The Couple Next Door

by Shari Lapena

  “Surely they don’t hate him,” Rasbach says.

  “It seems that way sometimes,” Anne says. She looks down at the table. “My mother doesn’t think he’s good enough for me, basically because he’s not from a wealthy family, but my father really seems to hate him. He baits him all the time. I can’t understand why.”

  “They have no particular reason to dislike him?”

  “No, not at all. Marco’s never done anything wrong.” She sighs unhappily. “My parents are very hard to please, and they’re very controlling. They gave us money when we were starting out, and now they think they own us.”

  “They gave you money?”

  “For the house.” She flushes.

  “You mean, as a gift?”

  She nods. “Yes, it was a wedding gift, so we could buy a house. We couldn’t afford one on our own, without help. Houses are so expensive, at least nice ones in good neighborhoods are.”

  “I see.”

  “I love the house,” Anne admits. “But Marco hates feeling beholden to them. He didn’t want to accept the wedding gift. He would rather have made it all on his own—he’s proud that way. He let them help us for me. He knew I wanted the house. He would have been happy to start out in a crappy little apartment. Sometimes I think I made a mistake.” She’s wringing her hands in her lap. “Maybe we should have refused their wedding gift, started out in some shabby place, like most couples. We might still be there, but we might be happier.” She starts to cry. “And now they think it’s his fault that Cora’s gone, because it was his idea to leave her at home alone. They won’t stop reminding me about it.”

  Rasbach slides the tissue box on the table to within Anne’s reach. Anne takes a tissue and dabs her eyes. “And really, what can I say? I try to defend him to them, but it was his idea to leave her at home. I didn’t like it. I still can’t believe I agreed to it. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “What do you suspect happened to Cora, Anne?” Detective Rasbach asks.

  She looks away from him and stares at the wall, unseeing. “I don’t know. I keep thinking about it and thinking about it. I was hoping that someone took her for ransom, because my parents are rich, but no one has been in touch with us, so . . . I don’t know, it’s hard to stay positive. That’s what Marco thought at first. But he’s losing hope, too.” She looks back at him, her face bleak. “What if she’s dead? What if our baby is already dead?” She breaks down and sobs. “What if we never find her?”

  FOURTEEN

  Rasbach had gone through Marco’s office computer. No wonder Marco was worried about that. While it was understandable that a man in Marco’s position might Google postpartum depression, his browser history showed that he’d strayed quite far into postpartum psychosis. He’d read about the woman found guilty of drowning her five children in a bathtub in Texas. He’d read about the mother who’d killed her children by driving her car into a lake, the woman in England who had strangled her two young children in a closet. He’d read about other women who had drowned, stabbed, smothered, and throttled their own children. Which meant, to the detective’s mind, that either Marco was afraid his wife might become psychotic or he was interested in that information for some other reason. It occurs to Rasbach that Marco may be setting his wife up to take a big fall. The baby might just be collateral damage. Does he simply want out?

  But this isn’t his favorite theory. As Anne pointed out, she is not psychotic. These women who killed their babies were clearly in the throes of psychosis. If she killed the baby, it was probably accidentally.

  No, his favorite theory is that Marco arranged the kidnapping to get the badly needed ransom money—despite what Marco said about things turning around, his business is clearly in serious trouble.

  They haven’t been able to account for the car. No one has come forward to acknowledge driving down the lane at 12:35 on the night of the kidnapping. The police have sought the public’s help in the matter of the mystery car. If anyone in the area had been driving innocently down the lane at the relevant time, given all the newspaper and TV coverage, that person would in all likelihood have come forward. But no one had come forward—probably because whoever it was was an accomplice to the crime. Detective Rasbach believes that the person in that car took the baby away.

  Rasbach thinks the child was either killed accidentally by the parents and the body taken away by an accomplice or that this is a staged kidnapping and the baby was handed off by Marco to someone who has lost his nerve and hasn’t made the expected arrangements to receive the ransom money and return the baby. If so, the wife may or may not be in on it; Rasbach needs to look closely at her. If what Rasbach suspects is true, Marco must be going out of his mind.

  But the babysitter is troubling him. Would Marco have staged a kidnapping if there was going to be a babysitter in the house?

  Rasbach sees no point in having a police officer sitting around the Contis’ house waiting for a ransom call that will probably never come. He makes a strategic decision. They will retreat; he will get the police out of the house and see what happens when the two of them are alone. If he is right, and something has gone wrong, if he is to find out what it is, he must take a step back and give Marco enough rope to hang himself.

  And the baby? Rasbach wonders if even Marco knows whether the missing child is still alive. Rasbach remembers the famous Lindbergh kidnapping case, where it looked as if the baby died accidentally, either during or soon after the kidnapping. Maybe that’s what happened here. He can almost feel sorry for Marco. Almost.

  • • •

  It is Tuesday morning, the fourth day since Cora went missing. Now the last police officer is leaving. Anne can’t believe that they are to be left all alone. “But what if the kidnapper calls?” she protests to Rasbach in disbelief.

