Little Girl Lost

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  She’s had her fill of false hope.

  “Never mind, Professor. I’m sorry I bothered you. I don’t—”

  “Bothered me? Not at all. This just isn’t something that’s going to happen overnight, Amelia. It’s a long process. It might take years. You’ll have to have patience and keep in mind that your chances of a match will get higher as time goes on and more people enter my database and others.”

  “There are others?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you more about everything. But for now, I’ll go get the paperwork so that we can get a head start.” He gets up and shuffles into the next room, calling back, “First thing Monday, we’ll go to the lab and take the sample.”

  “Monday? But I . . .”

  Was going to leave before then?

  And go where? Back to Harlem, and Calvin?

  “We can hang out over the weekend if you want,” Jessie says. “Where are you staying?”

  She bows her head, eyes swimming in tears, fumbling on the table for her paper napkin. It’s bad enough that there’s no hope of finding her mother anytime soon. Now she’s stranded far from home, and . . . home isn’t even home anymore.

  After a moment, someone gently presses a soft, folded tissue into her hand. She tries to dry her eyes, but the tears keep coming.

  “Hey, don’t cry. Diane and Al are gone until Monday. You can totally stay with me, okay?”

  Amelia looks up to see Jessie’s dimples on full display.

  “Okay,” she says gratefully.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Biff Billington, dressed for tennis, doesn’t seem thrilled to see Stef and Barnes again so soon.

  Stef asks the obvious question. “Going somewhere, Mr. Billington?”

  “Just down to Racquet and Tennis.”

  “Isn’t that a private club?” Barnes is familiar with the exclusive Park Avenue males-only bastion that made headlines a few months ago for refusing to admit top-ranked female champion Evelyn David.

  “Yes. I belong there.”

  Certain that’s true in every way, Barnes watches Biff’s face as Stef tells him there’s been a development and they need to speak with him and Kirstie.

  “How long will it take, do you think? I have a court reserved and I’m meeting someone,” he tells them. “Did you find Perry?”

  “Not yet.”

  But shouldn’t he have asked that immediately? It’s always a red flag when a family member fails to ask the obvious question—at least, in the expected priority—or seems to presume the missing loved one isn’t coming home. But in this case, Barnes’s gut tells him that Billington is guilty only of self-absorption.

  At least he wastes no time today in rounding up Kirstie, along with her mother, Helen, a svelte older version of her daughter, with well-coiffed silvery hair. Seated together on the sofa, Kirstie and her mother are wearing white, too, but not for tennis. They’re in silk blouses and pearls. The rich really are different. If Barnes is home on a Saturday morning, which is rare, he’s in his rattiest sweatpants. “Mrs. Wayland,” Stef says, “did Perry ever mention the Brooklyn Butcher?”

  “The Brooklyn Butcher?” Kirstie echoes. “What are you talking about?”

  Her blank reaction appears genuine. Her parents, too, appear taken aback.

  “The Brooklyn Butcher . . . do you mean those murders back in the sixties?” Biff asks Stef. “Why would you ask about that?”

  “What about Garrison Keillor, Mrs. Wayland?”

  “The writer? What about him?”

  “Ever read his stuff? Are you a fan?”

  “Never read him. He’s too . . . you know. White bread. I’m not into the wholesome, goody-goody Midwestern thing. I like literature with more of a sophisticated edge.”

  “Like . . .”

  “Like . . . I don’t know. Sidney Sheldon.” Kirstie’s pale brows furrow. “What does any of this have to do with anything?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Do you think Mr. Wayland read Garrison Keillor? Or listened to the radio show on NPR, maybe?”

  “NPR? Perry?” Helen Billington emits a grim little laugh.

  “That’s a no, Mrs. Wayland?” Barnes asks, focused on Kirstie.

  “That’s definitely a no.”

  “What does any of this have to do with anything?” Biff asks impatiently, and Stef holds up a finger, asking his daughter if anyone besides her husband drives the Mercedes.

