Authors: Mary Burton
“Detective, we’ve a call from a woman who says she recognizes the sketch of the Lost Girl you showed on television.”
He was still, skeptical, and hopeful. The false leads had been frustrating, but it only took one good one to close a case.
“Who is she?”
“Says her name is Ester Higgins and she lives in the Hillsboro area. She says the girl looks like her granddaughter.”
He pulled a pen and notebook from his breast pocket. “Did she leave a number?”
She supplied the number. “I’ve also notified Detective Jake Bishop and he’s en route.”
Rick checked his watch. “I can be there in fifteen.”
“He said sooner, rather than later.”
Annoyance snapped. “Sure.”
He downed the last of his coffee in one swallow, tossed money on the table to cover the tab, and headed to his car. As a patrol officer, he’d learned the streets of Nashville well. Seems he’d traveled just about every dark alley and back street in the area.
He arrived in the Hillsboro area twelve minutes after the call and easily found the one-story cinder-block home. Its white paint had faded to gray and large sections were peeling. The path to the front steps was cracked and infested with weeds and the shutter to the right of the front door was broken and dangling from a hinge. The house wasn’t bad but needed a hell of a lot of work. Most of the houses on the block had been refurbished with new paint, siding, and landscaping. But this house remained a holdout.
The neighborhood might be up and coming, but whoever owned this house was one of the holdouts from the old guard. They could have sold, but were just too old or poor to move.
Bishop’s car pulled up behind his and it gave him a measure of satisfaction to know the cop trailed him. He got out, his face sullen. He studied the house as he locked his car and absently checked his gun on his belt.
Rick waited until his partner joined him and the two made the short walk to the front door. “You get any more details from dispatch?”
“No.” He angled his neck from side to side as if fingers of tension had tightened around the tendons. “Just a name and she claims to be the grandmother.”
“Let’s see.” Rick knocked.
At first, the only sound from the house was the hum of the television and, then, as Rick raised his hand to knock again, he heard the slow shuffle of footsteps followed by the scraps of a chain lock.
The door opened a fraction and then wider. An old woman with graying hair tied in a bun peered out at them with dark gray eyes. “What do you want?”
“I’m Detective Rick Morgan and this is my partner, Jake Bishop. You called about a sketch on television.”
The eyes sharpened. The scent of mothballs and some kind of microwaved dish swirled around her. “I just called an hour ago.”
“We’re following up on all leads.”
She lingered a moment longer and then opened the screened door. “Come on inside.”
Both officers glanced at each other. Neither was sure if this would be the lead that cracked the case or was just another wild-goose chase. The house was dimly lit and the strong scent of mothballs lingered in the air. The walls were jammed full of pictures, most of which appeared to be of a young girl. Judging by the age and time, that girl would have been in her late forties or fifties now.
Ester guided them into a small living room where a large television blared the latest Kardashian reality show. She sat in an easy chair, well worn and flanked by a table piled high with magazines and dishes. She nodded toward a long sofa covered in plastic and indicated the two sit as she reached for a remote and muted the sound.
Rick glanced at the pictures on the wall looking for an image of the Lost Girl, but saw none.
“Can I get you boys a soda?” the woman offered.
“No, ma’am,” Rick said. “You said you recognized the image on the television.”
The lines around her mouth deepened as she smoothed deeply veined hands over her brittle hips. “I watch TV a lot now that I’m retired. I’d still be working at the plant but I’m too old and not fast enough anymore.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Impatience nipped, but he resolved to take this slow.
She stared sightlessly at the television as one of the sisters drank and another painted her nails. “Back in the day they’d never have allowed this kind of show on the air. And now here they are and I’m grumbling about them even though I don’t miss a show.”
The detectives nodded, neither speaking.
Mrs. Higgins reached for a small scrapbook on the side table and opened it. She studied the images. “I dug this out when I saw the news the other day. I’ve been looking at the pictures over and over ever since. Wasn’t sure if my mind was playing tricks and, at first, I didn’t think I should call the police. Then I realized I had to call, even if I was wrong.” She looked at Rick with a watery gaze. “It’s been twenty-six years since I saw my baby girl Heather. The last time I held her hand, her fingers were sticky from a candy cane.”
