by Mary Burton
She stared sightlessly at the television as one of the sisters drank and another painted her nails. “Back in the day they’d never have allowed this kind of show on the air. And now here they are and I’m grumbling about them even though I don’t miss a show.”
The detectives nodded, neither speaking.
Mrs. Higgins reached for a small scrapbook on the side table and opened it. She studied the images. “I dug this out when I saw the news the other day. I’ve been looking at the pictures over and over ever since. Wasn’t sure if my mind was playing tricks and, at first, I didn’t think I should call the police. Then I realized I had to call, even if I was wrong.” She looked at Rick with a watery gaze. “It’s been twenty-six years since I saw my baby girl Heather. The last time I held her hand, her fingers were sticky from a candy cane.”
“May I see the pictures?” Rick asked.
Arthritic hands held the scrapbook another moment and then handed it to Rick. His gaze and Bishop’s dropped to the picture of the smiling infant.
The infant was no more than three months and it was hard to tell if this was their Jane Doe. He turned a page and saw a picture of a slightly older baby. Still not easy to tell. He feared Mrs. Higgins’s images of her granddaughter were not going to help until he turned the next page and saw a picture of a four-year-old. She was standing on a stoop and smiling into the camera. She wore a pink dress.
Bishop hissed in a breath as if he’d just sunk the eight ball in the side pocket.
The same rush of a win washed over Rick. This was their Lost Girl. “You said her name was Heather. What was her last name?”
“Briggs. Her mamma, my daughter, married a guy; at least they said they was married. I never liked him but she couldn’t say no to him.”
“When was the last time you saw Heather?” She’d already told him but he wanted her to repeat the information.
“Twenty-six years ago. She spent the night with me and then her mamma came to pick her up and I never saw her again.”
“Her mother’s name?”
“Loyola. Loyola Briggs.”
He kept his voice even and as relaxed as he could manage. “We didn’t have a missing persons report for a Heather Briggs.”
She shook her head. “When I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks I asked Loyola. She said she gave the girl away. An adoption. Said it was best for everyone.”
“And you didn’t question her?” Bishop asked, his tone as rough as sandpaper.
“I was sorry I’d never see the child again, but I was glad for Heather. Loyola and Danny weren’t no kind of parents. And Heather deserved better.”
Rick scribbled down the name Danny. “Danny Briggs?”
“Yeah.”
Rick jotted the name down as well. “Did your daughter tell you about the family who adopted the child?”
The old woman shook her head slowly, as if overwhelmed by old memories roaring to life. “I asked. And she just said they was real nice and that Heather was better off.”
But Rick strongly suspected that Heather had not been adopted. No doubt by the time Loyola had spun her story the child was dead. “Where is Loyola now?”
“Works at a gas station off of I-40. I ain’t seen her in years, though I hear she still lives in East Nashville.” She rattled off an address. “Without Heather there wasn’t much reason for me to see her. I didn’t like her much.”
“And Danny?”
“Danny Briggs was in prison last I heard.”
Rick pulled out his phone and snapped pictures of the little girl.
The old woman clutched the light blue fabric of her well-worn housecoat with knotted fingers. “Do you think that girl on the TV is really Heather? They look alike but that don’t mean they’re the same.” Under the words was a silent plea. Please tell me I’m wrong.
Rick shook his head. “Ma’am, we won’t know for sure until we run a DNA test.”
“So, there’s a chance?” She released the fabric, taking care to smooth out the wrinkles.
Rick couldn’t confirm what his gut was telling him—they’d found their Jane Doe. “Ma’am, your Heather looks a lot like our sketch.”
She leaned forward as if her worst fears poked her in the back. “But you don’t know for sure?”
As he stared at the blue eyes that looked so much like the ones Jenna had fashioned he knew they had their child. Now he needed to track down Loyola and Danny and find out what happened to Heather. “Ma’am, it’ll take DNA tests to prove one way or another. Would you be willing to give a DNA sample?”
