Rachel Ferris stands. Her Nordic personal assistant mysteriously reappears to help Maggie pull back her chair. The chef returns to the stove.
Wow. Another demonstration of the rich people superpower.
Maggie rises too, but hesitates. “Mrs. Ferris. A woman and a little boy are missing. Your friend. Your son Sammy’s playmate.” Maggie catches the emotional flicker in Rachel Ferris’s eyes at the mention of the boys. She presses on. “If there’s anything else you can share with me that might help bring them home safely, anything at all, you should tell me.”
Rachel’s eyes skid away from Maggie’s and she busies herself with the plate of pastry, handing it to her assistant. “You clearly enjoyed Armando’s scones. Here, let us pack you a few.” She lets loose that giggle again. “Better on your hips than mine.”
The Nordic assistant bundles three scones into a white paper bag with the letter F monogrammed on it in gold script and hands it to Maggie. Their audience is over.
“What did you make of all that?” Ryan asks Maggie as they descend in the elevator.
“Not sure. Something maybe happened that maybe changed Betsy? Not much to go on there.”
“These women are all fucking nuts.”
“Finally something we can agree on, Johnson. Want a scone? Better on your hips than mine.” She apes Rachel Ferris’s delivery of the last line.
Johnson laughs, an honest guffaw. She holds out the bag for him. He extracts a scone and takes a big bite, spilling crumbs across his chest. “Oh, fuck me,” he sputters, swiping at the mess.
Maggie reaches into the monogrammed bag and retrieves a paper napkin that is likewise emblazoned with a letter F in gold script. “Look,” she says as she offers it to him. “A useful party favor.”
“F for fucking nuts,” Johnson growls. Their eyes meet in a moment of shared amusement.
For a brief second Maggie thinks maybe she’ll miss Ryan when she starts her UC work. Maybe. She watches as he crams another huge bite of scone into his furiously working jaw, while swatting crumbs from his shirtfront.
No. Maybe not.
Later that night, Maggie’s jaw rests heavily on the palm of one hand, the pointed V of her elbow anchored on the desk to prop up her nodding head. She’s grateful to be home in her own apartment in Hoboken, snuggled into boxer shorts and an oversized sweatshirt. She’s been examining the copies of the security footage of the Elliotts’ Park Avenue apartment building she’d had the FBI tech lab burn for her. She’s been running through it for endless hours, but at least she’s comfortable.
There are multiple angles to study, with cameras positioned outside the entrance of the building, at several points inside and outside the lobby, inside all four passenger elevators, on every other landing in the staircase, in the communal laundry room in the basement, inside the freight elevator, and outside the back service entrance.
To amuse herself, Maggie’s spent the last hour or so creating a false narration for the characters that silently cross her screen. She dubs the orange-haired, perpetually fur-clad, and imperious matron the Countess, describes the distant body language and sharp looks between a tense-looking husband and his uptight wife like a sports announcer calling a fight, invents a blood feud between two taciturn porters.
It may pass the time, but it’s not getting her any closer to Betsy and Bear Elliott. Overactive imagination. That’s what Maggie’s mother always says.
She replays the footage of Betsy and her son entering the lobby the day of their disappearance, this time slowing down the speed. Something’s different about this day from the earlier days in the week.
Maggie’s pulse quickens. She begins scrolling backward through the footage, looking to confirm or deny her burgeoning suspicions.
Wow. I’m right. In the course of Betsy’s comings and goings with Bear she always had a nanny in tow. But not the last time she was seen in the lobby. Deep in Maggie’s belly a warning bell chimes: This means something.
Maggie runs her fingers through her hair, sifting through the myriad questions that emerge as she processes the implications of her discovery.
The ugly drone of a buzzer interrupts her thoughts. Maggie rises and answers the intercom. “Yeah?”
“Me.”
She presses the buzzer.
