Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(62)

“Digital,” Afton said.

“But are we better off for it?” The Scrounger picked up his almost empty glass and tinkled his ice cubes.

“Probably not,” Afton said. Though she did love her iPad.

“No, of course not,” The Scrounger said. “But to get back to your original inquiry . . . I have not noticed anything unusual or out of place in that neighborhood. Except for an empty Ripple bottle tossed into the recycling bin of a home that generally prefers Chateau Margaux Grand Cru or, at the very least, a Mondavi Cabernet. Though perhaps it was an insensitive transient who deposited his refuse among that of the hoi polloi.”

“So nothing at all,” Max said. He sounded disappointed.

“Nothing, my friend,” The Scrounger said. “Though I wish I could propel you in a more positive direction.”

“Ever hear of a halfway house called Dean’s Place?”

“Sure,” The Scrounger said. “Bunch of ex-druggies and drunks.”

“There’s a guy lives there named Al Sponger,” Max said. “Worked for the Dardens once. We brought him in for questioning yesterday and he’s being released this morning.”

The Scrounger nodded. “I see.”

Max pulled a photo out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “It’d be worth your while if you’d keep an eye on him.”

The Scrounger studied the photo. “Ah . . . a second level of surveillance. Your basic shadow-type investigation.”

“Something like that.”

“Consider it done.”

Max slipped a twenty from his wallet and placed it on top of the photo. “In case you’d like another refreshing beverage.”

“Always,” The Scrounger said.


*

BACK in the car, Max seemed at a loss for what to do next.

“Maybe we should finish going through the interviews?” Afton suggested.

“Better than just twiddling our thumbs,” he said, just as his cell phone rang. He grabbed it and swiped the On button.

“Detective Montgomery?” a voice blurted out. It was a man, his voice high-pitched and loud over a background of radio static and frantic voices. He was excited and speaking loud enough that Afton could hear him.

“Yes?”

“This is Sergeant Bill Hadley over at the Hudson Police Department?”

“What can I do for you, Sergeant Hadley?” Max hit another button and the phone was now on speaker.

“You’d better get over here fast,” Hadley said. “One of the witnesses you guys interviewed in that missing baby case was killed last night.”

Max didn’t seem to register what Hadley had just said. He hesitated for a few moments and then he said, “What?”

“One of the witnesses . . .”

“No, I heard that part,” Max said. “It’s just that . . . Wait, are you saying that Muriel Pink has been killed? The woman who was interviewed on TV last night?”

“Yes,” Sergeant Hadley said. “That’s it. Muriel Pink.”

“And she was . . .”

“It’s a mess,” Hadley cried. And this time he sounded anguished. “Worst I’ve ever seen!”





26


IF Max could hardly believe Muriel Pink had been murdered, neither could Afton. They both stared straight ahead as Max banged onto the entrance ramp to I-94, ignoring the speed limit as they sped across town heading for Hudson.

“How could this happen? How could this happen?” Max muttered.

Afton could only keep repeating, “I know, I know.”

They flew through downtown Saint Paul’s Spaghetti Junction, rocketed through Woodbury, flew past the Minnesota Highway Patrol weigh station, and finally crossed over the bridge that ran above the Saint Croix River. As they swerved onto the icy off-ramp, Afton said, “Easy, take it easy. You’re gonna fly right off this curve and take us straight into the river.”

“That damn Portia,” Max seethed. His knuckles were white from his death grip on the steering wheel; his face was as red as a Roma tomato. “That interview aired last night and set somebody’s whiskers a-twitching. God, somebody should have known. I should have known. We should have had somebody watching Muriel Pink. At the very least brought in the Hudson Police.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Afton said.

“It had to be that damn doll lady,” Max snarled. “She figured out where the old lady lived, then came back and finished her off. Murdered the poor old bat.”

“You don’t know that.”

“That’s the funny thing,” Max said. “I do know that.” He glanced over at her. “And so do you. Tell me you don’t have the same gut feeling that I do.”

“Okay,” Afton said as they passed the local Dairy Queen, barely squeaking through a yellow light. “I do.”


*

MURIEL Pink’s neighborhood looked starkly different from the last time they’d been there. Squad cars with flashing lights, an ambulance, and several unmarked FBI vehicles clogged the street in front of the murder house. On the front walk and in the side yard, crime scene investigators marked, measured, and cataloged footsteps in the newly fallen snow.

Grim-faced neighbors stood in clumps of two and three, watching the spectacle. Their faces were as gray and shocked as Afton figured hers must be. Muriel Pink’s murder was unforeseen. But yes, in hindsight, someone should have been worried about her and put some security precautions in place.