Little Girl Gone

by Gerry Schmitt

  Max lifted a shoulder. “Something like that.”

  “Does this guy have a name?”

  “He’s just known around town as The Scrounger,” Max said. “Here.” He slowed to a crawl and then stopped. “This is his place.”

  The Scrounger lived in what looked to be a shabby duplex with a falling-down three-car garage out back. The backyard was heaped with junk—tires, old bicycles, snow blowers, lawn mowers, rolls of metal fencing, railroad planks, old oil barrels, and a pile of demolished swing sets.

  “This is his place of business?” Afton asked. And then, “What exactly is his business?”

  “Scrounging,” Max said. “He drives around in this beat-up old black pickup truck looking for stuff.”

  “Stuff.”

  “Junk that people toss into the alley. Or that’s been left on the street. You name it.”

  “What does he do with it?” Afton said.

  “I don’t know, he repurposes it.”

  “Isn’t that just a fancy name for selling scrap metal?”

  “I suppose,” Max said.

  “How do you know this guy, or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “Popped him a couple years ago on a B and E. But the thing is, he’s kind of a charming guy. Well-spoken, reads a little William Carlos Williams, sneaks into Orchestra Hall when the good conductors drop into town.”

  “You took pity on this Scrounger guy because he’s got taste?” Afton gazed at the junk-strewn backyard again. “Well, maybe he does when it comes to the arts.”

  “Let’s just say we have a well-oiled quid pro quo going on.”

  “And you think The Scrounger might know something about that doll we just found?”

  “Not that specifically,” Max said. “But he’s connected, he knows this neighborhood.” He nodded to himself. “And maybe even the whack job who planted the doll.”

  20

  SITTING behind a battered wooden desk at the Family Resource Center in New Richmond, Wisconsin, Marjorie Sorenson was hardly recognizable. In her long black wool skirt and prim white blouse, with her hair combed neatly back and held in place with a crisscross of bobby pins, she looked like a nun. Or at least one who’d recently kicked the habit.

  Not only that, Marjorie had cleverly appropriated the demeanor of a nun. No longer the caustic, tough-talking kidnapper, she spoke to the young woman sitting across from her in a measured and thoughtful tone of voice.

  At the same time, Marjorie noted that the girl was clearly frightened out of her wits. She’d come creeping into the Family Resource Center looking like a tentative rabbit, all hunched over, her face a mask of pain. She’d asked to speak with one of their counselors, and Libby Grauman, the director of the center (which was really not about family resources at all, but distinctly pro-life) had directed the girl to Marjorie.

  Marjorie volunteered two mornings a week. She typed (badly), filed (haphazardly), and helped counsel the pregnant, unwed teens and twenty-somethings who came tiptoeing in. The ones who had nowhere to turn, whose boyfriends had skulked off at the mere hint of a bun in the oven.

  She’d been given her role at the center because of her professed belief in the sanctity of life. But Marjorie thought of herself as a kind of wolf on the prowl. Someone who was smart, cunning, and had a discerning eye for the weak and easily manipulated. In other words, those particular young women who were more than willing to put their names on a hastily produced document and sign away their babies.

  “How far along are you?” Marjorie asked. She was filling out a form as she spoke soothingly to the girl.

  “Three months,” said the girl, who’d identified herself as June. Just June. She wore a dowdy dress, scuffed brown boots, and a coat that was definitely of the thrift store variety.

  She probably didn’t have two nickels to rub together, Marjorie thought, as she kept up her gentle patter.

  “And you’re living at home?” Marjorie asked.

  “For now,” June said. “After this . . .” She patted her stomach. “I’m gonna go live somewhere else.”

  Marjorie didn’t ask where because the girl probably hadn’t figured that out yet. Maybe never would.

  They’d been talking for twenty minutes and Marjorie suspected June was going to be one of the easy ones. She had that trapped-animal look about her. All she wanted was to be done with her pregnancy problem and get rid of the evidence.

