Little Girl Gone (19 page)

He gestured back toward Muriel Pink's house and shrugged. He was still undecided. “But not like this. She's an old lady.”

“Listen to me.” Marjorie reached across the front seat and grabbed hold of his collar, showing surprising strength for such a birdlike woman. “If that old lady ID's either one of us, we're cooked.”

“Maybe she—”

“Shut up and listen to me. Do you want to go to prison?”

Ronnie shrugged his shoulders. “Of course not.”

“If that Pink woman identifies us, we'll sure as shit go to prison, no questions asked. And you, my boy, will never survive that experience.”

Ronnie felt his guts practically turn to water.

“When women are sent to jail, they get to live in cottages and cook meals in a real kitchen,” Marjorie said. “Guys go to hard-core prisons with cement cells, twenty-foot walls, and guard towers with automatic rifles. You've seen that prison over in Stillwater, haven't you? You want to call that place home for the next thirty years?”

Ronnie shook his head.

Marjorie continued to pound away at him. Finally, she turned the tide by asking him one simple question: “Do you want nasty old men to use you like they would a woman?”

That was when Ronnie heaved a knowing sigh. He gathered up his knives, his night vision glasses, and the battered pizza box in the backseat. Then, without a word to her, he climbed out of the car and slunk toward what would soon become a charnel house.

*   *   *

MARJORIE
waited in the dark. Anxious, quivering like a frightened Chihuahua. Biting her nails down to almost nothing. Then, finally, to bloody stumps. With the engine off, it was getting colder and colder and she sank into her coat, pulling up the collar and shivering. As the night yawned on, the windows began to fog. Still, her hands and feet jiggled with nervous energy.

After what seemed like an eternity—but was probably no more than twenty minutes—Marjorie was delirious with worry and ready to jack the key into the ignition and take off without him. She glanced into the rearview mirror and caught barely a hint of shadow creeping around the corner of the house. Ah, Ronnie. Now the boy was moving more quickly, his head swiveling to see if anyone was watching.

No one was.

As he neared the car, Ronnie broke into a staggering lope. Then he ripped open the car door and flung himself into the backseat.

“Did you do it?” Marjorie asked, turning to look at him.

Ronnie sank back, a stupid smile on his face. “What do you think?”

In the dim light from the overhead bulb, Marjorie could make out telltale bloody splotches. “Watch your clothes,” she warned. “Watch your clothes and stay on top of that old army blanket.”

“Shut up and drive.”

Marjorie slid across the front seat and took her place behind the wheel. She drove back through Hudson slowly and carefully. When she finally gazed into the rearview mirror, Ronnie was sprawled across the backseat and snoring softly. He might have been unnerved by his actions tonight, but he was sleeping like a baby.

Marjorie allowed herself a tight smile.
The kid came through
, she told herself.
He pulled it off.
Which means one big problem is solved. Now, knock on wood, we're home free.

M
AX,
Afton, and Andy Farmer were sitting in the conference room, watching the tape of Portia Bourgoyne's interview.

“The TV station sent this over?” Max asked.

Farmer nodded. “Not because they were particularly interested in doing a public service. There was, shall we say, pressure?”

“Good. Have the FBI guys seen this?” Max asked.

“We sent a copy over to them,” Farmer said.

“I still can't believe Bourgoyne got to this woman,” Afton said.

“Leaks,” Farmer said. “They're what can kill an investigation.”

“Or bog it down,” Max said.

Afton looked at the paperwork strewn about the table. “Are we bogged down?”

“You tell me,” Max said. Then, “Maybe.”

Afton furrowed her brow. She wished she could be of more help.

“Or maybe not,” Max said. “Sometimes you can't see the forest for the trees.”

“You gonna go through all those notes again?” Farmer asked Max. “You
got copies of all the interviews? The stuff Dillon and I did? The ones the FBI handled?”

“We got it all,” Max said.

*   *   *

AFTON
and Max were twenty minutes into their analysis when the phone rang.

Max didn't look up, but instead aimed a pen at the phone. Afton snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”

“I thought you and Max might be in there,” Angel Graham said. “I have a call holding from a Dr. Sansevere at the ME's office. Do you want me to put her through?”

“Please.” Afton punched the button to turn on the speakerphone. “Dr. Sansevere is calling,” she told Max. “I think she might have something for us.”

“Dr. Sansevere?” Max said. “This is Max Montgomery. How can I help?”

“I've got some news for you.” Her voice was brisk and businesslike.

“Go ahead. Sorry if this sounds like we're talking from the bottom of a garbage can, but we've got you on speakerphone. I want my colleague to hear this, too.”

“The baby that was brought back from Cannon Falls?” said Dr. Sansevere. “There was a problem with her heart. What we call a VSD, a hole in the heart.”

Afton felt sick to her stomach. “You mean somebody stabbed her?” she asked. “Shot her?”

