Girls In White Dresses: A Detective London McKenna Novel

by Alex Gates

  It was all very Little House on the Prairie, but I prepared for anything—a snowball to the face or a bullet to the back of my head.

  I knocked three times before cursing myself for not immediately identifying as a detective. A place like this undoubtedly stored guns in every nook and cranny. Hell, they probably sprouted in the fields.

  The door opened with an antique squeal.

  And a rosy-cheeked teenage girl with a bundle of red curls and storybook blue eyes peeked at me from the crack between the door and frame. One of the girls from the cemetery, though her mourning blacks exchanged for a sweet homemade dress of pinks and whites. I twitched, glancing over her.

  She’d let out the hand-stitched dress, but the bulky material couldn’t hide the truth.

  This girl—no more than thirteen years old—was pregnant.

  What the hell was happening here?

  “Hi.” I forced a cheer into my voice. “My name is London. We met the other day.”

  She said nothing. Not sure what I was expecting.

  “Is your mom or dad home?” I asked.

  The girl froze. My pulse quickened.

  She didn’t seem to be hurt. Wasn’t malnourished or too skinny. Her hair was done properly—cleaned, washed, and styled into a pretty, albeit modest, look. She had no visible bruising or injuries, but that bump in her belly was no new miracle.

  Someone did that to her.

  And every instinct in my body screamed at me. It had happened here.

  “May I come in?” I smiled. She didn’t. “I was hoping someone could help me. I’m looking for anyone who might have known Rachel—”

  A grunt interrupted us. A burly hand covered in thick, black hair gripped the girl’s wrist. He didn’t yank, but she couldn’t have resisted him as he hauled her inside. His shadow fell over her, and she slunk into the darkness.

  “Go tend to the young ones, Abigail.” The man barged between her and the door. “I’ll handle this.”

  So we met again.

  My weatherworn buddy from the cemetery was careful to step onto the porch and close the door behind him.

  I held my hand out. “Detective London McKenna, Pittsburgh Police. Remember me?”

  He didn’t shake my hand. “This is private property.”

  “I wanted to apologize for intruding on your family’s moment at the cemetery. You were all in mourning and had come to pay your respects. I should have waited to speak with you.”

  “I told you then, and I’ll tell you now. We have nothing to say to you.”

  He stepped towards the door. I edged forward.

  “This is an important case. I only need a few questions answered. I hope you don’t mind me paying a visit to your home.”

  His eyebrow arched. “I didn’t give you this address.”

  “I have my ways, Mr. Goodman.” I gave a quick hum. “Now…which Goodman are you?”

  He drew the silence out like taffy—sticky and long. “Simon.”

  A brother then. I mentally ticked the check mark next to the family tree I’d drawn up with the help of Riley and Falconi’s meeting with Jacob Goodman. Jacob owned the farm, but his brothers—Simon, Mark, and Matthew—helped to manage it.

  Whatever it was.

  “Nice to meet you, Simon.” I gestured over the land. “Beautiful place.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Just wanted to check on a few things. It was surprising finding you all at the gravesite. At least, until I realized who you were.”

  Simon laced his question with ice. “And who exactly are we?”

  Persons of interest. “No wonder you missed Nina’s….I mean, Rachel’s funeral. It’s quite a trip from here. You’re so far from the city, and all those pregnant girls…” I frowned. He didn’t react. “They must have needed bathroom breaks all the way down.”

  “We prayed over the grave. We did our mourning.”

  “And then?”

  “We held a private ceremony here.”

  “Right. For Rachel and Jonah?” I tilted my head. “Jonah would have been your…nephew?”

  “You know the answer.”

  I did, because I had already pulled as much information about the family as I could find. Surprisingly, for a religiously affiliated charity, there wasn’t much to go on.

  “Jonah murdered two women,” I said. “His girlfriend, Cora Abbott, died only hours after he killed Rachel. Then he took his own life.”

  “Those sins are his own.”

  “You know what else is a sin?” I leaned close. “Marrying an underage girl.”

  “My nephew wasn’t married.”

  Bullshit. “He was in a relationship with a minor.”

  “Was he?”

  “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

  “Who knows why kids do what they do.”

  “Their parents should. Or uncles, maybe.”

  Simon’s lips tightened into a thin line. “All a family can do is help one and another. Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger, but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord. Ephesians 6:4.”

  I couldn’t tell biblical scripture from the nutrition facts on a box of Frosted Flakes, but I knew the law. Unfortunately, so did Simon.

  “So, you helped Jonah?” I asked. “Like you’ve helped the pregnant girls that were at the cemetery yesterday?”

  “Is there a problem, Detective?”

  I sure as hell hoped not, but I wasn’t so naïve anymore. “There’s an awful lot of pregnant girls on this farm. I’ve counted at least three so far. And, if Rachel had been here…that’s probably four.”

  “Harvest Dominion Farm is a religiously affiliated outreach program. A shelter for children in need—those who have no other place to go.”

  “And?”

  Simon smiled, as if that cracked grin could ease anyone’s concerns. “We tend to our flock. Our home is meant as a haven for troubled Christian youths. A place where they can be safe, learn the scripture, and live their lives according to God’s will and discipline.”

