Little Girl Gone (22 page)

“Got it. I'm texting the photo to her right now. She knows it's coming; she'll be on pins and needles. Now all we have to do is wait.”

They didn't have to wait long.

Susan Darden called a minute later. “It's not her.”

“You're sure?” Afton asked.

“Positive. The photo you texted me, that woman is way too
chic
looking. The doll lady, she was more of a country bumpkin.”

“It's not her,” Afton told Max.

“She's sure?” Max asked. “She's positive? Tell her to take another look.”

“I can hear him,” Susan said in Afton's ear. “Tell Detective Montgomery that I'm sorry, but it's not the same woman.”

“Okay,” Afton told her. “Thank you.”

“I'll talk to you later?” Susan asked.

“Count on it.”

As they spun out of the icy parking lot, Afton glanced back at the white building, which seemed perfectly set against the snowy landscape, like an enormous pile of ice that had washed up onshore in the Antarctic. “That place is a dead end,” she said.

“You don't know that,” Max said.

“Yeah, I do. I've got that gut feeling, just like you do.”

“Just because the harassment lady wasn't the doll lady—”

Afton cut him off. “The really tragic thing is we're running out of time. That baby's been missing for almost five full days.”

“Maybe we wait for the ransom exchange,” Max said.

Which made Afton feel even more disheartened. How rotten was it that they had to wait for the ransom exchange to see how this drama played out? And buried deep in her psyche was the burning question: Would there even be a ransom exchange?

S
HAKE
sat on the edge of her bed, gnawing her thumbnail. She had a decision to make and she knew she didn't have a whole lot of time. Ronnie and his crazy mother were acting more and more strangely.
Lunatics
was the word that kept rolling around in her brain. Ever since they'd come home with that baby last Saturday, they'd both been tiptoeing around on eggshells. And anytime she asked a question about the kid, Ronnie's face took on this dumb, guilty look. She knew Ronnie wasn't a bad guy, certainly not the worst she'd known. But being under his mother's thumb . . . well, anything could happen.

And maybe it already had.

Shake still wondered where the two of them had lit out to on Tuesday night. Going to the Family Resource Center? No, she'd didn't think so. Besides, they'd fumbled around for a long time, with Ronnie getting all dressed up like some kind of damn commando in a Dwayne Johnson movie. And though she hadn't actually seen Ronnie with any sort of weapon, she'd had a feeling that he might have been sneaking out of the house with one of his knives.

Sneaking out of the house.

Like she was planning to do right now.

Shake folded a pair of jeans, tossed it on top of her meager stash of underwear, and stuffed it all in her purple nylon gym bag, what had once been her dancer's bag. Two sweatshirts followed, as well as her makeup case, hairbrush, and a box of panty liners. There. What else? Nothing else. She didn't own much. Well, that was all going to change. As soon as she had this baby, she was going to head south, maybe to Florida or someplace warm like that. She'd once heard one of the other dancers talk about how there were lots of gentlemen's clubs down in Florida. And they were frequented by rich older men who were willing to lay a ten spot on the runway so they could watch a cute girl work it and twerk it.

She zipped her bag closed and looked around the bedroom. The closet door was standing open and she saw Ronnie's Green Bay Packers jacket hanging there. She hesitated for a moment and then grabbed it. Felt absolutely justified in doing so. After all, she was trying to stay warm for two.

Tiptoeing out to the second-floor landing, Shake could hear the TV blaring downstairs. Marjorie was eating a tuna fish sandwich and watching
The Bold and the Beautiful,
her favorite soap opera. Ronnie was down in the basement, mixing up a batch of chemicals so he could tan a couple of deer hides.

Shake unzipped her boots and slipped out of them. Better to carry them downstairs and put them on once she was outside. If she
made
it outside. She was filled with trepidation and mumbling a prayer now, unconsciously reverting to the little bit of religion she'd been taught as a child.

Forgive us
our trespasses . . .

Two of the steps creaked as she slowly eased her way downstairs. That made her hesitate for a few terrifying moments.

Deliver us from evil . . .

