Johnny wanted to scream, Stop calling me Danny! That’s not my name!! Instead, he simply shrugged. The man kept looking at him, waiting for a different response.
“That’s enough light,” Johnny said.
The man was still staring, waiting.
“Thank you.”
The man smiled slightly, appearing pleased. “There’s no bathroom in here, as you may have noticed. Do you need to go again before you go to sleep?”
“No, thank you.”
“Can you make it through the night?”
“I don’t have accidents anymore.”
Another pleased smile. “Of course not. Such a good boy, Danny.”
Then he left. The clicking sounds from the door sounded like locks tumbling into place, confirming what Johnny had suspected.
Now Johnny was locked in the room all by himself, and he could use the dim light to try to figure out where he might be and why he was here.
He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The white wooden rails of the headboard of the bed pressed into his back. That’s how hard he was leaning away from the bedroom door, as if he might just disappear into the wall itself. He tugged at the front of his hair. It was so short. He shivered at the memory of the man standing so close to him, clipping away with those shiny scissors.
He hadn’t seen much of the rest of the house—just the kitchen during the haircut, and then the bathroom across the hall. But what he’d been able to take in as the man marched him from one spot to the next was almost as messy as the garage.
Not this room, though. This room was clean, he thought. No, it was more than “clean,” at least by his parents’ rules for stars on the chores chart. At home, a tidy room meant making his bed and picking up his toys and returning everything back to the drawers and shelves and cubes where it belonged.
This room was… empty. And lonely. It contained this bed he was sitting on and a dresser over by the window, and that was all.
He let go of his knees and allowed his feet to swing over the edge of the bed. As he stepped to the floor, he tried to make himself as light as possible. He made his way over to the sole piece of furniture other than the bed. The dresser was lightly stained wood, and the handles were all in different colors—red, yellow, blue, green. He couldn’t imagine the mean man who brought him here owning such a thing.
He tugged the top drawer ever so gently. It slid open easily. Inside were stacks of neatly folded T-shirts. He was afraid to touch them, but they looked like clothes for his size. A little boy. Him.
BAM!
Johnny flinched and automatically slid the dresser drawer shut at the sound of the loud noise coming from somewhere else in the house. Upstairs? Down the hall? He couldn’t tell. It was loud, though. So very, very loud. Something crashing to the ground.
He heard the man’s voice yell one of the bad words Mr. Norton who lived next door wasn’t supposed to say in front of Johnny and his sisters. The man’s voice sounded angry and ugly.
Johnny scurried back to the bed, climbed beneath the blankets, and pressed his eyes shut tightly. I didn’t do it. He never said the words out loud, but in his head, Johnny was screaming. Please don’t blame me. I’m here, trying to sleep, just like you told me to.
He lay in silence, praying that the man wouldn’t return to his room in such a furious mood. Minutes passed, and then Johnny heard what sounded like footsteps on the floorboards above him. He also heard the man’s voice again, but this time it was lower and calmer. Whatever had made that BAM sound was over. The moment had passed.
Johnny let himself wonder what his parents and Chloe and Emily were doing right now. Try to go to sleep, Mama and Daddy. Maybe they would all dream about each other and it would feel like they were really together.
Johnny thought maybe he had actually fallen asleep and was having a dream when he suddenly heard a new and different sound above him. A voice, but gentler. Higher pitched.
Mama?
No, he was still in this stupid house. He was fully awake, and the voice was real, and it did not sound at all like the man who had brought him here.
There’s another person upstairs, he thought. And it’s a lady.
Thursday, July 16
Day Two
Chapter 22
Laurie smiled as Alex tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and left a small kiss on her cheek. “Maybe we should get married right here on the beach while the sun rises, just like this,” she said.
It was the crack of dawn, only five-thirty in the morning, and they had the ocean view all to themselves. Timothy wouldn’t wake for another two hours, so Laurie and Alex had snuck off to the beach to enjoy a quiet moment together.
“I was the one who said I would marry you anytime and anyplace. Say the word and we’ll cancel the plans for Sunday.”
“We’re canceling them anyway, don’t you think?” She felt guilty for even thinking about their wedding while Johnny was missing, but at some point, they needed to notify the church and the guests and the restaurant and the florist and the band… and she was sure she was forgetting a few others. Even their small reception would take some work to erase.
“If we start making those phone calls, it’s going to crush Andrew and Marcy,” Alex said.
She remembered that first night after Greg was killed, lying in bed alone, realizing she would never sleep under the same roof with him again. If they called off the wedding now, it would be an admission that they didn’t believe Johnny would be coming back by Sunday, which might mean he was never coming home at all.
“You’re right. We’ve got to keep faith. With luck he’ll be found by the time Marcy and Andrew even wake up.”
“The rest of the world does continue to move, though,” he said. “Anthony texted me at four in the morning. I swear, the man works twenty-four hours a day. He says the contractor installed the master bathroom backsplash in the kitchen, and the kitchen backsplash in the bathroom. He says he thinks it works, but will tell the contractor to do it all over again if that’s what we want.”
