Promises to Keep

by Susan Crandall

All of her warm thoughts of Mickey being a nice girl were snatched from her mind. Molly held the baby tighter, fighting the instinct to shove the girl backward, away from the house—away from Nicholas. Another reality smacked her in the face. How was she going to protect him from his father if she couldn’t be with him every minute? What if the man waited until there was a sitter here . . . then. . . She shook her head. She had to remind herself: Simplicity. One step at a time.

  Her fear must have shown on her face, because Mickey blushed and said, “You can talk to my mom first. I have references.” She hesitated. “Don’t feel obligated just ’cause I’m next door.”

  Molly forced a smile. “It’s not that. Not at all. I just haven’t thought about leaving him yet. Of course you’ll be the first one I call.” There, that was pretty normal-sounding. Rational. Most new mothers didn’t like to leave their babies the first time.

  Mickey just nodded, her silky blond hair falling over her blushing cheeks. As she started to turn around, she paused. “You’re Riley Holt’s aunt, aren’t you?”

  Molly smiled and gave a nod. “Are you friends with Riley?”

  The girl hesitated, a pained expression crossed her face. “I used to be.” Then she hurried down the porch steps and headed toward her own house.

  The hurt in the girl’s eyes was genuine, but Molly didn’t have long to wonder over what had passed between her nephew and Mickey because the delivery truck pulled up.

  Two hours later, Nicholas was asleep in his newly assembled crib. Molly took the quiet time to unpack her few belongings. She took her Tinkerbell clock and placed it on the fireplace mantel in the living room. Molly realized how silly it appeared, this starkly bare living room with its one accessory a juvenile memento. But she didn’t care. Looking at that clock gave her the sense that time would move on and things would work out. The flow of her life, although diverted, would soon find a normal channel in which to run. She took the key and wound up the clock, then nudged Tinkerbell into her back and forth motion, ticking away the seconds.

  Dean arrived back in the United States on Sunday. He didn’t want to admit it, but the trans-Atlantic trip had just about sucked the life out of him. He took a taxi home, and endured the enthusiastic greeting of his landlady. Then he staggered into his rented room, dropped his suitcase, and collapsed on the bed with his clothes still on.

  On Monday he defied yet another boss’s order and returned to work. He sat in Smitty’s office, letting the man vent, tuning out all but the most abrasive of comments. He knew from experience it was best to just let the old man wind down on his own. Any attempt at defense or argument only prolonged the verbal lashing.

  Finally Smitty got to the meat of the matter. “Of course you’ll take a few weeks off.”

  “I’ve already taken over a week off.”

  “You can’t think I’m going to send you back over there.”

  He tried to appear indifferent, but inside his relief was undeniable. Time and clearheadedness had given him the opportunity to realize just how lucky he’d been. He wasn’t quite ready to be shot at again. Lifting a shoulder he said, “You’re the boss.”

  “Damn right. And you’re not going on assignment for a lo-ong time. Maybe I’ll let you cover Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.” He honed his dark eyes in on Dean, most likely in an attempt to appear menacing.

  Dean tried to oblige and appear contrite. “Of course.”

  “Get on out of here and clean up that pigsty you call a desk. The mail alone should occupy you for a week.”

  Dean walked to his work station. His heart sank when he saw the cartons of mail. His voice mailbox was undoubtedly full too, as he hadn’t been able to check it for over two months. He picked up the mail cartons and dropped them on the floor. Then he sat in his chair and took in the view. Jesus, it had been a long time since he’d looked at life from this perspective: fabric-covered modular walls, tidy shelves of reference books, beige file cabinets, paperclips in a magnetic holder. He could hardly breathe. Now he was going to be stuck here for who knew how long.

  He picked up the telephone and dialed his sister. He hadn’t called her since before they met for Christmas; he had to dig the scrap of paper with her number on it from his wallet.

  Man, was she going to be surprised to hear he was home. Maybe they’d go out to dinner tonight; someplace nice and quiet so they could catch up. There used to be this little place over on 52nd Street. He wondered if it was still there.

