Sylvie watched a pile of magazines slide off the arm of the sofa and land on top of some underwear. Then she smiled. “Oh, I remember now. I wanted to buy a painting for my mother.”
“She liked a particular painting at that gallery?”
“I don’t remember, to be honest. After I met Kara, I forgot about my mom’s painting. Can you please explain to me why you’re here and asking me these questions about Kara?”
“Actually, Ms. Vaughn, I’m here to ask you what you know about Kara getting drugged at your house nine months ago at your husband’s birthday party.”
Sylvie’s thin shoulders went board straight, but she didn’t say anything, only looked down into her coffee mug as if the coffee would give her an answer. Slowly she looked back up at Sherlock. “Kara didn’t tell me until she was nearly five months along that she was pregnant and what she thought had happened to her at my party.
“I didn’t want to believe it until I remembered that some of the men there were friends of my husband’s, and I didn’t know them. So I started thinking about which of those guys drinking too much and shoveling down my excellent hors d’oeuvres would stoop that low, but, honestly? I couldn’t think of anyone. I asked Josh and he acted all macho until I punched him and told him I was serious. He said sure, most of the guys were horndogs, but none of them were into roofies. I believed him.
“I’m pretty good about inviting couples—I like the balance—but it was my husband’s thirty-fifth birthday, and as I said, he had some of his own friends here. A couple were single, a couple divorced and on the make, if you know what I mean. There was lots of booze and dancing and general drunkenness; that’s how Josh likes his parties. We don’t have problems with the neighbors calling the cops because I always invite them, too, and they’re all couples, probably drink more than the other guests.
“Look, there were so many people in and out, having a good time, I couldn’t keep track of everyone. Mostly I spent my time with the women, giving them free advice on what they should wear to Great-Aunt Maud’s funeral or to a college commencement for nephew Peter. It was a very long night. I remember not seeing Kara after ten o’clock, figured since she wasn’t a big drinker and she hadn’t liked any of Josh’s friends, she’d gone home.
“When she called me the next morning to apologize, I was surprised, I really didn’t understand why. Kara rarely drank too much and so I told her not to worry about it; there were so many happy drunks weaving in and out of the house, some of them didn’t leave until the booze ran out. I asked her if she was ill, a hangover, you know? But she said no, and then she hung up.” Sylvie leaned down and picked a slinky white top off a solid dark blue rug. She frowned at it, tossed it toward a chair, where one sleeve hooked around the chair arm.
“So now, instead of calling me and telling me about her baby, Kara sends the FBI? She doesn’t think it was my husband, does she? Sure, I saw the way he kissed her, but he was accounted for all night. I honestly don’t think he could do something that despicable, and he was so drunk I had to pour him into bed at nearly three o’clock. He demanded I sing him ‘Happy Birthday’ again. He was snoring by the end of it.”
Sherlock and Sylvie looked up to see Agent Butler standing in the open doorway to the living room. Sherlock made the introductions, Sylvie offered coffee, which Butler refused, and told her just to toss the magazines off a rocker and take a seat.
Sherlock said, “Ms. Vaughn can’t remember any man at her party nine months ago who acted at all suspicious. Correct, Ms. Vaughn?”
“That’s right. I suppose you’d like me to give you a list of all the single men Josh and I can remember were here?”
“Yes, that would be fine,” Sherlock said. “Here’s my card with all my contact information. As soon as possible, please.”
Connie handed Sylvie her card as well. “When was the last time you contacted Kara?” They watched Vaughn toss the cards on top of a bright pink vest.
“It’s been a week. I told Agent Sherlock we usually emailed back and forth, kept each other up-to-date. She told me her painting was coming along really fine, and she sounded very happy and excited about the baby coming. She also said she really liked her job at the Raleigh Gallery, that the owner was going to give her a show.” She paused. “Kara had her baby; his name is Alex. He’s beautiful. I don’t really understand why you’re here.”
Sherlock rose, Connie followed suit. “Ms. Vaughn, Kara’s baby, Alex, was kidnapped yesterday from the maternity ward at Washington Memorial Hospital. I believe Kara’s being roofied at your party may have something to do with why Alex was kidnapped.”
Sherlock saw it, a flash of fear, of knowledge, in Sylvie Vaughn’s eyes. It was gone so fast she wondered if she’d imagined it.
Sylvie stood, straight and thin as a post, her long arms at her sides, her hands fists. “Is that why Kara hasn’t called me? You told her I could be responsible for her baby’s kidnapping?” She was breathing hard. “None of this makes any sense to me.” She looked down at either her Fitbit or her iWatch, tough to tell. “I’d like you to leave now. I’ve got deadlines. I can’t imagine you have anything else insulting left to ask me.”
Sherlock handed her another card. “Call me, Ms. Vaughn, if you decide to talk to us.” She paused, then added, “As Kara’s dear friend, it would seem to me you’d want to do everything you could to help us find Alex.”
Sylvie took her card, gave Sherlock a long look, and tossed it on top of a pair of leopard-print tights. She walked on their heels to the door, closed it behind them. They heard the dead bolt snap into place.
“Pissed her off but good,” Connie said. She gave Sherlock a sideways look. “Maybe she does know something.”
“Yeah, she ain’t no poker player.”
As they walked down the stone steps from the town house to Connie’s Mini Cooper across the street, Sherlock veered off, said in a loud voice, “I want to take a look at this beauty. It’s a Jaguar, maybe six years old.” Connie watched her lean in and look at the interior, keeping up a running commentary as she walked to the other side. A moment later, Sherlock rejoined her at the curb.
“Why don’t we hang around for a while, maybe down the street a ways so she won’t see the red car. Let’s see if she goes anywhere.”
Butler raised a brow. “I trust if she leaves she won’t see the GPS tracker you put on her car.”
Sherlock grinned at her. “Only another cop would have noticed. It is a nice car.”
“For a second there I wondered why you were talking so loud, but then I realized it was for her benefit.” Butler cranked up the car. “I’ll pull over down the street, but I would guess you’re not going to want to stay long. And I bet we’re not going to be interviewing Josh Vaughn today after all. You’re probably wondering what I was doing on the phone. I’ve got something to tell you you’re not going to believe.”
23
DANIEL BOONE NATIONAL FOREST
TUESDAY MORNING
The devil was jabbing his pitchfork into his heel. Manta Ray didn’t remember hurting this bad when he was shot in the side. Jacobson’s antibiotic salve hadn’t helped a bit, and the bandages made it hurt worse. Manta Ray sat on a rock between a gnarly maple tree and a mess of spiny shrubs. Jacobson and Elena stood over him.
“Your heel hurt?”
Not like Jacobson cared, the stupid ass. “Yeah, real bad.”