Little Girl Gone (29 page)

“If we can locate the vehicle,” Max said to Afton, “we can trace the registration and ID the kidnapper.”

Thacker continued to scream into his police radio. “Yes, check marinas. Especially check marinas. I don't care if they're closed. This shitbird had to park somewhere.”

Sirens blasted and bright lights split the night as two enormous trucks thundered in. Saint Paul's Fire and Rescue Squad. A dozen men jumped down, manning ladders, ropes, and long poles with barbed hooks on the end so they could fish around in the murky water. Two men scrambled to pull on dry suits. It was the same frantic scene that was repeated dozens of times all over the frozen Midwest whenever a car, person, or snowmobile plunged through the ice.

“You think they can find the kidnapper?” Afton asked. “Pull him out?”

“If it even was the kidnapper,” Thacker snapped as he came over to join them. He was hopping up and down, stomping his feet against the relentless cold. “For all we know, this snowmobile guy could've been a phony who was hell-bent on collecting the ransom money.”

“He'd have to have some pretty decent inside information,” Afton said.

Thacker grimaced as a TV van humped its way toward them. “It happens.”

“Maybe this guy was just the errand boy,” Max said. “Hired by the kidnapper.”

“If that's the case, he's a bad luck errand boy,” Afton said. “Because now all that money's at the bottom of the Mississippi.” She wondered what two million dollars of waterlogged money looked like.

“This has been bad luck all around,” Thacker said. He glanced over at Richard Darden, who'd since been retrieved from the woods. Darden sat shivering on the back end of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His head was bowed and he was weeping while one of the EMTs, a young African-American man with soulful eyes, tried to comfort him.

*   *   *

FINALLY,
there was nothing left to do but regroup. Which was how Afton found herself sitting in Mickey's Diner in downtown Saint Paul, guzzling hot coffee with Max, Deputy Chief Gerald Thacker, Don Jasper, Harvey Bagin, and Andy Farmer.

“Nothing to show for tonight but a damn hole in the ice,” Thacker said. His hair was plastered flat against his head from wearing a stocking cap and he looked beyond haggard. He seemed to be taking tonight's failure personally.

“Maybe the divers will have better luck in the morning?” Jasper asked.

“Maybe,” Max said. “But it's going to be treacherous as hell. There's an even bigger storm rolling in.”

“Does it ever stop snowing here?” Jasper asked. “In Chicago we get wind off Lake Michigan and a couple weeks of below-zero temperatures. But this much snow . . . it's almost apocalyptic. I mean, what's next? Frogs and locusts?”

“This year's snowfall is unusually heavy,” Afton told him.

“That so?” He looked like he wanted to believe her.

“No. It's always like this,” she said.

A faint smile creased Jasper's face. “You were just trying to make me feel better, is that it?”

“Did it work?” Afton asked. She liked this rangy FBI agent who was able to maintain his cool as well as his sense of humor.

“No,” Thacker said in a tone that indicated their banter wasn't one bit welcome at the table.

Afton cleared her throat. “What happened with Darden?”

“Ambulance took him to Regions Hospital,” Thacker said. “They thought he might be suffering from hypothermia.” He placed his hands flat on the table and then pushed himself up. “Okay, everybody. Party's over. Go home and get some shut-eye. We start again first thing tomorrow.” He pulled out his cell phone, scowled at it, and shuffled off to make another call.

“We're in limbo,” Jasper said. “Still haven't located the dead snowmobiler's vehicle. Maybe when we fish him out, we can get a positive ID and work from there.”

“Might have to thaw him out first,” Bagin said.

“Hopefully the current hasn't carried his body all the way down to Hastings,” Max said.

“If that's the case, there won't be a lot to go on,” Jasper said.

Afton set her coffee cup down with a loud
clink.
“Then we start over, just like Thacker said. We go back to square one, review the case files, and try to get a fresh perspective.”

Jasper, looking slightly bemused by her tenacity, hooked a thumb in Afton's direction. “Is she always such a pit bull?”

Max shook his head. “You have no idea.”

M
ARJORIE
was finishing a bowl of Grape Nuts Flakes when the newsflash came across the morning show. She'd been watching
Wake Up with
Terri and Tony,
which aired early each Saturday morning on Channel 7. Terri was showing Tony how to make a graham cracker piecrust, laughing her fake TV personality laugh and making a big show of slapping his hand whenever he did something wrong. Which was, of course, fake TV bumbling.

