Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

call Jack and see how he’s faring as a single dad (frightening prospect) but nobody’s home. Annette is probably eating a Dairy Queen Blizzard for lunch, his treat.
    It’s Sunday. Conference starts tomorrow. I read in the paper about a state record they hope to set at a local drop zone today. Figure I’ll head that way, grab lunch, and go watch. If my bus ever comes.
    April 8—8:21 p.m.
    Austin police station, waiting room chairs
    Never made it to drop zone. Ended up here instead. Still reeling from coincidence.
    Five miles from the drop zone, I pulled over for carry-out and found Mattie Shelton belted into a plastic high chair at a table with strangers. Sudden change of plans.
    I stepped out of line, seated myself at a corner table, and stared. I thought about how long Mattie had been missing, and how long it had been since I’d seen him. By my calculations, it’d been three weeks since his abduction, and two months since I’d seen him. Our last visit was when Nora turned thirty.
    Three people were with him—a couple and another man, all dressed nicely. It looked like a young family out for Sunday lunch, except the extra man was shuffling folders and taking notes.
    I reached for my cell phone, but thought better of it. No sense making an ass of myself. I’ve confused people before, called them by the wrong name. Not the best with faces, especially baby faces that change so much, so fast. What if I had the wrong kid?
    So I got up and walked toward his table as if headed to the restroom. I stopped to admire him, and this brought lots of information from the woman standing in as Mom: the baby was about to turn one, a good eater, and a shameless flirt. His favorite character was Thomas the Train and he loved to be outside. She called him Ben. That was freaky.
    I said hello to “Ben,” took a tiny, ketchup-coated hand in mine, and gave him a little baby handshake. I found what I was looking for on the inside of his wrist, a small hemangioma. Nora had told me once that the little strawberry birthmark would disappear on its own in the next few years.
    I wanted to take him from the high chair right then and run for my car. But I collected myself and moved on.
    The hallway with the restrooms was far enough from the table to be out of earshot and still allow a view of Mattie. I used my cell to call the police, told what I knew of Mattie’s disappearance, added that I’m friends with the Sheltons, and finished with how I’d checked the birthmark. The dispatcher said to stay put; a patrol car was on the way. We hung up.
    A waitress brought the check to Mattie’s table and I panicked when one of the men pulled out a credit card. How to keep them there? I shoved open an “Employees Only” door, found the manager, explained, and convinced him to stall their credit slip. He left to take care of it, then joined me by the front door. We watched for police, but I couldn’t see Mattie’s table anymore. It was behind a salad bar partition.
    The manager noticed my Indians jersey and asked me about Cleveland, which I thought ridiculous, considering everything going on. Turns out he knew folks in Shaker Heights. I figured he was trying to calm me down. He had a UT ring and a cursive “T” tattooed on his wrist, both potential topics for small talk, but the first cruiser pulled into the lot faster than I’d expected and I was off the hook.
    I introduced myself to the officers when they walked inside. One went around the corner to Mattie’s table. The other waited near the manager and me. Standing by a cop made me as nervous as driving in front of one. He asked for my story.
    A second cruiser pulled in.
    I heard the officer in the dining area introduce himself to the people at the table and ask about Mattie. There was no way to talk to one cop and eavesdrop on the other. But, the cop with me seemed equally curious about what was going on behind the salad bar. The manager too. We all stood there, straining our ears like dogs. At first we only heard a little of what was said, but voices at the table grew louder, more agitated. Mattie fussed, and finally the rest of the dining room fell silent while everyone watched the drama. The couple sounded confused and indignant. They got defensive. My officer buddy moved into the restaurant to help his partner.
    That’s when the policemen from the second cruiser came inside. These were plain-clothes guys. Detective Frank Morgan was big as a tree and smelled like Old Spice. His