As John dressed for the Red Cross Ball—an annual Little Bridge tradition that had gone on for as long as he could remember—he was surprised to realize that things were looking up.
His dress uniform fit, for one thing. The dry cleaner really had delivered the wrong trousers, an error he’d been too preoccupied to notice himself.
Even better, the tech crew had found the fingerprints of Lawrence Beckwith III, aka Dylan Dakota, all over one of the pizza boxes and several of the beer bottles found in the media room of the new library. Nothing had been discovered yet on any of the CCTV footage—Beckwith and his crew somehow always managed to figure out where any security cameras were hidden and stay far away from them—or from the DNA swabs, but that, at least, would show up eventually. On television crime shows, of course, DNA results always came back within hours. In reality, it took weeks or often months before they got answers.
John always sent swabs anyway, hoping for a miracle.
That wasn’t all, though. Murray, showing unusual initiative, had combed through the garbage he’d been tasked with testing and found a driver’s license that someone—John was willing to bet it was Larry—had thrown in one of the construction dumpsters outside the new library. The photo on the driver’s license looked identical to the girl Molly Montgomery had found on the library floor—the girl whom the hospital was able to confirm was the mother of the baby Molly Montgomery had found as well.
Her physician would not allow him to interview her, though, as the girl—Tabitha Brighton, of New Canaan, Connecticut—was still in the ICU, recovering from having given birth in a construction zone.
“And those party kids hardly lifted a finger to help her!” Dr. Nguyen, the island’s ob-gyn, was outraged. “Aside from cutting the cord, and who knows what they used to do that.”
John knew better than to argue with Dr. Nguyen, who’d delivered Katie.
But John didn’t need to interview Tabitha—not yet, anyway—to proceed on her case. He had most of the information he needed about her from her driver’s license, including her name, age—eighteen, so not a minor—and home address. He spent most of the morning before the ball on the phone, attempting to gather the rest.
Ever mindful of what Molly had said to him the first time they’d met—that it was possible the baby’s mother hadn’t abandoned her child, that someone else was responsible for placing it in the restroom (something he thought even more likely now that he knew Beckwith was involved)—John called the girl’s parents.
It was true that she was no longer a minor and, because of the HIPAA Security Rule, neither the hospital nor law enforcement could contact her next of kin without her consent (unless, of course, she died, and then the coroner or police—if it was homicide—would make that notification).
So what he was doing wasn’t entirely by the book.
However, it was also true that she was only two years older than his own daughter, and if someone had found Katie in the condition in which Tabitha had been found, he’d want to know.
But when he called the number listed at Tabitha’s home address, his good luck ran out. The Brightons were not there, and according to the woman who answered the phone, they were not expected back any time soon.
“Mr. and Mrs. Brighton are on a cruise,” the woman—who identified herself as Luisa, the Brightons’ housekeeper—explained.
“A cruise,” John repeated, in order to make absolutely certain he’d heard her correctly.
“Si. A cruise to Alaska.”
John had some difficulty processing this information, as he himself had never considered taking a vacation on a cruise ship, and didn’t understand why anyone would.
“Is this the same Daniel and Elizabeth Brighton who have a daughter named Tabitha?” he asked.
Luisa gasped. “Si! Do you have news of Tabby? Where is she? Is she all right? It has been so long!”
“Really? How long?”
“A year,” the housekeeper responded eagerly. “One morning, the Brightons wake up, and she is just gone. Is she all right? She is a nice girl. Just a little mixed up.”
“I’m afraid I can only share that information with an immediate relative.” John’s response was automatic. But the kind concern in the woman’s voice caused him to add, “But if you can give me a number where I can reach her parents, I promise I’ll have some good news to share with them.”
He hoped they’d consider hearing that they were now grandparents good news, anyway. He had his doubts, considering the fact that they were vacationing on a cruise ship while their daughter was missing.
Luisa gasped. “Good news? Oh, gracias, señor, gracias! Hold on one moment.”
The housekeeper gave him the parents’ cell phone numbers, but advised him that she’d been told service would be sketchy on the ship, and not to expect to be able to reach them right away. Cell towers were apparently few and far between along the Bering Sea.
