I roll my eyes at Cal who has joined me even though Joey could have easily done the job.
Andrea didn’t see or hear anything. According to the file, neither did any of the neighbors. We ask the distraught mother about the white male thirty-something and the dark-haired teenager, but none of them ring a bell for her.
It’s daunting to see all these desperate parents, day after day, and telling Rachel and Chrissie we still have no idea as to Rosie’s whereabouts. They might guess which is bad enough, but we know the gruesome statistics. The longer a child is missing without ransom, the less likely the chance that they’re still alive. If they are…We’re back to the worst case scenarios.
“Is there anyone you can think of, a boyfriend, a relative who could have done this?”
Alicia Johnson gives Cal a sharp look. “Don’t try to wrap this in polite speech, Agent, I’ve heard all these insinuations before. The truth is I work two jobs, sometimes three, to keep this show running. I don’t have the time or the energy for a boyfriend. I was an only child, and I have no family except for a cousin living in England.”
I see Andrea biting her lip before she gets up and leaves the room.
Alicia follows her with her gaze, shaking her head sadly. “I keep telling her she’s not to blame for what happened, but I don’t know if she believes me.”
“What about the kids’ father?”
“Fathers,” she says. “You may judge me now. Neither of them took an interest in Andy or Kevin. I have no reason to assume anything has changed.”
Her words echo on my mind, reminding me of the anonymous calls the Gales talked about. Rachel and Chrissie got into an online dispute. If the kidnappings are connected, and that’s still a big “if”, what’s the deal of that person, or group? Pedophiles or traffickers usually don’t give a damn about the real or perceived moral code of their victim’s families.
I get up and excuse myself. The door to Andrea’s room is left ajar, and I knock on the white-painted wood. There’s no answer. I enter the room, but stay near the door to leave her space.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she mumbles. Andrea is sitting on the bed, knees drawn up to her chest. A quick look around reveals surroundings typical for her age, if somewhat more modest than at the Gales. There are some toys in a box in the corner, otherwise no sign of the boy.
“Kevin sleeps in your Mom’s room?” I ask. She nods, regarding me with suspicion, unsure as to where I’m going with this. Sadly, I’m not so sure myself.
“Okay. I’m sorry that we are bothering you again, but we want to do everything possible in order to find Kevin. You know that, right?”
“I guess,” she sighs.
“You told the police everything you know?”
Again, a nod.
“You like horses?” I ask with regard to the posters on the wall, and her face lights up. Thank God. I’m not great with kids, but I manage if I can find something to break the ice. In this case, it’s hard to overlook.
“My sister took some classes when she was your age.”
“I went a few times, but then I couldn’t anymore, because of Kevin.” I assume she’s talking about money, but there’s no time to process the idea as she starts to sob. I sit down beside her on the bed, laying a hand on her heaving shoulders.
“It’s okay to be sad. He’s your little brother.”
“I sometimes wished that we could go back to the way it was before,” she cries. “Now he’s gone. It’s all my fault.”
“Andrea, that’s not true.” Has she told the truth when she said she didn’t see the kidnapper? “The person who took Kevin is the only one to blame. My sister and I are only two years apart, but we did fight sometimes. When you have mean thoughts, it might make you feel bad, and for a reason, but they don’t do magic.”
Andrea gives me a long, considering look. “You arrest people?”
“Sometimes, but only if they’ve done something very bad, like the kidnapper. Thoughts don’t count.”
She looks from me to the posters to a framed photograph on the shelf. It shows her feeding carrots to a horse, smiling brightly.
“I did something bad,” she whispers.
Chapter Eight
Little Margaret is asleep, already dressed in bright yellow PJs with kittens on them when the Middletons arrive with her. They have a long journey behind them. The children they save from a living hell come from all over the country. Lloyd finalizes some paperwork with the couple while Joan, for the first time, tucks in their daughter. She stirs, murmuring something unintelligible, but doesn’t wake up.
Joan sits by the bed, touching Margaret’s soft cheek with her fingertips. In the dim gleam of the nightlight, she looks angelic. Joan has no doubt that she is indeed a miracle. Her daughter’s presence changes everything in a heartbeat. Her life has revolved around a concept, a dream that has now come true. Motherhood is no longer an idea. It’s real.
Lloyd joins her after he has seen the Middletons out with another check. Together they stare in wonder, teary-eyed. God has provided, just like they knew He would.
They are tempted to stay all night, but of course they have to be rested and awake in the morning to help Margaret adjust to her new life and family. Just thinking of their first breakfast as a family makes her cry again. Those are the happiest tears Joan has ever cried in her life.
She checks on the baby monitor they’ve installed. In spite of all the tension and excitement, Joan falls asleep easily. It’s as if for the first time in years, she can relax. For the first time in forever, things are right.
She’s up before sunrise, saying a prayer in gratitude as she’s setting the table so everything is ready once Margaret wakes up. Joan can’t wait to see how she’s going to react to all the new toys. They might have gone a bit overboard, but who can blame them? They were forced to miss the first two years of their daughter’s life. Joan and Lloyd have every intention to make up for it. The Middletons haven’t given them too many details on Margaret’s ordeal. They said it’s better that way, not to let preconceived notions influence them. Middleton has this huge family institute, with classes for couples and families, children’s Bible classes, research…He appears to be knowledgeable. Joan has no reason to doubt his judgment.
