The Only Witness (25 page)

She'd swallowed one and put the other two in her pocket. Joy had been right; the pill gave her courage. And strength. Ecstasy was so much more helpful than those stupid anti-depressants. It was not just helpful; it made her feel
hopeful
. After school, she'd gotten the tattoo.

She stood up and gave her parents a hug. "Don't look so worried," she said. She held out her arm and admired the design. "It's what soldiers do," she explained. "To show loyalty to each other and to the cause they're fighting for. I'm a warrior for Ivy."

"More gravy, Matt?" Dolores gestured at the white pitcher on the tablecloth.

"Thank you." He poured an artery-clogging brown river over his roast beef and mashed potatoes. "And thanks so much for cleaning the house and mowing the lawn the other day. You didn't have to do that."

Dolores made a dismissive gesture. "We have time on our hands, dear. And we know you don't right now."

He'd finally given in to his ex-in-laws' requests for dinner. The atmosphere was awkward, but the food was good. He was sick of frozen dinners; the whole chain of events required for cooking took too long; and he couldn't subsist on takeout hamburgers alone.

The Mankins left the television on in the living room while they ate. It was a habit that Finn generally found annoying, but he was able to ignore the sound for the most part. Until he heard his name, and then all three of them turned around to watch the news.

"We called Detective Matthew Finn to ask about new developments in the Ivy Rose Morgan case," the reporter said earnestly into the microphone. "He did not return our call."

The County Executive's face replaced the reporter's. "It's been over a week now since that baby disappeared, and the police are still chasing shadows," Travis Wakefield said. "We are disappointed that Detective Finn has not been able to deliver any results."

Scott jumped up and snapped off the television. "Asshole," he grunted, sitting back down at the table.

Finn stared at the blank television screen. Was he about to be fired? He had really dived off a cliff when he agreed to move here with Wendy. Now he'd been ditched by his wife and soon would be canned from a podunk department … at this rate, pretty soon he'd be living in his car.

"Ignore that, Matt," Dolores said. "Everyone knows you're working hard. Let's talk about something else."

Finn shoveled more roast beef into his mouth. Something else. "Is Wendy still working at the college?" he asked around a mouthful.

A pained expression took hold of Scott Mankin's face, and he brushed a finger across his silver mustache. Dolores rearranged the green beans on her plate.

Finn swallowed. "It's okay, I can talk about her."

Dolores nodded and speared a bean. "She's still there, at least for now. She and Gordon are planning to…er…start a family."

Damn
. If
that
didn't show how screwed up the universe was. He'd moved here because Wendy said she wanted to raise kids in a small-town environment. Too bad she'd neglected to mention that the kids she wanted to raise were not Finn's.

"They're moving to Pullman at the end of the year," Scott told him. "Wendy says it's just too hard to start a new life in a small town."

"Good," Finn said. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about running into them at the Food Mart or the post office any longer. Then he remembered where he was. Dolores and Scott were losing the daughter they'd been reunited with less than a year ago. "I mean, it's good for me."

"Well, I guess we're back to reality." Dolores patted his fist on the tabletop. "How
is
that Morgan case going, dear?"

He took a breath, unclenched his fingers, picked up his fork again. "We're still waiting for a breakthrough."

Scott wiped his moustache with his napkin. "I always thought the FBI handled kidnappings."

"But it might not be a kidnapping," Dolores said. "Right, Matt? Otherwise, why would the police have searched all the garbage bins?"

Scott frowned. "You've been reading too many mysteries."

Dolores made an irritated noise.

"We have to check out all possibilities," Finn said. "The FBI has all the relevant data on their website. We're keeping them informed. They're waiting for us to generate leads."

The conversation stuck there for a long minute, mired in muck, just like his case. The Mankins had lived in Evansburg most of their lives and knew everyone and everything about the town—what could he tell them that wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass?

They know everyone and everything about this town
, his tired memory repeated
. Pick their brains, you idiot.
"We've talked to all Brittany's friends, to the alleged father of the baby…"

"Charlie Wakefield?" Dolores asked. Her cheeks pinked when Finn turned toward her. "Well, word gets around, you know."

"Believe me, I know," he said. "Is there gossip around town that Charlie could have taken the baby?"

Dolores appeared confused. "Why would he do that? He didn't even acknowledge the child, as I understand it." Then she blanched. "Oh. Oh, no."

"Crapola," said Scott.

"There's no proof of anything," Finn quickly said. "And I mean that literally. We've talked to all the parents, to Brittany's teachers, the grocery store clerks, the janitors at the school. Speaking of which, I noticed they work for Jimson Janitorial Service. And I recently found out that Charlie Wakefield does, too."

"Really?" Dolores perked up. "Charlie Wakefield working as a janitor? Isn't
that
interesting; I wonder what happened to all those smart investments that Patricia Wakefield always gloated about."

Uh-oh.
"The Wakefields are kind of sensitive about Charlie's job. Please keep that to yourself," Finn told her. "It might be the only thing that keeps me from getting fired."

"I'm sure you're exaggerating," Dolores said.

"I'm sure I'm not. Do either of you know anything about that Jimson company?"

Scott leaned forward. "It's a huge outfit, got offices and contracts all over the place."

Dolores sipped iced tea from her glass. "Isn't that one of those New Dawn companies?"

Finn swallowed. "New Dawn?"

"New Dawn Agency," she said. "From the New Dawn Church."

"
Bright
Dawn Church," Scott corrected her. "
New
Dawn Agency. The New Dawn Agency was the brainchild of Abram Jimson, the founder of Bright Dawn Church—there's about a dozen of those churches around the state. Abram Jimson lives in Spokane, but we've got one of the churches here in Evansburg."

