Chapter Forty-Eight
The title track from . . . Baby One More Time is on a replay loop in Midge’s head as she descends the steps to the police station, thinking about Kelly’s call and about Caroline, about Sarah, about Junia and Sienna, and about what a dangerous place the world can be for the sweet and innocent.
As for the not so sweet and innocent . . .
She finds Allie at the desk, in the midst of a call that appears to be business, as she’s taking a report.
Midge waves at her, heading for her office, but Allie holds up a finger for her to wait.
“All right, we’ll send someone over as soon as we can,” she’s saying. “Yes, I’ve got the address . . . right . . . right. Just as soon as we can. Yes, we will. Thank you.”
She hangs up, tosses the pen aside, and heaves a sigh. “Wow, that was an ordeal.”
“What’s going on?”
“Some old guy, complaining that there are too many people staying at the Airbnb next door to him. He said there should only be six, and he counted at least seven. But one is a baby, so . . . Do babies count?”
“Depends on the rental agreement. Send someone over to check it out. What else?” she asks, impatient to get to her desk.
“Some Amish guy dropped this off for you.” Allie opens a drawer and pulls out a white paper bag. “It smells amazing, whatever it is.”
The bag is heavy for its size and smudged with sugary grease. Midge peeks in. Seeing two enormous glazed apple fritters, she starts to offer one to Allie.
“Oh, and one more thing!” Allie says, snapping her fingers. “I totally forgot to tell you earlier, and then I was going to call but I didn’t have a chance.”
“What is it?”
“Nate somebody was here to see you.”
“Nate who?”
“Or maybe it was Matt.”
“Matt . . . Wait, was it Nap? Nap Moreau? The medical examiner?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I’m pretty sure.” Allie gives a decisive nod.
“When was he here?”
“This morning.”
“When this morning?”
“Just before you got here.”
“You mean the first time? Or now?”
“The first time. Early. He said for you to give him a call.”
“Allie! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I forgot. I was busy.”
“With your pedicure?”
“I’m sorry, Midge. I—”
“You’re on thin ice, Allie,” Midge snaps. “You’d better shape up, fast.”
She turns on her heel and strides to her office. Most likely, Nap was just popping in to say hi. He does that sometimes. Maybe he wanted to check with her about going to the Dive Inn.
She reaches into the white paper bag, breaks off a chunk of apple fritter, and shoves it into her mouth before licking her sticky index finger and dialing Nap’s number.
It rings into voicemail.
She leaves a message, hangs up, and breaks off another piece of fritter.
Before she’s even swallowed it, the phone buzzes with an incoming call.
Wow, that was fast.
But it isn’t Nap. It’s Ann Webster, the Elizabethville detective on the Stanton case. Midge put in a call to her earlier, after speaking with Al Novak.
“Hi, Midge. I had a message to get in touch as soon as possible. Is your dad okay?”
“Yes, he’s fine.”
“Oh, thank goodness. When I saw you’d called, I got worried.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I wanted to ask you about the Junia Stanton case. We’ve got a missing teenage girl here, and there are some similarities in victimology.”
Her father’s term is a deliberate choice now. It’s increasingly unlikely that either case is without victims.
“You’re talking about Sarah Greene? I heard about that this morning. You’re right, they’re around the same age, and they’re somewhat similar in appearance. And they both left home alone, in the middle of the day. By any chance, is Sarah an adoptee?”
“No, she isn’t. Her mother specifically mentioned getting her nickname when she was pregnant with Sarah. There is another connection between the girls, though. The Greenes belong to Congregational Memorial Church, and the Stantons were members years ago.”
“So the girls know each other?”
“I don’t think so. But it’s where Sarah was headed yesterday afternoon, and when I went over to see if I could track her down, I met a man claiming to be the minister.”
“Claiming?”
As Midge quickly fills her in, she hears Ann clacking a keyboard.
“I see the BOLO here . . . white man, clean cut, medium build, wearing a hat, driving a Ford Focus,” she says. “Talk about a needle in a haystack. Any leads yet?”
“Not yet. I’m hoping he’s still in the area. There’s one other thing . . .”
Midge tells her about Jaret and his friend’s speculation that Junia might have been talking to a strange man. Again, Ann is typing, taking down notes and asking for the boys’ names and numbers.
“Thanks, Midge. I’ll reach out to them and see if they have anything for us. We’ve been trying to get access to Junia’s phone, email accounts, social media, all of it. But you know how that goes.”
“Yes. It takes a while. Her parents don’t have access to anything?”
“Her parents aren’t cooperating.”
“With the investigation?”
“Not with anything they see as a violation of their privacy or Junia’s.”
“Are you suspicious?”
“Do I think they had something to do with Junia’s disappearance?
No. Do I think they’re not sharing everything they know?
Absolutely. One of her friends reached out to tell me Junia had recently learned she was adopted.
Apparently, it caused a rift, because it was something the Stantons intended to keep from her. ”
“I’m guessing the records are sealed?”
“They are. Junia’s friend said that the Stantons refused to answer any of Junia’s questions about the adoption or what they might know about her biological parents. They certainly didn’t answer any of ours.”
“Even if it might help find their daughter?” Midge exhales through puffed cheeks. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Okay, so without any records or anyone willing to talk, DNA testing would have been Junia’s only means of tracing her biological family. That’s what she was doing when she disappeared?”
“She was. Her friend said Junia had provided samples to more than one genealogy site, and that she was communicating with someone from her birth family, possibly making plans to run away.”
“But you can’t access her records directly on the site to see who it was?”
“She didn’t use any of the sites that cooperate with law enforcement.
We need a warrant or a subpoena. The thing is, Midge .
. . knowing what I know now, I’m not convinced there’s any foul play involving Junia.
She’s a legal adult. She has a right to live wherever she wants to live, and to cut off communication with her adoptive parents. Sarah’s a different story.”
“I agree. It’s just, when I heard about Junia’s connection to Congregational . . . it’s hard not to think it might be relevant.”
“I understand, and you are your father’s daughter. Bobby’s never been big on coincidences. But sometimes, they do happen, Midge. On the job, and in life. I’m sure that’s all this is, but I’ll text you her parents’ contact info so that you can talk to them yourself, if you’d like.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
A moment after they hang up, her phone lights up with a text from Ann.
As promised, she’s sent phone numbers for Junia’s parents, Brian and Astrid Stanton.