Dina Santorelli

by Baby Grand

  Jamie looked at Charlotte, who now had the empty cup by her mouth and was trying to drink from it. Somebody taught this little girl sign language.

  "Are you saying more, sweetie?"

  "Mo, mo, mo!" Charlotte squealed, bringing the fingertips of her hands together once again. She held the cup out to Jamie, who took it and scooped more water into it. When she poured it over Charlotte's head, the little girl clapped wildly, chanting, "Mo, mo, mo!"

  From the bedroom, Bailino watched, hidden behind the half-closed door. He was impressed by the confidence with which Jamie handled the little girl, the way she reprimanded her when she thought she was being impolite, the way one hand held her firmly while the other washed, shampooed, and poured like a machine. Or a mother. It was obvious that Jamie had had practice with small children. He imagined she had teaching experience or perhaps her brother Edward had kids—he had seen children in the photos on her phone. Something had told him when he first saw her walking around, looking for a place to sit, at Bryant Park that she was the one. It was the honesty of her face, her smile, her politeness; there was a refreshing unsophistication about her, a naiveté, a purity that he was drawn to. He thought about their conversation in the woods, the utter disbelief on Jamie's face when Charlotte had come to him willingly, and the first time they made love, and he smiled.

  Jamie's T-shirt had gotten wet, and Bailino could see the outline of her nipples poking through her bra and shirt, which roused him; he stepped away from the door and into the bedroom.

  Charlotte was now pouring cupfuls of water down the wall tiles and watching the drops make their way back into the tub as Jamie held her with two hands. She tried to stand up.

  "No, no," Jamie said. "Not in the tub. You'll get hurt."

  Undeterred, the little girl poured another cupful of water, and as it weaved its way down the grout lines of the tile, Jamie's thoughts turned to escape. It was going to be difficult. She was rarely left alone, unless she was in the upstairs bedroom or bathroom. It was true that when she was outdoors, although they watched, they gave her a long leash, but not enough to give her a good head start, particularly if she were carrying twenty pounds of baby.

  Charlotte threw her head back in laughter. She poured more water down the wall until she stopped and let out a big yawn. Jamie knew how quickly children could decelerate and, sure enough, Charlotte dropped the cup into the bathwater, blinking her eyes lazily.

  Jamie released her hand a little from Charlotte's back and reclined her until the little girl was lying straight back and resting on her right hand. She lifted Charlotte up and down in the water, causing tiny waves to ripple along the sides of the bathtub, marveling at how pliant she was, how restful and trusting, and how easy she was to hold in the water. Jamie submerged her more until everything except her head was underwater and with her left hand, Jamie smoothed down the wet curls from Charlotte's face, her hair floating out in all directions. She looked like a pudgy little mermaid. Charlotte's eyelids drooped as the water caressed her cheeks.

  The water. Jamie thought about the river. They had seen those people in canoes, but there was no relying on when the next one would paddle by. She had to get across. It was the only way. But with a baby?

  Jamie took a deep breath and lowered her hand further down into the bathwater until its surface crept up over Charlotte's ears. She held her there, and Charlotte opened her eyes wide, perhaps confused by the change of sound and sensation, but then closed them again.

  "It's all right, sweetie," Jamie soothed.

  Charlotte's lids opened at the sound of her voice, and their eyes met. Then they closed again. Jamie had the little girl's complete and total trust. She glanced at the bathroom doorway. No one was there.

  Then she lowered her hand to the bottom of the tub, and the child's head went with it, submerging completely.

  Chapter 37

  Before Jamie could lift Charlotte up out of the water, the little girl's survival instincts kicked in, and she pushed herself forward with a jolt. Gasping for air, eyes closed, Charlotte reached in Jamie's direction to get out of the bathtub at once. She coughed up tiny drops of water, her pale, wet face blotched red from the strain, her confused wails bouncing off the ceramic tiles.

  "It's okay, it's okay, I'm sorry." Jamie only wanted to dip her quickly, just to see. She pulled Charlotte out and onto her lap and was patting her back when Bailino stormed inside the bathroom.

  "What the hell happened?" he roared.

