Mother May I(65)

There was almost a four-hour gap between Bree’s first, long conversation with her, when Coral Lee had been driving, and the short one at the party, when she’d been holed up someplace stationary. Robert could be tucked away in a north Georgia mountain cabin, stashed inside some shed in Alabama or a farmhouse in South Carolina, or in a soundproofed urban motel room in South Atlanta. All those landscapes and more were in range.

If it came down to a search, Robert would die of dehydration long before he was found. They didn’t have a starting point. Not even a state. His own tears and stress as he got hungrier and wetter and more lonely would burn up his reserves. A baby wouldn’t last long in those circumstances. Two days, maybe. Three at most.

Even if Marshall gambled, narrowed the search down to the mountains within two hours of Funtime, they wouldn’t find Robert. Not even with a hundred volunteers and a helicopter. Maybe not with a thousand. Not in time anyway. There were hiking trails and gravel drives and a million one-lane switchback roads up there. Tiny cabins and hunting blinds and sheds so overgrown with kudzu they looked like landscape. No, calling the cops to start a search once Coral had unbound the baby from her chest and left him to go meet Bree would be an impossible Hail Mary.

Outside the car the green and gold of Alabama was a blur, scrolling past his window, unheeded. He was supremely conscious of Bree beside him. She’d been quiet after sending her own texts, letting him search and compile and connect. He could smell her faint, herbal rose scent. If he couldn’t find Lexie, he’d go with her to meet Coral. Maybe he could get Coral to tell them where the baby was. Maye he could make her. Even as he thought this, he was hoping that there were limits in him, limits on what he might do for Bree. Right now, searching inside himself, he could not find them.

So there really was no backup plan. He had to find Lexie. Period. He opened a new browser and started searching for the Pine family’s digital footprint, taking callbacks from his sources as they came. Neither of them was on social media, and neither had credit cards. In spite of these limits, between his old partner and the Weavers and Gabrielle and his own research, Marshall had a pretty good file going by the time Bree hit the Georgia state line.

Coral Lee Pine had indeed owned a house with a carport, and it was located in the mountains of north Georgia. It was maybe half an hour north of Funtime, which made him glad Gabrielle was working that angle. Coral must know it, well. She’d sold her house for thirty-five thousand in cash about five months ago. Then she’d closed out her bank account and disappeared. This was just after her diagnosis.

Cancer, according to Tiana Weaver’s emailed report, which included copies of Coral Lee Pine’s medical records. Started in the ovaries, but it was everywhere before they found it. Lung fluid. Intestines. Liver. And brain.

That one paused him. He’d heard that brain-cancer patients could suffer personality changes. Some even became aggressive, lost their social inhibitions. And she was stage four.

She had no insurance, and her doctors had given her nine months, if she was lucky, without treatment. She hadn’t lied to Bree about the seriousness of her illness. She was definitely on her way out. He didn’t ask, and James Weaver didn’t tell him how Tiana had gotten this private information. He Venmo’d their hefty fee and got back to work.

Then the lab called.

“You owe me that shrimp dinner.” It was the cute tech, Jenna, again, flirty and exulting. There was no reason not to flirt back. Gain goodwill. He might need her help again, and he’d already decided he should keep the date he’d accidentally made. But he found he absolutely could not flirt with her in front of Bree.

Who would not care.

And yet.

“Good,” he said. Curt. Professional. He felt confusion in her silence. “My boss is right here, waiting for these results. So. Perfect timing.” He was rewarded both by Bree’s quick sideways smile at being called his boss and Jenna’s soft laughter.

“Gotcha. We can discuss your crustacean-based debt later,” she said, then told him they’d found fingerprints that were not Bree’s. A full thumb and a partial index.

He thanked her and asked her to send everything to Gabrielle at the firm ASAP and got off the phone. He had the names already, but the fingerprints might be useful as confirmation. Or defense exhibits if Bree was ever prosecuted.

The next step was tracing Lexie Pine’s known associates. Not hard. They all had records.

Two were in prison and one was dead, shot during a drug deal gone bad. But Toby Leland, her on-and-off boyfriend and maybe pimp, was on probation and had so far been compliant. That would make him very easy to find. When Marshall checked Leland’s registered address, he heard the cold interior click he’d always loved in an investigation. The sound of a case coming together.

It was the same as Lexie Pine’s last known address.

He studied Leland’s most recent mug shot as Bree turned in to her neighborhood. Leland had a pale addict’s face, his skin picked and marred, his round eyes pink-rimmed. His hair was white-blond cotton floss, and he had a neck tattoo of a Jesus face over an eagle wing that went running up behind his ear. Marshall stared long and hard, until he was sure he would know the guy when he saw him, even if Leland’d shaved or dyed his hair and grown a beard to hide the tat.

When Bree pulled in to the drive, he’d already shut down and packed his laptop. He was ready to go, but Bree put a hand on his arm, stopping him. She wanted assurances that when this was over, they would let the Wilkersons know what had happened to Geoff and that he could find Lexie. He gave them, though he was more sure of the former.