“Are you comfortable, dear?” the woman asked, and her voice scared Amy even more than the eyes of the man had. It reminded her of the witch in Sleeping Beauty or the step-mother in Cinderella and the sound of it sent stabs of fear into her belly.
She didn’t answer right away and the woman stepped toward her. “It isn’t polite not to answer.”
“I’m…okay,” Amy whispered.
“Just okay?” The woman came closer. Amy could smell her perfume and another smell, too. It was the smell her father occasionally had when he watched football. “I would think you would be wonderful, since you are starting your new life.”
Amy swallowed and tried not to cry. She struggled to remember what her parents had taught her about being polite.
“Please, ma’am. I want to go home.”
Stubby fingers extended toward her and touched her cheek. Plastic bracelets dangled from the wrist. “You are home, dear.”
A sudden sob burst out of her chest. “I want my mommy, please!”
The woman retracted her hand and balled it into a fist. “That stupid girl!” she shrieked. “She doesn’t deserve a child like you! She’s a fucking idiot!”
Amy blanched at the yelling and the bad words.
The woman took a deep, shuddering breath and ran her fingers through her hair, making the bracelets jangle. The sound was loud in the quiet of the attic.
“Please?” Amy asked again.
“Shut up!”
Amy couldn’t stand it any longer. The single sob that had burst out became the catalyst for all the rest. They tore at her chest and she let loose an uncontrollable wash of tears.
“I said, shut up!” the woman screamed and raised her fist to strike her.
Amy recoiled, covering her head with both arms.
But the blow never came.
After a few moments, she sensed the woman kneel next to her. The smell of her perfume and beer was overwhelming, despite Amy’s running nose. She felt a pair of arms envelope her. Flabby, clammy skin pressed against her face.
“It’s okay, dear. Don’t cry,” she said in soothing tones, but Amy found no comfort in her words. The touch of the woman’s arms made the little girl’s skin crawl.
“Puh-puh-please?” she said between hitching sobs.
“Don’t cry,” the woman repeated. “It’s all right now. You’re with your Grammy. Your mommy didn’t want you anymore, so I came to get you. That’s all.”
Amy shook her head in disbelief. Her mommy didn’t want her? That couldn’t be true.
“Yes, it’s true,” Grammy said, as if she’s heard Amy’s thoughts. “Sometimes mommies change their minds about keeping their kids. That’s what your mommy did. That’s why I came to get you and I brought you here.”
Amy’s sobs racked her chest. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.
“I’ll take care of you now,” Grammy said. “I’ll love you. Me and your Grandpa Fred.”
Amy couldn’t stop crying and she couldn’t stop shaking her head no.
“But you’ll have to be a very good girl,” Grammy said, stroking Amy’s hair. “You’ll have to be very, very good.”
SEVEN
1134 hours
“What do you have?” Browning asked the officer.
Officer Aaron Norris glanced over at his partner, Virgil Gilliam, with a touch of pride.
“I think I’ve got your van,” the veteran told Browning.
Browning turned his gaze to the blue van at the side of the road ten yards away. A black man sat stewing in the driver’s seat. Browning turned back to Norris. “What happened?”
“I spotted him driving-“
Gilliam cleared his throat.
Norris shot him a dirty look, then shrugged, “All right, we both spotted him driving slowly around Medgar Evers Elementary school. The van matched, the driver matched, so we stopped him.”
“You talk to him yet?”
“Got his license.”
Browning held out his hand and Norris gave him the driver’s license. “What’d he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Norris shrugged. “He gave me the typical line of crap that I was only stopping him because he’s black.”
“Which in this case is true,” Gilliam said.
“No,” Norris said, “I stopped him because he’s driving a blue van and because he’s black.”
“You didn’t ask him any questions?” Browning asked, ignoring their banter. Sometimes he wished for rookies instead of veterans. They made some mistakes, but they tried like hell to do the job right and were far less concerned with being impressed by themselves.
Norris fixed him with a defensive gaze, as if he’d heard Browning’s thoughts. “Last time I did an interview and a Major Crimes detective came along, he beefed me for supposedly screwing up his investigation.” Norris made air quotes as he finished the sentence. “So no, detective, I did not interview the suspect. He’s virgin territory. Have at it.”
Browning resisted the urge to rip into Norris, knowing it would do no good. He’d never admit he’d been wrong once in his life, anyway. Instead, he looked down at the driver’s license.
Albert Jefferson was the driver’s name. His license read that he was 6’2” and 220 pounds. That certainly fit the preliminary description he had.
He handed the license back to Norris. “Run him up on the data channel. Let me know his driving status, arrest record, anything of interest.”
Norris accepted the license, seemingly willing to let their truce stand.
Browning turned and walked to the van.
The driver sat impatiently in his seat, watching Browning approach in his side mirror. He looked a little heavier than 220 and had a touch of premature gray at his temples.
“Mr. Jefferson?” Browning asked.
“Yeah.”
“I appreciate you being patient today-“
“Patient, my ass. Who are you?”
“Detective Browning.”
“Are you these guys’s boss?”
Browning shook his head. “Not really.”
“No? ‘Cause those are some racist sonsabitches back there.”
“Why do you say that?”
Jefferson snorted. “They only stopped me because I’m black and I when I told them that, the one guy there smirked at me.”
“Actually, Mr. Jefferson, in a way, you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.” Then his eyes narrowed and he gave Browning a suspicious look. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, I’m right? You’re agreeing with me?”
Browning nodded. “Here’s the situation. Earlier today, a little girl was kidnapped. Whoever took her was driving a blue van and the driver was a large black male. You match the description. That’s why the officers stopped you.”
Jefferson listened carefully. “You think I took someone’s baby girl?”
“Not necessarily.”
“But you stopped me.”
“You match the description.”
Jefferson snorted again. “And all us niggers look alike, too, right?”
“Please don’t use that word,” Browning said.
“Why not?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of Norris and Gilliam. “They’re thinking it.”
“I’m not. And it’s ugly. How do you expect white people not to use it when we use it ourselves?”
Jefferson gave Browning an appraising look. “You serious with me?”
“Yes.”
Jefferson shook his head in amazement. “Now I’ve seen it all. A cop, a black cop, who doesn’t like the word nigger when it’s a nigger who says it.”
Browning rubbed his goatee. “Mr. Jefferson, look. If I can get your cooperation, we can get you on your way as quick as possible.” He kept his tone friendly.
“Do I have any choice?” Jefferson asked.
Browning met his gaze. “No.”
“You going to arrest me?”
“No,” Browning said. “But I need to know a few things about you and I need to look in your van. There’s a little girl missing, so one way or another I am going to do it. You can cooperate, or I can have the officers sit here with you while I go get a search warrant.”