Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel

by Frank Freudberg

  “You’re reopening the case?”

  “Yes. The D.A. and the police have their own active investigations, but I know you’re not going to rest until you find out what really happened. You look like hell. I can see this thing’s getting to you. Best thing to do is work it hard until we figure it out.”

  Lock took another deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right. I keep thinking I should have done more.” Or less, he thought. A lot less.

  Abby patted him on the shoulder. “And now you can. Get out there and get some answers.”

  “Any ideas? If he’s smart, he won’t say anything except to the cops. He’s already in trouble for serving Mannheim.”

  “I don’t want to wait weeks for the results of a police investigation. We’re going to do it ourselves. The bartender will cooperate if you play it right. Jacoby released him on bail, and he probably doesn’t want to get brought in again. He’ll talk to you. You’re charming. You know how to play it—we’re not interested in him, we just want to get to Mannheim and whoever else was involved.” Abby handed Lock a slip of paper with the cabby’s name and phone number.

  “Alright,” Lock said. “I’ll get him to spill, and I’ll talk to the cabby, too. Thanks, Abby. Sitting around wasn’t doing me any good.” And now I’ll have at least some control over what information you get. Lock’s gut twisted at the thought of lying to Abby, but “no small rooms” had been his mantra from the beginning. He didn’t want to go to jail, and he especially didn’t want to disappoint Abby. It’d break the old man’s heart.

  Lock turned to go, but Abby stopped him. “What really bothers me is Mrs. Mannheim.” He cleared his throat. “They were firing nasty allegations at each other. Things that could make a big to-do at a custody hearing. Then there’s an accident that gives the mom something she can really take to the bank. But she doesn’t. She goes quiet. No, there’s something very wrong. But what, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe she’s going for a settlement. Keep it out of court, more money for her. You didn’t see their house. She lives like a queen, and she doesn’t have to lift a finger. Nanny, new Mercedes, the whole trophy wife thing.” He winced inside to say all that about Natalie. Not that it wasn’t true, but she was more than what she appeared.

  “Could be,” Abby said. “The problem I’m having is this other guy. You talk to the cabby—he’s saying there’s no way Mannheim could have driven all the way back home that drunk and in that weather. He was barely standing when the cabby saw him. So who’s this guy? To me, it looks like he was the one behind the wheel, not Mannheim.”

  “Yeah, but drunks—you know as well as I do, most of us have a guardian angel or we wouldn’t have made it this far,” Lock said.

  “Point taken,” Abby said, smiling. “But I’m still not seeing it. How and why does Mannheim drive home, pick up the two-year-old, put her in a car seat, get back in his car and lose control of it on the curve, drive into a tree, and then forget the whole thing?”

  “He says he can’t remember it,” said Lock. “That’s not the same as not remembering.”

  Lock swallowed hard and continued. “You’re looking for something that isn’t there because you feel like we let that little girl down,” he said. “I feel the same way, but I have to tell you, this is starting to sound like 9/11 conspiracy stuff. A mystery man picks Mannheim up, goes to his house, grabs his kid? I’m not seeing it.”

  “Listen,” Abby said, ticking off his reasoning on his fingers. “A. It couldn’t be what it looks like. If it were that simple, Mrs. Mannheim would be rushing to cash in on her daughter’s injury by screaming all over the place about Mannheim’s recklessness.”

  Lock nodded. Too much resistance to Abby’s theory would seem odd. Lock fidgeted with a pen on Abner’s desk, clicking it nonstop.

  “B.,” Abby continued, “if she’s not screaming, she’s the dog that didn’t bark. She’s in it, one way or another. C., the Good Samaritan in the parking lot—it wasn’t a coincidence he was there. Whoever he is, he’s in this with her. And D., the best clue—the more I think about Natalie Mannheim, Wittley Mannheim, two car accidents, a Good Samaritan, the blackouts, and everything else, I can practically taste that Glenmorangie.”

