The Only Witness (12 page)

Finn stopped at the window near the end of the hall to watch the small clusters of demonstrators outside. The two sides seemed evenly matched in numbers, but the animal rights camp seemed to momentarily have the upper hand, having taken up a position closer to the news crew. They strode in a determined circle around their drummer, flashing their hand-drawn signs at the cameraman.
Animals have rights 2
.
We're ALL God's creatures.
And the inevitable
Animals are my friends, don't torture or eat my friends
with cute photos of rabbits, chicks, and calves. The opposition was older, quieter, and more formal, with neatly printed signs in two variations:
Rat lives ≠ Human lives
and
Animal testing = Lifesaving research
. There was also one loner striding back and forth, carrying a
Next they'll take our guns!
sign.

"Detective Matthew Finn?"

He turned toward the voice. The bailiff stood in the hallway, motioning to him. "You're called to the stand."

The man held open the courtroom door, and Finn strode down the center aisle, not looking at the spectators. He positioned himself on the stand and they went through the usual swearing in and statement of name, position, and experience.

Finn glanced at the three ARU defendants. Two girls, Sierra Sakson and Caryn Brown, and one boy, Jonathan Zyrnek. All of them were pierced—the girls each had an eyebrow ring, Sierra had a nose stud, and the boy had a painful-looking lip ring. The girls appeared to be around nineteen or twenty. Zyrnek had a beard, making his age harder to estimate. Probably misguided students who were liberating lab rats when they should have been in World History class.

Jack Fiero stood up from his chair beside them. He ran a hand over his silver hair. "You were with the Chicago Police Department before coming here?"

"That's right," Finn said into the microphone.

"And you left Chicago because…?"

Was Fiero trying to hint that he'd left in disgrace? Finn said, "My wife wanted to be closer to her parents here in Evansburg."

"And how's that working out?"

In what universe was this relevant? Hell, everyone in this town—probably in this county—knew how that had worked out. "It didn't," Finn snapped.

There was a twitter from the back of the courtroom.

"Do you wish you were back in Chicago?" the defense attorney asked.

Why wasn't Dixon objecting? The judge stared at Finn, waiting. He leaned toward the mike and breathed, "Sometimes."

"I'll bet this is one of those times, isn't it? The Evansburg Police Department has had a hard time solving crimes lately, haven't they?"

"Our resolution rate is pretty standard, I'd say." Not bad; his voice sounded calm and authoritative.

"How do you feel about animals, Detective?"

What the hell? This case was about trashing a research lab. Dixon thumbed through his notes, not looking at him. Finn flicked a glance at the jury. Twelve pairs of eyes watched him. The three ARU defendants looked interested, too. Caryn flashed some quick finger signs to the boy, and he signaled something back. Sign language? How convenient for having a private conversation in a courtroom. Or for maintaining silence while breaking and entering.

Fiero pressed. "Would you say you
like
animals? Do you have any pets?"

"I have two cats and a dog," Finn said. "But this case has nothing to do with liking animals; the defendants committed multiple property crimes."

Dixon finally rose to his feet. "That's right. Objection, your honor. These animal questions are irrelevant."

About time, Finn thought. But shit, now he'd be stuck with Cargo and Lok and Kee for god only knew how long. He could hardly take them to the pound now.

With film evidence from the lab's security cameras and testimony about how the kids had bragged around campus, there was no doubt in the jury's minds that the trio had committed the crime. The judge didn't seem to take it very seriously though, slapping each defendant with a $500 fine, two hundred hours of community service, and a year's probation.

At four thirty p.m., Finn stood on the grimy sidewalk bordering the Food Mart, studying a memorial of sorts. Bouquets of pink carnations and tiny rosebuds warred for space with stuffed bears and puppies, pacifiers and baby rattles. Pink candles in pebbled glass holders weighed down slips of paper. There were dozens of notes tucked among the items, some in plastic sandwich bags. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up a few.
We Miss You, Ivy Rose. Where's Ivy? God Bless Brittany and Baby Ivy. We Pray for Ivy.
Brittany, did you throw your baby in the trash?
Where's Ivy? Where's Ivy?

A woman wearing a Hawaiian print dress strolled up beside him, her flip-flops snapping against her bare feet. She studied the notes in his hand, and then bent and gently tucked a plastic-encased pink rose into the arms of a tiny white teddy bear. She straightened and glared at him. "How long are you gonna let this go on, Detective?"

"Ma'am?" Did she believe that Brittany was a baby killer? Or that the police were squelching information that would lead to Ivy's whereabouts? She turned and walked away, her footsteps slap-slapping all the way to her car. He picked up all the notes—twenty seven—and slipped them into one of the evidence bags he routinely carried, then called for a tech to come get them. There might be a message from the killer or kidnapper or whoever the hell knew where that baby was. He probably should collect all the toys and flowers and whatnot, too, but he could imagine the public outcry if the police tore down the memorial.

A familiar woman exited the grocery store with a loaded cart. Wendy. A bearded man strolled by her side as they crossed the parking lot. Damn. Finn quickly turned his back, not wanting to acknowledge his wife and her lover. This town was just too damn small. Luckily, his cell phone vibrated at that moment.

"Detective Finn, this is FBI Special Agent Alice Foster. We spoke yesterday?"

"Yes," he said. "How can I help you?" In the reflection on the window, he watched Wendy and the asshole climb into a Lexus SUV and then drive away through the far exit.

