A Subaru station wagon pulled up in the driveway. Brittany got out, tottering on platform sandals that curiously were now as popular as they had been when Finn was a kid. His mother had worn lime green leather nailed to stacked wooden soles.
The teen wore her long strawberry-blonde hair loose today. Her blue jean shorts were tight and she wore a yellow halter top that exposed a lot of skin. Hot-T. Finn made an effort to lift his gaze to the girl's face and keep it there. Her oval face was puffed and blotchy, but as she approached the front porch, her eyes were bright.
Seeing her daughter's expression, Susan shook her head. "There's no news. They're searching our neighborhood."
"Why?" The look Brittany turned on him was genuinely bewildered. "That's not going to help. Ivy didn't get kidnapped here. It's been twenty-three hours! Why aren't you searching at the Food Mart, or"—she gestured vaguely at the surrounding suburbs—"out there?"
"The department's doing that, too, Miss Morgan," Finn reassured her. He hoped the patrol officers were doing a good job. A two-month-old infant was a pretty small bundle to look for. The sergeant told him that at roll call this morning the uniforms had been surly. It was bad enough that Finn was the outsider. Now that he was calling the shots on this case, the local boys were openly resentful.
"Did you find that Talking Hands Ranch van?" Brittany's gaze was still fixed on his face.
"Not yet," he admitted. "No business named Talking Hands Ranch is registered in Washington State. There are no rules about registering a sign on the side of a vehicle. It would be easier with a plate number or a make and model."
"Isn't that your job?" Brittany asked. "It was gray, and it said Talking Hands Ranch on the side. How many can there be? I still don't understand why there's no Amber Alert!"
He stifled a groan. "We're working on finding the van, Miss Morgan. When was the last time you saw Charlie Wakefield?"
"Charlie?" She blinked, surprised. "At the end of school last year? Maybe six weeks before Ivy was born? Why? He's not going to help. Where's the FBI? Whenever there's a kidnapping on TV, the FBI is all over it." She pivoted toward Susan. "Mom, are we supposed to call the FBI?"
"The FBI is aware of everything we do. I am sharing all our information with them." He struggled to keep his tone even. It was aggravating to be grilled by a seventeen-year-old who learned about kidnapping investigations from television.
Unlike when he'd first seen her yesterday, Brittany's face was devoid of makeup; she looked worn out and much older than her seventeen years. Desperate mother or desperate murderer? He still couldn't tell. "Brittany," he said, "If Ivy's been kidnapped, she's probably with someone who will take care of her."
"If? Why do you keep saying if?" The girl's voice was tight.
"That's just the way detectives talk." He hooked a thumb in his belt, trying to look casual. "Where were you this morning?"
Her blue eyes were accusatory. "I was getting help. My friends and I are putting up flyers."
"Have there been any tips on the station hotline yet?" Susan asked Finn.
So far nothing but nutcases, according to the operator and the sergeant. "A few," he said. "We're checking them all out."
"Mom and I put Ivy on Facebook," Brittany told him. "And more pictures of her are going to be in the newspaper and on TV again tonight."
"I see." Facebook. He'd forgotten about that possibility. He'd better prepare the switchboard for a flood of calls and set Mason to somehow collecting all the emails or tweets or IMs whatever the heck all those messages were called these days. Who was going to read all that?
"I really need my computer back," Brittany said.
"Soon." Finn sucked in a breath and rapidly scanned the street, searching for antenna-laden vans with television logos on the side. Thankfully, none was in sight. Yet. Reporters were camped outside the station last night, and they'd track him down sooner or later. More coverage would mean more pressure from the public, and then of course, the local politicos would do their grandstanding, so there'd be pressure from the mayor, too.
On the plus side, if this was a kidnapping, media coverage might shake loose a few leads. More than one scumbag had been nabbed on a tip from America's Most Wanted.
He made a mental checklist: review the interviews of grocery store staff and customers, scrutinize the detritus collected from the area around Brittany's car, retrace the teen's steps from the last two days, check out Charlie Wakefield and friends, discuss findings with patrol officers and other detectives and the men inside the Ciscoe/Morgan house now. Finn rubbed his hand across his cheek, discovered a patch of stubble he'd missed. He was numb with exhaustion, and it wasn't even five p.m.
Brittany was still talking. "I made a list of things that were in the diaper bag for you."
"That could be useful," he said.
"I'll get 'em." The girl clomped up the front steps and into the house.
The canine team arrived a second before Brittany returned. Finn was shaking hands with the canine officer when the girl joined them, a paper fluttering from one hand.
"They are in my room again. They didn't even want to let me take this, even when I said it was for you." She looked up at the window, where an officer was observing. She waved, pointed to the paper, and handed it to Finn with a theatrical gesture. Finn flashed an okay sign, and the officer disappeared from the window.