  On the second ring he got a recorded message saying the number had been disconnected.

  Puzzled, he rechecked the number and dialed again.

  Same recording.

  He then tried her work number. A man answered her extension.

  “Hello, this is Dean Coletta, Julie’s brother. May I speak to her, please?”

  The man cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Ms. Coletta is no longer with us.” His tone said Dean should be well aware of this fact.

  “Can you tell me where I might reach her?”

  “Mr. Coletta, let me give you to my supervisor.”

  Before Dean could ask anything else, he was shifted to Muzak. Shortly thereafter, a woman came on the line.

  “I understand you’re Julie Coletta’s brother?”

  “Yes. What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Coletta, I’m going to have to refer you to NYPD.” She read a number to him.

  He didn’t even have anything to write with. He flung open a desk drawer and rifled through with shaking fingers. “What has happened to my sister?”

  After a pause, the woman said, “We’ve been instructed to have everyone call that number.” She took a breath, as if deciding whether or not to break the rules. Then she said, “I really don’t have much to offer you. She simply stopped coming to work.”

  “Like she quit?”

  “No, just stopped showing up. No one knows why.”

  “When?” His mouth went dry as perspiration broke out on his forehead.

  “It’s been over six months now.”

  “Six months!” Dean’s gut felt like a writhing snake. Sweat trickled down his sides.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s that NYPD number again?”

  She gave it to him. “Mr. Coletta, I do hope you find her.”

  With his head spinning, but unwilling to wait another second, he called. It took six transfers to finally find the detective assigned to his sister’s case. Each time he was put on hold seemed endless. He ended up with Missing Persons. Jesus. Then a practical little voice buried deep in his head said, at least it’s not homicide.

  He couldn’t even swallow.

  It took the detective five minutes to track down the file. It obviously was not on the top of his to-do stack.

  The entire conversation was completely unsatisfactory. According to the PD, Julie had closed her bank accounts, sold her car, and walked away from her life. Nothing criminal in that. She’d left her apartment full of furniture. After investigating the scene, they had allowed the super to have her things put in storage. They had interviewed her fellow workers, her neighbors and acquaintances and not come up with a clue.

  It all seemed totally impossible. Julie—responsible, pragmatic, intelligent, courteous Julie—would not simply have picked up and walked away from her job—her life—without telling someone.

  The detective assured Dean that the case was still open. Whatever the hell that meant. The more Dean pushed, the more disinterested the detective sounded. It was clear he had concluded Julie had left the city of her own free will.

  Well, Dean was an investigative reporter. He’d damn well see it done right himself.

  First, he had to know if Julie had tried to contact him. If she was making a change like this, of course she would have. Anything else screamed foul play in Dean’s mind.

  He questioned Smitty. Julie had been instructed always to contact Smitty if she needed him. If she had and the old man hadn’t gotten word through to him . . . but Smitty swore he hadn’t hea
rd a peep from Julie.

  It took seventy minutes for Dean to go through his voice mails. None were from Julie. There was one from the detective he’d just spoken to at NYPD—the fact that the man never followed up spoke volumes to him about the thoroughness of this investigation.

  Then Dean went into the men’s room and locked himself in a stall. Silent tears of frustration and fear forced themselves beyond his control. A stony resolve settled in his heart. It was up to him. He was going to find his sister.

  That lightness he’d felt when anticipating a rare impromptu dinner with his sister transformed into a lead band constricting his heart. He didn’t have a good feeling about this at all.

  On the eighth day of his quest, Dean hung up from yet another fruitless phone call. He’d studied a copy of the police report. He’d interviewed everyone he could think of. He’d looked through her things, which were now boxed and stored in the basement of her apartment building. He’d even gone to the head of the department at Juile’s workplace and threatened that if she’d been working on something that had resulted in her disappearance, he was going to use all of his journalistic power to bring it to light. Now he was making stabs in the dark. He hadn’t slept more than catnaps in days.

