But then I thought about the alternative. That something terrible had happened to Kira, leaving a little girl without her mother. Suddenly, a PR stunt looked positively wonderful.
Trey came back to the table and said, “I have to go. One of the Patriots got himself arrested for trying to take a loaded weapon through airport security.”
Even though I still had questions for him, I wasn’t all that sad to see him go. “That’s fine. I have more questions for you, and I’ll also need to speak with Tova at some point, so I need a contact number.”
“Is speaking to Tova necessary?”
I stood. “Yes.”
After giving me a long once-over that made me want to shower, he tossed a business card on the table and used my pen to write Tova’s number on the back. “Call me anytime, especially if you change your mind about getting a ride in my car.” He puckered his lips in a faux kiss, winked, and strode off.
Yuck. I was starting to believe that he was called “Fish” not because of his last name but because he was slimy.
As I watched him saunter away, I could kick myself for not asking him anything about Ava and if he knew why Kira suspected she might be in danger. But I thought in light of her missing mother that it was more interesting he hadn’t asked me about her.
11
Traffic-heavy side roads slowed me down as I navigated my way to Randolph. The twenty-five minute trip took nearly forty as Scarlett, my GPS, bossily guided me to the CFC’s area office located near Central Cemetery. Clouds shaded the simple square brick building as I turned into the lot. My meeting with Barb Manciello, this office’s assistant head honcho, wasn’t for another fifteen minutes, so I was in no rush as I parked the car. I was here solely on a fact-finding mission. I wanted to know what Barb knew of Kira’s involvement in Dustin McDaniel’s case.
I needed a clear head for this meeting, so I forced myself not to think about Trey Fisher or my mother’s renovation plans. Reaching across the console, I rifled through my tote looking for my copy of Dustin McDaniel’s file.
Paper-clipped to the inside cover was a photo of the little boy. Longish blond hair, big blue eyes, pale cheeks. Thin bordering on too thin, and his far-off gaze looked to hold secrets instead of little-boy mischief.
Dustin David McDaniel had been born to Alisha (nee Keefe) and Corey McDaniel, both twenty-four years old. Dustin had been in the CFC system since he was born—when he’d tested positive for marijuana. The agency took custody of the baby, but later returned him after Alisha completed a court-ordered drug program. When Dustin was a year old, a neighbor had called in a report of negligence when she witnessed Alisha leave the baby in a playpen in the front yard unsupervised for a long period of time. It turned out Alisha been getting high in the house and had forgotten about him. Again, CFC had taken temporary custody of the child but Alisha completed another court-ordered drug program and was able to get the boy back a few months later.
Dustin’s father, Corey, had been in prison on drug-related and assault charges for all of Dustin’s short life—he’d been arrested while Alisha was pregnant. Corey still had four years left on his six-year sentence.
Dustin’s disappearance might have not ever come to light if not for Alisha’s mother, Patty Keefe. Patty, who was battling a terminal cancer diagnosis, hadn’t seen Dustin since Christmastime and repeated requests to visit him had been shot down by her daughter. Dustin was napping; he wasn’t feeling well; he was at a friend’s house having a playdate. For months, there had been an excuse as to why Patty couldn’t see him and the more her health failed, the more desperate she grew. She wanted to see her grandson—spend more time with him before she died.
My phone rang, startling me. I glanced at the readout. Sean. I answered, but all I heard in the background was utter chaos. Men shouting, the baby crying, barking, my mother asking about cookies.
“Sean? Hello?”
“Hold on,” he said.
Smiling, I shook my head. Only he’d call me and tell me to hold on.
Finally, he came back on the line. “Okay, I had to move somewhere a little quieter.”
It didn’t sound that much quieter—I could still hear all the commotion. “What’s going on?”
“Were you expecting a delivery of a dog today?” he asked.
“Of a what?”
“A dog. Woof, woof,” he said and I heard Ava quickly mimic him.
“A dog? Noooo,” I said, dragging the word out. “Why?”
“A vet tech showed up from Marisol’s clinic with a dog in tow. He said he was told to deliver it to you. Looks like Lassie. Collar has a tag that says his name is Scout, but no one is answering the phone number on the tag. The security team has the guy pinned to the ground. He’s close to tears.”
“Ohhhh,” I said, dragging that word out, too. Maybe the dog—and not Jeremy Cross—had been why Marisol called earlier. “That dog. Shit.”
I heard the smile in his voice. “Something you need to tell me, Ms. Valentine?”
“Was the dog overjoyed to see Ava?”
“How’d you know? We had to put the dog outside so he wouldn’t jump all over her.”
“You know how she keeps saying ‘scow?’ She’s actually saying Scout. The dog is Ava’s. Well, Kira’s, I guess. Kira’s neighbor, Morgan, was supposed to bring the dog to Marisol at the clinic.” I explained about how I’d met Morgan the day before—and why he couldn’t keep the dog because of his allergies. “I don’t quite know why the dog is at our house, but I missed a call from Marisol earlier…”
I heard Sean yell to let the guy up, that his story checked out. “I smell a lawsuit,” he said to me.
