The Only Witness (6 page)

"Brittany! You poor thing." Micaela plopped down on the twin bed next to her, throwing an arm around her like they were best friends.

"Is this her?" Micaela picked up the photo of Ivy that Brittany had taken off the wall. "You were lucky to have such a sweet baby."

She made it sound like her baby was in the past. "I
am
lucky. Ivy
is
sweet," Brittany hissed.

Finn squirmed like his jockeys were too tight. "I understand you two went to high school together," he said.

Like that meant they had to be friends? Brittany dropped her gaze to the floor. Had Micaela told him that they were exact opposites? Micaela d'Allessandro had been a big star on the soccer team when she was a senior and Brittany was a sophomore who practically flunked out of phys ed. Worse, Micaela was the originator of Virtue Inc., the holier-than-thou club where everyone promised to abstain from sex until they got married. Virgins on Ice, everyone else called it. Brittany checked Micaela's left hand—yeah, that stupid silver promise ring was still there.

While Micaela ran around being Miss Perfect Virgin, Brittany's growing belly proved that she was headed for the blistering tropics below instead of the cool fluff of heaven. Mrs. Taylor, who ran the program for unwed mothers, insisted on calling the program for pregnant girls by the ridiculous name of Sister-Mothers Trust, which Brittany and her friends quickly changed to Sluts on Toast before anyone else could come up with something more awful.

And now here they sat, Slut on Toast next to Virgin on Ice. As opposite as hot fudge on ice cream. Ivy'd be the cherry on top. Brittany raised her hand and bit down on her knuckle. She'd bite off her finger before she'd cry in front of Micaela d'Allessandro.

"I'm here for you, Britt." Micaela gave her a one-armed squeeze. "Whatever you want to tell me."

Brittany shrugged off the arm around her shoulders and slid away. "How'd you get to be a cop so fast?"

Micaela stiffened. "I'm a police tech right now. I work at the station and answer phones and log in evidence and do research. Next year, after I finish my associate degree, I'll go to the academy."

"So I don't have to talk to you." Brittany looked at Finn when she said it, but his eyes were elsewhere. He was still studying everything, pacing in the small space. It was a teensy bedroom with all her and Ivy's furniture and there were way too many people in it right now.

"Britt," her father hissed again from the doorway. "We need their help, don't we?" He held a piece of paper in his hand. A search warrant? On television, that was always the key to the kingdom. But there wasn't anything to find here; this wasn't the house they should be searching. Another house out there somewhere had her beautiful baby girl in it.

Finn stopped in front of the bassinet next to her bed. "The baby slept here?"

She could tell what he was thinking, that the white wicker basket was a shoebox, that maybe she didn't plan on her daughter ever getting to be a big girl. She lifted her chin. "Ivy's only two months old; it's not like she needs a lot of space. My friend Jenn is giving me her crib in a few months when she gets a regular bed for her little boy."

Micaela scooted close again. "What happened with Ivy, Britt? Was Charlie involved?"

Brittany rolled her eyes. "Of course Charlie was not
involved.
" Shit, that sounded lame.
"He wants to be, of course, but he's at college," she said. Who the hell did Micaela—Miki—think she was, snooping into her personal life? "Why would you think Charlie had anything to do with this? God!"

Micaela pursed her lips. "You shouldn't—"

"—take the Lord's name in vain," Brittany said in perfect unison with her. Micaela might wear a uniform now, but she was obviously the same God-is-Great-and-So-Am-I bitch she'd been in high school.

They locked eyes with each other. Over by the closet, Detective Finn nervously cleared his throat. Micaela shot a glance his way, and then she twitched and forced a fake smile onto her face. She stretched out a hand like she was thinking about placing it on Brittany's thigh, but left it hovering a few inches above as she said in a sickly sweet voice, "Have any of your little Sister-Mother friends ever talked about wanting to hurt their babies?"

"I'm not a rat." It just came out.