Anthony was the interior designer overseeing the remodeling work on the Upper East Side apartment they had purchased two months earlier. In theory, it was in mint condition, “turn-key ready,” as the Realtors liked to say. But after Laurie was followed there and threatened by a gun-wielding assailant when she first viewed the property, they had joked that a few aesthetic changes might be justified to purge the apartment of any evil spirits.
“If Anthony says it’s fine, I’m sure it’s beyond beautiful. He’s a perfectionist.”
Anthony had come to them by way of an enthusiastic recommendation from Ramon, who had been friends with Anthony’s parents in the Philippines before they all came to the United States thirty years ago. Ramon had known Anthony since he was a baby, but these days, Anthony Abad San Juan was one of the most sought-after designers in the New York City area.
“Ramon hinted that Kara was a little uneasy about whether she should stay given how drastically the situation has changed,” Alex said. “She, Ashley, and that lifeguard are all completely distraught. They feel terrible. They were out all last night, walking the beaches and handing out fliers.”
“I know Marcy and Andrew don’t actually blame them for what happened, but I understand why Kara’s uncomfortable being here under the circumstances.” Even Laurie’s friend Charlotte was distraught and helpless about Johnny’s disappearance, offering to help however she could. But Kara and her friend felt personally responsible.
“So I was thinking that Ramon could rent a car to drive her back home today and then stay in the city to help with anything that comes up while we’re still here. He can take a look at the tile, too.”
“God knows he’ll use that kitchen more than either of us,” she said with a weak laugh. “And you know I trust Ramon implicitly.”
In another sign that the new apartment was meant to be their next home, they had been able to purchase a one-bedroom apartment two floors
beneath them where Ramon would be able to live separately.
Alex suddenly pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. It felt good and safe.
When he loosened his embrace, she was surprised to see that he had tears forming in his eyes. She reached up and wiped them away. “Not exactly the way we thought we’d be celebrating your fortieth, is it, birthday boy?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, it’s so selfish, but all I’ve wanted for so long is to start a life with you. I kept dreading that your show or my court docket or something somewhere would blow up and get in the way of the wedding or the honeymoon, but now it’s poor little Johnny. Is it possible some cosmic force is plotting against us?”
“Are you kidding? What are the odds that the two of us were ever going to meet, let alone adore each other’s families or like the same food or finish each other’s sentences? Or fall absolutely head over heels in love where I can’t even imagine a tomorrow without you?”
His face broke out into a small grin that took her breath away. “Okay, you just managed to make this a happy birthday after all. The happiest, in fact.”
“Until the next one and all the ones after that.”
He kissed her, and for just one second, she stopped worrying about anything at all.
Chapter 23
Marcy could count on one hand, with four digits to spare, the number of times she had ever lied to Andrew.
It was on their fifth date, when the conversation ventured into past relationships. Had any of them gotten serious? Ever talk of marriage? Why hadn’t they worked out in the end? As far as Marcy was concerned, nothing in Andrew’s past could possibly matter. She knew on their very first date—a setup by a mutual friend—that she was going to spend the rest of her life with him. And when he proposed to her exactly one year later, he said he had felt the same way.
But nevertheless, they had that inevitable, awkward conversation the way people do. As it turned out, Andrew had dated a bit in college, but was never serious with anyone until law school. Her name was Christina. They stayed together through their judicial clerkships and had even talked about marriage, but then she accepted a job in London, and the long-distance relationship eventually played itself out. It all sounded very cordial.
Marcy, like Andrew, had also had only one serious prior romance: Brian Lassiter. They went to college together in Northern California and then took their dreams to Los Angeles, hers to be an actress, his to be a screenwriter. There was no ring because he couldn’t afford one, but they vowed to get married as soon as they both had their feet planted in their future professions. It happened for Marcy first. She wasn’t a star by any definition, but within a year, she had her Screen Actors Guild card, two national advertisements, and a recurring role in a network TV drama. Marcy would have been perfectly content to head to city hall, but Brian wanted to wait a little longer, until he sold his first screenplay. She agreed, because she supported him unconditionally.
A “little longer” turned out to be three more years, but the wait had paid off—at least for Brian’s screenplay. One week before the big splashy premiere of what would become one of the year’s top-grossing films, Brian broke the news. He loved her—he would always love her—but he was no longer in love with her. It was over, and Marcy was devastated. She couldn’t get out of bed, but she couldn’t sleep either. She couldn’t eat. And she certainly couldn’t act. For the first time in her young life, she was a complete and total mess.
But all of that was in the past by the time she was on her fifth date with Andrew and he was asking her, “So why didn’t it work out?”
She knew in her heart that she was going to spend the rest of her life with this wonderful man.
So she lied. “We were so young. We just grew apart, is all.”
She immediately felt guilty about the fib, but she assured herself it was harmless. She never wanted Andrew to look at her and wonder if he had been her rebound guy, or a second choice that she had settled for. The truth was, Marcy had always thought the idea of a “soul mate” was preposterous, until she met Andrew.
