“You would have to talk to her,” Megan said.
“Can you put her on the phone?”
“I can make an appointment for you, if you want to come in.”
Grace screwed up her face in annoyance. She’d bet a bottle of Dewar’s that this Megan was young, drunk with the power of her first job, and checking her text messages while she was talking to Grace.
“Fine. Let’s make an appointment then,” Grace said, sick of being disregarded. “But if she can’t see me this afternoon, she’ll see me with a search warrant for your company records.”
It was an idle threat, but it got her in that afternoon. She was just ending the call when she saw Emma Wyatt heading up the driveway, carrying two grocery bags. Grace would have waved, but she knew Emma couldn’t see her behind the tinted glass of the car window. Her anonymity gave Grace an opportunity to blatantly study Chelsea’s sister.
Taller and leaner than Chelsea, Emma had a certain grace and dignity that made her seem aloof at times. Her students probably looked up to her, Grace thought, as Emma tried to keep things positive and constructive. Grace could imagine these two sisters growing up together, the prim Emma trying to keep order while Chelsea turned cartwheels over her sister’s rules.
As she passed by, Emma’s baby bump was evident beneath her short jacket. Actually, her belly was more obvious today, but maybe she was dressing to show it off—and rightly so. Yesterday, Emma had been hit twice, with the fear of a miscarriage and the news that her niece was missing.
Emma was met by Chelsea in the driveway, and she took one of her bags and gave her a kiss on the cheek. As Chelsea held the door for Emma, Grace wondered how much she really knew about her sister.
Did she know about her penchant for theft? Emma had been found guilty of shoplifting three times. The last time, she had been hit with a stiff fine and extensive community service.
Fortunately for Emma, her problem seemed to be under control. Her last arrest was more than five years ago.
But Grace had stumbled on some other surprises when she checked out Emma Wyatt.
A sudden trip, and a major move, far from New York.
Emma and her husband were scheduled to fly to Chicago at the end of the week. Jake Wyatt’s assistant at the law firm had the gift of gab, and she had been eager to answer all Grace’s questions. The couple was flying to the Windy City to meet the partners and explore their real estate options. They were looking at making a move in a matter of weeks! Emma had already given notice at her school, and they weren’t even going to wait to have the baby here. . . .
For a woman who’d almost miscarried, Emma seemed to be making some radical changes in her life. Had she shared the news about the move with her sister? In the course of an investigation, it was suspicious to see a key player leaving town, but then maybe it was truly a coincidence.
As the morning waned, activity picked up next door. A minivan with Jersey plates arrived, and a woman with dark hair pulled into a ponytail emerged and opened the door to three children—a toddler and two older preschoolers who looked like siblings. From the Jersey plates, Grace suspected it was the older sister, who had kids that age. The woman corralled the children up the driveway, all three of them toting toys—including a lizard almost as big as the toddler—and canvas bags. Cute kids.
Wanting to meet anyone new on the scene, Grace got out of the car. She’d find some excuse for intruding.
Snow had receded from the edges of the lawn, revealing sprigs of grass that seemed far too brown to ever recover. At times like this, it seemed that spring would never warm the earth.
Glancing past the handful of police personnel still congregating outside Pickler’s house, she saw a short girl emerge from a small late-model Honda that had just parked in front of the Wilkinsons’ house. It was the spot where the dogs had lost the trail of Annabelle’s scent.
Grace slowed her pace along the sidewalk, watching as the girl came into view.
Eleni Zika.
Was that where she tended to park when she visited the Maynard-Green house?
She paused and waited as the girl approached. Eleni wore a hoodie and a black backpack sagged down over her butt. Such a tough look for a girl with a sweet, round face and a hairstyle that reminded Grace of Pippi Longstocking.
“Detective Santos . . . Chelsea told me that you don’t think Krispy did it. But you didn’t find Annabelle, did you?” Her tone was bleak, swollen with guilt. No kid that age should feel so bad.
