Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel

by Frank Freudberg

  “I understand,” Lock said. “I don’t want you to worry. Remember, I’m not here to find you guilty of anything. I’m just here to make sure the kids are okay. If they’re okay, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “You don’t know my husband,” Natalie said. “Money and lawyers. The whole point of money and lawyers is so that people like me always have to worry. Sorry, I know I sound bitter.”

  “It’s okay, and I know what you mean. I’ve been doing this a long time,” Lock said. He wrote some notes and then began to gather the papers and put them into the envelope. “All right,” he said. “Here’s the procedure. Wednesday night, you, your husband, the nanny, and the kids will all need to be here. I’ll talk to Edwina privately for a few minutes, then the nanny can take her, and then I’ll speak with their father, and then we’ll all talk together. That’s the procedure.”

  “That’s fine with me,” said Natalie. She looked up and caught his eye. “What if he isn’t cooperative?” she asked. “What if Humphries tells him to keep his mouth shut?”

  “Not likely. I’m sure he’ll want to cooperate.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Anyway, you can make a note that I’d like to cooperate fully. Anything you want.”

  He smiled and pretended to write. “Noted,” he said.

  She tilted her head, trying to catch his eye again, but he kept his eyes focused on his paperwork, busying his hands with the forms. When he was done, he gathered his papers and got up to go. She was still looking at him, a curious look on her face. Lock thought she wasn’t used to her flirtations being ignored. She smiled suddenly, and he reddened, sure she knew exactly what he had been thinking. She reached out and touched his shoulder, and he shifted the clipboard from one hand to the other.

  He said, “Your children are beautiful. Edwina is adorable. What a personality.”

  He picked up White-Mane.

  “Don’t throw White-Mane in the trash,” Natalie said.

  “I promised Edwina I’d take care of him,” he said. “Maybe not the feeding and brushing part.” They both smiled at that. “But I’ll keep him. He’s going on my mantel.”

  Lock saw she was about to say something, but instead she led him to the door.

  “I think we’re finished for now,” he said. “Seven thirty. Wednesday. There may be another investigator with me, a woman. She may examine the children briefly.”

  Natalie extended her hand, and they shook.

  “Seven thirty, Wednesday,” she said.

  It’s a date, Lock thought, and then, It’s not a date, it’s an interview, stupid.

  Lock nodded and walked to his car.

  As he turned the car around, he looked back at the house and saw the huge solarium. That’s “greenhouse” to you and me, he thought. The windows were fogged over, but he could see the dim form of Natalie standing and watching him. Ghost and her flowers, he thought. He made sure White-Mane was safe on the passenger seat and accelerated slowly down the long drive. As young girls often did, Natalie Mannheim’s kids had reminded him of his Hannah, and he felt a pang, wondering what things like White-Mane she might have given him.

  He cleared his throat and shook his head and, as was his habit, let his eyes roam over the trees on the property. Trees were his infatuation. He was obsessed with trees. Reading about them, traveling near and far to see various specimens, touching them, photographing them, taking notes, imagining himself a kid climbing them. Next to White-Mane and his work papers on the passenger seat was his book, something like a birder’s life list, but for trees. It was a hand-bound notebook with a scuffed leather cover, and a little pen held in place with two elastic loops, and a frayed ribbon that served as a bookmark. It was simple but well-made, and soft in the hand from years of use.

  He slowed the car and squinted beyond the house at the towering tree in the middle of the backyard. He looked at it for a long moment. There were a couple dozen albino redwoods in California, huge trees with white needles, but it was hard to believe this might be one. Seeing one had always been on Lock’s must-see list, but he had never made it out to California. Anyway, he didn’t think a redwood could survive north of Virginia, or maybe Maryland, and an albino needed a parent tree—they didn’t produce chlorophyll, so they joined their roots to the parent in order to survive. Brandywine County was too far north, too cold, and there was no sign of a parent tree, so it must have been something else. Interesting, though, maybe even something new to him.