  “I’m so glad you found your way to us,” Marjorie said, giving her a smile and revealing pink gums. “If you sign an agreement to carry your baby to full term, the Family Resource Center can guarantee that we’ll find a wonderful loving home for it.”

  “That sounds . . . good,” June said. Her boyfriend had already left for Afghanistan and her parents were ready to disown her. Living in a small farming community didn’t give her a lot of options.

  Marjorie dug a file folder out of her desk drawer. “Let me show you something.” She pulled out a glossy color photo of an eager-looking young couple. “These are the kind of people who would love your baby as if it were their own, and give it every opportunity in the world.”

  June bit her lower lip and studied the photo. “They look nice.”

  “In fact, this particular couple,” Marjorie said, “own a lovely home in Evanston, Illinois. They’re both college graduates and hold down good jobs. The husband is a VP at Wells Fargo bank and the wife is currently working at an interior design firm.” Marjorie smiled. The stock photo she’d pulled out of a frame from the Ben Franklin had served her well. “But as soon as they adopt, the wife wants to quit her job and devote herself to being a full-time mother.”

  “They sound perfect,” June said as tears glistened in her eyes.

  Marjorie fingered a sheaf of papers, and then slid them across the desk to June. A pen followed. “Why don’t you sign this agreement right now and I’ll get things rolling.”

  The young girl suddenly shivered, as if an ill wind had just swept in and chilled her to the bone. She paused, considered her predicament for a moment, and then slowly signed the papers. After all, what other option did she have?

  * * *

  MARJORIE hummed to herself as she typed up her report. Across the room, Libby Grauman stood up from her desk and slipped into her coat. She headed for the door and paused.

  “I’m going to run over to the Hamburger Hut and grab some lunch. You want me to bring something back for you?”

  “No thanks,” Marjorie said. “I brought a bologna sandwich from home.”

  “Okay then.” The director was gone, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Marjorie waited a full five minutes. Just in case Libby came back for something. When the coast seemed to be clear, she quickly dialed a long-distance number.

  After wheedling her way past two different gatekeepers, her contact came on the line. “Yes?”

  “I’ve got three,” Marjorie said.

  “You’ve been busy. I hadn’t heard from you in a while so I wondered if maybe . . .” Then, “How old?”

  “I’ve got a three-month-old girl, one that’s due any day now, and another in six months or so.”

  There was a long hesitation. “Three months, you say? Is this another kid from that Amish group you’re hooked up with?”

  “Not this one, no,” Marjorie said. “In fact, she’s special. Blond hair, blue eyes. The perfect baby for those fancy pants clients of yours.” When her contact didn’t reply, she said, “Hey, I ain’t got all day here. You want her or not?”

  “A girl.” There was a sharp intake of air and then her contact said, “Jesus, Marjorie. Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

  “I think you’re in this as deep as I am,” Marjorie said, putting a touch of venom in her voice.

  More breathing on the other end of the line. “It’s the Darden baby, isn’t it? Christ, are you crazy? It’s be
en all over the news. The FBI was brought it to investigate!”

  “So what?” Marjorie said.

  “Damn it, you did this to me once before and I warned you—never again. This just leads to big problems.”

  “Big money, too,” Marjorie said. “This is one cute kid.”

  “But a terrible risk.” Another pause. “I don’t know that our arrangement from here on is going to work out all that well.”

  “Then try harder,” Marjorie snarled. “You have clients, I deliver. No questions asked.”

  “You really are crazy, you know that? You take way too many chances.”

  “That’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.”

  “Ah, but now you’re making it my problem. This isn’t just some abandoned kid from a crack whore. Or some bastard kid that a bunch of religious fruitcakes don’t want. This is dangerous business. There could be major repercussions.”

  Marjorie’s voice came out in a low hiss. “Don’t you dare try to dime me out. You’re just as complicit as I am. Maybe more.” She thought her contact might hang up on her, but they didn’t. She knew they were still on the line because she could hear wheezy breath sounds.