She didn't mean that they'd
done
anything. It was just that they'd made a pact to keep their bitching inside their group.
What happens in Sluts stays in Sluts.
Even Mrs. Taylor said that—except for the sluts part—because, like she said, all young moms need to be able to talk openly in the SMT class. Being discrete, Mrs. Taylor called it. Bottom line, it meant you didn't rat on the other girls. But judging by the way both Micaela and Detective Finn perked up like they smelled something good to eat, Brittany knew it was probably the worst thing she could have said right then.

Chapter
6

Fourteen hours after Ivy disappears

"Out." Finn gestured at the yard.

The orange cat—Lok?—stood halfway in, halfway out the door, regarding the grass and trees uncertainly. His braver twin, Kee, sat on the porch a few feet away, switching his striped tail.

"You're always begging to go out," Finn told the cat, giving his fuzzy backside a nudge with the side of his shoe. "So go."

He'd been too busy to scoop the litter box poop for a couple of days. He'd stumbled home at three in the morning, after making sure all relevant information about Ivy's disappearance was entered into the Washington State Patrol system and the National Crime Information Center database. When he pushed open the front door, he discovered that the damn tabbies had used the rug in the foyer for their bathroom. After he tossed the whole thing out and put new litter in their toilet box, he collapsed on his bed. The cats insisted on sleeping next to him, pinning his legs in place like small superheated sandbags. Every time he turned over, they'd complain and jump off. Then they would slowly sneak back, all the while purring loudly for some inexplicable reason. He'd tried locking them out of the bedroom, but then they scratched on the door and yowled all night.

Cargo slept on the rug next to the bed, snoring, but somehow managing to wake up and lick Finn's hand every time he let a finger droop over the mattress edge. Now the giant mutt was doing his usual patrol of the yard, smelling every overgrown inch and watering the irises and roses and the half-finished fence with his own brand of liquid fertilizer.

With all the animal interaction, he hadn't gotten more than three hours of sleep. It was a damn good thing Wendy never bought that parrot she'd wanted, or he'd have to listen to a mouthy bird, too. As he locked the deadbolt, he wondered if she had a bird these days. Probably not. He'd checked out her lover; business professor Gordon Black didn't look the parrot type. Maybe she didn't want a menagerie anymore; maybe the right man was enough for her now.

When he let the screen door slam, the cats rocketed into the bushes as if he'd fired a shot at them. Then they turned and regarded him with wary green eyes. "Oh, for godssake, you'll be fine," he grumbled. "Go kill some mice. Eat a bird. Shit outside for a change."

His cell phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He half expected the FBI, but the readout said
Scott Mankin.
His soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law. He didn't want to talk to Scott; they never had more than two words to say to each other now. But if he didn't answer, the dang thing would ring again in ten minutes.

"I'm getting into the car, Scott," he said into the phone.

"It's Dolores, dear. How are you? You're working on that Morgan baby case? You must be exhausted."

At least his mother-in-law had given him an exit line. "Yeah, Dolores, I'm hanging in there, but not getting much sleep. I'm leaving the house now."

"You know what you need?"

A transfer back to Chicago? A good lay? Some peace and quiet so he could finish his painting?

"A home-cooked meal. We haven't seen you in weeks. Why don't you come over tonight? We're having lasagna."

Lasagna sounded good. Having to sit at a table with his in-laws didn't. Soon to be ex-in-laws. "Thanks for the offer, Dolores. But I have no idea when I'll be able to get away."

"Your father says he and your mother are worried about you."

Startled, he said, "My father?"

"We email, dear, remember?"

After retiring from managing a golf course, his father had developed a passion for building miniature landscapes. He volunteered at several museums, building dioramas, and was transforming his basement into a wonderland of hills and valleys and small villages through which a miniature train ran at his command. Finn was still not used to this newfound enthusiasm for all things tiny. But now he remembered that Dolores had instantly hit it off with Michael Finn when they'd come to Chicago for the wedding. Dolores built elaborate dollhouses. She and his father no doubt compared scales and plans and materials over the internet.

