by Diane Capri
She looked at Charlene. Her tears were real and heartbreaking.
“Are you sure?” Jess said.
Charlene nodded.
“What do you want to do now?”
Charlene shrugged. Tears continued to stream down her face, but the hard sobs had subsided. “Peter Whiting is my grandson.” Her voice was raw and husky.
“It seems likely.” The air outside was still cold and the sky still gray. “Come on.” They walked to the Crown Vic. She took the car keys from Charlene and placed her in the passenger’s seat. Jess settled behind the wheel, started the engine and ran the heater.
She knew what she wanted to do next, but she wasn’t sure about Charlene. “When you said your daughter disappeared, exactly what did you mean?”
It seemed to take the question several seconds to sink in. Charlene remained focused on the dashboard in front of her for a while.
“Was there a search for her? There must have been. Anyone open an official investigation?”
“She disappeared. Never came back.” Charlene’s eyes were wet and her nose a bright red. “We searched every inch of Randolph and the other towns nearby. The previous police chief questioned everyone. Searched all over. He worked very hard trying to find Crystal or at least to figure out what happened to her.”
The conversation seemed to be helping Charlene. “Didn’t they find anything at all?”
Charlene nodded. “Her car. Two months later. At the Greyhound station in Tacoma.” She reached out and gripped Jess’s sleeve. “I know you came to Randolph hoping Peter Whiting would be your son.” She hung her head down.
Jess took a deep breath. She didn’t know exactly what to say. Charlene had traded one set of heartache for another because she believed now that Peter Whiting was her grandson.
Jess patted Charlene’s hand. “You recognized Crystal’s signature, but there’s a lot of open questions here.”
Charlene nodded. “I know.”
“If you feel up to it, we need to talk to Norah Fender. She can tell us what happened with Crystal. Why and how Crystal gave up her baby.” Jess paused. She didn’t want to promise too much. “Maybe Norah Fender has some idea about where Crystal went.”
Charlene’s eyes widened. “Do you think we might be able to find her, even though it’s been such a long time?”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up. Let’s take it one step at a time.” Jess sent a message to Mandy, and a few minutes later Mandy replied with Norah Fender’s address. Ten miles south in a small town called Castleford. Jess put the address in her phone’s GPS and followed directions to I-5 south.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Blackstake started his engine as the Crown Victoria backed out of its parking space. He waited for another car to insert itself between him and his target and followed them to the freeway.
His trick with the burner phone had worked better than he’d expected. The rear parcel shelf had made a good surface, vibrating with the pitch of the voices and amplifying their words. He’d barely had to turn up the volume on his end to hear the entire conversation.
Which was the end of the good news.
Something they’d seen at the hospital had proved Peter Whiting was Crystal Mackie’s son. Blackstake couldn’t believe his luck. He’d been looking for that boy for years, and all the time, he’d been living in Bamford. Thirty miles from Randolph. The boy who fell out of the tree. The one Blackstake might have, and probably should have, killed two days ago.
He sighed. He needed to call the boss, but he couldn’t hang up on his burner.
He followed the Ford as his mind raced to figure out how he’d handle all of these problems with the media spotlight glaring brightly every day. Plans for the fundraiser were well underway. Meisner’s timing sucked. He’d certainly picked the wrong time to run for President.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Charlene reached into her pocket and pulled out a snapshot. She looked at the photo for a few moments. “Crystal. Six months before she disappeared.”
She handed the picture to Jess.
Crystal looked relaxed and happy. Shoulder length blonde hair glistened in the sunlight. High cheekbones and bright eyes like a runway model. She was leaning against a maple tree. She wore expensive blue jeans and a fitted black T-shirt with a heart-shaped American flag on the front. Centered above the heart, was the letter “I” and below it were two letters, “DC.” The message was meant to be read aloud as, “I love DC.”
She didn’t look even five minutes pregnant.
Jess kept to the speed limit as she drove into Castleford. The welcome sign said the population numbered 8,971, and in her experience of the area, the smaller the town, the more vigilant the traffic cops.
The GPS led her past a couple of strip malls and then into residential housing. Sidewalks lined the sides of the road, and leaves lined the sidewalks. Broadleaf trees hung over the road. The houses were small two-story affairs, not the McMansions that ringed many larger cities.
The GPS announced they had arrived at their destination. Jess pulled up to the curb. The street was quiet, no barking dogs or kids riding bikes.
The house looked freshly painted. A brass knocker gleamed on the front door. The garden was fading, sticks and twigs remained where summertime flowers had once bloomed. Upstairs and downstairs, the drapes were open. Jess could see inside the rooms. She saw no movement.
“Wait here,” she said, turning off the engine.
She walked up to the front door. She had a good view into the tidy living room. Sparse, but in a stylish way, the result of preference, not forced economy.
Jess knocked on the door. The sound reverberated back to her. She looked through the windows and the mottled glass of the front door. She heard no movement inside. No dog barked, and no curious cat strolled into view.
