“So you’ve ruled her out as a suspect?” Ricci asked.
“Yes, sir. We’ve ruled out a few people close to the child.”
“What about the mother?” Jimmy asked.
“She’s suffering from postpartum depression, but I don’t think she harmed her daughter. My take is that Annabelle Green was targeted by a classic infant abductor, a woman who wants an infant to raise as her own.”
Pete Ricci nodded. “How can we help?”
“We would love to utilize some of your resources, certainly your data banks. And sometimes there’s just so much red tape we need to cut through to gain access to a person or some information that the FBI is able to snap up.”
“That can be arranged,” Pete said. “Get Jimmy here to help you with whatever you need. I already talked to Sgt. Hopkins about organizing a joint task force.”
Grace could easily imagine Hopkins’s reaction to that idea. Local police forces in the New York metro area were usually resistant to working with the FBI. Grace saw it as a competition, a territorial thing. “And what did he think of that?”
“He wants to give it another twenty-four. He thinks your department can handle it.”
“We’ve got it in hand. That said, we still haven’t recovered Annabelle Green.”
“Use us if you need us,” Jimmy said, handing her a card. “My cell’s on there. I’m still a team player, Grace.”
Grace wasn’t sure how she felt about working closely with Jimmy again, after so many years, but the investigation would move more quickly with the FBI’s resources. She pressed her thumb over the sharp corner of the card and tried to maintain her best poker face. “Thanks. I’m sure we’ll be calling.”
Chapter 35
Chelsea struggled not to become overwhelmed by the events of the morning . . . all the strained faces, eyes shiny with tears.
And the hands . . . the palsied hands of Mr. Kellog. The cold hands of Helen Rosekind, who came in the door without a coat. The hands that patted her back or squeezed her wrist. Hands that told her to hold on, be strong, keep it together . . .
As if she had a choice.
And then there were Sasha’s hands, smooth and soft, the color of cocoa. Sasha had beautiful hands with long fingers and perfect nails because she went for a manicure every Thursday after work. It had been a joke among the magazine staff: How could someone who worked at Home Handyman magazine have such pampered hands?
Sasha didn’t cook or clean. She had no intention of having a baby. Ever. “When you’ve got five siblings, you don’t need to have a baby of your own to be fulfilled,” she had told Chelsea time and again. “I have twelve nieces and nephews and that’s more than enough kid time for me. I want my own place and my own stuff. Call me selfish, but at least I know how I feel about kids and I’m embracing it.”
That morning, as she’d watched Sasha’s hands move whenever she talked—the girl could conduct a symphony of conversation—she couldn’t help but think of how things had been in Sasha’s home while she was growing up. Did her mother kiss each child good night, or did time feel too constricted to lavish it on gestures like that? Did Sasha share special secrets with her mom, like getting to stay up late and watch television in the big bed between Mom and Dad when she wasn’t feeling well? What was Mrs. Barton’s secret? She had managed to raise six children and push them from the nest to fly in the adult world. They had all grown up healthy and whole.
People did that all the time . . . and here she and Leo hadn’t been able to manage just one child. Her life had seemed overloaded with burden since Annabelle was born, but now that she was gone, Chelsea didn’t know what to do with herself. Any activity seemed selfish and futile when their little Annabelle was out there somewhere, at the mercy of someone else. Grace Santos kept reminding Chelsea that the typical infant abductor took excellent care of the baby she’d kidnapped. That was some comfort, though it was hard to get past the disturbing image of her baby’s face pressed to a stranger’s shoulder.
Mel and the kids had been a warm distraction. As usual, Emma had bolstered her with food and gentle words. The neighbors had stepped out of their comfort zones to show support. Annabelle’s sitters, too. There were gifts—bagels and fruit, bean soup and apples.
A houseful of people who cared. She should be grateful.
But they were taking time away from thinking about Annie.
And the morning had all the trappings of an Irish wake, the tradition of acquaintances stopping in to offer condolences and casseroles after someone died.
