The gate swung open, and behind it, Louise Pickler stood holding her shivering little dog. Her hands were red and chafed, her face solemn. “Do I get to sit in the police car?” she asked quietly.
Jefferson squinted at the woman, but Grace nodded. “Sure, you do. It’s a lot warmer in there. I’ll get you set up.” She reached for Pickler, but the woman stepped toward Jefferson. “Uh-uh. I’m going with Fresh Prince.”
As Louise Pickler headed toward the street with Jefferson, Grace followed Chris and the other patrolman into Pickler’s backyard.
Even from the gate, the mound of dark dirt in the corner of the yard was obvious. Rich and dark as coffee grounds, it rose up at least a foot above the rest of the lawn.
Grace probed it with the toe of her boot. “Looks like potting soil, and it’s not very well packed.”
“Looks like she tried to dig in a few places, but couldn’t break through the frozen ground,” Connors said, circling a few spots in the lawn that were hacked bald, the dirt a silvery shade of gray.
Chris spotted tools by the back porch: a shovel, spade, hammer, and an ice pick.
“An ice pick.” Chris shook his head. “I’ve never tried to dig with one of those. I guess she wasn’t going to let the frozen earth stop her.”
“So what do you think?” Connors stood staring at the dark mound of dirt. “Should we wait for forensics?”
“With an infant missing next door?” Grace went to the porch for tools. “Time is of the essence. If there’s a baby under there, we need to get her out. Can you get some quick photos before I start brushing away at the dirt?”
Quickly, Chris and Connors both took pictures with their cell phones. Holding a spade, Grace squatted down beside the pile of dirt. How could she stick a shovel into the mound if Annabelle was truly in there? Thinking of the films she’d seen of archeologists on a dig, she tossed the spade aside and used her hands to wipe away the top layer of loose soil.
The soil was cold, but the chunks of black dirt were easily swept away.
The moldering smell grew more acrid as the soil flattened out beneath her hands. A flat surface. And suddenly she was brushing dirt from a cardboard box.
“There’s a box.” Her fingers plunged into the dirt to seize the edges and extract the box from the earth.
The odor was cloying now—more foul than just the smell of potting soil laced with fertilizer. The box had markings on it—a decorative pattern, like those boxes you purchase to store things in your closet.
Everyone watched as Grace laid it gently on the ground and removed the lid.
Nervous anticipation was thick in her throat, and the odor that hit her made her gag and turn away. But not before she recognized the stench of death and the remains of a small body in the box.
She had just dug up a shallow grave.
Chapter 33
“What’s in the box?” Chelsea asked from down below. “Can you see?”
“Grace just picked it up and put it on the ground.” From his perch atop the garbage can, Leo had a clear view over the fence into Louise Pickler’s yard, but it was no substitute for being there.
“How big is the box, anyway?” Chelsea asked. “A jewelry box? A shoe box? Or bigger?”
“Bigger.” The muscles in his chest clenched when he saw Grace open the box and turn away. “Shit.” He jumped to the ground.
“What is it?” Chelsea asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s not good.” He took her hand and tugged her along, running around the fence to the gate in Louise’s yard.
The fresh grave was a horrible sight, surrounded by perplexed cops. Without a word Leo pushed his way into the circle of people and looked down into the box, at the small carcass dressed in a pink knitted sweater.
“Oh, my God!” Chelsea gasped. “The bones of a little baby.”
The foul odor brought tears to his eyes, but the sight wasn’t as bad as he expected.
“That’s not Annabelle.” Leo stared hard. “It can’t be.”
“What do you mean?” Grace asked.
Leo knew he was no expert, but he had been a bio major in college. “The decay of the carcass is way too advanced to be someone who was killed in the past thirty-six hours.”
“He’s right,” Detective Panteleoni agreed. “This thing is rotted down to the bone already.”
“And look at that skull.” Beneath the rotting sinew, Leo could see that the jaw was elongated. “It’s not human. It’s a canine . . . a cat or a dog or a wolf.”
