The Stolen Ones

by Richard Montanari

  Jessica glanced at the small plastic purse, which was now in the little girl’s lap. It was oval in shape, a faux-alligator material. The tiny charm hanging off the zipper appeared to be a heart.

  ‘Is it okay if I look in your purse?’ Jessica asked.

  At the word purse the girl looked up, turned her head, made eye contact with Byrne. Jessica suddenly understood. The girl wanted to talk to him. This was the third or fourth time she’d glanced over.

  Jessica stood up, took a few steps back. Byrne walked forward, knelt down, put his hands on the bench, on either side of the girl. After a few long moments the little girl looked up, directly into Byrne’s eyes. When she did this, Byrne smiled.

  Although Jessica would think about this moment many times over the next few weeks – and would not be comfortable swearing to it in a court of law – she thought she saw the little girl blush.

  ‘This is a very pretty purse,’ Byrne said.

  Nothing. The girl shifted on the bench. She crossed her feet.

  ‘My daughter had a purse just like this when she was your age.’

  The girl lifted a forefinger, dropped it. It was a reaction to Byrne’s conversation, his nearness. This was good.

  ‘Now, let’s see. What color is this?’ Byrne asked, angling the purse into the cone of yellow light thrown from the streetlamp. ‘Is this red?’

  The girl was too sharp for such a trick, it seemed. She remained silent.

  While Byrne plied his Irish charm on the little girl, Jessica walked back to the car, got on her phone, and contacted the commander of the PPD communications unit. She soon learned that no one had called in a missing child in the past few hours – or all day, in fact. Rare for Philadelphia. Jessica then called her own supervisor and put in a request to broaden the request to the five-county area, which included Bucks, Chester, Montgomery and Delaware counties. It didn’t make a lot of sense that this child might have gotten here in the middle of the night from another county, but it wouldn’t be the craziest thing she’d ever encountered in her time on the force. Not even close.

  As she waited on the phone, Jessica glanced over at Byrne and the little girl. They were now sitting next to each other, hands folded in their laps, staring straight ahead, as if waiting for a bus. Jessica noticed that the girl had moved a few inches closer to the big man next to her.

  Jessica’s supervisor soon came back on the line and told her that the alert had gone out.

  ‘Okay, Sarge,’ Jessica said. ‘Thanks.’

  She clicked off, walked back over to the bench, sat down next to the girl.

  ‘Is it okay if Jessica looks inside your purse?’ Byrne asked the girl.

  Even though the girl appeared to be warming to Kevin Byrne, Byrne probably figured that certain rules still apply – this being the one about girls and purses. The girl didn’t react at all, so Jessica leaned in and gently removed the purse from her lap.

  ‘Kevin is right,’ Jessica said. ‘This is very pretty. It’s a lot prettier than my purse.’

  She carefully unzipped the handbag. There was only one thing inside, a half sandwich of some sort, sealed in a plastic sandwich bag. There was nothing else – no pictures, no ID card in case the girl ever got lost. Holding the sandwich bag by the edges – if for no other reason than it was a long ingrained habit – Jessica put it back in the purse, zipped it shut.

  ‘We’re going to take you to look for your house now,’ Byrne said. It appeared that, for the moment, he had decided not to phrase things like a question. It was an old trick with children. If you made things a statement, it was easier to get them to agree. Even if the response was silence.

  Both Jessica and Byrne stood up. A few seconds later the little girl slid off the bench. They all walked over to the idling car. Byrne opened the rear passenger door. The little girl put the shoulder strap of her purse over her shoulder, climbed in. Byrne gently clicked the harness around the little girl, closed the door, then slipped into the front passenger seat. They probably should have called the Special Victims Unit, requesting a child’s car seat, but it was late.

  ‘Jess,’ Byrne said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Jessica looked at her partner. ‘What is it?’

  Byrne chucked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘She can’t see.’

