by Wanda Dyson
Only Karen didn’t have anything to confess to. She had committed no crime. But someone had, and she wanted this detective to find her baby.
Now.
Instead, he continued walking through the house, eyeing pictures on the wall with an intensity that threatened to melt the photo-graphs. She wanted to scream at him to stop admiring Jessica’s pictures in the hallway and go find her! Didn’t he understand that every moment he wasted was another moment the kidnapper had to get farther away?
Wiping at the tears streaming down her face, she looked up at Ted. His hair was in wild disarray, his face pale, and his eyes rimmed with red.
“Ted?” she whispered, not realizing how raw her throat was until the word came out.
Her husband looked down at her from his perch on the arm of the sofa and squeezed her hand. “It’ll be okay, honey.”
“But they’re not even looking for our baby!” She was ready to stand and yell at the detective when he finally sauntered over, pinning her and Ted with that cool arrogance.
“Okay, let’s go over this again. You went to the nursery. . .”
Karen clenched her fists. “How many times do you have to hear this?” The detective narrowed his bottle-green eyes. A twitch developed in his cheek. “Someone broke into our house and stole my baby girl! Why aren’t you doing anything! Why are you all just standing around?”
Detective Johnson flipped open his notebook, clearly deciding to ignore her, and clicked open his pen. “Why don’t you tell me the events of last night? Was Jessica crying a lot? Maybe being a little too fussy?”
Suddenly Karen understood. “You think I did this? You actually think I would hurt my little Jess?”
Ted reached down, his hand patting her on the shoulder. “Honey, it’s just procedure.”
“No,” Karen stated emphatically. “I did not hurt our baby. Now, go find her.”
Detective Johnson sighed heavily and looked at Ted. “What time did you put the baby to bed? Was she crying? Teething, perhaps?”
“Stop it!” Karen rose to her feet, only to have Ted pull her back down.
“Calm down, Karen. They have to ask. Just answer their questions so they can get on with the investigation.” Ted held her close, wrapping strong, confident arms around her.
But Karen was too angry to be comforted. Her baby was gone and no one seemed to think this was a big deal. Even Ted was calm. And that only increased her frustration.
Pushing away Ted’s arms, Karen jumped to her feet. “Doesn’t anyone get it? Am I the only one here who seems to understand what’s happened?” Her voice continued to climb to a near-hysterical pitch. Ted reached for her, but she swatted his hand away. “My infant daughter is missing. Now, someone had better get out there and find her and bring her home to me safe and sound! Do your job!”
“Calm down, Mrs. Matthews. You’re not helping your daughter with all these hysterics.” Detective Johnson leaned back in the sofa chair, tapping his pen against his knee, one eyebrow lifted.
“If your child had been taken, what would you be doing?” she demanded angrily.
“I’d be cooperating with the police so they could find her. Or don’t you want us to find her?”
The question hit Karen like a fist in the face. She staggered back, lost her balance, and found herself sitting back on the sofa, Ted’s hand on her shoulder. “That has to be the stupidest question anyone has ever asked me.”
Detective Johnson raised his pen over his notebook. “Then let’s get through this so we can find her.”
Karen leaned back into the sofa, seeking support, shaking as the tears started again. She didn’t even try to wipe them away as she stared at the detective. Why are you doing this to me, God?
There was no bright light from heaven to ease the pain. No angelic visitor to comfort her. No thundering voice or soft whisper with the answers to the questions that tormented her heart. The heavy silence was broken only by the sound of the clock in the living room marking the seconds, the minutes, the hours since her daughter’s disappearance.
The front door burst open and Karen’s father came barreling in, a police officer hard on his heels. “Sir, you can’t go in there!”
“It’s my daughter’s house! I can go in if I bloody well feel like it!”
“Daddy!” Karen jumped to her feet. “Someone took Jess!” She flung herself in his arms. He held her stiffly, patting her awkwardly on the back. “Now, now. Gonna be fine, girl.” He looked over at Ted. “What happened?”
“Someone kidnapped Jessica.”
Walter reached out and placed his hand on Ted’s shoulder. “Oh, dear heavens. What can I do to help?”
Karen eased out of her father’s arms and sank down on the sofa, clutching her arms around her stomach. She could hear the sound of the detective’s voice as he directed questions at her father and Ted, but she turned inward, tuning them out. Please, God. Help them find Jess. Doubts assailed her as the pain welled up, choking her. She clenched her fists against her stomach as she began to wonder, Oh, God, what could I have done?
chapter 3
Tuesday, April 11
JJ stared up at the wall where two young faces on glossy paper stared back at him. Two beautiful, helpless children. Six-year-old Gina Sarentino: black hair, brown eyes, a missing front tooth, pierced ears. Seven-month-old Jessica Matthews: light brown hair, hazel eyes, small mole or birthmark on her cheek.
Both of them gone without a trace.
Gina Sarentino had been walking home from a neighbor’s shortly after four in the afternoon on April 3 when she disappeared.
Jessica Matthews had disappeared from her crib, in her home, in the middle of the night, with her parents just down the hall.