“We’ll send the bones for analysis,” Grace said. “Just to be sure.”
“Why would someone put a dog in a pink knit sweater?” Chris Panteleoni asked.
“You’re talking about Louise Pickler,” Chelsea pointed out. “She’s always treated her dogs like humans.”
At that moment Louise appeared at the open gate with Officer Jefferson. “My Coco!” Pickler rushed toward the open box. She knelt beside it reverently, as if she’d been given a chance to say one last word to a dying friend. “Mommy’s baby girl.”
Leo turned to his wife, who watched the scene intently.
“Coco died down in South Carolina,” Chelsea told Leo quietly. “Did I tell you that? She must have hauled the dog’s body up here to bury it in the yard.”
“Ms. Pickler, are these the bones of a dog?” Detective Santos asked.
“My Coco. I came back to New York early when she died. I wanted to lay her to rest here in the yard she loved. And down in South Carolina, my sister Gwyn kept complaining of the bad smell, even though the box was wrapped tight in a garbage bag.”
“Your sister had a point,” Chris Panteleoni said. “Dead bodies smell, Ms. Pickler. Is that why your house has a bad odor?”
Pickler’s mouth formed a pout that reminded Leo of a monkey’s ass as she cuddled ChiChi close. “It’s not so bad. You get used to it, and it’s worth a little smell to have my loved ones close by.”
“You mean there are more dogs buried in this yard?” Jefferson asked.
She nodded. “Some in the yard. A few of them are in the crawl space under the house. That’s what I used to do when they died in the winter and the ground was too hard to dig up.”
“A pet cemetery.” Leo turned and marched out of the yard.
He’d had enough of crazy Louise and her canine dysfunctions.
He was done with the roller coaster of emotions involved in tracking down Annabelle’s abductor. The breathless chase when someone revealed himself, only to slam into a dead end.
“Leo . . .” Chelsea caught up with him by their side door.
“I’m done with this.”
“You’re giving up on Annie, just like that?”
“Of course not. But I’m done with the cops and our neighbors and the doctors. Everyone claims to help, but no one is willing to stick his neck out.”
“Grace has been trying to help.”
“It’s her job.” Leo put his hands on her shoulders. “Look, I won’t get in the way, and I’m not giving up. But there’s got to be a better way to find the person who took our baby.”
Chelsea locked her hands on his arms, her eyes unwavering. “If there is, we’ll find it,” she said. “Every time one of these leads falls short, I’m devastated, too. But part of me is relieved that crazy Louise didn’t take our baby. I want to find our baby healthy and whole. She’s out there, Leo. We just have to find her.”
There was certainty and clarity in her blue eyes. Chelsea was on solid ground again, and in the nick of time. With everything crumbling around them, they needed to hold on to each other.
He breathed again. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.” She released his arms and leaned into him. Her head fit into the crook of his neck, and her body felt soft against his chest. Once, that had been enough, but now they had a family. They had Annabelle.
“Leo?” someone called.
With a deep breath, Leo turned and saw Detective Panteleoni standing in the driveway.
>
The detective nodded. “Can I have a word?”
Chelsea breathed against him. “I’m going to make some breakfast for us.”
He watched as she moved up the porch steps. It was good to have his best friend back.
“Your next-door neighbor is quite a character,” Chris said. “I haven’t seen a commotion like that since my days on patrol.”
“Louise likes drama.”
“And how’s your wife doing?”
Leo looked toward the side door. “Better.”
“Grace mentioned that she’s suffering from PPD. That has to be hard.”
“It’s been a challenge, but she’s starting to come around. When this is all over, she’ll get the treatment she needs. Right now, the medication she’s on is sort of a Band-Aid.”
“That’s good. I understand she wasn’t really attached to Annabelle.”
“That’s not true. She loves Annie.” Leo shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Who told you that?”
“We’ve been talking to everyone we can find who knows you and your wife, Leo. That’s what we do.”
“I know, but who would say that?”
