Little Girl Gone

by Gerry Schmitt

  “Not at all,” Max said. “But I’ve been sitting here, listening to you scrutinize every question I’ve asked. We have a missing child and time is running out. So unless you want to prolong this session, I suggest the two of you start answering my questions.”

  “No,” Slocum said. “We simply can’t go there.”

  Max shuffled a stack of papers. “It would be unfortunate if some of the local TV stations sniffed out this information on their own. This kind of shit happens, you know? They’ve got that relentless twenty-four-hour news monster to feed.”

  “Don’t you threaten us!” Slocum said.

  Max kept right on going. “The six o’clock news might even lead off with a picture of the lovely Jilly Hudson with a juicy story about how your poor, innocent client happened to be banging the nanny.”

  “Stop it,” Darden said. He looked miserable.

  “And how long do you think Synthotech will keep your client on staff when that shit storm starts to fly?” Max leaned back. “No, I think Richard better start explaining himself.” He stared stolidly at Slocum and then at Darden.

  “He’s bluffing, Richard. I advise you not to answer,” Slocum said.

  Max flipped a hand. “Up to you, Richard. Ball’s in your court.”

  Darden broke. “It was just a thing, okay? It didn’t mean anything. It was just . . . convenient.”

  “Richard,” Slocum said. “I have to insist—”

  “Shut up!” Darden hollered. “I’ve lost my child, I’m losing my marriage, do you want me to lose my job, too?”

  Slocum sighed and set his mouth in a grim line.

  “What?” Darden said, staring at Max. He sensed there was more to come.

  He was right.

  “Did you ever hear of new baby syndrome?” Max asked. “The baby arrives and suddenly Daddy isn’t getting his REM sleep anymore. He gets tired and cranky, starts to resent all the bottle feedings and diaper duty. Then you’ve got people dropping in all the time to see the new baby, so it’s no longer all about you. Finally, the house smells like poop from all the diapers, wifey is chronically exhausted and doesn’t have time for her husband anymore, and the alpha male in the house has been permanently dethroned. Hell, it’s almost justifiable when you think about it . . .”

  Richard hung his head. “It wasn’t like that. I love Elizabeth Ann. And Susan, too.”

  “Sure you do,” Max said. “That’s why you found yourself a new squeeze who was younger, cuter, and—”

  “Where exactly are you going with this?” Darden demanded.

  “That maybe you got rid of the kid yourself,” Max said.

  “What?” Darden’s face drained of all color and he practically choked on his own tongue. “Are you serious?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened,” Max said.

  “I wouldn’t do that!” Darden blustered. “I couldn’t do that. My wife and I were at the Edina Country Club with two hundred other people eating rubber chicken and drinking wine that probably came in a cardboard box on the night Elizabeth Ann was kidnapped. Why, I could give you the names of fifty people I talked to that night.”

  “I have no doubt you can,” Max said. “You’re a very smart man, Mr. Darden. And your bank account has more commas than a James Joyce novel.”

  “So then . . .” Darden began.

  “You could have hired kidnappers,” Max said.

  “What do you think?” Darden said. “That I went on Craigslist so I could steal my own child? Be serious!”

  Max lifted a shoulder. “You could have hired this guy Al.”

  Darden placed both hands flat on the table and stared earnestly into Max’s eyes. “No,” he said. “I didn’t mastermind this kidnapping. You have to believe me.”

  “I want to,” Max said. “I really do.”

  * * *

  AFTON watched Max with open admiration. He was doing a masterful job. Drawing Darden out, cutting off Slocum, asking the tough questions. She was actually taking notes, writing down his sly techniques that . . .

  The door to her darkened room suddenly flew open. Thacker and three of the FBI guys, Keith Sunder, Harvey Bagin, and Don Jasper, walked in. Silently, like shadows, they took their places along the window.

  “How’s he doing?” Jasper whispered.

  Afton wasn’t sure whether he meant Max or Darden, so she said, “They identified the handyman and just finished a discussion regarding the girlfriend.”