  “And the pregnancies?”

  “Those girls need the most protection of all.”

  Of that, I was absolutely certain. I leaned against a column supporting the porch roof. Quite a cozy little alcove Jacob had here, but it wasn’t comfortable. For all the talk of God and scripture, Simon hadn’t invited me inside and out of the cold.

  This good Samaritan only stopped for search warrants.

  “Where are the boys?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  I gestured over the farm. “You didn’t have boys at the cemetery yesterday. I see more girls than anything. Aren’t you taking in boys too?”

  “We take in whomever has the greatest need.”

  “And then what?”

  Simon extended his hands. “We do good works. This home is a happy one, Detective.”

  “The girls didn’t look happy yesterday.”

  “They weren’t. They attended a funeral.” His steps forward were meant to corral me off the porch. I planted my feet. “Fortunately, we see very little sadness here. Our lives are improved by the will of the Lord. Our days are spent in worship, and we are rewarded for our faith.”

  “Sounds lovely,” I said. “What a noble charity you’re running. I should probably offer my compliments to the man in charge.”

  “You can speak with God at any time—in prayer.”

  Cute. “I’ll wait to get his email address. Until then, I’ll talk with his second command. I want to meet with Jacob Goodman, Jonah’s father.”

  Simon dropped what little cordiality he’d offered. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Jacob is terribly busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  Simon nodded towards a pack of women, hauling supplies, boxes, and fabric in and out of the cottages and to a secondary building behind a chapel. A fellowship hall?

  “We’re preparing for a wedding,” he said.

  The word crept ove
r my skin like a cobweb in the dark. “A wedding?”

  “Some joy can be found in all this sorrow. It requires a tremendous amount of work, and, as you can see, we’re all very busy—”

  “Right. A wedding is a huge endeavor. You must be ridiculously busy. In fact, you were probably busy five nights ago?” I gave him a moment to think. “Around eight o’clock?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Everyone was at the farm.”

  “Are you certain? Shouldn’t you ask around, make sure everyone was snug as a bug in those…” I glanced at the cottages. “Bunk houses?”

  “Everyone was at home, Detective. We have very little reason to leave the farm. We’re completely self-sufficient. The Lord has provided for us.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You can see our bounty, Detective.”

  “Does that bounty include a white Grand Caravan?” I hummed. “Someone spotted it in Pittsburgh last week.”

  “Did they?”

  “And they also saw the driver of that van.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Does the name Anna Prescott mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  Punctuated and confident.

  A lie if ever I heard one.

  “Take your time,” I said. “It’s been fifteen years since she’s used that name.”

  Simon’s shrug tensed his shoulders. He leaned a little closer, breathed a little harder, and spoke just a little harsher. “What’s this about? Why are you here?”

  “Where is Rachel Goodman’s baby?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Before she died, Rachel was preparing her home for a daughter. I want to know if she is here.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Go ahead and check for me. There’s so many kids around here. Maybe you’ve overlooked one.”

  Simon silenced as a pair of boots crunched hard on snow. His gaze shifted from me to the man taking the porch steps two at a time. He appeared to be about Simon’s age if not a little older. He retained less of his hair, but the sun hadn’t roughened him as much. In fact, everything about him seemed far cleaner than Simon. More suit and jacket than shovel and hoe.

  The man pointed a single finger at the living room window to shoo whoever had been peeking from behind a curtain. Then he faced me with the damned swagger of a cat carrying a freshly pounced canary.

  All lawyers were the same.

  I didn’t let him speak. “You must be Mark…no. Matthew Goodman. Am I right?”

  Matthew wasted no time. His voice rang with a courtroom authority, bristling with all the confidence a purchased law degree could offer.

  “We’re not answering any more questions, Detective.”

  “They’re easy questions.”

  “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

  Because it had been such a pleasant chat freezing on the porch. Simon didn’t hide behind his brother, but Matthew sure as hell would use his rights to tighten the noose around my neck. I didn’t have time to waste.

  I raised my chin. “Jonah killed Rachel. Did he kill the baby too?”

  “I would advise you to cease your harassment of my family,” Matthew said.

  “I’m trying to help your family.”

  “We don’t need your help. We have the Lord.”

  “And you also have my card.” I handed it to him. “I would like to talk to Jacob. Please have him call me at his earliest convenience.”

  Matthew tore the paper in two and let it flutter into the wind.

  “You are not welcomed on our property,” he said. “Leave now, or this situation will become decidedly…unpleasant.”

  Two things got me through most days. One was the potential to snag a batch of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies delivered for the station by the local bakery. The second was arresting someone stupid enough to issue a threat against my life. I grinned.

  “I think I can handle a little unpleasantness,” I said. “But why risk it? I’d like you both to accompany me to the station. Answer my questions back in the city. Let me give you a ride.”

  “Force us from our property, and I’ll serve you with a half-dozen lawsuits, from harassment to police badgering.” Matthew reserved a spot of condescension for me, just enough to sweeten his voice and offer me that chance to be a good girl and escape. “London McKenna, I think you should do as you're told.”

