Dina Santorelli

by Baby Grand

  Andrews added, "That is, if you ever get sick of this place. And why would you?" He nudged Bob with his elbow.

  Bob had made quite the name for himself in legal circles, but this wasn't the first time the idea of national credentials entered his mind. The book deals, speaking engagements. Too bad Larry King already retired; Piers Morgan just didn't have the same cred.

  "Didn't Edward Carter work with Grand a few years back?" Andrews asked.

  "Nah," Bob said, annoyed that Edward's name had come up in conversation, not once, but twice in the past five minutes. "A liberal like Edward wouldn't be seen anywhere near Phillip Grand's employ." He thought a moment. "Although he did do a paper on Phillip Grand in law school that was published in some national journal. I can't remember which one." American Lawyer. August 2001.

  "Why would he want to do a paper on Phillip Grand?"

  "Oh, Edward's about seeing things from all sides, what makes people tick. He's probably more interested in people whose views are diametrically opposed to his than those who share his beliefs."

  "Sounds like an interesting guy. Some of the guys here were saying that Carter'd be a shoo-in for Grand's legal roundtable."

  Not if I can help it, Bob thought. Any interest that Bob had in joining the governor's little consortium had quadrupled at the thought of vying for a position against the incomparable Edward Carter and beating him.

  "You never know," Bob said. "May the best man win."

  Chapter 31

  It had been twenty-four hours since he'd heard from Jamie, and Edward was in complete panic mode. After calling in sick this morning, he contacted everyone she knew—even those he wasn't sure she knew—but she hadn't turned up. Trish said he was overreacting, that Jamie was a grown woman who may have decided to change her plans, take a trip, go off on an adventure—and maybe she had. But she would have called. Edward knew that. She always called. Every day. College. Marriage. Divorce. Not a day had gone by in the past who-knows-how-long that he hadn't spoken to his sister on the phone, most of the time just to say hi. Still, he had listened to Trish, as he usually did, and held off on filing a missing-persons report, hoping that Jamie would call or come home, and now he was regretting that decision. Who knows what could have happened by now? He picked up the phone and dialed 911.

  "I need to file a missing-persons report," Edward said when he heard a voice on the line.

  "Who is the missing person?" a female voice asked.

  "My sister."

  "What is her name?"

  "Jamie. Jamie Scott. No, no... it's Jamie Carter. That's her name. Her maiden name. She just got divorced. But she actually used it when she was married—she's a writer—so I guess it doesn't really matter that she's no longer married. Does it?" Edward was gasping for breath.

  "The more information you can provide me, sir, the better. And what is your name?"

  "Edward. It's Edward."

  "Carter?"

  "Yes."

  "How old is she?"

  "Thirty-two."

  "How long has she been missing?"

  "Twenty-four hours." Edward paced the kitchen floor. "I last heard from her yesterday afternoon."

  "Where was she?"

  "She was..." Edward stopped pacing. "I don't... know where she was. She had just come from a job interview. In Manhattan. She texted me. Said she was coming over for dinner."

  "And that's the last you heard from her?"

  "Yes."

  "Did she get it?"

  "Get what?"

  "The job, sir."

  "I don't know," Edward said, annoyed. "But it didn't sound like it went well. Does that matter?"

  There was a pause on the line.

  "Listen, I know what it sounds like," Edward said. "Just got divorced. Bad interview. Been out of a job for nearly a year..."

  "A year?"

  "It's a tough job market, okay?" Edward opened the kitchen window. "Jesus."

  "Okay, sir, calm down."

  But Edward wasn't calm. He realized how this all sounded.

  "Wait, wait... You need to know," he continued. "I'm not calling because I think she... you know... she, um... she would never..."

  "Sir, let's take this one step at a time, all right?"

  "Okay."

  "All right, what does your sister look like?"

  "What?"

  "Your sister, sir. What does she look like?"