“No, no,” Dr. Sansevere said. “Nothing like that, not any kind of external injury. It was a congenital defect, something the child was born with. A ventricular septal defect. Lots of babies are born with it. It's basically a hole in the septum that separates the ventricles, the two lower parts of the heart.”

Max locked eyes with Afton.

“Could it have been repaired?” Afton asked.

“Perhaps. If she'd had immediate medical attention. VSDs more often than not require open heart surgery.”

“So that was the cause of death?” Max asked. “A bad heart?”

“Probably the defect was so bad that her heart simply stopped beating,” Dr. Sansevere said.

“So she was doomed from birth?” Afton asked.

“I would say so, yes,” Dr. Sansevere said. “That was the main issue we encountered in her autopsy. I found no petechial hemorrhages to indicate she might have been smothered, which is an insidious but common way to kill an infant. There were no ligature marks, no cuts or bruises. Her head hadn't been shaken, nothing abnormal showed up in her scan. The only thing abnormal about that little girl was her heart. And the fact that she was somewhat malnourished.”

“I'll be damned,” Max said.

“What about the phosphorescent stuff?” Afton asked. “The little bits and pieces that glowed when you ran the black light over her.”

“Oh,” Dr. Sansevere said. “Under electron microscopic testing, they appear to be crystals of oxalic acid.”

“What is that, please?” Afton asked.

“It's an agent commonly added to water to reduce the pH balance.”

“Is this something commonly found in baby products?” Max asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Just the name
oxalic acid
sounds fairly dangerous,” Afton said.

“Yes, well, I suppose it could be.”

“Any idea how it got there?” Max asked.

“None whatsoever,” Dr. Sansevere said.

“You find anything else on her?” Max asked.

“Nothing that was atypical considering the circumstances of where she was found. Leaves, a few animal hairs.”

“Has she been DNA typed yet?” Afton asked.

“We're still working on that.”

“Okay, thank you,” Max said. “I trust you'll contact us right away if you learn anything else?”

“Count on it,” she said.

Max disconnected from her, then looked at Afton. “Thoughts?”

Afton shook her head. “I don't know what any of that means.”

“Neither do I.” Max blew out his cheeks, and then said, “But I'm feeling antsy. Come on, let's take a ride. Go blow out the carbon.”

*   *   *

WHEREVER
they were headed, Afton decided that Max was taking the long way around. They sliced over to Hennepin Avenue, right in the middle of downtown Minneapolis, and cruised slowly along the thoroughfare.

“This used to be appropriately tacky and mildly interesting,” Max said. “All sorts of dimey bars, strip joints, rock clubs, magazine shops that sold dirty books in back, record stores, and waffle houses. Now it's all chain restaurants—Italian, Mexican, Chinese. If we ever patch things up in the Middle East, somebody will probably open a McFalafel.”

They passed the Basilica, its dark green dome gleaming in the faint sunlight, slid under a bridge, and turned up Hennepin past the sculpture garden. Everywhere they went, traffic was either backed up or crawling at a glacial pace. Thanks to continued cold and two more inches of snow last night, there were also stalled vehicles, fender benders, and abandoned cars.

Afton was pleased that Max had dialed back on his aggressive driving and was exercising a bit more caution today. She could almost relax in the passenger seat and take a deep breath. Almost.

“Where are we going?” she asked, one eye still focused on the speedometer.

“Sampson's,” Max said. He momentarily swerved into the oncoming lane, dodging a car that was stuck at the bottom of a steep grade. “Gotta look somebody up.”

“Who?”

“A guy.”

*   *   *

MAX
drove past Sampson's Bar, made a U-turn, and then pulled in front of the bar, nosing into a no-parking zone. He threw an O
FFICIA
L
P
OLICE
B
USINESS
card on the dashboard and said, “C'mon. We're gonna have us a little confab with The Scrounger.”

Afton gazed at the cheesy red-and-yellow exterior of Sampson's Bar,
which clearly announced,
I'm a dive.
The hand-lettered sign in the window advertising Dubble Bubble seemed to say,
Come on in, the drinkin's fine.

“How do you even know he's here?”

“Couple of things tipped me off,” Max said. “First off, there's his butt-ugly pickup truck held together with Bondo tape parked illegally in a spot marked ‘Handicapped.'”

“Okay.”

“Plus Sampson's is the crappiest bar in the neighborhood, which makes it his official stomping ground. Everything else around here is your basic fig and fern bar.”

“I think fig and fern bars went out in the early nineties,” Afton said.

“What do they call them now?”

“I don't know. Maybe craft beer bistros or wine bars. Something like that.”

“Still,” Max said. “It's the same old bullshit.”

“Of course it is.”

The interior of Sampson's was darker than pitch. Probably well under the regulation lumens required by the liquor licensing board. That was okay with Afton. This way she wouldn't have to look at the winos who were already slumped anonymously at the front bar, or the ugly orange carpet, or the studded red plastic lamps that dangled on bare cords.