“May I see the pictures?” Rick asked.
Arthritic hands held the scrapbook another moment and then handed it to Rick. His gaze and Bishop’s dropped to the picture of the smiling infant.
The infant was no more than three months and it was hard to tell if this was their Jane Doe. He turned a page and saw a picture of a slightly older baby. Still not easy to tell. He feared Mrs. Higgins’s images of her granddaughter were not going to help until he turned the next page and saw a picture of a four-year-old. She was standing on a stoop and smiling into the camera. She wore a pink dress.
Bishop hissed in a breath as if he’d just sunk the eight ball in the side pocket.
The same rush of a win washed over Rick. This was their Lost Girl. “You said her name was Heather. What was her last name?”
“Briggs. Her mamma, my daughter, married a guy; at least they said they was married. I never liked him but she couldn’t say no to him.”
“When was the last time you saw Heather?” She’d already told him but he wanted her to repeat the information.
“Twenty-six years ago. She spent the night with me and then her mamma came to pick her up and I never saw her again.”
“Her mother’s name?”
“Loyola. Loyola Briggs.”
He kept his voice even and as relaxed as he could manage. “We didn’t have a missing persons report for a Heather Briggs.”
She shook her head. “When I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks I asked Loyola. She said she gave the girl away. An adoption. Said it was best for everyone.”
“And you didn’t question her?” Bishop asked, his tone as rough as sandpaper.
“I was sorry I’d never see the child again, but I was glad for Heather. Loyola and Danny weren’t no kind of parents. And Heather deserved better.”
Rick scribbled down the name Danny. “Danny Briggs?”
“Yeah.”
Rick jotted the name down as well. “Did your daughter tell you about the family who adopted the child?”
The old woman shook her head slowly, as if overwhelmed by old memories roaring to life. “I asked. And she just said they was real nice and that Heather was better off.”
But Rick strongly suspected that Heather had not been adopted. No doubt by the time Loyola had spun her story the child was dead. “Where is Loyola now?”
“Works at a gas station off of I-40. I ain’t seen her in years, though I hear she still lives in East Nashville.” She rattled off an address. “Without Heather there wasn’t much reason for me to see her. I didn’t like her much.”
“And Danny?”
“Danny Briggs was in prison last I heard.”
Rick pulled out his phone and snapped pictures of the little girl.
The old woman clutched the light blue fabric of her well-worn housecoat with knotted fingers. “Do you think that girl on the TV is really Heather? They look alike but that don’t mean they’re the same.” Under the words was a silent plea.
Please tell me I’m wrong.
Rick shook his head. “Ma’am, we won’t know for sure until we run a DNA test.”
“So, there’s a chance?” She released the fabric, taking care to smooth out the wrinkles.
Rick couldn’t confirm what his gut was telling him—they’d found their Jane Doe. “Ma’am, your Heather looks a lot like our sketch.”
She leaned forward as if her worst fears poked her in the back. “But you don’t know for sure?”
As he stared at the blue eyes that looked so much like the ones Jenna had fashioned he knew they had their child. Now he needed to track down Loyola and Danny and find out what happened to Heather. “Ma’am, it’ll take DNA tests to prove one way or another. Would you be willing to give a DNA sample?”
“Sure. I’ll give you whatever you need.”
“Good, that will help.”
“What about Loyola? You going to test her?”
“Yes, ma’am. And Danny Briggs, when we find him.” Tears glistened in old eyes. Frown lines around her mouth deepened. “So you’ll know for sure?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When?”
“I promise to call as soon as the DNA tests are run.”
She slumped back in her chair, as all the hope leaked from her body in one breath. “So right now you don’t know nothing for sure and my baby Heather might have found a new home.”
Feeling the tension snapping through Bishop’s body, Rick refused to let anger derail him. “Anything is possible.”
She looked at him, her old, watery gaze desperate for hope.
“Ma’am, is there anyone that can stay with you?” Rick asked.
“There’s a neighbor.”
“Let me call the neighbor for you.” He couldn’t leave her alone now. “I need a number.”