When the anchorman's face came on, Marjorie stood up and walked to the sink to rinse out her bowl. She turned on the faucet, tuning out the anchorman and the stupid, screaming red graphics that whirled about his head. But when the anchorman uttered the fateful words
Darden baby
and
bungled ransom
, her world suddenly tilted on its axis.

What?

The words crashed inside Marjorie's brain like a freight train careening off its tracks. She spun around and rushed to the TV. Frantically jacked up the sound.

She watched in horror as the anchorman, who cautioned viewers that this was, as yet, an unconfirmed report, laid out all the dirty details. He explained about the ransom call that had been received by Richard Darden, the mysterious directions that had led him to the Wabasha Street Caves,
the bungled ransom, and how the kidnapper's snowmobile had plunged through thin ice. He closed his report by noting that the drowned man, whose body had just been recovered some forty minutes ago, was suspected to be that of Lars Torbert, a prominent Saint Paul attorney.

Marjorie's jaw dropped.

Ransom demand? Wabasha Street Caves? Saint Paul attorney?

None of that had remotely figured into her plan. So what the hell had just happened?

As her cold, reptilian brain strained to process this bizarre information, the realization of what had probably happened began to fall into place. And finally, the answer lit up like a cool blue neon beer sign hanging in the front window of a bar.

That asshole Torbert had rolled the dice and tried to pull an end run on her. He'd attempted to negotiate a phony exchange that would net him a big fat pile of money. Only it had worked out badly for him. And now he was dead, drowned like the filthy weasel he was, probably laid out on a cold slab in the Saint Paul morgue.

Marjorie walked into her doll studio and sat down so hard she practically jounced the fillings in her teeth loose. She needed to focus. She needed to think. Most important, she needed to weigh her
options.

She picked up a Krissy doll and sat there stroking its silky blond hair. Studied its little girl lips, idly decided that they should be bolder, maybe even give them a Hollywood pout.

Marjorie figured she had twenty-four hours at best before the net would begin to settle around her.

If the police tore through that scumbag Torbert's records, and surely they would, then sooner or later they were bound to find something—paperwork, phone records, whatever—that linked him to her.

That would be a disaster of epic proportions.

Of course, having that little hot potato asleep in the crib upstairs was fairly incriminating as well. Something would have to be done. New plans would have to be put in place. And fast.

Marjorie picked up a pair of scissors and started trimming the doll's
hair. She snipped methodically at the long, flowing tresses, turning them into a shoulder-length bob. As her mood darkened, her anger and frustration grew, until it seemed to encompass her like a black, amorphous blob. She snipped away more hair. The doll's bob was becoming a pixie cut.

The police will be coming
, she told herself.
And when they do, they're not going to show one lick of mercy. All they'll care about is what happened with the Darden baby and the Pink woman.

She hacked aggressively at the doll's hair, making one side spikey and stubbly.

I'll be sent to prison. For life. I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen.

Marjorie threw down the scissors and watched them skitter across her worktable. Exhaling heavily, she bent sideways and slid open the bottom drawer of a metal filing cabinet. Pulled out a gun.

Better to settle this now, on my own terms.

She leaned back and caressed the dull metal of the gun. Thought about how easy it would be to shoot Shake and Ronnie. They were stupid and docile, like cows. They'd never see it coming, never think to defend themselves. She could pack up her good dolls and just get the hell away from here.

Maybe, just maybe, she could bundle up the two babies and take them along. She could dump them on the black market somewhere, maybe in Kansas City or Saint Louis. Someplace like that. She knew a few people. She'd been dabbling in this business long enough.

Kill them and then I'll drive down to . . .

Marjorie gazed out the window. Pulled herself out of her mad fantasy long enough to see that there was a winter storm raging outside. Icy crystals of snow
tick-ticked
at the window like ragged fingernails. She saw that the snow had drifted up and over the cars in the driveway, turning them into soft, white humps. With this much snow, the roads would be damn near impassible. Hell, their driveway was completely drifted in. Still . . . if she couldn't get out, then the police couldn't get in. That brought her some small degree of comfort.

I'll have to wait.
But probably no more than ten or twelve hours. Don't want to push my luck any more than I have to.

As soon as the snow eased up, she'd call Ort Peterman, the farmer who was their nearest neighbor. He was a big old Norski who owned a big old snow cat. He'd come over and plow her out if she asked. Have to pay him forty bucks, but what the hell. It was a small price to pay for her freedom.