“Forget that. What I was wondering is, do you think she ever acted on the violent thoughts she was experiencing?”
Leo couldn’t believe Chris Panteleoni would talk to him this way. “So that’s where this is going?”
“I’m advocating for Annabelle here. Did your wife ever take it out on the baby? Even in small ways?”
“Chelsea would never do anything to hurt Annie.”
“But she was neglectful,” Chris pointed out. “That could have hurt your baby.”
“She would never try to hurt our daughter.”
“But it happens in these cases. I’m sure you’ve read the accounts of mothers who kill their babies—for whatever reason—then try to cover it up by calling it an abduction.”
“Really, detective? You think she killed the baby and hid the body?”
“Wow, you really cut to the chase there.” Chris shrugged. “Honestly? It happens. Sometimes women with PPD, they just snap.”
“Not this one.” Leo squared off, getting in Panteleoni’s grill. “You’re wrong about Chelsea. She loves Annabelle.”
“I believe that,” Chris said. “But sometimes love isn’t enough.”
As Chris crossed the lawn, Leo was left feeling like a fool. He wasn’t even home when Annie disappeared; what the hell did he know about what had happened?
But then, he knew Chelsea. She would never hurt their baby.
But she was neglectful, Chris had said, and that part was true.
Inside the house, Chelsea was pouring coffee for her friend from the magazine, Sasha Barman. Sasha had helped with the search last night.
“I can’t stay long today,” Sasha told Chelsea. “I just wanted to check in on you. I hope you don’t have the guilts just because of the way you’ve been feeling. A lot of new mothers get fed up and wish they could just return to their lives before the baby.”
And that was exactly what Chelsea had wanted after Annabelle was born. She had missed her old life, her job, and her independence. She had been stuck on the couch, mired in depression. She had been glad to have Leo take their baby from her arms . . . but none of those elements could combine into a toxic molecule. Discontent and depression were not a sure-fire formula for a killer.
“You can’t help the way you feel,” Chelsea said quietly. “But I have a lot of regret. I wish I could turn back the clock a few days, go back and redo that night.”
We all wish we could go back.
Facing away from the women while he poured himself another cup, Leo didn’t know what to think anymore. He didn’t want to play the “what if” game, casting his wife in scenarios colored with accusation. He didn’t want to think anymore. Thoughts led to guilt and anger and fear for his daughter. If he was going to get through this, he would have to shut down the terrible thoughts and move ahead on autopilot.
Doubt was a swamp, and he couldn’t afford to get stuck there right now.
He had to keep a clear head. That was what Annabelle needed.
Chapter 34
It was sad, having to force your way into someone’s home when she valued her privacy. Sad, but unavoidable. As Chris pushed open the front door of Louise Pickler’s house, Grace hoped that the woman wasn’t watching from the back of the patrol car, tears streaking her face.
Although it was against police procedure, Louise had wanted to wait in the police cruiser. Even in her time of duress, the bling of the patrol car seemed to lift her spirits. Fortunately, Jefferson didn’t mind.
“As long as we’ve got to be here, she can sit in there,” the young cop had said, and Grace had taken him up on it.
“Are we going for a ride?” Louise asked hopefully as Grace opened the door for her.
Jefferson shifted his cap back. “Uh-uh. No rides.”
“You’re such a hard-ass,” Louise said jovially as Grace closed the door.
Now, standing on the porch, Grace grew impatient as Chris struggled with the door.
“I’m not surprised,” he said as he rocked the door to get it clear of debris behind it. “Looks like Ms. Pickler is a hoarder.”
Seeing the stacks of old newspapers piled up to the ceiling and the layers of debris on the floor, Grace understood Louise’s fear and shame. The woman was a packrat, but she knew it wasn’t normal or healthy. It felt embarrassing to have strangers picking through the trash in her home.
Grace winced as cardboard and foil crunched underfoot. “I’m not going too far, Chris. With garbage like this, there’s bound to be an infestation.” Mice and rats. Roaches and silverfish. Sometimes even raccoons or squirrels.
