Little Girl Gone (17 page)

Pushing herself, Afton sprinted after him. Up ahead of her, Sponger might have looked awkward and gawky, but he was setting a blistering pace. No problem. She was prepared to chase him forever. All the way into downtown Minneapolis if need be. Or until the guys in the black van showed up to take him down.

Which was why Afton was completely shocked when Sponger suddenly squirted off to his right and fled down a narrow, barely plowed alley that looked like a cul-de-sac.

Afton pumped harder, raggedly sucking cold air into her lungs, her legs driving like pistons as she followed him.

Sponger stumbled, turned to look back over his shoulder, and saw her coming. That's when things went a little crazy. He zigzagged toward a pile of snow, seemed to hesitate for one frozen moment, and then tumbled forward and disappeared completely.

What?

Ten seconds later, Afton pulled up short and stared down a steep, snow-covered embankment. There he was, running below her on a trail. Like a fox who'd gone to ground, Sponger had slithered his way down into the deep trench that was known as the Midtown Greenway. Dug over one hundred years ago as a railroad corridor, it was now a paved road for bicycle and pedestrian traffic. But this time of day, in the dead of winter with the sun making an early descent, the roadway was deserted, icy, and cold. It yawned into the distance for miles, snaking under dozens of old bridges and offering myriad places to hide.

Still, Sponger didn't have that much of a lead on her. Afton hurled herself over the side in what she hoped would be a controlled descent down the fifty-foot-high embankment. Feet set wide apart, she kicked up twin rooster tails of snow that blew back into her face and mouth. Slipping and sliding her way down the hill, she mentally prepared herself for a hard landing. As she hit bottom, she slewed to one side, rolled once, then recovered and bounced to her feet. Within seconds, she took off down the trail after Sponger.

“Sponger!” Afton shouted. She was cold and wet and angry as hell. She also knew this was a terrible place to be stuck. Even though she was running through the heart of the city, the hostile landscape felt more like something out of a nuclear winter. Enormous dark trees rose up on each side of her, their bare branches rattling in the wind like old bones. There were huge piles of snow-covered rubble everywhere, and the sheer depth of the trench deadened all sound.

Sponger heard her call out. He half turned, flapped his arms, and promptly fell down.

Afton renewed her efforts. “Stop!” she cried. “Minneapolis Police!”

Sponger struggled to his feet and headed directly for one of the old bridges that arched over the trail. When he disappeared into the shadows, Afton slowed her pace. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in Max's number.

“Where are you?” His voice was urgent, angry.

“Down on that Midtown Greenway trail,” she told him. “Sponger just went under the Fremont Street bridge.” She fought to catch her breath. “I've been chasing him.”

“Keep an eye out,” Max said. “But do
not
try to apprehend him. SWAT's on its way.”

“Hope so,” Afton murmured as she clicked off. She continued to walk slowly toward the bridge, shivering a little now. Her shot of adrenaline had worn off and the jitters had taken over. She stopped just short of the bridge and peered in, hoping to catch sight of him.

Damn, she couldn't see Sponger lurking anywhere in the shadows. She crept under the bridge, where it was dark and the cold seemed even more brutal. Had he found a hidey-hole up among the stones and network of wrought iron? Or had he clambered all the way to the top of the embankment and found a sneaky way out of this old corridor?

Afton was debating what to do when she heard a low hiss, like an angry alligator. She spun around just in time to see Sponger pop out from behind a jagged hunk of stone.

“What do you want, girl?” Sponger snarled.

There was murder in his eye, and a hunting knife clutched in his right hand.

Afton felt her guts tighten. She backed away from him. “Take it easy. I'm not here to hurt you.”

Sponger turned the blade sideways and said, “I hurt
you.
”

Afton turned on her heels and ran. Without hesitation, she scrambled up the steep stone abutment that reinforced the old bridge. The stones were slippery and icy, but she moved carefully, knowing any misstep could cost her.

Hurry, hurry!
Her brain beat out an urgent mantra as she heard him panting and scuttling noisily behind her.

When Afton was at the very top of the abutment, tucked way under the span of the bridge, she twisted around. Sponger was some twenty feet below her, doing his best to climb after her, but picking his way tentatively. Like some kind of crazy-ass pirate, he held his knife in his mouth as he clung to stones with his bare hands, pulling himself up, struggling and grunting to find basic toeholds.

Overhead, traffic rumbled on the bridge. Down here there was nobody around.

And Afton had no weapon.

Fear welled up inside her as she searched for something . . . anything to defend herself with. Her eyes caught sight of a narrow piece of rusted metal just above her. It was a bent piece of the bridge's framework that stuck out about three feet.

Could she grab it in time? Could she even work it free?

Afton sidestepped her way across the narrow stone platform and grasped hold of the metal bar. One end was still loosely riveted to the struts of the old bridge. She jerked at the metal bar and pulled hard. Nothing doing. She glanced down and saw that Sponger was getting closer. She didn't have much time. She could ditch out of here, try to slide down, and then make a run for it. Or she could stay here and make her stand.

Grasping the metal bar with both hands, she wiggled and seesawed it back and forth. It remained attached with only one loose weld. If she could just pop it free . . .

Sponger moved closer, growling, scrabbling upward, as Afton worked frantically. She had one eye on the metal bar that was bending much freer in her hands now. But Sponger had stuck a tentative foot on the cement shelf and was moving toward her, crab-stepping like a demonic circus performer in some high-wire act.