Finally, there are sounds from the baby monitor, and she hurries up to Margaret’s room to see her wearily rub her eyes, blinking.
“Mama?” she asks, clutching the little plush dog to her.
Joan smiles, relieved beyond all measures. Yes, I’m your Mama.
“No, Mama!” the girl insists, throwing the dog across the room. The Middletons have warned her that the transition might not go smoothly. Children are attached to their primary caretakers, even when they don’t take good care of them.
Joan straightens her shoulders. It would have been too easy anyway—on to Plan B.
“I’m sorry, honey, she can’t be here right now. I’m sorry.” Margaret refuses to let herself be embraced at first, but then she gives in, lets Joan rock her. “We’ll figure it all out, I promise,” she says softly. “Let’s get you dressed and ready for breakfast first, and after you can play with all your new toys.”
Little Margaret doesn’t care much for the shiny new dress, or taking a bath, for that matter. Joan tells herself that all of this is normal. Even though she looks healthy, and there are no obvious signs of abuse, Margaret has had a difficult first two years. She might still miss her familiar surroundings, but that will change soon. Her new parents have so much love to give, and she will appreciate it, love them back. In the meantime, Joan won’t mind tantrums and a messy bathroom, as long as it takes.
The smell of pancakes from the kitchen entices them both. While Joan was getting her introduction to parenting, Marta, their housekeeper, has arrived. Joan takes the plate from her and cuts Margaret’s pancake into small squares.
There’s a tentative smile the girl’s face as she has a first taste. It’s only the first day. Eventually, she’ll t
alk to Marta about healthier solutions, but today all bets are off. If Margaret wants that whole jar of Nutella, she gets it. Lloyd joins them in the dining room, and there it is, the family scene they have always dreamed of.
They have earned it, and so has Margaret.
* * * *
Andrea had left the apartment for about twenty minutes, a secret that has plagued her since the day that her little brother has disappeared. She met with a woman named Chloe whom she and her mother had lived with three years ago.
Chloe was Alicia’s lover.
That’s strike three.
They broke up a while ago, have very little contact these days. Chloe moved away, but she had called a few days ago when Alicia had been at work.
“You never want me to talk to her,” Andrea defends herself.
Twenty minutes is more than enough time to snatch a child, but whoever had done it, didn’t to break into the apartment: they came with a key. I wonder if every family has a new detail to offer to this investigation, feeling slightly hopeful about the development. If there’s a self-righteous jerk out there who thinks children shouldn’t grow up with same-sex or single parents, they wouldn’t harm those children to prove their point, would they? That’s, of course, wishful thinking. The delusion of some people knows no limits, and “values” sometimes is nothing but an empty word.
“We need to talk to Chloe,” I tell mother and daughter.
“She won’t get into trouble?” Andrea asks anxiously. “She didn’t know that Kevin was all alone.”
“God, how could this happen?” Alicia covers her face with her hands as if to block out the world best she can. “I never wanted to go back to that phase of my life again. We talked every now and then, but only as friends. I haven’t seen her in years.”
There’s a pregnant pause as Cal and I share a look. Alicia shakes her head.
“No way! So, yes, we had a messy break-up, but she’d never do anything like that.”
“Does she have a key to your apartment?”
“No!”
“Okay,” Cal says, “There’s no reason to jump to conclusions. If Andrea met her just around the corner, then Chloe might have seen the kidnapper. We want to ask her to make sure. Do you have an address, a phone number?”
“I’ll—I’ll get it for you.” She walks across the room to the desk, her hesitation obvious. Alicia returns with the information written on a sheet of paper. “If you must know, here’s one mistake I do regret. Our friendship was never the same again, and Andrea…she got her hopes too high that we could be like any normal family.”
Cal doesn’t comment, his expression impassive, while I cringe at her choice of words. “Phase”, “one mistake I do regret”, “normal”. Not every clueless comment stems from pure evil, but they can be dangerous just the same, cementing a false impression. It’s not like Chrissie and I had long conversations on the subject, but I learned a few things growing up with her, observing her long-term relationship with Rachel.
Then again, I’m not here to teach Alicia Johnson political correctness. Is her son’s disappearance connected to Rosie’s, or is in this case, the ex-lover involved somehow?
We have more families to visit.
* * * *
The straight married couple seems to be a dead end as to this investigation. Mr. and Mrs. Tyler are upfront telling us about the couple’s counseling they had two years ago.
“It’s all right now,” she tells us, smiling sadly. “We were determined to make it work, because divorce is against our faith, and then we were blessed with a baby—”
She breaks down crying.
I feel like the past few days left me jaded, or maybe I’m so exhausted I can’t spare any emotional reaction?