“I guess we know why Louise wasn’t having the neighbors over for cocktails,” Chris said as he stepped carefully around a mound of plastic bins, jumbled clothes, and countless wrinkled plastic bags stuffed with cloth and papers.
A doll peeked out from one of them, her hair mangled. Grace could decipher buckets and a broom head, a torn lampshade and a radio with an open, empty battery cavity. There was a small plastic treasure chest, but no treasures here.
“Let’s bring the canine unit in,” Grace said. There was a trained dog to sniff for cadavers, and another that could search for Annabelle Green. Grace figured it was worth bringing them both in, just to be sure.
The search of the house would take hours. That was the thing with police work: One small part of an investigation could suck up an entire shift. Fortunately, Grace could do some searching on her iPhone. And it didn’t hurt to be right outside Chelsea and Leo’s house. There was a chance that a friend or neighbor they had forgotten to mention might drop in.
Already she’d seen Leo Green and a few friends from work head off to do a door-to-door search. It wouldn’t hurt, and she understood that it felt better to keep busy. She had seen Chelsea’s former boss, Sasha Barton, come and go. That Sasha had a real sense of style, stepping between small piles of dirty snow in those wedge heels that Grace avoided, sure she’d break an ankle on them. That long red coat would have screamed like a fire engine on anyone else, but Sasha swaggered to her car looking like a runway model. Last night, during the door-to-door search, Grace had learned that Sasha was from a big family and got her fill of kids through her nieces and nephews. Grace’s take was that she was a good friend and not envious of Chelsea’s baby. But that didn’t necessarily hold true for the other employees at the magazine. Grace needed a list of the staff members who had seen Annabelle when Chelsea took her to the office the previous week. It was on her “to do” list.
While Chris worked with the canine unit, Grace sat in her car and tinkered. A detective from the precinct had sent her an e-mail saying that Eleni Zika and her mother, Maria, had stopped in at the precinct so that Eleni could be fingerprinted. The girl was being cooperative.
Grace had an e-mail from one of her friends who worked for the local school system. Dolly had sent he
r the most recent transcripts for Armand Krispalian and Eleni Zika. Armand had a three point two, with math and science being his strong suits. Ironic, that he did okay but his parents didn’t really care. As for Eleni—poor kid—it looked like the events of the past year had taken their toll. Her GPA hovered dangerously on the brink of failure at one point nine. Of course, grades weren’t everything, as Matt reminded her whenever he tanked on a test.
Grace called Eleni’s home number and left a message for the girl’s mother, Maria. It was worth talking with the mom. More information was always better. But unless some earthshattering development came along, Grace was ready to rule out Eleni and her boyfriend.
Next she called the lab. Crash, the technician, told her that he hoped to have the toxicology results by tomorrow. “Maybe late today if we’re really lucky.”
Grace didn’t feel too lucky lately, not with baby Annabelle gone for more than twenty-four hours now. She thanked Crash, then shot off a prayer for the baby girl. Sometimes there weren’t words in her mind, but only a flash of a message. Emergency, God. Innocent baby. Loving parents. Make this right.
Looking over her notes—mostly a list of names with bulleted items under them—she noticed that there were very few bullets under Helen Rosekind’s name. Why had she and Chris had so much trouble finding any information on the baby nurse? Even law-abiding citizens left some paper trail. A driver’s license or registered vehicle. A phone listing. A mortgage. Even an account with the local cable company.
But Helen Rosekind was a blank . . . as if she didn’t exist. Chris had tossed it off, saying that she probably used her husband’s name for everything. It was a good theory, but Grace was eager to learn more about the nurse. She called the agency that booked the baby nurses as sitters and identified herself. Megan, the young woman on the phone, was polite, but when Grace tried to get some background on Helen Rosekind, she was stuck on “no.”
No information. No verification. No way.
“You would have to talk to my boss. In person. She says it’s illegal to release personnel records.”
“The rules change when it comes to a police investigation,” Grace said.
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