This newest case had him scratching his head.
And looking twice at the parents.
The sight of the empty crib had set his stomach churning. He knew that had caused him to be unusually rough on the parents. The baby might still be alive. This could be a simple kidnapping case. Someone might call with a ransom demand.
The Matthews’ house was an unassuming ranch in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. The furnishings were simple but moderately expensive. There was no sign of forced entry. No sign of an intruder. And no sign of seven-month-old Jessica Matthews.
JJ’s instincts were still screaming that nothing was the way it appeared. After eighteen years on the force, he’d learned to listen to his instincts. No one had broken into that home and stolen the baby. He’d stake his badge on that.
Had they killed the baby by accident? Shaken it to death? Dropped it? Or had it been deliberate? Tired of the crying and the diapers, had they simply smothered it and buried it?
Oh, they had been properly upset. Karen Matthews had been sitting on the edge of the sofa, her bare feet primly flat on the floor, her face buried in her hands as she sobbed uncontrollably. Academy Award material. The husband, Edward “Just Call Me Ted” Matthews, sat next to his wife, appearing visibly shaken, upset, disturbed.
He’d spent most of the previous day with them, taking reports, gathering evidence, talking to neighbors, and studying the parents. They had cried, pleaded, begged. They wanted him to find their baby.
He just couldn’t get a good read on them.
JJ leaned back in his chair and frowned at the crowded room. The Monroe County Sheriff’s Department was a three-story brick building right across the street from the courthouse. Built in the early 1950s, it was once a modern, state-of-the-art facility. Fifty years later, it barely kept up with safety standards.
The first floor housed the patrol officers and processing. The second floor accommodated Narcotics, Vice, the detective divisions, and the chief’s office. The third floor consisted mainly of holding cells and interrogation rooms.
The elevator, installed in 1955, was a temperamental piece of machinery that broke down more often than not and managed to run just perfectly as soon as elevator repair showed up. After getting stuck in the elevator a few times,
most people opted to use the stairs.
The second floor was divided into four areas. Narcotics and Vice were arranged on the south side of the floor. Homicide and Criminal Investigations took up the north side.
When Gina Sarentino was reported missing, Chief Harris had called JJ into his office and handed him the case file. “Vince Sarentino is a close personal friend of the mayor. We’re going all out on this one. Find the girl.”
The department had formed a special task force led by JJ that included three other detectives and a couple of gophers. They took up residence in a small conference room off the main bullpen. Somehow JJ managed to fit two desks, a conference table, a computer, and a coffeemaker in the room before running out of space.
Anything you need, Johnson, just ask.
What he needed was more manpower and a larger space in which to work. He tripped over himself nearly every time he came in the room.
Marsha, one of the second floor’s shared secretaries, appeared in the doorway. “Harris wants to see you.”
JJ lurched out of his chair with the usual dread. Harris wasn’t a bad guy. Just a pain to deal with.
“Yes, sir?” JJ asked as he stepped inside the chief’s office.
Harris explained and handed JJ a slip of paper.
Stunned, he stared hard at Harris. “You can’t be serious!”
“I am quite serious.”
“Sir, with all due respect, have you lost your mind? This is a police station, not a carnival.”
Harris glared. “You’ll do it, Johnson, or you’ll turn in your badge.”
chapter 4
Wednesday, April 12
Zoe pulled her suitcase out of the car trunk. She could still hear the questions ringing in her ears now six and a half hours later.
“Tell me, Miss Shefford, how did you know the girl was dead?”
“Miss Shefford! Miss Shefford! How was she killed?”
“Miss Shefford! Can you tell us what shape she was in?”
Walking briskly to her front door, she pulled the suitcase behind her, wheels squeaking across the brick as she tried to forget the reporters, the questions, the publicity.
And that police chief! He’d all but manhandled her to stand there in front of the cameras while he went on and on about what a fantastic job she’d done.
Right.
She’d done what she always did. Refused to answer their questions, turned their attention to the police, and caught the first flight home.
Home.
Zoe wrinkled her nose as she stepped through the door of her townhouse. She had forgotten to take out the trash. After six days away, the house smelled a little ripe.
Leaving her suitcase by the door, she headed for the kitchen, opening windows as she went along. She tossed the mail on the kitchen table and immediately opened the back door, setting the trash can on the deck.
The refrigerator didn’t offer much hope of a meal. She hadn’t bothered to shop before leaving. Then again, she hadn’t expected to rush out at 4:00 a.m. to catch a plane to Grafton, West Virginia.
The orange juice didn’t look promising. A week beyond the expiration date, the milk didn’t smell too fresh. And the iced tea was cloudy. Zoe did find a can of root beer behind the butter and was more than happy to settle for that.
She turned on the radio and sorted the mail. Bills in one stack, junk mail in another, and anything that looked interesting enough to open in the final stack. Junk mail went out the back door and into the trash can. She tossed bills in the basket on the counter.
When the DJ started reading the news headlines, Zoe kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes. She was preparing to head upstairs to unpack her suitcase when she heard the kind of news she always dreaded.
