Little Girl Gone

by Gerry Schmitt

  “Why do you have pictures of cherubs on your wall?” Afton asked.

  “Cherubs?”

  “Angels,” Afton said.

  Sponger gazed at her with red, puffy eyes. “Because they’re pretty. I found ’em in an art book somebody threw out.”

  “Take him downtown,” Max said. He sounded profoundly disappointed. “Book him.”

  “What’s the charge?” one of the SWAT team officers asked.

  “I don’t know,” Max said. “Figure something out.”

  23

  HE’S definitely not the guy from last night,” Afton said on the drive back downtown. “That guy was stronger and more aggressive, always on the attack. Sponger was angry but pathetic.”

  “Another lost soul,” Max said. “Or asshole, depending on which side of the fence you’re on.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Sponger spends the night in jail, probably gets released tomorrow. We put him under surveillance for a couple of days, just to make sure. Ah . . . let me make a couple of calls to let everybody know what the hell just happened.” Max pulled out his phone and growled into it as they cruised past Walker Art Center. Just off to the right, Afton could see two cross-country skiers gliding along, making fresh tracks in the snow as they rounded the pond in Loring Park. A picturesque scene set against the stark gray Minneapolis skyline.

  Back at police headquarters, Don Jasper had called a hasty meeting to brief everyone on his second interview with Jilly Hudson. Afton stopped by her desk, hung up her coat, downed two Tylenol, and retrieved the yellow notepad she’d been using since the start of the investigation. To the outside eye, Max may have looked like the epitome of the tough-talking, running-on-gut-instinct-alone detective. Truth was, Max was detail-oriented to the point of being OCD. He kept painstaking notes that he pored over relentlessly. He’d made her take the same notes, even if their observations overlapped. It was Max’s firm belief that it was the small, obscure facts that often broke an investigation wide open.

  Afton stepped into the conference room and saw that Max, Thacker, Don Jasper, Andy Farmer, and Keith Sunder were already there. She took a seat next to Max, as the third local FBI agent, Harvey Bagin, hurried in to join them.

  “So I understand Mr. Sponger is over in booking?” Thacker said to Max.

  “That’s right,” Max said. He’d done a little tap-dancing concerning their story, hadn’t told Thacker how much Afton had really been involved.

  “But you don’t think there’s anything there?”

  Max shook his head. “Doubtful.” He was barely hiding his disappointment. “Maybe something you can throw to the media.”

  Thacker glanced at Farmer. “You take a run at him, too, okay?”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” Farmer said.

  “Then everybody write up their reports all nice and neat,” Thacker said. “The mayor’s office is starting to exert a ton of pressure.”

  Max glanced over at Afton, who immediately began jotting notes.

  “The media is keeping pressure on, too,” Bagin said. “They want to know if we’re any closer to finding the kidnapper.”

  “Screw the media,” Thacker said. “When we know, they’ll know.”

  “All right,” Jasper said, glancing around the table. “Let’s get to it. Bagin and I just did a second interview with Jilly Hudson.”

  “How’d that go?” Thacker asked.

  “This time she was lawyered up,” Jasper said. “We showed up at her parents’ house, a humongous Cape Cod overlooking a thousand feet of rip-rapped shoreline on Lake Minnetonka, and her lawyer was there to greet us.”

  “Actually,” Bagin said, “it was her father’s lawyer. Her father is some big muckity-muck vice president with Randall Manufacturing.”

  “Did she admit to the affair with Darden?” Max asked.

  “Admit to it?” Jasper said. “The girl thinks they’re going to get married. She did everything but show us her trousseau. I don’t know if she’s delusional or . . .”

  “In love?” Afton said. When they all turned to look at her, she said, “Face it, Darden led her on.” Jasper cleared his throat, a noise that may or may not have been meant as commentary, so she continued. “Look at the facts. She’s a young grad student who Darden hired as a nanny. He brought her into his home, flirted with her, and probably made all sorts of promises.”

  “And he slept with her,” Max said.

