned up nothing other than the dead spaniel and a maggot-ridden squirrel corpse a few houses down. Noah Morgan had come home in the middle of the dog excavation. Thankfully, Brittany's parents had stayed mum during the search. They'd pulled him aside as soon as the TV crew and dog team had left.

"Detective." Noah's expression wavered between fury and icy control. "We know you have to pursue every angle, but no one in this family killed Ivy."

"Britt loves that baby with all her heart," Susan emphasized. "She did a stupid thing, leaving Ivy in the car, but it was only ten minutes. She'd never hurt that baby. Never."

He saw nothing in their faces to indicate they were lying. But their innocent gaze could simply mean they didn't know the truth. There was no point in asking them whether their son Danny might have done something awful to his niece.

"What about Charlie?" he asked. "Would he hurt Ivy?"

Noah and Susan regarded each other for a long moment before turning back to him. "Charlie's never even seen Ivy," Noah said.

"Are you one hundred percent sure about that?" Finn asked.

Another long look passed between the parents.

"No," Susan finally admitted. "Not one hundred percent."

So he was back to that frustrating nebulous state. Not one shred of solid evidence or testimony that pointed in a specific direction. Still wandering in circles.

His footsteps seemed loud on the polished floor of the courthouse hallway. From behind the closed courtroom doors, he could hear the low baritone of Jack Fiero.

He could tell from the rhythm that the city's star defense attorney was up to his usual firing-range tactics: zinging multiple questions at whoever was on the witness stand and allowing them no time to answer. It usually left the witness sitting mouth open, unable to get a word out. Eventually the judge would put a stop to it, but the strategy always had the desired effect—to make the witness look like an incoherent idiot.

Two young men came up the stairwell. They wore ties and carried stacks of folders in their arms. Law clerks or paralegals. One wore glossy black shoes that reflected the overhead lights.

"Dumpster diving and digging up dead dogs," Shiny Shoes said. "You know what that means."

"That Morgan girl didn't look like the type," the other responded.

"Do they ever—" When he spotted Finn, the first young man cut himself off. Probably recognized Finn from the television broadcast. They passed in silence and resumed their conversation further down the hall, talking in unintelligible murmurs now.