She waited half a minute and knocked again. Louder this time. Gripping the brass knocker firmly, hammering it against the striker. The sound reverberated again. No creaking floor boards or moving shadows.
She waited a full minute before returning to the car.
She sat in the driver’s seat and closed the door with a thump.
Charlene stared at her. “What now?”
“No one is ever waiting at home anymore. We’ll come back later.”
She started the car, drove back to the strip mall, and parked in front of a local donut shop. “We’ll give her an hour, and try again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Blackstake followed the Crown Vic all the way to a residential neighborhood.
He saw the Ford stop on the right-hand side of the road. Through his phone’s speaker, he heard the reporter tell Charlene to stay in the car. He needed to get closer without being seen. He looped around the next street and stopped at the far end of Dominion.
Kimball stood at the front door of a house that looked freshly painted. After a couple of minutes, Kimball returned to the Ford. She told Mackie they’d come back in an hour to see Norah Fender as they drove away.
He ducked as the Crown Vic passed by.
His blood ran cold. Norah Fender was a name that he remembered. For years, she had made a good living working with lawyers to organize private adoptions for unwanted babies. She’d done some freelancing, too. Where biological or adoptive parents required an illegal deal for whatever reasons, she did more than organize. She’d made a much more significant profit on those outright sales.
She’d been in the news, but despite a big scandal with national media attention, she’d faded fast from the public eye when she went to prison. She was released after a few years and dropped out of sight.
Norah Fender was a good explanation for a lot of things. Crystal Mackie had been pregnant at one point. The last time he saw Crystal, she’d delivered the baby.
That was fourteen years ago. He’d spent a lot of time and resources to find that infant. He’d failed. He didn’t fail often, and the failure still rankled. Now he had a second chance to contain the situat
ion.
Mackie and Kimball might spark renewed interest in a frigid cold case. A case he intended to keep cold.
He hung up his phone.
From where he was parked he could make out the house number stenciled on the curbstone. Twenty-four seventy-six.
He ran a few searches on Norah Fender and a string of predictable articles scrolled by. Had she been involved with the Mackie tramp? Had she sold the Mackie baby? Or had she, as was another rumor, aborted that child? Was that what Kimball was digging into now? A possibility. Also a risk. He didn’t like risks.
He stared at the house. When they found out Crystal Mackie was no longer pregnant, he had spent weeks searching public records, trawling hospitals, and talking to doctors. He’d tracked down every associate she knew. He’d watched her white trash mother for weeks, in case she returned. Despite his efforts, he’d never learned what happened to Crystal Mackie’s baby. Any open question was a serious threat.
He should have trusted his instincts. He knew from the moment he first saw Kimball that she’d be trouble. He should have dealt with her at the first opportunity. Now, making her disappear would be more difficult, and bring far too much police attention. He swore. He liked a challenge, but he hated risk.
He looked back at the Fender house. He unclenched his teeth. The faintest sliver of a smile crossed his lips. He might not be beaten after all. A woman in a fawn coat was opening the front door. A woman he recognized. Older, sure. But he recognized her all the same.
Norah Fender returning home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jess’s search for coffee was unsuccessful because the doughnut shop was closed. She had finally relented and bought a weak concoction at a drive-through burger joint. One mouthful told her all she needed to know about it. The cooling brew temporarily occupied the cup holder between the front seats when she pulled back into Dominion Street.
She parked a few doors down from Norah Fender’s house. The street was strangely silent, but she saw a sliver of light around the edges of a curtain.
Jess patted her bag. Her Glock was still there. Charlene leaned to her side and slid her holster into view. Jess hadn’t seen it before.
Charlene popped the cover and tapped the grip.
Jess recognized the grip’s dimpled surface.
“Charlene.” She licked her lips. “How about I go and meet with her? She’s not going to want to talk to us, and—”
“You think I might shoot her? I just might.” Charlene said. “She deserves killing. After all she’s put me through.”
Jess raised her eyebrows. “You’ve had a shock. I know you want to find out about—”
“You think you know. Do you know I spent years crying myself to sleep cradling a photograph of my daughter? Or that I spent every penny I had on private investigators? Or that I keep every scrap of paper my daughter ever wrote on just to keep her memory alive in my heart?” Charlene’s tirade had left her temporarily breathless. She inhaled. Coldly calm, teeth clamped hard together, she said, “You don’t know any of that. You have no idea.”
Of course, Jess knew how a mother felt when her child went missing. She wanted to push back. Fight against Charlene’s thoughtless accusations. But she didn’t.
She’d been accused before. By other mothers. Other fathers. Other cases. Losing a child means losing a parent’s normal sanity. She understood.
When she’d chosen this work, finding justice for victims like Charlene instead of burying her own grief, she’d donned the tarnished armor necessary to withstand the blows. Some cases were harder than others, but keeping her name and her search for Peter in the public eye could mean she’d find him one day.
Someone knew what had happened to her Peter. A conscientious citizen might come forward. She forced herself to remain tough every day. She stayed as hard on the outside as she could possibly be. It was the only way she could continue her mission, which she would never give up. Not until she found her son.