"Oh yeah," he finally mumbled. "Tell him I'm fine and I'll call when I can. I really don't have time for anything right now except this case."

"Just come when you can, then, Matt. I can always warm some up for you."

"We'll see. Gotta go now."

"God bless."

"Right. Thanks." He stuck the phone into his pocket and opened the car door. Cargo nearly knocked him over as the big mutt lunged, getting his front feet and head into the driver's seat before Finn could grab his collar.

"No, no, and hell no!" He hauled back on the collar. The dog yelped. His front legs scrabbled against the seat. How could a dog weigh so darn much? A massive paw landed on the driver's wheel and a loud bleat startled them both. Cargo shot backwards into Finn, fell onto the ground and then galloped back to the front porch.

"For godssake, dog." Finn flicked dirt clods from the seat and then folded himself into the car. Sweat already slimed his back under his belt holster; he dreaded putting on his linen jacket in this heat.

He arrived bleary-eyed and rumpled at George Vancouver High School. As he extracted himself from the seat, he noticed that his khaki trousers were covered with black and orange hairs. He brushed his fingers over them. They seemed to be glued to the fabric.
Damn it
. He rummaged through the first aid kit in the trunk until he found some adhesive tape. He wound it around his hand, and standing with one foot on the back bumper of the car, managed to peel some of the fur from his pant legs. How much was stuck to the seat of his trousers? Did he look like a walking furball from behind?

"Detective Finn!"

He straightened, glad the woman hadn't caught him patting his own butt. She was short and plump, with curly blond hair, dressed in beige slacks, sandals, and a short-sleeved plaid shirt.

She smiled. "I saw you on the news last night."

He hated this aspect of small town America, the way everyone knew who everyone else was. If the department ever needed undercover work, they'd have to borrow a detective from another county.

She held out a hand. "I'm Daisy Taylor, the local head of the Sister-Mothers Trust program."

He suppressed a smile as he peeled the tape from his hand and turned to toss the wad into the trunk. 'Sluts on Toast' was what Brittany had called the group. He pulled on his jacket to cover his gun.

The woman walked him toward the building. "Three girls are absent this morning, including Brittany. The other two are seniors who somehow got the impression that they don't need to attend this year. I'm going to have to speak to them. Of course, I didn't really expect Brittany today." She shook her head. "This is all so awful. I can't believe this is happening in Evansburg. I hope the girls and I can help in some way. We want to do anything we can."

"I'll need the names of the missing girls." He'd get the women detectives to locate and interview them.

"Odds are that they're at the outlet mall in Larch Creek; it has a McDonald's." She stopped and turned toward him. "I know this probably isn't my place, but I was sorry to hear about your wife." She put a hand on his forearm. "That just wasn't right."

Did everyone in this burg know his life story?

She blushed. "Sorry, I probably shouldn't have said that. But my brother works out at the college in the business school, and you know, people talk."

Obviously, the whole town talked. Finn cleared his throat uncertainly.

"My sister's newly single, too."

He continued to stare at her. Was she actually trying to set him up on a date?

"Well." She sniffed and then led him down a hallway past a glass case filled with two rows of photos. He stopped. On the top, under the label
Graduating This Year
, were pictures of four smiling teenage girls with babies in their arms. Names were typed and pinned neatly under each photo.

In the lower row, under
Graduating Next Year
, was Brittany Morgan's photo. Brittany wore a yellow blouse and a green headband. Infant Ivy Rose laughed at the camera, her mouth open and her eyes shiny. The baby had a yellow and green ribbon wrapped around her head, with a big bow over her left ear, like she was someone's special present. There could be little doubt that she was Brittany's daughter—same ivory skin, same strawberry-blond hair, same bow-shaped lips.