Metal flakes flew into her eyes as Afton gave the hunk of rusted metal one last tug. And it suddenly came loose!

Like Buster Posey swinging at a fastball, Afton whipped the metal bar at Sponger's head. And connected hard. Hit him dead center in the forehead.

Thwock!

There was the sickening sound of ripping flesh, a light spray of blood, and then Sponger let loose a high-pitched scream as the knife flew out of his mouth and his eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped to his knees, managed a clumsy half twist, and then lost it completely. His fingernails fought for purchase, but it was too late. He went sliding down the bridge embankment on his belly, his chin bumping every rocky protrusion along the way. Thin, reedy cries shattered the silence. His knife clinked and clattered its way down the ragged stones alongside him. Then Sponger hit bottom and cartwheeled to a stop.

That's when the cavalry finally showed up. The SWAT team was suddenly there in full force, garbed in black, wearing protective armor. They scrambled all over Sponger. They hoisted him up, shook him like a rag doll, and then forced him to his knees. One officer wrenched his hands behind his back, another bent over and picked up the knife.

“You okay up there?” one of the SWAT guys called to Afton.

She was crouched on her heels, trying to still her quaking heart and quiet her breathing. Yeah, she thought she was okay. But talk about your on-the-job training.

“I'm fine,” Afton called out. “I'm coming down.” She dropped into a crouch, lifted her heels, and bumped her way down on her backside.

Then Max was there, angry and apologetic all at once. “I had no idea,” he sputtered. “We should have gone in full force.”

Afton held up a hand. “It's okay.” Max seemed more upset than she was. Or maybe she was just getting used to having close calls. “Really, I'm just fine.”

Sponger was whimpering and straining to pull himself into a tight little ball.

“Don't hurt me,” he cried. “I didn't do nothin'. I didn't hurt nobody.” His eyes rolled pitifully in his head and his chin quivered as if he were about to cry. Blood streamed from his nose, his lips were scuffed and bleeding.

“Then why'd you run away from us?” Max asked.

“Why'd you pull the damn knife?” Afton barked at him. She had to restrain herself from smacking him upside the head. “All we wanted to do was ask you some questions.”

“You're from the military?” Sponger blubbered. He tried to press his hands against his head. “You'll put metal clamps on my head to read my thoughts.”

Max snapped his fingers in front of Sponger's face. “Hey. Dude. Pay attention. We're Minneapolis Police.”

“What?” Sponger shook his head, still looking mistrustful. “Why?”

“Why?” Max said. “He wants to know why.”

“It's not him,” Afton said to Max in a low voice.

Max frowned at her. “What?”

“It's not the guy from last night.”

“You're sure?”

“That guy was a maniac,” Afton said. “Sponger just seems . . . deficient.”

“Damn.”

Sponger looked miserable. “Don't hurt me,” he whimpered again.

“Oh, for shit's sake,” Afton said. She kicked a hunk of ice and sent it flying. “We just want to ask a few questions.”

“We want to know about the doll,” Max said.

“Doll?” Sponger said. He glanced around, blinking like mad, working his mouth soundlessly. He seemed to be hoping that the SWAT team guys would jump in and lend a hand. They didn't.

“We caught you on a security camera dumping a doll in the trash outside Rush Street Pizza,” Max said.

“The doll?” Sponger's eyes seemed to focus a little better. “That's what this is about?”

“Now you're catching on,” Max said.

“Where'd you get it?” Afton asked.

Sponger ducked his head. “I bought it. I got money.”

“Where?” Max said.

Sponger sniffled, then said, “This guy I know over on Chicago Avenue. I knew him from before, when I lived in a different place.”

“And this guy sells dolls?” Max asked.

“He sells secondhand stuff.”

“You mean stuff that's hot?” Max asked. “Stolen?”

Sponger's eyes shifted away from him. “I don't know,” he mumbled.

“Okay,” Afton said. “You bought the doll because . . .”

“I got a little girl,” Sponger said. His face softened until he looked almost normal. “I haven't seen her in . . . hell, I don't know how long. Her mom and I had problems.” He bit his lower lip and then said, “Okay, the problems were mostly me.” He tapped an index finger against the side of his head. “You know?”

“Keep talking,” Afton said.

“Anyway, I bought the doll as a present for my kid . . . her name is Jennifer. Jennie. I got all cleaned up and went over there to see her.”

“Then what happened?” Max asked.

“I get to the door and Holly, that's my ex-wife, she says I should have called first. She gets all pissed off and says that I can't see Jennie right now. I told her I brought my little girl a nice present and couldn't I just see her for a couple of minutes.” He shivered. “But Holly laughed in my face.” Sponger dropped his head and his eyes welled up with tears. “Same old shit, same old Holly. Nothing's ever good enough.” Fat tears coursed down his cheeks.

Afton sighed deeply. Sponger wasn't making up his story. This had really happened. She gazed at the western sky, which had darkened into a palette of purple and gray-blue.

“So why'd you pitch the doll?” Max asked.

“What the hell was I supposed to do? I don't know, I just tossed it away. Pitched it in the Dumpster. Just like my life. Just . . . garbage. It's all freaking garbage, man.”

“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.”

H
E'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 keep 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.”