“Not yet,” Grace said. “But I’m surprised to see you here today. Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“My mom called me in sick.” Her face puckered. “I am sick. I feel so bad for Annabelle and Chelsea. And when I think that it might be my fault . . .” She folded her arms over her waist. “I really feel sick. Maybe it’s cramps, I don’t know.”
“You know, sometimes I get sick with worry like that—especially with this job. I have to remind myself that I’m not helping anyone by letting stuff eat away at me. I can’t help anyone if I’m home sick. Know what I mean?”
“I guess.”
“Besides that, I don’t think you have anything to feel guilty about. It’s good that you went in to be fingerprinted. Thanks. That will help in our investigation, because we want to eliminate your prints from the ones found at the scene. Beyond that, we checked out you and Armand. Frankly, there was only one thing that raised some questions.” Grace motioned her to the little tiled bench in the driveway. “It’s kind of private. You want to sit for a minute?”
With a tentative scowl, Eleni sat down.
“It’s about a birth certificate for Anthony Zika. You were listed as the mother. That was you, wasn’t it?”
Eleni’s dark eyes flooded. “It was a mistake . . . my mistake.”
Grace handed her a small pack of tissues as her tears and words spilled freely. She’d been careless—one time—and she’d paid the price. The guy turned out to be “really sketch.” She had been so embarrassed, so mortified about talking to her mother that she hadn’t said anything. When her mother noticed, it was too late to consider an abortion.
“It still hurts. But I wasn’t ready to be a mom.”
“It’s a big responsibility.”
“I’m still not ready. When I see how worn down Chelsea is all the time . . . it’s awful. Some days, when I go over there, she’s not even wearing any makeup. I can’t live that way. And if I got a crier like Annabelle, I’d tear my hair out.”
“Just so you know, I think it’s different when the baby is yours.”
“That’s even worse. You can’t get away from it. I didn’t mind walking Annabelle around the house because I knew I’d be able to hand the baby over and go back to my life.”
“It sounds like you’ve learned a lot from the experience,” Grace said. “Sometimes it’s the really difficult situations that force us to grow up.”
Eleni nodded. “What were the questions you had, anyway?”
“I think you’ve answered most of them.” She looked at the door. “Should we head inside?”
“My makeup is all messed up.”
“Here.” Grace took a tissue from the pack and dabbed away the black smudges on the girl’s face. “Such pretty eyes. Hard to see them with your bangs, but pretty.”
Eleni looked toward the house. “You won’t tell Chelsea, will you? I mean, about me having a baby? I don’t want her to know. I feel so stupid about it.”
“I don’t have to tell her,” Grace said. “But you might want to, someday down the road.”
“After you find Annabelle?”
“Right.” Grace held the storm door open, and Eleni sniffed, touched her hair, which was fashioned into a half dozen wild pigtails, and finally went in.
The scene inside the house reminded Grace of her own family gatherings in the Bronx. Emma was prone on the living room floor, dividing her time between building with LEGOs with one nephew and surviving a menacing grumble from the toddler’s “die-sore!” Chel
sea sat at the kitchen table, her oldest sister sitting beside her with an arm slung over her shoulders.
“How’s it going next door?” Chelsea asked.
“We’ve still got the dogs searching,” Grace said. “But it’s clear that Louise Pickler is not the person we’re looking for.”
“I know that,” Chelsea said quietly. “This is Grace Santos, the detective we’ve been working with.”
The woman rose and leaned across the table to shake Grace’s hand. “Melanie Okano. I’m the Peanut’s sister.”
“Mommy, she’s not a peanut,” said the little girl kneeling on a chair at the table and licking butter from a bagel.
“That’s what we called her when she was your age,” Melanie explained.
“And our sitter, Eleni,” Chelsea said, studying the girl with a question in her eyes.
