CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
C HAPTER T WENTY -T WO
Bree spotted Jager in the break room stirring a steaming mug with a wooden stick. Surprise visits from the county administrator were never good news. Bree braced herself and entered. “You need to speak with me?”
Jager looked up, her eyes suspiciously deadpan. “Yes.”
What is she up to?
The room smelled of fresh brew, so Bree poured herself a mug. “Let’s go into my office.” She led Jager through the squad room and closed her office door behind them.
Jager settled herself in a guest chair, crossing one bony leg over the other.
Bree perched on the edge of her desk. “Did you see the alligator again?”
“No. The man from the zoo came out and set up a camera. But that’s not why I’m here.” Jager held her coffee in both hands, glaring over the rim. “The media reported on a shooting at a playground yesterday. What. Were. You. Thinking?” She enunciated each word as if it were its own sentence. “And why wasn’t I informed?” she asked as if she were Bree’s boss. She wasn’t.
“Excuse me?”
“They interviewed a mother with a toddler and an infant in a baby stroller. The woman was in tears, talking about how terrified she was when she heard gunshots while on her way to the playground. They played the clip over and over. It’s going fucking viral. So, I’ll repeat my question: What were you thinking, exchanging gunfire with an armed suspect in a residential neighborhood?”
“We did not engage with an armed suspect. We chased a man who tried to abduct Claire Mason. He opened fire on us, and we did not fire back because of the location.” Bree’s head throbbed. “What would you have us do? Not chase him at all?”
Unmoved, Jager speared Bree with her gaze. “Did you catch him?”
Bree paused for a nanosecond, then spit out, “No.”
“Then what was the point of pursuing him?” Jager snapped.
Bree counted to three. “This was not a planned event. We didn’t know he was armed or that he would fire on us. All we knew was that he was chasing our victim, a teenage girl who has already lost both her parents to murder.”
Jager didn’t comment, but there was no give on her face or in her tone. Was she capable of understanding someone else’s point of view? “Are you any closer to making an arrest?”
“We’re working on several leads and have a person of interest.”
“Who?”
“I cannot give out his name at this time,” Bree said. She would not let Jager sabotage the case, even unintentionally.
Jager was not impressed. “You need to arrest someone for those murders.”
Of course they needed to find the killer, but crimes were not solved by sheer willpower. This time, Bree couldn’t hold back the retort. “Will anyone do? Or should I continue solving the case?” She regretted the words the second they left her lips.
Damn it! You let her get to you. Again.
“I see you’re in no mood to be reasonable.” With a spine rigid with indignation, Jager set her coffee on the desk and stood. “We discussed a press conference to address the issue, and you didn’t get back to me with a time. So, I set one up for this evening. You’re welcome to attend or not. Up to you.”
Bree didn’t respond for a few seconds, swallowing her first few instinctive replies and settling on, “I’ll be there.”
“Six o’clock sharp. Have an update ready. If I were you, I’d make it sound like I made some progress.” Jager walked out.
Bree’s mind spun. How dare she? Stupid response. Jager had no shame. This wasn’t the first time she’d forced Bree’s hand to the detriment of an investigation. Jager wouldn’t pass up any opportunity to get in front of the press and elevate her own position. Bree had no time to play politics. She had actual work to do. Juggling work and family time was already like walking a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. Now, there would be no dinner or bedtime with the kids, all because Madeline Jager wanted her face on the news.
Bree was still silently fuming when Matt knocked on her doorframe and poked his head in ten minutes later. “Everything OK?”
Bree leaned back in her chair and stared at her ceiling for a few seconds. “Politics will be the death of me.”
“Jager?”
Bree shifted forward. “Yep. She’s called a press conference for this evening.”
Matt dropped into a chair. “Ugh.”
“I want to be a cop. I want to protect the residents, solve crimes, and put away the bad guys. I don’t have time to juggle politicians’ egos.” Bree scrubbed her hands down her face. “That woman brings out the absolute worst in me.” Mentally, she smacked herself for snapping back. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d allowed Jager to draw her into her narrative.
“She would drive a nun to drink. She is not an easy person.”
“It’s my fault. I should have scheduled a press conference. Then I could be in control. I procrastinated, and this is what happened. Lack of action meets consequence.”
“You didn’t procrastinate. You were working the case—and being shot at.”
Bree shrugged. It didn’t matter. “Let’s not waste any more time on Jager.”
“The detective who worked Claire/Blaire’s case is available for a call in five.”
“That was fast.” Bree pressed both palms on her desk and pushed to her feet.
“We got lucky. She answered my email immediately.” Matt led the way back to the conference room. “She’s eager to talk to us.”
Todd spun his computer so Bree could see the screen. A photo of a young child dominated Bree’s attention. Despite the years that had passed, she recognized Claire immediately. The Masons had had a few framed snapshots around the house from Claire’s younger years. She was a tiny thing, with wispy long blond hair and big eyes, sitting in a pile of fall leaves.
“Can’t argue with DNA.” Bree eased into a chair. “And that’s definitely her.”
Matt placed his phone on the table and made the call.
A woman answered, “Detective Shillings.”
Matt leaned closer. “This is Investigator Matt Flynn, Sheriff Bree Taggert, and Chief Deputy Todd Harvey.”
