Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries) by Julia Spencer-Fleming Page A

news,” Mr. Johnson said. “Just like all of her boyfriends. A jailbird with tattoos up one side and down the other and a mean streak.”
    Mrs. Johnson gave him a look. “He’s a white man, about, I don’t know, five-nine? He has dark hair that he keeps very short.”
    Mr. Johnson stood up. “I think we have a picture of the two of them somewhere you can have.” He went to a flip-down writing desk and opened a drawer.
    “You said he was a jailbird? Do you know what he was in for?”
    Mrs. Johnson frowned. “Annie said he’d been in Fishkill for possession. And he was arrested for some sort of firearms violation. Carrying an unregistered weapon?”
    Mr. Johnson returned to his seat and handed a photograph to Kevin. It showed an attractive if too thin woman with a midnight fall of hair standing next to a rope-muscled guy who looked like he could be a redneck gang enforcer. A little girl in shorts and a Hannah Montana T-shirt stood in front of them, grinning to reveal a missing tooth. “That’s Mikayla,” Johnson said.
    Her grandmother smiled a little tearfully. “She’s such a wonderful girl. Despite the chaos in her life and some of the horrible things she’s seen. She’s smart and creative and funny.”
    “We have her with us as much as possible,” Mr. Johnson said. “I mean, before the accident. Sometimes she’d stay with us for weeks at a time while Annie was off doing God-knows-what. Whenever Annie called, wherever she was, we’d drop what we were doing and come get Mikayla.”
    “But you didn’t get custody of her after the accident.” Kevin handed the photo to Hadley, who tucked it into her pocket.
    “We didn’t even know where she was. She’d show up for her visits with a caseworker. She’d talk to us about how well Mikayla was doing after her transplant, and all the time looking at us like we might be cooking meth in the kitchen. But you know what? It’s not the first time an Indian child’s been taken away from her family by white folks. I thought it was bullshit—”
    “Lewis!”
    “—and we’re not going to take it,” he continued. “June and I are taking classes at the Washington County Hospital for caretakers of transplant recipients. And we’re getting qualified as licensed foster parents. As soon as we’re done, we’re reapplying for custody. I suspect—I hope—that when Annie goes to trial, she’ll be locked away for a few years.”
    Mrs. Johnson took his hand and squeezed it hard. Kevin thought of his own family. He could imagine how his parents would suffer if one of his brothers went down that broken road.
    Mr. Johnson shook his head. “And now this.” He let out a sigh that seemed to rumble up from the basement of his soul.
    “Why would she take Mikayla? Why?” Mrs. Johnson dropped her husband’s hand and stood abruptly.
    “Is there anyone else you can think of who might have reason to take Mikayla?” Kevin looked from one Johnson to the other. “Her father, maybe? CFS didn’t have a name for him.”
    “Hector DeJean.” Mr. Johnson looked even more grim than before. “He was another mean son of a bitch.”
    “Lewis…”
    “Let’s call a spade a spade, June. Annie wouldn’t put him on the birth certificate because she was afraid what would happen if the state went after him for support money. He used to hit her all the time. She finally left him after she fell pregnant, and he tracked her down and beat the shit out of her. It’s a miracle she didn’t lose Mikayla. And then she still turned around and started in with one of his friends.” He shook his head. “She doesn’t care. So long as he can give her drugs, she doesn’t care.”
    “What happened to DeJean?” Hadley asked.
    Johnson grunted. “He did four years in Plattsburgh for assault.”
    “Has he had any contact with Mikayla since?”
    “Oh, yeah. He came back around when he got out three years ago, all changed and reformed.” Johnson’s tone left no doubt what he thought about