The Only Witness

by Pamela Beason

  She pretended to pick a speck of lint from her shirt. "I understand."

  Did she? "But if I weren't a detective and we weren't on the same case, then it would definitely be a date."

  She raised her gaze to his, looking happier now. "I get it, Matt."

  Cargo climbed onto the deck, flopped down by Grace's chair, and laid his massive head on his front paws. Lok appeared, slinking through the open patio door. He examined Grace for two seconds before leaping into her lap.

  "Well, hey there." The cat's back rose under her hand and he turned, purring, and butted her arm with his head. She laughed. "What a sweet cat. I had no idea you were such an animal lover, Matt."

  He barely stifled a snort. "I like to remain a man of mystery," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "You know what? That cat fetches. Like a dog. Well, like some dogs." He stared pointedly at Cargo.

  "I love how animals are such individuals, don't you?" she said. "Each one has a unique personality." She kept one hand on the cat as she sipped her wine.

  He turned back to the steaks. Now that he thought about it, the two cats were very different from each other—Lok always ready to play and Kee usually ready to complain or to bite him. Speaking of the devil, Kee appeared and now sat beside the lawn chair, switching his tail and glaring at his brother in Grace's lap. One front paw was still blue and there was a red spot on his tail. His mouth opened and an irritated yowl emerged.

  "Watch out—that's the bitchy one," Finn said.

  "He's probably just frustrated that we're so hard to train." Grace leaned sideways to stroke Kee. "At least your animals don't actually tell you you're an idiot." She gazed longingly into the back yard and inhaled deeply. "I love your roses. I can smell them from here."

  He followed her gaze to a cascade of yellow roses creeping over the trellis. More pink and lilac roses bloomed on bushes near the back of the yard. All he remembered was blackberries out there. Clearly, Dolores and Scott had done more than simple housecleaning and mowing. How often had they been here?

  When the steaks were done, they moved to the patio table to eat. They made a point not to talk about signing gorillas and missing babies, but instead talked about where they'd come from, and how different it was from Evansburg. Finn was surprised to find that for once, he was the expert on the area.

  It grew dark while they polished off the wine. In the distance, a lone coyote howled. At 9:30 p.m., Grace checked her watch and stood up. "Jane go back to jungle," she said, signing. He laughed with her.

  He walked her to the door, wondering what should happen next. They were—what were they now? Friends, he guessed. Should he hug her? Shake hands? While he was debating, she turned, put her hands on his shoulders, leaned forward and planted a kiss on the tip of his nose. "Good night, Matt. See you tomorrow?"

  "Oh. Yeah." They'd made an appointment so he could do a more organized interview with Neema.

  "Why are you smiling?" she asked.

  "Just thinking about interviewing a gorilla."

  "Don't expect too much. Neema has a short attention span." She left him standing on the porch rubbing his nose and feeling that too much wine kept his thoughts from coagulating properly. He stacked the dishes in the sink and turned in. As he pulled the sheet up over his shoulders, first Lok, then Kee leapt onto the bed and positioned themselves, purring, on either side of his hips. Cargo sat by the side of the bed, breathing heavily and eyeing the bedspread as if he was about to join the party.

  "Forget it," Finn said. "Lay down."

  Amazingly, the dog did. Finn put a hand on each cat. "Good job tonight, crew; way to impress a lady."

  Then he flipped over onto his side, rolling Lok off the bed onto Cargo, who woofed and took off in hot pursuit of the startled cat. Kee hung half off the bed. He clawed his way back up and sat on his pillow, switching his tail across Finn's nose.

  "Good grief," Finn groaned.

  Chapter 19

  Thirteen days after Ivy disappears

  Brittany lay down on the bunk that wasn't really a bunk, but just a steel shelf that stuck out from the wall. A thin mattress with a plastic covering was all that separated her from the cold metal. She was alternately hot and cold. She pulled the scratchy blanket over herself and rolled onto her back. Her jaws were killing her and she felt nauseous and dizzy; she really needed the tranqs to come down after the X. Especially at night. How could anybody stay asleep with the lights on?

