Somebody's Daughter

by David Bell

  “That was Angela,” he said. “Have you been talking to my mother? Have you been getting money from my mother?”

  Erica barely blinked. She showed little reaction to his question. No surprise, no fear or trepidation.

  “It’s been a while,” she said. “Six months or so since we last talked.”

  “Why? How?”

  Erica looked at the tabletop before speaking. While she did, Trixie looked up at her, sensing her owner was having a difficult time. “Felicity had a medical condition. A serious one. And I needed money. Years ago, your mother said I could always turn to her if I needed help. My mother had died a year earlier, and she didn’t have much money anyway.” She looked up. “I looked into other things. A second mortgage. Selling the house. Cashing out my 401k. But none of those would have been as fast. I thought of your mom. I knew she had money, and I knew she might help.”

  “And she gave you money?”

  “She did.”

  “Is that it?” Michael asked. “Just money?”

  Again Erica was slow to answer. Finally she said, “I saw her a few times after that. She wanted to meet Felicity.”

  Michael knew he was standing on the kitchen floor. He looked down and saw the linoleum beneath his feet. But for a moment it felt as though a hole had opened below him, leaving his body suspended in the air, ready to plummet from a great height. It took a number of heartbeats for his equilibrium to return, and when it did, he still didn’t feel able to speak.

  But he did.

  “My mother met Felicity? She saw . . . you and Felicity?”

  Erica nodded. The dog looked from Erica to Michael and back again.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked. “Did you tell her you thought Felicity was my child?”

  “I did.”

  “And is that when she wanted the paternity test?”

  Erica’s head snapped up quickly. She almost smiled. “Well, I guess Angela knows a little bit of everything, doesn’t she?”

  “Why didn’t you agree to the test?” Michael asked. “Why turn tail and run right there?”

  “Michael . . . It’s just . . .” She stopped. The steam still rose from her mug, swirling near her chin.

  Michael remained quiet.

  Erica looked like she was considering waiting him out, playing a game of chicken until Michael either said something else or grew bored. But he knew he wouldn’t give in. And so did she.

  “I didn’t know, for certain, that the baby was yours,” she said.

  Michael felt the floor opening beneath him again. “You’re talking about Felicity and not the miscarriage, right?” he asked, his voice calmer than he imagined it would have been.

  Erica nodded. “I know the miscarriage was yours. Look, Michael, I know Felicity is your child as well. I feel it in my heart. I’ve felt it all along.”

  Michael was backing away, his hand up, asking for silence. He didn’t want to hear any more. He didn’t want to know. But after taking a few steps away, he returned, walking closer to the table than he had been before.

  “Who?” he asked. “Why?”

  “You can guess why,” she said. “Our marriage was falling apart. You were so checked out. I knew everything was going to end. I wanted someone to care about me, to pay attention to me.”

  “So it’s my fault you cheated?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said. “Look, Jake was kind to me. He listened to me, and I really needed someone to listen to me. He was really good for me back then.”

  The disappointment sank inside Michael like a lead weight, settling in his guts, almost pulling him to the floor. “So you have no idea if Felicity is my child. She may not be. Probably isn’t.”

  “I don’t know for sure,” she said. “She very well could be yours.”

  “Could be,” Michael said. “What a phrase.”

  Erica looked to be on the verge of tears. She placed her head in her hands. Michael warned himself not to be taken in by the gesture, not to feel sympathy where it wasn’t warranted. “I needed help tonight,” she said. “I turned to you because I knew you would help. We can do the paternity test. We can. When . . . if . . .”

  “When,” Michael said. “And you took advantage of my mother. She was vulnerable, grieving. You knew about Robyn.”

  He wanted to leave it at that. But he couldn’t. He needed to ask one more thing.

  “Did anyone else in my family know about this with Felicity?”

  Michael looked around the house. He felt crowded and suffocated. He saw sun behind the blinds, wished to feel fresh air on his face. He wanted to walk away from Erica, head to the front door. But before he did, her voice stopped him.

  “Your sister saw Felicity too,” she said.

  “Lynn? She came here and saw Felicity?”

  “Yes,” Erica said. “Your mom told her, and she got in touch with me. We were friends, Michael. Remember? I think it meant a lot to her for the same reasons . . . you know, because of Robyn, because of everything that happened with her. And you and Lynn . . .”

  “Don’t,” Michael said. “You did a nice job of hooking us all in, didn’t you?” Michael turned back around and went outside.

  chapter

  sixty-nine

  6:35 A.M.

  Griffin returned home, greeted by the two cats. She’d been cast away from the crime scene at Todd Friedman’s house after answering and re-answering the questions she knew were coming. When the questions were finished, Reddick called her on her cell.

  “You have to step aside,” the chief said. “We can’t have you around the case right now. Go home. Take a couple of days off. We’ll figure out where to go with this.”

  Griffin wanted to ask what was going to happen to her. Would she be fired? Suspended? Demoted?