  Most people didn’t notice trees, Lock had realized years ago. They knew what a maple was, what an oak was, maybe different kinds of pines, but they were background to lives that moved quickly. Trees were too dependable and too abundant for most people to appreciate. When they saw one that was different, they may or may not remark on it, but that would be it. Few would wonder if they were seeing something unique, a zebra in a herd of horses. Lock almost turned the car around to ask Natalie if he could have a look at it, but he didn’t. He told himself if was inappropriate, but deeper in his mind, he was doing the math—it wouldn’t happen during the next visit, not while the husband was there. So maybe there was a reason for a visit after that.

  He turned away and started the car moving again, a smile on his face. That was the thing about trees. They could surprise you if you knew to look for something different, something new.

  Traffic was slow on the way back to the office. As he often did, Lock considered the case as he drove. On the face of it, it was a routine he said, she said. Lock saw it all the time. It was a sad reality that people going through a divorce often used their kids against one another. Fire and forget, like a cruise missile, never a thought given to what it did to the children.

  There was nothing to it, as far as he could tell. The kids were fine. Dahlia seemed well, and Edwina was adorable. There was probably nothing to the complaint, though he was experienced enough to know that the worst child abusers often had nearly perfect social camouflage. You had to run down each case, no matter what it looked like at first, and he looked forward to doing that.

  Nothing’s going to happen with Natalie, he told himself. She’s from money, and it’s natural for her to play nice with the guy that’s investigating her. There were a hundred reasons to forget about her. He kept thinking about her toes, though, and those toe rings. They were fancy, erotic in a way he couldn’t describe. Any other time, her feet would have been hidden by shoes. Lock felt like he had seen a secret part of Natalie’s life, something she did just for herself. Or her husband, he thought, but then shook his head. She wasn’t doing anything for Wittley Mannheim anymore.

  Natalie. In his cubicle, he wrote up his report about the Mannheims but didn’t lay out his suspicions that the allegations were trumped up. He could add that later if further investigation supported the conclusion—a couple more visits to Red Cedar Woods, just to be sure.

  3

  Marked and unmarked police cars congregated in the parking lot of the Brandywine Mall Cineplex, where officers were questioning a middle-aged man wearing a windbreaker and rumpled khaki pants. About twenty yards away, other officers were talking with a gangly boy and his mother.

  Abner, in a jacket, an ancient wide tie and one of his trademark caps, was there with Lock. He chewed on a sprig of licorice root, which hung out of his mouth like a cigarette. He still worked in the field despite the crushing load of his administrative duties, and sometimes he came with Lock on calls. Lock had let him take the lead on this one, which had come in late in the day. He liked to watch Abby work, and he knew Abby enjoyed calls like this one.

  Abby leaned in close and poked the man in the belly with his finger.

  “You should wise up,” Abby said.

  “Hey!” the man said, backing away from the poke. “Nothing to wise up about,” he added, putting his hand over his belly.

  Lock smiled. He never touched the people he was sent to interview. It w
as against the rules, and technically assault. But Abby had a presence about him. You just knew that if someone complained to the cops about being poked by an angry old man like Abby, the cops would figure the guy had it coming.

  “This is embarrassing,” the man said. “And there’s a crowd now.” He turned away from the gathering throng.

  A teenager shouted, “Cuff him!” and his friends jeered. They couldn’t have known why the man was being questioned, but that didn’t stop them. It was that kind of town. Other people’s misfortune was good entertainment. Lock shook his head. No doubt, thirty years before he would have been one of the kids jeering.

  Abby glared at the suspect. “Of all the seats in a practically empty movie theater, you sit next to a little boy all by himself? Plus, you fit the description.”

  “Maybe I fit it, but it wasn’t me,” the man said. “And there were other people in that theater. I was toward the back and the kid was near the middle. Didn’t even know it was a kid. I’m no pervert.”

  “Then why did the officer have to chase you?” Abby asked.

  “I didn’t know he was calling to me. My name’s not ‘Yo!’ And he’s in street clothes, not a uniform.”

  “Who has this guy’s I.D.?” Abby asked.