The strain. Somber voices and throats thick with emotion.
She wished she’d had the nerve to tell them all that Annie hadn’t died. She didn’t really want visitors, but she’d been drowning in the details, distracted by the search next door and the need to keep on her medication, keep drinking milk and pumping, keep strong for Annabelle.
What a relief when the plumber arrived and people took that as a cue to go home. Mr. Kellog needed to walk his dog. Eleni needed to return her mother’s car. People had dinners to prepare, houses to straighten up, children to put down for their naps. All around Chelsea life was moving on, spinning like the wheels of a car. But Chelsea felt her own wheels spinning in the air.
Going nowhere.
And she worried that she would never connect with the earth again.
She couldn’t touch the truth inside her, and that was scary.
How could she not remember? She was there, right? Why couldn’t she piece the details of that night together? The only things she could pull out of the void were a bright yellow outfit, a pig-out on muffins, and a disorienting phone call from her sister.
Some people thought it was a cover-up, a wild goose chase to distract from the fact that she’d killed her own baby.
Grace’s partner was clearly in that court. Chelsea had formed an attachment to Grace, but the woman’s partner was a different story. Detective Panteleoni watched her like an irate principal, as if he were just waiting to catch her doing something wrong.
When Helen Rosekind left, Chelsea saw Detective Panteleoni intercept her in the driveway and walk with her to her car. He’d been grilling her, interviewing and interrogating. Had he asked her about Chelsea’s inclination to neglect her daughter?
Or maybe Helen was a suspect? She imagined Helen stealing off with Annabelle in her arms, but the image was incongruous. Helen Rosekind was supremely professional, all about changing diapers, tidying up, and making money. It was hard to imagine her doing anything that would threaten her professional license.
No . . . Detective Panteleoni is probably just collecting evidence against me, Chelsea thought.
Proof of all the ways she was a terrible mother.
Chapter 36
“Who do we have an appointment with?” Chris asked as he drove toward Larchmont, the location of the agency Helen Rosekind used to book her nursing services.
“The manager of the agency, Iris Cantor. She might be the owner, too. It sounds like a small operation.”
“I’m telling you, that Nurse Rosekind isn’t quite so rosy,” Chris said. “When I tried to make small talk with her, she cut me off at the knees. Said she was in a hurry.”
“I had the same experience with her,” Grace said. “She’s a cold fish.”
“And get this . . . I walk her to her car, an old Honda Civic, and there’s a child safety seat in the backseat. The backwards kind, for a little baby. I asked her if she had a kid, and she said no. So I asked her what the seat was for. She said that sometimes clients ask her to transport their baby to doctor’s visits or outings, stuff like that. What do you think about that?”
Grace mulled it over. “It sounds reasonable. If she’s a full-time baby nurse, I suppose she would need a way to safely transport the baby in an emergency.”
“She’s no fan of Chelsea Maynard. The woman tried to be discreet. Said she felt bad for the mother, but if you read between the lines, she’s pointing a big fat finger at the baby’s mother.”
Grace frowned. Chris had been wanting to charge the mother since this thing began. “What’s Nurse Wretched saying about Chelsea?”
“Rosekind feels sorry for her, but she says Maynard is unstable. She wasn’t able to handle the baby. I have to say, I think she’s got a good point.”
“That seems too simple to me.”
“Sometimes it’s that simple. And yeah, I think we should talk to the DA about charging her.”
“Based on what the baby nurse thinks? What we really need is a break in the circle of people around Annabelle Green. I feel like we’ve been so busy chasing our tails that we’re missing someone who is right in front of us. Like Raquel Jarvis—that Brazilian woman with the immigration issues. You know, I might get my friend at the FBI to see what he can find on her.”
Chris winced. “The FBI? Do you really want to open that can of worms?”
“Jimmy is a good guy; he wouldn’t step all over the investigation.”
“He works for the FBI now.”