  But she feared finding out the truth. And she feared her boss’s disapproval even more. She felt tears pushing against the backs of her eyes as she listened to Reddick’s voice. Even though the boss remained cool and professional, never yelling, never screaming, Griffin had felt the disappointment oozing through the phone. She slinked away from the Friedman house without even saying good-bye to Twitchell.

  The cats weaved through and between her lower legs. She bent down and gave each of them equal time, scratching their ears and rubbing their backs. She felt the thrumming of their purrs and appreciated the fact that someone—something—still liked her. The cats wandered away, and she kicked her shoes off. She slumped onto the couch, and when she did, the images of just a few hours earlier flooded back into her head. Todd Friedman with the gun. Pointed at her. Then jammed under his own chin.

  Then the shot. The spray of blood glistening on the wall, a single white chip of bone she saw on the edge of the desk. She shivered, felt nausea surging through her like a roiling tide.

  She reached for the remote and turned the TV on. Yes, she was curious about the night’s events and wanted to know if anything new was being said about the case. She also wanted to chase those images away, drive them out with the distractions of the television. The weather report, a cooking demonstration. Anything.

  The local news had stationed a reporter at Todd Friedman’s house. She came in during the broadcast, the reporter on Todd’s lawn, face suitably serious. Griffin turned the volume up and leaned forward while Rory jumped past her and then settled on the couch.

  “Sources are telling us that the police consider Todd Friedman a suspect in the disappearance of Felicity Frazier. As we speak, equipment and personnel are arriving to aid in the search of the property. While officials aren’t formally commenting on what they hope to find here, we can certainly assume that they are embarking on a potentially grim task.”

  “Can you see where they’re searching?” the anchor asked.

  “I’ve already seen an officer in a coverall go into the crawl space under the
house. I’ve also seen officers walking the perimeter of the property, out in the back where there are some woods. Some of the officers have even gone into the woods—”

  Her phone rang, making her jump. Griffin checked the screen. An unknown local number. She sighed. Could it be a reporter? Should she let it go to voice mail and hole up?

  The cop instinct in her couldn’t resist. What if there was news? What if someone needed her? Even if it was just another ass chewing, she couldn’t ignore the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Detective Griffin?”

  “It is.” The voice sounded tentative. Almost friendly. Not adversarial or professional like a reporter or someone from work. And was it familiar somehow? “Who is this?”

  “It’s Angela Frazier. You were at my house earlier. Well, last night I guess.”

  Griffin muted the TV. “I remember. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. A little confused. A little on edge like everyone else.”

  “Of course.”

  “I know you’ve had a long night. I’ve heard about all this crazy stuff going on. But you said to call if I needed anything.”

  Griffin sat up straighter. Rory looked at her, shaking her head. “Right. What do you need?”

  “This may sound crazy,” Angela said. “But I’m here in Trudeau. It’s a long story.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you remember my husband left our house with Erica Frazier to go talk to some guy? Some teacher of Felicity’s?”

  “I remember. Yes.”

  “I don’t know why this seems so strange to me, but that guy, Wayne Tolliver, showed up at Felicity’s babysitter’s house the day before she disappeared. He seemed upset about something, like he was mad at Erica. Look, does that seem odd to you? Like it does to me?”

  “It does. Sure.”

  “Well, maybe someone should look into it. I’m here in Trudeau if you want to talk about it more. . . .”

  Griffin easily calculated all the reasons to stay away. But there was one compelling reason to go—to find Felicity. To restore her standing with her peers and superiors.

  And to protect Angela Frazier who might be getting in over her head.

  She bounced off the couch, startling the cat.

  “Tell me where you are.”

  chapter

  seventy

  6:42 A.M.

  Griffin drove them toward Wayne Tolliver’s house, while Angela rode shotgun. As they went, the sun rising higher, the day’s heat already felt through the windshield of the unmarked car, Griffin asked questions, trying to find out what was going on.

  Angela answered, filling her in on her travels through the night with Jake Little and ending with the young women in the house, the college students, revealing that Wayne Tolliver had shown up looking for Erica just two days earlier.

  “Did he say anything threatening?” Griffin asked, her brain going faster than the car. “Did he say what he wanted her for?”

  “No. Just that he seemed pissed off.”

  “And there was a woman in the car while he came to the door?” Griffin asked.

  “Apparently. But they didn’t see her.”

  Griffin didn’t know what to think. It could be anything. She knew Felicity had missed her voice lessons. She knew Phillips and Woolf had already talked to Wayne Tolliver, checked him for priors, confirmed his alibi, and turned him loose.

  But could they have missed something? Couldn’t anybody when they were rushing the way they all were, fighting the clock while Felicity remained missing?

  “Is this guy dangerous?” Angela asked.

  “Nothing on his record,” Griffin said. “That’s no guarantee he won’t do something crazy.”

  “Shouldn’t you call for backup or something?” Angela asked. “Isn’t that what cops do?”

  “I’m kind of freelancing right now,” Griffin said. “And my colleagues are busy at another potential crime scene.”

  To her great relief, Angela dropped it. Griffin just wanted to explore the lead. If she opened up another trail, she’d follow with her coworkers’ help. If Tolliver was another dead end, another roadblock on the way to finding Felicity, she’d walk away quietly and let the whole thing go.

