Bells jangled overhead as they moved through the front door to a cashier stand where a tall redhead stood. The noise of conversation mingled with plates clattering and a country-western song blaring on the jukebox.
The redhead eyed the two detectives with suspicion as if she knew they were cops and cops meant trouble. She snapped her gum. “Who do you want?”
“Loyola Briggs.”
She chewed, her gum snapped again. “She’s in trouble again?”
“Not right now. We got a few questions for her.”
“Always starts with a few questions.” The woman arched a brow. “Right. Kitchen. Through those doors.”
The detectives passed by tables full of haggard, bearded drivers, hunched over greasy food and thick, black coffee. Through double doors they were greeted by the smells of frying chicken and biscuits.
When the doors whooshed closed behind them the cooks, dressed in greasy white uniforms, glanced over. One tall man covered in tattoos narrowed his gaze and tightened the grip on his carving knife. Another stiffened and looked toward an exit.
Rick held up his badge. “Looking for Loyola Briggs.”
Several of the men relaxed. One nodded toward the back just as an unseen door in the rear of the kitchen slammed open and shut. Both officers hurried through the kitchen and drew their guns as they pushed through the back door. Once outside, they found themselves facing the back parking lot and a row of dumpsters. A lightbulb spit out light, casting a weak halo around the door. For a moment, there was no sign of anyone and both stopped and listened.
“She can’t be far,” Rick said.
Bishop nodded toward the second green dumpster. “There.”
They split up and moved toward it. As Rick came around the left side, he spotted the woman’s outline in the shadows. He leveled his gun. “Police. Come out where I can see you with your hands up.”
The shadowed figure whirled around, but he still couldn’t see her face. She hesitated. He tensed, aiming his gun, not knowing if she was armed.
“Out now!” Bishop said. He’d come around the other side of the dumpster. “Move toward the other officer.”
The shadow shifted and then slowly moved toward Rick. She stepped into a ring of light. Dirty-blond hair in a layered cut framed a thin, pale face. A drug addict’s wild eyes, as sunken as a hollowed-out skull, stared out at him.
Bishop came up behind her and as he holstered his gun he took her right hand in his and clamped a handcuff on it. He locked the other hand in the cuff.
“I ain’t done nothing wrong!” she wailed. “I ain’t done nothing.”
“Are you Loyola Briggs?” Rick asked.
“Yeah. But I ain’t done nothing wrong. Ask my parole officer. I make my meetings.”
Rick reached for his phone and pulled up the picture of Heather Briggs. “Is this your daughter?”
Loyola didn’t look at the photo. She sniffed and shook her head. “I ain’t got no children.”
“Your mother says you have a daughter named Heather.”
Loyola met his gaze. “I don’t have no kids.”
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday, August 23, 11:30 P.M.
Rick’s grip on the phone tightened. “According to your mother, Ester Higgins, you do have a child. Her name is Heather.”
Loyola stopped her struggles and for a moment stared at him as if he were a ghost from the past. “What?”
“Heather,” Bishop said. “Your daughter was Heather.”
The woman shook her head and dropped her gaze. “No.”
Rick gripped his temper. “Where’s Heather?”
She sniffed and kept her gaze on the ground. For a moment her gaze turned vacant as if she traveled backward in time. “I gave her away.”
“Gave her away?” Rick asked.
“Yeah.” She shrugged her shoulders. “To a good family. That was a long time ago. Is she looking for me? I’ve seen stories on the television, you know, where kids come and find their real families.”
He wondered how many times she’d told herself this story over the years. “You think she’s looking for you?”
“Sure. That’s what adopted kids do. Like I said, I seen it on those movie channels before.”
Bishop muttered a curse. “You didn’t give Heather away.”
“Yes, I did.” She raised her gaze staring at him with vacant eyes. “I did. To a good family.”
“Who did you give her to?” Rick asked.
“A good family. A really good family.”
“I need a name,” Rick insisted.
She shook her head. “I don’t remember the name.”
Bishop sighed. “You gave your child to a family and you don’t have a name?”
“That happens with adoptions. I think they’re called closed adoptions.”
Bishop growled. “This is a waste of time. Tell her.”
Rick shook his head. “Loyola, we’ve found the body of a child. A girl. And we think it’s Heather.” He scrolled through his phone and found Jenna’s sketch. “We think this is Heather.”
Loyola didn’t look at the image. “No. That’s not Heather.”
“You haven’t looked at it,” Rick said.
She folded her arms, as if donning armor. “I don’t need to.”
“Do me the favor of looking at the picture.” No missing the order behind the soft tone.
Loyola’s gaze flickered to the image, but didn’t focus on it. “That’s not her.”
With deliberate slowness, Rick turned off the image and tucked the phone in his breast pocket. “Know how we came up with this picture?”
Loyola sniffed and glanced toward her feet. “I don’t care.”
Bishop twisted his pinky ring. “You aren’t the least bit curious?”
“I’ve got to get back to work. Please take these handcuffs off.” She moved as if to leave but Rick stepped in her path, blocking her escape.