  “How’d all that go?” Thacker asked.

  “Not very well for Darden,” Afton said.

  Jasper nudged Keith Sunder. “You want to go in there and make a move? Like we talked about?”

  Sunder nodded. “Sure.”

  “What move?” Afton asked after Sunder had left.

  “Just watch,” Jasper said.

  * * *

  THE door to the interview room opened, and Keith Sunder casually strolled in.

  “Excuse me, Detective,” Sunder said. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit in for a few minutes.”

  “Be my guest,” Max said. If he was surprised that the FBI agent was joining them, he didn’t show it. “You all know Special Agent Keith Sunder, don’t you? From our local FBI office?”

  Darden and Slocum grudgingly bobbed their heads.

  “Good,” Max said. “We were just about to move on to Mr. Darden’s job status.”

  “Past or present?” Sunder asked.

  “Let’s focus on the past,” Max said. “Novamed. You had a nice salary there with plenty of fancy benefits and stock options. A pretty sweet deal.” He paused. “Why’d you leave?”

  Sunder leaned forward in his chair. “And why is your ex-employer so closemouthed about your departure?”

  Darden didn’t answer. He just stared at the floor and unconsciously jiggled a foot. Afton recognized it as a classic stall pose.

  “We’re waiting, Mr. Darden,” Max said.

  The silence in the room was palpable. Even Afton could feel it through the glass. She wondered if there’d been mismanagement of funds or too many golf junkets on company time.

  Finally Darden said, “It was time to move on.”

  “And it’s blatantly obvious that you did,” Max said. “The question remains, why you chose to move on.”

  “What happened over there?” Sunder asked. “Were you caught stealing proprietary information?”

  Darden gave a disdainful snort. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Help us out here,” Max said.

  Darden lifted his head and said, “There was sexual misconduct.”

  “An affair,” Sunder said.

  “There was no affair,” Darden said. “Just an implication of sexual harassment.”

  “Who’d you harass?” Max asked. “Who was the woman?”

  Darden cocked his head and gave Max an incredulous look. “What? No, you’ve got it all wrong. It was a woman who was pressuring me!”

  “What?” Max said. Now it was his turn to look surprised. “What woman? Who?”

  At which point Slocum interceded. “That’s not relevant,” he said smoothly. “The issue is over and done with and there are sealed documents for both parties. Mr. Darden has cooperated with you voluntarily. Now, if you need any more information, you’re going to have to obtain a subpoena.”

  “We can do that,” Max said pleasantly.

  “Richard?” Slocum said. He stood up and cocked his head toward the door. But Darden remained seated.

  “You’re going to find this guy, Al, right?” Darden asked Max. “You’re going to bring him in and question him like crazy?”

  “Right away,” Max said.

  “If he dared to take Elizabeth Ann . . .” Darden clenched his fists and got to his feet. As he stumbled toward Slocum, he looked like a man who was comp
letely defeated.

  * * *

  CRAP on a cracker,” Thacker burst out from where they were seated. “He was carrying on with another woman? What is this guy, some kind of modern-day Don Juan?”

  But Afton was studying Darden as he shuffled out of the room. “I don’t think he stole his own baby,” she said softly.

  “What?” Jasper said, turning toward her. “What’d you say?”

  “I think Darden’s a lech and an arrogant jerk,” Afton said, with more assurance in her voice now. “But he’s no kidnapper.”

  “He looks guilty enough,” Thacker said. “He could have hired this guy Al to do the job for him. Maybe Al was the guy you tangled with last night.”

  No, Afton thought. Darden’s demeanor and posture told her he was a broken man. Though he was floundering in an ocean of self-pity, she doubted that he’d masterminded the kidnapping. Or had a hand in last night’s attack.

  “We gotta huddle with Max,” Thacker said. “See if he wants us to send in a SWAT team to grab this guy Al.”

  “Al Sponger,” Afton said.