  She stopped in front of Tolliver’s small house. The street remained quiet in the morning light. A sprinkler chattered on a neighbor’s lawn, its misty spray of water catching the light and glistening like diamonds. Two doors down from Tolliver, an elderly man with a stooped back placed an American flag on his porch, his face full of pride.

  “Stay in the car,” Griffin said. “Just wait for me.”

  “Okay. But can I ask you something first?”

  “Sure.”

  “Michael said he was attacked by some woman who thinks Erica stole her baby,” Angela said. “Where did that crazy idea come from?”

  Griffin felt her face flush. “Yeah, that’s kind of a long story. He’s okay. I know that. Just wait here.”

  Griffin started across the lawn. She wondered once again what she was doing there, whether her presence on another rogue mission might mean the end of her career. But just as she felt a certain empathy for Erica Frazier, left behind and rejected by her husband, she also felt the same thing for Angela Frazier. The woman had no idea what her husband was up to and what the end result of the night’s activities was going to be. Would she come away from the evening holding the unexpected title of stepmother? Now that she had seen that old wedding picture on her husband’s computer, would her marriage even survive?

  As Griffin approached the door, she slowed. It appeared to be ajar about a foot. She looked to one side of the yard and then the other, seeing nothing and no one. She reached down and drew her weapon, the textured grip of the Glock 22 bringing her a measure of reassurance.

  She reached the door, the sun warming the back of her neck, and called out.

  “Mr. Tolliver? Trudeau Police Department. Mr. Tolliver?”

  She listened at the door and heard nothing. She used her foot to nudge the door open all the way. For the second time that night, she stepped across a threshold, unsure of what she’d find on the other side. She hoped for a better result than with Todd Friedman and took comfort in actually being armed.

  “Mr. Tolliver?”

  A sound came from the kitchen. A moan? A grunt?

  “Mr. Tolliver? Trudeau Police.”

  “Here . . .”

  Griffin moved through the living room and headed for the kitchen. When she reached the entrance, she saw the table canted to one side and an overturned chair. Then she saw a man on the floor, his hand held to his jaw, his right eye puffy and half-closed.

  “Wayne Tolliver?” Griffin asked.

  “I am,” the man said from the floor. “Can you help me up?”

  Griffin kept the gun out and maintained her distance from the man. “Are you alone in the house?”

  “I am. My attacker left.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “Would I look like this if I was?”

  Griffin bent over and patted the man, checking his pockets. Then she holstered her gun and helped him to his feet, guiding him into a kitchen chair, which scuffed against the floor as he sat.

  “Thank you,” he said. “This has been a hell of a night.”

  “Who did this to you?” Griffin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tolliver said. “He must have wanted my TV—”

  Griffin leaned closer. “Who did this to you? And I’ll give you a hint—I already know.”

  Tolliver considered her, his head turned so he could see her out of his good eye.

  “Don’t make me say that despicable man’s name.”

  “You have to. Who did this to you?”

  “Can I get some ice?”

  “Maybe in a minute. Give me the name
.”

  Tolliver looked resigned. He shifted his weight on the chair, his movements making the vinyl surface squeak. “Jake Little.”

  Griffin walked to the freezer. On her way, she grabbed a plastic bag from the counter and filled it with ice. She brought it back and handed it to Tolliver who gently placed it against his forehead.

  “Why did he do this to you?” she asked.

  “I think I need a lawyer.”

  “That’s your right,” Griffin said. “But if you help us find this girl, I’ll do what I can to make everyone forget that you didn’t tell us everything you knew this morning. That’s impeding an investigation, so you might want to do what you can to get out from under that charge. And if you really care about helping Felicity, as I think you do . . .”

  “Okay,” he said. “I do care about her. And not in the way her mother suggests. All I’ve ever done is try to help the girl. That’s it.”

  “Help her how? And what does it have to do with Jake Little?”

  “I’m not sure, to be honest.”

  Griffin raised a warning finger. “Time is short.”

  “Okay, okay. Look, a year and a half ago, I got to know Lynn Frazier. She was playing some music around town, some solo shows and things, in different clubs. And I used to go listen, so we got to know each other. Apparently she found out from Erica that I was Felicity’s music teacher.”

  “Okay. We knew Erica was talking to members of Michael Frazier’s family.”

  “Right. About a year ago, Erica and Lynn came into contact again. Don’t ask me how. I got the feeling they hadn’t spoken for a while. Maybe not since Michael and Erica split up. I think it was Michael’s mother who got them back in touch. That’s what Erica said. Anyway, I saw Lynn about six months ago at a show, and she mentioned it to me. Very casually. We were drinking some beers, maybe too many, and she said she thought there was a good chance Felicity was Michael’s daughter. Her niece. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but she seemed unhappy that the kid might be growing up without knowing a big part of her family. I saw her again about a month ago, and she seemed pretty concerned about the kid because she knew about the child protective services call. Again, I don’t know how. Maybe from Mr. Little.”