“Be right with you!” A slim woman with fire-engine red hair was bent over an old lady, winding perm rods into her silver hair. She gave a last squirt and twist, stripped off her gloves, and turned around. She frowned when she saw them. She patted her customer on the shoulder. “I’m setting the timer, Mrs. Bain,” she yelled. “You just sit here and relax.” She handed the woman a magazine and walked over to Flynn and Hadley. “Deaf as a post,” she said in a normal tone of voice. “Nice lady, though. Good tipper.”
“We’re looking for Hector DeJean,” Flynn said.
“Of course you are. Who’s complaining this time? His meth-head ex? Her parents?”
“Is he here?” Flynn said.
“No, he’s not here. He’s at work. He’s a driver for DHS Deliveries. He leaves before dawn every morning and works hard all day making a better life for us.” She braced her fists against her hips. “He’ll be home by four. You can come back and talk with him then, but whatever they told you, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Hadley was about to ask about Mikayla, but Flynn cut her off. “Thanks very much, Ms.…”
“It’s Mrs. Mrs. DeJean.” The redhead held up her left hand to display a gold band. “This is a God-fearing Christian home. We’re not living together like animals, thank you very much.”
“Okay. Mrs. DeJean. We’ll be back at four.”
“That was not what I expected,” Hadley said as they walked back to the squad car.
“I guess he found Jesus as well as anger management in the pen.” Flynn sounded bemused. “Let’s track down some less God-fearing associates of Johnson and see what we can shake loose.”
They didn’t shake loose much. They found a small-scale dealer who lived on Depot Street who said Annie Johnson used to come around once in a while, but he hadn’t seen her in months. They canvassed her apartment house, got a few names or descriptions of people who had been seen with her, and followed up on as many of them as they could find. One skinny, hollow-eyed girl told them Annie had stopped hanging out and had gotten serious about finding money in the past year. They found one guy with a prison-gym body working behind the counter at Stewart’s who had heard she’d gotten in with a pretty heavy crowd.
“What’s your impression?” Flynn asked. They had picked up a couple of coffees while they were at the Stewart’s, and they were parked in a turnout on the Cossayuharie Road.
“Why are you asking me? You’re the one with the drug squad experience.” Flynn had been the MKPD officer detailed to the Capital Area Drug Enforcement Agency.
He blew on his coffee. “I want to know what you think.”
“Ugh. You sound like the chief.”
He grinned.
“Okay. Most junkies or meth heads, from what I understand, are just small-time dealers if they’re also using. Eventually, they give up on the dealing altogether, because they use their own stuff faster than they can sell it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Annie Johnson seems to have gone in a different direction. From what her folks said, she’s been using for years. But she’s not hanging around with the small fry. It doesn’t look like she’s turning tricks or stealing to pay for her next hit.”
“Right. Instead, she’s smurfing in a big way.”
“It’s got to take a lot of money up front to buy that much pseudoephedrine. I mean, have you priced that stuff lately? I had to get some generic kid’s decongestant for Genny last month and it cost me like nine bucks.”
“We don’t know if it’s all been paid for. When the state lab finishes running down the bar codes, they’ll be able to tell us.”
“Yeah, but even so.” She took a drink of her coffee. The first snowflakes of the predicted dump were starting to fall. “I think she’s hooked up with a much bigger fish. Somebody who’s running a commercial lab, not home brew. He supplies her with the money and just enough product to keep her hanging around.”
Kevin nodded. “Did you notice in that picture her parents showed us? She doesn’t look like a meth abuser yet. She’s still got some flesh on her bones. Her teeth are still good.”
“Yeah. She’d be a good front person while it lasts.” She turned in her seat to look at him. “Especially with a cute little girl in tow.”
“Uh-huh.” He wedged his cup between the radio mount and his laptop. “It’s four o’clock. Let’s go see if the ex has anything he can tell us.”
