“No. If she had, I would’ve told the Lockharts. You can be sure of that.”
He pulled out his phone and showed her a still image of the man who’d been loitering nearby when Chloe disappeared from the Common. “What about this man? Do you know him?”
She grabbed the phone again and studied the picture, her brow furrowed in concentration. “He might be familiar, but I can’t swear to it.” She gave the phone back to him in defeat. “I’m not much help, am I?”
“You’ve been plenty helpful. I’d like to speak to Teresa now, if I may.”
Reed knew the way by now. He walked briskly across the foyer but halted in the doorway, catching himself on the threshold because the living room gave off an otherworldly force of sadness. Teresa Lockhart sat unmoving on the sofa, staring at her hands. Conroy sat next to her, grim faced and not speaking. A handful of uniformed officers tried to blend into the furniture near the back. Reed stuck a tentative foot into the room and signaled for Conroy’s attention.
The captain murmured something to Teresa, who didn’t look up. He joined Reed near the door. “She took the news that it wasn’t Chloe on that video really hard,” he said. “I think everyone did.”
“Have you told her about Jenna Desmond’s claims?”
“Not yet.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I’ve had to give people awful news. Murdered kids. Deaths from a traffic accident. But this stuff bends my mind. Are you saying she gave birth to Chloe, but this Desmond woman is the biological mother?”
“Egg donation, yes. It’s the same thing as a sperm donor, just from the female.”
“Two mothers. I swear, the handbook doesn’t prepare you for this.”
Reed smiled for the first time in ages. His recent quest to discover who killed his birth mother had given him an unexpected second chance to know the woman, as well as surprising insight into Marianne Markham, the woman he still called Mama. “No, sir, it surely doesn’t,” he agreed. “You just muddle through as best you can.”
“Are we sure this other woman is legit?”
“We’re investigating her claims. Obviously, Mrs. Lockhart could confirm if Chloe was conceived via egg donation, but a DNA sample from Chloe would remove all doubt.”
The big man’s shoulders rose and fell with his heavy sigh. “Let’s get on with it, then.” He returned to his seat on the couch next to Teresa Lockhart, while Reed took the armchair to her right.
“Mrs. Lockhart,” he said kindly, “how are you doing?”
She jerked her head up to look him in the eyes. “Better than Martin. That’s all you can say right now. He’s upstairs under a blanket of sedatives. Also, he shot his lawyer, so we have to find a new one. Not that I’m sorry he did it. I don’t think anyone is sorry, which is why Martin’s upstairs and not locked in a jail somewhere.”
Reed had seen the headlines. Public opinion was divided between calling Martin a justified hero for shooting Stephen Wintour and feeling outrage that Martin hadn’t been charged merely because he was rich and white. Privately, Reed felt both sides were correct in their assessment. “All the same, I’m sure it’s an extra burden you didn’t need right now.”
“I need Chloe back, but I can’t have that. I need to work, but I can’t do that, either. Look at me.” She held out her hand and Reed saw her fingers tremble. “The hospital is juggling the surgical calendar as best they can, but there are only a handful of doctors who perform the operations that I do. It’s not like they can call up a temp agency. Someone has to help these patients or they will get sicker. They will die.”
“The someone doesn’t always have to be you.” Reed heard the words come out of his mouth and realized they sounded familiar. Sarit had told him the same thing many times.
“It has to be someone. If not me, then who? I feel it all the time. When I’m here, I feel like I should be there. When I’m at the hospital, I feel like I am missing at home. No matter where I am or what I do, it’s never enough.” She held up her phone, clutching it so hard her knuckles turned white. “They’re right—whoever is sending these messages. They’re right. I’ve failed.”
“You can’t let those messages be the voice in your head. They’re from a sick individual.”
“That doesn’t make them wrong.”
Reed looked to Conroy, who looked away. “We need you to stay strong right now. Chloe needs it. You can help us right now by finding her hairbrush or toothbrush so that we can do some testing.”