  Edward flashed back thirty years to a muggy summer's day on Long Beach Island on the Jersey shore. His mother—tall, beautiful—was packing up the plastic pails and shovels that had been left scattered along the sand and bringing them to the water to rinse out. He and Jamie were removing the pairs of shoes they had placed on the corners of their blanket so that they could fold it. A sudden storm was approaching from the south, causing a mass exodus from the beach, and Edward had turned to marvel at the speed with which the dark clouds were advancing. When he turned back around, Jamie was gone.

  "Where's Jamie?" his mother asked, her chapped lips creasing as she smiled. She dropped a stack of pails onto a beach chair.

  "I... I..." Edward stammered. "She was... just here."

  His mother's freshly sun-kissed face went white. She turned her head from side to side. "Jamie!" she yelled. "Jamie!"

  But there was no answer. No giggling of "Peekaboo!" His mother ran up to the large woman who had been sitting on a lounge chair next to them all afternoon. "Have you seen my daughter?" The woman shook her head. She stopped an old man who was heading toward the boardwalk. "Have you seen my daughter?" No. "Have you seen a little girl about this big, two years old?" No. No. No.

  The sky grew darker. A slight breeze blew. This is my fault, Edward thought. At the tender age of five, he felt an intense protectiveness for his little sister, particularly since his father had left them the year before, making him the "man of the house," as his mother used to say. Wracked with guilt, he started to run. He heard his mother calling, "Edward! Edward!" But he just kept going. Where was she? Had someone taken her? The thought of something happening to his sister made his belly hurt. He spotted a policeman stationed on a horse on the boardwalk and ran to him.

  "Sir," Edward called out in his tiny voice. "My sister is missing."

  "What did you say, son?" The officer got off his horse and bent down to hear him. Edward imagined how his scared but determined little self must have looked trying to be brave.

  "My sister. She's missing," young Edward repeated.

  "What does she look like?"

  What does she look like?

  Edward remembered being put off by this question; he had never really looked at Jamie before. "She's two," he answered. "She's wearing a white T-shirt. She has brown hair. Green eyes. Smiles a lot."

  Even at such a young age, Edward could feel an encroaching sense of dread as he gave the policeman what he knew was not a very vivid description. He had seen dozens of children on the beach that day who looked like that. As the seconds passed, there was also the horrible feeling that life as he knew it was over, that he would never be the same. His mother would never be the same.

  The officer pulled his walkie-talkie from its holster, when Edward saw his mother running toward him, waving her arm frantically. "Edward! Edward! I found her!" she yelled, pointing to the bundle she was carrying in her other arm.

  "Is that your mother, son?" the police officer asked, but Edward was already running back down the beach and into his mother's free arm.

  "Sir, are you there?" the voice on the phone grew concerned.

  "I'm here," Edward said, wiping his brow.

  "Can you tell me what your sister looks like?"

  "Yes," Edward said. "She's about five foot five, about 140 pounds, maybe. Brown hair. Green eyes." He paused. "Smiles a lot."

  "All right, I need you to fill out a complete missing-persons report. We have a form online that you can use, or you can come to Pier Ninety-Four, which is at Fifty-Fourth and Twelfth Avenue. Although we do have a Long Island office..."
<
br />   "No, no, Fifty-Fourth and Twelfth. She was in Manhattan. I'm sure of it."

  "Please be sure to bring photographs, dental records, personal articles, and any other identifying information about your sister."

  "All right. Thank you."

  Edward tossed the phone onto the couch. The mad rush of adrenaline he'd felt earlier had been replaced by an abrupt malaise, triggered by the memory of the beach. Edward had never recovered from the incident—even though his mother had told him, again and again, that it wasn't his fault, that he was only a baby himself, that Jamie had simply walked away, watching her feet in the sand under the cover of the exiting crowd. But Edward felt that he'd let his mother down, and he had spent the rest of his life trying to make up for it.

  And now his sister was missing again.

  Where in the hell am I going to find dental records, Edward wondered. He couldn't recall seeing anything like that. Then he remembered that when Jamie was in the third grade, the local precinct had visited her elementary school to talk about stranger danger and had fingerprinted all the kids. Edward knew he had those somewhere packed up in the garage.