  Jessica angled the rearview mirror. It was true. The little girl couldn’t see out of the car, so she would not be able to point out her house.

  Byrne unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, walked to the rear of the car. A few seconds later he got back in, and pulled the little girl onto his lap. Even though it broke a handful of traffic laws in the city of Philadelphia – probably the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, as well – Byrne did his best to strap them both in with his shoulder harness.

  ‘Everybody ready?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Ready,’ Byrne said.

  As expected, the smallest member of their entourage said not a word.

  Twenty minutes later, having driven slowly up and down every street in a four-block radius, they returned to the spot where they had first encountered the girl.

  How far would a girl this age roam? Jessica wondered. Two blocks? Three? Jessica recalled when her own daughter Sophie had been a toddler. Sophie had wandered from their tiny front yard in Lexington Park and made it nearly to the corner before Jessica broke all land speed records to get there and retrieve her. Jessica knew that Sophie would never cross a street at that age, but there was still plenty of danger to be found on sidewalks and driveways.

  This little girl had not only crossed the street, she was standing in the middle of an intersection. How long had she been there? Had people seen her and driven on? Jessica didn’t want to think about that right now.

  Jessica looked at the girl. She was resting her head on Byrne’s shoulder, lost in the twilight before sleep. Her eyes were open, but Jessica could tell she was not far from drifting off.

  Jessica glanced at Byrne. It was a silent communiqué that said they had pretty much run out of options. If the little girl wasn’t going to offer any information – and it appeared now that she would not – there wasn’t much they could do at this hour.

  Five minutes later they headed to Children’s Hospital.

  37

  Jessica’s first cousin Angela was a registered nurse, working nights at Children’s Hospital. On the way into the city Jessica had called Angela, telling her about the little girl they had found. Angela had agreed to meet them at the emergency room intake.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Angela said, taking off her latex gloves and popping them into a waste receptacle. ‘No bruises, no trauma. Externally, anyway.’

  They stood in the ER waiting room, all but empty at this hour.

  The question had to be asked, as little as Jessica wanted to ask it. ‘No sexual assault?’

  ‘No,’ Angela said. ‘Nothing like that. Thank God.’

  ‘How old would you say she is?’ Byrne asked. ‘Two?’

  Angela looked through the glass, back. The little girl was sitting on the examining table, her hands folded piously in her lap.

  ‘A little older,’ Angela said. ‘Two and a half. Give or take.’

  ‘And she didn’t say anything?’ Jessica asked.

  Angela shook her head. ‘Not a word.’

  For a moment Jessica considered that the girl might not speak English, but even if that were the case she would have made a sound of some sort. Wouldn’t she? Children her age were rarely quiet for long.

  ‘So, she responded to you?’ Jessica asked. ‘I mean, she seemed to understand what you were saying?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I asked her to open her mouth and say ah and she did. I asked her to sit back a little bit on the table and she scooted. Very responsive. Right now I’d have to say she’s my patient of the day. Hands down the most adorable.’

  It was true. Even in the unforgiving glare of the fluorescent lights she looked like a little angel.

  ‘Do you think
she —’

  ‘But I will say this,’ Angela said, interrupting Jessica. ‘Every time I asked her to do something she looked out here first.’

  ‘Out here?’ Jessica asked. ‘At us?’

  ‘Not at both of you. Just Kevin,’ Angela said. She gave Byrne a playful punch on the shoulder. Ever since Angela had met Kevin Byrne she’d had a major crush on him. ‘Looks like you have a little buddy.’

  Jessica glanced back in the examining room. Angela was right. The little girl was sitting on the paper-covered examining table, staring at Byrne with her big blue eyes.

  ‘She’ll be okay in there for a few minutes?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Angela said.

  Jessica and Byrne walked down the hallway, to the vending area.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Byrne asked.

