by Baby Grand
"Mrs. Garcia, thank you for coming this evening," Nurberg said when they had reached his office.
Rosalia nodded. "This is Reynaldo Rodriguez, my nephew."
Nurberg and Reynaldo shook hands.
"Nice to meet you," Nurberg said. "Please, sit."
Rosalia and Reynaldo looked around the small office before taking the seats in front of Nurberg's desk.
"Can I get you some coffee?" Nurberg asked.
"No, thank you," Rosalia said. Reynaldo was busy looking over Nurberg's head at the commendations.
Nurberg hadn't prepared anything for this follow-up interview since he'd called for it on a whim and was about to open his file folder to buy himself some time to think, when Rosalia spoke.
"Detective, I know why you called me down here." Rosalia cast her eyes downward.
"You do?" Nurberg and Reynaldo asked in unison.
Rosalia nodded. She reached into her large pocketbook and pulled out Miss Beatrice, Charlotte's cherished toy. She held it out for the detective.
"I don't understand," Nurberg said, taking the doll.
"I took it from the house. Yesterday. You said not to take anything. But I... took it. I needed... to have something."
"Mrs. Garcia..."
"I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't ruin your DNA."
"Mrs. Garcia," Nurberg handed the doll back to the housekeeper. "You can hold onto the doll. It's all right. Remember, you had her with you when you went upstairs. You were bringing her to Charlotte when you noticed the crib was empty. As far as I'm concerned, the doll is not a suspect." Nurberg smiled.
The memory of the empty crib caused Rosalia to shudder.
"Do you have any specific questions you'd like to ask my aunt?" Reynaldo asked, studying Nurberg's face. The detective looked vaguely familiar. Reynaldo was no stranger to the police station and had been there many times to bail out his brothers for one thing or another, but he didn't recall ever seeing Nurberg there. "She did not sleep very much last night, and I'd really like her to go home and rest."
"I'm okay, Rey." Rosalia patted Reynaldo's arm.
"Oh, yes." Nurberg opened his file. "Actually, I was hoping we could talk a little bit about Mrs. Grand."
"Why? Is she a suspect?" Reynaldo asked.
"Oh, Dios mío!" Rosalia said.
"No, no," Nurbeg said, "but I was hoping to just... well... what time did she leave yesterday morning for Kliger?"
Rosalia thought. "It's hard to say. Mrs. Grand doesn't usually check in with me. I see her in the mornings when I come to get Charlotte. But I would say, probably about eight o'clock."
"And was there anything unusual about her or the governor that morning?"
Rosalia shook her head. "No, nothing. It was just a regular day."
"Have you been contacted at all today by either the governor or Mrs. Grand?"
"No, no one," Rosalia answered. "Just you."
Nurberg took a deep breath. He had nothing, and there was no use keeping them there longer than they were needed. "Well, thank you anyway, Mrs. Garcia, Mr. Rodriguez," Nurberg said, standing up. "I appreciate you both coming down."
"That's it?" Reynaldo asked.
"Yes, I'm afraid so," Nurberg said, embarrassed. "I'm sorry if I troubled you in any way."
"It's all right, Rey." Rosalia squeezed Reynaldo's arm.
"No, Tía, it's not okay. We could have taken care of this by phone, or he could have come to the house."
"Rey..."
"No, he's right, Mrs. Garcia," Nurberg said, and then he had a thought. He reached into a box on his desk, pulled out Rosalia's cell phone and handed it to her.
"You could have dropped that off at the house," Reynaldo said.
"Mr. Rodriguez, again I apologize for the inconvenience. I hope you understand that I'm just trying to figure out what happened to that little girl. And sometimes the right way of doing things gets lost in trying to do the right thing." He stuck out his hand.
Reynaldo shook it, the feel of the detective's small hand conjuring up a memory. "Sí," he said. "Have we met before?"
Nurberg shook his head. "I don't think so."
"You look very familiar," Reynaldo said, as the circumstances surrounding Nurberg's face pieced together in his mind—the early morning breeze blowing the tall weeds, the tiny body lying awkwardly on the riverbank, the soft handshake of the detective. "Yes, I met you about two years ago, when the body of little Tyler Jackson was found."
Nurberg felt as if he were slapped in the face. "You were there?" he asked. "By the river?" Nurberg's eyes took on a hazy look as details of the case came back to him. "That was awful. Tyler's mother had called 911 to report her boyfriend had taken her son only an hour before we got the call that someone had found him on the riverbank."