  And photos. He needed photos. The most recent ones he had were online, posted like everybody else's on Facebook, particularly so that Aunt Clara in Arizona could see them. He ran upstairs to his home office and logged on to his laptop computer. Out of habit, he first checked his email. Tons of garbage, but nothing from Jamie. He opened Facebook and saw on his news feed that Bob and six of his friends had changed their profile photo. From the thumbnail, it looked as though it were a photo of Bob standing next to a red car.

  "Asshole," Edward muttered.

  He scrolled down the page and stopped. Jamie's name appeared. Written next to it was "Help Albany Charlotte."

  He looked at the time stamp: 10:23 a.m.

  Edward leaned back in his swivel chair and exhaled. She was alive. And then without giving himself more than a moment of relief, he hunched over his keyboard, clicked open a comment box just below a person named Ralph Beckman who had written, "Help Buffalo Raleigh," and he typed, "Where r u??"

  He pressed share and folded his arms across his chest, watching the computer, half-expecting Jamie to reply immediately, his fear now mixed with anger. Why hadn't she called? She knew he'd be anxious to know where she was. While he was waiting, Edward also checked Twitter, Google+, LinkedIn, and any other social networking site he could think of, but there was nothing.

  Tricia's words rang in his ears. "She's a grown woman, Edward!"— Tricia's go-to mantra whenever they argued about Jamie—"you're so goddamned overprotective. She can do what she wants. She doesn't have to report to you."

  Edward felt a bit embarrassed at the thought that Trish had been right, that Jamie was fine, and that he had jumped the gun.

  He looked at her post again. "Help Albany Charlotte."

  What did that mean?

  Edward refreshed the page to see if she had answered, but he already could see that she wasn't logged on to her profile. He picked up his phone to call her again, but he'd already sent dozens of texts and voicemails. He put the phone down, clicked out of the news feed and onto his profile, and scanned through his photos. He stopped at one that was taken last Christmas of him and Jamie holding up the matching wool sweaters that they'd received from Aunt Clara. There she was. Smiling. Happy.

  Help Albany Charlotte.

  Help...

  Albany ...

  Charlotte...

  Edward studied Jamie's face, the way her arm was draped over his shoulder.

  Help...

  Help...

  Help...

  "Overprotective, my ass," he griped.

  He printed the photo and another, and then he ran downstairs and out into the garage to find those tiny fingerprints.

  Chapter 32

  Jamie looked down the meadow at the stream of rushing water. So this was the source of the noise, she thought. The river wasn't a wide crossing, perhaps about fifty feet across, and she wondered how deep it was and how quickly it would take her to swim its width with a baby in tow. She wasn't the strongest swimmer, but she did have practice in carrying small children across pools until she thought her legs were going to fall off. How different could this be?

  It distressed her that she was relieved to see Bailino return to the log cabin, but it was getting difficult to keep ducking Leo, which she'd been doing all morning and afternoon. He followed her from room to room, asking if she were hungry, wanted to lie down, needed a massage. She must have changed Charlotte's diaper fifteen times for no reason other than to have something to keep her busy and away from him.

  The gurgling of the water had drawn the attention of Charlotte, who was walking beside her, and the little girl pulled Jamie's hand in the direction of the river.

  "No, no, honey, we can't go there." Jamie picked Charlotte up so that she wouldn't fall on the smooth pebbles that had replaced the firm terrain of grass and dirt.

  "Why not?"

  Even though she knew he was directly behind her, the sound of Bailino's voice startled Jamie anyway. "There's no one around for miles," he continued, as if reading her mind. "Let her get wet. Have some fun. You know, after what she's been through."

  When Bailino had suggested that she and Charlotte go for a walk with him, she immediately thought he had discovered her Facebook post and that this was it. She hesitated by the back doors, remembering the ball of blonde hair by the vegetable garden, the swing of the shovel, the steely look in his eyes at Bryant Park. But they had been walking for fifteen minutes, and he had pretty much stayed a few feet behind them the whole time. The others were playing cards again on the backyard table, with the exception of Leo, who said he was going for a drive, and Joey, who was watching SpongeBob SquarePants.