  Thoughts sped through Lock’s mind. Throughout his careful planning, he’d been most concerned about the power of Abby’s gut instincts. But he hadn’t considered the aggregate effect of several tiny inklings that Abby would latch onto. He was like a hungry dog, Lock thought, picking up the scent of hamburgers on the grill at a house down the street. The aroma would drive him crazy until he could get to it and tear into it. Every morsel.

  “Stop clicking that pen,” Abner said.

  “Yeah,” Lock said. “I’m starting to see it. But if you’re right, what I can’t figure out is what their real plan was. It wasn’t a kidnapping. So what were they trying to do when Mannheim hit the tree? And if the mystery guy is in the car, what happened to him? Not likely he hitched a ride home. The cops would have probably seen him. And where’s Mrs. Mannheim during all this?”

  Abner rubbed his jaw, frowning. “Yep,” he said, “if I could figure all that out, I’d have something for Mrs. Mannheim and her friend. A nice little indictment, all swaddled up and cozy, safe and sound, like a baby in a car seat.”

  Small rooms, Lock thought.

  Abby’s phone rang and he waved Lock out of his office. “I’ll talk to you later. Good luck out there, boy.”

  Damn Abby and damn his thirst for rare scotch, Lock thought. In Lock’s plan, all the danger had been in the Cavern. He had worried about Abby, but not enough. But there was still one thing keeping him safe—Abby thought the first crash was an accident. And as long as he thought that, he’d never figure out the rest. All Lock had to do was make certain that Natalie stayed cool and didn’t make a move. But that thought gave Lock comfort only until his mind wandered back to the pediatric unit, and he was sick to his stomach again.

  25

  Lost in thought while trying to solve the crossword puzzle in Monday’s Philadelphia Inquirer, Abner stood barefoot in his pajamas on the cold linoleum of his kitchen floor. He clenched a sprig of licorice root between his teeth.

  He was stuck on the clue “peace of mind.” The answer was eight letters long, and the fourth letter was an “e” and the last a “y.” It was difficult for him to focus.

  A short article in the local news section about the accident and Mannheim’s subsequent arrest didn’t mention CPS, and for that, Abner was glad. But he knew the reporters would be back on the story soon. There were too many titillating elements of the event for it to be ignored by the media.

  The more Abner wondered about the identity of who he suspected was Natalie Mannheim’s accomplice—and he was certain there was one—the more dyspeptic he got. Abner couldn’t get comfortable with the idea that Natalie was nothing more than a collateral victim in the situation. Maybe she had succeeded in misleading Lock—Lock was smart, but everyone had a blind spot—but she definitely wasn’t going to mislead Abner, or so he hoped. He hated unsolved mysteries. The unfinished crossword puzzle might ruin his whole day. Things like that always made him think about a drink.

  Abner’s agitated state intensified. For a moment, he explained it by thinking he was subject to a double whammy—the aggravation of the crossword puzzle clue together with his misgivings about Natalie. Then another question wedged itself into his mind. He had told Lock to close the Mannheim file as soon as he could because of the case overload, but Lock would never sign off prematurely. He usually waited thirty days, made a follow-up call, and then made his decision. Closing the case so soon was out of character—Lock would never sign off on a file if he thought there were kids at risk. He was trying to make up for his mistake now, but he hadn’t come up with anything.

  Lock had talked to the bartender at the Cavern Tavern, and the guy didn’t say anything new, and said he couldn’t I.D.
the woman Mannheim had been with. Abner knew that was nonsense, and he thought he should have questioned the bartender himself. Lock said he was still waiting for a call back from the cabby, so nothing new there.

  Abner had too much rattling around in his head, and his thoughts about Lock were overwhelming. Maybe what Lock needed was some extended time off—he was Abby’s best investigator, and it wouldn’t do him or CPS any good if he burned out. Abner didn’t want to embarrass Lock or make him think he was slipping, but he thought a break was probably a good idea. He’d talk to Lock about it the next day.