“Oh God.” A deep, guttural moan wrenched from Teresa, and she doubled over as if in physical pain. “You’ve found her. You’ve found her body.”
“No, no. That’s not it at all.” Reed rushed to reassure her.
“You want her DNA for identification purposes. Why else would you need it?”
Reed decided to be direct. “We have a woman claiming to be Chloe’s biological mother.”
Teresa sat up, her cheeks wet. “What?”
“The woman from the Target video, the one with the daughter who so looks like Chloe. She said she’s Chloe’s genetic mother through egg donation. We need to know from you: Is this possible?”
He saw on her face that it was. “I—I … Where did she come from?”
“She lives in Providence with her family. She saw Chloe on a news program last year and decided that they were related.”
“I couldn’t get pregnant on my own,” Teresa murmured as if in a daze. “Martin desperately wanted a child, and he was willing to do anything. The doctors said egg donation was the only way. My eggs were too old. I imagined them dried up, like they all turned to ash the day Trevor died.”
“So, this woman could be your egg donor.”
“The information said she was a college student with no medical issues. She had blond hair like mine, and blue eyes, like mine and Martin’s. But it’s not the same blue. My eyes are blue but a washed-out faded-jeans kind of blue. You have to get close to see the color. Chloe’s eyes are like the Caribbean Sea. Strangers used to ask sometimes when we pushed her in the carriage, where did she get those eyes? We’d say they came from my great-aunt Hope. Because that’s what we called Chloe before she was born, when we barely believed she could be real—Hope. It’s her middle name now.”
“We’d like to have Chloe’s DNA tested to see if she’s a match.”
“Why? Do you think this woman took her?”
“It doesn’t look that way,” Conroy interjected. “Obviously, we’re still checking.”
Teresa drew herself up and pursed her lips. “Then it shouldn’t matter.”
Reed had spent years wondering about his birth mother and his origins. Like Chloe, he had a talent for the piano. Had he inherited it from his mother? Did she have brown eyes like him or share his love of spicy food? Where did he get the shape of his hands or his funny toes or his allergy to strawberries? “If she’s Chloe’s mother,” he began, but Teresa cut him off.
“I’m her mother! Me. You know how I know? Because I’m the one getting tormented with these messages. Not her. I’m the one who has to go on television and say I’m unfit, that I don’t deserve my child.” She hurled the phone at the wall, where it hit with a hard slap and landed facedown on the floor.
She covered her face with both hands. Hear no evil, see no evil, Reed thought.
He relented and sat back in his chair. Conroy shifted uncomfortably. “The thing is, Mrs. Lockhart,” he said, “this woman has been in contact with Chloe already. They’ve exchanged text messages for months.”
She dropped her hands, her mouth open in horror. “Months?”
“She bought Chloe a second phone so they could keep in touch.”
“She’s been planning this, then. Planning to take her from me.”
“Like we said, we don’t think so,” Conroy replied. “But we are still investigating.”
Teresa shook her head. “The paperwork specifically said she had no rights. We can sue her or get a restraining order or something, right? She can’t just do this.”
“Home,” she repeated dully. “Home to what?”
They had no answer for her, so silence fell over the room.
After a few moments, Teresa rose stiffly. “I’ll get you what you need,” she whispered.
None of the men moved until she had exited the room, at which point Conroy released a long breath and the officers at the back began murmuring to one another over the spectacle. “We should interview the husband,” Conroy said. “Nicholas Desmond. Maybe Jenna had help, stashing the kid somewhere. The abductor has shown they know to use burner phones, just like the kind Jenna gave to Chloe. And maybe this is the piece we’ve been missing, why the kidnapper seems so angry at Teresa Lockhart. She feels like Teresa’s doing a lousy job raising her kid.”
“The pictures show Chloe in a cage with her hair chopped off and tape over her mouth,” Reed reminded him. “Do you see Jenna Desmond doing that to Chloe?”