“I’ll have Marisol explain it all to him.” I winced, having the feeling I might have to dip into my off-limits trust fund for a payoff.
“Can you call Marisol?” Sean asked. “This house isn’t big enough for more pets.”
“I told you so,” I heard my mother yell.
I rolled my eyes.
“How’d your meeting with Trey Fisher go?” he asked.
“It went. He’s skeezy.”
“Do I need to kill him?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s probably good. I’m not exactly in top fighting condition.”
“You could still take him.”
“Thanks for that, Ms. Valentine.”
“No problem. Hey, if you have a free minute in between changing diapers, walking dogs, entertaining my mother, and saving vet techs, can you search everything of Ava’s that Aiden brought over? A thorough search, too. Cut open stuffed animals, check the lining of the diaper bag, inspect every bit of her car seat.”
“What am I looking for?”
“A flash drive,” I said, explaining how Kira was never without it. “If all her notes are on that flash drive, and she thought someone was after her…”
“She’d stash it somewhere safe.”
“Right.”
“It makes sense. It also might explain the explosion at her house.”
“Go on,” I said, not quite following.
“Okay, worst-case scenario? Someone confronts her, kills her, and can’t find the flash drive. The killer goes to her house, searches it, and still can’t find it. Could be it’s in there, could be it’s not, but the killer’s not taking a chance that it is and someone else will eventually find it.”
A chill went down my spine. “Do you think that’s why someone tried to break in here last night? Because he or she had the same idea I did? To search Ava’s belongings?”
“Possibly. But then we have to think about how the killer knew she was here. The killer would have to know that Ava was with Aiden and that he brought her here. It’s a stretch.”
Killer. Sean had prefaced what he said with “worst-case scenario” and he was right. It would be the worst. All this supposition was giving me a headache. “One step at a time, I guess.”
The dogs set off barking again. Sean asked, “When are you coming back?”
&nbs
p; “I have ten minutes until my meeting here at the CFC. I’ll be home after that.”
“I’ll be waiting with a baby, two cats, two dogs, a hamster, three special ops, a litigious vet tech, and your mother,” he said, letting out a laugh. “I know I volunteered to babysit, but I think this deserves hazard pay.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised.
His voice dropped low. “I’m going to hold you to that.” He clicked off.
I bet he would.
I dialed Marisol, but it went straight to her voicemail. “Call me back when you get a chance,” I said and hung up.
Turning my attention back to the file propped against my steering wheel, I picked up my reading where I’d left off.
The standoff between Alisha and her mother culminated on April twenty-eighth, Dustin’s second birthday. When Alisha dodged requests to let Patty visit, she confronted her daughter. During the heated argument, Alisha finally confessed that CFC had taken custody of the boy in early January because of her ongoing drug use, and she had been too embarrassed to say so. But when Patty called the agency to verify the claim and see if she could visit Dustin at his foster home, she was told that Dustin was not in their custody and as far as they knew he was still with his mother. The authorities were brought in.
And all hell had broken loose.
Media quickly reported that in mid-December Alisha had been fired from her job at a local fast-food restaurant, and photos surfaced of Alisha’s illicit drug use during the time frame Dustin had been missing. It was also revealed that over the past few months she’d taken in a number of questionable roommates.
All of which should have been red flags for the CFC. If they’d been paying attention.
It turned out that Dustin’s caseworker had falsified reports of visiting Dustin—and hadn’t actually seen him with her own eyes since early December. Her supervisor supposedly knew of the tampered reports and turned a blind eye. When that news broke, her job had been terminated immediately and the supervisor had been suspended. The CFC came under intense scrutiny. The commissioner vowed that this was an aberration, not the norm for their employees, but that the agency would crack down and make sure nothing like this ever happened again.
During the initial investigation, Alisha stuck to her story about the CFC taking Dustin. Then on advice from her court-appointed lawyer she clammed up altogether, refusing to cooperate or take a lie-detector test.
Before any charges could be filed against her, in early May Alisha McDaniel died of a drug overdose. She’d taken the secret of what happened to Dustin with her to the grave.
Closing the file, I looked at the building.
The last verified sighting of Dustin had been Christmas day. In missing persons cases, the first forty-eight hours were critical for recovery. For Dustin, it had been six months. Time was working against us.
Alisha’s home and car had been processed by police and there was no sign a crime had taken place. Area searches had been completed with nothing found. The questionable roommates had moved in during the month of February and had been told the same story Patty heard: CFC had taken custody of Dustin in January. No one questioned that there hadn’t been a guardianship hearing. No one in Alisha’s immediate circle asked questions, period. Except Patty.
I flipped open the file again. Patty was now living in a hospice care center in Braintree and still called detectives on the case several times a week for an update. I made a mental note to pay her a visit.
Turning back to the photo of Dustin, I stared into his haunted eyes. A familiar feeling grew within me—the need to find out what happened to him. I’d do everything in my power to figure it out. To give him justice.
Letting out a breath, I checked my watch. I still had a few minutes.
I grabbed my phone and dialed a familiar number. When the call was answered, I quickly said, “Remember how happy you were to finally have a sister?”
“I never said that,” Cutter denied, a smile in his voice.
