Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(38)

Susan picked at an invisible piece of lint on her lapel. “Yes, I think Jilly would stand a better chance without the baby. It’s . . . The baby served an important part in keeping our marriage together.”

“Okay,” Max said. “That’s all we need to know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Susan asked.

“It means,” Max said, “that we’re going to severely sweat the two of them.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard yet,” Susan said. “But Richard is . . . well, let’s just say he’s honed his skills at being evasive.”

“Of course he has,” Max said. “He’s a corporate big shot. Still, we’re fairly skilled in our interview techniques. And there’s always the threat of incarceration.”

“That sounds good to me,” Susan said. She showed a faint smile. The first one they’d seen from her.

“While we have you here,” Afton said, “would you mind if we went over a few things?”

“I guess,” Susan said.

Afton consulted her notes. “Are you familiar with the Wee Ones Daycare Center on France Avenue?”

Susan shook her head. “No. Why?”

“The woman who owns it had some trouble recently,” Afton said.

“Concerning a child?” Susan asked.

“Actually, it was a tax issue,” Afton said.

“Oh,” Susan said. She looked thoughtful. “You know, I never considered taking Elizabeth Ann to day care.” She curled her lip. “But I was pretty darned hot to hire a nanny. Although I hesitate to call Jilly Hudson that now. Considering . . .”

“I doubt she’ll be putting nanny duties on her résumé for a long time,” Max said.

Afton leaned forward and said, “If you can manage it, I’d like to hear a little bit more about the doll show lady. The one who called herself Molly.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Susan said. “I was at the Skylark Mall buying a pink snowsuit for Elizabeth Ann and I kind of stumbled upon this doll show.”

“And you met a woman named Molly who created reborn dolls,” Afton said.

“Yes,” Susan said. “At first it seemed a little weird, but when you see one of them, when you actually hold one in your arms, there’s something . . . kind of compelling about it. Something magical.”

“So you’d say this Molly was fairly polished at sales,” Max said. “At drawing in customers.”

“She drew me in,” Susan said bitterly.

“What else can you remember about her?” Afton asked. “I know you sat down with a police artist and did an Identi-Kit sketch, but the one I saw was fairly generic. It could have applied to a lot of females in the forty-to-fifty-year age range.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Susan said. “My memory . . .” She touched a hand to her head. “It’s terrible.”

“Don’t apologize,” Max said. “At least it’s a starting point. But what we’d really love is some little detail or snippet of information that might be lurking in your memory. Something you picked up, but haven’t shared with us yet.”

“I have no idea what that might be,” Susan said. “I mean, I’ve been over this about a dozen times with the FBI. I even looked at that nanny cam footage, but it was too dark and grainy to really see anything.”

“We know that,” Afton said. “And we appreciate it. But if you could just scrape up a little bit more information on this Molly person. Even if you just shared your impressions, it would help us.”

“Well,” Susan said. “She was a thin woman and not all that attractive.”

“How’d she wear her hair?” Afton asked.

“Kind of mousy and straggly. Brown, with little touches of gray.”

“So your general impression was . . .” Afton prompted.

“That she’d lived kind of a hardscrabble life,” Susan said slowly. “She had this careworn look about her. And her hands . . . they were rough and raw, as if she’d done a lot of hard work. Like maybe she’d worked in a factory or on a farm.”

“What about her speaking voice?” Max asked.

“Fairly smooth,” Susan said. “But now that you mention it, she was doing the nicey-nice thing. You know, like salesclerks do? Pretending they’re your friend?”

“Did you get the impression that this woman was educated?” Afton asked.

“Just the opposite,” Susan said. “In fact . . .” She stopped, tilted her head, and said, “She had that Midwestern dialect going. Kind of like those people in the movie Fargo. Like, when she finished a sentence, her voice kind of went up at the end. As if she was asking a question, even though she wasn’t. Hmm, it’s funny how I just remembered that.”

“You did good,” Max said.

“You did great,” Afton said.

Susan gazed at them, her eyes suddenly turning red and moist. “Are you going to find my baby?”

Afton never hesitated. “Absolutely we’re going to find her.”





18


SPITS of ice and snow pinged the windshield of Max’s car. Car exhaust boiled up around them, making it look as though they were navigating a field of hot springs in Iceland. Instead, they were blasting through the heart of downtown Minneapolis on barely plowed streets, headed for the Medical Examiner’s Office.