Grace and Chris identified themselves and showed the man their IDs. “Sorry to bother you, sir,” Grace said, “but we’re looking for Helen Rosekind.”
He squinted. “Who?”
When she repeated the name, he shook his head. “I dunno. It could be the upstairs tenants.”
Chris pointed toward the upper story. “They’re named Rosekind?”
The man scratched his jaw. “I dunno. Kiki, what’s the name of the people upstairs? Rosekind?”
“That’s it,” a woman’s voice called out from the open door of the apartment. “It’s rose-something.”
The woman’s voice was low, with a thick New York accent—not Helen Rosekind’s voice.
“Hello in there? Do you mind?” Grace asked the man as she stepped into the vestibule.
A young African American woman emerged from the apartment, a tiny baby in her arms. The woman’s short, thick hair was scraped back with a band, accenting her high cheekbones and amber eyes. The baby shared her warm brown complexion and wide nose.
“What a cutie,” Grace said. “Sorry if we woke the baby.”
Disappointment stabbed at Grace as she and Chris made small talk with the couple, Kiki and Alex Trevino, obviously the owners of the baby paraphernalia that belonged to the boxes outside. The Trevinos didn’t know the upstairs tenants well; the woman and her husband had just moved in three months ago. He was a truck driver, gone for long periods of time.
“Do you know if she’s a baby nurse?” Grace asked.
“We really don’t see her much,” the woman said. “She hardly ever leaves the apartment, and he’s never home. Always doing a truck run. But I did see her wearing scrubs once or twice. I thought it was sort of like her pajamas, but she went off in her car that way.”
“Is she home now?”
“I think so,” Kiki said. “I heard the television.”
Grace looked up the long flight of stairs. “You don’t mind if we go up and knock upstairs?”
Alex shrugged. “You’re the cops, right? You got E-ZPass.”
No one answered the door of the upstairs apartment.
Grace knocked again, identifying herself as a police officer. She and Chris were both leaning against the wall, as if they would park here until they had a better idea, when the chain lock on the door rattled.
Grace blinked as the apartment door opened and Helen Rosekind stood there in a bathrobe.
“Mrs. Rosekind . . . or is that really your name?” Grace said carefully, studying the woman’s face for signs of nervousness. She seemed calm, maybe a little annoyed.
“You are one hard woman to find,” Chris said. “Do you mind if we come in for a few minutes?”
“Not now. My husband is sleeping.”
“And he works shifts,” Chris said. “A truck driver, right?”
“Yes. You’ve done your research.”
“You don’t make it easy,” Chris said.
“I’m a private person,” she said, stepping forward and pulling the door nearly closed behind her. “Is that a crime?”
Grace got a chance to see that the dining room was set up like an office, with a computer desk, a headset attached to the computer, and a file cabinet. Probably Helen’s home office for her nine-to-five consulting job. There were boxes stacked by one wall, and the television was on, loud enough to be heard from the hallway.
“No crime in that,” Grace said. “But identity theft? And practicing without a license? That can get you in hot water.”
“What are you talking about? I’m Helen Rosekind.”
“We checked at your agency. The license they have on file for you belonged to a woman in her sixties who is currently dead. She’s the real Helen Rosekind. So who are you?”
“Don’t tell me that.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know where they got that information, but I am not in my sixties, and I’m not dead.”
“We can see that. But you have no license on record. So you’ve been practicing without a license.”
“Of course I’m licensed, just not in the state of New York,” she said. “Rosekind is my husband’s name. That agency must have made a mistake, and it wouldn’t be the first time. My nursing license is from Arizona.”
“Arizona? So what brings you here?” Chris asked.
The woman held up a hand, as if she had no patience for small talk. “I’m not licensed as a nurse here, but infant care is the same from one state to the other. I make sure to tell all my clients, but so far no one has cared as long as I’m on time and capable of caring for their baby. Sometimes, young couples are so desperate to get out and so overwhelmed with child care, they don’t process details like that.”
