Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(11)

“You can eat a big-ass burger like that and still stay skinny?” Max asked.

She ignored his comment. “What do you want?”

“Double cheeseburger,” Max said. “Man cannot live by bread alone; sometimes he needs a little grease.”

“There you go,” Afton said.

They nibbled their way along I-94, blotting drips and drops of mayonnaise, talking about the Darden case, Afton asking a million different questions.

Max had to hand it to her. Afton had some interesting theories and insights. Maybe a few too many, but her heart was in the right place. She was persistent and dedicated, traits that generally made for a good investigator. And she was fairly decent company. Especially on an errand that would probably prove to be exactly that, an errand.

“Is this pretty standard?” Afton asked. “That you would cross jurisdictions like this without clearing it? I mean, what’s the protocol?”

“I’m part of MPD’s newly formed squad. It’s called the Mutual Aid and Multi-Jurisdictional Squad. MAMJS. Gives the MPD a little more leverage in investigating outside our boundaries.”

“So you’ve got free rein to chase down bad guys outside of Minneapolis?”

“Something like that.”

“Bet the BCA hates that.”

“That’d be about right.”

They were cruising along at seventy miles an hour, just passing the Highway Patrol weigh station, when Afton asked, “How old are your sons?”

“Fourteen and seventeen,” Max said.

“At that age they must be . . . a handful.” Afton figured princess parties and My Little Pony were infinitely preferable to filthy sneakers and stinky hockey jerseys.

Max rolled his eyes. “You have no idea.”

They drove for another ten minutes, both mulling over their own thoughts. Wondering about the missing Darden baby, formulating questions to ask this doll lady.

“How come you got two luxury cars?” Max asked suddenly. He’d cranked back the passenger seat in the Jag until it was fully reclined, then fiddled with the heater until he’d achieved the absolute perfect temperature. For him.

“It all came down to Mickey having cash flow problems, but owning a large inventory,” Afton explained. Mickey had been the kids’ stepfather but had never formally adopted Tess and Poppy. Thus, he was off the hook for any child support.

They spun across the Interstate bridge that arced over the Saint Croix, the river looking icy and turgid beneath them.

“I was always going to sell both cars and buy something more practical,” Afton said. “Maybe a Ford or Honda . . .”

“But you like driving what you got,” said Max, a Cheshire cat grin spreading across his face.

“Yeah,” Afton admitted. “I guess you could say that.”


*

MURIEL Pink, the woman who’d organized the doll show, lived on Flint Street, a couple of blocks up the hill from the main drag in Hudson.

Afton and Max turned down a tree-lined boulevard where each two-story house was practically identical to the next. As if they’d been given an allotment, each house had two trees in the front yard and a driveway leading neatly up to a double garage.

Afton pulled to a stop in front of a tall, narrow house and checked the address. Yup, this was it. Another white, two-story house with a slightly American Gothic vibe to it. Still, the sidewalk was shoveled, the slightly tilting bird feeder was stocked with oilseed, and the place looked well maintained.

“You ready to do this?” Max asked as they climbed out of the car.

Afton nodded as they approached the house. The front yard was a mash-up of animal tracks—dogs, squirrels, birds, maybe a raccoon or two. At the base of an evergreen tree a pile of feathers marked the scene of the crime where a neighborhood cat or marauding raccoon had murdered a bird.

Afton and Max knocked on the door and were greeted by Mrs. Muriel Pink herself. She was a small, frail-looking woman with a tiny waist and pouf of white hair. Probably in her late seventies, she wore a belted housedress and a pair of white slip-on sneakers.

“Are you the FBI?” Pink asked them in a high, thin, agitated voice.

“No, ma’am,” Max said. “We’re from the Minneapolis Police Department. I’m Max Montgomery and this is Afton Tangler. You and I spoke on the phone about an hour ago?”

Pink barely glanced at Max’s ID as she ushered them into a tidy little house that felt like it was heated to around ninety degrees. Afton thought it was like walking into a thermal underground cavern.

“Would you like something to drink?” Pink asked. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Ice water would be great,” Max said. His forehead was already beading up with sweat.

“Second that,” Afton said.

Pink puttered about her neat little fifties-era kitchen where dolls were displayed everywhere. On top of cabinets, on doll stands, posed on the counter, sprawled on the radiator. Afton wondered why the radiator dolls hadn’t melted into a sticky rubbery mess.

“You have an impressive collection of dolls,” Afton said, peeling off her jacket. If it was one degree hotter in here, she was going to have to rip off her sweater and strip down to her camisole.

Muriel Pink set their glasses of water on the table in front of them. “Oh my,” she said, laughing. “This is nothing. You should see my piano room and bedroom. Dolls everywhere.”