She finally rattled off a number and Rick called a neighbor. Once he explained the situation, the neighbor agreed to come sit with Mrs. Higgins.
Both Rick and Bishop were anxious to talk to Loyola Briggs after leaving Ester’s house. Back in his car Rick did a computer search of Loyola Briggs and quickly found a list of minor arrests for drugs and prostitution. Age forty-two, she listed her home address as an apartment on the east side. While Bishop stood by his car, he searched Danny Briggs. “Danny-boy was released from prison two months ago.”
“Why was he in prison?”
“Drugs. Assault. Five to ten years for possession.”
Bishop fingered the pinky ring on his right hand. “Hope he doesn’t get too used to being a free man.”
“We’ll do the DNA but I’d bet my last paycheck we’ve found the Lost Girl.”
“No way it could be anyone else. No freaking way.”
Rick and Bishop drove to the East Nashville apartment building about an hour before midnight. The parking lot was full of cars and a dozen-plus people milled around. The building’s white siding had faded to gray, the few patches of grass had dried to a light brittle brown and the sidewalk leading to the building entrance was cracked and covered in graffiti.
“I did my share of drug busts here,” Bishop said as he got out of his car.
“Me too. Last assignment I had here was a prostitution ring. We made twelve arrests that night. Looks like most are back here working again.”
“Same shit, different day.”
“Yeah.” Rick glanced at his screen to double-check the apartment number. “She’s in number six.”
“I can’t wait to meet Loyola.” There was an anger bubbling inside him as he imagined the tiny skull that Jenna had given a smiling face.
A hard knock on the door got him no response. “Let’s find out where she is.”
It took another fifteen minutes to track down the manager, who supplied the detectives with a work address. Sure enough, they found her at a truck stop off I-40.
The parking lot of the truck stop was full with big rigs and a few pickup trucks. A large neon sign above the building flashed
WHITES
.
Bells jangled overhead as they moved through the front door to a cashier stand where a tall redhead stood. The noise of conversation mingled with plates clattering and a country-western song blaring on the jukebox.
The redhead eyed the two detectives with suspicion as if she knew they were cops and cops meant trouble. She snapped her gum. “Who do you want?”
“Loyola Briggs.”
She chewed, her gum snapped again. “She’s in trouble again?”
“Not right now. We got a few questions for her.”
“Always starts with a few questions.” The woman arched a brow. “Right. Kitchen. Through those doors.”
The detectives passed by tables full of haggard, bearded drivers, hunched over greasy food and thick, black coffee. Through double doors they were greeted by the smells of frying chicken and biscuits.
When the doors whooshed closed behind them the cooks, dressed in greasy white uniforms, glanced over. One tall man covered in tattoos narrowed his gaze and tightened the grip on his carving knife. Another stiffened and looked toward an exit.
Rick held up his badge. “Looking for Loyola Briggs.”
Several of the men relaxed. One nodded toward the back just as an unseen door in the rear of the kitchen slammed open and shut. Both officers hurried through the kitchen and drew their guns as they pushed through the back door. Once outside, they found themselves facing the back parking lot and a row of dumpsters. A lightbulb spit out light, casting a weak halo around the door. For a moment, there was no sign of anyone and both stopped and listened.
“She can’t be far,” Rick said.
Bishop nodded toward the second green dumpster. “There.”
They split up and moved toward it. As Rick came around the left side, he spotted the woman’s outline in the shadows. He leveled his gun. “Police. Come out where I can see you with your hands up.”
The shadowed figure whirled around, but he still couldn’t see her face. She hesitated. He tensed, aiming his gun, not knowing if she was armed.
“Out now!” Bishop said. He’d come around the other side of the dumpster. “Move toward the other officer.”
The shadow shifted and then slowly moved toward Rick. She stepped into a ring of light. Dirty-blond hair in a layered cut framed a thin, pale face. A drug addict’s wild eyes, as sunken as a hollowed-out skull, stared out at him.
Bishop came up behind her and as he holstered his gun he took her right hand in his and clamped a handcuff on it. He locked the other hand in the cuff.
“I ain’t done nothing wrong!” she wailed. “I ain’t done nothing.”