Brittany stared at the dog. "What's the German Shepherd for?"
"This is Hans," the canine officer explained. "We're going to see what he picks up."
Brittany folded her arms across her stomach. "But Ivy didn't go missing from here."
The Spokane officer had a soothing way about him. "I understand that, Miss Morgan. But Ivy might be somewhere in the neighborhood. Don't you think that's a possibility?"
"Like, maybe a neighbor took her?" Brittany's gaze moved to the houses nearby.
"If she is in the neighborhood, Hans could find her faster than any human could."
The Shepherd whined softly. He seemed eager to comply.
"I'll get Ivy's blanket," Brittany said.
Finn's face must have registered his confusion, because she added, "So Hans can get her scent, right?"
How could he tell those hopeful blue eyes that the dog was trained to sniff out decaying flesh? "Good idea."
Brittany went back into the house, and Finn left Susan to step down into the yard. "Do the back yard first," he murmured quietly to the dog handler.
The gate on the chain link fence rattled as the canine officer unlatched it. He gave the shepherd a command in German. The dog dashed through the gate opening, his sharp muzzle to the ground. He zigzagged across the dry grass and disappeared around the corner of the house with his human in pursuit.
"Why are you searching the back yard?" Susan asked.
"The trail has to start somewhere," Finn answered vaguely.
As they followed the dog's progress, Brittany came out of the house via the back door, carrying a yellow baby blanket. Halfway across the yard, she bent to pick up something from the grass. A pink pacifier. Her eyes filled with tears as she wiped it on the leg of her shorts.
A sympathetic knot formed in Finn's throat. He swallowed to squash it down. The girl's tears could mean anything: regret, remorse, fear.
A white van emblazoned with KEBR News pulled up on the street just beyond the fence. A female reporter and cameraman spilled from the doors even before it came to a stop. Brittany excitedly waved them around to the gate.
He ran a hand over his hair to be sure his cowlick was behaving itself. His cell phone chose that moment to buzz in his pocket. He flipped it open and held it to his ear. "Detective Finn."
"Arrrruuuu!"
"Not now," he growled. It wasn't Dawes. Who the hell—?
"Don't forget our meeting at seven to go over your testimony. We're calling you tomorrow afternoon."
Vernon Dixon, Assistant District Attorney. The Animal Rights Union case. "Look, Dixon. I don't have time, and you don't need
me. Detective Kathryn Larson was in charge of the ARU case."
"But you were in on it, too. Larson is too sympathetic to the cause of rodent rights."
"Kathryn Larson is a damn good detective; she'll do her job. Sara Melendez is a pro, too."
"You're the senior dick. And the prosecutor's choice."
The reporter held open the gate for her cameraman. Finn backed toward the clump of people near the fence. "I'm not coming tonight. Urgent police business." Even an hour away from the Morgan case might be too much. If he'd only slept an hour less on the Kowalski case; if he'd only been an hour smarter...
"Then meet me at the courthouse at noon tomorrow," Dixon commanded. "We'll rehearse over lunch; we'll call you first thing when we reconvene at one p.m."
"I'll try." He snapped the phone shut. Hans whined and circled excitedly in the flower bed.
The reporter held her microphone out like a sword as she rushed them. "Brittany! Mrs. Morgan! Detective Finn!"
Allyson Lee again. Damn, the girl was persistent. She no doubt had a bright future in TV journalism. Finn couldn't wait for her to graduate and leave Evansburg for the big time. The red light above the video camera glowed; the cameraman had his eye to the lens. Like it or not, the show was on. The student reporter was tall for a woman, and especially for a Chinese woman, at least five-ten by his estimation. Finn straightened, maximizing his full six feet.
"Allyson Lee, KEBR News," the reporter announced breathlessly as she positioned herself among the cluster of family and officers. She turned to Finn. "What's going on here?"
Near the fence, Hans zeroed in on a clump of marigolds, whining, and pawed the ground. Shouting commands in German, the canine officer ran forward.
A sound somewhere between a grunt and a whimper came out of Susan Ciscoe. Her face went pale.
"You found something?" Allyson Lee's voice rose in excitement as she gestured at the cameraman to focus on the policemen. They positioned their shovels to dig.
* * * * * *
Josh didn't return until dinnertime. The kittens named Snow and Nest were asleep in a box Grace had prepared for them. Neema, now sporting her favorite old red muffler around her neck, was gnawing on half a cabbage in the middle of the kitchen floor in the study trailer. Grace prepared sandwiches at the counter in the study trailer.
"Mail. Newspaper." Josh slapped them down on the table. He eyed the sandwiches. "I hope one of those is for me."
Neema, catching sight of National Geographic, her favorite magazine, scooted over to grab it from the stack of mail.
