While the police searched the house, Chelsea stumbled outside to check the stroller one more time. Empty, of course. Still, she tossed out the blankets one more time and searched the cargo area under the stroller. She ran her hands over the vinyl mesh seat as if her fingertips would come across a clue pointing to Annie.
Satisfied that there was nothing there, she stuffed the blankets back inside and wheeled the stroller over to the tile bench. She could have been taking Annie for a midnight walk.
I’ll take you on thousands of late-night walks. I promise, if you’ll just come home . . .
Her hand securely on the stroller, she sat down on the bench she had tiled with her own hands. Her fingers traced the heart-shaped tiles embedded in the armrest. She had found the bench at a reclamation center and tiled it with an eye toward the spring. Once the daffodils bloomed, Leo would move it to the backyard, where she could sit with Annie in the afternoons.
She had seen herself sitting there this summer with Annabelle, telling her daughter the names of all the trees and plants in their backyard, pointing out shapes in the clouds, walking her around in the grass. And next summer, they would run through the backyard sprinkler together, and maybe splash in a little wading pool.
Those were the good visions.
An odd sense of disbelief had overcome her with the arrival of the police. Cops exuded authority, something she needed desperately right now. They would take care of things. They would find Annie.
They were proof that she wasn’t going crazy, and yet they confirmed that this wasn’t just a terrible nightmare terrorizing her sleep.
Rocking the stroller back and forth, Chelsea stared into the flashing red and blue turret lights. Blue and silver, then a swarm of red that glowed like fire in the winter night. When she blurred her eyes the colors mixed and morphed into purple and violet.
Mesmerizing. Hypnotizing.
How did anyone ever look away from those lights? They held her captivated, spellbound, lifted above the pain and panic. Her mind slid back to a safer place, to a narrow Dutch Colonial in Yonkers, the house she’d grown up in.
It was a summer night, so hot and still you could hear scrawny girl legs stirring under the sheets as she and Emma tried to get comfortable in their twin beds. Chelsea was scraping the sweat from her eyebrows when the leaves outside their window suddenly danced with a light display that rivaled the Fourth of July display in the park.
“What’s that?” Chelsea pulled the sheet to her chin, afraid of aliens.
“The cops.” Emma seemed to cartwheel out of bed and over to the window, and eight-year-old Chelsea wasn’t far behind her.
The flashing, rotating lights atop the police car splashed light over the trees and lawns and warm asphalt, washing everything in dense, dark light. The driver’s side door opened and a cop got out and walked around the car.
Chelsea was at once riveted and frightened. “Why are the police here? We’re not criminals.”
Emma shushed her as a lady cop got out on the curb side and pulled the handle of the back door. The two girls watched, holding breath and focus, as their older sister stepped out of the police cruiser.
“Look! Melanie is the criminal!”
The police marched Melanie to the door and rang the bell, causing a stir in the house that didn’t settle down for years, until Melanie graduated high school and proved herself worthy in Dad’s eyes by getting into college.
Emma and Chelsea crept to the top of the stairs and pressed their faces between the balustrades to listen as the police explained that sixteen-year-old Melanie had been found at a beer party. The adult voices were calm as they discussed things that bored Chelsea. Mostly she wanted to know if Melanie had gone to jail, and why would she want to drink something that tasted so fizzy-fuzzy and sour.
Suddenly, everyone stood up and the police were leaving. The girls scurried upstairs, not wanting to be caught spying. As soon as Melanie was sent to her room, Chelsea and Emma couldn’t resist peeking inside.
“Did you go to jail?” Chelsea asked.
Emma pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Are you grounded for life?”
Melanie kicked off her denim cutoffs and pulled on some boxers. “Do you mind? I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t be mean. You scared me.” Chelsea went to her and wrapped her arms around her. “I thought the police were going to take you away for good.”
Melanie hugged her back, then sprawled onto her bed. “Don’t worry, bug. They were hard-asses until Daddy started talking.”