  On television, jail looked gross and sometimes dangerous, but they never showed how boring it was. She'd been in this cell for a night and a day. She could see the clock at the end of the hallway if she stood in the corner and looked through the bars. Now it was her second night, and it seemed more like she'd been here for a week. A female guard brought her magazines; she'd already paged through them twice.

  But she deserved boredom; she deserved punishment. Every time the jailers brought her a meal, they asked if they could call her parents. "Are you sure you don't know the number?"

  Each time, she shook her head. She was sort of surprised her parents hadn't shown up. Maybe they'd called Joy, and Joy had lied for her, told them they were having a good time and Britt's phone was dead. Or Joy had answered Britt's phone and lied for her then.

  In any case, she was glad they hadn't found her yet. She wasn't ready to talk to them. What could she say? They'd be so disappointed. They'd never leave her alone again. They'd never trust her again. And why should they? She couldn't do anything right. She was a terrible daughter and a terrible mother. A complete fail, the Sluts would say. A failure, Mr. Tanz would correct.

  Her head began to buzz; she rubbed her temples to make the noise go away. She hadn't even known for sure if that baby was Ivy. What kind of mother wouldn't instantly recognize her own baby? She didn't deserve Ivy. That was probably why God took her away.

  There was a stain on the ceiling, like a toilet or sink above had leaked. It was a dark rustred, oblong stain, with a darker spot in the middle. It looked like a mouth. She squinted to bring it into focus. It seemed to be moving.

  Did you cause your daughter to be kidnapped?

  She put her hands over her ears. A ceiling stain couldn't be talking to her. No, it was just her stupid brain replaying the FBI agent's questions.

  Did you cause your daughter to be kidnapped?

  If she hadn't left Ivy alone she couldn't have been kidnapped. God knew the truth.

  Did you leave your daughter in the car when you went to the grocery store?

  God was everywhere. God could do anything, assume any form—that's what Joy always told her. And God could forgive anything.

  "God?" She stood up on the bunk to get closer to the ceiling mouth. "Please," she whispered. "I'll do anything. I'll be anything you want. Just tell me what to do. Just bring Ivy back."

  Did you leave your daughter in the car when you went to the grocery store?

  God wanted a confession? "Yes!" she said to the mouth-shaped stain. "Yes, it's all my fault!"

  "Shut the fuck up, bitch!" A man's voice growled from down the hall. "It's three in the fuckin' morning!"

  Brittany stared out through the bars into the dim light. Why didn't they ever turn the lights off? The baby was crying again, just down there, just around the corner where she couldn't see. "Ivy?" she whispered.

  "Yes, it's all my fault!" the nasty voice mocked in falsetto. "You're right about that, bitch. Now shut up."

  "Zip it, motherfucker," another man's voice said. "Leave the girl alone."

  Motherfucker was right. It was all her fault. She'd only had one chance to do something right in her life and that was to be a good mother. And she'd blown that. All those people on the street and in the newspaper were right; she deserved hell.

  Any good mother should be able to sense if her baby was alive or dead, right? She closed her eyes, tried to feel Ivy. She could hear the baby crying. Was it her baby? Was there even a real baby out there? Or was it a spirit baby? Everyone thought Ivy was dead—was she? Shouldn't she
be able to feel her baby out there if her spirit was still in this world?

  I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

  She'd wanted to make Ivy those silvery moth wings. Was that some kind of premonition, like Ivy was going to need angel wings?

  No! Ivy was an angel, but here on earth. She had to believe that. God had taken Ivy and given her to a better mother, someone more careful, someone who knew how to be a mother. Ivy was with her real mother now.

  She stared at her arm. Black leaves stamped under her skin didn't make her a warrior. What a stupid idea. As stupid as thinking she could find Ivy. She dug her fingertips into the twining design, but she'd bitten her nails down so close to the quick that she couldn't even tear off the tattoo. She was a loser, a complete and total fail.

  Loser.

  Stupid.

  Fail.

  Bitch.

  There were horizontal bars as well as vertical ones at the front of the cell. If only they'd left her a shoelace or a belt. But they'd taken everything, leaving her only her underwear, and given her these ugly orange pajamas, a pullover top with no buttons, elastic waist pants.

