Part 2 (1/2)
After my fruitless Internet crawl, I went back to the ICU and slept in the big vinyl-covered reclining chair beside Avis's bed. I woke up when she was wheeled out of the ICU and down the hall to a private room.
I called Brady, told him that we were still nowhere, my voice sounding defensive to my own ears.
”Anything on the baby?”
”Brady, this girl hasn't said boo.”
When I hung up with Brady, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from Conklin.
”Talk to me,” I said.
”The hounds found her trail.”
I was instantly hopeful. I gripped my little phone, almost strangling it to death.
”She bled for about a mile,” Conklin told me. ”She put down a circular path at the southernmost part of Lake Merced.”
”That sounds like she was looking for help. Desperately looking.”
”The hounds are still on it, Lindsay, but the searchable area is expanding. They're working a grid on the golf course now. The gun club area is next. This could take years.”
”I haven't found anything in missing persons,” I said.
”Me, neither. I'm in the car, calling people with the name Richardson in San Francisco. There are over four hundred listings.”
”I'll help with that. You start at A. Richardson. I'll start at Z. Richardson, and we'll work toward the middle,” I said. ”I'll meet you at the letter M.”
When I hung up with Richie, Avis opened her pretty, green eyes. She focused them on me.
”Hey,” I said. ”How are you feeling?”
I had a white-knuckle grip on the rails of her bed.
”Where am I?” the girl asked me. ”What happened to me?”
I bit back the words ”Ah, s.h.i.+t” and told Avis Richardson what little I knew.
”We're trying to find your baby,” I said.
Chapter 5.
I PUT MY KEY in the lock of the front door to our apartment, and at that precise moment, I remembered that I hadn't called Joe to say I wouldn't be home for dinner. Actually, I hadn't spoken to him in about twelve hours.
Way to go, Lindsay. Brilliant.
My border collie, Martha, heard me at the front door, barked, and, with toenails clattering across the wooden floor, hurled herself at my chest.
I cooed to her, ruffled her ears, and then found Joe in the living room. He was sitting in an armchair, reading light on, with eight different newspapers lying on the floor around the chair in sections.
He looked at me with reproach in his eyes.
”Your mailbox is full.”
”My mailbox?”
”Your phone.”
”Is it? I'm sorry, Joe. I had to turn my phone off. I was in the hospital ICU all day. A new case I'm working.”
”We were supposed to take my folks out for dinner tonight.”
”Oh my G.o.d. I'm sorry,” I said as my stomach dropped toward my toes. Joe had told me that we were going to take them out for some quality time and first-cla.s.s steak at Harris'. I'd filed that information in a folder at the back of my mind and never looked back.
”They're on the flight back to New York.”
”Honey, I'll call them tomorrow and apologize. I feel like c.r.a.p. 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, s.h.i.+t. 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 gla.s.s 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 b.u.t.ter-sauteed 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.