  “Okay, okay. I want ’em,” came the response. “The two little ones anyway.”

  “Good. Start lining up your people,” Marjorie said. “Tell ’em the three-month-old is on the way, and the other one, the baby, is due any day now. And don’t forget to put a nice fat wad of cash in the mail for me. You remember the post office box number?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got it. So . . . when do we meet? When can we make the exchange for the, uh, three-month-old?”

  “Soon,” Marjorie said. “No more than a couple of days. I’ll call you.”

  “Use a pay phone, okay?”

  “Still don’t trust me?”

  “It’s just the smart thing to do, Marjorie.”

  “Sure, whatever.”

  * * *

  HANDS clenched, jaw working like crazy, Marjorie’s contact hung up the phone.

  This was the last time. Just these two private adoptions and then it was over and done with forever. The money was good . . . well, actually, the money was tremendous. It was amazing what upper-crust white bread couples would pay for a baby. But dealing with Marjorie simply wasn’t worth it. She was too unstable. Too crazy. The one time she’d set foot in the office, she’d scared the crap out of everyone.

  On the other hand . . . there might be a clever way to handle this. A way to make a final bundle of money and then step away from this dirty business for good.

  Yes, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

  21

  RICHARD Darden looked considerably different from the last time Afton had seen him. For one thing, the man had aged. Worry lines etched his face, undermining his chiseled features. And his cocksure, aloof attitude seemed washed away under the harsh, fluorescent lights of the interview room. Dressed in a pair of khakis and a wrinkled Macalester sweatshirt, Darden looked positively bedraggled, a far cry from the primped and polished business executive that he’d been a few days earlier.

  Afton suspected that Darden’s wardrobe malnutrition was a result of Susan Darden not allowing her husband back into the house for the rest of his clothes. Then again, the woman could hardly be blamed for drawing such a hard line. Less than a week ago, Susan had been blissfully unaware of her husband’s affair with the nanny. Now his pitiful weakness had been exposed.

  It was hard to fathom how Darden could possibly think of anything other than his missing child. But in Afton’s limited experience, she’d noticed that high-powered, testosterone-fueled Type-A’s weren’t typically tethered by the same empathic constraints that were felt by the rest of the world.

  Afton sipped her coffee slowly as she stared through the one-way glass. Darden and his snake-eyed lawyer, Steve Slocum, sat on one side of a wooden table; Max was on the opposite side. Slocum had launched a pro forma protest at being kept waiting for forty-five minutes, but Max had brushed it off, remaining cool and relaxed. Still, Slocum didn’t bother to mask his disdain and contempt for every question his client was asked.

  Admiration swelled within Afton. She didn’t think she could maintain the same confidence that Max did when faced with constant scrutiny from Slocum. Every single question Max asked was met with a curled lip and a barrage of lawyerly protests. Some of them were even in Latin.

  Even now, while Max scribbled notes on his yellow legal pad, Slocum was leaning back in his chair, scrolling through his phone messages, trying to look bored, probably hoping to gain a cool upper hand.

  Max reached into a file folder and pulled out a black-and-white photo. Afton recognized it as one of the stills the techies downstairs had hastily pulled from the security camera DVD they’d gotten from the dry cleaner.

  “Do you know this guy?” Max asked. He held up the photo for both of them to see.

  Darden barely glanced at the photo. “No, I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “Take another look,” Max said. “Take a good look.”

  “My client already gave you his answer,” Slocum said. “He said he doesn’t know the man.”

  “Indulge me,” Max said. “Trust me when I say this is important.”

  Darden glanced up and studied the photo for a few moments. “No, I . . .” Then his brows pinched together as he scanned the entire photo. “Wait a minute . . . what’s that man carrying in his arms?”

  “This is quite enough,” Slocum said.

  Max lifted a hand. “Just give your client a minute.”