It was possible she was right. His calls to both Daniel and Elizabeth Brighton went straight to voice mail. He left messages explaining who he was but didn’t give details, asking only that they called him back regarding information he had about their daughter. He tried to feel glad that at least one person in the Brighton household—the housekeeper, Luisa—seemed to care enough about Tabitha to answer the phone.
Then he sat at his desk performing some swift arithmetic in his head.
If the girl had run away a year ago, it seemed likely she’d gotten pregnant while on the road.
That made it possible that Beckwith was the baby’s father.
If this was true, that meant John would not only have the pleasure of locking Larry up, but of finding some way to make sure the wealthy Beckwith family—not Larry, because of course he was going to be incarcerated—paid for Baby Aphrodite’s care and education for the next eighteen years. Possibly a college fund, too.
This thought gave John a great deal of satisfaction.
Now, after making sure his cell phone ringer was on high in case the Brightons called him back or one of his deputies actually found Beckwith in a bar or any of his other known haunts, John was driving to the hotel where the Red Cross Ball was being held.
Of course no mere hotel ballroom was grand enough to hold such an extravaganza, so once guests parked, signs encouraged them to stroll across the hotel grounds to a small boat dock where a dozen little launches waited to ferry them to their final destination—Jasmine Key, a small private island belonging to the hotel, about a five-minute ride away.
John had been there many times before, not only for previous years’ balls but because there were also tiki-thatched bungalows on the island available for hotel guests to rent. Occasionally these guests overimbibed on sun, surf, and spirits, and needed professional law enforcement and/or medical aid.
Still, John never tired of the sight of the Victorian rooftops of downtown Little Bridge fading away in the distance as the launch approached Jasmine Key, or the sight of the sun slowly sinking into the sea ahead of them, casting the sky into pink, orange, and lavender streaks.
And then there was the sight of Jasmine Key’s dock. Brightly burning torches lined a path along the beach to a Caribbean-style resort, complete with high-backed leather chairs and gently swinging ceiling fans. By the time John arrived—slightly late because of his phone calls—the buffet was already open and crowded, a decadent and glittering display of excess. He looked upon it with approval—all of the stone crab was local, harvested and donated by friends of his from high school who’d taken over their fathers’ fishing boats. This made him feel good about his decision to move back with Katie to his hometown. It was the circle of life, like in that movie she used to enjoy so much, with the talking animals.
“Beer, please,” he said to the bartender, when he finally made it through the crowd to the bar.
“What kind?” the bartender asked.
John frowned. “I don’t know. The liquid kind.”
“He’ll take whatever you have on tap,” said a voice from behind him, and John turned to see the state’s attorney, Peter Abramowitz, dressed in some kind of strange tuxedo, complete with a silk scarf and carnation, slip a few dollars into the bartender’s tip jar. “Hey, John.”
“What are you supposed to be?” John asked, staring in disbelief at his friend—one of the few he had on the island, since it was hard to be the chief law enforcement officer and have friends.
But Pete wasn’t a local. A native New Yorker who also happened to be an avid windsurfer, he’d come to Little Bridge on vacation a dozen years earlier, surfed the reef once, and decided to cash in his return ticket.
To say that he was eccentric would be an understatement, but he’d never lost a case . . . except against Beckwith.
“I’m a gangster.” Pete handed John his beer.
“I didn’t know this was a dress-up party.”
“It’s not.” Pete was drinking a bottled craft beer. John wondered, as he often did, what was wrong with regular beer. “My admin told me it was, though, and that everyone was supposed to dress like it was the Roaring Twenties. Turns out she got some bad intel.”
“Oh,” John said, and sipped his beer. It wasn’t that bad. “It’s good to see you here, Pete, even if you do look sort of stupid in that outfit.”
“Same to you, John. What’s the latest with your mortal enemy, that Beckwith kid?”
“The latest is that we can’t find him. But we will.”
Pete sipped his own beer. “You know he has to be long gone by now.”
“I don’t think so. Those Sunshine snots don’t believe in wasting fossil fuels traveling by car. They only ever travel by bus and I already sent all the bus companies Be On The Lookouts for him, so he’s not getting out of here that way. Same with TSA and the ferry companies.”
“Oh, come on, John. That kid could easily, at any time, slip onto a private boat and sail right out of here, and none of us would know.”