  A nearby officer stepped forward and handed Abby a Pennsylvania driver’s license. Abby read it and said, “Michael Densen.” He looked at Lock. Lock shook his head—he hadn’t heard the name before.

  Abby compared the picture to the man, then held it out to a plainclothes officer standing nearby. “Can you run this guy and see if you have anything on him?”

  The cop nodded and headed back to his cruiser.

  “I already told you I was in the theater. I’m not denying that.”

  The boy, a redhead wearing a short-sleeved shirt despite the November chill, edged closer, prodded by his mother.

  Lock took over while Abby bent over and whispered to the boy.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Densen?” he asked.

  While Densen sputtered his way through an explanation of why he was at the movies in the middle of the day, Lock watched the boy crane his neck so he could see the man over Abby’s shoulder. The boy nodded. Abby straightened up and patted him on the head.

  “Okay, son. Thank you,” Abby said, turning to the boy’s mother. “We have your information. We’ll be in touch if we learn anything we can act on.”

  “Aren’t you arresting that freak?” the mother asked. She narrowed her eyes at Abby.

  Abby turned back to the man, then to the mother.

  “Your son says the man had a red Phillies cap and sunglasses. We had a half dozen guys searching under the seats and in trashcans. Can’t find a Phillies cap or sunglasses. Nothing.”

  The plainclothes officer walked over from his car holding the man’s license.

  “Well?” Abby asked.

  “Mr. Clean. But his license says he’s required to wear glasses while driving.”

  Abby looked at the man. “What about that? Where are they, your glasses?”

  The man pointed a finger at his eyes. “Contacts.”

  The boy’s mom started to make a fuss. Abby held up a hand. Lock moved a little closer to her and put a hand on her arm to give her a sense someone was on her side. He knew Abby, and he knew he was about to pounce.

  A news van pulled up, and within seconds a reporter, an assistant, and a cameraman were setting up.

  “Okay, pal, you can go. But before you do, I want to tell you, this whole thing is making me thirsty.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I’ll tell you what it has to do with you,” Abby said, moving closer to the man. “I’ve been in this business for forty-one years. I’ve seen hundreds of predators—and when I see one, I start getting thirsty for a stiff drink. And being here with you for just a few minutes, I’d do just about anything for three fingers of scotch.”

  The man’s round face reddened in aggravation. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Abby reached up, removed his cap and ran his hand down the back of his head. He said, “The problem with hats is they mess up your hair. You know what I mean, right?”

  “Can I go now?” the man asked. Now he looked more annoyed than scared.

  Lock had seen it before—Abby liked to think out loud, and sometimes people thought he was just some crazy old guy.

  “Now I notice your hair,” Abby said, “and how it looks like it might have been wearing a hat, and then I look at the bridge of your nose, and I see the little red marks from glasses.”

  “Why would I wear sunglasses at a movie? Look, man, can I go? I already had enough crazy today. Anyway, you said I could leave.”

  Lock smiled at that. The guy was getting more annoyed, even aggressive. He touched the mother’s arm again, and he could tell she knew Abby was getting close to something.

  Abby said, “I did say that. But that was before I got this thirsty.”

  The man growled. “You’re not making any sense. Invisible baseball cap, marks on my nose, disappearing sunglasses. I’m reporting you to the chief of police. You’re babbling about whiskey. You’re too old to be a cop, or too drunk.”

  “I’m not a cop, I’m the executive director of the Brandywine County Child Protective Services agency. I have the same privileges as the police to investigate and ask questions. And you’re well-advised to answer them. We’re not a law-enforcement agency, we’re a social service agency. We don’t carry guns and we can’t arrest you, but I can make that happen fast,” Abby said, pointing to a nearby uniformed officer who had been glowering at the man. The officer nodded.

  Abby continued, “And if I ask him to, he’ll do it. I can get a subpoena faster than you can say ‘subpoena.’ So don’t be such a wise guy. Anyway, I’m tired of you, so you can leave...”

  The man smirked.

