Little Girl Gone

by Gerry Schmitt

  Staring up at her from the first page was the information on Muriel Pink. She’d been the first person they’d interviewed, way back last Sunday when the case was still fresh.

  Waves of guilt coursed through Afton. She should have known then that Muriel Pink might be in danger. And now . . . now the old girl was dead.

  Afton circled Muriel’s name with a red pen and swabbed the entire paragraph with orange highlighter. She didn’t want to forget that name ever. It was a bitter lesson learned the hard way.

  A dozen or so missing person reports, some recently faxed and some still warm from the copier, lay to the left of the file. These were the reports that, per Don Jasper’s request, had been dribbling in all week long from law enforcement agencies all over the Midwest. There were a few new reports, too, ones that she had been tasked with going over.

  It was sad, she thought, as she read through these new reports, that all these people—and some children, too—had simply vanished without a trace. There were families that were desperate for any word, for any information or closure, yet they’d probably never find it.

  Midway through the stack of new reports, she found a missing person report on another baby. This baby was from Des Moines, Iowa, stolen from a day care center. Her name was Tiffany Lynn Matthews.

  Afton worked her upper teeth against her lower lip. How awful, she thought. Stolen right out of a day care center. If your kids weren’t safe at day care, where were they safe?

  She set the report aside and concentrated on the next one.

  Wait a minute. Something pinged deep inside her brain. Day care center? Something about that felt familiar.

  Afton went back and read the report on the missing Des Moines baby. Hmm. Day care center. And there was a day care center in question here. In Edina. But the FBI had already checked out that day care center, so that couldn’t be what was bothering her.

  With a faint ping still ringing in her brain, Afton scanned the report again.

  Wait a minute . . .

  She dug back through the notes Max had jotted down when he’d first interviewed Susan Darden. She tore through them, feeling there was something there, something that might . . .

  She found it on the third page of a misspelled report that Max had typed himself and stuck in the file. “Tiffany Lynn” was the name of the reborn doll that the doll lady had proudly shown to Susan Darden.

  Tiffany Lynn.

  A missing child, a reborn doll. Both with the same name. What were the odds?

  Afton grabbed the police report along with Max’s notes and skittered down the hallway.

  “Max!”

  She found him sitting in the conference room, papers spread out around him, talking quietly to Don Jasper. They both looked up when she appeared in the doorway.

  “What’s up?” Max said. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Hey there,” Jasper said, giving her one of his devastating smiles.

  “Tiffany Lynn,” Afton said, a little breathless. “We just received an old police report on a missing Tiffany Lynn Matthews from Des Moines, Iowa.” She held up the report. “And Tiffany Lynn is the name of the doll that Susan Darden was so captivated by at the Skylark Mall doll show.” She held up Max’s notes. “It was in your notes.”

  “Lemme see that,” Max said.

  Afton handed over the paperwork.

  “Sit down,” Jasper said. “Don’t just stand there lurking. You make me nervous.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Max muttered as he read through the papers. “She’s right.” He slid everything over to Jasper, who did a quick read.

  “My guys are going to plotz when I tell them about this,” Jasper said. “This is a very good catch.”

  “So you think we should let Des Moines know about this?” Afton asked.

  Jasper stood up. “I’ll put somebody on it right now.” He breezed out of the room.

  “Oh,” Afton said. “And here I thought I was already on it.”

  “You were,” Max said. “It just got kicked upstairs. Happens all the time.”

  “I guess I’ll have to get used to that.”

  “Or you’ll learn how to keep a lead to yourself until you’ve taken it to the next logical step.”

  “Is that what I should have done?”

  “Naw, you did the right thing.” Max grinned at her. “Now get back to it. You done good.”

  Afton went back to her cubicle and sat down heavily. She wanted to march down to Don Jasper’s temporary office and demand to be let in on the Des Moines case. But she knew that wasn’t the smart thing to do; it wasn’t the political thing to do.

  “If it isn’t Inspector Clouseau,” came a man’s teasing voice from behind her. “Taken in any stray dogs lately?”

  Afton spun around in her chair. Richard Darden was standing there, a slightly condescending look on his face. “Any word?” she asked him.

  Darden shook his head. “Not yet.” He took a step toward her. “Still busy playing detective?”

  Afton gave a delicate snort.

  “I understand you’re all hearts and flowers with my wife now,” Darden said. “Charming woman, wouldn’t you say? Now that’s she’s threatened to eviscerate my bank account.”

  “It really doesn’t matter what I think.”

  Darden pressed closer to her. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

  “Mr. Darden, I don’t give a rat’s ass about you or your friends in high places. All I care about is finding your daughter.”

  “What’s going on?” Max asked. He was suddenly standing directly behind Darden.

  “Just having a friendly chat,” Darden said.

  “Not so friendly,” Afton said.

  Darden cocked his head and held out his hands in a plaintive gesture. “Oh, excuse me. Community Liaison Officer Tangler wants to treat me as if I’m a suspect in the disappearance of my own daughter. If that’s the case, why don’t you guys slap a pair of handcuffs on me right now.”