“Fine.” John drank some more of his beer. “You’re probably right. Boat’s the way he’s going to go. But what good is it going to do him? I’ve got his prints all over that media room. I sent the mug shot from his previous arrest, for the MTV house thing, to every law enforcement agency in the state. Wherever he goes, someone’s going to nab him for something, and eventually he’ll end up back with me.”
Pete shook his head. “For what? All you’ve got on him is vandalism. You’ll need more than that if you intend to keep him.”
“He took that girl’s baby, Pete,” John said, staring ahead at nothing. “He took it, and he left the mother to die.”
“Well, prove it. Prove it, or—”
“Sheriff!” John was pounded hard on his back by someone and nearly spilled his beer. “You gonna beat everyone again this year in cornhole?”
John turned to see several city commissioners, a former mayor, and Randy Jamison, the city planner.
“I’m gonna try,” John said, in a falsely jovial tone.
He disliked all of them, because as far as city safety went, they were corrupt and also incompetent.
But for Jamison, the city planner, who turned down every request he received that might lead to low-income housing being built, John reserved special contempt. The island had been overcrowded before last year’s hurricane, but now it was even worse.
Jamison seemed interested only in allowing projects to move forward that might line his own pockets (Jamison’s son-in-law owned one of the island’s only plumbing businesses), not ones that could help reduce overcrowding and therefore crime.
“Ha-ha,” cried Jamison, who was smoking a cigar—Cuban, John could tell. “Last year I damned near kicked John’s butt in cornhole, didn’t I, Pete?”
But John was no longer listening. That’s because, over the city planner’s shoulder, he’d seen something. Not just something, but someone. It was Molly Montgomery, standing in the buffet line, looking magical in a black dress that shimmered when she moved.
What was she doing here? He hadn’t expected to see her. Now his heart was unaccountably racing at the sight of her. The last time he’d seen her, he’d made a fool of himself, getting so upset over her talking to that film crew from Miami, and then admitting that he’d come to the library in search of how-to-dance books and DVDs.
But why did he care what she thought of him? She was only a citizen. A very attractive citizen, it was true, especially in that dress, which wasn’t formfitting at all, but still clung to her body in such a way—
“Hartwell!”
John turned to look at Jamison, who had evidently asked a question to which he hadn’t replied.
“What?”
“I asked how it’s going with the search for Baby Aphrodite’s mother.”
“Oh,” John said, noticing that Molly Montgomery had reached the end of the buffet line and was moving with Mrs. Tifton toward one of the outdoor tables overlooking the sunset and the beach. “Fine. Just fine.”
“Fine? Well, does that mean you found her? Because you know my daughter might be interested in adopting that baby if you don’t have any other—”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Pete said.
John watched Molly sit down. Of course Mrs. Tifton had brought her dog. It played around both women’s feet.
Jamison coughed blue cigar smoke. “I beg your pardon?”
“It doesn’t work like that, Jamison,” Pete repeated. “There’re people who’ve been on a wait list to adopt from foster care for years. If the baby goes up for adoption, they’ll get first crack at her, not your daughter, not unless her name comes up on the wait list.”
“Well, now, Pete, I don’t think you’ve met my daughter. She’s a real go-getter. If there’s some kind of list she needs to get on, can’t you get her on it?”
Pete finished his beer. “No.”
Maybe, John thought, he should take Molly and Mrs. Tifton drinks. They didn’t have any. Yes, that’s what he would do. He would get a glass of champagne for each of them from one of the servers and go up to their table and give them the champagne and say hello.
“Why doesn’t your daughter just get one of those Asian babies?” the former mayor asked the city planner. “Then her kid will be guaranteed to be good at math.”
“It doesn’t work like that, either,” John said, snagging two glasses of champagne from a passing server. “Also, that’s racist.”
“Why?” Jamison asked, looking offended on the mayor’s behalf. “It’s a compliment!”
“Still racist.” John started toward Molly’s table. “And still doesn’t work like that.”
The city planner shouted after him, “Well, I’m still gonna beat your butt in cornhole tonight!”
John winced as he walked away, hoping no one, particularly Molly Montgomery, had overheard.
As he approached, he saw that she most definitely had not. She was deeply engaged in conversation with Mrs. Robinette—the librarian from his childhood!—and the reporter Meschelle Davies, who’d just stopped by her table with—what else—a whole bottle of champagne and several glasses.
John simply could not win with this woman.
