If you haven’t had a chance to read Book 3 in the Billy Jo McCabe mystery series yet, you can preview Chapter 3 here!
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The Cold Case
What happens when you stumble across a case that should never have been closed?
Detective Mark Friessen uncovers a disturbing mystery: A little girl was taken, but when evidence disappeared, the case was closed.
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Chapter 3
“There are people on this island who don’t talk to the police, no matter what they see,” said Crazy Carla as she turned the burner off under the whistling kettle in her old yellow kitchen. Why had he pictured an old woman with curly gray hair and pop-bottle glasses, not the dark-skinned woman with shoulder-length wavy hair and big eyes staring back at him. She was plump in the middle, likely early forties, and was filling two mugs that already held teabags, mugs that had been resting on the counter when he showed up at the door.
Maybe she’d been expecting someone. Mark hated tea, but he didn’t see anyone else there.
“Something could happen right there, right in front of them,” Carla continued, “and they’d turn away and pretend it didn’t and refuse to be involved because that’s been drilled into them. Yet here you are after all these years, on my doorstep, after I made so many calls.”
What the hell was he supposed to say to that reprimand? She was right, of course. And why hadn’t Detective Singer made a record of her calls coming in?
“You know, I watch all kinds of crime shows,” she said, “and one of the things they talk about when looking for a missing child is how critical the first twenty-four hours are. I assume that part’s real.”
He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right about that. The first twenty-four are everything.”
As the clocked ticked down, so did the chances of ever finding the kid, which was not something anyone wanted to hear. Again, why did it seem as if very few resources had been devoted to this case?
“Then I’m at a loss, Detective, as to why you’re here now after so many years. Why didn’t you return all my calls?”
“The detective you talked to worked here before I arrived, Detective Singer,” he said. “It was before my time.”
She frowned and waved her hand as she put the kettle back on the stove. “Before your time… I’ll have you know I called that detective the minute I heard that little girl had gone missing. It was all over the island. She went to the daycare across the way.” She nodded toward the window, then pulled a spoon from the drawer and jabbed it in that direction.
He could see a white doublewide across the way. He looked around at the old rundown singlewide Carla lived in. This was one of the only trailer parks on the island.
“There’s a daycare here?” he said. He had left the file in his Jeep, but he could remember the notes, and there had been nothing in there about a daycare. He found himself looking over his shoulder, spotting his Jeep through the door, parked right out front behind an old red Chevy.
“Mavis runs the only daycare here for the little ones. She has fifteen kids every day, babies to school age, and little Gabriele was one of them, dropped off that morning by her mother.”
She lifted the teabags from the cups. “Come, Detective. Let’s sit at the table with Jesus.”
He paused, watching her walk the two steaming mugs over to the table. “Jesus…?” He found himself glancing up the hall, waiting for someone else to appear. When he turned back, she was watching him and gestured to an old kitchen chair.
“Yes, Detective. Will you join us, please?”
Again he hesitated, wondering what meds she was on.
“Why, I told that other detective I saw that baby girl over there,” she said. “I was sitting here with Jesus, having tea like I do every day. I see everyone who’s coming, going, walking by,
driving in. I know the cars, the colors, the faces. I remember everything, and I told the detective that.”
He strode over to the table, taking in the chair again. He wanted to look up the hallway, but he heard nothing. “Does anyone live here with you?” he said. Like Jesus? He hoped he was an actual person and not imaginary.
“No, Detective, just me.” She was already sitting, holding the mug of steaming tea between two hands.
He took in the perfect view out the window, then the tea in front of him, wondering whether he was supposed to drink it or it really was for Jesus. He made himself look across the table at Carla. “So you’re saying the day Gabriele disappeared, you saw her here at the daycare?”
“She was dropped off in the morning. I remember it well. It was only forty degrees out, and the baby didn’t have a coat on.”
Mark glanced back outside as an old Pontiac drove past. “That was four years ago, and you remember?”
“I remember everything, Detective.”
