by Jay Allisan
“You told me not to tell you.”
“Fuck, really? You and Max? You never fight.”
I let my head rest against the window and watched the pavement flash past. “This is different.”
Paddy was silent until we hit the freeway. Then he said, “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You want me to ask Max instead?”
“No.”
“I’m gonna if you don’t tell me. He’s easy that way. Get a couple drinks in him and he’ll confess to anything.”
“He’s hurting enough as it is, Paddy. He doesn’t need you going after him.”
“Then tell me what’s going on.”
I slammed my heel against the dash, knocking the glovebox open and spilling papers all over the floor. “It’s my fault, all right? He wants kids and I told him no, and now I’ve hardly seen him in weeks and he’s so sad all the time, and he won’t even talk to me about it and there’s nothing I can do!”
I pressed my face into my hands. Paddy was quiet. I took in a deep breath and let out a deep breath. Paddy was quiet.
I whispered, “I think he’s leaving me.”
The car came to a slow, steady stop, the motor fading into silence. I pushed my hands through my hair and sat up. We were back at Old Town. Paddy was scooping the papers off the floor. He handed them to me and I shoved them in the glovebox. He sighed.
“He’s not gonna leave you, Shirley. He loves you.”
“He wants kids more.”
“But you don’t?”
“I’m just not ready,” I whispered. It sounded inadequate even to me.
“You think you just need some more time? Maybe another couple months and you’ll…”
I shook my head, tears biting at my eyes. Paddy shifted uncomfortably. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna talk to him, all right?”
“You said you wouldn’t—”
“I’m just gonna talk to him, as a friend. I got a feeling he could really use one.”
I nodded. The thought made me feel very small. “What are you going to say?”
“Fuck if I know. But don’t worry,” he said, getting out of the car. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see. It’s all gonna work out.”
JOSIE AND Whale were in the office when we returned, poring over documents scattered across the table.
“Anything on your end?” I asked hopefully. They’d taken an interview at the Center as well.
Josie shook her head. “Nothing helpful. Just a nice-looking guy picking up his niece. Except for the part where she’s not his niece.”
“We’ve got the employee list,” Paddy said, “and it’s a big one.” He doled out the pages Mrs. Weatherbee gave us and everyone got to work.
Mrs. Weatherbee wasn’t kidding about the Center’s turnover rate. The building had beds for 30 kids, and it took a lot of people to support them. The kitchen work was outsourced to a large food company that shuffled staff between employers as necessary. Over fifty different workers had been stationed at the Center in the past year. That didn’t include the Center’s cleaning staff, also outsourced, or the security guards, maintenance workers, and social workers themselves. All said we had more than a hundred names to clear.
I skipped the women my first time through the list and glossed over anyone whose driver’s license photo didn’t match the suspect description. Only two men were of a similar age, race, and build to our suspect, and I had uniforms dispatched to question them. I made note of the six men on my list with priors and called up their parole officers. All could be accounted for the day Kimmie disappeared.
I got calls back from the officers dispatched for interviews. Both were negative. One man had had a heart attack the week previous and was still in the hospital. The other had been out of state at his daughter’s convocation, with time-stamped photographs as evidence. I thanked the officers for their help and cursed under my breath.
Back through the list. This time I lingered on the photos of every Caucasian man, regardless of age or build. Those could change, or appear to be changed. I scrutinized the surveillance photo, comparing facial features as best I could. The image was poor quality and taken from an angle, but I was certain none of the men on my list were our suspect.
As a Hail Mary I ran down the women, looking for criminal records or known associates. Maybe our suspect had a partner, though what they’d gain by having him come alone to the Center wasn’t clear. Regardless, none of the women popped.
I rolled my chair toward Paddy, who was still finger-pecking. “You want me to take some names?”
He shook his head. “Just about done. Then I’m gonna grab some fresh air and a smoke.”
“That’s an oxymoron.”
“Watch who you’re calling a moron,” he said, and I cracked a smile. He pushed away from his desk with a sigh. “I got nothing on my list.”
“Me neither,” Josie said, and Whale nodded in solemn agreement. Josie leapt to her feet, bent fluidly to touch her toes, then pulled her arms above her head in a stretch. She checked her watch. “Yikes, four hours in a chair. I’m going to take a quick walk to shake this off. Anyone want to come?”
Paddy smiled wryly. “You still hate cigarettes?”
Josie stuck her hands on her hips. “Do they still cause cancer?”
“Guess I’m out.”
“I need a coffee,” Whale said, standing with more difficulty than his partner. “A real coffee. I’ll walk with you to the Better Bean.”
Josie tilted her head at me. “Shirley, are you coming?”
“I think I’ll just stay here,” I said vaguely. “I’m not ready for a break yet.”
In truth I knew we’d missed something, and I wanted to figure it out before anyone else. I wanted to be the one to tell Max we’d found Kimmie. I’d promised him.
“Are you sure?” Josie asked. “Do you want us to bring you anything?”
“No thanks.”
“I’m going to anyway. Back soon!”
Paddy swiveled idly in his chair as we watched them leave, a lighter in his hand and a cigarette already between his teeth. He flicked the lighter on and off.