“I know you want answers, Charlene. You’re entitled to them. But you have no jurisdiction here.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, but her tone was firm. “Let me do my job. We need to find out what happened. To your daughter and to her baby. I’ve done this before. Let me help you. Let me talk to her first. Whatever happened at that hospital fourteen years ago is too important to go in there, guns blazing, threatening Norah Fender, and losing this chance to get the truth.”
Charlene glared a moment longer before her tears began to fall again and she lowered her head. She moved her hand away from her weapon.
“You’re a cop. Don’t let this take away your livelihood along with everything else you’ve already lost. You know justice doesn’t eliminate the pain or turn back the clock.” Jess nodded and exhaled slowly. “But it does bring some measure of closure. That’s the best justice can do. The best I can do. The best you can do.” Jess put her hand on Charlene’s arm. “I promise you I’ll do everything in my power to see justice is served here.”
Charlene swallowed, her teeth clenched, the veins on her neck bulging.
Jess didn’t say anything about Charlene’s grandson. That situation might not turn out well, either. Reminding her of the boy now could set her off again.
“People will say things to a reporter that they would never say to a police officer. You know that.” She offered a sympathetic smile. “We need Fender to talk. We need her to relax. We need her to run her mouth.”
Charlene breathed deep. She nodded. Slowly at first. She licked her lips. “I just want to know. My daughter, and…”
“I understand.” Jess patted Charlene’s hand, opened the door, grabbed her bag, and slipped out of the car before Charlene changed her mind. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”
The light was fading as Jess walked up to Norah Fender’s front door. The upstairs windows were dark, but the warm yellow of an incandescent light escaped around a heavy drape in the front room. The house looked freshly painted.
She noticed a gleaming brass doorbell this time. When she pressed it, chimes rang out, too deep and sonorously old-fashioned for this modern house. The sound echoed through the walls.
She checked up and down the street. Charlene’s Crown Vic hadn’t moved. A delivery truck barreled down the street, veering around a parked car and shaking tree limbs in its wake.
Jess turned back to the door. Despite the distortions in the glass, she saw no changes inside the house. No doors had been opened, no additional lights switched on.
She counted to ten and rang the bell again. The same sound reverberated through the house. The same stillness followed.
No surprise that Norah Fender didn’t answer her door to strangers. She’d probably been hounded by every reporter, anxious parent, and crazy crank in the state. Not that she didn’t deserve such treatment. The truth behind her motives would probably never come out, but lining her own pockets was no doubt a big part of her reasoning. Selling babies was a lucrative business.
Jess looked into the house through the glass again. Something inside was different. Nora Fender must have come home.
She’d come this close. She wouldn’t leave until she got some answers.
CHAPTER FORTY
When Norah didn’t answer the front doorbell, Jess followed a well-worn path around the side of the house. A six-foot stockade fence blocked the entrance to the back yard. She tried the latch, and the gate swung open.
The stockade fence ran around the perimeter of the back yard. There was no other way in or out. She closed the gate with a distinct push. She wanted Norah Fender to know she was there. Invading a private home in a country with a high level of gun ownership wasn’t a wise course of action. Intruders had been shot for less. Legally so. Jess had no problem with that. She was a gun owner herself.
The back entrance was covered with a storm door. The hinges squealed as she drew it back. Another good way to announce her presence. The top half of the rear entrance door was clear glass. She could see into the kitchen. Steam
billowed from two large saucepans on a gas stovetop. One looked to be boiling over.
The kitchen surfaces were polished and uncluttered. There were no dishes on the draining board. A single note she couldn’t read from this distance was held to the fridge door by a magnet.
Jess clenched her fist and rapped hard on the glass with her knuckles. Three hard impacts, evenly spaced, glass rattling. Unmistakable.
Jess waited, holding the spring loaded storm door back with her heel.
No one appeared. Steam continued to billow from the saucepans. Sauce oozed over the top of one.
She put her hand on the door handle. Miller’s cautionary words ran through her mind. An armed home invasion would definitely be one of the things Taboo’s lawyer would disapprove of. Most judges would, too.
The clear sauce turned brown. Black smoke wafted into the air. She hammered on the door. The glass shook. The door rattled in its frame. The kitchen door remained closed.
The sticky mass bubbling from the saucepan caught fire. Yellow and blue flames flickered and danced.
The situation had become what lawyers call “exigent circumstances.” Enough to justify breaking and entering. She hoped. Regardless of the legal outcome, this was one of those times when she should seek forgiveness instead of permission.
She rocked her weight back and forth on the door handle. The old wood creaked. Black soot spiraled from the burning sauce forming a black stain on the ceiling.
Jess swung her hip at the door, close to the lock. The wood protested.
She repeated the action. Harder. All her weight. Leaning inward.
The wood gave way. Crashing and splintering.
The door sailed back in an arc, crashing into a metal trashcan standing at the end of the row of cabinets. She fell sideways, stumbling inside, off balance but upright.
She caught a whiff of sweetness under the burning smell.