  “Exactly,” Afton said. She tapped her pen against the cover of her notepad. “Beside the fact that Jilly’s tearing pages out of Bride Magazine, what did she say about the baby? About Elizabeth Ann?”

  “The thing I found most interesting,” Jasper said, “aside from the fact that Ms. Hudson was unapologetic about her affair, was that she seemed genuinely fond of the baby. In fact, she was horrified that someone was able to waltz in and kidnap the child.”

  “And we still don’t see Hudson as having a hand in that?” Thacker asked.

  “It doesn’t seem like it,” Jasper said. “She’s still going to school, gets good grades, and lives with two other roommates over near the university.”

  “And she has an alibi,” Bagin said. “She was with her parents the night the Darden baby was kidnapped.”

  “The three of them were home alone?” Max asked.

  “No,” Bagin said, “they were having dinner at Somerset’s out on Lake Minnetonka.” He sat back in his chair. “This is the second interview we did with Jilly Hudson and she still comes up a big fat zero.”

  “And the first time was?” Thacker asked.

  “Sunday afternoon, right after the Dardens gave us a list of all the people they’d been in contact with for the past six months.”

  “But two days ago you didn’t know about the affair,” Afton said.

  “No, we did not,” Bagin said. “Nor did we suspect it. Ms. Hudson expressed shock at the kidnapping but could offer no information at all.”

  “What about her relationship with the baby?” Afton asked. “If she genuinely liked the child, she probably felt naturally protective of her.”

  Bagin stared at her. “By that you mean . . .”

  “Did she take the baby out for walks? Did she notice anyone giving them an unusual amount of attention? Was there a creepy neighbor or a UPS guy who got a little too chummy?”

  Don Jasper smiled at her. “You’ve got kids.”

  “Two kids, yeah,” Afton said.

  “Sounds like you should have been along today,” Jasper said.

  “I’d be happy to take another run at Hudson if you want me to,” Afton said. She’d pin Jilly Hudson’s ears to the wall if it meant helping to find that baby.

  Thacker held up a hand to interrupt. “No, no, we still have a number of other people to interview. And Farmer has to brief us on Binger.”

  “Binger . . .” Jasper said.

  “He’s the guy Darden fired over at Novamed,” Thacker said. He nodded at Farmer. “Okay, you’re on.”

  Farmer droned on about Bob Binger while Afton thought about Richard Darden and Al Sponger. She was fairly confident that neither of them had anything to do with the kidnapping, yet she knew they would continue to be scrutinized. No, there was someone else out there who had that poor baby in their clutches. Was it the man who’d attacked her at the hospital last night? Who, she assumed, had really come to attack Ashley Copeland? Or was it the woman from the doll show? Those were the two people who plucked at the strings in her mind. But how . . . how in hell were they going to find them?

  When the meeting finally broke up, they’d worked out a sort of strategy. The FBI would continue to pursue the people on the list that Susan and Richard Darden had given them this past Sunday, as well as reinterview the babysitter, Ashley Copeland, and her mother, Monica Copeland, who worked as an administrative assistant to Darden. Max would ke
ep an eye on Sponger and swing back to Novamed to see what he could find out about Darden’s harassment case.

  “That could be something,” Thacker said.

  “What do we know about this woman?” Afton asked.

  “She lives in Woodbury and she has a teenage son,” Thacker said.

  Teenage son, Afton thought. Interesting.

  If there was time and it seemed warranted, Thacker also wanted Max to make a second run at Binger. Afton, who’d seemingly reestablished good rapport with Susan Darden, would stay on as Max’s assistant. For now anyway.

  Thacker seemed generally displeased with how little they’d all come up with, and seemed stretched thin with honchoing several other investigations.

  “How’s that pharmaceutical thing coming?” Max asked him as they walked out of the room.

  Thacker shook his head and blew out a glut of air. “Morelli’s either working his ass off, or he’s already solved the case and is kicking back on twenty milligrams of black market Valium.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Max said.