“So if we do a search in the Arizona bureau of records, we’ll find you there?”
“Under my maiden name. Sometimes I still use my maiden name. Hold on one second.” She slipped back into the apartment, closing the door behind her. A moment later she reappeared with an Arizona driver’s license issued to Helen Janet Walker.
“How long have you lived in the state of New York, Ms. Walker?” Grace asked.
Helen tightened the belt of her robe. “Three years.”
“And you didn’t get your driver’s license switched over?”
“Why should I pay a fee for that? It’s still valid.”
Chris scratched his head. “You know you’re not supposed to use two names. That’s establishing an alias. And I still can’t believe the employment agency let you go on the record as Helen Rosekind. That’s irresponsible of both of you.”
Helen seemed offended. “The agency will have to answer for itself. Besides, that work is just a part-time thing, and I’m an excellent nurse. I would never compromise patient care.”
Grace suspected that, at the very least, the woman was taking the freelance money on the side, not declaring it in her taxes. But she would be sure to check out Helen J. Walker with the Arizona Board of Nursing and the Arizona DMV.
“How about your nine-to-five job?” Chris asked. “Do they fudge the records, too?”
“First of all, I’m an insurance consultant and I don’t need nursing certification for that job. And really, is this what you do? Is it standard practice for you to come to my door at eight thirty at night and interrogate me about my employment records?”
“You know why we’re here.” Grace’s gaze locked on the woman’s cold gray eyes. “We’re trying to find Annabelle Green, Helen. We think you can help us.”
Green folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t know where Chelsea Maynard’s baby is, but she’s probably a lot better off away from that young lady. She’s not mentally competent.”
“That’s not for us to decide,” Grace said. “Bottom line? You’ve broken the law, plain and simple. Now I’d be willing to look the other way if you help us find this baby.”
Helen squinted at Grace as if she were insane. “I can’t help you,” she said sternly. “And don’t bother me again tonight. Anything else can wait until the morning.”
With that, she opened the door and disappeared inside.
As the latch clicked shut, Grace wanted to argue that this could not wait, but she knew it would gain her no ground.
Helen J. Walker was cold as the ice on the corners of her doorstep.
Chapter 40
Chelsea already had her coat on when she handed Leo the car keys. “Get me out of here.” There was a gray cast to her eyes, and even though her hair was pulled back harshly, the soft lines of her jaw were childlike and vulnerable.
He would have done anything to end her pain.
He took the keys and pulled his leather jacket from the hook. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t care, as long as it’s out of here. I can’t spend another night waiting for her. I need to search or spy on the neighbors or something that feels productive.”
He got that. Despite their quiet dinner, the gap between them and Annie seemed to be growing wider. Hope and panic were twisting into a tight braid of d
esperation. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They started in the neighborhood, their headlights scanning only the black asphalt as they cruised slowly, block by block. Chelsea stared out intently, her fingernails scratching at her cuticles as she searched for God knew what. A sign that something was amiss? An older woman pushing a stroller in the cold?
Leo knew the headlights trailing behind them were reporters. He had seen them looking out from the front seat of a van as he and Chelsea went to their car in the driveway. Two others had scurried from the sidewalk to a car, watching to see what Chelsea and Leo were doing.
When they had circled around eight blocks or so and returned to Maple Lane, Leo thought they might return home, but she grabbed his arm before they got to their house.
“Stop here. I’ve got to talk to these people—the Wilkinsons. The police think the person who stole Annie parked here.”
“But the police have already talked with them.”
“I know, but I haven’t.”
She was out of the car before Leo could even put it into park. He jogged up the sidewalk behind her, a little surprised that she had the nerve to ring a stranger’s bell at night.
“Chels, we don’t even know these people. They might not open their doors after dark.”
“But they have to talk to us. We’re their neighbors.”