“I just wanted to come by and say I was sorry about everything.” Eleni rolled the tissues into a ball. “I can’t stop thinking about Annabelle.”
Chelsea nodded.
“Have a seat, ladies.” Melanie got up and pointed to chairs. “You want some bagels? And there’s fruit salad.” She put a large glass bowl of colorful pineapple chunks and raspberries on the table. “Emma brought a nice brunch for everyone, but we wouldn’t let her cook the eggs since there’s no running water yet. Too much to clean up.”
“That looks delicious.” Grace spooned some fruit into a cup, knowing that it was more gracious to share in something than to refuse.
Eleni perched on the edge of a chair and took half a bagel from the platter.
“There’s coffee and tea and juice,” Melanie offered.
“And butter,” said the little girl at the table.
Grace had coffee and Eleni had juice. Emma entertained the two children in the living room while Melanie kept the conversation going in the kitchen. She managed to mix just the right amount of questions and commentary, humor and respect. There was something very likable about Melanie Okano, who teased the three children not to let on to their older sister that Mom had sneaked them off for a visit to Aunt Chelsea.
“Nora is going to be livid when she hears about this,” Melanie explained. “But you can’t just pull a seven-year-old out of school these days.”
The doorbell rang and the children raced to the front door.
The conversation in the kitchen stopped as Emma spoke with the elderly man with thick glasses and a craggy face.
“Chelsea? It’s for you,” Emma said. “A neighbor.” She had the man step inside.
Curious, Grace moved into the living room to listen in.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” the man said, scanning the children’s faces and the women in the kitchen. He patted one of the children’s heads. “You don’t know me, but I’m your neighbor over that way, catty-corner across the street. The house with the screened-in porch—that’s me. Anyway, the name’s Joseph Kellog.”
“Please come in, Mr. Kellog,” Melanie insisted, ushering him into the living room. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“That’d be nice, but I won’t trouble you long.”
He sat down and started telling Chelsea how concerned he was for Annabelle. “I’ve lived here forty years and never, never have I heard of something so terrible happening in this neighborhood.”
No sooner had Mr. Kellog begun telling his tale of how he and his wife, may she rest in peace, had found their house here than the doorbell rang again, and a woman with long dark hair was invited in with her two toddler children. She wore a puffy ski parka with a colorful woven tote bag slung over one shoulder, which she was rooting around in.
“Is Chelsea here?”
Grace pointed her toward Chelsea, and she stepped over the toddler with the dinosaur to hand her a plastic container. “I brought you some black bean soup. I hope you like it.”
“Thank you.” Chelsea blinked and handed the soup off to Emma. “You live in the neighborhood. I know your face.”
“I live in the next block that way, and I just wanted to bring you the soup. The little ones, their stroller is out front, but I didn’t dare leave them in it after what happened.” The woman squeezed Chelsea’s wrist. “I’m so sorry! I just had to offer my help to you. Any help at all. You probably don’t even know me. My name is Raquel.”
Raquel Jarvis? Grace wondered. The woman with the two children who legally belonged with their father in Brazil?
“I’ve seen you at the park,” Chelsea said. “I took Annabelle there a few times, but she’s not old enough to play yet.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen you there. I wasn’t sure where you lived, but when I saw the news vans parked out front, I thought this was a good guess.”
“You have older children, too, right?” Chelsea asked.
“Two in school.” Raquel nodded. “Five altogether.” She leaned down to mediate between one of her children and Melanie’s youngest. “Look at his lizard, Stephen. It’s so scary.”
“Thanks for coming,” Chelsea said. She introduced Raquel to everyone else there. “I have to run upstairs. Mel thought it would be a good idea to set out all the photos we have of Annabelle.” Just as she started up the first step, the doorbell rang again.
Grace was beginning to feel as if she were watching a fast-moving drama. The children in the group saved the atmosphere from sinking to the morose level of a wake, but every connection between people here seemed to be underlined by the knowledge that Annabelle was still missing, the feeling that there was something to be done elsewhere.