“What did he say?” Emma asked.
“Whatever. He knows the right stuff to say. That’s the thing. Daddy knows how to handle things. Not that I want to tangle with the cops again, believe me. But if it did happen, it’s nice to have that safety net.”
That night, Chelsea went to sleep soothed by a new pearl of wisdom.
Daddy would care of everything.
It was a truth that lasted for nearly two decades, until Mom got sick. But for so many years, Chelsea dropped off to sleep believing that her father could handle any problem that threatened his daughters.
Now I need you, Daddy. I need you to help my daughter. Help me find her.
Would he fly up from Florida to help her? Oh, but he couldn’t fly in this storm.
Snow was falling beyond the carport, a whisper of white already beginning to coat the brown grass and gray pavement. Would it cover Annie’s tracks? Of course, she couldn’t walk, but there was the path of the person who had taken her. Maybe they would bring dogs to sniff her out. Dogs could sniff through snow, couldn’t they? Or maybe the rising sun would melt the snow and the mystery and show them Annie, safe and sound at Emma’s house or in Leo’s arms.
So many possibilities. She couldn’t give up hope.
And she had to keep tamping down the horrible possibility that the police would find her daughter shoved into an old laundry bag, dropped from the bedroom window, or pinned to the floor with that ghastly knife collection.
Killed by the hands of the mother who was supposed to love her.
Chapter 17
Snow glittered in the beams of her headlights as Detective Grace Santos drove to the address. During her five years in the Missing Persons Squad, she had investigated and recovered plenty of runaway teens as well as younger children involved in family abductions. Infant abductions were rare. In the past twenty-five years, there had been around two hundred cases nationwide. She had worked on an infant abduction at the hospital, a more common scenario these days, but an infant taken from her home in the middle of the night was a first for her. Most likely the baby was taken by a family member or caregiver. Sometimes a caregiver or parent claimed that the baby was abducted to cover up the child’s death, either intentional or accidental. The good news was that the recovery rate for infants was extremely high. Thank God for that.
Every case had a life of its own. In the next few hours, her focus would be on building the web of family and friends that surrounded Annabelle Green.
While waiting at the traffic light, she shot a look at her cell phone for the names of the major players—the parents and the child, three-month-old Annabelle.
“Where did you go on a snowy night, baby Annabelle?”
Her first responsibility was to the missing child, and Grace whispered a heartfelt Hail Mary for the safe return of this baby. It was part of her routine when starting a case, and she believed that God heard every word and answered in His own way.
The house was cute, in a nice neighborhood. She turned off the engine, took out her iPhone, and copied the Maple Lane address onto a Web site that tracked registered sex offenders. The results gave her four addresses of men within a two-mile radius. She checked the map, taking in the four residences lit in red. The closest was about six blocks away. Something to check out, though these men were not likely suspects in this case. They didn’t fit the profile of a typical infant abductor: a compulsive female, age twelve to fifty-three, married and living in the c
ommunity.
As she got out of her car, she was surprised to see a woman sitting calmly by the side door, nudging a stroller. The red and blue lights from a cruiser’s roof rack washed over the scene, casting a surreal glow over the woman framed by falling snow that glimmered at the fringes of the carport. Mid-twenties, brunette, and dressed in a robe, she sat on a bench, rocking that stroller as if it were an August morning.
The distraught mother?
“Did you find my baby?” Stress flashed in her pale eyes underlined by gray arcs.
Grace noted that her robe wasn’t even belted. “I didn’t find your baby, but it’s freezing out here. Why don’t we step inside?”
“But my baby likes the fresh air. See? She’s quiet now.” The young woman rose to check the stroller. Her face fell when she saw that it was empty. “My baby! Oh, she’s missing.” She pressed her hands to her face, suddenly remembering. “Do you think the police will find her?”
“Finding your child is our top priority. I’m Grace Santos, with the Missing Persons bureau. You’re Chelsea Maynard?”
