“She’s wasted more than a week of our time, Claire. And she’s such a liar, even this could be a flyin’ goose chase.”
Claire clucked sympathetically as I ranted, then raised the heat by reminding me about the last big case we’d worked together. Pete Gordon, a bona fide psycho killer, had murdered four young moms and five little kids a few months ago in a murder spree that had torn me and Claire to pieces.
I went to the bathroom, sat on the rust-stained throne, and got some major weeping out of my system. Then I washed my face, came out, and said to Claire, “I’ve got the check. Let’s go, butterfly.”
We were back on the road again by a quarter past two. About two hundred miles north of San Francisco, the freeway crossed a section of Shasta Lake.
For the first time in a week, I stopped thinking of babies. The sight of pink-and-yellow sandstone banks rising from the impossibly vivid bands of sea-green and peacock-blue water simply blew everything else out of my mind.
And then sightseeing was over. Surely we would find Avis’s baby boy. Surely we would.
We pulled into Taylor Creek at 5 p.m.
It’s a one-traffic-light town, a typical small town in the great northwest. Main Street was a row of western facades from the late 1800s. Brick buildings that were once banks or warehouses now housed boutiques and small storefront businesses.
Cars crawled along the main drag. Streetlights and headlights came on as the sunlight faded to a streak of pink.
“I want to drive by Antoinette Burgess’s house,” I said to Claire. “Get a fix on the place.”
The disembodied voice of the GPS guided us to Clark Lane, a narrow, tree-lined street with a sign reading DEAD END. Green picket fences edged the front yards, and behind the fences was an assortment of homes from different decades — Victorians, ramblers, Craftsmans, and ranches.
The house belonging to Antoinette Burgess was a cedar-shingled A-frame with a wraparound deck and a satellite dish on the roof. I saw no lights on inside the house and no car in the driveway.
I parked the Explorer on a pile of fallen leaves at the curb, and Claire observed, “Looks like no one’s home, Lindsay.”
I thought, Excellent opportunity to poke around.
I turned off the headlights and said, “Be right back,” and got out of the car.
Chapter 75
THE FRONT YARD was unkempt; the grass hadn’t been mown, and the leaves hadn’t been raked. To my right, a weedy gravel driveway flowed past the house to an open, freestanding two-car garage.
I flicked on my flashlight and proceeded down the driveway, the pea stone and dry leaves crunching loudly underfoot.
The garage smelled of motor oil, and there was grease on the floor. I flicked my light across a rowboat in the rafters, stacks of plastic tubs, and cartons of what looked like motorcycle parts: sprockets, valves, and brake shoes.
There was nothing of interest here.
I left the garage and headed toward the back of the house. Flashing my beam through the multipane windows. I could make out worn furniture, a woodstove, and a baby’s car seat on the kitchen table.
My eyes fixed on the car seat. It was blue and it was empty. My heart rate jacked up another twenty beats a minute as I put my hand on the doorknob and twisted.
The door was unlocked — but a half second before I pushed the door open, I saw a tiny red flashing light reflected in the microwave door across the room.
Burgess had an alarm system, and the house was armed.
I let go of the doorknob, and at that moment, I heard the distant sputtering and roar of motorcycles, a sound that got louder the closer it got to Antoinette Burgess’s house.
The bikes were coming to this house, I was sure of it. I had to get out of here.
I turned off my flashlight and retraced my steps by the waning glow of twilight. Claire buzzed down the window and called out to me, “You hear that, Linds?”
“Couldn’t miss it,” I said.
I pulled myself up into the driver’s seat and started the engine as a stream of seven or eight single headlights drew closer.
My wheels whinnied as I jammed on the gas, spun out, and left the curb in a sharp U-turn.
“That was smooth. You think anyone could possibly have noticed us?” Claire asked as she gripped the dash.
“Hey, that’s me. Subtle as a jackhammer.”
We passed the motorcycle cavalcade coming toward us and I continued up the street with my eyes on the rearview mirror. Bikes wheeled up to the Burgess house and turned down the driveway toward the garage.
