“Better than just twiddling our thumbs,” he said, just as his cell phone rang. He grabbed it and swiped the On button.
“Detective Montgomery?” a voice blurted out. It was a man, his voice high-pitched and loud over a background of radio static and frantic voices. He was excited and speaking loud enough that Afton could hear him.
“Yes?”
“This is Sergeant Bill Hadley over at the Hudson Police Department?”
“What can I do for you, Sergeant Hadley?” Max hit another button and the phone was now on speaker.
“You’d better get over here fast,” Hadley said. “One of the witnesses you guys interviewed in that missing baby case was killed last night.”
Max didn’t seem to register what Hadley had just said. He hesitated for a few moments and then he said, “What?”
“One of the witnesses . . .”
“No, I heard that part,” Max said. “It’s just that . . . Wait, are you saying that Muriel Pink has been killed? The woman who was interviewed on TV last night?”
“Yes,” Sergeant Hadley said. “That’s it. Muriel Pink.”
“And she was . . .”
“It’s a mess,” Hadley cried. And this time he sounded anguished. “Worst I’ve ever seen!”
26
IF Max could hardly believe Muriel Pink had been murdered, neither could Afton. They both stared straight ahead as Max banged onto the entrance ramp to I-94, ignoring the speed limit as they sped across town heading for Hudson.
“How could this happen? How could this happen?” Max muttered.
Afton could only keep repeating, “I know, I know.”
They flew through downtown Saint Paul’s Spaghetti Junction, rocketed through Woodbury, flew past the Minnesota Highway Patrol weigh station, and finally crossed over the bridge that ran above the Saint Croix River. As they swerved onto the icy off-ramp, Afton said, “Easy, take it easy. You’re gonna fly right off this curve and take us straight into the river.”
“That damn Portia,” Max seethed. His knuckles were white from his death grip on the steering wheel; his face was as red as a Roma tomato. “That interview aired last night and set somebody’s whiskers a-twitching. God, somebody should have known. I should have known. We should have had somebody watching Muriel Pink. At the very least brought in the Hudson Police.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Afton said.
“It had to be that damn doll lady,” Max snarled. “She figured out where the old lady lived, then came back and finished her off. Murdered the poor old bat.”
“You don’t know that.”
“That’s the funny thing,” Max said. “I do know that.” He glanced over at her. “And so do you. Tell me you don’t have the same gut feeling that I do.”
“Okay,” Afton said as they passed the local Dairy Queen, barely squeaking through a yellow light. “I do.”
*
MURIEL Pink’s neighborhood looked starkly different from the last time they’d been there. Squad cars with flashing lights, an ambulance, and several unmarked FBI vehicles clogged the street in front of the murder house. On the front walk and in the side yard, crime scene investigators marked, measured, and cataloged footsteps in the newly fallen snow.
Grim-faced neighbors stood in clumps of two and three, watching the spectacle. Their faces were as gray and shocked as Afton figured hers must be. Muriel Pink’s murder was unforeseen. But yes, in hindsight, someone should have been worried about her and put some security precautions in place.
“Son of a bitch.” Max swore under his breath as he stepped from the car. They’d been forced to park a block away. Now they were running the gauntlet of watchers and law enforcement.
Max badged both of them through two different rings of security. Then, rounding the corner of the house, they caught a glimpse of Don Jasper. The Chicago FBI agent was standing at the back door, talking to a crime scene tech in a navy jumpsuit. When Jasper saw them, he motioned for them to come forward.
“How bad?” Max asked as he and Afton crowded onto a sagging back porch.
“Bad,” Jasper said. His affable nature and normally twinkly eyes seemed dulled by what he’d just witnessed. “See for yourself.”
They pressed into the kitchen, where it was crowded and stuffy with at least a half dozen people jostling around. Cameras strobed wildly and Afton surmised that Muriel Pink must be lying in the middle of that maelstrom of activity.
Max elbowed his way through the crowd, Afton practically riding his coattails. He stopped abruptly and they saw her. Muriel Pink was lying on the linoleum floor, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, her face as yellowed and crinkled as old parchment paper. Her floral robe was flung open revealing the fact that her torso had been slashed from sternum to stomach. An enormous pool of blood had congealed around her and soaked up into her clothing. An older white-haired man in green scrubs was leaning over her. Afton figured he might be a local doctor, doing his turn as county coroner.