  "She swallowed some water, but she's okay. She's crying. That means she's okay, she's breathing."

  "She doesn't look okay!" Bailino's yells were making Charlotte cry even more. He was bending down, towering over them as Jamie wrapped Charlotte in a towel.

  "Please stop yelling," Jamie said. It had become claustrophobic in the small bathroom. "You're scaring her."

  "I'm scaring her? Get her dressed now!"

  With her arms wrapped around Charlotte, Jamie ran out of the bathroom while Bailino sat down on the lid of the toilet bowl, gripping the top edges of the bathtub and sink, suddenly feeling all of his forty-seven years. His heart was thumping in his chest, and he pressed back against the cool of the toilet tank as the steam in the air filled his lungs with soothing vapor. The sight of the little girl struggling to breathe had knocked the wind out of him—her clenched face, the sucking of air. It wasn't until that moment that he realized how much Charlotte Grand resembled her father.

  ***

  Phillip Grand's head was being yanked out of the small bucket of water, probably the only water around for miles in the Iraqi desert; he was gasping, begging for them to stop. The Republican Guardsmen, dressed in their four-color desert uniforms, were laughing, having a good old time. No sooner had they pulled Phillip's head out, and he had gotten oxygen into his deflated lungs, did they put him back in and hold him there. It took both men to hold Phillip Grand—although he was skinny and soft-spoken, he had considerable strength.

  Bailino was lying facedown in the hot sand searing his face and palms as he held onto his M16, but he lay still. Like a gray wolf, Bailino relied on his stamina, rather than his speed, for hunting. As far as he could see, the two men were alone, and they hadn't seen him. His walkie-talkie rattled, but Bailino ignored it, inching closer. He was going to do this alone. When he thought he was close enough, he readied his weapon, and just as they forced Phillip Grand's head down again, Bailino fired two times, shooting both men once in the head. As the bodies collapsed to the ground, Phillip came thrashing out of the water, his tall, lanky body recoiling into a fetal position as he coughed up sprays of inhaled water that pooled in the hot sand and immediately evaporated. Phillip looked up, his dirty-blond eyebrows and lashes wet and full of sand, and saw Bailino.

  "Thanks, brother," Phillip wheezed. Bailino slammed him on the back with the palm of his hand several times until his breathing sounded clear.

  "Where ... where is everyone?" Phillip asked.

  "I was just going to ask you that."

  "They left," Phillip said. "About a half hour ago. I couldn't understand them. But there was one other..."

  A shot fired, and Bailino went down.

  "Fuck," Bailino said, grabbing his shoulder.

  Phillip grabbed Bailino's gun. He fired back, hitting the Iraqi soldier in his thigh, causing him to fall. The man was writhing in the sand when Phillip reached him. The Iraqi turned his weapon on him, and Phillip shot him in the head. Without wasting time, he ran back to Bailino, who was using whatever water was left in the bucket to clean his wound.

  "C'mon, we have to get out of here."

  "This is the thanks I get for saving your ass," Bailino said, trying to stand.

  Phillip secured his arm under Bailino's armpit, and the pair ran south toward the border.

  ***

  Charlotte was still heaving by the time Jamie got to the nursery. It was dark inside, and she fumbled for the light switch. She bounced the little girl up and down, hoping the vertical movement would quie
t Charlotte's screams—it had worked for Peter when he was colicky. It didn't. She laid Charlotte on the crib mattress, and as the child rolled around kicking her strong legs, Jamie diapered her and then reached for a clean onesie and snapped it shut. The little girl had reached that state of delirium where the bawling had taken on a life of its own, and there was nothing to be done but let her cry it out. Jamie watched, surprised by how little guilt she felt for what she had done. She just had to know.

  Charlotte was standing now and grasping the bars of the crib, shaking them. Jamie picked her up and paced back and forth in the little room, hesitant to leave, not wanting to see Bailino's outraged face again. She peeked into the bedroom, but he wasn't there.