Was Antoinette Burgess in that motorcade?
Where was the baby?
I glanced back at the mirror and saw the silhouette of a biker who had stopped at the entrance to the Burgess driveway. The bike was still there and the biker was still astride it as I took the next right turn and sped away.
Crap.
It looked like someone had taken down my plate number.
Chapter 76
THE HOTEL CLEARWATER was a faded blue two-story Victorian facing Main Street, with a second-floor exterior balcony supported by columns. It looked right out of the Wild West or maybe a movie featuring Sundance and Butch.
Claire and I entered the lobby, which hadn’t seen any changes since the 1920s. I took in the Victorian flock wallpaper, satin-covered armchairs, and sepia photographs of long-dead people in ornate frames on the walls.
The man behind the desk was also a relic of earlier times. Not from another century, but definitely from another time. His thinning gray ponytail and frameless specs made me think the hotel had been named for Creedence Clearwater Revival, a band I liked from the ’70s.
I signed the register and credit-card receipt and collected the keys. As Claire called home, the desk clerk told me his name was Buck Keene and that he owned the place.
We chatted about the weather and the local restaurants, and then I said, “I’m trying to look someone up. Maybe you know her? Antoinette Burgess?”
“Everyone knows everyone here. Sure, I know Toni. She’s the president of Devil Girlz — with a z. It’s a motorcycle club, girls only. They mainly work as bouncers for one of the saloons in Winchester.”
“She has a friend — Sandy someone?”
The man with the gray ponytail jerked back as if he’d said too much or I’d put ammonia under his nose.
“You’re a cop,” he said. “I should have figured as much.” He opened a drawer to show me his sheriff’s badge, and I showed him my shield.
“Is Toni in trouble?” Keene asked.
“Not at all. I just want to talk with her about an ongoing investigation.”
“Then find another source,” Keene told me. “She’s had a rough time, but she’s clean. Getting her life straightened out. Being questioned by the cops …” Keene shook his head. “Checkout is at noon tomorrow.”
The bathtub in my room had claw feet. The towel rack was brass, and there was a basket of toiletries on the pedestal sink. I ran the hot water, poured some bath salts into the tub, and called Conklin.
“Antoinette Burgess is in a motorcycle gang called Devil Girlz,” I told him. “Outlaw type, I’m guessing.”
Conklin said, “Hold on,” and did a Web search while I tested the water temperature and pinned up my hair.
“I’m finding some stuff on these Girlz,” Conklin told me. “Drugs. Weapon trade. They aren’t Avon ladies, Linds. Watch your ass.”
“I’m walking on tippy-toes,” I said. “Rich. I saw evidence of a baby in the Burgess house. A baby car seat on the kitchen table. Blue one.”
“No kidding. Yeah?”
“Yeah. Do me a favor and tell Brady.”
Joe picked up my call on the first ring. I stepped into the tub, lowered myself slowly, and sighed as the hot water covered my shoulders.
“What’s it like there?” Joe asked me.
“Sweet little town,” I told him. “Imagine Northern Exposure crossed with The Twilight Zone.”
“
Be careful, Blondie.”
Second guy in under ten minutes telling me to be careful. Jeez, I’ve been a cop for a decade.
“I’ve got a badge and a gun,” I said to my husband.
“I don’t like the way you sound.”
“How do I sound?”
“Blasé. In a completely detached kind of way.”
“I’ve been driving all day.”
“Call for help if you need it. Promise me.”
“I promise. Now, give me a kiss.”
After I got out of the tub, I used the house phone and called the sheriff downstairs at the front desk.
“Sheriff Keene. Got a minute? I want to tell you about this case I’m working.”
Chapter 77
AT JUST AFTER EIGHT in the morning, I turned the Explorer onto Clark Lane and headed south.
“Look at that,” Claire said.
A thick knot of bikers filled the street — headlights on, engines revving — forming a wall between us and the Burgess house. As we closed in, the knot tightened, and the bikers showed no sign of parting to let us pass.