When the double knock comes, she’s ready at her apartment door with two freshly cracked beers and a smile. “Hola, brother mine,” she says as she offers Diego a bottle. They are the youngest two in their family, but their bond goes beyond that. Diego’s a street cop in Newark. The siblings share a genuine calling for their careers in law enforcement.
“Yo.” He holds up a bag from which wafts the tantalizing scent of Chinese takeout.
“About time. I’m starving. Get in here. I want to run something by you.”
After they’ve had their fill of food and a second beer each, Maggie launches in with a short preamble to set the stage. Then she gets to the point. “So I’m looking at the footage from the building and I notice that Betsy always has a nanny with her if she goes out with the kid. Always. That’s weird enough, you ask me, given she really does seem into the whole motherhood thing, like genuinely. What’s weirder, though, is that the doorman told me the Elliotts always have three nannies on rotation, but in the last week, there are only two women I can identify as nannies on the security footage.”
“So maybe the doorman was wrong. Or maybe they were short-staffed that week. I hear that happens to rich people.”
Maggie tosses a pillow at him. “I’ll short-staff you in a second.”
“That does not sound like something a sister should say to her older brother.”
“You’re absolutely right. It was disgusting and I don’t apologize.”
Diego tosses the pillow back at Maggie. “Don’t we have an episode of Walking Dead cued up?”
“We do.”
“Magali. You can stop running so hard. You made it into undercover school in the FB-fucking-I. This’ll be someone else’s case in five minutes. Stop and smell the roses, kid.”
How can she push after that? She grabs the remote. After the episode and a shared pint of mint chocolate chip, Diego bids Maggie good night.
“Get some sleep, Mags. You look like shit.”
Maggie throws some shade right back. “That sweet tongue must be the reason the only woman that’ll hang with you is me. And I’m reconsidering.”
“Speaking of which, my friend Carlos asked about you again, but I told him…”
“Maggie doesn’t date cops,” they finish in unison.
“It’s a sensible policy,” says Maggie.
“Yeah, sensible for the men in blue that are spared you.” Diego sticks his tongue out at her.
“Adiós.” The door closes behind him. Maggie eyes the temptation of the firm mattress and soft pillows beckoning to her through her open bedroom door, then sinks back down in front of her laptop. She combs through the security footage one more time, now familiar enough with the routine of the building to sort tenants from staff from visitors. She zooms in on blurry faces and stops on individuals that appear even mildly out of place or awkward, jotting notes and questions on a yellow legal pad.
The third time she notices the slender figure in the hoodie, she begins to suspect the girl is deliberately hiding her face. Clad in high-top sneakers, jeans, and a navy blue sweatshirt with the hood pulled tight around her head, the girl has her face averted regardless of the positioning of the camera. She appears in the lobby twice in one day, stopping in the morning to talk to the doorman on duty, waving goodbye when she leaves a few hours later. On footage from the following day, Maggie finds her slipping into the service entrance using a key. It’s impossible to guess the figure’s age; she’s so scrawny and small she might still be a preteen waiting for a growth spurt.
But maybe not. Maggie catches s
ight of the slender figure greeting Betsy and Bear in footage taken outside the front of the building. They seem familiar, the slender girl putting a hand on Betsy’s shoulder and bending down to talk to Bear.
Maggie freezes the image and hits a couple of buttons. An enlarged, glossy copy of the trio spits from the printer. Maggie stares at it. The camera has caught something quite extraordinary that Maggie hadn’t even noticed while the image was on her screen: The slender figure bending to talk to Bear is at precisely the right angle to have her face reflected in the side-view mirror of an idling Lincoln Town Car.
Spinning back to her keyboard, Maggie zooms in even closer, enlarging the reflection, playing with the balance between the size of the image and clarity of detail.
Gotcha. Instinct sings in her heart and guides her mind, next steps falling into place before her like dominos. She’s increasingly able to trust this feeling and knows she’ll need to in order to be successful in the field. In order to stay alive.
Maggie prints an enlargement of the face in the mirror. Examines the blurred features revealed.