“I texted Max,” he said. “He’s down at Kimmie’s house. I told him I’d meet him there in ten minutes.”
Anxiety bloomed in my chest. “Maybe you shouldn’t, or at least not right now. He’s really worried about Kimmie, and—”
“And he’s worried about you, and he’s a sap to begin with. I know the guy, Shirley. I know what a mess he’s gonna be. That’s why I’m doing it.”
I studied my hands, twisting my wedding ring around my finger. “Don’t yell at him,” I said quietly. “And if he cries, don’t be a jerk about it. And don’t let him blame himself because it’s not his fault, and—”
“You want I should hold his hand while I’m at it?”
I glanced up, defeated. “Just help him,” I whispered. “Do whatever it takes.”
Paddy looked at me meaningfully and I tried not to cry.
23
THE OFFICE clock was a big digital thing that made no sound as time passed. I stared at it anyway, ticking off the seconds in my head.
Something was nagging at me, some stray thought or small detail I’d picked up but hadn’t processed yet. I read over my list of names again, then a third time for good measure. I flipped back through the driver’s license photos. I reviewed my notes from the interview with Rose Weatherbee. Nothing sparked. It was something else.
I picked up the surveillance photo and scrutinized the suspect’s face, distinctively pale in the black-and-white rendering. Balding, longish nose, small ears, clean-shaven. He was smiling, his posture indicating confidence. His wide stance caused his stomach to protrude, and he had his hand on Kimmie’s shoulder—
His hand was black.
He was wearing gloves.
Footsteps echoed behind me and then Josie sang out, “Shirley, I got you a muffin!”
I turned just in time to catch the small bag she tossed me. She frowned when I set it aside. “I thought you like pumpkin.”
I waved her over. “Later. Come look at this. Tell me if this makes sense.”
She dragged up a chair. “What am I looking for?”
“Look at the suspect’s appearance. What does it say to you?”
“That he’s organized,” she said immediately. “His jacket’s well-cut and his pants are pressed. He looks respectable, maybe even rich. He wanted to make a good impression.”
“Why?” When she looked at me strangely I said, “Just humor me. Why make a good impression?”
“Because if he made a bad impression the social workers would be reluctant to let him take Kimmie. They’d ask more questions.”
“But what about no impression? If he planned to disappear, wouldn’t he want to be forgettable?”
“He’s pretty nondescript, Shirley. What are you getting at?”
“He’s organized,” I said. “He’d have to be to pull this off. Everything would be calculated to minimize risk and maximize success, but some things he’d have to do no matter what the risk, right?”
She nodded. “Like come in person to pick Kimmie up.”
“Exactly. He could be identified. So what would he do to mitigate that risk?”
“Wear a disguise,” Josie said. “But I don’t see how—”
“Look at him. What’s he wearing?”
Josie gave a little huff but squinted at the photo. Her head snapped up. “He’s wearing gloves.”
My foot tapped with anticipation, building to a crescendo. “He’s organized. He’s a planner. He wants to get Kimmie and get out without drawing attention to himself, so why risk wearing gloves indoors?”
“So he wouldn’t leave prints,” Josie said.
“And why couldn’t he leave prints?”
She smiled. “Because his prints are in our system.”
I nodded, then realized I had nothing to follow up with. My foot stopped tapping and I sighed. “Not that that’s helpful. We don’t have prints, we don’t have his face…”
“We have them somewhere,” Josie said. “And we’ve got a lot of information on him, whether he meant to give it to us or not. If he’s in the system with a prior we can look for similarities in his MO. With that attention to detail, my guess is he’s done high-end robberies. He’s definitely done something like this before.”
A chill went up my spine. “Josie, what if he’s done this before?”
For a moment we just stared at each other. Then Josie whipped out her phone. “I’m calling Dixon.”
DIXON LEANED on the table, staring down at the surveillance photo. His knuckles were white. “Tell me again.”
“It’s the details,” I said. “He knew when Ray would be in the workshop so he could start the fire. He planted the emergency contact list with his information on it. The burner cell, the driver’s license, the fake address, the disguise, the gloves… he thought of everything. This kidnapping was a long time in the making, and he was so good at it it’s like he’s done it before.”
“It’s the perfect crime,” Josie added. “Or pretty close. Kimmie doesn’t have any family to check up on her. If it wasn’t for Max we’d never have found out.”
Dixon looked up from the photo, his gaze settling on me. “Yes, it’s fortunate Max was looking out for her.”
He waited for me to respond. All I could come up with was a breathless, “Yeah.”
“He’s taking this investigation quite personally,” said Dixon.
I shrugged, aiming for nonchalant and falling short. “They were close. Are close,” I said quickly, as if I knew anything about Kimmie’s relationship with my husband. I could feel Josie’s curious stare and prayed she’d keep her mouth shut.
“It’s been hard for him,” said Dixon. “He cares very deeply about children.”
I clutched the table so I wouldn’t sink to the floor. He knew. Of course he knew. Max would have told him, would have gone to him for help, because Dixon was the father figure in his life and could be trusted even when I couldn’t. Especially when I couldn’t. Especially when it was my fault.