A light went on in the front room and the curtain shifted.
“Hello?” Chelsea called. “It’s Chelsea Maynard and Leo Green. Your neighbors. Our baby Annabelle is missing.”
The door opened. Light spilled out when a woman with short-cropped white hair pushed open the storm door. “What’s going on?” she asked, her fingers worrying a string of pearls at her neck.
“We need to talk to you,” Chelsea said. “The last place our baby was seen was in front of your house.”
“That’s why you were shouting?” Mrs. Wilkinson squinted, assessing Chelsea. “Well, I can’t say that I blame you. Come in. Get out of that terrible cold.”
In minutes, the Wilkinsons seemed like family—the good kind that shared comfort and concerns and tips on how to bet in the Giants’ Sunday game. Tina Wilkinson made tea, and her husband, James, turned off the television in the little side den and came over to join them. They sat in the Wilkinsons’ formal living area, a room so pristine Leo could see the tracks of the vacuum on the carpet, and talked about the neighborhood, the Wilkinsons’ children, who were all grown with children of their own, and the terrible thing that had happened to Annie-bananee.
“The night she disappeared,” Chelsea said, her voice ragged with emotion, “do you remember hearing anyone? Or maybe you noticed a car parked in front of your house.”
“It’s not something we would notice, dear,” Tina said. “We have one car and we park it in the garage. I never was one for those street wars over who owned parking spots.”
“I wish we could help you,” James said, his hand quivering as he reached for his teacup. “It’s a terrible thing, this kidnapping. I never dreamed something like that would happen in our neighborhood.”
Leo nodded in agreement. He had never imagined something this terrible could happen to him—not in his worst nightmares.
When they left the Wilkinsons’, Leo suggested that they leave the car and walk home, but she tipped her head up to the starry sky and said no.
“We have another stop to make,” she said, opening the passenger-side door. “I need to drop in on Emma and Jake.”
He glanced at the clock on the dash. “This late? Why don’t you just call her back?” Chelsea had been avoiding both her sisters’ calls, feeling awkward and sick about the fact that her sisters were suspects as far as the police were concerned.
“I can’t do this over the phone,” Chelsea said. “Please? It won’t take long.”
“No problem.” As they buckled their seat belts, he thought what a ruse that expression was. You say “No problem” when there are dozens of problems. Someone removes the floor from under you, and you fall through darkness for hours, shitting yourself over the moment when you’ll smash and splatter on the ground.
“Sorry,” they say.
And your only answer is, “No problem.”
Chapter 41
“You are kidding me.” Emma’s eyes opened wide with wonder and horror. “Someone stole your milk?” She tucked her legs under her as she settled into a sleek upholstered chair. “Today? While everyone was there?”
“Sometime this afternoon,” Chelsea said, watching her sister carefully. She believed in Emma’s innocence. She would vouch for Melanie, too. But right now she needed to move rationally, without prejudice. She figured she could help eliminate her sisters from the list, narrowing things down for the detectives.
“Did you tell the police?” Jake asked.
“As soon as Chelsea figured it out. They wanted a list of everyone who was in the house this afternoon.”
“Someone must have cleared out the fridge when no one was looking,” Chelsea said, watching her sister. Something about Emma had changed; her face was softer, her eyes were round as quarters, and she seemed relaxed. It was as if she had finally grown comfortable in her own skin.
“Did you see anyone rooting around in there?” Chelsea asked.
Emma shook her head. “I didn’t notice, but I was in the living room most of the time. I spent hours on the floor with Sam and Lucy and Max.”
“Who went into the kitchen?” Leo asked.
“Everyone was in the kitchen.” Emma hugged a cheetah-print pillow to her chest. “We’d put out bagels and fruit salad, and people were getting coffee and tea.”
“And it’s not like you could hide the bottles in your pocket. How do you walk out with eight bottles of milk?”
“Stash them in a bag,” Jake said. “Did anyone have a backpack?”