  “I’ve never followed orders well.”

  “It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long.” Matthew bared his teeth in a forced smile. “I’ve heard being a detective is a very dangerous job.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “See that you do. Accidents happen all the time. No need for anyone to get hurt.”

  Of course not.

  Simon crossed his arms, the muscles bulging. His threat was nothing compared to the blitz of bureaucracy Matthew would reign against the station. If my suspicions were right, and something criminal was happening on this farm, I couldn’t risk any active litigation threatening my case.

  Not with the lives of other girls at stake.

  This wasn’t over, but at least now I knew who I was dealing with. I backed off the porch.

  “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

  They didn’t respond, slamming the door behind them. Good riddance.

  But I’d be back.

  I planned to return to my car, but a quick detour never hurt anyone. I slipped past the main house to scope out the chapel and communal building where most of the women headed.

  Most.

  “Aaron, let that rooster be!”

  One woman shouted over the stillness of the farm as if the winter’s anxious silence and the men’s unchallenged authority hadn’t bothered her. She hauled a box in two arms, but stopped to balance it on her hip. She whipped her finger towards the boy, chastising him with a calm, but determined, poise.

  The most confident woman I’d seen on the farm. I didn’t think they had that sort of strength left in them.

  “You’re scaring that bird half to death!” She tisked her tongue. “You pluck a single feather, and I’ll pluck out your hair one strand at a time, just try me.”

  The boy slowed his chase with a groan. The woman pointed.

  “You get that rooster back to the coop. It’s freezing out here.”

  He nodded, though his desperate attempts to trap the rooster ended with him nearly toppling into a snow-drift. The rooster hobbled over the snow, jumped a bumpy path, and flapped unsuccessfully until landing on the porch railing nearest me.

  The boy stopped suddenly, but I gave him a smile as I pulled my cell from my pocket. With a goofy grin, I posed in front of the rooster, aiming the camera between our heads. A quick flash, and I had what I needed.

  The boy—blonde with two missing front teeth—frowned at me. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Haven’t seen a rooster that close before,” I said. “Better catch him now before his tenders freeze.”

  “His what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Aaron!” The woman called. Her pale face, reddish curls, and delicate cheekbones didn’t belong on a farm. Yet as soon as she whistled, the child and bird instantly obeyed, bolting to her side. “Bring him to the coop and get inside for your lessons. Algebra is easier to learn without pneumonia—you hear me, Mister?”

  “Yes, Eve.”

  The boy grabbed the rooster and rushed back to the woman. Eve guided the child away, watching carefully to ensure I walked only to my car.

  I gave her the benefit of the doubt—starting the engine and traveling down the path. But I stopped before the road—far from the farm with the kids, animals, and the men who had so ungraciously banished me from the property.

  No wonder they wanted me gone.

  They hid one hell of a secret.

  I stared at the picture on my phone. It blurred over the woman in the background, but the image was still clear enough to reveal every terrifying im
plication.

  That woman’s name wasn’t Eve.

  Fifteen years had passed, but I knew it was her.

  She wasn’t dead. She hadn’t run away.

  She’d been kidnapped.

  The woman trapped on the Goodman’s farm was Anna Prescott.

  11

  You think you can outsmart me?

  Maybe. But I can overpower you.

  -Him

  I slapped a print out of my farm selfie on the department’s white board and drew a circle over the fuzzy image of Anna Prescott.

  Homicide was more impressed by the rooster.

  “Nice cock, McKenna,” Falconi said.

  Riley hid his chuckle by taking a swig of his Pepsi.

  I might have cracked a smile if I’d gotten more than two hours of sleep. Still, I pretended to be good-natured about it. Who knows if they bought it?

  For once, I wasn’t trying to convince them I was stable, healthy, and otherwise fit for duty. This time, I had to convince them that I’d uncovered the craziest case of our lives.

  “I didn’t call you guys here because of the rooster.” Some things were better left unsaid, but I couldn’t trust Falconi and Riley to pay attention before their customary breakfast at Pamela’s Diner. God help the waitresses who’d overhear their bloody talk over a cup of coffee and plate of pancakes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. “I’m onto something. Something big.”

  “Old MacDonald had a Missing Persons case?” Falconi whistled. “With a gunshot here.”

  Riley joined. “And a runaway there.”

  “Here a lead.”

  “There a lead.”

  I talked over them. “I went to Harvest Dominion Farm yesterday.”

  They didn’t like that. Riley sighed. “Raking in the gas expenditures.”

  “I’m looking for Nina Martin’s baby.”

  “Jesus, McKenna. Didn’t you start out in psychology? Nina Martin didn’t have a baby—she had one hell of a mental illness. That’s why she ran away from home. Twice. That’s why she ended up dead. She fell in with Jonah Goodman, he took advantage of her, and he went nuts and killed her.”

  I wasn’t arguing that. “But the baby is real.”

  Riley ran out of patience. He leaned over his desk, head in his hand. A lazy blink revealed all he thought of my theory.

  “Then where is it?” he asked.