10th Anniversary (Women's Murder Club 10)

“Honey, I’ll call them tomorrow and apologize. I feel like crap. They’re so great to me.”

“They’re treating us to a honeymoon. A little luxury shack in Hawaii. When we’ve got time.”

“Ah, shit. Is that what they said? That makes me feel even more rotten. There’s a baby missing …”

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Just vending machine stuff. A long time ago.”

Joe got out of the chair and strolled to the kitchen. I followed him like a puppy that had had an accident on the rug. Taking a chicken breast out of a bowl of marinade, he put a pan on the stove and fired it up.

“I can do that,” I said.

“Tell me about your case.”

I poured myself a giant glass of merlot and left the bottle on the counter. Then I dragged up a stool and watched Joe cook. It was one of my favorite things to do.

I told him that a teenage girl had been found in the street like roadkill, bleeding out from a recent pregnancy and delivery. That she’d almost died from loss of blood. That she was still barely lucid, so I had spent the past twelve hours running through missing persons files in every state in the union, waiting for her to talk.

“All we know is that her name is Avis Richardson,” I said to Joe. “Conklin and I have called about two hundred Richardsons in the Bay Area. So far no luck. Wouldn’t you think her parents — or someone — would have reported her missing?”

“You think she was abducted? Maybe she’s not local.”

“Good point,” I said. “But still, no hits in VICAP.” I worked on my butter-sautéed chicken. Slurped some wine. I was kind of hoping that between the sustenance and Joe’s FBI-trained mind, some insight would come to me.

There was a newborn out there somewhere. He might be dying or dead, or in transit to another country. Dr. Rifkin said the gap in Avis Richardson’s memory had to do with whatever medication she had taken and that she didn’t know what kind it was or how long ago she had taken it. There was a chance Avis might never remember more than what she’d already told us. Particularly if she’d been knocked out during the trauma.

I was hoping that her body had a memory of giving birth and that she was emotionally aware of her terrible loss. That maybe that physical memory would trigger an actual one and she’d remember something critical if we gave her enough time.

“Joe, despite all that has happened to her recently, why can’t she tell us how to reach her parents? Is she unable? Or unwilling?”

Joe said, “Maybe she was living on the street.”

“She was found just about naked. Wearing a two-dollar rain poncho. You could be right.”

Joe took away my empty plate, loaded the dishwasher according to a system of his own devising, and gave me a bowl of praline ice cream and a spoon. I got up from my stool and wrapped my arms around his neck.

“I don’t deserve you,” I said. “But I sure do love you to death.”

He kissed me and said, “Did you try Facebook?”

“Facebook?”

“See if Avis has a page. And then here’s an idea. Come to bed.”

Chapter 6

“I’LL JOIN YOU IN A BIT,” I said to Joe’s back as he walked down the hall to our bedroom.

I took my laptop to the sofa and reclined with my head against the armrest, Martha lying across my feet.

I opened a Facebook account and did a search for Avis Richardson. After some fancy finger navigation, I found her home page, which wasn’t privacy protected. I read the messages on her wall, mostly innocuous shout-outs and references to parties, all of which meant nothing to me. But I did learn that Avis attended Brighton Academy, a pricey boarding school near the Presidio.

I called Conklin at around midnight to tell him that we had to track down the head of Brighton, but I got his voice mail. I left a message saying, “Call me anytime. I’m up.” I made coffee and then accessed Brighton’s website.

The site was designed to attract kids and their parents to the school and, if you could believe the hype and the photos, Brighton Academy was a little bit of heaven. The kids — all of them good-looking and well groomed — were shown studying, onstage in the auditorium, or on the soccer field. Avis was in a couple of those photos. I saw a happy kid who was nothing like the young woman lying in a hospital bed.

I recognized other kids, ones I’d seen on Avis’s Facebook page.