  Walking there in the woods, with Bailino's presence looming behind her, Jamie remembered a freelance article she'd written years before about a forest ranger, Joe Buck, who had saved a pair of teenagers from a wolf attack in Oregon. Buck had visited Long Island during the tail end of his promotional tour for his book: The Teens Who Cried Wolf. He had told the bookstore crowds—none of whom, Jamie ventured, would ever come into contact with the animal—that when confronted by a wolf, it was unwise to stare directly into his eyes for he considered that a challenge. Jamie imagined Buck's wolf didn't have the habit of saying, "Please look at me when I talk to you."

  Charlotte grabbed the side of Jamie's face and tried to worm her way out of her arms, pointing toward the water.

  "No, honey."

  Charlotte pointed again, this time with more emphasis.

  "I think the decision's been made," Bailino said.

  "I just don't think it's a good idea," Jamie said. "She's still not that steady on her feet. She's been falling all morning."

  Bailino stepped over a large rock so that he was standing between her and the river. He reached out for Charlotte with two hands, palm-side up, like a well-meaning relative at a family reunion. Charlotte recoiled.

  Bailino stared out into the water. "You know, loyalties are an interesting thing," he said. "They tend to shift depending upon what you want. Don't you think?"

  Jamie, who was focusing on a piece of dirt on Charlotte's shirt, was silent.

  This was it.

  "I asked you a question. Please look at me when I talk to you."

  "No." She looked into Bailino's eyes. "I don't think that's true."

  Bailino smirked and shifted his feet. The sides of his loafers were wet and darker than the rest of the shoes. He looked amused.

  "Really. Why?"

  "I... just..." Bailino's eyes were boring into her, and she was struggling for the words.

  "You're free to say whatever you like," he said.

  "I just think that..." She thought about what Joey had said, about keeping quiet, and about whether these would be her last words.

  "You think... what?"

  "I think true loyalty isn't something that can be bought or... frightened into som
eone. Or changed on a whim. I think it's something that develops over time." She lifted Charlotte higher in her arms. "I think it's something that runs deep. When you're loyal, nothing can break it." Suddenly, she couldn't stop talking. "I think when someone has been a loyal friend or person, you know that you should always give them the benefit of the doubt even if you suspect disloyalty." Would that be enough to save her if Bailino discovered the Facebook comment? She didn't know.

  "Hmmm... So you're saying that loyalty is something you learn?"

  "It's something you earn," Jamie said.

  Bailino looked out at the water. His heavy breathing, which she had become used to hearing, was inaudible so close to the river.

  "So we both agree that loyalty is not something you're born with," Bailino said.

  "No... Well..." Jamie stammered. The thought of finding common philosophical ground with Bailino repulsed her. "I guess what I'm saying is that I think loyalty is steadfast." She squeezed a small mosquito that landed on Charlotte's cheek; she could feel them biting her legs. "I think that if you're committed to something, then the right thing is to go through with it. If it's real loyalty, then there's nothing... nothing that can break that bond, even if you have misgivings."

  Charlotte grabbed Jamie's face and pointed again to the water.

  Bailino was quiet, which made Jamie anxious. She wanted to show that she was smart and capable, but now wondered if she had made any sense at all. Maybe she should have stayed quiet—she had a tendency to ramble, particularly when she was nervous, her point getting lost in a string of non sequiturs, or so Bob, the debate king, liked to tell her. She flinched when Bailino held out his hands again.

  "Don't you want to go to the water?" he asked Charlotte. His voice was gentle, in a way Jamie had never heard it before. His eyes had softened, the deep creases on his forehead relaxed.

  Confused, Charlotte looked at Jamie and then back at Bailino. She didn't know what to do. Then, slowly, Charlotte took her arms from around Jamie's neck and just let them flop down. She leaned away from Jamie in Bailino's direction.

  "That-a-girl," Bailino said, scooping her up. He held Charlotte in his right arm capably, in a way in which she was both comfortable and secure, as if he'd been holding children his whole life, and headed straight for the water, his feet now submerged. As the pair walked away, Charlotte turned in Jamie's direction and extended her hand to signal that she wanted Jamie to follow along.