"The Wakefields belong to that church," Dolores contributed.

"So maybe that connection helped Charlie Wakefield get a job," Finn guessed.

"Could be," Scott said. "The church's basic message is that all sinners deserve a second chance to make things right."

Finn quirked an eyebrow. "So they run a janitorial service?"

"Among other things," Scott said. "Jimson's a big believer in ministering to reformed addicts and alcoholics, and to the biggest batch of sinners in the state: the prison population. Bright Dawn preachers hold services at all the prisons. But even if the preachers managed to save their souls, the prisoners had no place to go after they served their time. Businesses wouldn't hire them, neighborhoods blackballed them, you know how it goes—"

Finn nodded and lifted another forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth.

Scott continued. "They served their sentences but then had no way to turn their lives around. Like most states, the recidivism rate here in Washington was astronomical. Hell, ex-cons were committing crimes to get three squares and a bed again. Then along comes Jimson. He proposes creating the New Dawn Agency and gets a government grant to do it. New Dawn teaches basic skills a lot of these people were missing."

"Like speaking proper English and looking people in the eye." Dolores sat back in her chair and smoothed her short ash blonde hair against her neck. "Not to mention cleanliness and politeness and getting to work on time."

"Not everyone who works for Jimson is an ex-con," Scott said. "There are a lot of regular joes, too. College students, like Charlie. Lots of recent immigrants. You know, your basic unskilled labor." He set his napkin beside his plate. "We use Jimson janitors down at the car dealership. Their workers do a great job. The company guarantees satisfaction. They even send a quality control man around regularly to check up on how they're doing. You don't get customer service like that out of most companies."

"We've got apple pie for dessert, Matt." Dolores rose from her chair.

"That sounds wonderful." Finn smiled. Roast beef, apple pie, and other delicious tidbits—Charlie Wakefield most likely working with felons, and the probability of a pool of felons in the area where Ivy had been snatched.

Chapter
17

Eleven days after Ivy disappears

From the passenger seat of Joy's car, Brittany watched the strange woman park the SUV in the driveway. There'd been so many false leads; so many babies that were obviously not Ivy. People all over the country were sending her photos of sightings via Facebook; she and her mom or her friends spent hours sorting through them every day. But it was still possible, like Detective Finn said when he brought that dog, that a neighbor had taken her beautiful baby. Someone who'd seen Ivy and wanted her for their own. Ivy might be just around the corner—that was the thought that kept Brittany hopeful. That was what kept her listening for those baby cries.

Today would be the day she'd find Ivy; she just knew it. The X really lifted her mood. Thank god Joy had a good source. Just one pill in the morning made the whole day go a lot faster and smoother. Now she had the energy to keep looking for Ivy, and her mother acted so relieved that Brittany was feeling happier.

In the back, Ruben banged his toy against his car seat and gurgled. He'd come in fifth in the Pretty Baby contest. In spite of what Joy had predicted, the baby that took the prize was a blonde, blue-eyed baby girl. If Ivy had been in the contest, she would have won for sure.

The stranger pulled the baby out of the car seat and cradled her in one arm as she picked up the grocery bag with the other and walked to the door. The woman was fat enough to still be pregnant and her black hair was pinned back with hairpins. A black-haired stranger, just like the psychic had predicted! And living only a twenty-minute drive away from the Morgan house. The baby was the right size.

"See? Red hair," Joy said from the driver's seat. Brittany's parents had hidden her car keys, so Joy had driven her over to this neighborhood.

"Yes," Brittany said. A wisp of red hair peeked from the edge of the baby bonnet.

Brittany startled when her cell phone sang its melody from her purse.
Shit.
Her mother, checking up on her. She grabbed it. "Hi Mom, I really can't talk now," she said in a rush.

"I wanted to call before we went into the dead zone. What are you doing?"

Her parents and Danny had trooped off to a friend's farm near Okanagan for the weekend. Not giving up, just a little break, her mother said, especially since Britt was feeling better. They'd begged her to come, but she'd gotten out of it by saying she had to study for a history exam. As if she'd even cracked a book since Ivy disappeared.

"I'm at Joy's. We're going to watch a movie," she lied. "My phone's going dead; I gotta go." That part was mostly true, the little battery icon was flashing in the upper right corner.

The woman was walking up to her front door.

"No more tattoos?"

"Of course not! Mom, I've got to go—"

"Taking your anti-depressants?"

"Right on schedule, Mom. Like I said, they're really making me feel better. I've got to go."

"I left the Marshes' number on the refrigerator," her mom said. "Call that if you need us, because the cells don't work out there."

"Got it, Mom. The phone's going."

"Don't forget to plug it in to recharge. I love you, Britt."

"Ditto, Mom." She threw the phone down on the passenger seat next to her purse. "I'll be back," she told Joy. She nudged open the car door and scampered across the street, stopping to hide behind a bush.

When the woman fumbled with her keys to open the front door while trying to hold groceries and infant to her chest, the baby gave a little squeak of protest. Brittany's heart leapt like it had been touched with a live wire. Ivy!

Should she call the police? No, they'd never believe her. Nobody believed her anymore. The police would talk to the fat woman, who would probably then disappear forever. Brittany walked around the perimeter of the house, crouching low. She could see the top of a headboard through one window. The headboard was big enough for a queen bed, so she moved on around the house.

There. A decal was attached to the window, one of those Save My __! stickers the Fire Department handed out. Somebody had written
baby
in the blank space in Magic Marker. The window was open a couple of inches. Brittany crouched beneath it, listening to the snuffling of the baby. Then there was a ticking sound and a soft melody began to play—the classical version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star—and she heard the woman say, "Now sleep, please." After another minute, there was nothing but the melody, playing over and over.