In her mind's eye, Shake imagined Marjorie popping out at her like some kind of menacing funhouse ghoul. But her luck held and it never happened.

For Thine is the Kingdom and the power . . .

In the kitchen, Marjorie's car keys sat bunched on the counter. Shake made a hasty sign of the cross as she snatched up the keys, hoping that
Ronnie had replaced the battery in his mom's car. She thought he had, since he'd been out there early this morning, fiddling with things.

The baby was gurgling away in a playpen near the stove. Shake thought about grabbing the little baby and taking her along. But no, that wouldn't work. It wasn't part of her plan. Breathless now, her heart hammering inside her chest, she kissed the little baby on the top of her head and stepped outside.

The raw wind sliced at her, taking her breath away as she hesitated on the side porch. Still, Shake knew she had to keep her eyes on the prize—her ultimate freedom! She stuffed her feet into her boots, zipped them up, and waddled toward the car.

Marjorie was a skinny little witch, so the front seat was jacked all the way forward, almost to the steering wheel. With her big belly, Shake had to partially squash her way in and then slide the seat back. She fumbled with the keys, missed the ignition slot, then jammed in the key and turned over the engine.

The car roared to life immediately. Thank God!

Desperation rising like bile in her throat, Shake threw the car in Reverse, gunned the motor hard, and promptly flew back into a snowdrift.

No!

She fumbled the car into Drive and hit the gas again, a little too hard. Now the wheels spun frantically. Damn, what was wrong with this car? She cranked the steering wheel hard to the right. Nothing, there was no purchase at all. She was stuck in an icy rut on practically bald tires!

What now? What to do? Her older brother had once showed her how to get out of a snowdrift by rocking the car, so that's what Shake did. She threw the car into Reverse, and then into Drive, trying to rock it, begging it to inch forward, pleading for it to move forward.

A face appeared in the frosted kitchen window. Marjorie. Fifteen seconds later the door flew open and Ronnie came running out. Shake tromped down harder on the accelerator, making the tires scream like a crazed banshee. Now her teeth were chattering so hard that her fillings ached. Was her escape ruined? No, it couldn't be. She was going to drive to Florida, after all. Have the baby and then just . . .

Ronnie ripped open the driver's side door and screamed, “What are you freaking
do
ing?”

Shake's first thought was,
Caught like a rat in a trap.
Then she wondered,
Can I possibly reason with him?
If she could make Ronnie understand how terrified and upset she was, would he finally see her side of the story? Would he hop in and come with her?

“I'm getting out of here!” Shake screamed at him. “If you had any sense, you'd come with me.”

“Stop it,” Ronnie said, half climbing into the car with her. “Take your foot off the accelerator, you're burning rubber. You're gonna wear off any bit of tread that's left!”

“Huh? What?” Shake lifted her foot and the car quieted down. She started to cry helplessly.

“Shake. Baby,” Ronnie said. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Anywhere,” she sobbed. “Away from here.” She lifted her eyes and saw Marjorie standing on the porch now, struggling to pull on her pink ski parka.

“Not her,” Shake said through gritted teeth. “Not now.”

Ronnie waved a hand at Marjorie. “Go back inside,” he yelled. “She's fine.”

“She fine?” Marjorie screamed. “Are you crazy?”

“I'll take care of it,” Ronnie yelled back. “Just . . . get away.”

Muttering loudly, throwing murderous looks at Shake, Marjorie finally retreated back inside the farmhouse.

Shake was jibbering now, scared out of her mind. “We. Have. To. Go.”

“Shhh,” Ronnie said. “Stop crying. We'll do it, okay?”

Shake was still crying. “What?” Had she heard him correctly? “You mean we'll run away? Together?”

“Yes, of course together. But not like this. After you have the baby. Then we'll pack up and go. Just leave this . . . place. I know it's not good for us.”

Relief flooded Shake's brain. “Jeez, Ronnie, do you really mean it? You promise?” He'd jammed himself partway into the car and she was clutching at him now, as if he were her only lifeline.

“Cross my heart, I promise. Now just . . . come back inside, okay? This can't be good for the baby and I'm freezing my nuts off out here.”

