“Her parents wouldn’t have left her there. They would have wanted a proper burial.”
“Maybe they didn’t know she was there. She was pretty well hidden.”
“Then why brick in the chimney?”
“Animal infestation.” When she reacted, he said, “The coroner found nonhuman bones mixed with the child’s.”
“Rats?”
Her guess took him by surprise. He gazed at her askance, looking for an astuteness he might have overlooked or quality he hadn’t seen before.
“I’m not buying it. A missing child can’t be dismissed so easily, not without others finding out. A member of her extended family. Neighbors. Babysitters.” She waited for his answer.
Ethan Wakeman was impossible to categorize. Kendra inventoried additional contrasts. Graceful limbs weighted by muscled bulk. Rough exterior plagued by an adolescent face. Hands moving at the speed of sound versus unflappable emotions. “We haven’t found anything. Yet.”
He was covering for himself and his department. But from Kendra’s point of view, he needn’t be so defensive. “Have you checked the newspaper archives?”
“For which year?”
“You make the case. Something else.” He waited for her to put her thoughts together. “Aren’t there are a thousand ways to kill someone, none of which leave behind traces?”
“Like?”
“Suffocation, poisoning, brain damage, starvation, bloodletting. Even illness.”
“A thousand and one ways,” he said. “The one way you haven’t thought of.”
His answer surprised her. “My God. Have you switched sides? Or are you stringing me along?”
“I’ve never been against you.”
“But you’ve been ignoring me, sidetracking me. My phone messages ...”
“Returned on the fifth call. I wanted to see how serious you were.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m dead serious.”
“I can see that.” Shrugging, he smiled again. He wasn’t making fun of her like before. He was embarrassed. He thought hard before saying, “Call me a loner. I don’t like partners. Particularly civilian ones. Especially pretty civilian ones who see ghosts.”
Kendra couldn’t shake the feeling of being under constant surveillance. He observed everything and cataloged every detail. His concentration on her behavior, her facial tics, the tenor of her voice, the subtly or directness of her questions, and the evasiveness of her answers probably made him a good cop. It only made her increasingly uncomfortable. “Hear,” she said. “Not see.”
He held an expectant breath but didn’t blink.
“She cries. For her mother to come for her.”
“Jesus.”
“You don’t have to believe me. Joel doesn’t, either.”
A smile tore open his hard-knock face. “Congratulations, Mrs. Swain. I’ve met my match.”
“Like hell. I’ve met mine.” She loomed closer to the petite bones, lying frigid on a frigid table. “May I?” She used a feeble fingertip to stroke the child’s temple. Hard but smooth. Delicate but indestructible. And ready to draw breath should a conjurer cast a spell. In the end, nothing more than a collection of lifeless bones. And yet ... a child ... with a child’s dreams of candy canes and giggles.
“How many owners did you find?”
“Of the bungalow?” Kendra whisked back from the memory of a playground and a ball scuttling loose. She wondered if it was from her own childhood or someone else’s. She answered the detective’s question. “An unlucky number. Thirteen.”
They retraced their footsteps at a slower pace—down corridors and through doors—while she recited the list from memory. “The Renners lived there less than a year. Before them, the Knudsens for slightly more than two years. Then the Konstantines for three years. The Langfords, one. The Wards, six months. The Singers, one year. The Moys, two. The Heaths, one. Before them, the Beckers for three years. The Banners for eighteen months. The Childses for two years. And the Millers for less than one. Do you see a pattern emerging?”
“The house is haunted?”
“You’re making fun of me,” she said. “But yes, the house is haunted.”
“And the owners who lived there a lifetime before moving out?”
“You’re very quick.” It took courage to air her suspicions ... courage and a leap of faith. “The Cutlers lived there for more than fifteen years. Long enough to start a family, kill a child, and move on.”
He pushed open the main door. The tang of fresh air revivified her from the latent whiffs of death. “My advice?” the detective said. “Don’t look for the Cutlers.”
She plunged her hands pocket-deep inside the trench coat and hunched her shoulders against brisk autumn winds. “They’ll want to clear their consciences, don’t you think, for what they did to her?”
“Let the department handle it.”
At the bottom of the right-hand pocket, she fingered an oblong slip of paper, crisp against her snapping thumbnail, the ends perforated like a raffle ticket or a theater stub. A forgotten occasion, a prize lost, a dollar wasted. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Walk away. No foul, no harm.”
Coins and Kleenex and theater tickets had a way of getting lost from winter to winter. She tried to remember the last time she wore the coat. In the spring? No, on her birthday.
“Thank you for letting me see her again. I had to ... I can’t explain it ... is ‘connect’ the right word? I had to connect.”
She put out her hand. The detective lingered over it. When at last her fingers slipped from his grasp, she was holding his business card.
Chapter 8
SET AMONG MODERN skyscrapers casting enormous shadows, the ten-storey office building on south LaSalle Street occupied a small footprint among much more impressive structures.