By the time they got back to the DeJean residence, the snow was falling in earnest, wet, sticky flakes that went down the back of Hadley’s neck as she crossed the parking area toward the front door. Lousy driving later tonight. Maybe it would be enough to keep Dylan holed up in whatever hotel he was staying at. Maybe he’d drive off the road, get stuck in a drift, and freeze to death. No—get eaten by wolves. Get partially eaten by wolves, then freeze to death.
“Why are you smiling?” Flynn asked.
“Sorry.” She schooled her expression into a good cop face. Flynn knocked on the door. The guy who answered it was big, as tall as Flynn and sixty pounds heavier. He looked like a professional cage fighter—rawboned, thick-skulled, his hair shaved to a shadow. “Hector DeJean?” Flynn asked.
“That’s me.” He opened the door and stepped back so they could come in. Hadley barely came up to his breastbone. Jesus. No wonder the Johnsons thought he could do some real damage. He could take Flynn out with one punch and finish her off with the backstroke.
Dede came out of the tiny hallway. “So my wife tells me you came around this morning,” DeJean said. “Why don’t you tell me what you want, and then she and I can get on with dinner.”
“Why don’t you and Mrs. DeJean sit down,” Flynn said.
“I don’t want to—”
“S’okay, Dede.” DeJean laid a massive paw on his wife’s shoulder. “You sit down, they stand up. It’s a way to intimidate the people they’re talking to.” He gave Hadley an amused look as he sat on the couch, as if pointing out that even down on the floor in cuffs, he wouldn’t be intimidated by a woman a foot shorter than he was.
Flynn spotted it. He gave her a subtle nod. Go ahead. You take lead.
“Mr. DeJean, what can you tell us about your relationship with Annie Johnson?” Hadley asked.
“I don’t have a relationship with Annie Johnson. I got an arrangement. Once a month, if she doesn’t get stoned and forget or wander off, I come by and collect my daughter from her. We visit for a day or two, then I bring her back. I don’t talk with Annie, and she for sure don’t talk to me.”
“You don’t have any legal right to custody of Mikayla, is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“It’s not fair.” Dede picked up a pillow and punched it into shape. “That woman abuses drugs, she deals, she hangs out with the worst lowlifes in Washington County, and then she nearly killed Mikayla—”
“My daughter was in a bad car accident last summer,” DeJean said. “Annie was high and drove into a tree. She was fine, but Mikayla needed a liver transplant.”
Dede nodded. “Which Hector gave to her.”
“What?” Hadley looked at Flynn. DeJean pulled his shirt up to his armpits, revealing several tattoos and a crescent-shaped scar on one side. “How is that even possible?”
“She’s a little kid. They just carved off a piece of mine. I guess grown-ups have more liver than we need. The doctors say it’ll grow along with her.”
Hadley blinked. “Mr. DeJean, I’ll be honest. I’m having a hard time reconciling the guy who would give up part of his own liver for his daughter with the guy who put her mother in the hospital while she was pregnant.”
“I was a sorry sack of shit back then,” he said. “I grew up with my mom beating on me and my dad beating on my mom, and I thought life was either screwing or getting screwed. I was doing meth and angel dust and heroin. I thank God I got caught and sent to Plattsburgh. I thank God for it. I was the most miserable sinner alive, but Jesus led me into that hole and I found healing there.” He took Dede’s
hand. “When I got out, this lady was waiting for me.”
“I was a volunteer for the prison ministry,” Dede said.
“The church helped me find a job, get my life together—now look at me. I got a home, I got a straight job, I got respect without having to beat anybody down for it.”
Okay. It sounded good. Hadley tried to rein in her skepticism. “Where does Mikayla fit in with this new life?”
“After the accident, we looked into trying to get custody of her,” Dede said.
“I talked to a lawyer about doing a paternity test, getting my name on her birth certificate. He said I could do that, but with my record, there was no way the court would grant me custody.”
“Our big worry is that Annie’s parents will get custody of her.” A timer buzzed. Dede stood and went to the kitchenette.
“They’ll never let me see her. Not without a court order. Maybe not even then. The lawyer said I’m in a bad position, since I’ve waited until she was eight to go on the record as her dad.”
