Wherever She Goes(17)

I turn up the brightness on my phone and enlarge the CCTV photo. It’s been enhanced, but it’s still blurry around the edges. At the moment of the freeze frame, though, she was turned toward the camera, giving a near-perfect head shot of a young woman with a blond ponytail.

It’s the woman from Sunday. The one with the boy.

I stare at the photo. She’s grim-faced, but I remember her smiles—the hesitant one for me and the joyful one for her son.

Her son.

I scramble up and start hitting 911. Then I stop and go into my recent calls and redial Cooper’s number instead.

When I get his voice mail, I hang up and try the main line I used yesterday.

“I’m calling about the murdered woman,” I say. “The one you’re trying to identify.”

“Do you recognize her?”

“Yes, I—”

“Let me connect you.”

A click. Another click. Two rings. Then a message, telling me that the line is in use, but my call is important and please hold.

Please hold.

Yep, keep holding.

As I wait, I look back at the photo.

Do you recognize the woman?

Yes, I met her.

You know her then?

Well, no, I mean, I don’t know her name or . . . anything about her actually, but I spoke to her briefly in the park.

The park where she was killed?

No, two blocks over, in Grant Park.

You saw her in Grant Park the day of her murder?

No, I saw her two days before. On the day of her murder, I saw her son being kidnapped . . .

Yeah, that conversation is not going to end well. I need to speak to someone who knows about my initial report.

I need to speak to Officer Cooper.





Chapter Eleven





I catch a cab to the police station, well aware that I’m now spending more on taxi fares than I would on a damned fan belt. This, however, is urgent.

I get into the station and ask to speak to Officer Cooper. He’s out. I explain that it’s about the murdered woman, and that just gets confusing. Cooper isn’t involved with that case, and the woman on the desk isn’t aware of any kidnapping.

I’m about to try explaining better when an officer crosses behind the desk. She’s about my age, with dark skin, close-cropped curls, and high cheekbones. She wears a tailored blouse with a pencil skirt, but I recognize her even out of uniform.

Officer Jackson.

I hesitate. She’s not exactly my biggest cheerleader, but I brush off the misgivings—when she hears what I have to say, her opinion will change. It has to.

I leave the desk and take off after her, catching up near the entrance.

“Officer Jackson,” I say. “Aubrey Finch. I’m not sure if you remember me—”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.” Her lips tighten, and I swear her gaze shunts toward the door, as if measuring the distance.

“It’s about the murdered woman, the one whose body was found in the park. She’s connected to the kidnapping.”

“There is no kidnapping, Ms. Finch.” She speaks slowly—clearly I’m having trouble processing this concept. “No child has been reported missing.”

“Because his mother is dead. That’s the woman you found. I recognized her the moment I saw her photo.”

“I see . . .” Another glance toward the entrance, now filled with people coming in, talking fast among themselves. “If you believe you have information, I suggest you speak to the front desk. I really need to—”

“I’m telling you why that boy hasn’t been reported missing. His mother is dead. She was murdered only two blocks from where I saw him taken. That’s why he was in the park. That’s why she didn’t report his disappearance. She’s dead.”

Her gaze rises over my shoulder. “Ms. Finch, why don’t you—”

“Are you listening to me? Look at my report. The woman in that photo matches my description. She was murdered two blocks from where I saw her child kidnapped—on the day she was murdered. Her son was wandering around the park alone, and then he was grabbed into an SUV, probably by the guy who just shot his mom.”

“Excuse me,” a voice says behind me. “Ms. . . . Finch you said?”

“Aubrey Finch,” I say as I turn to see a man in a suit and overcoat. A detective. Thank God.

“You said you saw the dead woman?” he continues. “With a child?”

“Yes, a little boy who was kidnapped by a man in an SUV—”

That’s when I spot the camera. Right over the shoulder of the man in the overcoat. A video camera with the local news call letters emblazoned on the side.

I see that camera with the recording light on, and I see myself reflected in the lens, my eyes wide, my hair shoved into a ponytail, my collar half tucked under.

I flip out my collar as I turn away from the man and the camera.

“The press conference is being held in room 1-B,” Jackson says as she shuttles me off down a side hall. She opens a door and bustles me inside.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought that was a detective.”

“I don’t know what your deal is, Ms. Finch—”

“My deal is that I witnessed a kidnapping, and I understand that without a reported disappearance, there’s no case. But this woman’s death explains it. She was murdered, and her son ran to the playground. Her killer came for him. He knew the boy’s name and when he called it, the boy ran over. Then he saw a stranger and freaked out. Her killer took him.”