*
MARJORIE waited in the dark. Anxious, quivering like a frightened Chihuahua. Biting her nails down to almost nothing. Then, finally, to bloody stumps. With the engine off, it was getting colder and colder and she sank into her coat, pulling up the collar and shivering. As the night yawned on, the windows began to fog. Still, her hands and feet jiggled with nervous energy.
After what seemed like an eternity—but was probably no more than twenty minutes—Marjorie was delirious with worry and ready to jack the key into the ignition and take off without him. She glanced into the rearview mirror and caught barely a hint of shadow creeping around the corner of the house. Ah, Ronnie. Now the boy was moving more quickly, his head swiveling to see if anyone was watching.
No one was.
As he neared the car, Ronnie broke into a staggering lope. Then he ripped open the car door and flung himself into the backseat.
“Did you do it?” Marjorie asked, turning to look at him.
Ronnie sank back, a stupid smile on his face. “What do you think?”
In the dim light from the overhead bulb, Marjorie could make out telltale bloody splotches. “Watch your clothes,” she warned. “Watch your clothes and stay on top of that old army blanket.”
“Shut up and drive.”
Marjorie slid across the front seat and took her place behind the wheel. She drove back through Hudson slowly and carefully. When she finally gazed into the rearview mirror, Ronnie was sprawled across the backseat and snoring softly. He might have been unnerved by his actions tonight, but he was sleeping like a baby.
Marjorie allowed herself a tight smile. The kid came through, she told herself. He pulled it off. Which means one big problem is solved. Now, knock on wood, we’re home free.
25
MAX, Afton, and Andy Farmer were sitting in the conference room, watching the tape of Portia Bourgoyne’s interview.
“The TV station sent this over?” Max asked.
Farmer nodded. “Not because they were particularly interested in doing a public service. There was, shall we say, pressure?”
“Good. Have the FBI guys seen this?” Max asked.
“We sent a copy over to them,” Farmer said.
“I still can’t believe Bourgoyne got to this woman,” Afton said.
“Leaks,” Farmer said. “They’re what can kill an investigation.”
“Or bog it down,” Max said.
Afton looked at the paperwork strewn about the table. “Are we bogged down?”
“You tell me,” Max said. Then, “Maybe.”
Afton furrowed her brow. She wished she could be of more help.
“Or maybe not,” Max said. “Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees.”
“You gonna go through all those notes again?” Farmer asked Max. “You got copies of all the interviews? The stuff Dillon and I did? The ones the FBI handled?”
“We got it all,” Max said.
*
AFTON and Max were twenty minutes into their analysis when the phone rang.
Max didn’t look up, but instead aimed a pen at the phone. Afton snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”
“I thought you and Max might be in there,” Angel Graham said. “I have a call holding from a Dr. Sansevere at the ME’s office. Do you want me to put her through?”
“Please.” Afton punched the button to turn on the speakerphone. “Dr. Sansevere is calling,” she told Max. “I think she might have something for us.”
“Dr. Sansevere?” Max said. “This is Max Montgomery. How can I help?”
“I’ve got some news for you.” Her voice was brisk and businesslike.
“Go ahead. Sorry if this sounds like we’re talking from the bottom of a garbage can, but we’ve got you on speakerphone. I want my colleague to hear this, too.”
“The baby that was brought back from Cannon Falls?” said Dr. Sansevere. “There was a problem with her heart. What we call a VSD, a hole in the heart.”
Afton felt sick to her stomach. “You mean somebody stabbed her?” she asked. “Shot her?”
“No, no,” Dr. Sansevere said. “Nothing like that, not any kind of external injury. It was a congenital defect, something the child was born with. A ventricular septal defect. Lots of babies are born with it. It’s basically a hole in the septum that separates the ventricles, the two lower parts of the heart.”
Max locked eyes with Afton.
“Could it have been repaired?” Afton asked.
“Perhaps. If she’d had immediate medical attention. VSDs more often than not require open heart surgery.”
“So that was the cause of death?” Max asked. “A bad heart?”
“Probably the defect was so bad that her heart simply stopped beating,” Dr. Sansevere said.