My plan had been to knock on Toni Burgess’s door. Show her my badge. I imagined going inside that house and getting the baby out. I hadn’t counted on a rumble. Freakin’ Buck Keene must’ve given Toni Burgess a heads-up.
“What now, Kemo Sabe?” Claire said.
“We’re winging it, Tonto,” I said. “Going to rely on what I’ve been told is a lot of charm.”
I braked fifteen yards from the bikers, close enough to clearly see their mannish haircuts and grungy clothes, their chains looped over their shoulders and around their waists, and their tattoos down to their fingernails.
I told Claire to lock the doors after I got out and to keep her cell phone in hand.
The moment I stepped out of the Explorer, there was no turning back. I was committed to gaining entrance to the cedar-shingled house. I made a path in my mind, saw myself sidestep the leader of the pack, walk through the gate, and approach the front door.
The biker in the lead position gunned her engine, then shut off the motor and dismounted. She closed the distance between us and stood her ground.
She looked to be in her late forties and about my height, five foot ten, but she had fifty pounds on me. Her blond-gray hair was greased back, she had gaps in her phony grin, and her nose was angled toward the right side of her face.
The patch over the breast pocket of her jacket read “Toni.” This was Antoinette Burgess? Not your typical suburban mom.
“What do you want?” she asked me.
My hands were sweating. There were a dozen ways this could go wrong. Devil Girlz trafficked in guns. I pulled the front panels of my jacket aside, showed her the Glock on my hip and the gold badge on my belt.
“Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD. I’m here about the baby.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the biker said.
That’s when a baby’s piercing wail came from inside the house. I looked up and saw the backlit form of a woman standing at the front window with a bundle in her arms.
I turned around, went back to the Explorer and, when the lock thunked open, got inside and asked Claire for the phone.
I had Buck Keene’s number on my speed dial.
“Sheriff Keene, this is Sergeant Boxer. I need assistance on Clark Lane. If you’re not here in five minutes, I’m calling the FBI. They’ll take down anything or anybody who gets between them and that kidnapped baby.”
Chapter 78
THREE GREEN-AND-WHITE PATROL CARS screamed up Clark Lane in the dim light of morning and braked on the verge. Sheriff Buck Keene got out of the first car, wearing a cowboy hat and a dun-colored jacket with fringe along the sleeve seams and a badge on the breast pocket. He had a rifle in his arms.
“Girls, break it up. Let’s keep things simple, okay?”
There was some hooting and wisecracking. “What did you say? ‘Keep it simple, stupid’? Who’re you calling stupid?” someone called out.
But the Devil Girlz moved their bikes out of the way and made a narrow pathway through their ranks for Sheriff Keene.
Toni Burgess, Claire, and I drafted behind the sheriff, through the weed garden, along the fieldstone path, and up the creaking steps to the deck and the front door.
Keene knocked and called out, “Sandy, open up. It’s Buck.”
The door cracked open.
A woman’s voice said, “Go away, Buck. We’re not hurting anyone.”
I said, “Sandy, I’m Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, and this is Dr. Claire Washburn, SFPD. We just want to talk to you.”
“Call me on the phone if you just want to talk to me.”
“We want to see the baby,” Claire said. “Make sure he’s okay.”
Sheriff Keene shouted at the door. “What is this, Sandy? What have you girls done?”
“We haven’t done anything wrong, Buck. Just back off. Unless someone has a warrant, get off our property.”
“You can’t send law enforcement away. You’re making a mistake, Sandy,” Keene said.
“Someone is. Go away. Don’t make me say this again. You’re trespassing.”
I’d had enough of this. I took a half step back, then put my shoulder to the door and rammed it wide open. Claire and the sheriff barreled into the house after me.
“Subtle,” Claire muttered.
“As a jackhammer,” I reminded Claire, and that’s when I saw the woman who had been standing behind the door. She was wearing coveralls and a long-sleeved pink T-shirt. Her face was pretty and her hair was long and brushed to a shine. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties.