“Sure. I’ll give you whatever you need.”
“Good, that will help.”
“What about Loyola? You going to test her?”
“Yes, ma’am. And Danny Briggs, when we find him.” Tears glistened in old eyes. Frown lines around her mouth deepened. “So you’ll know for sure?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When?”
“I promise to call as soon as the DNA tests are run.”
She slumped back in her chair, as all the hope leaked from her body in one breath. “So right now you don’t know nothing for sure and my baby Heather might have found a new home.”
Feeling the tension snapping through Bishop’s body, Rick refused to let anger derail him. “Anything is possible.”
She looked at him, her old, watery gaze desperate for hope.
“Ma’am, is there anyone that can stay with you?” Rick asked.
“There’s a neighbor.”
“Let me call the neighbor for you.” He couldn’t leave her alone now. “I need a number.”
She finally rattled off a number and Rick called a neighbor. Once he explained the situation, the neighbor agreed to come sit with Mrs. Higgins.
Both Rick and Bishop were anxious to talk to Loyola Briggs after leaving Ester’s house. Back in his car Rick did a computer search of Loyola Briggs and quickly found a list of minor arrests for drugs and prostitution. Age forty-two, she listed her home address as an apartment on the east side. While Bishop stood by his car, he searched Danny Briggs. “Danny-boy was released from prison two months ago.”
“Why was he in prison?”
“Drugs. Assault. Five to ten years for possession.”
Bishop fingered the pinky ring on his right hand. “Hope he doesn’t get too used to being a free man.”
“We’ll do the DNA but I’d bet my last paycheck we’ve found the Lost Girl.”
“No way it could be anyone else. No freaking way.”
Rick and Bishop drove to the East Nashville apartment building about an hour before midnight. The parking lot was full of cars and a dozen-plus people milled around. The building’s white siding had faded to gray, the few patches of grass had dried to a light brittle brown and the sidewalk leading to the building entrance was cracked and covered in graffiti.
“I did my share of drug busts here,” Bishop said as he got out of his car.
“Me too. Last assignment I had here was a prostitution ring. We made twelve arrests that night. Looks like most are back here working again.”
“Same shit, different day.”
“Yeah.” Rick glanced at his screen to double-check the apartment number. “She’s in number six.”
“I can’t wait to meet Loyola.” There was an anger bubbling inside him as he imagined the tiny skull that Jenna had given a smiling face.
A hard knock on the door got him no response. “Let’s find out where she is.”
It took another fifteen minutes to track down the manager, who supplied the detectives with a work address. Sure enough, they found her at a truck stop off I-40.
The parking lot of the truck stop was full with big rigs and a few pickup trucks. A large neon sign above the building flashed WHITES.
Bells jangled overhead as they moved through the front door to a cashier stand where a tall redhead stood. The noise of conversation mingled with plates clattering and a country-western song blaring on the jukebox.
The red
head eyed the two detectives with suspicion as if she knew they were cops and cops meant trouble. She snapped her gum. “Who do you want?”
“Loyola Briggs.”
She chewed, her gum snapped again. “She’s in trouble again?”
“Not right now. We got a few questions for her.”
“Always starts with a few questions.” The woman arched a brow. “Right. Kitchen. Through those doors.”
The detectives passed by tables full of haggard, bearded drivers, hunched over greasy food and thick, black coffee. Through double doors they were greeted by the smells of frying chicken and biscuits.
When the doors whooshed closed behind them the cooks, dressed in greasy white uniforms, glanced over. One tall man covered in tattoos narrowed his gaze and tightened the grip on his carving knife. Another stiffened and looked toward an exit.
Rick held up his badge. “Looking for Loyola Briggs.”