  Reckless endangerment. You left your daughter in the car all alone.

  She was afraid to look at the stain on the ceiling. She didn't want to see those rust red lips moving.

  Do you know if Ivy's alive or dead?

  Did you kill Ivy?

  You left your daughter in the car all alone.

  Loser.

  Ivy was in a better place. She didn't deserve to get her baby back. She knew what she was supposed to do.

  Brittany stepped down off the bunk, pulled off the ugly orange pajama bottoms and knotted one pants leg around the horizontal bar above her head.

  Chapter 20

  Fifteen days after Ivy disappears

  Judge Sobriski looked up from the papers on his desk to study Finn. His bushy brows rose to form an inverted V over his bulbous nose. "I thought the police were leaning toward homicide."

  Finn grimaced. "Our investigation is ongoing." That was starting to sound like a mantra. "For obvious reasons, we have not shared all facts with the public."

  "And what are these facts?" Sobriski folded his hands on top of his antique oak desk. The judge sat ramrod straight. His posture and his gray crew cut were evidence of his JAG corps career. That history probably explained why he'd been elected in this conservative county even though he was originally from the suspect state of California.

  "Our principal person of interest is Charlie Wakefield, the alleged father of the baby, and we've recently discovered that he works for Jimson Janitorial Service." Finn gestured toward his report. "Jimson is stonewalling; they won't turn over any personnel records."

  The judge examined Finn's written request again. "This says all personnel records, and all company car records. But you only need Charlie Wakefield's." He plucked a pen from a polished granite holder on his desk. "So that should be no—"

  "No, I want all the employee records." Finn tapped a finger on the piece of paper. "As I noted, we had a tip that Ivy Rose Morgan was taken to a car with a Jimson Janitorial logo." Not strictly true, but close enough, Finn thought. Snake arm cucumber car baby cry. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back beneath his linen jacket.

  "What made you assume the person taking her was Charlie Wakefield?"

  "The witness also reported seeing a snake design on the kidnapper's arm. As you can see in the photo I included, Charlie Wakefield's track team uniform has a zigzag design on the sleeve that might be mistaken for a snake."

  Judge Sobriski studied the photo. "This looks like a lightning bolt to me. And as I recall, it was hot on the day of the baby's kidnapping. Why would Charlie wear a long-sleeved track team uniform? Have you confirmed that Charlie was in Evansburg at the time?"

  "We can't determine for sure where Charlie Wakefield was at the time of the kidnapping."

  The judge shook his head. "Seems a little farfetched to me. Who is this witness that can't tell a snake from a lightning bolt?"

  Finn gulped. "The witness has the IQ of a five-year-old. She speaks only in sign language."

  Sobriski quirked an eyebrow. "So this information was transmitted through an interpreter?"

  Please don't demand an official court interpreter, Finn mentally begged Sobriski. Aloud, he said, "The witness's guardian interpreted for me."

  "Even so," the judge said, "There's no need for all the personnel records. The Jimson company will protest that the request is overly broad and burdensome. We're still only talking about Wakefield here."

  "Except for the witness's description of a car with a company logo," Finn argued. "Charlie Wakefield doesn't drive such a car, so he either was given access to a car or was with someone in a Jimson Janitorial vehicle. There are six vehicles licensed to Jimson that fit the general description." Cucumber car. Finn took a breath. "Jimson won't tell me who drives them."

  The judge pointed his pen at Finn. "I'm sure you know that Wakefield is a powerful name in this county. And Jimson is a powerful name in this state."

  "I know." Finn pulled out the fact that he hadn't written down. "Jimson Janitorial holds cleaning contracts for three schools from which a baby was kidnapped."

  "Three babies?" The bushy brows dipped and then rose again. "I thought we were talking about Ivy Rose Morgan."

  "We are. Ivy Rose Morgan," Finn fished the photos out of his coat pocket and laid them out for the judge. "William Adams from Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. And Tika Kinsey from Portland, Oregon."

  The judge leaned over his desk to examine the photos.