“And we’re coming up on forty-eight hours with Annabelle missing. We could use some help. I’m wondering if Jarvis is one of those women who has always longed for a big family. Maybe it was a simple impulse. She heard baby Annabelle howling out in the driveway and she picked her up. She took her home to warm up . . . took her inside . . . and then found it impossible to let go.”
“Mmm . . . I still want to blame the mother.”
“Mother hater.”
“Actually, I worked through that in therapy.” Chris grinned as he turned into a small parking lot of a four-story office building that seemed tired and dusty.
The RN agency was small—three employees and two shared offices—and Grace had been correct about Megan, whose eyes returned to the screen of her cell phone anytime she was not being addressed by the office manager.
Iris Cantor cut a nice appearance in a black pencil skirt and a polka-dot sweater set. She had them sit in the stern steel-and-navy-blue chairs in the waiting area, and instead of inviting them into the other office, she pulled up a chair for herself. Glancing into the next room, where a woman talked on the phone behind a pile of manila folders, Grace suspected there was no room to meet inside.
“So what’s this all about?” Iris asked. “Megan said you’re investigating one of our nurses?”
“Not exactly.” Grace noticed that Megan didn’t miss a beat texting at the mention of her name. “We’re just looking for some background information on one of your nurses. Helen Rosekind.”
“What kind of information?”
“A copy of her state license would be a start,” Chris said. “We weren’t able to verify that she’s licensed to work in the state.”
Iris twisted around toward the receptionist. “Megan, would you please pull Helen Rosekind’s file for me?”
The young woman nodded. “Where would that be?”
“Under Rosekind in the personnel files.” When Megan’s face remained blank, she added, “Those black file cabinets inside.”
While Megan went to fetch the file, Iris assured them that all their hires were background checked and fingerprinted. “And we make sure their certifications are up to date. That’s the service we provide for our clients. When they book a sitter through us, they’re paying extra, but they can rest assured that they’re getting a licensed nurse with a clean record.”
Megan returned with the file, looking proud as a squirrel who’d found an acorn she’d buried.
“Let’s see.” Iris leafed through the file. “Helen has worked for us for twelve years. Wow. She was here before I took over the agency. She gets excellent ratings from clients. I see a copy of her state nursing license here. Yes . . . everything seems to be in order.”
Grace was skeptical. “The nursing license. What’s the date on that?”
Iris pursed her lips. “Let’s see. It’s 2007.”
“And in New York State, a nursing license has to be renewed every three years,” Grace said. “Sounds like Helen Rosekind is behind on her renewal.”
“You’re right.” The woman sighed. “She may have renewed it and forgot to update our files.”
“I don’t think so, since the Board of Nursing doesn’t have her on their registry,” Grace said.
“Doesn’t someone in your office keep on top of certifications?” Chris asked.
“Absolutely.” Iris called into the second office. “Tina? Do you want to come out here and tell us how you handle the certifications?”
Moving slowly, the woman circled the desk and paused in the doorway. “I don’t do the certifications. That was always Sarah’s job.”
Iris rolled her eyes.
“Can we talk to Sarah?” Chris asked.
Iris shook her head. “She’s been gone for at least six months.” She twisted around to pin down the other two women. “Who’s going to keep up with this?”
“I was supposed to be trained for it,” Megan said, her wide eyes playing dramatic innocence. “But no one ever showed me how to do it.”
“Ms. Cantor? Can we take a look at Helen Rosekind’s records?”
Iris Cantor’s reluctance to share information faded in the face of her agency’s incompetence. She handed the file over.
Grace opened it and held it so that Chris could see.
The records were not what Grace had expected.
“According to this, Helen Rosekind is in her mid-sixties,” Chris said.
“That must be a mistake.” Grace pictured the woman in Chelsea’s house. Her skin was smooth; no lines around the eyes. “The woman we met today isn’t a day over forty.”
“The records must be wrong.”
“Nope. According to this, Rosekind passed her state nursing boards more than forty years ago. She can’t be forty now, unless she was a high-achieving infant.”
