Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [15]
She settled comfortably into the rocking chair with her own cup. “Now then, what was I saying? Oh yes, I called Child Protective Services right then, that very day. I’m sure they thought I was just a nosy old biddy, although they said they’d look into it. I don’t think they ever did, at least not then.
“About a week later I was just finishing watching ”Good Morning America“ when she came wandering down the street. Henry was outside. She went up to try to pet him, but he doesn’t like children. When he wouldn’t let her touch him I could see it almost broke her heart. She didn’t cry, though. I never did see her cry. She looked so lonesome that I just couldn’t help myself. I went to the door, my back door, the one you came in by, and asked her if she’d like to have some cookies and milk.
“She did. She marched right in as if she owned the place.” Sophie stopped, put down her cup, and wiped her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “She talked a blue streak. She called me Soapy.” Sophie sniffed noisily and wiped her eyes again. “She loved to talk. She talked about that church her mother goes to, meetings every night until the wee hours. She came to see me every morning for almost two weeks, but she was always careful to be back home before her mother woke up. Can you imagine a mother sleeping until eleven or twelve every single day and leaving that poor little tyke on her own?”
“Did she ever say anything about her father?”
Sophie wrinkled her forehead in thought. “No, she never did. She talked about her mother, and an Uncle Charlie, and that minister fellow. I don’t know this Uncle Charlie.”
“She talked about Brodie?” Peters asked.
Sophie nodded. “Yes, a lot. She was afraid of him.”
“I can’t say that I blame her,” Peters said.
“One day he drove up while Angela was still here. I never called her Angel. I think that’s a terrible name to pin on a little girl. Anyway, she tried to run home, but he caught her coming through the gate. He grabbed her and dragged her home by one arm. The next day she had a cast on it.”
“You mean he broke her arm?”
“That’s not what they told Child Protective Services. Some young investigator, a snot-nosed kid still wet behind the ears, came out then to look into it. I talked to him, told him what I had seen, but it didn’t make any difference. He insisted Angela said she had fallen down. He didn’t care that I had seen a handprint on her face or bruises on her arms.”
I had been taking notes the whole time.
“You said she talked about Uncle Charlie. Who’s he?”
Sophie glowered. “How should I know? He’s probably from that group. She never came back again after that, wouldn’t even wave to me from the yard! I know they killed her though; I’m just as sure of it as I can be. And you can write that down, young man!” Sophie Czirski put down her teacup and wept into her handkerchief.
We sat and waited for her to finish crying. “If only Child Protective Services had listened to me, she wouldn’t be dead right now. I have half a mind to call the governor’s office and complain.”
That seemed like a splendid idea to me. “We had officers in the neighborhood last night, asking questions. I didn’t see your name on any of the reports.”
“Oh no,” she said. “Thursday I have my doctor’s appointment; then I go to Bainbridge on the ferry and stay overnight with my son and his family. That’s the one night a week I baby-sit my grandchildren.”
We asked more questions, but she could add no more details, at least not then. The doctor’s appointment had prevented her from seeing any unusual vehicles the day of the murder. I couldn’t help but marvel that so far Maxwell Cole had overlooked Sophie. I hoped that would continue to be the case, but I didn’t want to trust to luck.
“Did you