Max shrugged. “She lives over in Wisconsin.”
“Where in Wisconsin?”
“Hudson.”
Hudson was just across the state line. Straight east on the other side of the Saint Croix River. “No problem,” Afton said. “It’s practically a suburb. I’ll even drive if you want.”
“In the Jag?” Max asked, suddenly interested.
Everybody in the department seemed to know that Afton had gotten a Jaguar XKE and a Lincoln Navigator as part of her divorce settlement. She lived in a tiny house in South Minneapolis with her two kids and her sister, but she owned two luxury cars. How was that for crazy?
Afton nodded. “Sure,” she said amiably. “We can swing by my place and pick up the Jag.”
“Okay,” Max said. “But maybe don’t tell Thacker that I let you come along, okay?”
Afton nodded as she watched Max gather up his stuff. He was a grade one detective, married and divorced twice, who now had sole custody of his two sons. The scuttlebutt around the department was that Max was probably on the lookout for a third ex–Mrs. Montgomery. And Afton could see why women found him charming. Max was in his mid-forties, easygoing, and still attractive in a roguish kind of way. Silver hair, hooded dark eyes, still in pretty good shape. The proverbial silver fox, albeit Minnesota’s version.
“Just out of curiosity,” Afton said, “have any other babies been reported missing?”
Max’s head was bent again. Studying his notes or just resting his eyes?
“Not in recent months,” he said.
“But babies have gone missing?”
“Not here in the metro.” Max touched the eraser end of a pencil to his forehead and scratched distractedly. “There was one in Rochester last year. Another one over in River Falls ten months ago.”
“River Falls is maybe fifteen miles from Hudson,” Afton said.
Max shrugged.
“Were the babies ever found?”
Max closed his notebook and focused his attention on Afton. “Rochester yes, River Falls no.”
“If that reborn lady also lives in the Hudson area, there could be a connection.”
Max cranked back his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Doesn’t appear to be. The Rochester baby was a family squabble. Kid was recovered and put into foster care. The River Falls baby never did turn up, so who knows?” He indicated a handful of pages. “That’s the faxed report from the River Falls PD and the Wisconsin DCI.”
Afton knew the Department of Criminal Investigation was Wisconsin’s equivalent to Minnesota’s own BCA, or Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, which had statewide jurisdiction.
Max pushed the pages toward her. “Have a look if you’re interested, and it sounds like you are.”
Afton took a few minutes to skim the reports. Then she tilted back in her chair and asked, “What makes somebody snatch a baby?”
The venerable detective gave her a long look. “Some reproductively challenged fruit loops can’t stand the cards they’re dealt so they take matters into their own hands. That’s one scenario. Then there are the scumbag baby brokers out there who take orders for babies, for Christ’s sake, right down to hair and eye color.” Max paused. “Then there’s the worst possible reason of all.”
“What’s that?” Afton asked, not sure she really wanted to hear what Max had to say.
“Sport.”
* * *
MAX was hungry so they swung into a Wendy’s to grab a late lunch.
“One Baconator,” Afton ordered into the speaker. When Max snorted, she added, “Hold the onions.” And to him, “Hold the judgment, please.”
“You can eat a big-ass burger like that and still stay skinny?” Max asked.
She ignored his comment. “What do you want?”
“Double cheeseburger,” Max said. “Man cannot live by bread alone; sometimes he needs a little grease.”
“There you go,” Afton said.
They nibbled their way along I-94, blotting drips and drops of mayonnaise, talking about the Darden case, Afton asking a million different questions.
Max had to hand it to her. Afton had some interesting theories and insights. Maybe a few too many, but her heart was in the right place. She was persistent and dedicated, traits that generally made for a good investigator. And she was fairly decent company. Especially on an errand that would probably prove to be exactly that, an errand.
“Is this pretty standard?” Afton asked. “That you would cross jurisdictions like this without clearing it? I mean, what’s the protocol?”
“I’m part of MPD’s newly formed squad. It’s called the Mutual Aid and Multi-Jurisdictional Squad. MAMJS. Gives the MPD a little more leverage in investigating outside our boundaries.”