  He had been using his desk at the The Report because he couldn’t stand the nerve-wracking quiet of his tiny rented room. He concentrated better with the buzz of people around him. Also, from here it was easier to put the considerable resources of the magazine to work for him. For all the good it was doing; he’d sent out missing persons reports by the boatload, checked to see if a new bank account or credit card had been opened in Julie’s name or social security number, and spoken to everyone he could find who knew his sister, but hadn’t come up with a single lead.

  Before he could get up and refill his coffee, the phone rang.

  He snatched it up, his nerves raw from frustration. “Coletta.”

  “Mr. Coletta, this is Detective McMurray with Boston PD. I think I may have a Jane Doe who matches the description of your missing person, Julie Coletta.”

  Dean’s chest grew tight. He’d been through this three times before. Three times he’d marched into a morgue to view a body. Three times his insides turned liquid as the moment approached. Three times, it hadn’t been Julie.

  Still, the crushing weight of dread robbed him of his breath. He managed to say, “In the morgue?”

  “Yes. Do you want us to send a fax for a preliminary ID?”

  “No.” He knew the only thing worse than finding his sister in a morgue would be to preview a photo of her dead body, then go to make the identification in person. “I’ll come up.” He looked at his watch. It was only nine-thirty. “I’ll be there this afternoon.”

  It was four-thirty when Dean was escorted to the morgue. The sound of his footfalls competed with Detective McMurray’s as they echoed off the concrete block walls of the hallway. They passed a man in his mid-sixties walking in the other direction. His head was bowed and he pressed a handkerchief to his face.

  Dean’s gut reacted, threatening revolt.

  This routine didn’t get any easier. In fact, it grew harder each time. With every step Dean took, his mind calculated how much greater the odds were that it could be Julie.

  In the three previous instances, he hadn’t experienced the rush of relief he’d expected when the body hadn’t been Julie’s. On the contrary, he felt depressed and a little guilty for the hope he still held as he stood next to someone else’s dead kin.

  Detective McMurray explained where this body had been found, then said, “Cause of death was a gunshot to the head, small caliber, no exit wound.”

  That was her nice clinical way of saying the victim’s face hadn’t been blown off.

  Dean’s stomach did a double flip before the knot tightened further in his abdomen.

  McMurray said, “This Jane Doe had given birth shortly before her death. Was your sister pregnant?”

  He wished he could say no and turn around and walk out of here. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  She pulled a door open and held it for Dean to enter the viewing area.

  As he stepped inside, he felt the walls close in on him. He tried to take a steadying breath, but it only served to make him nauseous.

  “Ready?”

  He nodded.

  Julie looked as if she’d been carved out of wax—a ghoulish reproduction of his beautiful sister.

  Dean tried to swallow, but found he couldn’t. He also couldn’t speak. He turned away, unable to give voice to defeat.

  “Mr. Coletta. I need you to affirm that this is your sister.” She paused. “A nod will suffice.”

  He felt like a coward—a shameful, disgusting coward. He turned around and looked at the ashen skin and matted hair. He needed to give his sister the respect she deserved. “Yes,” he said. “That is Julie Coletta.”

  In that second, the most selfish, most pitiless thought entered his mind. He was alone. His family was gone.

  It was horrible. His sister had died alone, been dumped like garbage under a bridge, and he could only think about how abandoned he felt.

  Chapter 5

  At four-thirty Hank Brown sat alone at the bar in the Crossing House. The way he stared into the bubbles in his beer and absently turned the base of his glass in slow, quiet circles told Benny the man had something on his mind. It was rare that Brownie came in and sat in quiet introspection. He was generally a man with an easy manner and quick smile. He also didn’t normally show up until after six in the evening. All together, this set Benny’s radar off.

  “So,” Benny asked as he continued to dry glasses, getting ready for the evening rush, “how are things at the shop?”