Several of the men relaxed. One nodded toward the back just as an unseen door in the rear of the kitchen slammed open and shut. Both officers hurried through the kitchen and drew their guns as they pushed through the back door. Once outside, they found themselves facing the back parking lot and a row of dumpsters. A lightbulb spit out light, casting a weak halo around the door. For a moment, there was no sign of anyone and both stopped and listened.
“She can’t be far,” Rick said.
Bishop nodded toward the second green dumpster. “There.”
They split up and moved toward it. As Rick came around the left side, he spotted the woman’s outline in the shadows. He leveled his gun. “Police. Come out where I can see you with your hands up.”
The shadowed figure whirled around, but he still couldn’t see her face. She hesitated. He tensed, aiming his gun, not knowing if she was armed.
“Out now!” Bishop said. He’d come around the other side of the dumpster. “Move toward the other officer.”
The shadow shifted and then slowly moved toward Rick. She stepped into a ring of light. Dirty-blond hair in a layered cut framed a thin, pale face. A drug addict’s wild eyes, as sunken as a hollowed-out skull, stared out at him.
Bishop came up behind her and as he holstered his gun he took her right hand in his and clamped a handcuff on it. He locked the other hand in the cuff.
“I ain’t done nothing wrong!” she wailed. “I ain’t done nothing.”
“Are you Loyola Briggs?” Rick asked.
“Yeah. But I ain’t done nothing wrong. Ask my parole officer. I make my meetings.”
Rick reached for his phone and pulled up the picture of Heather Briggs. “Is this your daughter?”
Loyola didn’t look at the photo. She sniffed and shook her head. “I ain’t got no children.”
“Your mother says you have a daughter named Heather.”
Loyola met his gaze. “I don’t have no kids.”
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday, August 23, 11:30 P.M.
Rick’s grip on the phone tightened. “According to your mother, Ester Higgins, you do have a child. Her name is Heather.”
Loyola stopped her struggles and for a moment stared at him as if he were a ghost from the past. “What?”
“Heather,” Bishop said. “Your daughter was Heather.”
The woman shook her head and dropped her gaze. “No.”
Rick gripped his temper. “Where’s Heather?”
She sniffed and kept her gaze on the ground. For a moment her gaze turned vacant as if she traveled backward in time. “I gave her away.”
“Gave her away?” Rick asked.
“Yeah.” She shrugged her shoulders. “To a good family. That was a long time ago. Is she looking for me? I’ve seen stories on the television, you know, where kids come and find their real families.”
He wondered how many times she’d told herself this story over the years. “You think she’s looking for you?”
“Sure. That’s what adopted kids do. Like I said, I seen it on those movie channels before.”
Bishop muttered a curse. “You didn’t give Heather away.”
“Yes, I did.” She raised her gaze staring at him with vacant eyes. “I did. To a good family.”
“Who did you give her to?” Rick asked.
“A good family. A really good family.”
“I need a name,” Rick insisted.
She shook her head. “I don’t remember the name.”
Bishop sighed. “You gave your child to a family and you don’t have a name?”
“That happens with adoptions. I think they’re called closed adoptions.”
Bishop growled. “This is a waste of time. Tell her.”
Rick shook his head. “Loyola, we’ve found the body of a child. A girl. And we think it’s Heather.” He scrolled through his phone and found Jenna’s sketch. “We think this is Heather.”
Loyola didn’t look at the image. “No. That’s not Heather.”
“You haven’t looked at it,” Rick said.
She folded her arms, as if donning armor. “I don’t need to.”
“Do me the favor of looking at the picture.” No missing the order behind the soft tone.
Loyola’s gaze flickered to the image, but didn’t focus on it. “That’s not her.”
With deliberate slowness, Rick turned off the image and tucked the phone in his breast pocket. “Know how we came up with this picture?”
Loyola sniffed and glanced toward her feet. “I don’t care.”
Bishop twisted his pinky ring. “You aren’t the least bit curious?”
“I’ve got to get back to work. Please take these handcuffs off.” She moved as if to leave but Rick stepped in her path, blocking her escape.