“We'll really go? Soon?”

“I think . . . maybe next week,” Ronnie said. “Now come on . . .” He turned off the ignition, then reached a hand out and helped hoist her out of the car. “We'll go, okay?”

Shake clung to him, nodding. “Okay, okay.”

She followed him back inside, but deep down, a tendril of fear lingered. Ronnie talked a good game right now—and she almost believed him. But what if he really didn't have the guts to run away? Then what?

A
FTON
felt beleaguered and nauseous. Her condition wasn't a product of Max's erratic driving, but of all the dead ends they'd been hitting in the search for Elizabeth Ann Darden. She'd felt certain that the interview with Eleanor Winters might turn into something, but it was just another false lead. How would they ever find that baby? Each road they went down seemed to lead nowhere. She was beginning to lose heart.

Now they were on their way to interview Bob Binger. Andy Farmer had already interviewed Binger, but now Thacker wanted them to take another crack at him. Maybe the man that Richard Darden had fired from his post at Novamed would be able to shed a small amount of light on the situation—or throw some dirt on Darden. Afton wasn't sure which.

As they bumped west on Highway 55, Afton's restlessness grew into irritation. The seemingly endless pods of slow traffic made the drive seem even more tedious. She slumped in her seat and stared out the window. As soon as they'd made the transition from urban to suburban, fast-food franchises seemed to spring up like errant mushrooms and towering office buildings loomed at each intersection.

Max read her frustration. “Almost there,” he said. They turned onto
494, zipped past the Carlson Towers, took the next exit, and then bumped down a south-side frontage road until they hit a shabby-looking redbrick strip mall. There was a tax preparer's office, a Thai restaurant, an office furniture store, a veterinarian, and three other small- to medium-sized businesses. He pulled into a parking slot in front of a silver sign that said M
EDIGAIN
. “Some corporate office, huh?”

Medigain, Afton had learned, was one of a hundred upstart medical tech companies that had come on the heels of millions of dollars of venture capital money. Most of that money had long since dried up or been frittered away, but there were a few companies that had dug in their heels and hung in for the long haul. Medigain was one of these. It had recently received a government patent for a new type of heart valve and its stock was slowly beginning to tick upward.

Afton and Max entered the lobby and were pleasantly surprised. The reception area was neat and orderly with a half dozen bright red club chairs and dozens of healthy-looking green plants. Their front desk was staffed by a smiling twentysomething woman who was wearing a telephone headset.

“Welcome to Medigain,” the receptionist said, beaming.

“Good morning,” Max said. Then he caught sight of the clock over her shoulder. “Afternoon,” he corrected.

“No worry,” the woman said. “That clock just ticked past noon a minute ago.”

Max fished out his badge and held it up for the woman's inspection. She seemed to experience a moment of indecision, then said, “How can I help you, Detective?”

“We have an appointment to speak with Bob Binger,” Max said. “We called earlier.”

“Then I'll let him know you're here.” She hit a few buttons, connected with Binger, and announced their arrival. “Okay,” she said into her headset. “I'll bring them right back.” She stood up and smoothed her flowered skirt. “If you'll follow me, please?”

They were led down a narrow corridor between beige industrial-looking
cubicles. A few of the cubes were empty, but most held staffers who were busy talking on their phones, texting, or eating lunch. The receptionist opened the door to a generic-looking conference room and ushered them in.

“Thanks,” Max said.

“He'll be with you in a minute,” the receptionist said.

Afton sat on one side of the table, Max on the other.

“Thoughts?” he said.

“I don't know,” Afton sighed. “I understand why we're here, but I still think we should be focusing on the pizza guy. I think we'd do better if we were back in Hudson working the crime scene.”

“The FBI has that covered. We're here to dot the
i
's and cross the
t
's.”

“Bob Binger being one of the
i
's?”

“You never know.”

“Hey,” a man said as he huffed his way through the doorway. He had a sallow, pudgy face and a paunch that was barely restrained by his belt. He looked tired, overworked, and scattered.