  Marco says nothing. It seems obvious to him that the kidnapper is not going to call. It seems equally obvious to him that the police don’t believe there is a kidnapper.

  Rasbach says, “You’ll be fine. Marco can handle it.” She gives him a doubtful look. “Maybe our being here is scaring him off—maybe if we leave, he’ll call.” He turns to Marco. “If anyone claiming to have Cora calls, remain calm, try to get instructions, and keep him talking as much as possible. The more you can get him to reveal, the better. We still have the wiretap on, so it will be taped. But it is very unlikely that we would be able to trace the call. Everyone these days uses untraceable prepaid cell phones. Makes our job much harder.”

  Then Rasbach leaves. Marco, for one, is glad to see him go.

  Now Anne and Marco are alone in the house. The number of reporters outside on the street has dwindled as well. With no developments the media have little to report—they are losing enthusiasm. The pile of wilted flowers and teddy bears is not growing any larger.

  “They think I killed her,” Anne says, “and that you covered it up.”

  “They can’t think that,” Marco says, trying to reassure her. There isn’t much else he can say. What’s he going to tell her? Either that or they think I took her and faked the kidnapping for the ransom money. But he doesn’t want her to know how bad their financial situation really is.

  Marco goes upstairs to lie down. He is exhausted. His grief and distress are such that he can hardly bear to look at his wife.

  Anne putters around the house, somewhat relieved to be rid of the police after all, tidying up. She moves in a sleep-deprived fog, putting things away, washing coffee cups. The kitchen phone rings, and she stops. She looks at the caller ID. It’s her mother. Anne hesitates, not sure she wants to speak to her. Finally, on the third ring, she picks up the phone.

  “Anne,” her mother says. Anne immediately feels her heart sink. Why did she answer? She can’t deal with her mother right now. She sees Marco coming quickly down the stairs, his eyes alert. She mouths My mother at him and waves him away. He turns and goes back upstairs.

&
nbsp; “Hi, Mother.”

  “I’m so worried about you, Anne. How are you doing?”

  “How do you think?” Anne holds the phone to her ear, walks to the rear of the kitchen, and looks out the window to the backyard.

  Her mother is quiet for a moment. “I just want to help.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Your father and I are hurting, too, but it must be nothing compared to what you’re feeling.”

  Anne starts to cry, the tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

  Her mother says, “Your father is still very upset about the police taking you in for questioning yesterday.”

  “I know, you told me that yesterday,” Anne says wearily.

  “I know, but he won’t stop talking about it. He says they should be focusing on finding Cora, not harassing you.”

  “They say they’re just doing their job.”

  “I don’t like that detective,” her mother says uneasily. Anne sinks into one of the kitchen chairs. Her mother says, “I think I should come over and you and I should have some tea and a private talk. Just the two of us, without your father. Is Marco home?”

  “No, Mom,” Anne says. Anxiety rises in her throat. “I can’t today. I’m too tired.”

  Her mother sighs. “You know your father is very protective of you,” she says. She pauses, then adds tentatively, “Sometimes I wonder if it was right for us to keep things from him when you were younger.”

  Anne freezes. Then she says, “I have to go,” and hangs up the phone.

  She stands by the window looking out at the backyard, trembling, for a long time.

  • • •

  Detectives Rasbach and Jennings are in a police cruiser, Jennings behind the wheel. It is hot in the cruiser, and Rasbach adjusts the air-conditioning. They soon arrive at St. Mildred’s School, an exclusive private school in the northwest part of the city for girls from kindergarten to twelfth grade. Anne Conti spent her entire academic life here before college, so they ought to know something about her.

  Unfortunately for the detectives, it is the middle of the summer holidays, but Rasbach called beforehand and made an appointment with a Ms. Beck, the headmistress, who apparently has plenty of work to do, even in the summer.

  Jennings parks in the empty lot. The school is a lovely old stone building that looks a bit like a castle, surrounded by greenery. The place oozes money. Rasbach imagines all the luxury cars driving up and disgorging privileged girls in uniform at the front doors. But at the moment it is dead quiet, except for the sound of a man on a riding mower cutting the grass.

  Rasbach and Jennings walk up the shallow stone steps and press the buzzer to get in. The glass door opens with a loud click, and the two detectives enter and follow the signs down a wide hall to the main office, their shoes squeaking on the glossy floors. Rasbach can smell wax and polish.

  “I don’t miss school, do you?” Jennings says.

  “Not a bit.”

  They arrive at the office, where Ms. Beck greets them. Rasbach is immediately disappointed to see that she is relatively young, in her early forties. The chances of her having been at St. Mildred’s during Anne Conti’s years there are remote. But Rasbach is hoping there might still be some staff around who’d remember her.

  “How can I help you, Detectives?” Ms. Beck asks as she conducts them into her spacious inner office.

  Rasbach and Jennings sit in the comfortable chairs in front of her desk as she positions herself behind it.

  “We’re interested in one of your former students,” Rasbach says.

  “Who is that?” she asks.

  “Anne Conti. But when she was a student here, her name would have been Anne Dries.”

  Ms. Beck pauses, then gives a small nod. “I see.”