  Max pointed a finger at Darden. “You,” he said, “are wanted in Don Jasper’s office.” He switched his gazed to Afton. “And you’re coming with me. Grab your coat and let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” Afton asked as she followed after Max. Once again, she felt like she was being called to the school principal’s office. But no, they were headed for the elevators.

  “Lunch,” Max said. “I figured I’d better get you out of there before you tore that guy a new . . . well . . .”

  “Brooks Brothers suit?”

  “Whatever.”

  The elevator arrived and Max pushed L for the lobby.

  “You’re not mad at me?” Afton asked.

  “Moi? If Darden rode me as hard as he’s been riding you, I’d toss a saddle on my back and call myself Trigger.”

  * * *

  AFTON and Max ended up at Richie’s, a small diner on Fifth Street, a few blocks from their building. Richie’s owner, Richie Novotny, was a former Marine supply sergeant who ran his diner like he was still running things in the Corps. The interior was painted a grim barracks green and the dining area sported bare bones metal tables and chairs. Placards on the wall listed the rules and regulations that Richie’s customers were expected to follow: NO SPITTING. NO SWEARING. NO FIGHTING.

  “What kind of place did you bring me to?” Afton asked. “No fighting? Does that mean a fight could actually break out here? And the place is a trifle short on ambience.” Truth be told, it was way short on ambience, bordering on institutional.

  “This place is a classic,” Max said. “And Richie’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

  Afton wasn’t so sure she wanted to get to know Richie. She’d just spotted another sign that said, NO PEACE SIGNS OR OTHER HIPPY DIPPY CRAP.

  “The food’s real good here,” Max said, handing her a menu. “Even thoug
h the menu is limited.”

  Afton scanned the menu. It offered a basic burger, a cheeseburger, a meatloaf sandwich, pot roast and gravy, macaroni and cheese, and something called chipped beef.

  “Chipped beef?” she asked.

  Max waved a hand. “It’s a . . . kind of a Marine tradition from way back when.”

  “Uh-huh.” At the bottom of the menu, she saw the words JARHEADS EAT FREE—NO EXCEPTIONS. All right, maybe Richie was an okay guy after all.

  A waiter in a white T-shirt, white slacks, and a long white apron took their order, and then hustled off toward the clattery kitchen. Richie himself, a behemoth of a man with a barrel chest and a buzz cut, never seemed to budge from his chosen spot behind the cash register.

  Max waited until they were both halfway through their macaroni and cheese before he said, “Has this been tough? I mean, being away from your kids so much?”

  “It has been this week.”

  “I hate to tell you, but this is pretty much the life.”

  “I’m beginning to see that.”

  “It’s not for everybody.”

  “But it works for you,” Afton said.

  “My kids are a little older than yours,” Max said. “Jake will be graduating high school this year and Tyler is fourteen.”

  “And they’re both hockey fanatics.”

  “Yup. That’s why I’m broke and can’t afford a fancy new car,” he joked. “Our priority is new skates every year, as well as a half dozen new hockey sticks and breezers. I guess that’s the price we pay for living here. It seems like everybody’s kids are into hockey. What about your girls?”

  “No hockey, thankfully,” Afton said. “Tess enjoys acting in school plays and playing violin. Poppy is certain she’s going to be the next Taylor Swift. So she sings in front of the mirror all the time. She’ll probably be pretty good if she keeps it up.”

  Max paused. “Hell of a thing being a parent and working on a case with a missing baby. I don’t think I could handle it if one of my boys went missing.”

  “Not sure I’d be any different,” Afton said. She recalled her moment of panic last night.

  “That was good work noticing the name of that missing Iowa baby, by the way.”

  “I was just the first one to go through the new faxes.”

  “No,” Max said. “Detectives first grade and FBI agents with more experience and formal training might have missed that. I think you could make a good detective. I think Thacker might be on board for that, too.”

  “Not sure if I’ve got the right training,” Afton admitted.

  “You’ve been taking the criminal justice courses?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’ve got what? A degree in sociology or something?”

  “Yup, I finally buckled down and focused on a degree after I got tired of hearing my parents complain about how I was wasting my life as an Outward Bound instructor.”

  “Jeez,” Max said. “You were one of those? Does that mean you can start a fire using a compass or lash together a canoe out of pinecones?”

  “No, but I can use my watch as a compass and start a fire using a bow drill or flint. I worked up in the BWCA for a couple of years. I love it up there. So gorgeous and peaceful.”

  “Is that where you started climbing?” Max asked. He waggled his head back and forth. “One of the guys mentioned you were a rock climber.”

  “I started my life on the rocks after going through a program offered by the Minnesota State Parks. There was a class on rock climbing and rappelling up at Tettegouche State Park. That’s where I first caught the bug. Now I do most of my climbing at Taylor’s Falls, but once a year I try to get back up north.” She grinned. “Of course, my dream trip would be El Capitan in Yosemite.”

  “Big dreams,” Max said.

  “And of course, the rock climbing led to ice climbing, which means you can enjoy the sport all year round.”

  “Yeah, but frozen waterfalls? I mean . . . that’s pure crazy.”