  “No, I have my own. Why?”

  They explain about the newspaper clipping found in Perry’s abandoned car, and ask if Kirstie or her parents have any idea how it got there. They do not, and seem disturbed by it—even Biff, who has ceased checking his watch.

  “Did you get any tips on the hotline yet?” he asks Stef.

  “Not yet. It should be on the radio, and our local television affiliates are airing it on the noon broadcasts.”

  “Good. I hope it works.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Barnes and Stef are back in the car, listening to a 1010WINS report about Wayland’s disappearance and the reward.

  “Think we’re really going to get anything out of that?” Barnes asks.

  “Other than wild-goose chases? With a reward this size, we’re going to hear from every nutjob in the city. Amazing, how low some people will stoop to get their hands on that kind of money. Or any kind of money.”

  Barnes finds himself thinking of his own father, remembering something Wash said last night.

  “He stepped up and he made sure he managed to support you, even though . . .”

  Even though what? he wonders again.

  “You know he tried to do the right thing” . . .

  Wash’s phrasing—tried—implies that his father hadn’t always been successful at integrity.

  He remembers a distant day in the park.

  “I don’t ever want you taking something that doesn’t belong to you, son,” Charles Barnes said as they watched one cop handcuff a purse snatcher and another console the weeping near-victim. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Good. I learned that the hard way. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

  “You stole something, Daddy?”

  “Once. Maybe twice.”

  “Did you go to jail?”

  His father changed the subject. Or maybe Barnes did, seeing the look on his face and not wanting to hear the answer. He never forgot that moment or his promise, but that didn’t mean he kept it. Not after his dad was gone. Not while he was Gloss.

  Stef jars him from the memory. “Are you hungry, kid?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Bet you didn’t eat breakfast.”

  “Bet you’re wrong.”

  “Bet you’re hungry again anyway.”

  Stef’s right. That buttered roll did little to fill the gnawing emptiness Barnes would like to think is simply hunger.

  Braked at a light on Broadway, Stef gestures down the block at their favorite lunch haunt, where the aging waitress flirts with Stef and gives Barnes extra scoops of ice cream on his pie a la mode. “We can stop at the coffee shop.”

  “No, that would take too long,” he says, though his empty stomach rumbles in protest. “We need to get back to work.”

  Again, his thoughts drift to the past, and his father.

  “You stole something, Daddy?”

  “Once. Maybe twice” . . .

  How did Wash meet his father?

  Probably the same way he met Barnes. Only his father, by Barnes’s calculations, was already married with a child when he and Wash crossed paths. If he stole something, maybe there was a reason.

  How far would a man go to put food in his son’s mouth and keep a roof over his head?

  The light changes and Stef drives on. “You okay, kid?”

  “Yeah.” Barnes hesitates. “Yeah.” Then, “No. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I lied. Maybe I can help.”

  “Got a spare hundred grand lying around?”

&nb
sp; “Who’m I, Biff Billington?”

  “Too bad we don’t get the reward if we solve the case.”

  “Tell me about it. Do you know how many times that’s crossed my mind?”

  They park near the precinct. Out on the sidewalk, Barnes gestures at a food cart down the block.

  “I’m going to grab a hot dog. You want anything?”

  “Thought you weren’t hungry.”

  “I lied.”

  Stef grins and reaches for his wallet. “Two dogs with onions and sauerkraut, and a knish. Make it two. Extra mustard on everything.”

  “Got it. It’s my treat.”

  “For all that? Who’re you, Biff Billington?”

  Barnes holds a grin until his partner disappears into the building. His life would be a lot less complicated if he were a millionaire, that’s for sure.

  He turns and walks down the block toward—and then past—the hot dog vendor. This time, the pay phone is available. He fishes two quarters from his pocket, feeds one into the slot, and dials Wash’s number.