  Thacker and Bagin filed out, leaving Don Jasper behind. He fixed Afton with an inquisitive look.

  “What?” she asked. She was afraid he was going to lay a mild flirt on her, hit on her. Or did a part of her want him to hit on her?

  “Try not to lose that empathy,” Jasper said. “The best investigators retain their humanity despite having to endure a daily trudge through the mud. As long as you can wipe your feet off at the end of the day and remain human, you’re doing okay. Better than okay.”

  “You think?” Afton said. She was feeling a little forlorn. None of this had been pretty.

  Jasper gave her a wink. “I know.”

  22

  THE drive down Hennepin Avenue was sloppy and slow. Slush spattered the windshield as Afton navigated her Lincoln past a hodgepodge of mom-and-pop businesses set alongside slick national chain stores. She was glad she’d offered to drive, even though she was feeling tense. Max had decided that the two of them would go in and talk with Al Sponger. SWAT would hang back and keep their distance unless needed.

  “Has Sponger been popped before?” Afton asked. She meant arrested.

  Max shook his head. “No. But he did six months at Saint Peter.” Saint Peter was a state mental institution.

  “And now he’s at a halfway house.”

  “Yup. It’s our lucky day.”

  They’d just crept across Twenty-sixth Street when Afton saw flashing lights up ahead.

  “Accident,” she said. “I’m gonna turn left at the next street.”

  “Huh?” Max grunted. He’d been busy reviewing notes from the Richard Darden interview. “Okay . . . sure.”

  “The SWAT van’s still behind us?”

  Max glanced back over his shoulder. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Afton wasn’t as confident about confronting Al Sponger as Max was. If Sponger had, in fact, kidnapped the Darden baby, then it was possible that he was the man who’d attacked her last night.

  Heading into what was known as the Wedge, that slice of pie-shaped real estate between Hennepin and Lyndale Avenue, Afton sighed at the shrinking roadway. As snow continued to accumulate, each pass from the city’s snowplows left more and more snow piled up along the curb. By the time March rolled around, the streets would be as narrow and carved as a bobsled run.

  “What’s the address again?” Afton asked. Her nerves were fizzing, her stomach turning flip-flops.

  Max fumbled for the note Afton has passed on to him earlier. “Twenty-eight fourteen Girard,” he said. “It’s some kind of halfway house for vets.”

  “You think Sponger still lives there?”

  “When I called fifteen minutes ago, the director said so. Or at least the guy showed up for supper two nights ago.”

  “But you warned the director not to tell Sponger that we were gonna drop by.”

  “That’s right. Always nice to have the element of surprise on your side.”

  Afton swung right on Girard and crawled along for a couple of blocks. “I think that’s it up ahead on the right.”

  “Drive slow,” Max said.

  “If I drive any slower, I’m gonna get a parking ticket,” Afton said.

  “Okay, okay.”

  Max was keyed up, too, and Afton knew it. This could be the break they needed. Thacker had wanted to go in with full SWAT, but Max had persuaded him to hold off, to have them stand by. The SWAT team with their bang sticks and smoke bombs could always come later.

  “This is it,” Max said.

  Afton turned into a semicircular drive outside a three-story white stucco house with two dormers that overlooked the street. Ahead of them, a large white passenger van with DEAN’S HOUSE stenciled in red on the side blocked the rest of the drive.

  “Here we go,” Max said. His right hand crept unconsciously to the Glock G43 he wore in his shoulder harness.

  They climbed the front steps, pulled open a rickety door, and found themselves inside a screen porch. There were three battered lawn chairs and a tippy-looking table that held half-filled disposable cups of coffee and an overflowing ashtray.