“So you’ve got free rein to chase down bad guys outside of Minneapolis?”
“Something like that.”
“Bet the BCA hates that.”
“That’d be about right.”
They were cruising along at seventy miles an hour, just passing the Highway Patrol weigh station, when Afton asked, “How old are your sons?”
“Fourteen and seventeen,” Max said.
“At that age they must be . . . a handful.” Afton figured princess parties and My Little Pony were infinitely preferable to filthy sneakers and stinky hockey jerseys.
Max rolled his eyes. “You have no idea.”
They drove for another ten minutes, both mulling over their own thoughts. Wondering about the missing Darden baby, formulating questions to ask this doll lady.
“How come you got two luxury cars?” Max asked suddenly. He’d cranked back the passenger seat in the Jag until it was fully reclined, then fiddled with the heater until he’d achieved the absolute perfect temperature. For him.
“It all came down to Mickey having cash flow problems, but owning a large inventory,” Afton explained. Mickey had been the kids’ stepfather but had never formally adopted Tess and Poppy. Thus, he was off the hook for any child support.
They spun across the Interstate bridge that arced over the Saint Croix, the river looking icy and turgid beneath them.
“I was always going to sell both cars and buy something more practical,” Afton said. “Maybe a Ford or Honda . . .”
“But you like driving what you got,” said Max, a Cheshire cat grin spreading across his face.
“Yeah,” Afton admitted. “I guess you could say that.”
* * *
MURIEL Pink, the woman who’d organized the doll show, lived on Flint Street, a couple of blocks up the hill from the main drag in Hudson.
Afton and Max turned down a tree-lined boulevard where each two-story house was practically identical to the next. As if they’d been given an allotment, each house had two trees in the front yard and a driveway leading neatly up to a double garage.
Afton pulled to a stop in front of a tall, narrow house and checked the address. Yup, this was it. Another white, two-story house with a slightly American Gothic vibe to it. Still, the sidewalk was shoveled, the slightly tilting bird feeder was stocked with oilseed, and the place looked well maintained.
“You ready to do this?” Max asked as they climbed out of the car.
Afton nodded as they approached the house. The front yard was a mash-up of animal tracks—dogs, squirrels, birds, maybe a raccoon or two. At the base of an evergreen tree a pile of feathers marked the scene of the crime where a neighborhood cat or marauding raccoon had murdered a bird.
Afton and Max knocked on the door and were greeted by Mrs. Muriel Pink herself. She was a small, frail-looking woman with a tiny waist and pouf of white hair. Probably in her late seventies, she wore a belted housedress and a pair of white slip-on sneakers.
“Are you the FBI?” Pink asked them in a high, thin, agitated voice.
“No, ma’am,” Max said. “We’re
from the Minneapolis Police Department. I’m Max Montgomery and this is Afton Tangler. You and I spoke on the phone about an hour ago?”
Pink barely glanced at Max’s ID as she ushered them into a tidy little house that felt like it was heated to around ninety degrees. Afton thought it was like walking into a thermal underground cavern.
“Would you like something to drink?” Pink asked. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Ice water would be great,” Max said. His forehead was already beading up with sweat.
“Second that,” Afton said.
Pink puttered about her neat little fifties-era kitchen where dolls were displayed everywhere. On top of cabinets, on doll stands, posed on the counter, sprawled on the radiator. Afton wondered why the radiator dolls hadn’t melted into a sticky rubbery mess.
“You have an impressive collection of dolls,” Afton said, peeling off her jacket. If it was one degree hotter in here, she was going to have to rip off her sweater and strip down to her camisole.
Muriel Pink set their glasses of water on the table in front of them. “Oh my,” she said, laughing. “This is nothing. You should see my piano room and bedroom. Dolls everywhere.”
“I can just imagine,” Max said. Afton kicked him under the table.
“So,” Pink said, finally easing herself into a kitchen chair. “You wanted to talk about that kidnapping?” She gave a little shiver. “Although I don’t see how something like that could be tied to yesterday’s doll show.”