Through the window of the storm door she saw yet another woman, this one Grace’s age with pale blond hair. She had no coat, but wore a colorful shirt with teddy bears on it—pediatric scrubs—along with a navy beret.
Chelsea pushed the door open. “Helen . . . come in.”
“I can’t stay,” the woman said. “I just brought you these.” She reached into a canvas sack and pulled out a clear plastic bag of apples. “A healthy snack.”
“Thank you. That was so nice.” She started to place the apples on an end table. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to run upstairs,” Chelsea said. She seemed to notice Grace standing beside her and introduced her to Helen Rosekind. “Our baby nurse.”
As Chelsea excused herself and headed upstairs, Grace stepped in the path of Helen Rosekind.
“My partner and I have been trying to track you down.” When the woman’s brows rose, she added, “Not for anything bad. You have a pristine record.”
“My husband and I lead very quiet lives,” Helen said.
“It’s part of our investigation. Would you mind answering a few questions?”
“I don’t mind, but I’m pressed for time right now. I took an early lunch to come here, and I can’t be away from work for long.”
“When would be a good time?” Grace took out her cell phone. “And I don’t think I have a contact number for you that works.”
Embracing the bag of apples, Helen Rosekind gave her a phone number, then glanced over the living room. “Quite a crowd. I’m just going to drop these in the kitchen and I’ll head off.”
“We’ll be in touch later today,” Grace said as she saw Chris outside, taking the front steps two at a time.
The Canine Unit was finished, and they wanted everyone to assemble to discuss their findings.
“What’s going on here?” Chris asked.
“Family and neighbors, showing their support.” Grace leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Don’t be obvious, but see the woman in the kitchen with the beret? That’s Helen Rosekind.”
He squinted. “The baby nurse?”
“I tried to talk with her, but she’s in a hurry.”
He nodded. “We’ll try to catch her on the rebound.”
Louise Pickler’s house was cleared; there were no traces of Annabelle Green inside, no scent of cadavers. Although it was good to rule out the neighbor, Grace was beginning to get that antsy feeling that things were not falling into place. She wished there was a
way to step up their investigation.
As they were wrapping up the search, a black sedan pulled up and parked in front of one of the police cruisers.
A government car, Grace could tell.
Two men in suits headed up the walk to Chelsea and Leo’s house.
Grace split off from Pickler’s house to intercept them.
“Hey, how’s it going?” she asked casually.
“We’re with the FBI. Are you on the Annabelle Green case?”
“I’m the lead detective,” she said, introducing herself. She had expected to hear from the FBI today. They didn’t always get involved with kidnappings, but when the missing person was a child of “tender years,” twelve or under, they were known to assist smaller police departments.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children were helpful in child abductions for the records they had been keeping for more than twenty-five years. For a detective like Grace, those cases provided patterns and profiles that were valuable in solving a case.
“Gracie? Is that you?” One of the men smiled—a broad, warm smile.
She took in his hooded blue eyes, square jaw, and dimples. Recognition clicked. “Flannigan. I heard that you got out of NYPD fast, but I didn’t know where you landed.”
“And you . . . a detective in Missing Persons.” Jimmy turned to the other agent. “Grace and I were in the police academy together. Same class in NYPD.”
The other agent smiled. “Small world. I’m Pete Ricci . . . and you know Jimmy. We’ve been following the case the last twenty-four hours. What do you think you have here?”
“It’s looking like a home invasion and an abduction. The mother slept through it. There’s a possibility that she was drugged that night. We’ve got a food sample at the lab for analysis. The dogs led us a few doors down, so it’s looking like someone took the baby to a car that was parked there.”
Jimmy nodded toward the house next door. “What’s going on there?”
“The neighbor has a history of child abuse.” She told them how the bits of evidence had led to the search of Louise Pickler’s home and yard.
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