The security guard saluted Kendra with a dutiful tip of his hat. Though he recognized her, she couldn’t place his face. She rode the elevator to the top floor. A semi-circular wall—emblazoned in large brass letters with the logo of Swain & Partners LLP—greeted her.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Swain,” the receptionist said, “but Joel ... Mr. Swain ... is out with a client.” As nameless receptionists went, she fit the profile: professional window dressing with the instincts of a pit bull.
“Did he leave a phone number?” Kendra asked. “He doesn’t answer his cell.” As if it were crucial for the boss’s wife to make a good impression, she smiled diffidently. “His assistant. Tina Ambrose, is it? She must know where he can be reached.”
The receptionist bit a twisted lip. “She’s out, too. With Mr. Swain.”
“Tell him ... never mind ... I’ll tell him myself.”
A baritone voice called out to her. “Kendra, what a surprise.” Shrugging on his overcoat, Jordan Swain emerged from behind the partition. He delivered a one-armed hug and a kiss brushed lightly across her cheek. “I was just on my way to grab a bite. Care to join me?”
“That would ... yes ... I’d like that.”
Jordan Swain was the image of Joel. Striking good looks and lean body with just enough gray at the temples to make him look mature but not too mature. Kendra didn’t know his age but guessed he was in his mid-50s.
He took her to the clubhouse, choosing the scenic route along the lakefront. The day was picture perfect. People were out in droves, soaking up one of the last fine days of autumn. Positioned for scenic panoramas and midday escapades, the clubhouse looked out on the harbor. Mounted flags flapped in lakeshore breezes, and serene inland waters lapped opalescent beneath a brilliant blue sky. Several empty moorings bobbed in the billows. Even though it was late in the sailing season, a single sloop sailed beyond the breakfront.
A hostess greeted the elder Swain and his guest as if royalty and ushered them to a private table overlooking the marina. Set against a sea of white linens and crystal water glasses, the wall-to-wall picture windows gave the room an airborne sensation, as if it were floating above th
e clouds and shifting with the winds.
As Jordan helped her off with her coat, he said, “You’ve heard about Operation Whitewash?”
“The police department scandal.” Kendra took the seat closest to the window and sat forward, hands clasped before her.
She rarely spoke to her father-in-law without Joel or Lenore nearby to fill in the conversational gaps. Jordan intimidated her. He intimidated most people. As a federal prosecutor, he indicted corrupt governors and mayors, and put them behind bars for long jail terms. Now in private practice, he defended those same major players, or ones very much just like them. Ongoing talk of his running for governor was reason enough for most people to succumb to his brittle charms. Kendra wasn’t one of them.
“It goes deeper than a few bad cops,” he said. “Heads will roll. We’ve been hired for damage control. That’s where Joel is now. I’m up to my eyeballs in crap, so you’ll forgive me if I ride him at your expense.”
“He’s very proud of you, you know.”
Brushed back from his temples, the salted hair made him seem austere, urbane, and unflappable. He was all of those things. He slanted his head, not so much flattered as thunderstruck.
“I don’t think he can quite live up to the name,” Kendra went on. “I don’t think anybody can.”
His eyelids, tapered from sun and sailing, opened a fraction. “Nonsense. He’s got the makings.”
“Have you told him?”
He stabbed his butter knife at her. “He doesn’t need to be told. Either he feels it in his gut or he doesn’t. Like marrying you. You’re the best thing he ever did. If he doesn’t know it by now, he’s a damned fool.”
She lifted the water glass to her lips and smiled. “I thought he did know it.”
His was the kind of laughter people produce after hearing an off-colored joke. “Kendra ... Kendra my dear ... you’re a love. Why didn’t I meet you twenty years ago?”
“Because I was ten?”
“You know what I mean. But all right. Joel keeps his private life private. He doesn’t talk much. About you. Or other things. He makes his mother and me guess.” Like a connoisseur of fine possessions, Jordan looked her over. “What have you been doing with yourself? You look good.”
His direct glare was off-putting, but she didn’t blink. “I left Largesse.”
He jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Are you pregnant? Is that why?”
Kendra set down the water glass. “We’re renovating the attic.”
“I see. Then you aren’t. Pregnant. I was hoping you and Joel had finally decided to start a family. But I guess ...” Jordan jumped to another wrong conclusion. “Have you seen a doctor?”
She smiled politely. “Really, Jordan, it’s none of your business.”
“Damned if you’re not right. But I have a name if you’re interested. A specialist in the field. Hard to get an appointment. I can pull the necessary strings.”
The waiter arrived. They placed their orders. Conversation turned to lighter subjects. He asked after Mac and Emily, pumped her on the renovations, and suggested she take up charity work in her spare time. “Lenore can show you around. I’ll tell her to give you a jingle.”
“Please don’t. I have my hands full with the house and ... well ... I’m thinking of going back to Largesse. As a part-time consultant.”
“The head of the company ... Levin, isn’t it ... has he made an offer?”
“Not yet. But he calls. Often. Just to chat, he says.”
“Make sure he sweetens the deal.”
Lunch arrived. While Kendra dithered over her salad, Jordan discoursed on a variety of subjects, from sailing to the stock market and lastly to real estate. “That’s how your father made his fortune. Law, of course. But investments, too. Commercial properties. Strip malls. That kind of thing.”
“He doesn’t talk much about his work.”