  Jessica considered their options. She checked her watch. It was 4.10 in the morning. If it had been much earlier – as in yesterday – and they were off the clock, they might have driven back to the area and done a door-to-door. There was no way they could do that now. In just a few hours this would be a job for the divisional detectives in the Northeast. It certainly wasn’t a case for Homicide.

  On the record, they’d found a missing child – a child no one appeared to know or care was missing – and they’d followed procedure. More or less. The little girl seemed to be fine. They’d taken her to a hospital, had her checked out.

  No dead body, no homicide. There was only one thing they could do.

  They would have to take the little girl to DHS, the Department of Human Services.

  On the way to DHS, they stopped at an all night carryout. Jessica pulled the car to the curb, put it in park.

  ‘Want something?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘I’m good,’ she said.

  Byrne unsnapped his seatbelt, lifted the little girl effortlessly from his knee, placed her gently on the seat. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  While Byrne went into the store the little girl watched him. Jessica wanted desperately to connect with the girl, but she remained silent. Part of it was due to her fatigue; the rest came from her belief that anything she said right now might serve to weaken the bond that her partner had begun to build with the girl.

  Five minutes later Byrne came out with a big bag. He got in the car, reached in the bag, handed Jessica a diet decaf Snapple. He knew her too well. ‘I’m good’ meant: Get me something that doesn’t trash my diet or circadian rhythms any more than they already are.

  In the intake room at DHS, Jessica watched as Byrne walked the little girl over to the DHS worker. With the appropriate forms signed, it was time to leave. Before turning to the door, Byrne reached into the shopping bag and removed the small plush rabbit he’d bought at the bodega at some ridiculous markup.

  At first the girl did not respond, but after a few moments she took the toy. Byrne then took out his camera, took a few close-ups of the girl. This would be sent to the detectives at the Special Victims Unit. If that turned up nothing, the picture would be sent to all the TV stations.

  Byrne put his camera away, stood up. Even though Jessica had worked with Byrne for years, she often forgot how big he really was. Jessica was five-eight in stocking feet, but presented herself taller, especially on the job.

  Now, looking at her partner, he looked so much bigger than the little girl. Like a giant. Byrne kissed a forefinger, touched the girl on top of her head, turned and walked out to the parking lot.

  The little girl, now hand in hand with the DHS worker, didn’t take her eyes off him. Outside, Byrne stood next to Jessica. They both waved. Instead of waving back, the little girl lifted a hand to her face, extended a tiny forefinger, and placed it to her lips.

  Ten minutes later, in the parking lot at the Roundhouse, each by their own car, they stood, each to their own thoughts. The discovery of the little girl had interrupted their train of investigative thought regarding the horrific scene they had encountered in the park. They would be back to that soon enough.

  The sky was still black. Jessica was thankful for that. She hated going to sleep at dawn.

  Jessica broke the silence. ‘What is the maximum number of hours a person can be awake and still function?’

  ‘Human or cop?’

  ‘Cop.’

  ‘Forty-eight.’

  ‘Damn,’ Jessica said. She wasn’t even close. She opened her car door, hesitated. ‘You and I both know we’re going to follow up on this,’ she said, pointing in the general direction of the Department of Human Services at 15th and Arch.

  ‘Yeah,’ Byrne said.

  ‘So, when we talk about her tomorrow, we have to call her something, right?’

  Byrne nodded.

  ‘I mean, something other than “The Little Girl We Found in the Middle of the Street”.’

  ‘True.’

  Jessica continued, as if this were an opening statement. It reminded her that she had homework. At her age. ‘And I refuse to call her Jane Doe.’

  Byrne opened the door to his car, hesitated for a moment. He reached into the shopping bag, pulled out the little pink purse.

  Jessica smiled. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good look for you.’

  ‘You haven’t seen my new Easter outfit yet.’

  ‘So, how did you get her to give it up?’

  ‘I made her a swap for the stuffed bunny,’ Byrne said. ‘She was a pushover.’

  ‘Sweet-talker.’

  ‘It’s a gift.’