But then, this morning, for the first time since that fifth date, she found herself lying when Andrew asked where she was going as she reached for the car keys on her hotel nightstand. “To get more of the flyers copied.”
Technically, that was true, but the copy shop would be Marcy’s second stop in town. Her first was to see Detective Langland on her own.
* * *
Three minutes after her own arrival, Marcy spotted Detective Langland through the front window at Babette’s and rose to greet her at the corner table she had requested for their visit.
“I took the liberty of ordering you a coffee,” Marcy said.
“Bless you. How are you holding up?”
“I’m not. I feel… numb. Like I’m forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other, even though I don’t know what direction I’m supposed to be moving.”
“I’m so sorry we haven’t found your son yet. The good news is we finally got permission for the Amber Alert to go out. It should blast all over phones and highway alert signs any second now. And we’ve got hundreds of volunteers forming search parties, and officers volunteering to knock on doors, house to house, working off-duty.”
Marcy mustered a smile. “We’re very appreciative.”
“So I looked into the Darren Gunther matter, as you requested,” Langland said. The detective had called Marcy at precisely six this morning, probably when she woke up to her alarm and saw the text message Marcy had sent the previous night. Marcy told her about Leo Farley’s theory that a convicted murderer named Darren Gunther may have kidnapped Johnny under the mistaken belief that he was Leo’s grandson, Timmy. He and Laurie wanted to use Laurie’s television show as a way to approach Gunther outside the formal legal process. “With all due respect to the esteemed former deputy commissioner, I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than Leo and his daughter may have described it.”
This was precisely why Marcy had wanted to speak to the detective privately. Leo and Laurie were Alex’s family now, and by extension, they were Andrew’s and therefore hers. But how well did she really know them? Johnny, on the other hand, was a part of her. He was her heart. Laurie had already gotten Marcy all worked up about the possibility of Johnny’s birth mother going after him. Now she was convinced some person Marcy had never heard of had somehow managed to mastermind the abduction of her son from a prison cell. Laurie was a brilliant woman, but part of her talent in her job was having a colorful imagination for alternative story possibilities. On the other hand, Laurie had good reason to believe her father.
“My brother-in-law, a very experienced defense lawyer and now a federal judge, says he’s never seen a law enforcement officer with the natural instincts of Leo Farley,” Marcy said. “He seems to think that if Leo believes Gunther is planning some way to cheat the system in this wrongful conviction claim he made, then he must be right.”
“Have you ever heard of tunnel vision?” Langland asked.
“Sure, like when you can only focus on one thing. Like right now, all I can think about is my son.”
“Yes, it’s that, but it means something else when we talk about police having tunnel vision in an investigation. If a detective is convinced a suspect is guilty, they focus only on that suspect to the exclusion of other possibilities. It’s not that they intentionally try to frame anyone, but they see what they want to see, hear what they want to hear. They stop being objective, and view all of the evidence through the lens of the theory they already believe.”
“And you’re saying Leo Farley’s not objective when it comes to Darren Gunther?” Marcy asked.
Langland shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. “I’m saying it’s possible. It takes more than a book of essays written in a jail cell to gin up the kind of support Gunther has for his release.” She reset her coffee cup in its saucer and leaned forward across the table, preparing to explain. “During his trial, Gunt
her claimed that a third person became involved in the fight between him and another bar patron after they spilled out onto the sidewalk, and that this stranger was the one to pull out a knife and stab the bar owner. Obviously, the jury didn’t believe him, but Gunther has stuck to that same story all these years in prison.”
“Don’t all convicts say they’re innocent?”
“A lot of them. But not many of them have DNA evidence on their side. Any chance you know what touch DNA is?” Langland asked.
Marcy shook her head.
“It’s the ability to get DNA evidence off of skin cells left behind on an item. That kind of technology didn’t exist eighteen years ago, but we do it all the time now. It’s not quite like CSI where the bad guy walks into a room and leaves his DNA on every single surface, but it’s much more sensitive testing than was available even ten years ago. Well, last year, Gunther asked a court to order the state to test the knife that was used to stab Lou Finney. He got lucky, and the court actually agreed. Sure enough, the lab was able to get a testable sample from a spot on the very end of the knife’s handle, near the blade, and it didn’t match either Gunther or the other man in the original bar fight. At that point, the case was assigned to the District Attorney’s Conviction Integrity Unit.”
“And what is that?” Marcy asked. She suddenly imagined Johnny sitting in the empty seat next to her, crying. He was everywhere and nowhere.
“Basically, what it sounds like. They reinvestigate closed cases where there’s a reasonable claim of innocence. New York maintains a DNA database that contains samples from certain categories of convicted felons. Through the DNA database, the DA’s Office matched the skin cells on the knife to a man named Mason Rollins.
“At the time, Rollins was just a twenty-year-old with a misdemeanor assault arrest and one conviction for a low-level drug offense. But now he’s got a rap sheet taller than I am, including four years upstate. Guess what for?”
Piece of My Heart Page 9