  His eyes wandered around the kitchen and came to rest on the sealed bottle of Glenmorangie 25-Year Highland Single Malt Scotch. He kept it there for two reasons. Having it nearby was what he called “spiritual push-ups.” Seeing the bottle regularly and ignoring it, he believed, gave him the strength to resist the urges he still felt, occasionally, to drink.

  He gave the bottle a long, long look.

  “I’m thirsty for you, little bottle,” he said. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Instead of taking time to eat lunch on Tuesday, Lock called Natalie mid-morning and arranged to meet her at noon.

  “We need to talk, Natalie,” he said.

  “About what? Sometimes when you say ‘we need to talk,’ it’s nothing good.”

  “I’m afraid this is one of those times,” Lock said, doodling concentric circles on a pad of Post-It notes.

  Natalie sighed. “Okay. It’s pretty chilly out, but I’ll bundle up. And I’ll make avocado and lettuce sandwiches.”

  Two hours later, in the November cold, Natalie and Lock sat on swings at a playground next to an elementary school closed for renovation. A brown paper bag containing sandwiches and apples sat balanced in her lap.

  Lock tapped his shoe on the frozen ground, but Natalie seemed relaxed—even cheerful—and impervious to the temperature. Lock rankled at her breeziness. She opened the paper bag and held out a sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil. He shook his head. She shrugged and returned it to the bag.

  “The Old Man’s going to call you in,” Lock said. “You don’t have to go. He can’t force you to, but you should go. It’s the best thing to do. He’s ready to bet that you won’t show. Surprise him. Call that lawyer friend of yours. You’ve got to drop your bid for custody and support and reconcile with Witt. It’s our only chance to get Abby to relax.”

  “I’m not doing that,” Natalie said.

  “Why not? Reconciling would only have to be a temporary arrangement, just until things blow over. It would go a long way in getting Abby off your back.”

  “I’d rather put my hand down the garbage disposal and flip the switch than get back together with Witt. If you think otherwise, believe me, you’re losing it.”

  “I may be losing it, but I’m not so far gone as to all of a sudden start liking small rooms.”

  “That’s what you’d like—I get back with Witt and you’re free of me.”

  Where did that come from? Lock wondered. I’ve gone this far to help her, to be with her, so why would I bail out now? “You’ve got that wrong,” he said. “You’re the last person I want to be free of.”

  He kicked at a small rock under the swing.

  “We’re stuck with each other,” she said. “I’m not getting scared off so easy. And you don’t get off so easy, either. If you want the naked truth, think about this. Dahlia getting hurt was on you. Your plan, not mine. I don’t need Witt, I need you. Relax. And think. We haven’t done anything wrong, unless it’s wrong to protect my children.”

  Again, Lock imagined the moment when Dahlia had been jolted violently awake when the pickup truck smashed into the car.

  “Get off it, Natalie.”

  “What are you really afraid of?” she asked.

  “What I’m afraid of is Abner Schlamm. The only thing that has the slightest chance of calming him down is if you and Witt get back together,” Lock said. “Otherwise he’ll wonder why you’re not acting hysterical and screaming for the D.A. to hang Witt for the accident.”

  Natalie, now expressionless, stared off into the distance. She turned to Lock. “So I’ll push the police to charge him,” Natalie said.

  “It’s too late for that. How would you explain waiting so long? That would look really suspicious.”

  Instead of answering the question, she said, “I’m not afraid of Abner.”

  “You should be. He put me on interviewing the bartender and the cabby, but I didn’t dig as deep as he would have. Now he wants me to take some time off, and I don’t know what he’s going to do while I’m gone. If he leans on the bartender and gets the name of Witt’s date, he’s going to start looking really hard at me. We don’t want to trigger another investigation. That’d be the worst thing that could happen. We want this to cool off, not heat up.”

  “You want me to reconcile with Witt? You must be insane.”

  “That’ll be my defense,” Lock said. “What’s yours?”

  Without another word, Natalie slid off the swing, letting the paper bag fall to the ground. She left it there as she got into her car and drove away.