“Mrs. Pink,” Max began. “As I mentioned on the phone, a three-month-old baby was kidnapped from her home last night. Interestingly enough, one of the last people the baby’s mother spoke to was a woman by the name of Molly who had a booth at your show.”
Sadness reflected in Muriel Pink’s eyes. “Such a terrible, sad thing.”
“Which is why we’re following up on every possible lead,” Max said. He pulled out a hanky and mopped his face. “You mentioned to me on the phone that you had an exhibitor list?”
Pink’s brows knit together. “It’s more of a partial list,” she told them. “We had a couple of walk-in exhibitors.”
Afton and Max exchanged glances. “Does that happen often?” Afton asked.
“More often than you’d think,” Pink said.
“Do you have their names?” Max asked.
“Better than that, I’ve got their checks,” Pink said. “I haven’t deposited them yet.”
“Do you remember a woman by the name of Molly?” Afton asked. “She was displaying some reborn dolls?”
“Molly,” Pink repeated. She stood up, shuffled over to a highboy stuffed with dolls, and picked up a black notebook. “Let me take a look.” She thumbed through a few pages and glanced up. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anyone on my exhibitor list by the name of Molly.”
Max looked startled. He reached a hand out. “May I see that?”
“Certainly,” Pink said, handing the notebook over to him.
Max pursed his lips as he searched Pink’s list. “Just to make sure,” he said, “this is the list of exhibitors for yesterday’s doll show at the Skylark Mall.”
“Yes.” Pink nodded.
“But Molly isn’t listed here.” Max directed his statement to Afton.
“Is one of your checks from someone named Molly?” Afton asked.
They went through all of Mrs. Pink’s checks, one by one, but couldn’t find one that had been written by anyone named Molly.
“She could have used a fake name,” Max said.
“This might sound like a strange question,” Afton said. “But could an exhibitor have just walked in and sort of set up shop?”
Pink looked startled. “I never thought about that. It’s very unlikely.”
“But it could have happened?” Max asked.
“I suppose so,” Pink said. “I never . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Were you present the entire day?” Afton asked.
“No,” Pink said slowly. “I was there at setup, collecting money, and showing exhibitors where to place their tables. And then I had a dentist appointment and did some shopping. I was back there at seven o’clock to pay the mall people. They charge a fee, you know. I have to give them a percentage.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” Max said. He hesitated. “These shows are big business. I mean, you arrange a lot of them?”
Pink smiled. “Almost every other month. Sometimes more in summer when people are more apt to travel.”
“And you don’t have a computerized list of your exhibitors?” Afton asked.
Pink shook her head. “No computers, just my notebooks.”
“Is it possible to make copies of some of your pages?” Max asked. “I mean, we’d go to the nearest Kinko’s or whatever and bring your notebooks right back.”
“Surely,” Pink said. “If you think that would help.”
“It might,” Afton said. “You never know.”
“This woman, Molly,” Muriel Pink said, looking more than a little nervous. “You think she’s a suspect?”
Max pursed his lips. “Let’s just say she’s a person of interest.”
6
THE farmhouse was quarantined on twenty acres of ninety-year-old cottonwoods perched on the edge of a cliff. And like the trees that feebly sheltered it, the house was nearing the end of its life. Once upon a time, long before the First World War, the enormous two-story house with its carved finials and finely turned balustrade had been built as a showcase to boom times. Wisconsin settlers, newlyweds, flush from a pre-income tax inheritance, had lived there and raised a large family.
In the nineteen thirties, Alvin Karpis and his bank robber gang, anxious to escape harassment from both the Chicago and the Saint Paul Police Departments, had leased the place and found it perfect. It was centrally located, but still off the beaten track, perfect for a little gangster R and R.
Dull and homely now, thanks to wind, rain, snow, termites, and old age, most of the home’s exterior had been worn down to bare, gray wood. And not the silvered elegance of old barn wood, but the dowdy, gritty look of zinc.