  Brownie owned the best garage in Glens Crossing, ran it the old fashioned way, with attention to detail and customer service. Benny couldn’t imagine the man’s troubles had anything to do with his business. Same for his marriage. He and his wife, the most placid and amicable woman Benny had ever met, had been married for thirty years without so much as a ripple to disturb their domestic peace. He didn’t have children to torment him. What could have him so bothered?

  Brownie nodded slightly, keeping his gaze on his beer. “Garage is fine.”

  “Good. Good.” Benny kept his hands busy, his eyes averted—best not to look like he was nosing in Brownie’s business. But his demeanor was so out of character, Benny worried about him. Brownie was first and foremost a friend.

  As Benny searched for possible reasons for Brownie’s upset, a thought occurred to him. Brownie’s Aunt Rose ran the office at the garage. She was an amazingly straightforward dynamo, topped with dandelion fuzz that fooled most people into thinking an old woman lived in that body. She and Brownie were especially close. Maybe there was something with her health.

  He asked, “Aunt Rose okay?”

  “Fine.”

  Benny tried to prod the conversation forward. “She’s one amazing woman. How old is she now? Eighty?”

  In the same distracted tone, Brownie answered, “Eighty-five.”

  Benny whistled. “Sure hope I’m in that kind of shape at her age.”

  Brownie nodded and shifted in his seat. Then he raised his eyes to look at Benny for the first time since the beer had landed in front of him. It was clear he had something that he felt needed saying.

  “Something on your mind?” Benny asked, setting the glass and towel on the bar, showing Brownie he had his undivided attention.

  Brownie rolled his lips inward, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I feel a little funny talking about this . . . but Aunt Rose . . . she’s dinged and donged at me all week long. I finally couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “We’ve known each other most of our lives. Speak up.”

  Brownie shifted uncomfortably. “Well, Aunt Rose is worried . . . I mean she thinks . . . aw, hell.” He ran his calloused hand over his short bristly hair. He finally let the words come in a rush, as if suddenly anxious to be rid of them.
“Have you seen Molly lately?”

  Benny straightened, drawing back slightly. He picked the towel back up. “Been a few days.”

  “A few days?” Brownie’s voice was skeptical.

  “Okay. Weeks. What’s the problem?”

  “Rose says nobody’s seen her. She’s been back in town for a month—”

  “She’s busy,” Benny said brusquely.

  Brownie slid off his stool. “And you know this because . . . ?”

  Faye, Benny’s companion who worked in the bar and continually vacillated between being his comfort and his frustration, appeared behind his shoulder, her hair a russet cloud around her face and her green eyes snapping with fire. “He don’t know anything.” She jabbed a red polished nail into Benny’s shoulder. “And that’s because he’s as stubborn as my granddaddy’s plow mule.”

  Benny suddenly envied Brownie with his placid wife—Faye was a firecracker. He usually liked that about her, the fact that she constantly challenged him. But not when it came to this particular subject.

  “She’s busy,” Benny said again, then turned around and walked back toward the kitchen. It was none of anyone’s goddamn business if he’d seen his daughter or not—not even Faye’s.

  As he walked away, he heard Faye and Brownie discussing him in hushed tones. That just burned his balls. Faye had been playing the same song for weeks: You’re missing your grandson’s infancy. Punishing Molly like this is a little like shutting the barn door after the cow’s gone a runnin’ into the storm. That baby’s here now, he’s not going away. Both he and his mother could use your support. She whined around day after day like a broken record. Well, he hadn’t seen Riley much as a baby, and that never hurt anything. They had a great relationship—went fishing every couple of weeks.

  This deal with Molly—that was different. How could he condone what she’d done? She had worked so hard; they’d all made sacrifices so she could be a doctor, have an easy future . . . respect—something he’d wanted for her more than anything. Every time he thought about how she’d thrown her life away—a single mother, that’s what they called it these days. Well, that wasn’t what they’d called it when he was young. They had another name entirely. People were going to have a hey-day with this one, just like they did when Molly’s mother took off.