CHAPTER 7
AZZLING SUNLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH the trees,
dappling the grass and blinding me as I stepped outside. The sun was low enough in the sky its rays peeked under the covered upper section of the deck. Nearer the lake and with evening approaching, the temperature had dropped a few degrees. Not enough. The humidity continued to make the air heavy and wet, and sweat dripped down the center of my back before long.
Two people sat on deck chairs the next level down; a female officer and a woman in her mid to late thirties dressed in nothing more than a skimpy red bikini. Any other man might have been staggered by her voluptuous good looks. Me, not so much. She was oiled and tanned, rail-thin, with auburn hair tied in a messy bun. Several strands spilled around her face, sticking to her wet cheeks. Her nails were
manicured and painted. Mascara ran in black rivers down her face. The woman hiccup-sobbed, a pile of tissues accumulating at her side. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, and her nose was red from being wiped so many times.
Before approaching, I scanned the backyard, getting a sense of my surroundings. A perimeter had been set up. Yellow police tape cordoned off the area, blocking access to anything beyond the deck.
This was where the child had been sleeping, where the unknown suspect had snuck in and out without being seen. Questions churned and stirred in my head. The backyard seemed relatively secure. How had it happened? Where was the point of ingress? Who would have come inside this private space and abducted a napping babe? Why?
A six-foot privacy fence surrounded the yard all the way to the back reaches of the property where various trees formed a canopy overhead—a few elms, a maple, and a willow among them, its branches drooping and dusting the ground. There was a gate at the side of the house leading out to Maple Avenue and another in the back corner near a storage shed, lost among tangled vines and thick bushes. I got the sense it was rarely used.
Garden gnomes and other stone figurines decorated the rocky garden edge. Cedar woodchips formed a weaving path among rose bushes and other colorful blossoms. The earthy, pungent scent of the outdoors reached me at the patio door. Beyond a pergola, a large birdbath trickled and poured
water into a curved stone basin. Polished stone benches formed a small retreat. A trellis stood tall on the opposite side of the fountain, and a vined plant with teardrop-shaped leaves and purple flowers climbed its length, weaving in and out of the small diamond pattern.
A British-style pram sat unattended under the shade of a giant maple like a bassinet on four large wheels. It was a style I'd seen in an old television show once upon a time, but I'd thought them long ago outdated. I guessed I was wrong. It was big and bulky, not what I expected an upper- class woman to push down the road while out for a stroll with her baby.
What lay inside the pram? What was it Ikeyo had alluded to having seen? The officer and grieving mother blocked my path. It would be rude to march through their conversation without at least a cursory introduction. As thirsty as I was for answers, I needed to take this one step at a time.
I descended to the second level. Constable Melbourne noticed me first, her expression warning me to approach with caution. With my hands tucked inside the pockets of my slacks, I hoped to appear less imposing. On more than one occasion, I'd been told I came across as cold and unsympathetic, so I softened my facial features and hoped I appeared approachable. As much as this distressed woman needed coddling and sensitivity, we had a baby to find, and time was not on our side.
Clara Paquet pivoted when she heard me descend the stairs. Sniffling, she dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. The woman could have been a model. A few years past her prime, perhaps, but gorgeous nonetheless. She had dark brows, high cheekbones, and pouty, collagen-injected lips which had been painted crimson. She did not give off the impression of a mother. She was tanned, toned, and sported a pair of store-bought breasts that threatened the vitality of her tiny bikini top.
"Good evening, Mrs. Paquet. I'm Detective Quaid Valor with missing persons. Do you mind if I join you?"
"You have to find Mathieu. Please. He's just a bébé."
Tears rolled down her cheeks anew. Her French accent was thick, but her English was good. Relief flooded me. My partner, Eden, was the bilingual one of the pair of us. When it came to our vast French-speaking community, I faltered. My high school teachings failed me every time.
"We're going to do all we can to find him and bring him home, but to do that, I need to gather as much information from you as possible. Do you understand?"
She nodded and blew her nose, setting her tissue aside and pulling another from the box beside her. She choked and cried some more, struggling to pull herself together. Melbourne rubbed her knee, offering soft words of comfort.
Giving the mother room to breathe, ensuring I didn't encroach on her space, I took a position on the stairs that led down to the third tier of the deck.
When her crying petered off to gentle sobs, I pushed. "I understand you're married, Mrs. Paquet. Is that correct?"
"Oui. Yes. Like I told this lady, Giles is away this weekend for his job."
"Away where?"
She shook her head, sniffling. "I don't know. He travels a lot for work. I don't always ask."
"I've made several attempts to contact him," Melbourne said, handing me a slip of paper. "He's not answering his cell phone. It goes straight to voicemail. I think it's turned off."
I took the paper where a phone number had been scrawled in blue ink. "Did you leave a message?"
"Yes, sir. Multiple. I asked him to contact us immediately, stating there was a family emergency. I didn't go into detail."
Nodding, I handed back the paper. "Keep trying. Where does your husband work, Mrs. Paquet?"
"He's a senior developer for Virtu-Link Software. He's responsible for a majority of the French clientele, selling them new software programs and training them on how to use them."
"Do you have a direct contact for his department head or a boss's name and number where we might be able to find out where he is or how to get a hold of him?"
She nodded and gestured toward the deck railing. "On my phone. Up there. His boss's name is Steven Ingles. I have
his personal cell number. He and Giles play golf together sometimes."
Melbourne retrieved Clara's cell and caught my eye, anticipating my next move.
"Give Mr. Ingles a call," I instructed. "Find out where the husband was sent this weekend and see if he has another means of contacting him or a hotel name where he m
ight be staying. Anything."
"Yes, sir."