“I don’t understand anyone doing it,” Conroy muttered. “That’s the problem.”
“Interview the husband, yes. But I don’t think he’ll have the answers we need.”
Teresa reappeared holding a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and a worn, floppy-eared stuffed bunny. Chloe’s dog, Snuffles, came running in alongside her. Teresa handed over the personal care items to Conroy and then sat with the bunny on her lap. Snuffles bounded up on the couch with her and put her tiny chin on Teresa’s leg next to the stuffed animal. “It doesn’t matter what the test shows. That woman isn’t her mother in any way that matters. I don’t care what she says. It’s been all over the news what happened to Chloe, and where was she? Why didn’t she come forward right away to explain about the cell phone and her contact with her? Why did you have to chase her down from some security camera footage?”
“My guess is that she was afraid,” Reed said.
Teresa’s pale eyes stared into him, naked to her soul. She had bared her desperation on national television for everyone to see. No kind of pretense remained in her. “Afraid for herself, yes. Afraid of what you could do to her, or what I could. But she doesn’t know my fear. She doesn’t picture Chloe in that cage, alone and terrified and crying for her mother. And I—” She broke off as she momentarily lost composure. “I’m not there.”
The dog whined and pawed at her leg, and she patted the animal without seeing her. Conroy jerked a nod to Reed that they should have a private conversation in the hall. Reed excused himself and followed the captain to the grand foyer. The fresh flowers displayed in the vase against the wall were starting to droop, he noticed. Stray petals fell to the floor. “I can run those items back for you, if you like,” Reed said, indicating the paper bag in Conroy’s hands that held Chloe’s effects.
“I’ll have one of my guys do it. I wanted to talk to you because I got information back a little while ago. You had asked us to check on Ethan Stone’s alibi for when he was in town for that conference.”
“Right, yes.”
“Well, he checks out as much as we can tell. He was at the conference every day, and he did have dinner with colleagues the night before Chloe disappeared. We can’t account for his every second, but it seems doubtful he slipped off, came across the river, and snatched her during the coffee breaks.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Wait, that’s not all.”
Reed raised his eyebrows. “Yes, go on.”
“Stone didn’t mention there was another member of the dinner party, not a colleague. His son Justin was there, too. See, it wasn’t just any dinner. They were celebrating some career award given to Ethan Stone at this conference, and so his kid was along for the ride.”
“Kid. He must be over thirty by now.” Around the age of the mystery man seen near Chloe on the CCTV footage. “Interesting that Ethan Stone didn’t mention his presence.”
“Yeah, well, Justin Stone’s got priors like my aunt Gwen has teacups. More than you can count.”
“Ethan said he was clean now.”
“Maybe he believes it. Maybe wishful thinking. I ran him through our system just for kicks, and what do you know, he was busted for soliciting a prostitute while he was in town last weekend. He pled out and took time served. They’re kicking him loose from Suffolk Jail on Nashua Street.” He checked his watch. “Should be any minute now.”
Reed glanced back at the living room where the officers lingered. “Any chance I could have one of your squad give me a ride?”
“Take the one outside. He’ll even run the siren for you.”
* * *
The Suffolk County Jail sat right in the heart of Boston on the Charles River, with the modern Zakim bridge and the pointy Bunker Hill Monument nearby. The intense blue of the river and the greenery of the park across the street gave the immediate area some cheer, as the building itself was an imposing multistory mix of old bricks and concrete. The low, sloping front steps had been patched numerous times in recent years. Reed waited at their base for Justin Stone to emerge. Conroy had called ahead to ensure Reed hadn’t missed the man, and indeed, Reed only had to loiter perhaps twenty minutes before a tall, thin man came through the glass front doors. He wore a burgundy leather jacket and black boots, and his dark hair hung lank, nearly brushing his shoulders. He paused to put a cigarette in his mouth. Reed checked his face against the photo he had of Justin Stone and decided it was a match.
