Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [3]
“Of course not!” he blustered.
“Then I have nothing to say to you.” I looked around. The living room was furnished with several period pieces in the Goodwill-reject style. There was an assortment of degenerate chairs and worn couches. The gray carpet was mottled with stains and soil. Seated around the room was a group of women. They could have been sardines from the same can for all you could tell them apart. None of them spoke. All eyes were riveted on the man who stood between Suzanne Barstogi and me.
“Is your husband here. Mrs. Barstogi? Where can we reach him?”
She glanced surreptitiously at the man’s face before answering, as if expecting him to tell her what to say or whether or not she should answer at all. “I don’t have a husband,” she said finally, looking at the floor.
The four of us had been standing in a muddy vestibule, just inside the door. Now Peters moved swiftly around me. He took Suzanne Barstogi’s elbow. Before anyone could object, he led her out onto the porch. The man made as if to follow, but I barred his way.
“We are going to talk to her alone,” I told him. “If you don’t want to end up in jail, you’ll stay right here while we do it.” I turned and left him there, closing the door behind me.
The children, standing in an ominously quiet group, were still watching. Peters was attempting to shoo them away as I came out the door. He maintained a firm grip on Suzanne’s arm. I think he figured she might try to dash back into the house if he let her go.
“Mrs. Barstogi,” I said. “When is the last time you saw your daughter?”
“When I put her to bed.” Her eyes were wide with fear as she answered. I couldn’t tell if it was fear for her daughter or fear of the consequences that would greet her when she returned to the house.
“What time was that?” This, unsurprisingly, was from Peters. I never met anyone so concerned about time.
Suzanne paused uncertainly. “It must have been between three and four.”
“In the morning?” Peters asked incredulously.
She nodded. “She fell asleep at church. I carried her in from the car and put her to bed.” She spoke as though there were nothing out of the ordinary in the hour.
“What was she wearing?”
“I told the other man all this. Do we have to go over it again?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m afraid we do.”
“She was wearing a pink nightgown, one she got for Christmas last year.”
“We’ll need you to come downtown,” Peters said.
“Now?” she asked.
“Yes, now,” I told her. Peters propelled her off the porch. He opened the door and helped her into the car, motioning for me to follow. “I’ll drive,” he said.
It figured. If he drove, I would have to tell her. I’m not the kind to keep score or hold grudges, but about then I figured Peters owed me one.
I followed her into the backseat. She scrambled as far as she could to the opposite side of the car. She looked like a cornered animal. “Who is that man in the house?” I asked as Peters turned on the ignition. “Is he a relative of yours?”
She shook her head. “That’s Pastor Michael Brodie. He’s the pastor of our church, Faith Tabernacle. I called him when I couldn’t find Angel. He said the best thing for us to do would be to turn it over to the Lord. He brought the others over, and we’ve been praying ever since. Wherever two or more are gathered together—”
“What time was that?” Peters interrupted. He was beginning to sound like a broken record.
“I got up about eleven and they got here a little before noon,” she said. Peters made a sound under his breath. I couldn’t hear, but I don’t think it was too nice.
“Angel does that,” Suzanne continued. “She wakes up before I do. She’ll have breakfast and watch TV.” She stopped suddenly as though something was just beginning to penetrate. “Why are we going downtown?” It was the moment I had been dreading. There was no way to postpone it further.
“I believe we’ve found your daughter,” I said gently.
“Where is she? Is something the matter?”
“A little girl was found in Discovery Park earlier this morning. I’m afraid it may be Angel. We have to be certain. We need you to identify