Max paused to study the inhabitants, didn't recognize any familiar faces lurking at the bar, and turned his attention to what could loosely be called the dining room. Loosely, because it was basically three Formica tables and an unattended pull-tab booth encased in chicken wire.

Seated at one of the tables, eating peanuts and sipping an amber-colored drink, was a man dressed in coveralls, Red Wing work boots, and a red cap with the earflaps down. His chair was tipped back and he was watching a college hockey game on TV.

“There's our boy,” Max said.

They strolled across a dark expanse of dance floor that felt sticky underfoot, and headed straight for The Scrounger's table.

“Whoa,” The Scrounger said when he caught sight of Max. “Look who's out slumming.”

“How do,” Max said.

“Detective Montgomery,” The Scrounger said. “What an unexpected pleasure.” His eyes flicked over and took in Afton. “And I do believe you've made a serious upgrade when it comes to your choice in partners.”

“Thanks,” Afton said. “I think. Although I'm not technically a detective.” The Scrounger had ginger-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail, a scruffy beard, and brown eyes that were pinpricks of intensity. He looked like a cross between a stoner and a University of Minnesota English professor.

“Mmn,” The Scrounger said, smiling at Afton. “You must be a protégée then.”

“Something like that,” Max said. He sat down across from The Scrounger and Afton followed suit. “This is Afton Tangler. She's been working with me on the Darden kidnapping case.”

“Ah,” The Scrounger said. “Nasty.” He crunched a peanut between his front teeth and smiled again at Afton. “I meant the case, not you.”

“The FBI is working the case pretty hard,” Max said. “Obviously, they would. But MPD is running its own investigation as well.”

“It's been all over the news,” The Scrounger said. “They think it might have been a woman who stole the kid?”

“It's possible,” Afton said.

“I know that Kenwood Parkway, where the Dardens live, is one of your routes,” Max said.

“Surely you don't think that I—”

Max held up a hand. “No, no, nothing like that. But I know you're familiar with that particular part of the city.”

The Scrounger nodded. “Intimately.”

“And I was wondering if maybe you'd seen or heard anything that was a little off?”

“You mean suspicious,” The Scrounger said.

“Right,” Afton said.

The Scrounger thought for a few moments. “Last week I found an entire
set of encyclopedias dumped in a trash can in the alley that runs behind James Avenue. Can you believe that? A compendium of universal knowledge trashed along with the detritus of chicken bones and potato peels. The biography of Cicero, great battles of World War Two, and botanical miracles. What's the world coming to?”

“Digital,” Afton said.

“But are we better off for it?” The Scrounger picked up his almost empty glass and tinkled his ice cubes.

“Probably not,” Afton said. Though she did love her iPad.

“No, of course not,” The Scrounger said. “But to get back to your original inquiry . . . I have not noticed anything unusual or out of place in that neighborhood. Except for an empty Ripple bottle tossed into the recycling bin of a home that generally prefers Château Margaux Grand Cru or, at the very least, a Mondavi Cabernet. Though perhaps it was an insensitive transient who deposited his refuse among that of the hoi polloi.”

“So nothing at all,” Max said. He sounded disappointed.

“Nothing, my friend,” The Scrounger said. “Though I wish I could propel you in a more positive direction.”

“Ever hear of a halfway house called Dean's Place?”

“Sure,” The Scrounger said. “Bunch of ex-druggies and drunks.”

“There's a guy lives there named Al Sponger,” Max said. “Worked for the Dardens once. We brought him in for questioning yesterday and he's being released this morning.”

The Scrounger nodded. “I see.”

Max pulled a photo out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “It'd be worth your while if you'd keep an eye on him.”

The Scrounger studied the photo. “Ah . . . a second level of surveillance. Your basic shadow-type investigation.”

“Something like that.”

“Consider it done.”

Max slipped a twenty from his wallet and placed it on top of the photo. “In case you'd like another refreshing beverage.”

“Always,” The Scrounger said.

*   *   *

BACK
in the car, Max seemed at a loss for what to do next.

“Maybe we should finish going through the interviews?” Afton suggested.

“Better than just twiddling our thumbs,” he said, just as his cell phone rang. He grabbed it and swiped the On button.

“Detective Montgomery?” a voice blurted out. It was a man, his voice high-pitched and loud over a background of radio static and frantic voices. He was excited and speaking loud enough that Afton could hear him.

“Yes?”

“This is Sergeant Bill Hadley over at the Hudson Police Department?”

“What can I do for you, Sergeant Hadley?” Max hit another button and the phone was now on speaker.

“You'd better get over here fast,” Hadley said. “One of the witnesses you guys interviewed in that missing baby case was killed last night.”

Max didn't seem to register what Hadley had just said. He hesitated for a few moments and then he said, “What?”

“One of the witnesses . . .”

“No, I heard that part,” Max said. “It's just that . . . Wait, are you saying that Muriel Pink has been killed? The woman who was interviewed on TV last night?”

“Yes,” Sergeant Hadley said. “That's it. Muriel Pink.”