Chapter 2

TWO

The sound of a baby wailing set Josie’s teeth on edge as she jogged along one of Denton City Park’s wide asphalt trails. Sweat poured down the sides of her face as much from tension as from the heat. Here in the park, which teemed with foliage, flowers, and shrubbery, it was always significantly cooler, but the humidity added a suffocating type of heat to the mix. As she drew closer, she tried to determine what type of cry they were dealing with. Josie and her husband didn’t have children. Unable to have their own, they’d spent the last year wading through a lengthy process in order to be able to adopt. Last month, they’d had a successful home study and been approved. They were in the process of preparing their adoption profile in order to be put on the waiting list to match with a prospective child.

But Josie still knew the different types of cries that infants used to make their needs known. The I’m-hungry cry. The I’m-hungry-and-you-waited-way-too-long-to-feed-me cry that was so intense and scary that it always made her worry the neighbors were going to call 911. The change-my-diaper cry. The I’m-in-pain cry which came with a really fun guessing game as to whether it was due to gas, teething, colic, ear infection, or something more serious. The I’m-too-cold-or-too-hot cry. The I’m-overly-tired cry. The I-just-want-to-be-held cry. One of her best friends, Misty DeRossi, had given birth to Josie’s late first husband’s son almost eight years ago and Josie had been one of little Harris’s primary babysitters since his infancy.

Damp with perspiration, the back of Josie’s polo shirt clung to her skin. The trail curved twice in an S shape. The infant’s shrieks grew louder. Finally, the stroller came into view. It was the kind with the detachable car seat. Josie was glad to see its hood was extended, giving the infant protection from the sun. One uniformed officer—Dougherty—gripped the handle of the stroller and gently pushed it back and forth while peering down at the baby. His partner, Brennan, stood nearby, talking into his radio.

Josie jogged over to the stroller and muscled Dougherty out of the way.

“This poor kid,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the yowls. “Won’t stop crying. I don’t know what to do. Brennan said try keeping the stroller in motion but that’s not working.”

She pushed the hood back. A red-faced infant waved her clenched fists. Her chubby legs flailed angrily. Given the flowered headband and pink onesie that proclaimed, “Mommy’s Mini-Me,” it was clear that the baby was a girl. The cry definitely had something to do with comfort. Josie unlatched the straps and lifted the baby into her arms. She held her against her chest. From her size and weight, Josie guessed she was about four or five months old.

Josie bounced her lightly until the wails subsided into breathy whimpers. “You didn’t try to pick her up?”

Dougherty shook his head. “I don’t have kids. I was afraid I’d drop her.”

“What’s going on?”

Dougherty pointed to the cupholder on the stroller’s handle where a cell phone rested. “A 911 call came in from this phone. It belongs to a woman named Cleo Tate. Thirty-three. Lives a few blocks from here.”

Brennan walked over. “She didn’t say anything on the call. There was nothing but dead air.”

But the police would still have been dispatched in case there was an emergency in which the caller was unable to speak. If Denton PD had arrived and found nothing amiss, they’d simply mark the call as unfounded and move on.

Dougherty said, “When we got here, we found the baby in the stroller. No Cleo. Her phone was in the cupholder here on the handle. The diaper bag is there.”

Josie followed his gaze to the side of the path where a pink diaper bag was tipped onto its side, onesies, diapers, wipes, and an empty bottle spilling out onto the grass.

All of them were streaked with blood. Ice shot through Josie’s veins.

“We called the ERT,” said Dougherty.

“We searched the immediate area,” Brennan said, waving a hand around them. “Called for her. When we couldn’t find her, I called in additional units. They’re searching the rest of the park now.”

The baby tugged at a lock of Josie’s hair, trying to put it into her mouth. Gently, Josie pulled it from her grip. She lifted the baby in the air, checking her over for any wounds. There was a reddish smudge marring the back of the baby’s onesie, a bloody Rorschach stretching across her little shoulder blades. Josie pulled at the collar and peered down the back. Relief pulsed through her when she saw the smooth, untouched skin beneath.

“Holy shit,” said Brennan. “Is she bleeding?”

Josie shook her head. “It’s not from her. We need more units. A team of officers to canvass. Talk to every person you can find inside the park. I want to know if anyone saw Cleo or anything suspicious. Pull her driver’s license photo and get it out to everyone so they can use it in interviews. Send it to me as well.”

“On it.” Dougherty stepped away and began speaking into his radio.

Brennan took out his phone. As his fingers flew across the screen, he asked, “You want the K-9 unit?”

A slobber-covered hand batted at Josie’s cheek. She pretended to try to catch it with her mouth, earning a high-pitched giggle from the baby. Looking into her angelic face and big brown eyes, emotions swarmed Josie. She imagined holding her own child like this one day. Then she was overcome with panic for Cleo Tate. Josie’s guess was that she’d been attacked and abducted. Or she’d gone with her attacker willingly in order to spare her child. Josie hated to think how long the baby would have been out here if Cleo hadn’t called 911. Chances were that someone would have walked by within an hour, but there was no guarantee.

Then again, they had no inkling of Cleo Tate’s personality, mental status or the state of her life. Was it possible she’d been in the midst of some kind of mental health crisis? Had she harmed herself? Had she meant to abandon her baby in public and the 911 call was to ensure that the child would be found quickly?

“Quinn?” Brennan said, shaking Josie from her thoughts. “K-9 unit, or no?”

The baby grabbed another fistful of Josie’s hair, pulling more forcefully this time. She tried to stuff it in her mouth, but Josie stopped her. “Let’s finish the search of the park. If we don’t find Cleo Tate, then I’ll call Luke and Blue.”

“You got it. How about the baby?”

Josie held her out to Brennan. “First, I want to see if she’s got a pacifier somewhere. Then we’ll see if we can get in touch with someone in Cleo’s family—a spouse, maybe—and get them to meet us here.”

Brennan looked at the baby like Josie was trying to hand him a ticking bomb. Did none of these young patrol guys have kids? Or nieces or nephews?

“Just take her,” Josie said. “I only need a minute. All you have to do is not drop her.”

He hesitated.

“Brennan,” Josie said. “Take her.”

The moment the baby was in Brennan’s arms, she began to fuss. “She doesn’t like me,” he announced.

“I just need one minute,” Josie repeated as she squatted in front of the stroller. If the baby used a pacifier, she likely would have had it while her mother was pushing her around. She might have dropped it. Hopefully it was in the seat. Both Dougherty and Josie had already touched the stroller, unfortunately. Josie pushed the hood as far back as it would go and froze.

The baby whined. Brennan said, “Seriously. She doesn’t like me. I think you should take her back. I can find whatever it is you’re looking for in there. Quinn? Are you okay?”

A prickle of unease ran up the back of Josie’s neck. This case of a missing mother was no longer a garden variety abduction. A quick glance at the baby squirming against Brennan’s chest made the fine hairs along her nape stand to attention.

Josie backed away. “Don’t touch this again.”

The baby’s whines turned to full-blown cries. She beat a tiny fist against Brennan’s chest. He took a few steps closer, bouncing the screaming infant up and down the way that Josie had, without soothing her. Together, they peered at the seat where a picture rested, its edges stained with blood.

“It was under her back,” said Josie. She hadn’t seen it because she’d been too intent on comforting the child.

“You sure that’s a photo? It looks…weird.” He shifted the baby in his arms, bending at the knee to get a better look. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing wrong with it,” said Josie. “It’s a polaroid.”