The woman nodded, her eyes round as quarters. “But my baby is named Annabelle Green. My husband has a different name.”
“I’ve got that in my notes.” This woman was on the edge, and Grace suspected the team of officers and dogs that would be arriving shortly to search would make things worse. “I think we should step inside and see how the officers are progressing.” She put a hand on the fragile woman’s shoulder and shepherded her in through the side door. The poor thing was barefoot and shivering under her robe, but Grace suspected that was more from shock than the cold.
Inside, the house was quaint; you could tell that a lot of care had gone into this home. The living room was cozy, with a fireplace covered in pretty white-and-blue tiles. There was a sour smell, which Grace quickly identified when she saw the soiled diapers on the floor by the changing table. The kitchen was a bit disheveled, with mops leaning against the kitchen counter, boots and hats set on the kitchen table, but then whose house looked like a spread from Better Homes and Gardens?
“Do you have some slippers you want to put on?” Grace suggested.
Obediently, Chelsea fished a pair of mules out of the mound of shoes on the table. She stepped into them, then stumbled into the living room and fell heavily onto the couch.
Grace leaned against the counter, taking in the kitchen. What was the reason for the buckets and mops? The counter was free of bread or fruit, though there was a gift box with two frosted cupcakes and a lot of crumbs. She picked up the note taped to the lid and read the message: GOOD NEIGHBORS HELP EACH OTHER.
At the other end of the counter was a framed photo of a baby with a joyous, toothless grin. No doubt, Annabelle. One plastic bag held a cell phone, another a little pink-print baby outfit. Miklowski had probably bagged the clothing for the dogs to use to follow Annabelle’s scent.
“I have to call my husband.” The hand that reached for the telephone shook. Grace watched as the young woman pressed numbers, frowned, and started over, as if she couldn’t get it right. Poor thing.
Grace went into the living room and sat beside her on the couch. “Chelsea, why don’t you let me make the call?” She suspected that the patrol officers hadn’t had a chance to notify the husband yet, and she did need to talk with him.
“It’s just that the numbers keep slipping around.” Chelsea poked at the phone again, then sighed. “I keep messing up.”
Grace nodded, keeping her voice sympathetic. “Chelsea, are you on medication?”
“Just Nebula, from my doctor. For depression. But don’t worry, I can still breast-feed the baby. It won’t hurt her.”
“That’s good to know.” She wondered if Nebula could make a person confused and disoriented.
Chelsea touched her chest gingerly. “I need to pump. And Annabelle . . . she must be hungry.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Do you think they’ll feed her? Whoever took her?”
“Most babies give a shout when they’re hungry. Does your Annabelle have a healthy pair of lungs?”
Chelsea nodded, swiping at her eyes with one sleeve.
“I’m sure she’ll let it be known that she’s hungry. Why don’t you let me put the call through for you? I’ll tell him what’s going on, then you two can talk.”
Chelsea had to go to the directory of her cell phone to find her husband’s number. “He should be here, but he had to go to Boston for work. Do you think he came home early and took Annabelle for a walk?”
“I would love to think that happened.” Grace bit her lower lip. “But don’t you think your husband would have told you he was home? And most parents don’t walk their babies in the frosty cold before dawn.”
“Of course not.” Chelsea bit her lower lip, trying to hold back tears. “That was stupid. What was I thinking?”
“You’re upset,” Grace said. “Keep breathing. That’s good.” She punched in the number Chelsea showed her.
When the call went through, the man on the other end of the line sounded groggy. “Mr. Green, this is Grace Santos from the New Rochelle Missing Persons Squad.” Grace always tried to put herself in the other person’s shoes when handling a case like this; it was rough, but there was no easy way to pass on difficult news. She tried to give it to them straight. “I’m here with your wife, Chelsea, and we’ve begun a search for your daughter, Annabelle, who was reporting missing this morning.”
Leo Green’s reaction quickly shot from disbelief to fear to action.