  Softly kicking snow from their boots, they pushed open the main door of the halfway house and went in. The place wasn’t exactly homey, but it wasn’t terrible either. Directly ahead was a wooden front desk with a honeycomb of open mailboxes behind it, like you might see in an old European hotel. Off to the left was an empty parlor with a circle of folding chairs, presumably some kind of meeting room. To the right was a large room with two overstuffed sofas, various mismatched easy chairs, and two dilapidated wheelchairs. A TV was on and three men were huddled in front of it, watching a reality show where two women snarled at each other over the paternity of their “baby daddy.”

  Max walked up to the front desk and rang an old-fashioned bell. “Anybody home?” he called out.

  A door opened and a skinny guy emerged from a small, messy office. He was mid-fifties, balding, wore gold wire-rimmed glasses, and was dressed in a pair of green army slacks and a 1991 Twins World Series T-shirt. “Help you?” he said.

  “Minneapolis Police,” Afton said, while Max held up his ID.

  “Tom Showles?” Max asked.

  Showles nodded and tugged at his pants, which seemed to be slowly slipping down around his hips. “That’s me. I’m the director.” He lifted a hand in a cautionary gesture and said, “We don’t want any trouble.”

  Afton thought Showles looked underpaid, underfed, and under pressure.

  “Neither do we,” Max said.

  “Is Aldous Sponger here?” Afton asked. “We need to speak with him.”

  Showles looked worried. “May I ask why?”

  “Like I told you on the phone, it’s just a formality,” Max said. Which was copspeak for, Get his sorry ass out here.

  “He was seen disposing of a package in a Dumpster off Lyndale Avenue,” Afton explained.

  Now Showles looked confused. “You’re here because Al was involved in clandestine dumping?”

  “Just point me toward his room, okay?” Max said.

  “Room 303. Top of the stairs,” Showles said. “But I’m not sure he’s here.”

  “Where is he?” Afton asked.

  Showles shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t keep strict tabs on the men. We operate on the honor system here.”

  “Yeah?” Max said. “How’s that working out?”

  “Mr. Sponger maintains fairly well when he stays on his meds.”

  “What meds is he on?” Max asked.

  Showles looked nervous. “I believe he takes chlorpromazine and Risperdal.”

  “Heavy duty,” Afton said. This was not good news.

  “He’s only experienced two psychotic breaks that I know of,” Showles said. “Since he’s b
een here anyway.”

  “Is this guy dangerous?” Max asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you don’t really know,” Max said.

  Afton and Max clumped up two narrow sets of stairs, Showles deciding to huff along behind them. They stopped outside Room 303 and Max wiggled a finger at Afton.

  She knocked on the door and said in a pleasant, lilting voice, “Mr. Sponger? Are you in there?”

  No answer.

  Max stepped in and rapped harder on the door. “Mr. Sponger. Sir, we’d like to talk to you, please.”

  Again nothing.

  “Like I said, he might not be here right now,” Showles told them. “Sometimes he’s gone for a while. Hanging out at the library or down by the old railroad track.”

  “The railroad track?” Afton said.

  “Sponger used to live down there,” Showles said. “Before they paved it over and turned it into a bike trail. Back when he was drinking, before we took him in here. He’d hunker up under one of the bridges. Sometimes Al . . . well, he gets the urge to go back.”

  “Let’s take a look in his room,” Max said. He reached for the doorknob and turned it. It was locked.

  Afton gazed at Showles. “I presume you are the keeper of the master key?”

  “I’m still not sure if I should let you people in,” Showles said.

  “If you think we need a warrant,” Max said, “just say the word.”

  Showles sighed and pulled out a ring of keys. The first key he tried didn’t work; the second one did.

  As the door swung open, Max reached out and grabbed Showles by the shoulder, muscling him aside. Then Max stepped into the room, swiveled his head around, and waved Afton in after him.

  The small white room was no larger than an eight-by-ten jail cell, but it was neat and clean. The narrow bed was made and covered with a threadbare white chenille bedspread, the folds razor-sharp. A small desk held a stack of old City Pages newspapers, a mug filled with pens and colored markers, and a small plastic Batman figure, the kind you’d get from a fast-food place.

  “Tidy,” Max said.