Over coffee, Jordan said, “Don’t tell Joel we’ve been discussing him. He wouldn’t like me interfering. You were right. It’s none of my business.”
When Jordan dropped her off downtown, Kendra stopped by Largesse. Rob squeezed the breath out of her and begged her to come back. Largesse had won the Standard Foods account after all. She put him off. He pressed her. She gave him wiggle room. They negotiated terms. Kendra didn’t agree to anything, but they set aside a tentative date for next year.
She picked up a few things at a department store on State Street and made one last swing onto LaSalle before heading home. Standing across the street from Joel’s office building, she leaned against a lamppost, smoked a cigarette, and watched. Streams of people swung through the revolving doors, but she was interested in seeing just one person. Or possibly two.
Fifteen minutes went by. Another ten. She didn’t know what to expect. Jordan’s uncharacteristic behavior had tipped her off. Something was wrong. The way he waylaid her and pumped her for information said he was worried. Not about Kendra. Or her career. Or babies. But about Joel.
She was stamping out her third cigarette when a familiar metallic blue sports car pulled into the No Parking Zone.
The driver leaned close to his female passenger and uttered something in her ear. His brown-haired companion shook with giggles but accepted the offer of a kiss. Several breaths later, the pair divided. She stepped out of the car with a theatrical flourish. Leaning through the open window, she received another token of the driver’s affection. They reluctantly separated. Satisfied, she strutted toward the building but gazed back a last time before disappearing inside.
The Porsche roared around the corner toward the parking garage. Minutes later, Joel strolled up the sidewalk from the direction of Jackson Boulevard and swaggered inside.
When Kendra reached him five minutes later on his private line, she was peering up at his tenth-floor office window. “How’d your meeting go?”
“I heard Jordan popped for lunch.”
“He wants grandchildren.” She waited for his reaction.
He controlled his breathing and said, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“The plumber cost eighty-five dollars.”
“And?”
“I’m sure the rings will turn up.” She said it as if their disappearance meant nothing to her.
“I only want us to be happy.”
Almost in a whisper, she said, “I thought we were.”
Empty silence filled the connection before he said, “Where are you now?”
“Nearly home.” Normally she was a terrible liar, but not this time. “Will you be late?”
“Don’t wait up.” Joel had reeled off the same three words too many times to count. She always accepted his excuses. Along with the lonely evenings and late-night homecomings. They were expected for a high-pressure career where success and self-respect came at a price, even if it was for the family business, but especially so when the son had much to prove to the father. Maybe too much. She would never take his excuses at face value again.
On the train ride home, scenery flashed past the window like a cartoon flipbook. Page after page of apartment buildings, commercial storefronts, and neighborhood streets moved rapidly along. Except for the changing color of brick, buses creeping beneath the tracks, and trees throwing off autumn leaves by the handful, Kendra registered few details.
Just before reaching her station, she remembered the slip of paper in her coat pocket. The flexible cardboard was dyed a darkish red. The letters were imprinted in black. The sequential number was stamped separately, off-center, again in black, and read the same forwards as backwards—71717—making up a palindrome.
Kendra didn’t believe in coincidences. She crushed her hand around the pawn ticket and jammed it into the folds of her pocket.
Chapter 9
WHEN JOEL FINALLY made it home, Kendra was sitting in the living room, sipping curaçao every minute or so, while the grandmother clock ticked away the seconds and the quarter-hour chimes marked out the passage of a long night.
She hadn’t ch
anged her clothes. She stank like a morgue but wallowed in the degradation.
The chair was a winged affair, high of back and deep of cushion. A woman could lose herself inside the floral pattern, and someone else, peering through the dark of the room, might not see her sipping curaçao and waiting for the next round of Westminster chimes.
Joel let himself in through the back door and flipped on the night light. Footsteps tread lightly across the kitchen floor. When he headed for the front bedroom, he paused long enough to adjust his eyes to the darkness. He focused on Kendra and said her name like a question. She poured more curaçao into the brandy snifter and switched the cigarette from her left hand to her right. Smoke rings rose like fading dreams.
“When did you start smoking again?”
“You forgot your coat,” Kendra said. “You must be freezing.”
“At least turn on a light.”
“You’ve been with her, haven’t you? Your law clerk.”
He stepped forward. Streetlight filtering through the front blinds roughed him in like a zebra. “We were working on the Santana case.”
“When does it go to trial?”
“Not for a while.”
“You don’t think I can handle the truth. I can, you know. Like curaçao.” She listened to the ticking of the clock and Joel’s fractured breaths, timed in harmony with each other. “Don’t let me keep you up.”
He retreated into the shadows. The clock chimed a quarter after the hour. Kendra took another sip. Fire slid down her throat. The wired tension in her nerve endings was almost unbearable. She wanted Joel to say or do anything instead of standing like a stone statue. She could almost hear him thinking and considering, and finally realizing he’d never witnessed this Kendra before, the confronting wife rather than the enamored mistress.
When he reacted, it was like a thunderbolt. He stormed out of the room and charged into his office. The door slammed violently enough to shake the house. Kendra blinked, considered her cigarette, and snuffed it out.
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