Afton and Max both rose to shake Binger's hand and introduce themselves. His palm was damp and his face was florid. Maybe he was nervous, Afton thought. Or maybe he just had high blood pressure.

“I hope this won't take long,” Binger said, plopping down into a chair.

“We'll try to keep it brief,” Max said. “Like I explained on the phone, we're trying to gather background information on Richard Darden.”

“This about his missing kid?”

“We're focusing more on him right now.”

Binger snorted. “King Shit Darden, huh? Well, what do you want to know?”

“Richard Darden fired you, is that correct?”

A tiny vein in Binger's forehead pulsed and his nostrils flared. “That arrogant puke cost me everything. Fourteen years I put in at Novamed. I led a team of eight developers. Never had a bad word in my personnel file. Never. Year after year, my team was one of the most productive in the company.”

“Then what?” Max asked.

“Darden, that's what,” Binger said.

“Care to explain that?” Afton asked.

“Darden looked smart in a suit, played a good round of golf, and had enough smarm to spread around in the executive offices. He hopscotched his way up to head of R and D—that's research and development—and became my boss. Every time we came up with a new idea, Darden took credit for it. When I finally called him out, he fired my ass. Security came in, threw all my personal gear in a cardboard box, and escorted me out the front door.” He mopped at his forehead. “Right in front of my team. God, it was embarrassing.”

“So you were angry,” Max said.

“I was livid. Plus, I was out of work for almost six months after that.”

“Ever have any revenge fantasies?” Afton asked.

Binger looked startled. “What? Me? No.” He stared at them. “I see where you're going with this, but it wasn't me who kidnapped that baby. Heck, I've got three kids of my own. I could never pull a stunt like that. No way.”

“Do you know anyone who would?” Max asked.

Binger was slow to answer. “No, I can't say that I do. Oh, there were plenty of people who wanted to get back at Darden. But . . . I don't think they'd go about it that way. No, I can't think of anyone who's
that
crazy.”

*   *   *

AN
hour later, Afton and Max were back at the office.

“C'mon,” Max said. “Let's grab a cup of coffee before we check in.”

“Sure,” Afton said.

“Got any change?”

She handed over her last three quarters.

Max popped them into the machine, gave it a hard kick, and got his cup of coffee. It spilled out oily and burned, just the way he liked it. They headed down the hallway just as two FBI agents, looking like on-the-job German shepherds, came jogging toward them and then passed by without saying a word.

“Keepin' us in the loop,” Afton snorted.

They poked their heads into Thacker's office and were waved in.

“How did it go with Binger?” Thacker asked. He looked dapper today in a charcoal gray pinstripe.

“Not much there,” Max said. “Guy's pissed off, but he's not that kind of pissed off. What's happening here?”

“We saw more FBI agents,” Afton said, curious. “Out in the hallway.”

Thacker leaned back in his chair. “There's still no word from the kidnappers. Darden is starting to lose it, so he's been calling anyone and everyone who's in a position of power.”

“Which means you've been getting trickle-down pressure?” Afton asked.

Thacker's laugh was a sharp bark. “I've talked to more state senators, city council members, county sheriffs, and governor's aids today than I normally do in an entire year of operations. Unless it's an election year, and then they're calling to panhandle or ask for an endorsement.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Afton said. “I know you've got a lot on your plate.”

Thacker grunted. “There's more.”

“What?” Max asked.

“Richard Darden is thinking about offering a reward. One million dollars.”

“Oh no,” Max said. “That'll just bring out all the crazies. Tie up the phone lines. Exhaust our resources.” He blew out a glut of air. “As if they're not exhausted enough.”

“When the kidnappers hear about it,” Afton said, “they'll just want him to add it to the ransom.”

“I'm working hard to get him to hold off,” Thacker said. His clenched hands flew open. “But . . . who knows?”

“Has the media gotten a whiff of this yet?” Afton asked.

“I hope not,” Thacker said. He looked at her sharply. “Still want to be a detective?”

“Would it sound strange right now if I said yes?”