“We found a skull, Loyola. In the Centennial Park.” He didn’t say exactly where in the park because he wanted to hear that from her. “Skull was wrapped in a plastic bag. Didn’t take the medical examiner long to tell us the skull belonged to a five-year-old girl.” The desire to back this woman up against a wall and demand a confession was powerful. But he kept it in check. The medical examiner had pulled DNA from the skull’s teeth. “We’ll match that DNA to yours, which is on file.”
Loyola chewed her bottom lip. “I gave her away. She’s living a good life now. And I ain’t giving my DNA to nobody.”
Rick’s grip on his pen tightened as he clicked the end over and over. Click. Click. Click. “She was your daughter. And you can’t tell me who has her now?”
“They wouldn’t tell me who was gonna get her.”
“They? Who are they, Loyola?”
“I don’t remember.”
A smile tipped the edge of his mouth. Click. Click. Click. “No more stories. Let’s talk about the truth. Did you kill your daughter, Loyola?”
“I didn’t . . .” She hesitated. “I’d never hurt Heather. I loved her.”
“She’s dead. Someone killed this child. We found her body.”
She squeezed her eyes closed. “I wouldn’t . . . couldn’t. You’ve made a mistake. You didn’t find my Heather.”
“If you didn’t . . .” He leaned a fraction closer as if they were conspirators. “Then you know who did. Who did you give her to?” She might have given the child away or sold her to people who enjoyed hurting children. He’d seen it before and it never failed to sicken him.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not going to cut it, Loyola.” Again, Rick kept his voice nonthreatening. He didn’t like this woman but he needed her to talk. Not for himself. But for Heather.
“Let’s haul her ass to jail.” Bishop’s anger rumbled like a growl that all but radiated from his body.
Loyola shook her head. “I ain’t going to jail. One more strike and I go to prison.”
“Too damn bad,” Bishop said. “Nothing would make my day better than watching them slam the door on your pathetic face.”
Rick stepped in front of Bishop as if to protect Loyola. “I need you to talk, Loyola. I just need the truth. I don’t want to se
e you go to prison.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she shook her head. “I loved Heather.”
“I know you did,” he said softly. “Tell me what happened. When was the last time you saw her?”
The tears flowed as she seemed to claw through the years to dark memories.
“What was she doing the last time you saw her?” Rick asked.
Loyola swiped away a tear. “She was crying.”
“Why was she crying?” he asked softly.
Bishop paced behind Rick as if he were a caged animal. Loyola’s gaze flickered to him and then quickly settled on Rick as if she’d fled to a safe harbor. “I don’t remember.”
“Was she hurt?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “She must’ve been sad. She loved me and didn’t want to go to the new family.”
“Was she hurt?” he repeated, as he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t remember.”
“I think you do.”
“Danny was there,” she whispered.
Bishop stopped pacing but glared at Loyola as if to tell her the threat of jail remained.
“Danny was Heather’s father,” Rick said.
“Yes.”
“What happened?” Rick had to be careful here. He didn’t want to put ideas in her head about what had happened. He wanted all the facts to come from her.
She picked at her sleeve. “Nothing happened. Danny loved Heather.”
Rick’s anger simmered under the surface even as he kept his hand on her shoulder. He was careful to keep his fingers relaxed. He wanted her to think of him as a friend. Getting a pound of flesh right now wouldn’t help Heather. “What happened?”
She squeezed her eyes closed as if the scene played right before her. “Nothing happened.”
Bishop hissed in a breath, his anger as thick as the humidity soaking the night air. Both cops knew Danny Briggs’s rap sheet went back thirty years and was littered with violence and drugs.
Loyola kept her gaze on Rick as if he had become her sole lifeline.
“Where’d you see Heather crying?”
“In her bed. Danny said we needed to find her a new home. And I knew he was right. He took her to the new home.”