  She couldn't let Charlotte cry for much longer, but she also knew kids could find the strength to cry for hours if they wanted to. She had to get Charlotte to relax. Across the bedroom, the black wood of the baby grand piano gleamed. There was a quiet majesty about the instrument that was in sharp contrast to the anarchic events playing out all around her. She had never seen anyone play it and wondered if it was even in working order. Jamie brought the exhausted child out of the nursery and peeked into the bathroom. It was empty. Where had Bailino gone, she wondered. She stepped over to the piano, sat on the small bench, and flipped up the little door that exposed the smooth black and white keys. She placed Charlotte on her lap, opened one of her clenched fists and placed her pointer on middle C, pressing several times and eliciting a melodic ding ding ding.

  Within seconds, Charlotte's crying waned and then disappeared. As her little body hiccupped, she pressed her tiny fingers, all of which fit on a single key, down—but so softly that the noise emitted was imperceptible. Jamie placed her finger over the child's and pressed until a ding sounded once again.

  Charlotte smiled. "Mo?" she said with weak enthusiasm.

  "You do." Jamie placed her hands on the keys, and Charlotte pressed one and then two keys at a time, making a symphony of loud, disjointed notes—a welcome change from the crying.

  As Charlotte played, Jamie looked outside the window and saw Bailino and Joey standing near a large pine tree. Joey appeared upset, and Bailino had his hand on the teen's shoulders.

  "Mo, mo, mo!" Charlotte banged on the piano with both fists, one after the other, the chords rattling the bedroom like a preschool orchestra. But neither Bailino nor Joey seemed to be able to hear the music; Jamie imagined the entire log cabin had been soundproofed.

  As the little girl played, Jamie's gaze lifted to the trees and beyond, the music carrying her into the clouds. She could see a divide, below which, she assumed, was the river and all the way to the hills on the other side, which were in full bloom. The array of greens created a natural complexity of shade that was made dazzling by the setting sun. Her life was somewhere out there waiting to be reclaimed. Or perhaps, she thought, it was in this pristine bedroom waiting to begin.

  When Jamie turned her attention back to Charlotte, she realized the noise had stopped. The little girl had passed out, her head atop the black piano keys and her hands spread out like wings across the rest. She lifted her up and carried her to the crib. When she got back to the window, the two men were gone, but Jamie knew that although Bailino had disappeared, it wouldn't be for long.

  Chapter 38

  Nurberg returned to the station still steamed from his showdown with Mrs. Grand. He'd heard plenty of stories among the officers about run-ins with the First Lady and got a taste of what it felt like to be in her crosshairs—and he didn't like it. What bothered him the most, though, was that he had let her get under his skin. For years, he dealt with scum-of-the-earth types, men who slapped around their women, mothers who ran prostitution rings from their children's bedrooms, and he always managed to remain cool—cool enough to earn the nickname "Ice"—a moniker that belied his boyish face and friendly demeanor. Professionally, Nurberg was unflappable. Until today.

  He tossed his notebook and folders onto his desk and threw himself into his swivel chair, which rolled back toward the wall. It had been a long day. Katherine Grand attacked him. Why? Yes, he understood her anger, but was there more? And the governor's late morning stroll to "get air." What was that about? Nurberg remembered Phillip Grand's face as he was leaving Taryn's—distraught, but was he hiding something? After all, wasn't the First Lady right—doesn't it always turn out to be the parents in these things?

  Nurberg leaned his swivel chair so far back that the front wheels came off the floor. Both Phillip and Katherine Grand had been at Kliger Nursing Home from 11:00 a.m. till 2:00 p.m. for the ribbon cutting and luncheon yesterday. Their appearance was witnessed by hundreds of people, recorded for the evening news. They were clean. But couldn't they have had help?

  Nurberg imagined Katherine Grand barking out orders to a roomful of degenerates, her beady little eyes piercing the dark like laser beams. There was no motive, but did she need one? Was there a reason why anyone did anything? Because they can? Because they "needed air"?

  He regretted asking Rosalia Garcia to stop by the station this evening for a few more questions—a spur-of-the-moment decision he'd made after leaving the Executive Mansion. In his heart, he thought that the governor was right, that the nanny was not involved in the disappearance of Charlotte Grand, but Mrs. Grand had gotten him all out of whack, and he thought maybe another interview might turn up something new. In other words, he was grasping at straws.

