Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(64)

“Mrs. Schroeder, wait a minute, will you?” Afton was excited. This was the same MO the kidnappers had used when they’d strong-armed the Dardens’ babysitter. She ran across the street, grabbed Max, and pulled him back to Mrs. Schroeder’s house.

“Tell him,” Afton said to Mrs. Schroeder. “Tell Detective Montgomery exactly what you saw.”

Max listened to her carefully, asked a couple of questions, and then said, “Could you identify this man again?”

“It was pretty dark.”

“But if we sent a police sketch artist over, you’d give it a try?”

“Absolutely,” Schroeder said.

“And which house does Mr. Foster live in?”

“That one.” Schroeder pointed to a nondescript two-story home that was two doors down.

“I knocked on the door there,” Afton said. “Nobody’s home.”

“Do you know where Mr. Foster works?” Max asked.

Schroeder gave a tight nod. “Certainly. He works at the Heartland Insurance Agency right down on Main Street. Next to the ice cream parlor.”

Max threw his cell phone at Afton. “Get him. Get Foster on the line ASAP.”

Afton did a fast Google search, located the number, and got Foster on the line. When she told him why she was calling, he sounded stunned.

“Mrs. Pink?” he said. “Dead?”

“Let me give you to Detective Montgomery,” Afton said, passing the phone to Max.

Max did a little more explaining to the somewhat excited Foster, then said, “This may sound like an odd question, but did you order a pizza last night around ten o’clock? Did you pick one up and carry it home? Or have one delivered?”

Max’s brows pinched together, and he shot a look at Afton. The answer must have been no. He thanked Foster, and then asked him to call either the FBI or the Hudson Police if he suddenly remembered anything that might be of help.

Max thumbed the Off button on his phone. “No pizza last night.”

Schroeder’s face went white and she touched a hand to her throat. “So that was the killer I saw?” She looked stunned.

“Could have been, ma’am,” Max said.


*

IT had to be the same guy,” Max told Jasper. “The same guy who cold-cocked the babysitter.” Max and Afton had done a quick dog-and-pony explanation to a grim-looking Don Jasper.

That was the spark that lit the flame. Suddenly Jasper was snapping his fingers, gathering his posse. Radios crackled to life and backup was called for. More FBI, state police, and uniformed officers. Jasper was demanding backup for his backup.

As the furor boiled up around them, Max pulled Afton aside. “We gotta go talk to Susan Darden again. Now she’s the only one we know who really got a decent look at this doll lady.”

Afton was all for it.

“But who the hell is this doll lady?” Max chewed on this problem as they hurried to his car. “Do you think she knows Susan or Richard Darden?”

“Maybe she worked with Darden,” Afton said.

“At Novamed? That thought never occurred to me.”

Afton shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

“So how does she relate to the pizza guy?”

“I don’t know,” Afton said. “Could be . . . his girlfriend? Or maybe, I don’t know, his mother?”





27


IT was a subdued Susan Darden who opened the door for Afton and Max that evening. Dressed in a pale peach cashmere hoodie and matching pants, she looked the perfect picture of a young upscale mommy. Except, of course, for the swollen red eyes, missing husband, and kidnapped child.

“Come in,” Susan urged as Afton and Max stomped snow off their boots and stepped from darkness into the flood of warm light that bathed her front hallway. “It’s still so cold out.” She closed the enormous door as a hiss of freezing air blew in.

Afton and Max shrugged off their heavy coats and hung them on a brass coatrack. Max did a little extra clumping to extricate the snow from the waffle weave soles of his boots.

“This way, please,” Susan said.

She led them into her living room, a fairly grand space in Afton’s estimation. Two enormous white tufted sofas faced each other across a red-lacquered Chinese-style coffee table. Drapery hung in artful swags on the windows. Oil paintings and framed prints hung on the walls and above the white marble fireplace. Afton recognized one, a contemporary graphic of pill bottles that she thought might have been done by the artist Damien Hirst.

“You have a lovely home,” Afton said.

“Thank you,” Susan said almost absently. “I suppose it is.”

“Nice Oriental carpet,” Max said. “Real springy.”

“Silk, I believe,” Susan said. “Persian. A kilim pattern.”

They were standing in a semicircle, everyone a little on edge, until Susan finally said, “I’m sorry, where are my manners? Please come and sit down.”

That made things a little better.

Once Max and Afton were settled on one sofa and Susan on the other, Max didn’t bother to mince words. “You know about the woman in Hudson? That she was killed?”

Susan nodded ever so slightly. “The woman who was in charge of organizing the doll show, yes. Chief Thacker called me late this afternoon.” She crossed her arms in front of her and hugged herself tightly. “I’m afraid I might be next.”