“Detective, we’ve a call from a woman who says she recognizes the sketch of the Lost Girl you showed on television.”
He was still, skeptical, and hopeful. The false leads had been frustrating, but it only took one good one to close a case.
“Who is she?”
“Says her name is Ester Higgins and she lives in the Hillsboro area. She says the girl looks like her granddaughter.”
He pulled a pen and notebook from his breast pocket. “Did she leave a number?”
She supplied the number. “I’ve also notified Detective Jake Bishop and he’s en route.”
Rick checked his watch. “I can be there in fifteen.”
“He said sooner, rather than later.”
Annoyance snapped. “Sure.”
He downed the last of his coffee in one swallow, tossed money on the table to cover the tab, and headed to his car. As a patrol officer, he’d learned the streets of Nashville well. Seems he’d traveled just about every dark alley and back street in the area.
He arrived in the Hillsboro area twelve minutes after the call and easily found the one-story cinder-block home. Its white paint had faded to gray and large sections were peeling. The path to the front steps was cracked and infested with weeds and the shutter to the right of the front door was broken and dangling from a hinge. The house wasn’t bad but needed a hell of a lot of work. Most of the houses on the block had been refurbished with new paint, siding, and landscaping. But this house remained a holdout.
The neighborhood might be up and coming, but whoever owned this house was one of the holdouts from the old guard. They could have sold, but were just too old or poor to move.
Bishop’s car pulled up behind his and it gave him a measure of satisfaction to know the cop trailed him. He got out, his face sullen. He studied the house as he locked his car and absently checked his gun on his belt.
Rick waited until his partner joined him and the two made the short walk to the front door. “You get any more details from dispatch?”
“No.” He angled his neck from side to side as if fingers of tension had tightened around the tendons. “Just a name and she claims to be the grandmother.”
“Let’s see.” Rick knocked.
At first, the only sound from the house was the hum of the television and, then, as Rick raised his hand to knock again, he heard the slow shuffle of footsteps followed by the scraps of a chain lock.
The door opened a fraction and then wider. An old woman with graying hair tied in a bun peered out at them with dark gray eyes. “What do you want?”
“I’m Detective Rick Morgan and this is my partner, Jake Bishop. You called about a sketch on television.”
The eyes sharpened. The scent of mothballs and some kind of microwaved dish swirled around her. “I just called an hour ago.”
“We’re following up on all leads.”
She lingered a moment longer and then opened the screened door. “Come on inside.”
Both officers glanced at each other. Neither was sure if this would be the lead that cracked the case or was just another wild-goose chase. The house was dimly lit and the strong scent of mothballs lingered in the air. The walls were jammed full of pictures, most of which appeared to be of a young girl. Judging by the age and time, that girl would have been in her late forties or fifties now.
Ester guided them into a small living room where a large television blared the latest Kardashian reality show. She sat in an easy chair, well worn and flanked by a table piled high with magazines and dishes. She nodded toward a long sofa covered in plastic and indicated the two sit as she reached for a remote and muted the sound.
Rick glanced at the pictures on the wall looking for an image of the Lost Girl, but saw none.
“Can I get you boys a soda?” the woman offered.
“No, ma’am,” Rick said. “You said you recognized the image on the television.”
The lines around her mouth deepened as she smoothed deeply veined hands over her brittle hips. “I watch TV a lot now that I’m retired. I’d still be working at the plant but I’m too old and not fast enough anymore.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Impatience nipped, but he resolved to take this slow.
She stared sightlessly at the television as one of the sisters drank and another painted her nails. “Back in the day they’d never have allowed this kind of show on the air. And now here they are and I’m grumbling about them even though I don’t miss a show.”
The detectives nodded, neither speaking.
Mrs. Higgins reached for a small scrapbook on the side table and opened it. She studied the images. “I dug this out when I saw the news the other day. I’ve been looking at the pictures over and over ever since. Wasn’t sure if my mind was playing tricks and, at first, I didn’t think I should call the police. Then I realized I had to call, even if I was wrong.” She looked at Rick with a watery gaze. “It’s been twenty-six years since I saw my baby girl Heather. The last time I held her hand, her fingers were sticky from a candy cane.”
“May I see the pictures?” Rick asked.
Arthritic hands held the scrapbook another moment and then handed it to Rick. His gaze and Bishop’s dropped to the picture of the smiling infant.
The infant was no more than three months and it was hard to tell if this was their Jane Doe. He turned a page and saw a picture of a slightly older baby. Still not easy to tell. He feared Mrs. Higgins’s images of her granddaughter were not going to help until he turned the next page and saw a picture of a four-year-old. She was standing on a stoop and smiling into the camera. She wore a pink dress.
Bishop hissed in a breath as if he’d just sunk the eight ball in the side pocket.
The same rush of a win washed over Rick. This was their Lost Girl. “You said her name was Heather. What was her last name?”
“Briggs. Her mamma, my daughter, married a guy; at least they said they was married. I never liked him but she couldn’t say no to him.”