  "All three babies were stolen from teenage mothers enrolled in the Sister-Mothers Trust program in high school—it's a program where teen moms can finish school and bring their babies to class. Jimson Janitorial Service has contracts with all three schools, so their personnel have opportunity to routinely observe these vulnerable girls and babies. And we know that Charlie Wakefield is connected to Jimson Janitorial Service."

  Sobriski scoffed, "You suspect that Wakefield kidnapped babies in Idaho and Oregon, too?"

  "I agree, that seems unlikely," Finn reassured him. "But as I said, he might have been working with someone at Jimson. It's possible they recruit teenagers in different schools."

  "To steal babies?" The judge's tone conveyed his skepticism. The gray eyes behind his glasses bore into Finn's for a moment. When Finn didn't flinch, Sobriski looked back at the pages before him.

  "A healthy infant is worth fifty thousand on the adoption market," Finn murmured.

  "I see no connection here. All you have is speculation," the judged responded. "Jimson has a duty to protect its employees and its reputation, especially given the history of many of its staff. This state owes a lot to the Jimson companies."

  "More than it owes to its citizens?" Finn asked. The glare he received told him he was close to crossing a line. But they weren't in court, so he pressed on. "These are innocent babies and innocent mothers we're talking about here. I'm sure you heard that Brittany Morgan tried to hang herself in jail early Sunday morning."

  "Yes." Sobriski nodded somberly. "I presumed that most likely indicated a guilty conscience."

  "Or a total lack of hope," Finn countered. He didn't know how the poor kid had remained stable for this long, with the majority of the local populations believing she'd murdered her own baby. He felt guilty for his own suspicions on the matter.

  "I cannot believe her parents were so irresponsible as to leave her in jail for so long."

  "Apparently they didn't know," Finn said. "A friend of Brittany's texted her mother every few hours, pretending to be Brittany reporting in."

  "The jailers should have kept tabs on her." Sobriski shook his head. "This county desperately needs a separate juvenile facility."

  Finn clenched a fist behind his back. He needed to get this conversation back on track. "Your honor, we have no evidence that the Morgan baby is dead. Getting these records can help to solve the case
one way or another. Our witness ties Jimson and Ivy Morgan together."

  "I'm sure you realize what a huge political storm this could cause, Detective Finn." He drummed his long fingers on the desk for a minute, then looked up and said, "I want to speak with your witness."

  Shit. "She prefers to remain anonymous, Your Honor."

  "I'm not asking her to talk to the press, only to me." Sobriski slid the pages together and tapped them into alignment with his hands. "You're not getting your subpoena with only this." He held out Finn's printed request.

  Finn ground his teeth. The truth about Neema had to come out sooner or later. If he could keep it between the judge and himself… If he could just get his hands on those records, maybe Neema wouldn't have to ever go public. He pulled a DVD out of his pocket. "I have here a videotaped interview with the witness."

  Sobriski swiveled in his leather chair and gestured Finn to his desktop computer. "Show me."

  Brace yourself. Finn inserted the disk. To his amazement, the judge seemed fascinated by the video. "Intriguing," Sobriski said.

  Only a few minutes into watching Finn's interview with Neema, a rap on the door interrupted them. "Jon Ramey with the files you wanted, Judge."

  "My law clerk." The judge hit the pause button and swiveled in his desk chair. "Come in."

  A young man with an expensive haircut, tailored suit, and shiny shoes stepped into the room, carefully shutting the door behind him. Finn recognized him as one of the gossiping law clerks he'd seen in the courthouse hallway two weeks ago. He shifted to block the clerk's view of the computer monitor.

  Ramey sent a questioning glance in Finn's direction. "Excuse me for interrupting."

  "The files?" Sobriski prompted.

  Ramey stepped close to the judge before pulling out the file folders he carried under one arm. Sobriski took the folders and shoved them into a desk drawer. "Thank you." When the young man hesitated, the judge flapped a hand in his direction. "You can go now."

  Ramey exited as quietly as he'd entered.

  "Back to this." The judge turned to the computer. The video had stopped on a close-up on Neema. The gorilla looked as if she were sniffing Finn's camera lens. "You're asking me to believe that the only witness to the kidnapping is … a gorilla?"