The fields surrounding the house had been fallow for nearly twenty years, choked with an overgrowth of buckthorn and thistles. The skeletal remains of a large grain bin stood as the only testimony to this having once been a working farm.
Still, on this dark and frosty January night, people called it home.
Inside a large farm kitchen with outdated Kelvinator appliances, two women and a man sat at a battered wooden table under a heavy wrought iron light fixture. They sipped coffee, poked at pieces of meat that rested, gray and well done, on an oval platter, and ate Oreo cookies directly from the bag. Perched atop the refrigerator, overlooking this scene of tragic domesticity, was an enormous stuffed woodchuck, all flashing teeth and claws.
While Marjorie Sorenson crafted reborn dolls, Ronnie worked at his beloved taxidermy projects. And he was good at it, almost as skilled as Marjorie at breathing a startling reality into inanimate objects.
Ronnie’s girlfriend, Sharice Williams, known as Shake to all her friends and anyone who’d ever stuffed a dollar bill down her G-string, sat at the table with them. She was eyeing the two of them carefully, trying to read the temperature in the room.
Finally, after a few minutes of noisy chewing, Ronnie said, to no one in particular, “Shake and me was gonna go hang out at Judge’s.”
Flat, cobra eyes suddenly drilled into him. “This girl’s not going anywhere,” Marjorie told her son. “Especially not to some dimey bar like Judge’s. In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s due to have a baby any day now.”
“I’m bored,” Shake whined. “There’s nothin’ to do here.”
Shake was Ronnie’s latest girlfriend. He didn’t bed many women, but those he did seemed to share some common traits—they tended to be dirt poor, estranged from th
eir families, and pretty enough, but in a worn-out, used-up way. Shake had been forced to give up pole dancing some five months ago when Buddy Yaruso, the manager at Club Paradise out on County Road A-2, had touched a hand to her distended belly, stuck a twenty-dollar bill in her panties, and fired her on the spot. He’d told her that a pregnant exotic dancer wasn’t good for business. It just reminded his club patrons of what they were trying to forget about at home.
Shake had cried a river of tears, thinking how unfair it all was. Still, she wasn’t about to score a job as Kim Kardashian’s personal stylist, and that chief financial officer job at Coca-Cola just wasn’t on the horizon. So hanging out with Ronnie and his old lady for a while seemed to be all right. Not good, just all right.
“Waaaaaah!” came a loud, demanding wail from down the hall.
“I wish that thing would shut up,” Shake said. She looked at Marjorie, who pointedly ignored her as she lit another Kool cigarette. She turned her gaze toward Ronnie. “Where’d that kid come from anyway?”
“I told ya,” Marjorie said. “She’s my cousin’s kid. Picked her up when we was in The Cities yesterday.” She flicked a piece of hardened food gunk off her sweatshirt. “Gonna watch her for a while.”
“Yeah?” Shake said. Suspicious eyes flitted across the table. “You got cousins in The Cities?” she asked Ronnie.
Ronnie pushed limp green beans across his plate and into his watery gravy. “Sure.” He hadn’t been much interested in Shake lately, now that she was all fat and swollen and crabby. Right now his brain was occupied with someone else. All day long he’d been replaying his encounter with the skinny blond babysitter. That bitch had been . . . unbelievably hot. He shifted in his chair, practically overwhelmed by feelings of lust and need.
Marjorie focused on Shake. “It wouldn’t hurt you none to practice with that baby,” she said. She was busy sawing at a piece of overdone strip steak with a dull steak knife. The broiler in the damn stove was on the blink again and she’d had to pan fry the meat. Now it tasted more like liver than steak.
“Practice?” came Shake’s derisive hoot. “What for?” One of her hands was drawn unconsciously to her swollen belly. “I’m gonna give this baby up for adoption anyhow.” She massaged the mass under her stretched-out Pantera T-shirt. “So what’s the harm if we go over to Judge’s and have a couple of drinks?” Shake was particularly fond of Crapple Bombs, a lethal concoction of Red Bull, Crown Royal, and Apple Pucker. “Who’s gonna be the wiser?”
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