“Looks like Nurse Rosekind took a drink from the fountain of youth,” Chris said. “Either that, or the woman we met today is not Helen Rosekind.”
“Who did you meet today?” Iris asked.
Grace was busy copying information into her iPhone as Chris explained that they had thought they’d been speaking to Helen Rosekind, but it appeared that someone had been posing as her.
“You mean I’ve been scammed?” Iris asked.
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out,” Chris said as they headed out the door.
“Do you have an address for Rosekind?” Chris asked as they got into his car.
“She gave the agency a PO box.” They could get a subpoena, but that would take some time.
As Chris drove, Grace called the phone number Helen Rosekind had given her that morning. The call went through to electronic voice mail, saying that Clive Delgado was not available. “Wrong number,” Grace said. She checked the file from the agency; the number the woman had given her was off by one digit.
“Now that’s just rude. Did she think I wouldn’t find the number from the agency?” she said, quickly dialing the correct number. This time she got a generic voice mail message.
“Let’s go back to the precinct.” Chris made a quick right on red. “We can try the reverse directories.”
While Chris tried to track down Helen Rosekind’s address using the databases in the office, Grace did a wider search of Helen Rosekind. When she went back past five years, she started getting some hits on the sixty-seven-year-old Rosekind. Married to Ira Rosekind. Her name came up in newspaper articles as a member of the board for a local children’s hospital, along with the photo of a silver-haired woman with a benevolent smile.
When a black-and-white photo of a smiling woman with a fifties bob came up beside an obituary, Grace let out a gust of breath. “The real Helen Rosekind does not have a criminal past,” she said, “but she doesn’t have a future, either.”
“What’s that?” Chris asked.
“Her death certificate. Nurse Helen Rosekind is dead.”
Chapter 37
It was like a scene from a cozy TV drama, with a fire l
it in the living room and Leo cooking in the kitchen.
Anyone watching would never guess that they were missing their baby.
Chelsea dropped her book on the kitchen table and took a seat. She needed to be near Leo in the sweet smell of rolls baking in the oven, the warmth of pots on the stove. The pasta water started to boil over, and Leo adjusted the lid without missing a beat in his conversation.
“No, Dad, Chelsea didn’t see anything.” Leo wore his headset so he could cook hands-free. “She just didn’t. She was asleep.” He paced away from the stove, grabbed a bag of Italian cheeses from the fridge, and tossed a handful into the Florentine sauce.
He was making Chelsea’s favorite dish—turkey meatballs with spinach in a white cheese sauce—and she hadn’t even asked him for it. Ordinarily, the smells would have drawn her to the stove to sample the sauce, but food was just a staple now—a bitter pill to swallow. A way to stay healthy until Annabelle was back.
“Dad, I wasn’t here and Chelsea was asleep. It just happened, and we’re doing everything we can to work with the police to find Annabee.”
Chelsea put her head down on her book, its cover smooth and cool against her cheek. She could imagine Mitchell Green’s rapid-fire questions, and she was glad she couldn’t hear them. Similar questions still echoed through her mind, refusing to be silenced. Doubt was an oily sheen over her conscience, preventing any sense of peace from soaking in.
“Tell your dad I said hi,” Chelsea said, lifting her head. Sometimes an interruption got her father-in-law off the path of interrogation. Thankfully, her own father had been quiet but supportive. He had offered to fly up from Florida, but with his bad hip, she couldn’t imagine him hobbling onto a plane right now.
“Chelsea’s right here. She says hello.” Leo cocked an eyebrow at her and she made the signal for cut. “And I’ve got to get going, or I’ll burn the sauce.”
She looked down at the book, Your Baby’s First Year. Before Annie’s birth, she had read the entire thing through. Now, she’d checked in every few weeks to refresh her memory. Leo was fascinated by how Annie’s behaviors matched the descriptions of development. “You’re a textbook baby!” he always said when she squeezed his finger or followed him around the room with her eyes.
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