  ‘So you saw that, right? When we left? She put a finger to her lips like she was telling us to be quiet.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘I saw it.’

  ‘Any idea what that was all about?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  Jessica took a deep breath of cold night air, trying to will herself awake. It didn’t help. She took out her keys. ‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘You’re not going straight home, are you? You’re going to make a stop at Eighth and Poplar.’

  Byrne laughed. ‘I thought I’d swing by the lab and drop this off. It’s on the way.’

  It was technically true. Jessica slipped into her car.

  ‘What was the name of the street where we found the little girl?’ Byrne asked.

  Jessica thought about it. She tried to visualize the encounter. Then she remembered. She’d taken a picture of the girl standing in the intersection. It was an old habit – at least as old as camera cell phones on the job – and a few years earlier she had gotten into the habit of taking establishing shots at crime scenes. She fished the phone out of her jeans pocket, navigated to the photo folder. She soon found the picture she was looking for, a photograph of the girl standing in the middle of the street, looking tiny, and precious, and lost. Jessica’s heart flickered at the sight.

  ‘Got it.’ She tapped the screen, enlarging the photo, and swiped to the top. ‘The intersection was Abbot Road and Violet Drive.’

  Byrne slid into his car, thought for a moment, turned and said: ‘Let’s call her Violet.’

  38

  As she approached the row house on Callowhill, Rachel noticed from across the street that her sign – one she had put up with great care just a few days earlier – had been defaced with some unrecognizable gang graffiti.

  Assholes, she thought.

  She opened her trunk, took out her drill, turned the Phillips head bit into the chuck. She hit the button. Of course, the battery was low. A few minutes later, new battery in place, she took down the Perry–Hayes sign with a small picture of Rachel Gray in the corner (Denise called it actual size, ha ha), and put up the new one. It was quick enough work, but one she had done too often in recent days.

  By the time she put the old sign in the trunk of her car, she saw the woman heading up the street.

  ‘Hi, Gloria,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Hi,’ the woman replied.

  Because Rachel had a background in women’s fashion, she was very attuned to a potential buyer’s wardrobe. Most of the time she could pinpoint eve
ry aspect of an outfit: designer, price point, shoes, bag, accessories, jewelry. Sometimes she even played a game with it. When a woman who was particularly well turned out had her back to Rachel, she would close her eyes and sniff. If she detected a fragrance, she would compliment the woman on it, asking the label. Nine times out of ten she was right.

  With Gloria, sadly, it was another game Rachel played, one for which she rebuked herself every time. Gloria Vincenzi had two or three outfits that she mixed and matched. Rachel had noticed the seams coming apart on the woman’s jacket a few months earlier, and now noticed that the seam had begun to separate even further. It broke her heart.

  ‘When Frank and I were first married we lived in a house not much smaller than this. It was over on Fitzwater Street. Do you know Fitzwater?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rachel said. ‘I have a property on Fitzwater. Where was your house?’

  Right near the corner of Fitzwater and Fourth.

  ‘Right near the corner of Fitzwater and Fourth,’ the woman said.

  Next door to the dry cleaner’s.

  ‘Next door to the dry cleaner’s,’ Gloria added.

  Frank Vincenzi, Rachel thought.

  After Rachel had shown Gloria Vincenzi fifteen or so properties – houses with a more than three-hundred-thousand-dollar spread in asking prices, a range no home buyer in the history of realty ever spanned – Rachel did a little digging.

  The reason Rachel had never met Gloria’s husband Frank, a man about whom she knew a great deal, even down to his taste in instant mashed potatoes – Hungry Jack – was that there was no Frank Vincenzi. Frank Vincenzi passed away from pancreatic cancer in 2001.

  Gloria Vincenzi was still looking for their first little house.

  As Rachel locked the front door, Gloria said what she always said, and that was: ‘Well, I guess we’ll keep looking. I’ll call you.’

  Rachel did not know how much longer she would do this. But for now it was all right.