  “I imagine you weren’t here yourself when she was a student here,” Rasbach says.

  “No, that would have been before my time, I’m afraid. The poor woman. I saw her on TV. How old is she?”

  “Thirty-two,” Rasbach says. “She was at St. Mildred’s from kindergarten to twelfth grade, apparently.”

  Ms. Beck smiles. “Many of our girls start here in kindergarten and don’t leave until they attend a good college. We have an excellent retention rate.”

  Rasbach smiles back at her. “We’d like to look through her file, ideally speak to some people who knew her while she was here.”

  “Let me see what I can do,” Ms. Beck says, and exits the room.

  She returns a few minutes later holding a buff-colored file. “She was here, as you say, from K to twelve. She was an excellent student. Went on to Cornell.”

  Most of the woman’s job is PR, Rasbach imagines as he reaches for the file. Jennings leans in to look at it with him. Rasbach is sure that she wishes the now possibly notorious Anne Conti had never graced the halls of St. Mildred’s.

  He and Jennings review the file silently while Ms. Beck fidgets at her desk. There is not much there except solidly excellent report cards. Certainly nothing leaps out at them.

  “Do any of her former teachers still teach here?” Rasbach asks.

  Ms. Beck considers. Finally she says, “Most of them have moved on, but Ms. Bleeker just retired last year. I saw in the file that she was Anne’s English teacher for several years in the later grades. You could talk to her. She lives not too far from here.” She writes down the name and address on a piece of paper.

  Rasbach takes the paper and says, “Thank you for your time.”

  He and Jennings get back into the sweltering car. Rasbach says, “Let’s go see Bleeker. We’ll grab a sandwich on the way.”

  “What do you expect to find out?” Jennings asks.

  “Never expect, Jennings.”

  FIFTEEN

  When they arrive at the retired teacher’s house, they are met by a woman with a straight back and sharp eyes. She looks just the way a retired English teacher from a private girls’ school would look, Rasbach thinks.

  Ms. Bleeker studies their badges closely and then sizes up the two detectives themselves before she opens her door. “You can’t be too careful,” she says.

  Jennings gives Rasbach a look as she leads them down a narrow hall and into her front room. “Please be seated,” she says.

  Rasbach and Jennings promptly take seats in two upholstered armchairs. She settles down slowly on the couch opposite. There’s a thick novel—a Penguin Classics edition of Trollope’s Barchester Towers—on the coffee table and an iPad beside it.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” she asks, and then adds, “Although I think I can guess why you’re here.”

  Rasbach gives her his most disarming smile. “Why do you think we’re here, Ms. Bleeker?”

  “You want to talk about Anne. I recognized her. She’s all over the news.” Rasbach and Jennings exchange a quick glance. “She was Anne Dries when I taught her.”

  “Yes,” Rasbach says, “we want to talk to you about Anne.”

  “It’s a terrible thing. I was very sad when I saw it on TV.” She sighs deeply. “I don’t know what I can tell you about what happened back then, because I don’t know anything. I tried to find out, but nobody would tell me anything.”

  Rasbach feels excitement prickle at his neck. “Why don’t you start at the beginning,” he says patiently.

  She nods. “I liked Anne. She was a good English student. Not inspired, but hardworking. Serious. She was pretty quiet. It was difficult to know what was going on in her head. She liked to draw. I knew that the other girls were picking on her. I tried to put a stop to it.”

  “Picking on her how?”

  “The usual spoiled-rich-girl stuff. Kids with more money than brains. They told her she was fat. She wasn’t, of course. The other girls were rail thin. Unhealthy.”

  “When was this?”<
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  “Probably when she was in about tenth or eleventh grade. There were three girls—thought they were God’s gift. The three prettiest girls in school found one another and formed a private club that no one else could join.”

  “Do you remember their names?

  “Of course. Debbie Renzetti, Janice Foegle, and Susan Givens.” Jennings writes the names in his notebook. “I won’t forget those three.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I don’t know. One day the three pretty girls were hassling Anne, as usual, and the next thing you know, one was in the hospital and the other two were giving Anne a very wide berth. Susan missed school for a couple of weeks. The story was that she fell off her bike and got a concussion.”

  Rasbach leans forward slightly. “But you don’t believe the story, do you? What do you think actually happened?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. There were some closed-door meetings with the parents. It was all hushed up. But I’m betting Anne had had enough.”

  • • •

  Back at the station, Rasbach and Jennings do some digging and learn that two of the girls mentioned by the retired English teacher, Debbie Renzetti and Susan Givens, had moved away with their families by the end of high school. Janice Foegle, as luck would have it, still lives in the city. When Rasbach calls her, his luck holds—she’s home and she’s willing to come in to the station and talk to them that afternoon.

  Rasbach is called to the front desk when Janice Foegle arrives, right on time. He goes out to meet her. He knows what to expect, but still, she is a striking woman. What must it have been like, Rasbach wonders, to possess that kind of beauty in high school, when most of the other kids are struggling to come to terms with their own unsatisfactory appearance? He wonders how it has shaped her. He is reminded, fleetingly, of Cynthia Stillwell.