Hadley glanced at Flynn. “Mr. DeJean, where were you last Thursday night and early Friday morning?”
DeJean closed his eyes. “Our church has a summer camp up by a place called Cooper’s Corners, about an hour north of here. One of the neighbors called our pastor, said it looked like there was a water leak coming out the main building. I had Thursday and Friday off, so I took my tools and my welding kit and headed up there. It was a couple burst pipes. I fixed ’em, cleaned up, spent the night, came back Friday morning.”
“Is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?” Flynn asked.
“I can.” Dede straightened from where she was checking something in the oven. “I was right here when he took the call from our pastor!”
DeJean shook his head. “Nobody went with me, if that’s what you mean.”
Flynn nodded. “Mr. DeJean, sometime between Thursday and Friday, someone went to the foster home where Mikayla was staying and took her. They set fire to the house, presumably to cover the fact that Mikayla was missing, killing the foster parents in the process.” They had decided to keep mum about the gunshot wounds. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to take your daughter? Or where she might be?”
“What?” DeJean stared at them for an endless moment. “What?” Then his face grew red. He let out a strangled noise like the sound of a bull about to charge. “What the hell?” he roared. “My daughter’s been kidnapped and you wait until after we’re discussing the damn custody arrangements before you tell me?” He stood up. Flynn and Hadley both took a step back. “Since Friday morning? She’s been missing a day and a half and you assholes didn’t think to tell me?”
“Look, Mr. DeJean,” Flynn started.
“Don’t ‘look Mr. DeJean me,’ you little punk-ass pig. Where’s my daughter? What have you done to find her?” DeJean balled his hands into fists.
“Sit down now.” Flynn’s voice cracked with authority. “You do not want me to cuff you and haul you out of here in front of your wife.”
DeJean let out another noise, like hot steam venting, but he sat down. “The MKPD is pursuing any and every lead we have. There’s been a regional AMBER Alert issued. Annie Johnson fled from us when we tried to question her, but she did not have your daughter with her at that time. We’re looking for her.”
DeJean slapped his hand over his mouth and mumbled something into his palm.
“I’m going to give you the station number, and my cell number.” Flynn took out one of his cards. “I want you to give me the name and phone number of your pastor, and the address of the camp you say you were at Thursday night.”
Dede stepped toward them. Her eyes were huge and wet. “Hector would never put Mikayla in danger. Never. He loves her. We both do.”
“Ma’am,” Hadley said, “we have to look into every possibility. The quicker we can cross off the negatives, the more time we can spend on the likely suspects.”
“Give it to them, Dede. Just give it to them.”
She stalked back to the kitchenette and scribbled furiously on a piece of paper. “Here.” She thrust the note at Hadley. “Take it.” The tears in her eyes were spilling over her cheeks now.
“If you think of anything that might be helpful, if you hear of anything, if anyone tries to contact you, call us. Anytime, day or night.” Flynn settled his hat on his head.
“I’ll do better than that.” DeJean stood again. Looking just as dangerous as he had before. “You guys don’t come up with something in the next twenty-four hours, I’m going looking for her myself. And when I find her, I’m not leaving anything behind for the cops to have to deal with. You understand what I’m saying? I find whoever did this thing, that person’s never walking this earth again.”
7.
Russ decided the closest spot where he could hope to get cell reception was the Cooper’s Corners general store at the head of the lake. It would’ve been better if he could have waited to call after the five o’clock end-of-shift reports, but there was no way he was going to try to make it around the bottom of the lake, up South Shore Drive and back again in the dark. Not with the snow coming down like it was. Anyway, if they were going to be snowed in, he wanted to buy a couple more gallons of water and milk.
Clare insisted on riding along, of course. “What if the truck gets stuck in the snow?” he asked.
“Then I can help you get it out.”
“Not like that, you can’t!”
She rolled her eyes. “Russ, just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean the rest of my body’s stopped working. Hang on a sec, I’ll get into outdoor clothes.”