  Lock watched the SUV turn out of the parking lot and disappear. He got off the swing and picked up the bag. He looked around for a trashcan and saw one on the far side of the playground. He walked to it, put the litter in, and went to his car. He sat there for a long time with his eyes closed, gripping the steering wheel, thinking about Dahlia lying in a hospital bed, and questioning why Natalie would risk their cover.

  He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and barely recognized the drawn face that looked back.

  After Lock returned from his aborted lunch with Natalie, Abby called him into his office.

  Although there was a small clearing on part of Abby’s desk, his office was in more disarray than ever. Some of the piles of papers and files had been moved to one side of the room, piled there in a mountain of confusion.

  Abner had about twenty more piles to move. It was clear he was trying to organize his office. Empty boxes awaited the mess.

  “Oh, joyous day,” Abby said. “They’ve ruined themselves, exactly as I told you.”

  Lock remained silent and tried not to react. “The Mannheim case? The mystery man?”

  Abby didn’t answer but pointed to one particularly large mound of clutter. “Bring that pile over and put it in this box right here, will you?” he said.

  Lock took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, happy for the activity.

  “In one box? All this won’t fit in one box,” Lock said. He started to distribute the mess into multiple boxes.

  “There’s more boxes over there if you need them,” Abby said, pointing. “The whole thing was a set-up all along, from the broken wine glass when Mannheim supposedly returned home from the bar, through the accident and all Mrs. Mannheim’s tears at the hospital. It was a clever plan, too, but not clever enough for the call of Glenmorangie. No, not even close.”

  “Slow down. What are you talking about? How do you know all this?”

  “The D.A.,” Abby said, impatiently pointing to various piles of papers and frowning when Lock wasn’t taking the initiative in the organizing activities. “Jacoby has a witness. Freak thing. Turns out the Mannheim nanny’s gentleman caller, kid named Carlo, was hiding in the garage. The nanny told Mrs. Mannheim they were going to go out, but it turns out whenever they get the chance, they shack up right in the house. Carlo saw Mrs. Mannheim load the baby into the back of her loaner car a little before nine.”

  “What? Mrs. Mannheim put Dahlia in the car? I don’t believe that.”

  Abby smiled. “We’ve got a sworn statement attesting to that.”

  Lock said nothing. He sat down in the chair facing Abby’s desk.

  “Put those in that box,” Abner said, pointing to a mound of legal periodicals. “Mrs. Mannheim.
She’s got a partner. Her boyfriend.”

  Lock held his breath. He caught himself slumping in the chair and pulled himself back up.

  “And get this—Mrs. Mannheim’s boyfriend? It’s her divorce lawyer,” Abby said. “A classic. The nanny knows all about him. That’s why Mrs. Mannheim told you she wasn’t represented.”

  Lock thought quick, trying to keep the various stories he had told straight. He had never reported that Natalie had gotten a lawyer, since he had learned about it later, after they had been together.

  “Jerome Freel is his name, out of Villanova. Drives a black Lamborghini. That’s a quarter-of-a-million-dollar car, son, or more. In addition to all the felonies he and his girlfriend are guilty of, he’ll also have one serious ethics problem to deal with. I’ll see to that.”

  “An ethics charge from the bar association will be the least of his problems,” Lock said. “If you’re right, he almost got that little girl killed.” Lock could barely believe he had the audacity to say that out loud.

  He was having trouble focusing on Abner’s words. He looked around the office again. The piles seemed higher and there appeared to be more of them, as if they were multiplying. He imagined them falling in on him.

  “See, Lock, my theory goes something like this. That Ambien that Mannheim denied taking? Oh, he took it all right, only he didn’t know he took it. Lover-boy Freel dosed Mannheim somehow in the bar. Slipped one past him. It was Freel who the cabby saw struggling with Mannheim in the parking lot.”

  “Why would Freel want the keys?” said Lock. “To prevent Mannheim from getting in an accident? A crash is what he’d pray for.”

  “True,” Abner said. “That does bother me. Not sure about that one. I’ll get back to you when I figure that out.”