Not a preteen, a woman. Maybe in her twenties? Thirties? Hard to say as her face looks weathered, like she’s spent a lot of time outdoors. Shaggy black hair. Remarkable blue eyes. Intelligent. Urgent. Guarded. Fierce.
Or am I reading all of that into her?
Maggie laughs at herself as she climbs into bed. She’s probably just someone who lives or works in the building. What kind of danger could that skinny little woman threaten?
Overactive imagination. Just like Mama says.
SMACK!
Catherine,
Mexico City, Mexico
I’m deep asleep when I feel her gentle hand on my shoulder, hear her soft whisper in my ear.
“Let’s go, Cathy. Let’s go.”
I know I should wake up, but I can’t. A pull as strong as an undertow keeps my limbs snug in my warm, heavy blankets, my eyes closed. I want to drift away on the tide.
Will we get out in time?
Not if I can’t wake up. But I don’t care, I snuggle my face deeper into my pillow. Maybe if I don’t wake up everything will work out differently this time.
I stretch my limbs and they expand, child-sized arms and legs lengthening and widening, growing a soft down. And then I’m no longer in the flannel of my nursery. I’m wrapped in sheets of impossible silken softness, my body moving liquid and hot under Holly’s. He slides inside of me and I cry out, desperate for him, urging him deeper.
I want release so very badly. I’m on the verge, about to cry out.
A sound snaps me awake.
I’m trembling, from my dream, from my lizard-brain alert system screaming danger. I focus my eyes, pushing the shadows back into their corners. Where am I?
Gabi’s house. Mexico City. I’m positioned on one of the two sofas in the open plan main floor, the first line of defense for the Harris family sleeping (along with Gabi) on the floor above.
SMACK!
I hear it again, the noise that busted my uneasy sleep wide open.
Taking my stun gun from its hiding place underneath a cushion, I slide down off the sofa in front of the fireplace and onto my hands and knees on the bamboo floor. Quick glances left and right reveal nothing out of place. I creep slowly around the edge of the sofa and peer out across the shadowy expanse of the house.
All seems quiet. The stairs to the second floor are empty. I can’t see behind the kitchen island, but there’s a stillness in the air that belies another’s presence.
SMACK!
My head whips around and finds the culprit. The door to the terrace is open, swinging in the wind. I’m certain I secured it before I went to sleep. Did I?
I hesitate a moment. Cover the upstairs first? Or secure the residence? Taking advantage of the darkness, I crawl along the floor toward the stairs, the safety of the Harris family my top priority.
When I reach the stairs, I sprint up them as quietly as I can. Cock my head around the landing.
Clear.
I check Dakota’s room, opening the door with a soft click that doesn’t even register on the sleeping teenager. I close the door just as softly.
Next, Steve, Lisa, and Finn.
The door to their room squeals as I open it. Steve and Finn slumber on, but Lisa startles awake and stares at me with terrified eyes, drawing the coverlet protectively up around her shoulders.
I put a finger to my lips, signaling she should stay quiet. “Stay here,” I mouth more than say. She gives me a jerky nod.
The bathroom in the hallway is similarly quiet with no sign of any intruder or disturbance. I push open Gabi’s door. Her rumpled bed is empty.
“Gabi?” I call softly into the dark room. No response.
Light falls in a rectangular yellow block from the open bathroom door on the left side of Gabi’s bedroom. I sidle toward it, nerves prickling, stun gun raised, and take a look.
Empty. A bite plate, the kind used to prevent the wearer from grinding teeth, sits on the bathroom counter. I run a finger along it and discover it’s still damp.
Where’s Gabi?
I head back down the stairs. When I reach the main floor, I flick a switch and flood the space with light. Clear. I check the door leading down to the garage. Locked. I flick the lights off again.
I’m heading for the terrace and if anyone is out there, I don’t want them to see me coming.