“So you see the kids who are dropped off every day.”
She tapped the table. “I see everything from here, Detective—just like I told the other detective when I called in. I know the vehicles, the kids, who drops them off and picks them up. There’s the gray minivan that brings the twin boys, the white Subaru that brings the angel with the pigtails, but she’s in school now…”
“So you saw Gabriele Martin being dropped off,” he said, sensing she could’ve gone on and on. “Did you see her father pick her up?”
She put the steaming mug down in front of her without taking a sip. “Not that day, I didn’t. I remember that day well. I was sitting here with Jesus, having tea, and I can tell you the father did not pick her up. It was a blue hatchback. I’d never seen it before.”
He took in the woman and then dragged his gaze over to the door, realizing that the name Crazy Carla made sense. He wondered if it was the mention of Jesus that’d had the detective writing “Crazy Carla” and underlining it in red, dismissing everything she said and ignoring her calls. There was nothing in the file about a blue hatchback, a daycare, or anything.
“You sure about the car?” he said.
Carla stood to retrieve the sugar bowl, then set it in front of him with a spoon. He again wondered whether he was expected to do something with it, to add it to the tea. Or maybe this really was for Jesus and not him. Maybe he should let Billy Jo know the woman was off her meds or something. He pulled his hand over his face.
“I know my cars well, Detective,” Carla said, “and the people coming and going around here. At one time, trouble found a way in here, but watching keeps it out. Now, why do you suppose that other detective never bothered to follow up with me?”
What was he supposed to say? Even for him, the jury was still out on her reliability. He took in the still steaming tea in front of him. “I wish I knew, Carla. Sorry, but I’m following up now. So you said it was a blue hatchback that picked her up, and it wasn’t her father. Was it her mother?”
What was her name? Nia, and Brice was the father.
“It wasn’t the mother, either. She drives one of those fancy silver cars, you know, with the star on the front.”
“You mean a Mercedes?”
Carla jabbed a finger his way and reached for the steaming mug again. “A Mercedes, yes. I saw the mother drop that baby off only a time or two. Not exactly mother of the year. Always had that phone to her ear, talking and walking. Thought she was someone important, the way she didn’t get off that phone as she handed her baby over. Never kissed the child goodbye or hugged her, not like the other folks who drop off their kids.”
Yet it had been four years ago, he thought. “You’re sure about the details, the day? That was a long time ago, and if you’re watching every day, it’d be easy to get the days confused.” Mark finally reached for the mug and the sugar bowl.
“Detective, that tea there is for Jesus,” Carla said.
He lifted his gaze, taking in her dark eyes, and pulled his hand back.
“And I remember it well. She wore a red and white striped T-shirt and red pants, the same as on the local news. I listened to that mother cry about her lost baby, saw the father was arrested, heard they never found her, and here I sit, waiting every day for that detective to call me back, to come here. Now here you are instead so many years later.”
He could feel the admonishment. At the same time, as he took in the tea, he knew her credibility was nonexistent. “Well, thanks for your time, Carla. I’ll leave you to finish your tea.” He gestured to the two mugs as he stood, knowing he’d be calling Billy Jo the minute he pulled out of there.
“So tell me, Detective, are you planning on talking with the driver?”
He wondered whether his confusion showed in his expression. “The driver? Which driver are we talking about?”
She let out a sigh as if she’d just told him. For a moment, something about the woman made him believe she was completely sane and lucid. The next moment, the feeling was gone. “I already told you, in the blue compact,” she said. “The one who picked up that little girl, carried her out of there, and drove away. I had never seen that car, but you should know all this, because when I called the other detective, I told him.”
Mark pulled in a breath and then lifted his gaze to the window again, seeing the white doublewide across the way. Why had Singer omitted all of this from the report? “Okay, Carla, let’s start at the beginning again. Tell me everything about this blue compact and the person who picked up the little girl,” he said.
Then he’d track down this Detective Singer and have a talk with him about all the holes he was seeing in this case.
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