  His friend used to answer on the first ring. These days, it takes him so long to get to the phone that you’d think the apartment is a mansion, or that it has only one extension. There are three—the wall phone in the kitchen, and handsets in both the living room and bedroom, a Father’s Day gift from Barnes. He wanted to buy him an answering machine, too, but Wash refused.

  “Don’t waste your money. These days, I’m always home. And if I’m going to be gone for any length of time, I’ll make sure you know where to find me.”

  Barnes listens to the phone ring, and ring. He’s about to hang up when he hears a click. “Hello?”

  “There you are!”

  “Here I am,” Wash agrees, wheezing on the other end.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Great!”

  Guess everyone’s lying today.

  “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “What makes you think I’m in trouble?”

  “Come on, Stockton. What’s going on? Don’t waste your dime.”

  “Quarter. Went up two or three years ago.”

  “For a phone call? Highway robbery. Tell me what you need.”

  “I don’t need anything. I just wanted to tell you . . .” He breaks off, emotion distorting his voice like helium.

  He clears his throat, pushes his register back down where it belongs. “I, uh, wanted to tell you about . . . the baby.”

  “Ah, the baby. Did you speak to the young woman’s attorney?”

  “I spoke to the, uh—I actually saw her. Delia.”

  “Well, that’s a step in the right—”

  “Wash, she was born this morning! I was there. Well, not in the room. But at the hospital.”

  “Well, well. Congratulations, son. A little girl?”

  “A little girl.”

  For a moment, neither of them speaks. Barnes because he’s again trying to shove the sappy frog from his throat; Wash because he’s coughing and wheezing.

  “Sorry. Happens sometimes.”

  “Maybe you should tell the doctor. Maybe—”

  “He knows, Stockton. Nothing he can do. Now tell me about your daughter.”

  “She’s tiny. Pink. Pretty. Her name is Charisse.”

  After my dad. But I’m the only one who knows that.

  “You take some pictures to show me?”

  Barnes is panged by the question, with its implication that he was there with a camera, like . . .

  Well, like a real dad. A proud one, cigars and It’s a Girl balloon in hand, with a snug, happy home waiting for the newborn.

  “Stockton?”

  “Sorry . . . my time’s about to run out and I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Wayland case is all over the news. Any breaks?”

  “Maybe. We’re looking into a possible connection to the Brooklyn Butcher. Remember that?”

  “Remember it? I worked it. I was at the courthouse the day they convicted Oran Matthews. Listen, it’s funny you should bring that up, because I was just watching the news, and—”

  “Please deposit twenty-five cents,” a robotic NYNEX operator interrupts.

  Barnes curses and shoves the second quarter into the slot. So much for checking in with the hospital.

  Wash is coughing again. Barnes waits for him to finish.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. What were you saying about the news?”

  “One of the girls who survived those attacks back in ’67 was killed last night, and her daughter, too, up in Boston.”

  At the turn of the century, Sheepshead Bay was a seaside resort for the rich and famous. Even 1967 photographs depicted a picturesque New England–style fishing village. Now it’s decidedly urban, with fast-food restaurants, vacant lots, and condo construction. Crime is on the rise here, as in much of the city. Broken glass and graffiti dot the landscape, car alarms yowl, and vagrants nap in doorways or push shopping carts.

  The Myerses’ block, once primarily Italian and Irish, has been transformed by an influx of Eastern European immigrants. Little has changed about the family’s residence, a beige brick duplex where they occupied the first floor twenty years ago. But the backdrop, compared to the old photos in the case file, is almost unrecognizable.

  Slavic tongues lace conversation. Russian Orthodox onion domes have replaced Roman Catholic steeple crosses. Storefronts have Cyrillic signs. It’s easier to find a restaurant serving borscht and pirozhki than spaghetti. At the neighborhood pastry shop, cases once lined with trays of cannoli display vatrushka and sochniki. The corner bar serves more varieties of vodka than beer.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me!” A young woman steps into Red’s path, shaking a red-and-white can. The plastic top is slit, like the ones beside the cash register back at the diner. “I’m collecting for the Humane Society. Can you help?”

