Free The Only Witness by Pamela Beason Page B

her eyes. "We might not have wanted a grandchild so soon, but Noah and I love that baby so much."
    Both of them glanced at the stack of flyers again, where Ivy Rose Morgan's round baby face smiled at them, her right eye hidden beneath a river rock paperweight.
    "I understand that Charlie Wakefield is the child's father?"
    Susan nodded, and a tear spilled over from her left eye.
    "Have you heard from him?"
    "Never."
    "Does he pay child support?"
    Wiping the tear away, she shook her head. "He doesn't want anything to do with the baby. At first we decided that we simply wouldn't include him in any way in Ivy's life, keep it simpler, you know?"
    He nodded again.
    "But now that both Noah and I have had our hours cut back, we really need the financial support. So last week we went to the Wakefields."
    Finn perked up. "And their reaction?"
    "The cold shoulder. They agreed to share responsibility if we could prove that Charlie was Ivy's father."
    Finn waited for Susan to continue.
    She sighed. "Brittany thought that was insulting. She refused to bring Ivy into the clinic for the paternity test. Noah and I were talking to her, trying to bring her around, maybe just do one of those home mail-in jobs, but now…" Another tear escaped and slid down her reddened cheek.
    Finn's heart rate sped up. Now that the baby was missing, there would be no paternity test. Unless the techs somehow managed to get DNA from some baby item they'd collected from Brittany's room, there would be no way to prove Ivy was Charlie's child.
    A Subaru station wagon pulled up in the driveway. Brittany got out, tottering on platform sandals that curiously were now as popular as they had been when Finn was a kid. His mother had worn lime green leather nailed to stacked wooden soles.
    The teen wore her long strawberry-blonde hair loose today. Her blue jean shorts were tight and she wore a yellow halter top that exposed a lot of skin. Hot-T. Finn made an effort to lift his gaze to the girl's face and keep it there. Her oval face was puffed and blotchy, but as she approached the front porch, her eyes were bright.
    Seeing her daughter's expression, Susan shook her head. "There's no news. They're searching our neighborhood."
    "Why?" The look Brittany turned on him was genuinely bewildered. "That's not going to help. Ivy didn't get kidnapped here . It's been twenty-three hours! Why aren't you searching at the Food Mart, or"—she gestured vaguely at the surrounding suburbs—"out there?"
    "The department's doing that, too, Miss Morgan," Finn reassured her. He hoped the patrol officers were doing a good job. A two-month-old infant was a pretty small bundle to look for. The sergeant told him that at roll call this morning the uniforms had been surly. It was bad enough that Finn was the outsider. Now that he was calling the shots on this case, the local boys were openly resentful.
    "Did you find that Talking Hands Ranch van?" Brittany's gaze was still fixed on his face.
    "Not yet," he admitted. "No business named Talking Hands Ranch is registered in Washington State. There are no rules about registering a sign on the side of a vehicle. It would be easier with a plate number or a make and model."
    "Isn't that your job ?" Brittany asked. "It was gray, and it said Talking Hands Ranch on the side. How many can there be? I still don't understand why there's no Amber Alert!"
    He stifled a groan. "We're working on finding the van, Miss Morgan. When was the last time you saw Charlie Wakefield?"
    "Charlie?" She blinked, surprised. "At the end of school last year? Maybe six weeks before Ivy was born? Why? He's not going to help. Where's the FBI? Whenever there's a kidnapping on TV, the FBI is all over it." She pivoted toward Susan. "Mom, are we supposed to call the FBI?"
    "The FBI is aware of everything we do. I am sharing all our information with them." He struggled to keep his tone even. It was aggravating to be grilled by a seventeen-year-old who learned about kidnapping