“I can’t do something like that, Sergeant. I mean, if I’m a suspect, you should talk to my dad. He’s listed in the phone book under attorneys-at-law.”
“I’ll note that you didn’t want to cooperate. That’s all for now.”
“Well, thanks for stopping by, Sergeant.”
I put my card on his coffee table between the two coffee cups and left Ritter’s apartment. My phone rang as soon as I strapped into my car. Rich.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey-hey,” he sang into the phone.
“Congratulations, partner,” I said. “Don’t screw it up.”
He thanked me, told me that he was the happiest guy in the world. When I could get a couple of words in, I told him about my morning.
“You’re saying that you suspect Ritter of getting Avis pregnant?”
“I’ve got a picture on Facebook of Avis and Ritter holding hands. All that means is that he’s a liar, which is something and nothing at the same time. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
“You bet,” he said.
It was now a week since Avis had gotten into a black or dark blue sedan driven by a French-speaking man, taken a drive to somewhere or nowhere, and had her baby in a field by the lake or in a bed lit by an aluminum lamp.
It would be a miracle if her baby was still alive.
Chapter 47
“AVIS ISN’T HERE,” Paul Richardson said when he let me into their suite. He invited me in and offered me a drink, which I turned down. It was only three in the afternoon, but he was swaying on his feet as he made his way around the coffee table to an armchair.
“Avis wanted to go out and see her friends,” Sonja told me. “She was feeling better and said she wanted to ‘hang out.’”
I wondered if she’d been hanging out with Jordan Ritter just before I arrived at his door.
“She’ll be back here for dinner,” her father said to me. “And she wants to go back to class tomorrow. I guess there’s no reason to say no.”
“Is there any news, Sergeant? Please give me some hope,” Sonja Richardson said. Avis’s mother looked wrung out and had her arms wrapped tightly around her body as if to hold herself together.
“We have almost nothing to go on,” I told her. “There was no ad on Prattslist that matched the one your daughter said she answered. I can’t explain that, can you?”
“She’s like any kid. She makes things up. I don’t know if you should believe her or not.”
“Has she ever mentioned her English teacher? Mr. Jordan Ritter.”
“Dear?” Sonja Richardson asked her husband. “Has Avis mentioned Jordan Ritter?”
Paul Richardson was swirling his drink and didn’t look up or answer.
“I don’t think I’ve heard her talking about him recently, although I remember she was happy about being in his class,” Sonja Richardson said. “He’s a novelist, you know. And Avis thinks she’d like to write someday. Why are you asking about Mr. Ritter? Does he know something?”
“His name came up. I met him. He says he hardly knows Avis. Which is what she says about him, too.”
Sonja Richardson touched the corner of an eye with a tissue. “I guess we just have to get used to the idea that the baby is gone. But it’s hard, Sergeant. We never saw him. We don’t even know for sure if he’s alive or dead.”
When I got home at dusk, Joe was on the doorstep. I saw his wonderful smile from a hundred feet away. I ran and threw my arms around his neck and jumped into his arms, locking my legs around his waist. Joe’s hug was the warmest, safest place in my world.
“Let’s make a baby,” I said.
“If it involves sex, I’m in,” Joe said.