We leave soon, both of us in need of some sustenance, neither of us ready to face the people who are waiting for us. Georgia. Chrissie and Rachel. We retreat to my apartment, ordering in Thai food. We haven’t given up yet. There’s still a considerable number of us on the case, and I’ll make sure it stays that way.
“What’s your theory?” I ask, sitting beside Cal on the sofa. “Couple’s counseling, marital problems, is it enough to guess one of them has been hitting the gay clubs?”
“It’s not enough to get a warrant for the counselor’s files, that is for sure.”
“Maybe we should have leaned on them a little harder.”
“Yeah,” Cal says. “A lawsuit from a good Christian family is just what I need.”
I used to love his dry humor, but I can’t wrap my mind around it now. Even a hasty meal makes me think we’re sitting around, wasting time. The Feds have their profilers and all, and there’s a reason why they have pointed out the recent increase in missing children, these families in particular. My instinct tells me that there’s something we don’t see, something that is right in front of us. “Can you take me to the station with you? I’d like to go over those files again.”
“You and I and every cop on the case have been over the files a million times. What could you possibly find tonight?”
“We didn’t know about the teenage girl. We come back to these families, and they all of a sudden realize they forgot to mention an important detail.”
“Not really. The Gales were told that the teenage girl wasn’t important. Johnson didn’t tell about her ex because no one asked her in the first place.”
“Doesn’t matter. I need to—”
“Sleep?”
“Later.”
Cal sends a longing look to the bottle of wine, still unopened, that I put on the table earlier.
“Okay then, but let’s check up on your sister.”
I know that it’s what I have to do. I wish we’d have anything to tell her.
Chapter Nine
Chrissie quickly snatches the piece of paper from the table and hides it in the pocket of her jeans as Ann and her friend from the FBI, Special Agent Calvin Davis, walk into the living room. She can tell from their posture nothing has changed, so she wills her heart to go back to a normal pace. Rachel, seeing that the table is empty, gives her a small smile behind their guests’ backs. This will be their little secret, as long as they’ll be able to keep it, anyway, until network television news airs the segment.
They’ve shown Rosie’s picture on TV already. Seeing it breaks Chrissie’s heart every time, but she prefers the pain to the apathy that’s threatening to encroach on her. Not today though. Rachel’s Dad has so far complied with Davis’ wish not to make a statement in front of a camera. That doesn’t mean the same goes for Rachel or Chrissie. It’s their child that is missing, whose chances are diminishing with every minute, every hour passing by.
The reporter knocked on their door, and they had both gone to answer it, to give her a piece of their not so friendly mind.
“Yell at me, please, go ahead,” the woman had said. “Could I use the bathroom first? It’s a female emergency.” She stayed for a coffee, and they talked.
Chrissie forces a smile for Ann’s sake, wondering what she would say about the agreement she and Rachel have made with the local TV station. With the camera running, they’re going to ask the kidnapper to give their baby back. They’re not above begging at this point, whatever works.
Ann seems to have found new resolve as well. Chrissie is surprised to learn she and Davis will go back to headquarters.
“We got this,” Ann says, determined, before she hugs Chrissie close. She has probably no idea how important it is for Chrissie to hear these words from her. They argue, they disagree, they always have. Their lives are completely different, and yet there’s one thing she knows for sure—Ann is good at her job, and she cares about family. That’s just about all that matters.
Of course, in reality, Chrissie doesn’t know much about Ann’s day job and is mostly afraid to ask, but the fact that she is so often called to work with FBI run task forces, speaks for itself.
When they are by themselves again, Rachel simply walks over to her and wraps her arms aro
und Chrissie, holding on tight. Closeness these days has nothing to do with pleasure. It’s a form of survival.
“Are we doing the right thing?” Rachel asks.
“It’s not like in the movies. They already know we informed the police. There are the volunteers. It’s the only thing that’s left to do for us—other than sit and wait.”
Exhausted from crying and hopelessness, Chrissie fears she’s going to slide into a dark lonely pit, where no one can reach her anymore. She’s got some fight left in her before that happens. For Rosie’s sake, they’re going to step up, talk about forgiveness and sacrifice, appeal to the person who has their child.
It will be up to Ann to kick that person’s ass. Chrissie hopes it will be literally.
* * * *
I’ve been reading over the same words many times. They are starting to blur. Last night, I slept between three and four hours, something of a record since the day Rosie disappeared. I read other cops’ reports, barely touching on the idea that there could be a hate crime behind all of this. They look for other routes, known pedophiles in the area or close, recently released offenders. The picture is depressing either way. I’ve met some religious fanatics in my time at Major Crimes. They would target adults, with a sick twisted idea of faith, harassment, and sometimes baseball bats, which is bad enough. In the cases like that of Alicia Johnson and Donna Clarks, the other single mom, custody wars are not unusual, but those leads have been followed. They led nowhere.
Is there some cult operating under the radar? I can’t believe that the FBI wouldn’t be aware, unless Cal isn’t telling me the whole story.
He appears out of nowhere, placing a Toffee Nut Latte in front of me.
It isn’t until then that I realize that it has gotten dark outside, and most of the desks around mine are empty. I inhale the sweet aroma, feeling beyond grateful.
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