“Maybe a little,” Thacker said. “But I kind of suspected that's what you'd say. You have to be a little out there on the edge to be able to handle this job.”

Afton sat a little straighter in her chair. This was Thacker's version of praise. “You think I meet the minimum daily requirement of derangement?”

“Maybe,” Thacker said. “You might be getting there.” He was silent for a moment, and then said, “We've got things pretty well covered here. You
two should head over to the Saint Croix medical examiner's lab. The ME is doing an autopsy on Muriel Pink this afternoon.” When Afton looked squeamish, he said, “Yeah, I know. But it's part and parcel, so take off.”

*   *   *

THE
last person they expected to run into at police headquarters was Portia Bourgoyne, but there she was. Lounging in the hallway next to the file room, speaking in a low melodic whisper, her lips practically brushing the ear of a young uniformed officer.

Harry Affolter, Afton thought, when she caught sight of them. Was he the leak? Then she turned her attention back on Portia. The woman was wearing a black cashmere dress and black stilettos that showed off her rounded curves and shapely calves. It seemed fairly clear that the young officer was firmly under her spell.

“Is there something I can help you with, Miss Bourgoyne?” Max asked in a loud, authoritative tone. He'd not only caught Portia's attention, but sent the young officer scurrying away.

Portia cast a disdainful look at Max and said, “I was just checking in with your media relations officer.”

“Trying to wangle some inside information?” Afton asked.

Portia ignored her.

Max suddenly advanced on Portia. “You killed that woman, you know that?” His mouth was an angry slash, and if Afton didn't know better, she'd say his ears were pulled back flat against his head. Like a jackal ready to attack.

Portia just stared at him.

“Muriel Pink,” Max hissed. “You killed her just as sure as if you'd held a knife to her throat and slit open her jugular.”

Portia's eyes blazed. “How dare you insinuate—”

“I'm not insinuating anything,” Max said. “I'm stating a fact. You manipulated that poor, gullible old woman. You put her on TV and practically dared the killer to go after her. Well, that's exactly what happened. So now I'm asking you, how do you sleep at night?”

“Any issue of culpability can be taken up directly with my news director,” Portia spit back. “And my station's attorney.”

Afton had to hand it to her. Portia was good. She wasn't afraid to stand her ground. Or maybe she was just too dumb to know she might be in serious trouble.

Portia curled a lip. “With a two-million-dollar ransom demand, and now a possible reward in the making, you're going to have your hands full fielding calls from all the loonies out there.”

Afton couldn't believe what she was hearing. How did Portia know about the ransom? And the fact that Darden might offer a reward? Was the department hemorrhaging information?

“Who'd you have to bribe to get that information?” Max asked.

Portia focused a cool smile on him. “A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.” She tilted her head and gazed up at him. Bit her lower lip and offered a sexy smile. “C'mon,” she said, her voice a little breathier now. “Work with me on this, Max. When this case finally breaks—and I know it will—a lot of people are going to want to grab the brass ring and take credit. I can make sure the bright lights land squarely on you.”

Afton watched Max carefully. She couldn't tell if he was angry or capitulating. Then he did something she never would have expected. He blinked and smiled at Portia. He hung his head and said, in an almost sheepish tone, “You know what? I give up.”

“What?” Afton said.

“Excuse me?” Portia asked. Even she seemed startled by his change of heart.

“I may as well tell you the whole thing.” Max gave a deferential shrug. “You're just going to find out anyway.”

“No, Max,” Afton said. “What are you doing?”

But like a great white shark, Portia had sensed a trickle of blood in the water. Her confident smile returned and she pulled out her smartphone to record Max's words.

Max waved his hands. “No, this has to be off the record. You didn't hear it from me, and Detective Tangler will deny all knowledge of this conversation.” He glanced at Afton. “Correct?”

Afton stood in dumbfounded silence. She wasn't sure what to make of
this. “Correct,” she said finally. She wasn't sure what kind of game Max was playing.

“Okay, that won't be a problem,” Portia said. “I can cite you as an anonymous source close to the investigation.” She held up a finger. “But when this story breaks, I'll want you to go on record to corroborate my story.”