Chelsea nodded. “Eleni carries one, but so does every teenager in New York.”
“That nurse had a big tote bag,” Emma said. “I remember how she whipped out that fruit for you.”
“Helen Rosekind and her fruit,” Chelsea said. “Nothing says you’re fat like a gift of apples.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Emma said. “I brought fruit salad.”
In two big grocery bags, Chelsea thought. Had everyone come with some sort of baggage that could have been used to sneak the bottles out? Raquel Jarvis had that colorful woven satchel she’d used to carry the black bean soup. Melanie’s kids had toy bags and mini-suitcases. Mr. Kellog was just about the only one who had come in empty-handed.
As discussion of that afternoon’s visitors went on, Chelsea felt her resolve to confront her sister fading. What had seemed logical an hour ago now seemed petty in the warm light of Emma and Jake’s living room. The idea of Emma and Jake taking Annabelle to Chicago and passing her off as their kid—that was plain lunacy. For one thing, Jake was a lawyer. He wouldn’t jeopardize his career by being an accomplice to kidnapping.
There was also the logistical issue of keeping Annabelle from the rest of the family. It would be impossible.
But mostly, Emma was her sister, and despite all the hair pulling, taunting, and infuriating arguments in their past, there was the tough, steady bond of family between them.
When their conversation went to Jake’s prospective job in Chicago, she was reminded that Emma and Jake had an early flight in the morning. She slipped away and ventured down the hall to the bathroom. After this, she and Leo would go home. It would be inconsiderate to keep Emma up after the scary episode she’d had earlier this week; she needed her sleep.
The floors had recently been redone in a warm, gleaming teak, and as Chelsea made her way down the hall, she felt that familiar hook of envy. With Jake’s salary and bonuses from the firm, Emma could have just about anything she wanted. No waiting to remodel the house. No qualms about asking for diamond earrings for Christmas.
Inside the powder room, the granite counter gleamed. The flecks of garnet in its travertine veins matched the oil-rubbed
bronze fixtures. Chelsea sighed as she lathered up her hands. Maybe she was just a tad jealous of Emma’s nice things.
As she stepped out of the powder room, a soft light coming from the guest room caught her eye. The light cast an odd shadow on the shiny wood floor—the parallel lines of bars.
A baby’s crib.
A sick curiosity pounded in her chest as her socks whispered along the hall floor.
She paused in the doorway, her blood gone to ice, her heart trembling in her chest.
The dark walnut crib was lit from behind by a soft night-light, which cast the patterned shadows on the floor.
What was Emma doing with a crib so soon? She had told Chelsea that she was superstitious about those things; since the last miscarriage, she had refused to buy any baby products until her last six weeks of pregnancy.
There was something inside the crib—a small bundle of cloth the size of a baby.
A bundled-up infant.
My baby.
Oh, Emma, Emma, how could you keep her from me?
Holding her breath, Chelsea rushed forward and reached over the high wooden rail. Before she even touched the cloth, she knew it wasn’t a living thing. The mound of cloth was only a baby blanket, folded and rolled.
Still, she snatched it up and unfurled it and pressed it to her face. It smelled of a synthetic fiber . . . not even laundered yet. There wasn’t a hint of Annabelle’s buttery skin. Not even the sweet scent of baby detergent.
The dim quiet of the room closed around her.
Empty. Just like Annie’s crib.
The air leaked out of her lungs in a sad whimper as she began to take in the rest of the room. The bed had been removed. The taupe paint had been covered with a buttery shade of yellow. The upholstered chair was gone from the corner, and in its place stood a white chest of drawers, still covered in hazy plastic wrap.
Baby furniture.
Emma had started her nursery.
And I’m a fool to even be here.
How could she suspect her own sister, a person she’d slept beside for years, the girl who’d shown her how to pluck her eyebrows and told her the real deal about getting your period?
All She Ever Wanted Page 26