"I know," Reynaldo said. "That was me. I called."
Nurberg's eyes grew wide. "That's right," he said, remembering. "You were riding your bike and saw the body. And we spoke, right?"
"Yes, you asked me a few questions, and that was it," Reynaldo said. "I wasn't much of a help. I didn't see anything."
"Yes, but you found the boy," Nurberg smiled. "And he was able to have a proper burial."
"Did you ever catch the guy? El novio?" Rosalia asked.
Nurberg's smile faded. "No," he said, shaking his head. "We didn't. He took off. We think he's in Mexico somewhere."
"Qué horror," Rosalia said.
"Indeed." Nurberg had been haunted by the image of the little boy's contorted arms and legs for months, although surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, the crime had gotten little attention in the press—most of the crimes Nurberg dealt with flew under the radar of what was considered newsworthy. Unless, of course, he thought, your last name was Grand. "I'm sorry to have met again under somber circumstances." He turned his attention to Rosalia. "Please let me know if there's anything else you can think of. It doesn't matter how small it is or how irrelevant you think it is. It might be able to help."
Reynaldo was helping his aunt up from her chair when Rosalia said, "Well, there is something. I thought it was stupid, so I didn't say anything."
"Yes?" A glimmer of hope ignited within Nurberg. "Remember, nothing is stupid, Mrs. Garcia. What do you remember?"
"Well, it was the carpet," Rosalia said. "Mrs. Grand had it cleaned last week, so that it would be fresh for Easter Sunday, and when I went into Charlotte's room to tuck her in, I noticed the smell. It was stronger than I'd remembered."
"Hmmm..." Nurberg said, hiding his disappointment.
"It reminded me of your uncle's cologne," Rosalia said to Reynaldo. "Old Spice. Your uncle's favorite. May he rest in peace."
Nurberg jotted the information down in a folder.
"See, Tía," Reynaldo said. "You helped."
Rosalia smiled.
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Garcia... McDonnell?" Nurberg called. "Can you see Mrs. Garcia and Mr. Rodriquez out, please?"
McDonnell, who had been eating from a small bag of pretzels and reading a newspaper, got off his stool to open the small swinging gate for Rosalia and Reynaldo as they left the main area of the station.
"Who was that, the nanny?" Det. Grohl popped his head into Nurberg's office.
"Yeah."
"Why did you bring her down?"
"Just a shot in the dark."
"And?"
Nurberg shook his head. "Nothing."
"Got a minute?" Grohl asked, already walking into Nurberg's office.
"What is it?"
"I just got a call. The Feds are going to be taking over the Grand case."
"What? Why?"
"It's just gotten out of control with the press coverage, and, let's face it, Nurberg, we've got no leads. And, to be honest, I'll be glad to get this thing off my shoulders. The last thing I want is anyone snooping around and looking at things with a magnifying glass. Who knows what they'll find."
"Can I assist in the federal investigation?" Nurberg asked. "I'm sure they'll need someone local to w
ork with."
"I'm afraid not." Det. Grohl drummed his fingers on Nurberg's desk. "I've been asked to have you, specifically, taken off the case."
"Are you kidding?" Nurberg said. "Let me guess... Mrs. Grand."
"Well, you're half right."
Nurberg raised his eyebrows. "The governor too?"
"I'm afraid so." Grohl picked up the folder and box on Nurberg's desk. "Is this all the stuff for the Grand case?"
Nurberg nodded.
"You don't mind if I take this, do you?" Grohl said. "I'll need to give them everything we have tomorrow." He patted Nurberg on the back. "Sorry about this, Ice. But you know what? It's a good thing. Go home. Relax. Get some sleep."
"Yeah, sure."
Nurberg watched Grohl leave, his thoughts fixated on the missing little girl he was unable to find and the little boy whose murderer was living it up somewhere in Mexico.
Chapter 39
Traffic was unbearable on the Joe DiMaggio Highway. Edward was nearing Seventy-Second Street, the point at which the highway turned into the Henry Hudson Parkway—although for many New Yorkers and a few ill-informed media traffic reporters, it was all still the West Side Highway—and the vast conglomeration of ensuing metal looked like one of his son's Matchbox car carrying cases, with all the vehicles neatly stowed in parallel rows of four.
This was a bad idea. He should have tried his luck with midtown.
