All She Ever Wanted (22 page)

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Authors: Rosalind Noonan

BOOK: All She Ever Wanted
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Leo looked down at her, tilting his head. “What are you talking about?”
“My boyfriend, Krispy. I heard him talking about how much he could make selling babies on the black market. I think he took Annabelle.”
Chapter 30
G
race drove over to the house as soon as she got the call. “You go,” Chris told her. “I'll keep plugging away here.” She had e-mailed him the remainder of her list, and headed out.
It was late, but then she was planning to work through the night, or at least until she'd run checks on all the names on her list. She had already hooked up Matt to stay with the Larsens for the second night in a row. A double bonus, as far as he was concerned.
“You behave, okay?” she'd warned him. “No staying up late. It's a school night.”
“I'm aware,” he said, sounding far more mature than his twelve years. Until, in the next breath, he told Ethan Larsen that he'd just made a “bonehead move” on the computer game they were immersed in.
“And turn that off when Mrs. Larsen tells you to,” Grace added.
“Mama-dish, you know I will.”
He was a good boy, her Matt, but twelve going on thirteen was that age when things began to change for a kid. Adolescence was a tough time. Sometimes angelic children fell away to drugs or booze or violent rebellion. She'd seen a lot of that, tracking down teenage runaways. Grace didn't want to lose her son that way.
Sitting in Chelsea and Leo's living room, waiting while their babysitter composed herself, Grace wondered if Eleni Zika's parents felt connected to their daughter. Did they worry that her black fingernails and piercings and dark makeup were a sign of a deep unrest inside? Or were they confident that the goth look was a phase she would work through?
“Take a deep breath,” Grace said gently. “I always forget to breathe when I'm crying.”
The girl pressed a ball of tissues to her eyes and nodded.
Seated beside the girl on the sofa, Chelsea wound and unwound the belt of her robe around her fingers. Leo leaned against the rolltop desk, though he had the look of a tiger ready to pounce. Grace was glad they had called her when the girl showed up at their door.
“So give me the whole story, okay?” Grace cajoled the girl. “This is about your boyfriend?”
“His name is Krispy.”
“Krispy? That's an unusual name.”
“That's what everyone calls him. His real name is Armand Krispalian. He's Armenian.”
“How old is Krispy?”
“Eighteen.”
“And how long have you two been seeing each other?”
“Six months, off and on. He's a nice guy. He always makes me laugh. That's why, when he first started talking about selling the baby, I figured it was a joke.”
“He talked about selling Annabelle Green?”
“Like I said, it was a joke. He was here with me one night when Annabelle was crying, and he said he didn't understand why anyone would want to adopt a screaming baby. He said there was big money in it, though. That a baby like Annabelle could bring in thousands of dollars.”
Tension sizzled in the air, but Grace continued. “And did he ever suggest that you help him with this? Did he have a plan?”
“Not that I knew of. But he acted like it would be fun if we were a team. I could find the babies through my babysitting jobs, and he would get them sold. He said we'd make a great team. But after a while I got sick of the joke, and I guess I just tuned him out. But now . . . Annabelle is gone, and . . . when I heard about it, I thought of him. One day I heard him talking with one of his friends. He said it was about a business deal, and he kept asking how much he could make, what his cut would be . . . stuff like that.”
“And you thought that was okay?” Leo Green was on his feet, wiping his palms on his jeans. “To make money on kidnapping a baby?”
“I'm sorry.” Eleni stared down at her knees.
Grace held a hand up, willing Leo to calm down. “Have you spoken with him today?”
“I texted him, but he didn't answer. Krispy doesn't always get back to me right away.”
“We'll find him.” Grace got Krispy's address and phone number from Eleni. He didn't live far from here.
“But how did he get into our house without breaking in?” Chelsea asked. “That part doesn't make sense to me.”
“He knows the house,” Eleni said. “He's spent enough time around here to know what windows are left unlocked, stuff like that. I know this is going to sound really bad, but he's been arrested before. Graffiti and drinking in the park, small stuff like that.”
“And you let this guy in our house?” Leo lashed out. “You let him near our baby?”
“I never thought he'd do something like this!” Eleni faced Grace, pleading her case. “He's not a bad guy.”
“Sometimes good people make bad choices,” Grace said.
Leo slid on his jacket. “You said Wembley Street, right?”
Grace blinked. “You're not thinking of going there now.”
“I've got to find this guy.”
“My partner and I will do that, and I think most people are more likely to open their door to the police at this time of night than some pissed-off stranger.” She rose and touched Leo's shoulder. “I promise you, we'll get right on it.”
“What if you can't find him?” Leo asked. “What if he's run off with her?”
“We've been doing this for a while, Leo. We'll track him down. But I don't want you to hang your hopes on this kid. There's a good chance he doesn't have Annabelle. It's unlikely that this kid is involved in an organized kidnapping ring. Drug dealing, yeah, I've seen that. But not stolen babies. Not organized by kids this age.” Although she spoke the truth, Grace knew anything was possible. Still, her words had the calming effect she was looking for.
Oddly calming.
Because if Armand Krispalian didn't have Annabelle Green, who did?
 