“I’m coming home . . . the next flight,” he said. “Who took her? Do you have any idea?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Grace said. In fact, she had a long list of questions for Leo Green. It would have helped to have a more stable person here to draw information from, and she would have liked to see the child’s parents together to get a sense of their relationship. A large percentage of missing infants were taken by family members, often as a result of custody disputes.
“We’re going to do everything we can to find your daughter.” Grace gave Leo Green her contact information, wished him a safe flight, and handed the phone to his wife.
Grace listened as Chelsea cried, trying to piece the situation together for her husband. The young mother was distraught, not making much sense, and once again Grace felt for her. She thought of her own son at three months—a screamer. That baby boy shrieked through every dinner she and her husband attempted. Eventually she gave up on dinner; her husband gave up on their family.
Was Annabelle a crier? Grace wondered as a uniformed cop came down the stairs—Trent Miklowski. Outside, car doors were slamming. The search team was assembling. Grace motioned Miklowski into the kitchen, out of earshot of the young mother.
“What do we have?” she asked, leaning back against the kitchen counter.
“A fourteen-week-old infant goes missing in the middle of the night. Only child of Leo Green and Chelsea Maynard. The father is out of town. The mother says no one else lives in the house.”
“Did you find anything when you searched the place?”
“Nothing unusual upstairs, except the mother tore a few things apart looking for her. We’ve searched inside and out. Closets and cabinets, piles of laundry, inside appliances. Viloria searched outside with a flashlight. Nothing has been dug up in the yard and her car is clean. And we poked through the trash. Didn’t want to do that while the mother was sitting outside, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. There’s no sign of a B and E, but the mother left the side door unlocked. Or at least she says it was unlocked when she woke up this morning. Maynard says her husband cleaned the house this weekend, so it’s worth trying to take prints. We’ll eliminate anyone who’s been here since then.”
“Good.” Fingerprints were just one facet of a case, but if you didn’t gather them immediately, you couldn’t backtrack later.
“The kid was wearing something bright yellow,” Miklowski went on, “but the color is the only thing that stands out i
n Mom’s memory. She can’t remember some of the details of last night, like what time she put the baby to bed or even if she put her down in her crib. Do you think she’s on drugs or drinking or just plain crazy?”
Grace wanted to smack Miklowski. “When was the last time you gave birth to a child and stopped your life to take care of it twenty-four seven?” Grace asked.
He drew a hand back over his head. “Giving birth is no excuse for losing your kid, and look at this place. She could barely find this photo of the baby when I asked her for it. Didn’t know the baby’s weight. And do you see those dirty diapers over there?”
“I can’t tell you the whereabouts of Annabelle Green, but I can tell you that woman in there is compromised, either by medication or shock or depression or a combination of those. Right now, with the father out of town, she’s also our only resource in finding this child.”
“Exactly. Do you want to take her down to the precinct?”
“I can talk to her here. Have you issued an Amber Alert yet?” Time was of the essence. It was critical that information about the missing baby got out right away.
“Sgt. Balfour is issuing the alert. Do you want to make the house a crime scene?”
She nodded. “It never hurts. We can always break it down later if it seems unwarranted.”
“That’s what Viloria said. I’ll go tell her.”
Grace went back to the living room, wishing she didn’t have to badger this forlorn woman with a million questions. “Your husband sounded very upset. It must be a shock to wake up to a call like that.”
Chelsea nodded.
“Chelsea, I’m sorry but I have to ask you some questions. Your answers might help us locate Annabelle.” As she spoke, she took out her iPhone and went to the notepad function.
“So, you said you’re legally married to the baby’s father, Leo Green.”
“Yes.”
“And would you say you have a happy marriage?”
“Yes. Well, it’s been strained since Annie’s birth, which was so traumatic—worse than I could have imagined. But Leo’s been wonderful. He cooks all our meals, and he’s great with Annie.”
All She Ever Wanted Page 13