"Just look," Grace warned. "No tearing out pages."
"I like your tie, Neema," Josh told the gorilla. Neema glanced at him briefly when she heard her name. Pretty, he signed, mimicking a tie around his own neck.
Neck bracelet red pretty, she signed back. Neema plopped down in the middle of the rug, cradling the magazine with her feet and carefully turning the pages with her thick fingers.
Josh pulled out a chair. "You need to teach her 'necklace' and 'ring'."
"I think 'neck bracelet' and 'finger bracelet' are pretty descriptive." Grace screwed the lid back on the jar of mustard. "I may leave it that way to prove gorilla reasoning."
Had she mentioned Neema's word combinations in her latest paper? She needed to put in at least a couple of hours on it tonight, even if she had to stay up until midnight. She was coming up on her journal deadline, and she hadn't hammered out even half the word count she'd promised.
"They're still searching for that baby in town," Josh said, unfolding the newspaper. He held up the front page, which featured a photo of the distraught young mother in front of the Food Mart, and an inset of a fat-cheeked infant.
Neema scurried over to look, signing go store candy.
No candy now. Stay here now, Josh signed. He brushed away Neema's hands and shook out the paper. "This poor girl. She left the baby in the car—can you imagine?" He shook his head.
"Yes," Grace said, turning. "She's only seventeen. When I think back on the dumb things I did at that age…"
"When I was seventeen…" Josh mused, leaning back in his chair. Then abruptly he shook his head and sat up. "Nope, I'm not going there."
Baby baby baby. Neema batted at the photos on the page. Hair soft soft red gold.
Grace's heart skipped a beat. She signed, Whose hair red gold?
Girl red tail hair soft soft.
"OK." Josh raised a carrot stick toward his mouth. "I get the 'tail' because this girl—Brittany Morgan—has her hair in a ponytail. But the photo's black and white."
"Don't you remember? She was on the news last night. She's a strawberry blonde."
"Oh yeah." He settled back to read the rest of the paper.
Grace rubbed a hand across the knot that had formed in her stomach. Josh didn't remember, but she did. Neema had been outside playing with Gumu at the time they were watching the news. She couldn't have seen the story on television.
Red gold soft soft. Snake make baby cry. Grace made herself take a deep slow breath. Neema might have seen the girl walk into the store, or maybe she'd seen someone else who looked similar. Neema often made up stories; she interpreted ideas in creative ways with her limited vocabulary. Neck bracelet. Finger bracelet. Poop head.
Snake make baby cry.
Yesterday Neema had clearly called Gumu a snake. And she'd called the kittens babies. Or so Grace had thought. Was Neema talking about something else?
Red gold soft soft. Snake make baby cry.
It probably meant nothing. She took another deep breath, cut the finished sandwiches in two and moved the plates to the small table.
"I almost forgot." Josh pulled an envelope from the batch next to his elbow. "For you."
The return address was the Tolliver Animal Intelligence Foundation. "Thank god." Grace ripped open the envelope. She needed to deposit the grant funds before her credit card bill came due. She glanced at the check. The amount was $25,000. Half of what she was expecting.
"Chips?"
She raised her head. "What?"
"Stellar sandwich, but do we have any chips in here?" Josh rose from his chair.
"Check the cabinet over the sink." Fighting a surge of anxiety, she flipped the check face down on the table and unfolded the letter. Maybe they were sending the money in two installments this year.
Dear Dr. McKenna,
We regret to inform you that we can award your project only fifty percent of the funds we gave you last year. The downturn in the economy has precipitated a downturn in donations, so we are forced to reduce awards to all grant recipients this year. We wish you the best of luck and look forward to receiving quarterly progress reports on your important project.
"No! Damn it, no!" Grace slapped her hand down on the letter.
"I take it that's not good news." Josh extended the open potato chip bag.
She waved the chip bag away. "They sent only half my grant money. For the whole year! How am I supposed to house and feed two gorillas and two people for a whole year on twenty-five thousand dollars?"
She sat there, chewing her thumbnail, re-reading the letter, hoping she'd misunderstood. Her sandwich lay untouched on the plate. First she'd been hustled off to the sticks, and now this? She was classified as a research professor at the University of Washington. She received health care benefits and library access and credit union membership and a few other perks, but no salary. The Tolliver Foundation funded her position—their grant money was her entire income and all of her project expense money.
The gorillas' play enclosure was unfinished, the security system had not yet been installed, the barn where Gumu slept was unheated, and winter was coming on. The grocery bill alone for feeding two gorillas amounted to fifteen thousand a year. What the hell was she supposed to do now? Was there any chance the university would come up with the other twenty-five thousand? She had a sinking recollection of news reports about major cuts to higher education budgets.
Josh glanced guiltily at the ha
lf 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."
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