  “... with the police,” Abby said. “The boy I.D.’d you, and I know a judge that thinks that’s plenty to get a search warrant. What are we going to find at your house, Mr. Densen? Maybe pictures of you with a red Phillies cap on your computer? Maybe other kinds of pictures too, huh?”

  Abby gave the high sign to a pair of officers, who took the astonished man into custody and marched him to a waiting unmarked police car.

  “Too old or too drunk,” Abby said, turning to Lock and the boy’s mother and shaking his head. “Imagine the nerve of that guy.”

  4

  A colleague nodded hello to Lock and said, “Big Boss has been paging you every thirty seconds.”

  “Thanks,” said Lock as he kept moving. “Probably a paper jam in his printer,” he said, smiling. “Huge crisis.”

  Under his name on the frosted glass door of Abby’s office was the department’s motto: “Protect the children, protect the future.” Lock touched the words like he always did before entering.

  Abby was on the phone, but Lock could barely see him for all the files and clutter piled high on the desk. Abby said goodbye to someone and stood up.

  Just then, the phone rang again and Abby answered. He listened for a moment.

  “Yes, sir. Of course I have it. It’s right here on my desk.” Abby rolled his eyes for Lock’s benefit. “That’s not a kind thing to say about my filing system. What? Okay, well, you can send her down, I’ll have it ready.”

  “The new D.A.,” Abby said to Lock as he hung up. “He wants a file that’s been available for months, and all of a sudden, he’s got to have it instantly.”

  Lock surveyed Abby’s office. He’d been there thousands of times, and each time he was amazed at the amount of clutter. “You must have two hundred piles in here,” he said.

  “Is that all?”

  “Maybe three hundred.”

  Abby walked around his desk to a side table with a two-foot stack of papers and folders. He ran
his finger down the stack, stopped at one folder in particular, and began to tug on it. He gave up when he saw he was about to topple the whole mess.

  “Steady these folders for me, son.”

  Instead, Lock walked over and yanked the folder out perfectly. He handed it to Abby. There was a knock at the door. It was the D.A.’s assistant, a heavyset woman with short, cropped hair.

  “Here you go, dear,” Abner said, holding the file out to her. “Tell your boss to enjoy himself.”

  She left without saying a word.

  “You wanted me?” asked Lock.

  Abby handed Lock a form. “Four Latino kids are supposedly living in one of those storage rental facilities in Kennett Square. Complaint came from the manager, said the kids sleep there at night. Find out what’s up.”

  “And if they’re there?”

  “Standard procedure,” Abby said, disappearing into his chair behind a stack of file boxes. “Get them to an E.R. right away for a medical check, then get them to intake.”

  Lock nodded and began to leave, complaint form in hand.

  “Hey, Lock?” Abby asked. “I have two tickets to the Eagles-Dallas game Sunday. Decent seats.”

  “What time is the game?”

  Abby walked around his desk to a pile of folders. He ran his finger down the pile again and found the folder that contained the schedule. He tried to yank it out as Lock had. Folders flew everywhere.

  “Goddamned shit.”

  “Not sure I can go,” Lock said. “Let me know what time when you find your schedule.”

  He left Abby’s office and headed to the break room for a cup of coffee.

  Back in his cubicle, Lock arranged and re-arranged some papers, but he couldn’t focus his attention on work. He was distracted by the memory of a baseball game he had been excited about when he was fourteen years old.

  Lock had saved up one hundred and sixty dollars—he remembered the precise amount—from cutting lawns and shoveling walks. He had planned to use the money to buy a jet-black mountain bike. But then his father invited him to go to a Sunday afternoon major league game. Upon hearing that, Lock quickly headed to the sporting goods store and bought himself a Richie Ashburn fielder’s mitt, hoping that maybe he’d impress his father with his purchase and how he’d earned every cent of it himself. He didn’t think his father even knew he had a lawn-cutting and snow-shoveling business. Lock fantasized about catching a foul ball right in front of his father. If that happened, that would be the greatest day of his life. For once, his father would have to say something that would let Lock know he was proud of him. That would have been something.