“You found Blaire Sawyer?” Shillings sounded incredulous.
Matt gave her a quick synopsis from the Masons’ murders to the fake adoption papers and rapid DNA request. “The Masons changed her name to Claire.”
Shillings’s sigh reverberated. “They picked a name close to her real one. Maybe to make it easier for her to learn and respond to the change. Five-year-olds are adaptable. She would have believed what she was told.”
Which she did.
“What can you tell us about the case?” Matt asked. “How did she go missing?”
“Her father, Dallas Sawyer, crashed his car into a ditch during a snowstorm. By the time a passing motorist reported the accident, Mr. Sawyer was dead and cold. The state troopers that responded didn’t even know there had been a child in the car until they went to do the death notification and the mother started screaming, ‘Where’s my daughter?’” Shillings paused for a breath and maybe to collect herself. “The child safety seat in the rear of the vehicle was empty, with no sign that a child had been in it during the accident. No blood, et cetera.”
“I can’t imagine,” Bree said, and meant it. She pictured Kayla out with Matt, a state trooper knocking on the door ... No. Her experiences in law enforcement always took her to the worst-case scenario, but that kind of doomsday thinking would not serve her today. Shaking her head, she banished the image. For now. She knew it would probably come back in her nightmares, when she could not control her imagination.
“Yeah,” Shillings continued. “That’s when I was called in. Between the medical examiner and Mr. Sawyer’s personal timeline, we determined he’d been dead for approximately six hours.”
“Did you try and track her?” Matt asked. “If she wandered from the vehicle, she had six hours to get lost.”
“We did,” Shillings said. “It was January. The temperature had dropped to single digits that night, and three inches of snow had fallen since the accident happened. If there were tracks, the snow had filled them in. We called in dogs. Even in a coat and boots, a five-year-old couldn’t have gotten far in those conditions. Frostbite can occur in minutes at that temp. We searched that night, the next day—when the storm had passed—and again after the snow melted. We put out alerts. We checked hospitals and put her photo on TV, in case a passing motorist had found her. But we never had a lead on the child. Not a single one. She vanished into thin air, without a trace, poof. All the clichés applied.”
“Is her mother still living?” Bree asked.
“Yes.” Despite the positive response, Shillings’s tone was sad. “About a year after the accident, she tried to drown herself in pills and vodka. Thankfully, she survived, but she’s never recovered from losing her daughter. I touch base with her once a year. She suffers from debilitating depression and substance abuse. Some years, she’s sober. Others, not. I understand her reaction, but she also had—has—a son, Denver. He’s twenty-two now.”
“How do you think she’ll take the news?” Bree asked.
“I don’t know. I assume she’ll be happy her daughter is alive, but she’s lost twelve years ...” Shillings paused. “I’ll drive out there now and let you know when we can set up a meet. I assume she’ll want to see her daughter ASAP.”
“Yes, and we have to tell Claire,” Bree said.
“She doesn’t know?” Shillings asked.
“The Masons told her that they adopted her after her parents died in a car accident.”
“That’s clearly not what happened,” Shillings said. “And we need to find out what did.”
“Absolutely,” Bree agreed. “Let’s do the meetup between Claire—sorry, Blaire—and her biological mother tomorrow. Blaire can have the night to digest the news. Then we should put our heads and case notes together.”
“Sounds good. I’ll get back to you.” Shillings ended the call.
The conference room fell silent for a few heartbeats. Then Bree said, “Do we bring Claire into the station or go see her at the new foster home? I’ve never had to tell a victim their entire life is a lie before. What’s the protocol?”
Matt shook his head. “There are no good options.”
“No.” Bree called Lindsay and summed up the situation.
“Better take her to the station,” Lindsay said. “Her new foster mother called me a while ago and said Claire was being difficult. They weren’t sure how they’d manage her. So, I’m not sure that situation is going to work out.”
“Claire is traumatized, not difficult .” Bree swallowed her very personal—and angry—response. That was the exact same argument her grandparents had used when they’d taken the younger Taggert orphans and rejected Bree. At the age of eight, she’d had the most difficulty processing the trauma. Thankfully, a cousin in Philadelphia had stepped up. But the Taggert kids should have been kept together. Separating them had created a whole new trauma Bree and Adam were still working to overcome.
“I know, but she needs to be with someone who also understands that. I’ll work on finding a new place, but it isn’t going to be easy. We’re overflowing with kids in need of placement. I’m trying to get her in to see a child psychiatrist as well, but there’s a waiting list. The sooner she gets help processing all this, the better.” Lindsay ended the call.
Bree stood, crossed to the door, and called into the squad room for Zucco.
Zucco hurried into the conference room, her face hopeful. “Ma’am? Am I back on full duty?”
“Tomorrow. For now, I have a special task for you.” Bree updated Zucco on Claire’s status as a missing child.
“Holy shit.” Zucco blinked. “I can’t believe it. How is Claire going to take the news?”
“It’s going to be a shock,” Bree said.
Because the news was going to traumatize her all over again, just like Bree and her siblings had been damaged a second time by the adult response to their situation. Frustration surged through Bree. She could see Claire’s emotional situation escalating, but Bree felt powerless to stop it. Claire’s past life was unraveling, and her present was nothing but crisis upon crisis.
How could she possibly recover after having her life literally stolen?