  Afton shook her head. “I take a lot more precautions than I used to. I can’t seem to rationalize hanging off a frozen waterfall a hundred feet in the air when I have two daughters waiting for me at home.”

  A chill wind suddenly blew across their ankles and Afton shivered, as if someone had just walked across her grave.

  Over by the door Richie shouted, “Shut that door, asshole. Don’t you know there’s a blizzard on the way? We supposed to get thirteen inches by morning.”

  * * *

  THE weather really had gone to shit. Steam curled from sidewalk vents; a bank’s time and temperature sign flashed an icy white as it registered a chill 10 degrees. A woman in a down coat that made her look like an overblown Michelin man was walking a little schnauzer in a yellow coat and boots. Afton thought the dog looked embarrassed.

  They were almost back at police headquarters when Max got the call. He listened on his cell phone for a minute, then said, “Send a squad, lights and sirens. We’ll hoof it over there right now. We’re three, maybe four, blocks away at best.”

  He dropped his phone in his jacket pocket, turned, and said, “C’mon, we gotta go.”

  Afton spun with him. “Where?”

  “Call just came in about some guy taking photos of babies over at HCMC.”

  “What?” Afton shrilled. “At the hospital?”

  “Yeah.” Max coughed as he jogged along. “He’s apparently taking pictures of newborns.”

  “Holy crap. That guy . . . maybe he came back!”

  Max skidded out into traffic, trying to get a jump on the green light. “Come on, we gotta move.”

  * * *

  THE Maternity Center was located on the second floor at Hennepin County Medical Center. Max and Afton ran down Seventh Street, ducked in a side door, and caught an elevator.

  “Come on, come on,” Max whispered urgently as the elevator started moving.

  “Is hospital security going to grab this guy?” Afton asked.

  “No, they’re just going to watch him. Busting him is our job.”

  The elevator doors slid open and Max burst out so fast, he practically collided with a rolling cart stacked with sheets and towels. “Shit,” he cried, trying to sidestep it.

  The female employee who was trying to hump the cart onto the elevator frowned her disapproval at him. “Hey,” she said.

  Max dodged past the cart and ran lightly down the hallway, Afton following in his footsteps.

  Skidding up to a nurses’ station, Max held up his ID and said, “Maternity?”

  “Straight ahead,” one of the nurses said. “You can’t miss it.”

  They didn’t miss it. And the man was still there. His face was pressed up against the glass, staring in at all the newborn babies in the nursery. A camera dangled in his right hand.

  Max deliberately slowed his pace and crept up behind the guy. He clomped a hand down hard on the man’s shoulder and said, “Stop whatever you’re doing. Right now. Put your hands in the air. If you yell or make any sort of scene, I will for sure shoot you.”

  The man’s mouth dropped open and he managed a startled, “What?” He tried to spin around, but was held firmly in Max’s viselike grip.

  “You heard him,” Afton said. She reached down and, slick as you please, snatched the camera out of the man’s hand.

  “What the . . . You can’t do that!” the man protested. He was thirtyish and wore a brown plaid parka over a pair of gray cargo pants. His dark hair was slicked back, he wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, and had a distinctly pointed chin. Afton was immediately disappointed. This was clearly a different guy.

  Max spun the guy around hard, placed one hand on his shoulder, and twisted his arm behind his back. Then he duck-walked the guy stiffly down the hallway. When Max spotted a small waiting room, he steered him into it.
He frisked the man and, when he was satisfied that he wasn’t carrying a weapon, pushed him down into a gray plastic chair. “You want to explain yourself?”

  “Who do you think you are?” the guy demanded. “The photo police?”

  “Minneapolis Police,” Max said.

  “So what do you want with me?” the guy asked.

  Afton held up the camera. “You care to explain this?”

  “It’s a camera,” the man snarled.

  “Still or video?” Max asked.

  Afton examined it. “Still.”

  “Delete everything he’s got,” Max said to Afton.

  “Whoa!” the man cried. “Don’t be doin’ that!”

  “Then maybe you really do want to explain yourself?”

  The man sighed. “I’m gonna reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet, okay?”

  “Sure,” Max said. “Go ahead.”

  The guy pulled out his wallet, dug around in it, and pulled out a business card. Handed it to Max. “My name is Danny Kinghorn.”

  “So what?”

  “I run a website called Bloody Blue Murder dot com. We’re international.”

  “No shit,” Max said.

  “We do articles on true crime. You know, Jack the Ripper, Son of Sam, that kind of thing. The newer guys, too, like BTK. Plus we post book reviews on all the new thrillers and crime flicks.”

  “Why were you taking pictures?” Max asked. But he said it in a bored, tired manner, as if he already had an inkling of what might be going on.

  “Because I’m working on a story about the Darden kidnapping,” Kinghorn said. “And I needed some snaps to go with it.”

  “Of babies,” Afton said. She was basically repulsed.

  “Yeah,” Kinghorn said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Sure.”

  “No,” Max said. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “You want me to delete everything?” Afton asked.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” Max said.

  “No!” Kinghorn cried. “Don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”