“Justin Stone?” he said, walking up the steps.
Justin paused in the act of lighting his smoke. “Depends on who’s asking.”
“Special Agent Reed Markham.” Reed showed off his ID and Justin rolled his eyes.
“The Feds care about soliciting now? What, you don’t have some Mob boss or terrorist asshole you could be harassing instead?”
“I don’t care one whit about whom you take to bed,” Reed replied. “I want to talk to you about Chloe Lockhart.”
Justin took a drag. “Who?”
“Teresa Lockhart’s twelve-year-old daughter. She’s been kidnapped.”
“Yeah? I’m sorry for her.” He started down the steps, walking past Reed. “I don’t know anything about it.”
Reed caught his arm and stopped him. “I’m asking for just a few minutes of your time.”
“Yeah, well, I’d love to chat, but I’m behind schedule already due to my inconvenient stay here.” He gestured back at the jail. “I’ve got to get home or my ass will be fired on top of everything else.”
“Where are you going? I’ll give you a ride.” Reed nodded at the patrol car waiting for him down the block.
Justin scoffed a laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I can walk.” He started off again, perhaps headed for the T, and Reed fell into step beside him.
“You were here with your father, to celebrate his achievement.”
Justin gave a thin smile around his cigarette. “I was here because he paid for me to be. It’s not real success unless you have a bunch of witnesses, people to clap for you and tell you how smart you are.”
“Did you go to the conference?”
“I went to the part on the last day where they gave him his crystal trophy. Then I went to dinner with him and some of his snooty friends. I’ll say this for them, though—they bought good wine.”
“What did you do while your father was at the conference?”
“What do you mean, what did I do? I worked my usual job back home and then I caught the train up. You think he’d pay for me to spend more than one night here?”
“After the dinner, what did you do?”
Justin shook his head with a grin and then stuck his tongue out, waggling it in Reed’s direction. “You can read about that part in the arrest report.”
Reed ignored him. “At any point, did you go to the Public Garden?”
“Oh, yeah,” Justin replied with caustic sarcasm. “I took high tea with the mayor and then we went to admire the lilies together. Later, we
went to the symphony.”
“What about Newbury Street?”
“Yeah, I bought a Birkin bag and a new pair of heels.”
They paused for a traffic light. “Were you aware that Teresa had a daughter?”
“My dad told me years ago.” He glanced at Reed. “Never met her. Didn’t even know her name until now. Nice, though, that Teresa could just hit the restart button—presto, instant new family.”
“You sound angry.”
“Yeah, my shrink says that to me a lot. I tell him I’ve got lots of stuff to be angry about.”
“Such as?”
The light changed and Justin set off across the street in long strides. Reed hustled to keep up. “The part where people think I murdered my little brother, that’s for starters. Everyone else got to be sad. I got put in a windowless room with two cops who took turns verbally beating on me for twelve hours. ‘Just tell us why you did it, Justin. You’ll feel better if you tell us.’” He halted in the middle of the sidewalk. “They actually thought I would put a bag over his head and smother the life out of him. Murder a little kid like that. Over some money in his piggy bank.”
“You were using drugs,” Reed said, his voice neutral. “Marijuana, pills, cocaine—everything you could get your hands on back then. Your parents had banned you from the house.”
His eyes narrowed. “Teresa kicked me out. My father never gave a shit what I did as long as I didn’t make a mess on his front porch, so to speak. I think he kind of liked the cover, if you want to know the truth. Whatever trouble I made, it gave him space to make his own.”
“What kind of trouble?”
He blew out a long smoke trail and then dropped the butt to the sidewalk, crushing it with his heel. “He ran around on my mom. That’s why they broke up. Later, he did the same thing to Teresa.”
“How do you know?”
“I caught him once. Showed up midday at the house when I was supposed to be at school—and so was he, by the way. I was looking for cash; he was looking at some red-haired girl sucking his dick in the living room.”
Every Waking Hour Page 22