  Nurberg looked at his watch. Five thirty. Mrs. Garcia should be here any minute, he thought. He emptied his pockets onto his desk—his house keys, three breath mints, two quarters, his change from a two-dollar pretzel, and a thin wallet containing two credit cards, his driver's license, twenty bucks, and an expired library card. Yep, that about summed things up. He was feeling moody and frustrated, as if he was trying to swim across an ocean, but could only tread water. Underneath his wallet, a slim piece of white cardboard peeked out, and Nurberg picked up John Callahan's business card. There was nothing extraordinary about it, just your run-of-the-mill card with points of contact and Callahan's photo in the top right corner. Once upon a time, real-estate agents were the only ones with enough chutzpah to put their pictures on their business cards and billboards, but nowadays vanity had become a commodity. He thought of his police badge and how skeptical people were when he showed it to them—they studied it suspiciously to be sure he was a real cop, as if they'd know. Nurberg imagined nobody bothered doing that when handed the business card of John Callahan—why would anyone pretend to be the manager of Dick's Sporting Goods? But for a moment, Nurberg imagined his name on the card, of leaving all his work at the office at 6:00 p.m. and going home to a house full of noise. He imagined carrying a wallet that was fat, overflowing with family photos.

  "Hey." Missy Giles peeked her head into Nurberg's office.

  "Hey," Nurberg replied. Missy had her hair in a ponytail now, rather than the freshly blow-dried bob she wore early this morning, a telltale sign that it was the end of the workday. She wore a gray pantsuit with flared legs that made her look taller and thinner than she really was. Missy always wore a suit. She told him once that it was because she had a youthful face and when working in a place made up mostly of men—who tended to pat her on the head to show she had done a job well—a uniform made her seem like one of them. Looking at the curves of her hips under the polyester blend, Nurberg couldn't help but think otherwise.

  "Not going well?" she asked, concerned. "Need to talk?"

  Missy was always asking people if they needed to talk. It was one of the hazards of being a domestic violence advocate. "No, I'm fine."

  Missy nodded in disbelief. "Can you sign off on this? It's my report on the Kramer case."

  "Sure." Nurberg took the forms, gave them a perfunctory glance, and then signed the bottom of the last one. He returned them to Missy, who lingered behind his chair admiring the commendations on his wall.

  "These are so great," she said.

  "You think?" He stood next to her. "I guess th
ey're all right."

  "Don't worry. You'll find out who did this, Mark." Missy smiled.

  "At this point, I don't think I'd be able to find a drunk at a bar..."

  She laughed politely.

  "Do you want to go out for a drink Saturday night?" he asked.

  The department had strict codes on interoffice dating, which had kept Nurberg from asking Missy out before, but his altercation with the First Lady made him suddenly want to break some rules. "I mean, actually, I really should be working..."

  "I'd love to," Missy said.

  "Really, you mean it won't be a problem with, you know, us working together and you, like, being one of my... associates?" Some much for 'Ice,' Nurberg thought.

  "If it becomes a problem, I'll just have to find another job," Missy said with a smile.

  Nurberg laughed. "Okay, then."

  "Okay, then."

  She walked toward the office door and, turning to wave, slammed into Det. McDonnell, who was walking in.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Excuse me," Missy said.

  "The pleasure is all mine." McDonnell was a lascivious sort, made all the worse because he was also a slob. There were ketchup stains on his tie that had been there for months. It hadn't occurred to him, after three years of manning the station's front desk, that maybe if he'd show a little bit more discretion or conscientiousness he would no longer be manning the front desk. Missy ignored his remark and left.

  "Is there something I can help you with, McDonnell?" Nurberg said.

  "Yeah, someone here to see you—a Mrs. Garcia," he said. "I tried to buzz you, but your line was busy."

  Nurberg glanced at his phone. The handset had been displaced when he tossed his keys there. "Oh, sorry about that. Thank you, send her in."

  The Grands' housekeeper approached his office accompanied by a tall, dark man with curly hair. She looked nervous and tired.