  Darden shook his head as if he were processing the information. “Is that Al? It can’t be Al!”

  “You know him?” Max asked with some urgency.

  “You know him?” Slocum said, surprised.

  Darden shot Max a fearful glance. “Did Al take Elizabeth Ann? Is this bundle he’s carrying supposed to be her?” He tapped the photo hard with an index finger. “That son of a bitch. I can’t believe it.” Darden clenched his fists as his face flushed pink with rage.

  “Who’s Al?” Slocum asked, clearly confused.

  “He’s our handyman,” Darden said. “Well . . . really a gardener that Susan hired last fall. He raked and bundled leaves, that sort of thing.” He sat back in his chair, looking shaken. “Where did you get this photo? My God, is he the one who kidnapped Elizabeth Ann?”

  “We don’t know that yet,” Max said. “We’re still pursuing a number of leads. Do you know this man’s last name? Or have his address?”

  “No, I don’t have any of that information. But Susan probably does. Damn it! I told her never to hire scum like that. I told her. She was always so trusting and naïve, never met a stray dog she didn’t want to drag home.” He pounded the table with his fist. “If this is the guy, you’ve got to get out there and find him!”

  “We will,” Max said. “I promise.”

  “This could be something,” Darden said, turning toward Slocum.

  “Did this Al person work for you on a regular basis?” Max asked. “It would help if we had dates. If we could pinpoint exactly when he might have been at your home.”

  “I don’t know,” Darden said. “It was just that one time, I think. A couple of months ago.”

  “How was he referred to you?” Max asked.

  Darden rubbed his eyes and said, “You can thank Susan for that. I think the guy was part of a charity that Susan was connected to. You know, like hiring ex-vets or something.”

  “And you don’t know where he lives?” Max asked.

  “I told you, no. If I did, I’d be on my way over there right now to wring his neck,” Darden cried. He paused. “But if you call Susan, I’m positive she’ll remember the name of the organization. It’s called Graceful Nation or something like that.”

  “We’ll do that.” Max glanced at the one-way m
irror.

  * * *

  AFTON got the message immediately. She pulled out her cell phone and called Susan Darden.

  Susan Darden answered on the second ring. “Hello?” she gasped. Her breathless voice broadcast her obvious distress.

  “Mrs. Darden?” Afton said. “Something’s come up.”

  “You found her?” Susan said.

  “No, I’m afraid not. But we do have a lead.”

  “Oh, please let this be something.”

  “You had a handyman, a gardener, working at your home a few months ago. A person named Al?”

  “Oooh!” She let out a hoarse moan. “Al Sponger. Is he the one who took Elizabeth Ann?”

  “We don’t know that. But we do want to locate this person for questioning. We were hoping you might provide an address for the organization Al worked for.”

  “Of course!” Susan said. “Just a minute. Let me grab my . . . address book.”

  Afton could hear a frantic pawing of pages. Then Susan came back on the line.

  “Yes, I have it right here. It’s called Grateful Nation. Their address is twenty-eight fourteen Girard and . . .”

  Afton carefully wrote down the name—Grateful Nation, not Graceful Nation—as well as their address and phone number. “Thank you, Mrs. Darden. We’ll contact them immediately.”

  “And you’ll let me know?” She sniffled. “As soon as you can?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Afton thanked Susan Darden again and hung up. Then she walked out of the small room and handed the slip of paper to the uniformed officer who was stationed outside the door of the interview room. She would have loved to follow up on the lead right away, but knew Thacker would skin her alive if she did.

  When Afton returned to her spot on the other side of the glass, Max was just pocketing the note and about to switch gears.

  “Okay,” Max said. “Tell me about Jilly Hudson.”

  “Detective,” Slocum sighed. “I hardly think this is relevant. Unless my client is a suspect, this line of questioning is completely inappropriate. Mr. Darden is a victim here and you’re attempting to compound his misery with a foolhardy line of questioning.”