“You must have thought it.”
“Why do I think you want something?”
“Because you’re a Valentine and brilliant?”
“You’re starting to make me queasy.”
“I need you to make sure Dovie and Preston keep away from the news. Far, far away.”
There was a stretch of silence. “Why? What’s this about, Lucy? Something with Dad? Did he get caught with another floozy?”
Dad. It warmed my heart to hear him finally calling him that regularly. “Not this time.” A miracle, really.
“Then what?”
I gave him a quick rundown of the case.
He whistled. “Aiden has a kid?”
“Shh.”
“I’m at the store, Lucy, picking up approximately eighteen gallons of ice cream. I don’t think they can hear me.”
“Do not underestimate them.”
He laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Dovie has a smartphone.”
“Kill it. And hide yours.”
“All right, but when she finds out…,” he said.
“Enjoy my share of the inheritance, okay?”
Laughing again, he hung up. I decided to go inside, even though I was still early. I tucked Dustin’s file into my bag and stepped out of the car, biting back a moan from my aches and pains. As I grabbed my crutches from the back seat, the clouds shifted, and I squinted against sudden sunlight. A commuter train rumbled from somewhere nearby.
Grass grew through the cracked cement walkway that led to the front door, which was flanked by two overgrown holly bushes. A prickly branch grabbed my dress as I passed and as I paused to untangle myself, I had the uneasy feeling the bush was trying to warn me about going into the building.
Nonsense, but nonetheless, I was suddenly spooked.
Inside, my eyes adjusted to the dim light in the reception area. A gum-chewing young woman sat behind a low curved counter. She glanced up at me but continued tapping away on a keyboard. There weren’t many chairs in the reception area—only five or six and none of them were occupied.
I crutched up to the counter. “Hi, I’m Lucy Valentine. I have an appointment with Barb Manciello.” I pulled out my state police ID.
The woman stopped typing. Her gaze narrowed on the cut on my cheek, but she didn’t question it. She looked to be in her early twenties, and the way she chewed her gum was making me nauseous. Smack, smack, smack.
A charm bracelet jingled as she tucked a lock of thick dark hair behind her ear, and said, “I’m sorry, but she’s not here.”
“Not here? We had an appointment…”
An apology shone in pretty blue eyes heavily lined with liquid black liner. “Her daughter fell and had to go to the emergency room,” she explained. “She said she called…”
“I didn’t get a call.”
She blinked at me repeatedly. Smack, smack, smack. “Sorry?”
The bracelet jingled again as she folded her hands on the counter. Her fingernails each had a crystal glued to the long tip. I didn’t know how she got any work done with those—I’d be eternally distracted by the bling.
Even though her gaze held no sign of deception, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was telling the truth. It seemed awfully coincidental that Barb was suddenly called away. And I didn’t believe in coincidences.
I didn’t want this whole trip to be a waste, so I said, “Do you know if Kira Fitzpatrick from Channel 3 news stopped by here recently?”
Recognition flashed in her eyes, and her gum-chewing slowed. I had the feeling she was debating how much she was allowed to tell me.
“When?” she asked, clearly stalling.
“Within the past two weeks?”
“I, uh—” She glanced over her shoulder. Dropping her voice a bit, she said, “She came in a few times, the last being on Wednesday. She said she was doing a story on the McDaniel case.”
“Did she interview anyone here?”
She shook her head. “We’re not allowed to speak t
o the press. I heard that she was missing. The reporter, I mean. Has she been found yet?”
“No,” I said.
Smack, smack. Fear crept into her voice. “Do you think she’s missing because of that case?”
Between the jingle jangle of the bracelet and the smack of the gum, I was pretty sure I would lose my mind if I worked with her.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I don’t suppose you know someone named Jarvis, do you?” It was the name Trey Fisher had overheard. Who was Jarvis and what kind of information did he or she have regarding Dustin McDaniel?
Smack. “First or last name?”
“Either.”
Looking at me like I had two heads, she said, “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
It had been a long shot. “Do you know when Ms. Manciello will be back?”
“No. Do you want to reschedule?” she asked, typing away again. Jingle jangle. “I can squeeze you in on Thursday. One p.m.?”
“That’s fine,” I said, knowing I’d ask Aiden to get involved before that.
The receptionist smiled, and I saw a bit of green gum peeking out from behind her teeth. Ugh.
“Okay, then,” she said brightly. “Have a good day.”
After stowing my crutches in the back seat, and turning on the car to get the air conditioning going, I dialed Aiden’s cell phone.
“Surgery, Lucy,” he said as he answered, his normally calm voice high. “They’re talking surgery. I cannot have surgery. That’s at least a week here in the hospital. I will lose my ever-loving mind. You might need to break me out of this place.”
“Em would kill me.” The sunbaked car was stifling, so I powered down the window until the car cooled off. A robin chereeped from a branch nearby.
“I don’t think she would go that far, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“I understand perfectly.” No one came nor went from the CFC building. I would have thought it would be busier. I said, “I hear there’s a high infection rate with hospital surgeries these days. Did you hear that? It’s been on the news a lot. Superbugs or some such.”
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