She had a baby under a blue blanket over her left shoulder. It was a wriggling newborn.
Was this Avis Richardson’s baby?
All I knew for sure was that he was alive.
And then I noticed that Sandy had a 9-millimeter handgun pointed right at my head. And from the look on her face, I knew she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Chapter 79
“BUCK, GET THE HELL OUT of here!” Sandy shouted.
“I’m not leaving,” he said, “until you put down that gun and tell me what the hell is going on. That is your baby, right, Sandy? You were pregnant. I saw you —”
“Aw, geez, Buck. Don’t ask, don’t tell. You ever heard of that?” said the girl with the baby over her shoulder.
“What are you saying? You were lying to everyone? You were faking your pregnancy? Toni? Jesus Christ. How could you two do that?”
Sandy put the barrel of the gun underneath her chin. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. All of you. Get out. I’m not kidding,” she said. “And I’m not lying either.”
The blood left my face. Coffee climbed into my throat.
“Sandy,” Keene said. “We’ll help you. This isn’t the way.”
“It’s my way. Now, get out, get out, get out!” she shouted.
The baby was crying now, real hearty wails.
My mouth went dry. So many ways for this to go wrong and I never even imagined it this way. I said, “You’re not in trouble, Sandy. We just want to talk about the situation. Buck, let us have some privacy. Please.”
“Toni, talk some sense into her, damn it,” the sheriff said to the woman in the biker’s leathers. “I’ll be waiting outside.”
As the sheriff left the house, I said to Sandy, “I’m putting my gun down.” I reached under my jacket, extracted my Glock with two fingers, and put it on the floor.
Toni Burgess scooped up my weapon and walked across the open room, chains clanking. She put my gun in the garbage can under the sink and closed the cabinet doors.
Sandy dropped her gun into her coveralls pocket, then hugged the baby with both arms.
I let out a breath I’d been holding for far too long and looked around. I saw baby bottles on the counter, baby toys on a sheepskin rug on the floor. Pictures of the baby were stuck all over the fridge.
Sandy jounced the bab
y against her shoulder and patted his back, but he kept crying.
“My name is Sandra Wilson,” she said. “And this is my son, Tyler Burgess Wilson. I’m his mother now. I answered Avis Richardson’s ad in Prattslist, and I paid her twenty-five thousand dollars as reimbursement for her expenses in carrying and bearing the baby. And she signed the papers. It’s all legal. You make sure to tell Avis that it’s too late to change her mind.”
“Avis ran the ad?”
“She sure did. I can show it to you. After Avis said she wanted us to have the baby, we wired the money into her bank account. Now, listen to me. We love Tyler and we’re not giving him up. This little boy is ours.”
Chapter 80
CLAIRE SAID, “I’m a doctor, honey. And I have a baby not much older than Tyler. Could I just take a quick look at him? Please?” She reached out her arms toward the baby in Sandy Wilson’s arms.
“I can’t get him to eat,” Sandy said in a voice that suddenly cracked with emotion.
Claire hugged the girl and said, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Then she tugged the baby out of Sandy’s arms and took him to the kitchen table. “Got some baby wipes and a clean diaper?” she asked, her voice as calm as if we weren’t under the gun.
I was at Claire’s side as she unwrapped the baby, and I could see that he was brown-eyed and pink all over and that he had all his parts, plus a little port-wine stain on the back of his hand. I reached out and touched his little palm. He kicked his legs and let out a fresh new wail.
While Claire cleaned and inspected the baby, Toni Burgess disappeared. She returned a minute later with the ad from Prattslist and a sheet of paper in her shaking hands.
“Sergeant, I want you to see this so you can leave us in peace and tell Buck to go home.”
“You go ahead and read it. I’m listening,” I said.
“I, Avis Richardson, being of lawful age and sound mind, do give my unnamed son to Sandra Wilson and Antoinette Burgess, who have paid me $25,000 for my expenses in bearing this child.”
The ad was as Sandy described it. And the note was signed, dated, and witnessed by Antoinette Burgess and Sandra Wilson.