"This is more about how we can help you," Agent Foster said. "My colleague and I will arrive at the station tomorrow morning around 8:15 a.m. Will you be available to talk with us?"

"The station?"

"Your police headquarters, in Evansburg. We've arranged for meeting space with your captain."

Nice of you to coordinate with me
, Finn thought. "I'll be there at eight a.m." He headed into the store to do his interviews, trying to decide if he would feel relieved or aggravated to lose this case to the FBI.

Chapter
9

Forty-seven hours after Ivy disappears

48 hours. That's what the TV show said, the first 48 hours were golden and a crime had to be solved then or else it might never be solved. In one hour, those 48 hours were up. Brittany focused on her feet, watching her pink and silver Nikes march down the sidewalk like they belonged to someone else. She was walking the streets again, like some hooker, like some homeless chick, just watching the cars go by, because she didn't know what else to do. What else
could
she do?

She'd spent the morning on her mom's computer updating Ivy's information on every website she could think of. She'd checked all the messages on her Facebook page and tweeted about how Ivy was still missing. The flyers were up all over; she'd been on the TV news twice and the university talk radio station was repeating her story every hour. The hell with the useless police who wouldn't give her an Amber Alert; she was doing her own Ivy Alert.

But what could she do now? She wanted to call out Ivy's name over and over, like she was a lost cat, like her baby would somehow hear her and cry out for help.

Her back jean pocket vibrated and she heard the first few notes of "Fearless." Her parents had presented her with the new pink cell phone this morning, like it was some sort of consolation prize. Danny had been pissed, of course, so they promised to get him one too. To stay in touch so we can find Ivy, they said. They'd even been able to get her old number. Now if only there was some way to get her contact list back—she didn't know anyone's number. She'd posted hers on Facebook but she still had to wait for them to call her.

The display on the front of the phone lit up:
WA Cell Phone
. How helpful. "Hello?"

"Brittany."

Finally! "Charlie? Oh, Charlie, isn't it awful? I'm so glad you finally called; I just can't-"

"Britt, what the
hell
have you done?" he asked.

Her voice caught in her throat. "What?"

"The police grilled me in Cheney and tore up my car and my dorm room, and now they're trashing my bedroom here."

"You're here, in Evansburg?"

"Yeah, thanks to you. Look, my parents said they'd get you some money if that baby's mine. Where's the damn paternity test?"

"You
know
Ivy is yours." How could they be arguing about this again now?

"How would I know that?"

"Because you were the only one, you
know
that."

"There are reporters standing outside our house; what the hell do they want? And the FBI just
ordered
me to report for a lie detector test tomorrow. What did you tell them?"

How could he be so angry at
her
? "Charlie, didn't you hear? Someone took Ivy.
Kidnapped
her, right out of my car at the Food Mart."

"
Really
?" he said.

Did he sound sarcastic? She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a second, wishing she could see his face instead of just his phone number.

"
Really
, Britt?" his voice repeated from a foot away. She pressed the phone back to her ear and heard him say, "Because a lot of people say
you
had something to do with this."

"What people? I wouldn't make that up; someone stole my baby. Someone
kidnapped
Ivy.
Kidnapped
our baby girl!"

"Don't try to drag me into this, Brittany. Whatever you did, you did on your own. And you better make that clear to the police and the FBI, you hear me? You better tell them I had nothing to do with this!"

How could he be so cold? Ivy was his daughter, too. Did he really believe that
she
could hurt Ivy?

"Because, I swear, Brittany, if you ruin my—"

She punched End. How could Charlie talk to her like that? She pushed the phone back into her pocket, thinking about the perfect couple they were only a year ago.

It's all your fault
, he'd say as he slid his hand down the front of her jeans.
You're so hot, you set me on fire. You make me crazy.

In public, he went out with Diana Bluett, one of the country club girls.
She's as boring as history class
, he told Brittany,
but it's the only way to keep my folks off my back.

I'm not telling anyone about us because I don't want to share you.

You're my burning secret, babe.

And then he'd touch her in all the right places, set her aflame. He rocked her body; he rocked her soul. For three months, they'd done it almost every day. In the equipment shed behind the soccer field, in the hayfield north of town, and a couple of times at her house when she'd skipped school. Their lovemaking was awesome.

But then, because he was a senior, Charlie got busy with the stupid college tests and applications and track, always the damn track team, and weeks would go by before they could connect. She didn't even get the chance to tell him she was pregnant until she was four months along. Well, to be real, she didn't even know for sure she was pregnant for the first three—who knew there could still be blood if you were knocked up? And she couldn't tell anyone before she told Charlie.

She'd dreamed about how he'd say
Now I'm going to tell the world how much I love you. Let's go to Hawaii for spring break to celebrate.

Instead, he just stared at her for eternity. Then he finally said
No way
, slid out of his car, and left her sitting alone in the school parking lot. She got moved into the Sluts program and they never even passed in the halls. Then he graduated and left town early to go to summer session at the university.

Brittany wiped a tear from her cheek. So she was alone. She'd been alone since Ivy was born, hadn't she? She'd find her baby by herself. She hadn't walked all over this neighborhood yet. Riverside, they called it, although it bordered only a little creek, not a river. Here and there, she heard Spanish floating out through the open windows. Beat-up pickup trucks full of landscaping tools or construction equipment crowded the curbs.