Crossing to the open terrace door, I roll my shoulders to relax them; my clients are safe, the house almost secured. The door must have jostled loose in the wind. Or maybe Gabi’s out there, unable to sleep.
Shielding my body with the wall, I peek my head around to scan the terrace. My eyes struggle to make sense of what I see, shadowy lumps and things that go bump under a dark and smoggy sky.
All seems clear. I take a few steps out just to be certain. My eyes adjust.
Clear.
I don’t know if I’ll get back to sleep tonight but at least all seems to be well.
The bullet crushes into the frame of the door mere millimeters from my ear. I spin and duck into a crouch. A second bullet whizzes through the doorway and explodes a terra-cotta pot full of prickly cacti.
“Catherine, are you all right?” Gabi’s voice is tight with tension.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s shooting?”
“Me!”
“Then stop. It’s just me out here.”
Gabi must have hit the switch because the terrace is abruptly flooded with light. She appears in the doorway, a pistol in her shaking hands.
“What the hell?”
“I heard a noise.” Gabi gestures with the gun. “So…”
“Yeah, well, next time, ask before you shoot.”
I brush past Gabi to find the Harris family huddled at the top of the stairs. With arms and legs spread wide in front of his wife and children, his body poised to pounce, Steve’s face is a caricature of fear. Little Finn clings to his mother, his face buried in her neck. Lisa strokes his back and murmurs in his ear. Dakota looks like a little girl rather than the defiant teen that has been flouncing around with an arrogant attitude for the last couple of days.
“Sorry,” I reassure. “False alarm. Go back to bed. Just a door in the wind.”
If it was only that simple. Poor little Finn retreats deeper into himself, flapping his hands, repeating a cry of “Kota, Kota, Kota.” An oppressive weariness settles over Dakota’s face as the boy springs away from his mother and claws onto his sister. She sinks to the floor, weariness replaced by resignation as she holds her little brother and rocks him, stilling his hands in hers.
“Okay, Finny. You’re okay. It was just a bang.” She repeats a variation of this for what seems like a very long time as Lisa and Steve stare helplessly at each oth
er over the heads of their children.
Dakota finally takes the boy back to sleep with her. I take Gabi’s pistol and empty the remaining bullets. Insist she put the weapon back in the gun safe located in the garage. I watch her do it and then pocket the key.
“Just as long as I’m here.” She knows how I feel about guns. This incident has proved my point. If there’s a gun around, someone is a hell of a lot more likely to get shot.
“I’m sorry,” Gabi offers. “I got it when Mia went away to school.”
“Why don’t you make Steve and Lisa some tea. I’ll be right up.”
Gabi lingers; I can tell there’s more she wants to say, but I don’t want to hear it right now. “Go.”
I sweep through the house methodically, starting down here in the garage. The fruta van is in place; keys in the ignition, ready for an easy escape should that become necessary. Gabi’s car, a Range Rover, is squeezed in beside it; the automatic garage door is secure. I come back upstairs. I check every window and recheck the newly secured terrace door. As far as I know, no one has picked up on our trail, but it’s better to be careful in all things.
Steve, Lisa, and Gabi sip the dregs of a pot of chamomile tea. I join them, perching on a stool at the kitchen island.
The Harrises are both very pale; Steve has one steadying hand placed on top of his wife’s smaller one.
“It was all supposed to be different,” Lisa says, so softly I can barely make out the words. “This year. All I thought I was looking at was adjusting to Dakota being away at school, what that would do to Finny. She’s amazing with him, you know, the only one who can always get through when he’s really…struggling.”
Her voice grows even softer. I find myself leaning closer to hear.
“And my poor baby girl. Thought she’d finally be able to be a normal teenager.” Lisa shifts so she can look directly in Steve’s eyes. “I know you’re doing the right thing. But is it going to cost us everything?”
Her husband stares helplessly back at her, his face lined with regret, sorrow, the desperation of not knowing if it will, in fact, cost them everything.
The Empty Bed Page 13