Chris yawned as she slowed in front of Krispalians' house—a well-kept brick row house.
“Nice neighborhood,” he said. “I guess baby smuggling pays well.”
“Not funny.” She cruised to the corner and pulled into a spot. “I have a feeling Krispy lives with his parents. And I'm even more skeptical about his involvement in Annabelle Green's disappearance.”
Chris stepped out and closed the car door. “You believe the babysitter? Think Krispy is a good guy?”
“I suspect he's a little mama's boy who preys upon slightly overweight babysitters with low self-esteem. Beyond that, Krispalian doesn't fit the profile of our abductor.” She walked up the driveway with Chris. “But I've been wrong before.”
“Let's see if you're right on Krispy Kritter.”
They held their detective shields and IDs out as they knocked, and it didn't take long until the door opened to reveal a man who was too old to be Krispy—dark brows, receding hairline, and creases under his dark eyes. He wore a red sweater with rectangular designer glasses.
“Police?” He looked out into the street behind them. “Is there something wrong here, officers?”
“Sir, we're sorry to bother you so late, but we're looking for Armand Krispalian,” Grace said. “Does he live here?”
“Yes, he does, but he's not home. I'm his father, Ara.” He turned to someone inside. “It's the police looking for Armand.
Ayo
.” Turning back to Grace, he ushered them in the door. “Come inside, then. The neighbors all want to know your business.”
The heels of her shoes tapped on the tile floor of the vestibule, and though Grace got a view of a living room decorated in rich tones of red and gold, the room was dark, with the distant look of a shrine.
“Can I ask why you're looking for him?” the man asked.
“We think he might have some information about a missing child,” Chris said.
“A child?” He slapped the air as if waving away a gnat. “My son wouldn't have anything to do with that.” He called down the dim hall in a fluid, baroque language.
“Has your son been arrested before, Mr. Krispalian?” Grace asked, though she knew the answer; Chris had checked his arrest record before she picked him up at the office.
“He's been in some mischief in the past, but it was small stuff. Graffiti and what-not.”
A woman in velour pants and a matching jacket appeared, and he introduced her as his wife, Nayda. Grace surveyed the woman as the man explained everything in their language. Nayda's dark hair was stylishly short, but one of her front teeth was turned around—an eye-catcher when she smiled.
“Mmm.” Nayda frowned, her dark eyes sanguine. “You must be mistaken, officers. Armand would never be involved in such a thing. He's a good boy.”
“But we would like to talk with him,” Grace said. “Can you tell us where to find him?”
He looked at his wife, who shrugged. “He's out with his friends,” she said. “I'm not sure where.”
“Out past midnight on a school night, Mrs. Krispalian? Don't you worry about his grades?” Grace asked.
“He's eighteen. A man now.” The father seemed offended by their question. “Besides, grades don't matter for Armand. He's going to work in our family business.”
“What kind of business is that?” Chris asked.
“A chain of convenience stores.” Ara mentioned a name Grace recognized.
“Really?” Grace nodded. “That's quite a business opportunity for such a young man.”
“It's what our family does. He'll have his own store as soon as he turns twenty-one.”
“Sounds like a sweet deal,” Chris said. “We're sorry to bother you so late, but we really do need to speak with your son. Where would we find him right now? Where does he hang?”
The couple locked gazes, sharing a warning to keep mum.
The eyes: That was one language Grace could decipher.
“He's with his friends,” Ara Krispalian said. “We don't know where. He's old enough to stand his own ground, you know? Make his own decisions.”
“He's eighteen, right?” Grace faced Nayda. “I admire your ability to let go. My son, he's just twelve, and already I get a little misty thinking of the day when he's going to leave the house.”
Nayda nodded, her face softening. “Our children leave our houses, but never our hearts.”
“You know, that's a beautiful expression,” Grace said. “I'd like to remember that, but I have a mind like a sieve.” She looked around the vestibule. “Do you think you could write it down for me?”
“Of course.” While Nayda disappeared down the hall, Chris asked Mr. Krispalian if he had any other children.
“Four daughters. All older. Armand is the baby.”
“Here you go.” Nayda handed Grace a folded slip of paper.
Without opening it, Grace thanked her and turned toward the door.
“Sorry to disturb you so late at night,” Grace told them.
After a round of polite good-byes, Grace and Chris were stepping outside into the cold, making their way back to the car.
“What was all that about?” Chris asked as they walked to Grace's car. “Of course he's in his mother's heart; he hasn't moved out of the house yet.”
“It was a bonding moment.” Grace unfolded the sheet of paper, her eyes adjusting to the light of the streetlamp. “A mother-to-mother thing. And, yeah, it worked.”
“Say what?”
“She says we should look for him in the field house at the elementary school. The one by Kendall Park.”
“Okay.” Chris nodded, looking a little impressed. “The mother ship has spoken.”
 
Kendall Park wasn't much more than a treed lot bisected by asphalt paths.
“His mother said to check the field house.” Grace strained to look closer at the school grounds. A play structure, bike racks, a parking lot where bald security lights shined in pools on the blacktop. “Where the hell is that?”
The school, tucked into a suburban neighborhood, was probably a choice spot for delinquents to hang, being secluded and away from cars and pedestrian traffic.
“Let's take a look,” Chris said.
Grace had Chris reach into the console for a flashlight. Her gun, as always, was securely holstered at her waist. She had never used it on anything besides the target at the range, and she hoped she would never have to.
But in dark, unfamiliar situations like this, she was glad to be working with a pistol and a partner.
The snow had stopped and the ground was frozen underfoot, but the cold cut through her as soon as she stepped out of the car. That was the way it went whenever she worked overtime; her resistance got worn down.

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