“Who found her?” Max said to no one in particular.
A Saint Croix County sheriff’s deputy turned to answer him. “Neighbor. When the old lady didn’t come over for her usual cup of coffee, the neighbor got worried and peeked in the back window. Saw this.”
“Damn,” Max said. “Somebody really went to work on her.”
The officer removed his Smoky Bear hat, as if in deference to the slain woman, and ran a hand over his blond brush cut. “Carved her up pretty good.”
“You ever see anything like this before?”
“Not exactly like this,” the deputy said. Then he paused. “Well, maybe once when I arrested a couple of hunters. They’d shot a doe, but didn’t have a proper deer license. They were hurrying to . . .” He gestured futilely, not finishing his sentence.
*
AFTON stepped around the circle of onlookers and walked quietly into the living room. A brass clock over a small red brick fireplace ticked reassuringly. Dolls smiled out from the shelves of a bookcase. A pair of fuzzy white slippers were tucked next to a well-worn lime green easy chair. An AARP magazine was spread open on a nearby end table. But Muriel Pink was never again going to sit in here and enjoy her cozy little home and read her magazines.
Just who were they dealing with? Obviously, a person so callous they would break into a person’s house, beat the crap out of the babysitter, steal a baby, and then double back and stab an old lady witness. Sometimes the world was a pretty sick place.
“Afton!” Max called. “Afton!”
Afton spun around to find Max huffing toward her. It was clear he hadn’t cooled off. If anything, he seemed to have doubled down on his anger.
“We’re not going to get anything here,” Max told her. “Between the FBI, local law enforcement, and crime scene techs, they’ve got it under control.” He drew a deep breath. “But there’s only been one officer so far who canvassed the neighborhood.” An expectant look filled his face.
“What are we waiting for?” Afton said.
*
BACK outside, the gawkers who had been standing on the front lawn had all but disappeared. Their absence was either a result of freezing temperatures, the fact that being on the fringes of an investigation was pretty boring, or the Saint Croix County deputies shagging them away. The only evidence that something unholy had taken place here was the string of law enforcement cars and vans snaking around the corner.
Max took one side of the street, Afton took the other. She knocked on the doors of three houses before she found someone who was at home. But when she introduced herself and asked the woman if she’d seen anyone walking around outside last night, the woman shook her head. No, she hadn’t seen or heard anything until the police has shown up at poor Mrs. Pink’s home a couple of hours ago. And wasn’t that an awful thing?
Afton continued to plug away, but was having miserable luck. And by the set of Max’s shoulders as he covered the other side of the street, he was striking out, too.
It wasn’t until Afton hit her sixth house that a woman named Ellie Schroeder remembered seeing someone walking down the street last night.
“What time was this?” Afton asked her.
“Oh, pretty late,” Schroeder said. “Maybe ten o’clock?” Schroeder was thin and mousy looking, wearing baggy slacks and a sweatshirt that said, WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDMA. “But I don’t think the person I saw was your killer.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he was carrying a pizza box,” Schroeder said.
Inside her chest, Afton’s heart did a slow-motion flip-flop.
Schroeder went on. “I just assumed it was Mr. Foster from down the block.” She leaned in and squinted at Afton. “He’s a divorced dad, and when his kids stay over, he usually buys pizza.” She said it disapprovingly, as if Mr. Foster should be grilling a medley of organic carrots and broccoli instead.
“Mrs. Schroeder, wait a minute, will you?” Afton was excited. This was the same MO the kidnappers had used when they’d strong-armed the Dardens’ babysitter. She ran across the street, grabbed Max, and pulled him back to Mrs. Schroeder’s house.
“Tell him,” Afton said to Mrs. Schroeder. “Tell Detective Montgomery exactly what you saw.”
Max listened to her carefully, asked a couple of questions, and then said, “Could you identify this man again?”
“It was pretty dark.”
“But if we sent a police sketch artist over, you’d give it a try?”
“Absolutely,” Schroeder said.
“And which house does Mr. Foster live in?”
“That one.” Schroeder pointed to a nondescript two-story home that was two doors down.
“I knocked on the door there,” Afton said. “Nobody’s home.”
“Do you know where Mr. Foster works?” Max asked.
Schroeder gave a tight nod. “Certainly. He works at the Heartland Insurance Agency right down on Main Street. Next to the ice cream parlor.”