The lead story reached Zoe’s ears as news bites: Another missing child—an infant; no leads yet; disappeared from her crib; parents pleading for safe return; second missing-child case in less than two weeks; police form special task force.
Zoe sagged against the doorframe. Too many missing children and too many parents pleading with tear-streaked eyes and soul-wrenching sobs for a safe return. Too few parents getting their wish. Zoe knew the numbers all too well: nearly sixty thousand nonfamily abductions each year. More than a hundred missing children found murdered. Many more never found.
How well she understood the parents’ pain.
She heard the phone ring in her head before it actually did. Staring at it, she fought back the dread that always came with these calls—the helplessness, the hopelessness, the gut-wrenching understanding that she was their last hope.
They recalled her successes.
She recalled her failures.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Miss Shefford? Zoe Shefford?”
“Speaking.” But far from willingly. Go ahead. Get it over with. Tell me about the baby. Tell me how sweet she was. How much she is loved. I know.
“This is Detective Johnson from the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department. I was given your number.”
“I just heard about it on the radio. They said the baby was taken two days ago. What about the other child?”
A pause and a heavy sigh. “Nine days.”
Zoe curled her fingers around the cord. Nine days. Too long. If they didn’t have a solid lead on the child within 48 to 72 hours, the chances were slim to none of ever seeing the child alive again. “How soon do you need to talk to me?”
There was another pause on the other end of the line, and she could almost see this man scratching his head, wondering if he was doing the right thing. It forced a wistful but fleeting smile out of her.
“Uh. . .sometime today? I don’t know how these things work.”
She did. She took another deep breath. “I just got home from West Virginia.” The memory shot through her; a little girl, seven years old with big brown eyes, brown hair, and two missing front teeth. Kathleen. Buried behind an old hunting lodge some twenty miles from nowhere in the mountains.
“Yeah. . .I heard that you found her.”
“Too late,” she reminded him sadly. Two days too late. She shook off the memory. “Anyway, I just need to unpack, shower, and change, and then I’ll come down to the station. You know I can’t promise anything?”
“Yes.”
Zoe hung up the phone, dropping her forehead against the wall. Where are you, Jessica? Talk to me, baby. Tell me where you are.
*
Detective JJ Johnson stared at the phone, his brow wrinkled, his fingers drumming an erratic pattern on the desk blotter. He was up to his ears in dead ends and was not at all happy about calling Zoe Shefford. But the pressure was on from as high up as the governor. Pressure to give anything a shot. Zoe Shefford was the biggest “anything shot” he’d heard of.
A psychic?
She was the best, they said. Amazing, they said. Had found more than forty-seven children, they said.
He didn’t much care what they said.
A psychic? What kind of detective used a psychic? Not him. Nope. Not JJ Johnson. He relied on his own talent, instincts, and hard work. Bringing in a psychic was like kicking him while he was down.
He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. Calling in some voodoo queen was admitting he didn’t have a clue what he was doing.
JJ imagined her slithering in with black hair, heavy black eyes, a scarf tied around her forehead, a ton of dime-store beads around her neck, and a crystal ball in her bag.
And expecting him to hang on her every word.
Not in this lifetime.
It was his job to lead this task force, and he had no intention of handing over the reins to some decked-out demagogue of deceit.
But try telling that to the boss. Harris had narrowed those beady little eyes and handed him the psychic’s phone number. “I want these kids found and I want this guy in custody. The governor wants us to call this woman. If you can’t find them, maybe she can.”
Right. And pigs f
ly with yellow wings.
Since the boss ordered it, he didn’t have any choice but to let her do her hocus-pocus routine. Then he’d get back to what he did best. Good old-fashioned detective work. He didn’t need tarot cards, crystal balls, and magic wands. His tools were ballistics, forensics, and DNA.
JJ’s partner, Matt Casto, stuck his head in the office. “You call her?”
Matt was probably the closest thing to a best friend that JJ had. He had gone through the academy with JJ, and although they were never partners on patrol, they remained close friends. JJ made detective first. Matt followed a year later. Now they were both assigned to the same task force.
Tall with blond hair and gray eyes, Matt was a dedicated flirt. There wasn’t a female officer worth her badge who hadn’t been hit on by Matt Casto. But he was a good officer, a good friend, and a great detective. JJ was glad Harris assigned him, although JJ would never let Matt know that.
JJ nodded as he closed one of the case files. “I called her. She’ll be over in a couple of hours. Anything on the fingerprints yet?”
“Nope. Walt says another couple of hours at least.” Matt stepped in, closing the door behind him. He glanced around the room, frowning. “Why do you always keep this place so dark?” He strode purposefully across the room and flipped open the blinds.
“I like it dark. Helps me think.” JJ exaggerated his response to the light pouring into the room, blinking furiously at Matt and shielding his eyes with his hand. “Do you have to open them all the way?”
Matt shook his head and closed them a little, subduing the light. “You are a sad man, JJ.” His gaze flickered over the photos tacked on the wall but didn’t linger. They narrowed in on JJ. “You think the parents killed the Matthews kid, don’t you?”
