The Wrong Girl

20

“So, Phillip? Do you have a little baby at your house?” Jake sat cross-legged on the floor of Dr. Bethany Sibbach’s toy-strewn living room, running a bright blue Batmobile across the carpet. Jake and DeLuca had purchased the toy at a CVS after leaving the Brannigan. The Supe assigned another team to the Finch case, agreeing Jake needed to focus on Callaberry. Jake couldn’t help but think the kids were the key.

That empty cradle. Bugged the hell out of him. Dr. Sibbach insisted she’d been given no paperwork about a third child. Insisted there were only two kids. But that didn’t add up. Nothing added up. They still hadn’t found ID for the victim, no files, no paperwork of any kind. That bugged him, too. More than bugged.

Was there a baby somewhere? In trouble? Though everyone said no, little Phillip would know for sure. Question was, could he tell Jake?

Leonard Perl, the Florida landlord, hadn’t called back. Seemed like time to notify the Ft. Lauderdale PD. Get them to put some fear into the guy. DeLuca stood in the hall, talking on his cell to Kat McMahan, insisting he needed to check on the medical examiner’s progress. D had never been so fascinated by the morgue.

“Baby at youah house!” the little boy said.

Jake looked at the therapist, who sat on the flowered couch, Phoebe in her lap. The little girl clutched some kind of thick toasted cracker, crumbs from it dribbling down the front of her dress. There was more cracker on the pink cotton than in Phoebe’s mouth.

“Is that a yes?” Jake asked. “Would you say he’s confirming-?”

Bethany shook her head. “Phillip’s in a repeating phase, Detective Brogan. He’s two, I’d estimate. He’ll try to echo whatever you say. Repeating is how they learn. It’ll be unlikely he’ll be able to tell us anything. Feel free to try, though-Phoebe, honey, shush-I suppose it can’t hurt. He’s quite taken with you, it seems. He only stopped crying when you arrived.”

“Everybody likes a Batmobile,” Jake said. The little boy had snatched the car, trying to balance it on his head. “Phillip? Are you making the car into a hat?”

“Hat!” the little boy crowed. He showed Jake the car. “Cah!”

“Car,” Jake reached for it. “Thank you, Phillip. Batcar.”

“Bahcah!” the little boy pulled it back, hugging it to his chest.

“Batcar.” What they don’t teach you at the police academy. “Phillip? Do you know your mommy’s name?”

“Mommy name!” Phillip replied, still clutching the toy. Then his forehead seemed to crumble, and his lower lip quivered. “Mama?”

Phillip let the car drop to the floor. It landed, upside down, one wheel spinning, forgotten. “Mama?”

“Oh, dear.” Bethany glanced at Jake, mouth tightening, shaking her head. She brushed the crumbs from Phoebe’s dress, then handed the little girl to Jake. “Can you hold her for a second? I’m afraid Phillip’s about to-Come here, sweetheart.”

Jake smelled the sweet shampoo in Phoebe’s hair, felt his two suddenly huge hands almost encircle the white sash on her waist as he reached out to take her. He propped her on his lap, then adjusted the white cotton sock drooping precariously from one foot. He felt her little body settle into the crook of his elbow. With a gurgle and a coo, she grasped his forefinger with her hand. “Gah,” she said.

Jane, he thought. And then dragged his attention back to where it should be.

“So much for that idea,” Jake said. “Would have been much easier if Phillip here could have pointed us in the right direction.”

“Probably better though, for him at least, Detective, that he couldn’t.” The boy had buried his face in Bethany’s sweater, glued his wiry body to hers, and planted his sneakers on her leggings. “His brain function hasn’t developed enough to comprehend what happened. He clearly has a memory of a ‘Mama’-that’s okay, honey, everything will be fine-but we hope that will fade and be replaced by some new and kinder memories. Ms. Lussier is deceased, I’m told. And Phoebe, at this age, she should be completely free of-well, one step at a time. Detective? Seems like you’re done here. Unless you’d like to babysit a while.”

Jake realized he was jiggling his leg, bouncing Phoebe, and she was still hanging on to his finger. Where would she be, a year from now? Ten years? She was at the mercy of the system, thanks to a killer Jake had no idea where to even begin looking for.

“Hard to tell which would be more difficult, Doctor,” Jake said. “Taking care of these two, or finding out who killed their mother. Guess I’ll handle the one I’m trained to do. I think we can clear these two from our suspect list. Should I-?” He looked at Phoebe, straining toward the floor.

“You can put her down, Detective. She’s not going anywhere.”

Exactly like this case, Jake thought. Not going anywhere.

Jake stood, his knees complaining. He shook out a leg and reached for his jacket. Where was DeLuca? “Thanks, Bethany. Let us know if they spill the beans.”

“Will do, Detective. At this age, spilling is what they do best. And you know-”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” DeLuca appeared in the entryway to the dining room, cell phone in hand.

Phillip turned at the sound of male voice, then snuggled closer to Bethany. Phoebe, clattering multicolored wooden blocks into a cardboard box, didn’t look up.

“Hey D.” Next on their agenda, tracking down Leonard Perl and hitting up the Callaberry Street neighbors with a few more knock-and-talks. Now they’d turn the heat up a notch or two. Not even a day since they found the body, but already this case worried him. Doors were not opening the way he’d so optimistically predicted yesterday. “The kids are a dead end, it appears. They don’t have a clue about their mother’s name.”

“They don’t, huh?” DeLuca stashed his cell into his jacket pocket. “That’s okay. Because I do.”