  * * *

  SUNSET during a Minnesota winter comes early. So with just a thin red line banding the horizon, Afton pulled into her garage. She was tired from what had been a long day, but she was revved up, too. How often did a girl get to chase down an actual perp? Or sit in a brainstorming session with honest-to-goodness FBI agents? For her it had been never. Until today, that is.

  Yes, she was sore from her chase with Sponger. Yes, her head was swimming from taking notes and asking questions. But a couple more Tylenol tablets and a hot cup of chamomile tea would help ease her aches and pains. And dinner with Poppy and Tess would clear her head and take care of everything else. After all, this was their burger and beans night.

  Poppy and Tess were sprawled at the kitchen table doing their homework when Afton stepped through the back door. Then pens, tablets, and backpacks went flying as the girls threw themselves at her. And once Afton had administered a copious amount of hugs, kisses, and grins, she laughed to see that Bonaparte was crowding in, too. The little dog was prancing and dancing and not a bit shy.

  How fast the little guy had fit into their family, Afton decided. How easy it was for dogs, how difficult it was for so many people.

  “Where’s Aunt Alisha?” Afton asked.

  “Upstairs,” Tess said. “Talking on her phone.”

  “Talking to a man,” Poppy said, tugging at her sister’s ponytail. “I hope she doesn’t get any ideas in her head and run off and leave us.” She sighed. “Then we’d just be latchkey kids. Coming home to an empty house.”

  “Poppy, sweetheart, wherever did you get that idea?” Afton asked.

  Poppy shrugged. “That’s what happens.”

  “That’s not what’s going to happen to us,” Afton said. “We’re a family. We’re always going to be here for each other.”

  Poppy still looked nervous. “Still, sometimes little girls have to go away.”

  “Honey, are you still worried about that baby that was kidnapped?”

  Poppy nodded.

  “That could never happen to anybody here. You know why?”

  Both Poppy and Tess were looking very serious now. “Why?” Poppy asked.

  Afton put her arms around them both and hugged them tight. “Two reasons. First, because we now have a ferocious guard dog who can dance on his hind legs.” That comment made the two girls giggle like mad.

  “What’s the second reason, Mommy?” Tess asked.

  “Your mommy knows some very tough police officers and FBI agents,” Afton said.

  “Wow!” Poppy said. “Real FBI like on TV?”

  “That’s right,” Afton said. She grabbed the big frying pan and pulled a pound of hamburger from the fridge. And the third reason, she thought to herself, is if anybody ever lays a hand on my kids, I’ll kill them. I’ll do a double tap right in the middle of their forehead. “Boom, boom,” she said out loud.

  “Boom boom,” Poppy echoed from her spot at the table.

  * * *

  WHILE Afton sautéed onions and patted out burgers and the girls set the table, she turned on the TV to catch the evening news. She half listened as the co-anchors blathered on about winter storm warnings, odd and even side of the street parking, and snow emergency routes. Just when she was thanking the powers that be that Channel 7 had stopped running wall-to-wall coverage on the Darden kidnapping, Portia Bourgoyne’s face filled the screen.

  Oh crap, it’s the Queen of Mean again.

  The camera pulled back to reveal Portia standing in front of a small white house surrounded by trees. Afton recognized the house instantly. It belonged to Muriel Pink over in Hudson, Wisconsin. The woman who had organized the ill-fated doll show at the Skylark Mall.

  Suddenly, there was a two-shot of Portia and Muriel Pink, standing in Pink’s kitchen. Behind them, dolls seemed to grin and peek over their shoulders. Afton wondered if it was still so stifling hot in there.

  “As the hunt continues for the missing Darden baby,” Portia said, “Newswatch 7 has obtained an exclusive interview with Muriel Pink, the woman who organized the doll show at the Skylark Mall.”

  Then Portia went hot and heavy into the interview, rapid-firing questions at Pink, who looked a little deer-in-the-headlights stunned.

  “I understand you were one of just a few people who talked to this mysterious doll lady who’s the prime suspect in the Darden baby kidnapping?” Portia asked, enunciating carefully.

