That was unexpected. Sherlock said, “You mean you were with more than one man at the time?”
Kara shuddered. “No, no, nothing like that. Here’s the truth. When I found out I was pregnant, I couldn’t believe it, even argued with the doctor. I had no idea how it happened. He sort of scoffed and asked me if it was an immaculate conception. But it was true; I wasn’t seeing anyone. The doctor tried to pinpoint the date I got pregnant and I remembered my friend Sylvie Vaughn’s party, at her place in Baltimore. It was a catered birthday party for her husband, Josh. When I woke up the morning after the party, I couldn’t remember how I got home. I was ashamed, thought I must have drank too much, maybe passed out. I called Sylvie to apologize, but she said she’d bet a lot of guests didn’t know how they got home. She told me not to worry, I hadn’t taken off my clothes and gotten up on a table to dance. But the thing is, I don’t remember getting drunk, only a couple glasses of wine.”
“How many people were at the party?”
“Thirty, maybe more. I didn’t know most of them, but Sylvie’s right, everyone was having a great time, lots of booze.”
“Do you remember leaving your wine to go to the bathroom? To dance?”
She raised her eyes to Sherlock’s face. “I must have, because I came to believe I was roofied.”
Sherlock tightened her hand on Kara’s. “Yes, it sounds like you were. Back up, Kara, start at the beginning. Tell me what you remember from that night.”
Kara closed her eyes, trying to focus. “I arrived at Sylvie’s condo, greeted a few people I knew, met a few new people, some single guys, some guys with dates or wives, all Josh’s friends. I remember wishing Josh a happy birthday. He kissed me and hugged me, and I wanted to kick him because he tried to put his tongue in my mouth. I got away from him as soon as I could. I never liked him much, and he was already getting drunk.” She stopped, looked utterly vulnerable.
“You’re doing very well, Kara. Go on.”
“I woke up in my own bed the next morning, and three weeks later I was told by my doctor that my nausea wasn’t from a lingering flu. I was pregnant.”
“Did you call the police?”
“And tell them what? I’m pregnant and I think I was roofied because I don’t remember anything? No, I didn’t.”
“Did you tell your friend Sylvie?”
“Again, and say what exactly? Sylvie, I need to know the names of all the guys at your party because I think one of them roofied me and I’m pregnant?”
That’s exactly what you should have done. And called the police. Nine months have passed. Would your friend Sylvie even remember who was there?
“Kara, when you woke up the morning after, was there any sign you’d had sex?”
“No,” Kara said slowly. “And later, when I found out I was pregnant, I wondered how it could have happened at the party, since there were no signs. Unless the man washed me when he was done.” She shuddered. “The thought of that is so creepy, so humiliating. I wanted to find him and kill him, but of course there was no way I could even identify who he was.”
“Did you tell your friends, your family, you were pregnant?”
“No, not at first. But then, of course, I started showing and I had to tell them. I had two close friends at the time, one of them Sylvie Vaughn. I told them the truth, that I’d been roofied. Sylvie was upset I hadn’t told her right away, said she could have checked out the men at the party, and I thought, yeah, and how would you do that? My other close friend, Brenda Love, she’s a textile artist, urged me to have an abortion, put it all behind me, and get on with my life. Like Alex didn’t mean anything.”
“Did your friend Sylvie Vaughn also urge you to have an abortion?”
Kara shook her head. “Sylvie’s great; she’s more of a listener and always supportive. When I told her I wanted to keep the baby, and really pushed her for her opinion, she finally said if she were standing in my shoes, she’d keep the baby, too. The baby would be mine, all mine, and this faceless donor—that’s what she called him—could go hang himself. I loved her for that.
“As for family, only my uncle Carl and aunt Elizabeth live close by Baltimore, in Mill Creek. Let me just say they weren’t particularly supportive. They insisted I have an abortion. Even if I weren’t Catholic, Agent Sherlock, I would never have aborted the baby. I wanted him. I had a part-time job at a modern gallery in Baltimore to help support my painting, and I’m a good salesperson. I knew I could get another job easily enough, so I packed up my Honda and moved here to Washington. I got a job right away at the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown and I’ve met some really nice people. And of course Dr. Janice, my next-door neighbor. She stayed with me during my labor.”
Kara looked wrung out. Sherlock patted her hand. “Dr. Janice told me you’re an artist, a neo-impressionist she called you.”
“That’s close enough,” Kara said, and added with an exhausted smile, “I’m all for reality if I can blur it around the edges a bit.”
“Did she tell you Dillon’s grandmother is Sarah Elliott? She and Sarah were very good friends.”
Kara’s mouth gaped open. “The Sarah Elliott? Really? That’s amazing. I wonder why she didn’t tell me.”
“Maybe she believed what you were doing was more important and you didn’t need any comparisons. Dillon whittles beautiful pieces, and his sister, Lily, does the No Wrinkles Remus political cartoon in the Washington Post.”
That small excursion had distracted Kara for maybe three minutes, but reality snapped her back. “How are you going to find Alex?”
Sherlock took Kara Moody’s face between her hands. “We already have a good start. We may know the name of the woman who took him very soon now. I will personally speak to Sylvie Vaughn. Now, we need a sample of Alex’s DNA, so there’ll be no doubts we’ve got the right baby when we find him. Yours, too. An FBI tech will be here to collect it soon.”
“Alex has lots of black hair, thick as mine. I brushed it yesterday with a tiny brush a nurse gave me. There’s probably some hair on the brush. Will that do?”