That was it then. That was her plan. Shoot and scoot. Marjorie's snarling expression turned into a grin as she began to hum tunelessly.

And make plans. Lots of plans.

Lately, she'd been nursing a secret fantasy. Make some kind of big score and then get the hell out of Dodge. Move somewhere where she could rent a little apartment and go on disability. Get that monthly mailbox handout. She'd seen an episode on
60 Minutes
about how, down in Kentucky, everyone and his brother-in-law was on disability. If those stupid hillbillies could work a decent con, why couldn't she? She was ten times smarter than they were. Besides, if she ever wanted to go back into business, there were probably plenty of dumb hillbilly girls with unwanted hillbilly babies.

S
USAN
Darden was the last person Afton and Max expected to see this Saturday morning as they huddled at Max's desk. But here she was, pulling off a knit stocking cap, looking anguished and expectant.

“I just came from Regions Hospital,” Susan told them. “Checking on Richard.” After Darden had been transported to Regions Hospital, he'd been treated for overexposure and kept overnight. Some sedation had been involved, too.

“How's he doing?” Afton asked.

“Not too many ill effects,” Susan said. “Aside from the fact that he's angry and bitter about what happened. And upset about the money.” She glanced around the Robbery and Homicide squad room. “The doctors say he can be released later today.”

“His actions were very brave last night,” Max said.

Susan gave a shrug. “Redemption.”

“Really?” Afton asked. She wondered if something like this could bring the two of them back together. Tragedies sometimes became the binding tie, the shared emotion, that pulled families back from the brink of separation. Of course, she would never take a scumbag like Richard back, but Susan might.

“No, not really,” Susan said. “Nothing's changed between us. I'm still going to file for divorce. But it's nice to know that Richard finally grew a pair of balls.”

“Huh,” Max said.

Susan swallowed hard and seemed to fight for control of her emotions. “What I really came here for, what I really want to know, is do you still think we have a chance?”

“If we didn't believe that, we wouldn't be here,” Max said. “We wouldn't still have an entire team working overtime to find your baby.”

Susan touched a hand to her chest. “Thank you. I guess I needed to hear that directly from you.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I really do believe that my baby is alive and is coming back to me. I
have
to believe that.”

“We're doing everything we can,” Afton said. It was the first time she'd given her assurance to Susan when she didn't believe it one hundred percent.

*   *   *

AFTON
and Max were halfway through their notes, everything spread out around them on the conference room table, when Thacker careened into the room. He was wearing khaki slacks and a maroon-and-gold University of Minnesota hoodie. It was the first time Afton had ever seen him in casual attire. She thought he looked decidedly untucked.

“Divers just recovered the snowmobiler's body along with the duffel bag of money,” Thacker told them, sounding a little breathless. “Pulled out the whole damn sled, too.”

“Holy shit,” Max said. “Do we know who the guy is?”

“Was it a woman?” Afton asked.

“Not a woman,” Thacker said. “That's the weird thing. Saint Paul just ID'd him and it turns out the guy's a lawyer.”

Afton was confused. “Wait a minute, you mean Darden's lawyer? Slocum?”

“No, no. Oh, hell no,” Thacker said. “This guy's ID says his name is Lars Torbert.”

“Who's Lars Torbert?” Max asked. “I never heard of him. Wait, you said he's a lawyer?”

“Lawyer from Saint Paul,” Thacker said. “A firm by the name of Scanlon and Torbert.”

“No shit,” Max said. “So what's his connection to the kidnapping?”

“We don't know,” Thacker said. “The FBI is at Torbert's office right now. They're pulling it apart, top to bottom, trying to see if they can figure this thing out.”

“Torbert has a partner?” Afton asked. “What was the other name you mentioned? Scanlon?”

“Right,” Thacker said. “A woman. She's in custody right now. Over in Saint Paul. But she's not talking.”

A woman
, Afton thought.
Could it be the doll show woman?

“Do you think this Scanlon knows anything?” Afton asked.

“Possibly,” Thacker said. “But it's hard to say. She's not talking and she's asked for a lawyer.”

“A double layer of lawyers,” Max said. “Are you going to charge this woman with anything?”

“Yes, but it probably won't stick for very long unless the FBI uncovers a shitload of evidence.”

“Still, you've got her for the time being,” Max said. “Maybe she'll crack. Maybe we'll get some sort of confession.”