  Pink gave an uncomfortable nod. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “Did she seem a little strange or off to you?”

  “Now that you mention it, I think she might have been.”

  Portia gave an encouraging smile, so Pink continued.

  “I’ve always had a sixth sense about people . . .”

  Afton grabbed her phone and dialed Max’s number. When he answered, she said, “Is your TV on? Are you seeing this?”

  “Yeah,” Max said. “Pretty unbelievable, huh?”

  “How on earth did Portia find out about her?”

  “Who knows? Portia’s probably got paid informants in the MPD. In the FBI for all I know. A woman who looks like that, Lord knows how many guys are lining up to give her what she wants.”

  “You think we’ve got a leak in the department?” Afton asked. She was still half listening to Pink on TV.

  “Hard to say.”

  “This is just not good.”

  “And it might not go anywhere either.”

  “Still,” Afton said, “Muriel Pink seems to be remembering a lot more. A lot more than she told us anyway.”

  “You’ve got to let this thing go for a while,” Max said. “Or else you’re gonna drive yourself nuts and burn out. Take a bubble bath or whatever you ladies like to do. Or better yet, hug your kids and read ’em some Dr. Seuss.”

  “You’re right,” Afton said with a certain reluctance. “I hear you. See you tomorrow.”

  Afton tried, she really did. She piled up their burgers with pickles, onions, and cheese, wiped bean spatter off the stove, and joked with Lish about her date this coming Saturday night.

  Finally, she sprawled on the living room rug with Poppy and Tess and played a game of Clue.

  But she still couldn’t let it go. Because trying to resolve the Darden kidnapping just wasn’t as cut and dried as discovering Professor Plum in the Billiard Room with a candlestick.

  24

  MARJORIE feathered her brush just so against the baby doll’s face, creating a perfectly arched brow. She’d always had a steady hand. Even as a child, she’d been able to trace her letters perfectly. Her teachers always told her that she was gifted, advised her parents to send her to art school. Those teachers were so stupid—they didn’t know her father. They didn’t know what he was capable of, or what a sadistic bastard he really was. B
ut that was then, this was . . . years later.

  Blessed with a photographic memory, Marjorie required no pictures of babies to provide her with inspiration. She knew what appealed to mothers the most—big blue eyes, cherubic lips, masses of silken hair. So she created baby dolls that were so impossibly beautiful that women were driven almost delirious when they saw them.

  Now, as she labored over her latest creation in her workroom, Marjorie gently placed the doll in a silk-lined holder and wheeled her chair sideways. She pulled open a plastic drawer that contained bags of fox fur in dozens of brown, auburn, and red tones. This baby boy she was working on had chestnut hair with a few auburn highlights, so she needed just the right color for his eyelashes. She inspected one of her plastic bags. It wasn’t quite right. She tried another bag. Finally, she found just the perfect color. She took a small bit, just what she needed, and sealed the bag up tight again, rolled back to her workbench.

  Wearing a pair of Bausch & Lomb magnifier glasses, Marjorie leaned in close and began the painstaking process of inserting each individual strand of fox hair. She worked steadily, humming as she went, and was halfway through the second eye when she was interrupted by a loud pounding on her door. She ignored it.

  The pounding came again, this time more insistent.

  “Go away,” she called. It had to be Ronnie.

  “Ma!” he shouted. “Ya gotta come see this!”

  “What?”

  “Ma! Come quick!” He pulled open the door, his face a mask of excitement and concern.

  “Okay, hold your water, hold your water,” Marjorie said. She got up from her chair and followed Ronnie into the living room, where the TV set was blaring.

  Ronnie gestured frantically at the television. “It’s that lady,” he cried. “The same one who organized the doll show last Saturday. She’s on TV!”

  “Shit.” Marjorie sat down hard in one of the chairs.

  They both watched, a little stunned, as Portia Bourgoyne posed with Muriel Pink in the woman’s neat-as-a-pin kitchen in Hudson, Wisconsin.