  “No.” Is everyone in New York City looking for a handout?

  “Even just a nickel, or penn—”

  “I said no!”

  “Hey, you don’t have to push me!”

  Short-tempered, limping along on blisters, Red ignores her shout, thinking of the gun and relieved when she doesn’t force further confrontation. Sheer exhaustion can cause even an ordinary person to do crazy things. For someone under tremendous pressure, racing against the clock to rid the world of false prophets . . . well, it would be dangerous to go on without taking precautionary measures.

  Time for another pill.

  Red detours into a small Ukrainian grocery. Here, too, slit-topped donation containers sit beside the cash register, begging spare change for charity. Don’t those would-be do-gooders know it’s too late to save themselves, or anyone else?

  Too late, too late . . .

  The blonde woman behind the counter has a broad, pretty face.

  “I can help you find something?” she asks in a thick accent.

  “Bandages.”

  “Sorry. I do not have. Goodbye.”

  Her wideset blue eyes are vigilant as Red searches the beverage case for at least one recognizable brand among the unfamiliar bottles with foreign labels.

  “What else you are finding?”

  “You mean not finding.” Irritation crackles along Red’s pulse points. “I’m trying to find Coke, something like that. I just need to take some medicine, and—”

  “Not here! No drugs!”

  “No, not drugs. I meant—”

  “Go!” She waves toward the door as if shooing a gnat. “Goodbye! Goodbye!”

  “It’s just Tylenol, lady!” Red gropes for the bottle to show her. “I need—”

  “Get out!”

  Red stands motionless, facing the refrigerated case, pulse raging. Her reflection in the glass reveals a rigid, narrowed stare. Red’s hand burrows into the jacket pocket, not for the bottle or knife, but for the gun. There are no other customers here. The door and windows are closed. Show her the weapon, grab the cash in the drawer so that it looks like a ro
bbery, and something to swallow the damned pill . . .

  And then you shoot her, and you’re out. Fast.

  Yeah, and later, when they find Christina Myers’s body up the street, they’ll think the motive for her murder was robbery, too. They’ll blame escalating neighborhood crime, and never connect it to—

  “Mama?”

  A child’s delicate voice pierces the roar in Red’s ears.

  A small boy peeks around the end of an aisle, holding a stuffed animal so beat-up that its species is not discernible. The kid clutches it close to his heart like it’s the most precious, delicate thing in the world. Like it’s his only friend. Like it’s magical. He says something playful to the woman in their language. She answers with unmistakable affection, while keeping a watchful eye on Red, moving toward the door.

  Stupid kid.

  Back out on the street, Red dumps a white pill from the bottle and swallows it without water, just like earlier, back at home. Anything to banish dangerous exhaustion. Again, the pill leaves an acrid chemical burn. Again, Red ignores it, resuming the brisk stride toward the Myers house.

  At the dry cleaner’s, two men are loading plastic-wrapped garments into a van parked at the curb, leaving the small storefront empty. Beyond the glass, several collection cans line the counter. Inspiration strikes, and Red opens the door as though this were the intended destination.

  “I’ll be in to help you in a second,” one of the men calls.

  “Take your time!”

  Moments later, the man hurries in from the street as Red is heading back out. “Sorry about that. Are you here to pick up?”

  “Yeah, but I forgot my item receipts. I’ll come back.”

  “You don’t need them.” He takes a spiral-bound notebook from beneath the counter and flips through the pages. “What’s the name, and when did you drop off? I can look you up in the—”

  “That’s okay, I wanted to clean a few other things. I’ll go home and get them. Be right back!”

  Red is out the door, carrying the golden ticket that will ensure admittance into Christina Myers’s home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Even now, Christina Myers finds herself listening for wedding bells.