He watched her from behind the kitchen counter while she tossed her jeans and sweater on the chair in front of the woodstove and peeled off her pajamas. In the firelight, she glowed like the first peach of summer. She was right; so far, she was as strong and healthy as she had ever been. In fact, being pregnant seemed to make her … more. Her color higher, her skin warmer, everywhere, when he touched her, more responsive. Everything curvy and rosy and luscious. He felt like the worst goddamn hypocrite in the world, but seeing his wife ripe and round made him incredibly hot. There were times making love when he was so swamped by a tidal wave of lust and possessiveness and pleasure he’d bite her neck and shoulders in a frenzy of mine, mine, mine. He shivered. Russ Van Alstyne was here. She was closer to the mark than she knew.
“You all set?” she asked.
He adjusted his jeans. “Oh, yeah. Ready to go.” Hypocrite.
The entrance of the narrow garage was still clear enough for him to back the truck out unimpeded. He tossed the shovel in the bed, though, because he didn’t think he’d be so lucky by the time they got home. The snow was falling thick and fast, fat wet flakes that covered the windshield between swipes of the wipers, so that his eyes seemed to be blinking in and out of focus: tire tracks, white spatter, mailboxes, white spatter, hemlocks, white spatter, carports, white spatter.
Clare was quiet, letting him concentrate on driving. He negotiated the turn onto South Shore Drive, slipping and sliding in the ruts left by other drivers headed past the lake onto Haines Mountain Road. He kept his speed slow and steady, riding the crest of the road until they finally reached the short stretch of year-round houses that led to the county highway. No one drove past him, but the parking lot of the Cooper’s Corners general store was jammed with trucks and cars.
“Wow,” Clare said. “It’s a convention.”
“Everybody stocking up before the storm. Water, TP, batteries.” He wedged the pickup in next to a snowbank and turned the engine off.
“I’ve never understood that. Even if the storm is bad, how long will it be that you’re stuck inside? A day? Two at the most?”
“Usually, yeah.” He hitched himself off the seat to retrieve his cell phone. “To be fair, though, out here it could be a lot longer. The lake is probably pretty far down on the county road crew’s list.” He pointed to the truck next to them, which had a snowplow mounted on its
front. “Unless you do it yourself.”
“Do you want me to do the shopping while you talk with Lyle?”
He grinned. “Giving me privacy? Thanks, but you might as well stay. That way I won’t have to repeat the whole conversation when you grill me about what’s going on.”
He reached Lyle on the second ring. “Thank God,” his deputy chief said as a greeting. “I didn’t think I was ever going to get to talk to you.”
“I told you the reception out at the cabin is bad. I’m out here at Cooper’s Corners. Give me the rundown. Any movement on the murder investigation?”
“The homicide’s been put on hold.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“Let me finish. Turns out the MacAllens were fostering an eight-year-old girl. Mikayla Johnson. She’s missing.”
Russ’s stomach pinched. “You mean you can’t find the body?”
“I mean there is no body. The state arson guy and the fire marshal’s team sifted the wreckage with teaspoons. The girl was taken before the fire was lit.”
“Oh, shit.” Clare looked at him inquiringly. He held up his hand.
“Yeah. We’re working off the theory that the fire was supposed to hide the kidnapping.”
“AMBER Alert?”
“Already done. The kid’s mother, one Annie Johnson, lost custody after nearly killing her in a car accident a few months back. She had to get a liver transplant, which means—”
“She has to be on immunosuppressants. Where’s the mom?”
“She ran when Kevin and Hadley went to question her. Turns out her apartment had enough pseudoephedrine in it to stock every drugstore in New York.”
“She’s a smurfer?”
“Big-time. Her rap sheet’s five pages long. Possession, distribution, assault, misdemeanor theft, DUI, you name it, this chick’s done it.”
“What about the father?”
“Not listed on the BC. Frick and Frack are running down Annie Johnson’s parents, her parole officer, associates—you know the list. I haven’t heard anything from them yet.”
It was getting cold in the truck. Russ switched on the ignition, and the heater kicked in. “You need to work the smurfing angle. If she’s really got that much clear in her apartment, she’s probably working with a team.”