“We’re working on it,” I heard myself say. “I’ll fix it. I’ll…” I closed my eyes and took a second to breathe, to focus. “I’ll go back to the Center and check their files for cases with similarities. If the kidnapper’s done this before it could have gone unnoticed.” I met Dixon’s eyes. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to have Max in their life.”
Dixon studied me, unblinking. He nodded once.
I grabbed my bag. “I’ll head over to the Center right—”
“Shirley.”
I paused, already halfway to the door. Dixon took off his glasses and kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Max confirmed the fire was arson. Flag anything involving fire or incendiaries.”
I nodded. He slipped his glasses back on and turned to Josie. “You look through the database for the same, whether the case was solved or not. Keep an eye out for anything involving kids. And if you see the rest of my unit, tell them to get back to work.”
“Paddy’s having a smoke,” I explained, just as Josie said, “Whale had to take a call.”
Dixon raised an eyebrow. I bolted from the room before he could call us liars.
“GLOVES?” MRS. Weatherbee said, her head tilting sideways. “Yes, now that you mention it, he was wearing gloves. I remember thinking he was dressed rather warmly for the weather. I must have looked at him oddly, because he said he had eczema and had to stay covered from the Sun. It seemed reasonable to me.”
I stifled a sigh. “Anything else he wore, or said, or did that seemed reasonable to you?”
Mrs. Weatherbee gave me a chiding look, though she seemed to be thinking. “He brought a teddy with him.”
“You mentioned that earlier. Anything else?”
She brightened. “He called her Kimmie.”
“That’s her name,” I said, not following.
“Her name is Kimberly, but she likes to be called Kimmie.” Mrs. Weatherbee smiled sadly. “That was the first thing she said to me when I picked her up. ‘My name is Kimmie.’ That man… he called her Kimmie right away.”
I jotted down the information. “You’re certain Kimmie didn’t recognize him?”
“She didn’t appear to, though that’s not unusual in these circumstances. She’s young and she was traumatized, and he said—well, it’s clear now it was a lie, but he said he hadn’t seen her for years.”
I figured that was as gentle a transition as I would get. “Mrs. Weatherbee, have there been any other children in Kimmie’s situation in the past few months? Only children orphaned and picked up by some relative they haven’t seen for years?”
“Why, yes. The Center was built for children caught between custody situations, so of course…” Her voice faded into a breathy gasp as she picked up on my meaning.
“I’m going to need access to your files,” I said. “Can you show me how to navigate your system?”
She unlatched a little gate beside the reception desk and gestured for me to come through. I took a seat in front of the computer. She stood behind me and worked the mouse.
“It’s very simple,” she explained. “We keep our own records, of course, but we also have access to the Child Protection Services database and they have access to ours.”
“Who can see this information? Is it password protected?”
“Oh my, yes. It’s strictly confidential. Only social workers have access codes.”
“How many computers are there in this facility?”
“Two. This one, and the one in my office.”
“Are either of them left on when you’re not around?”
“I always disconnect from the database when I leave,” she said firmly.
I had my doubts but didn’t voice them. Instead I asked, “Can your system filter the case files based on specific criteria?”
Mrs. Weatherb
ee showed me the search fields. “You can filter by name, admission date, boy or girl, or status. That is, whether the child is still in the Center’s care or not.”
I made a face. The parameters were too broad to be of much use. I’d have to sort through the details manually. “This may take a while. How long will you be around?”
“Until you’ve finished,” she said primly. “I won’t risk any information falling into the wrong hands, not after this.”
“Mrs. Weatherbee, I can assure you the BRPD will not mishandle or abuse any information—”
“I’ll stay until you’ve finished,” she repeated. “These children were in my care, you understand. I was responsible for them. If there are others, I need to know. And I may be helpful to you.”
Her eyes were earnest behind her bifocals, and I knew Max wasn’t the only one taking Kimmie’s loss personally. I offered Mrs. Weatherbee a smile. “I appreciate that.”
She stood behind me, watching as I narrowed the case files down to children who’d left the Center’s custody. That was just about everyone, more than a thousand hits over the Center’s five-year lifespan. There was no way I could read through all that. Out of necessity I eliminated the boys, reducing the number by half. I didn’t want to miss results by introducing time constraints, so I started at Aasman and began to read.
Some were easy to dismiss. Anyone picked up by a woman, admitted to foster care, or returned to the parent’s custody I considered low risk. Anyone picked up by a male, particularly a distant male relation, was worthy of closer inspection. Those files I printed to take back to Old Town.
Mrs. Weatherbee soon grew tired of watching me and bent over some paperwork at the far end of the desk. She left once, coming back with a sandwich and some chips for me, and at some point she drew the blinds against the setting sun. She didn’t ask me how I was progressing and I didn’t offer any updates. If any of the files looked suspicious I’d be back to follow up with her.
I was on Tulsa Ngawa’s file when a sharp knock came at the door. I glanced at Mrs. Weatherbee, who glanced at the clock. It was almost 10.