“And maybe a bunch of daffodils will pop out of my ass,” Thacker said, looking glum. “Hell, we don't even know if this Torbert had anything to do with the kidnapping or if he was just the negotiator.”

“I wouldn't exactly call that negotiating,” Afton said. “Grab the money and then try to punk Darden with a fake baby?”

“I say nail his ass,” Max said.

“Except that he's dead,” Thacker said.

*   *   *

I
hate to say this,” Afton said once Thacker had left, “but Torbert probably got what he deserved.”

“Karmic justice,” Max said. “In light of the slimeball move he pulled last night.”

“The problem being, if the female partner wasn't involved, then we're back to square one.”

“We're back to square one anyway.”

Afton was studying the FBI's interview with Jilly Hudson when the phone rang. It was Dr. Healy, the director of the Medical Examiner's Office over in Hudson.

“Dr. Healy,” Max said. “How's your brother-in-law?”

Afton stopped what she was doing to listen in.

Max listened for a moment and then said, “Good. Glad to hear he's doing so well. So what's up? You found something on the body?” He listened for a few more moments. “Uh-huh. Okay.” He made a few quick notes and then thanked Healy.

“What?” Afton asked, once Max had hung up.

“Dr. Healy says they ran a number of tests on Muriel Pink using a mass spectrometer and have some preliminary results.”

“Can he send them over to us?”

“He's e-mailing everything right now,” Max said. “Grab my laptop and open the e-mail. It's probably being dumped into my in-box right now.”

It was.

“Okay, this is interesting,” Afton said as she scanned Dr. Healy's report. “They found tiny flakes of paint on Muriel Pink's body.”

“Paint,” Max said.

“Ho, wait a minute,” Afton continued. “It also says that crystals of oxalic acid showed up.”

“Same as the baby from Cannon Falls.”

“What the hell?” Afton was mystified. “When I asked if there might be a connection, I was pretty much grasping at straws. But this . . . this almost confirms it.”

“Not exactly,” Max said. “We still don't know what this oxalic acid shit is used for. It could be a component in some common household product.”

“Okay. Let me Google it.”

Afton hunted around for a few minutes. “Well, crap. It says here there are all sorts of industrial uses.”

“There you go.”

“One of them is for pickling.”

“Pickling what?” Max asked. “Pickling pickles?”

“I don't know,” Afton said. “I'm still reading this shit.” She mumbled to herself as she skimmed along. “Okay, here's something else. It also says that oxalic acid is used in taxidermy.”

“Taxidermy?” Max said.

“For pickling and tanning hides. To stop bacterial growth and degrade the soluble proteins.”

Max frowned. “No shit.”

But Afton's brain had begun to spin. “Think about this,” she said, starting to get excited. “If you look at this as a kind of hobby activity, taxidermy might not be all that different from creating reborn dolls. You're working with stuffing material, glass eyes, and animal hairs and fibers.”

“Holy crap,” Max said. “We gotta take this to Thacker.”

*   *   *

THACKER
was impressed. So was Don Jasper.

“We need to start looking at taxidermists,” Jasper said, jumping on the information.

“We can make some calls,” Max said. “Maybe go out and start canvassing, talking to area taxidermists.”

“No, no, you two stick around,” Thacker said. “Let the FBI take care of all that. They're the computer geniuses. They can run down a list of area taxidermists, start asking questions, and alert the various law enforcement agencies around the state. Maybe bring in the DNR people, too, since it could involve animal parts.”

“This is good work,” Jasper said. “This is actionable information.”

*   *   *

BUT
there wasn't nearly enough action for Afton and Max.

“The thing is,” Afton said, “if this
is
somehow connected to taxidermy, it could be a taxidermist over in Wisconsin.”

“So we alert Wisconsin taxidermists as well as state law enforcement officials,” Max said.

Afton had continued her search on the Internet. “I found something else that's interesting.”

“What's that?” Max asked.

“There's a company over in Menominee, Wisconsin. Burdick's Taxidermy and Supply. Besides doing actual taxidermy, they claim to be the Midwest's largest distributor of taxidermy supplies.”

Menominee's just thirty minutes from Hudson,” Max said.

“That's what I'm thinking, too. Hudson's become a sort of . . . what would you call it? A chokepoint for us.”

“Problem. There are three inches of fresh snow on the roads and the National Weather Service is predicting seven more.”

“So?” Afton said. “We'll take the Navigator.”