Wherever She Goes(15)

Silence.

“There is no mud on the rest of the vehicle, sir,” I say. “Just the plate, where the number has been disguised.”

“You can tell that the plate has been deliberately smeared with mud.”

“I have a three-year-old, sir. I know what smearing looks like. Paint, food, dirt, you name it, I’ve seen it smeared. The whorl pattern is there, and the lines—”

“I . . . appreciate your . . . diligence in this matter, Ms. Finch. You have gone . . . above and beyond.”

That tone is his voice isn’t admiration. I hear the hesitation, as if he’s struggling not to tell me I’m crazy. I open my mouth, but he continues.

“There isn’t a missing child,” he says. “It comes down to that. Few crimes are reported as quickly as a snatched kid. Even then, kidnapped children are exceedingly rare. I know you’ve probably seen a hundred movies with children grabbed on the street, but I’ve been on the force thirty years and never worked a single stranger-grab case. It just doesn’t happen.”

“Because it’s usually custody based. The noncustodial parent takes their child. There’s no reason that isn’t what we have here, sir.”

“Yes, there is, Ms. Finch. There is the lack of a reported missing child. You’re a single mom with a little girl. Imagine if your ex lost custody and grabbed her at the playground.”

He wouldn’t. First, Paul is too good a parent to ever lose custody altogether. Second, he’d never take her. He will fight like hell, but he would never resort to kidnapping.

Would I?

My gut seizes at the question. I don’t want to consider it. I certainly don’t want to answer it.

Cooper continues. “How long would it take you to report her missing, Ms. Finch? Not two days, I bet.”

“Maybe the mom is trying to resolve this on her own. Maybe the father is threatening their son, and she’s afraid to call the—”

“Again, you are falling into dangerous speculative territory, Ms. Finch.”

“Okay, but—”

“It remains an open case. I am still investigating. I can assure you of that. Now, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go, but I do appreciate your diligence in this matter. Thank you.”

He disconnects before I can say anything else.



Cooper has a point. Without a missing-child report, there isn’t a case. The situation fully supports his theory—that I witnessed a parent-child dispute—and in light of that, I can see where my “I can tell the mud was smeared” revelation seemed like something from a civilian who watches too much CSI.

When my phone rings, I’ve been on the internet for hours, hunting for other cases that might explain why this disappearance wasn’t reported.

I reach over and answer, engrossed in an article and not checking caller ID.

“You actually picked up,” Paul says. “That’s a first.”

His tone tells me I shouldn’t have.

“Hey,” I say.

“So, it’s almost eleven at night, and I’ve been telling myself you’ll call. Of course you’ll call. Well, no, you never call. You text. Sometimes email. But you will make contact and explain yourself.”

“Explain myself?” I bristle. “If you’re talking about Gayle and the princess tea—”

“Is there another fiasco I should know about?”

I grit my teeth and count to three.

“You’re right,” I say. “I should have told you. I got . . . caught up in something. I did ask Gayle to pass on my apologies to you.”

“She shouldn’t have to.”

“Fair enough. I’m sorry, Paul. I really am. I’m sorry you got called when you were in court, and I’m even more sorry that Gayle had to clean up my mess.”

Silence.

Not the calm response you were expecting? I have other things on my mind right now. More important things.

“I’d like to call Gayle,” I say. “To apologize again. If you could give me her number—”

He snorts. “No, I’m not giving you her number. God only knows what you’d do with it.”

“Excuse me? I would use it to apologize and thank her. If you think I have any issue with you dating again, I don’t. I’m glad you are. She seems—”

“This isn’t about Gayle. It’s about our daughter, who has been looking forward to this for weeks. To having tea with her mother. Her mother who forgot. Completely forgot, and then made up some story about working late and car trouble and—”

“Made up?” My calm teeters, ready to shatter. “Seriously, Paul? When I make mistakes, I own them. This is no one’s fault but mine. Yes, there was a moment where I forgot, because I have a lot on my mind. But I did work late, and my car belt is broken.” I head for the apartment door. “Here, let me send you a photo of the engine.”

“You don’t have to do that, Aubrey.” His voice lowers. “You’re right. That was uncalled for. I’m sure your car—”

“Oh, hell, no. I’m sending you the proof. Just like I’ll send you a photo of my time card. You aren’t going to question me and then not give me the chance to defend myself, Counselor.”