That asshole Torbert had rolled the dice and tried to pull an end run on her. He’d attempted to negotiate a phony exchange that would net him a big fat pile of money. Only it had worked out badly for him. And now he was dead, drowned like the filthy weasel he was, probably laid out on a cold slab in the Saint Paul morgue.
Marjorie walked into her doll studio and sat down so hard she practically jounced the fillings in her teeth loose. She needed to focus. She needed to think. Most important, she needed to weigh her options.
She picked up a Krissy doll and sat there stroking its silky blond hair. Studied its little girl lips, idly decided that they should be bolder, maybe even give them a Hollywood pout.
Marjorie figured she had twenty-four hours at best before the net would begin to settle around her.
If the police tore through that scumbag Torbert’s records, and surely they would, then sooner or later they were bound to find something—paperwork, phone records, whatever—that linked him to her.
That would be a disaster of epic proportions.
Of course, having that little hot potato asleep in the crib upstairs was fairly incriminating as well. Something would have to be done. New plans would have to be put in place. And fast.
Marjorie picked up a pair of scissors and started trimming the doll’s hair. She snipped methodically at the long, flowing tresses, turning them into a shoulder-length bob. As her mood darkened, her anger and frustration grew, until it seemed to encompass her like a black, amorphous blob. She snipped away more hair. The doll’s bob was becoming a pixie cut.
The police will be coming, she told herself. And when they do, they’re not going to show one lick of mercy. All they’ll care about is what happened with the Darden baby and the Pink woman.
She hacked aggressively at the doll’s hair, making one side spikey and stubbly.
I’ll be sent to prison. For life. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen.
Marjorie threw down the scissors and watched them skitter across her worktable. Exhaling heavily, she bent sideways and slid open the bottom drawer of a metal filing cabinet. Pulled out a gun.
Better to settle this now, on my own terms.
She leaned back and caressed the dull metal of the gun. Thought about how easy it would be to shoot Shake and Ronnie. They were stupid and docile, like cows. They’d never see it coming, never think to defend themselves. She could pack up her good dolls and just get the hell away from here.
Maybe, just maybe, she could bundle up the two babies and take them along. She could dump them on the black market somewhere, maybe in Kansas City or Saint Louis. Someplace like that. She knew a few people. She’d been dabbling in this business long enough.
Kill them and then I’ll drive down to . . .
Marjorie gazed out the window. Pulled herself out of her mad fantasy long enough to see that there was a winter storm raging outside. Icy crystals of snow tick-ticked at the window like ragged fingernails. She saw that the snow had drifted up and over the cars in the driveway, turning them into soft, white humps. With this much snow, the roads would be damn near impassible. Hell, their driveway was completely drifted in. Still . . . if she couldn’t get out, then the police couldn’t get in. That brought her some small degree of comfort.
I’ll have to wait. But probably no more than ten or twelve hours. Don’t want to push my luck any more than I have to.
As soon as the snow eased up, she’d call Ort Peterman, the farmer who was their nearest neighbor. He was a big old Norski who owned a big old snow cat. He’d come over and plow her out if she asked. Have to pay him forty bucks, but what the hell. It was a small price to pay for her freedom.
That was it then. That was her plan. Shoot and scoot. Marjorie’s snarling expression turned into a grin as she began to hum tunelessly.
And make plans. Lots of plans.
Lately, she’d been nursing a secret fantasy. Make some kind of big score and then get the hell out of Dodge. Move somewhere where she could rent a little apartment and go on disability. Get that monthly mailbox handout. She’d seen an episode on 60 Minutes about how, down in Kentucky, everyone and his brother-in-law was on disability. If those stupid hillbillies could work a decent con, why couldn’t she? She was ten times smarter than they were. Besides, if she ever wanted to go back into business, there were probably plenty of dumb hillbilly girls with unwanted hillbilly babies.
40
SUSAN Darden was the last person Afton and Max expected to see this Saturday morning as they huddled at Max’s desk. But here she was, pulling off a knit stocking cap, looking anguished and expectant.
“I just came from Regions Hospital,” Susan told them. “Checking on Richard.” After Darden had been transported to Regions Hospital, he’d been treated for overexposure and kept overnight. Some sedation had been involved, too.
“How’s he doing?” Afton asked.
“Not too many ill effects,” Susan said. “Aside from the fact that he’s angry and bitter about what happened. And upset about the money.” She glanced around the Robbery and Homicide squad room. “The doctors say he can be released later today.”