Edward's left arm, tanned from the elbow down, hung out the driver's-side window as exhaust fumes from his engine blurred his view of the license plate in front of him. It was one of those newer Empire Gold plates, a throwback to the license plates of his youth, the kind that he and Jamie and their friends would read as they piled into his mother's old Bonneville for road trips to Rockaway Beach.
Jamie.
It had taken him two hours to get into Manhattan by car, one hour to find a legal parking spot, and a mere fifteen minutes to file a missing-persons report. By the looks of things, he'd probably make it back across the Queens/Nassau border by 9:00 p.m., just in time to say good night to the kids before they went to bed.
He checked his cell phone again, but there had been no missed calls. And in the past five minutes, he didn't think he took his foot off the brake pedal once. He dialed home.
"Hi," Tricia said.
"Hey."
"Did you file it?"
"Yeah, and I know, I know... You think it's premature."
"I'm too tired to think anything right now. Fleisher had me completely redo the plans for the Vallers' dining room. Apparently, they changed their mind, and now instead of a neutral palette, they want something flashier."
"I just know something is wrong. This isn't like her..."
"Did you even hear what I said?"
"What? About the palette? My sister is missing, Trish."
"How about the time last year when Jamie didn't call you by afternoon on Mother's Day, and you drove all the way to her house only to find out that she'd fallen asleep on the couch because she'd been up all night on deadline. You wound up missing dinner with my parents."
"That was understandable. She always calls on Mother's Day."
"Or the time when..."
"Trish, please. I get it." Edward changed the subject. "The kids all right?"
"Yeah. Peter wants you to see his spelling test. He got a hundred. You coming home now?"
Edward could hear the increasing irritation in Tricia's voice and was half-thankful that he wouldn't be home until late, when traffic started to let up, and the needle on the speedometer read twenty miles per hour. He tried his best to imagine how absurd this all seemed to everyone else—Tricia, Bob, the 911 operator, the nice clerk at the police precinct who had patiently gone over the missing-persons report with him and filed his fingerprints and photos. Edward even mentioned his working for the Manhattan DA, thinking that might help pull a few strings, but it didn't seem to light a fire under her to move any faster. The precinct was in a frenzy since just hours before an Amber Alert had come through regarding Governor Grand's missing daughter, and there was chatter among the desk officers, who were surmising what could have happened to the little girl. By comparison, a missing, down-on-her-luck thirty-two-year-old woman was boring.
Edward saw the approaching signs for the George Washington Bridge and the Robert F. Kennedy Memorial Bridge, formerly—and still affectionately—known by locals as the Triboro Bridge. The latter was the way home to Long Island. To his house. Edward thought about Jamie's cryptic Facebook post: "Help Albany Charlotte."
"Edward? I asked if you were coming home." Tricia's voice crackled on Edward's cell phone, which he had on speaker and was balancing on his right thigh. "Or have you decided to organize a search party and troll the streets of midtown Manhattan with pitchforks?"
"I don't think so. Kiss the kids for me. Tell them I love them. I'll call you later."
"What?"
Edward clicked off the call. There was no explaining it. Trish, an only child with two parents still living, would never understand, and to try to make her would just exasperate them both. Edward got into the exit lane for the George Washington Bridge, which would get him across the Hudson River and eventually put him onto the thruway and into upstate New York.
Chapter 40
The front door of the log cabin was open, but the screen door was locked. Annoyed, Leo rang the doorbell.
"Who is it?" Tony called, although from the dining room, he could see Leo standing there.
"Just open the fuckin' door, would you?" Leo said through the mesh screen.
"Sheesh, what a grouch." Tony opened the door and stepped back so Leo could enter.
"It would be nice if someone gave me a key around here." Leo took off his jacket and flopped it on the couch, emitting a pungent smell of alcohol and cigarettes into the room.
Bailino was standing in the kitchen in front of the oven and wearing oven mitts on his hands. He eyed Leo's jacket, but let it go.
"Look at you. The happy homemaker, huh?" Leo said. "Smells like chocolate in here. Good, I'm starving."
"Yeah, brownies," Bailino said, pulling a tray out of the oven. "But they're not for you."
"Oh, really? Guests don't get brownies."
"Nope, and they don't get keys either."
"They do at hotels," Benny said.
"This isn't a hotel." Bailino placed the brownies on the counter. "It's my home."
"Yeah, so you've told us." Leo sat down at the dining room table.
"What do you need a key for?" Bailino asked.
"Forget about it," Leo waved his hand. "I wouldn't be able to figure out those cockamamie locks anyway."
"They're electronic," Joey said. He had been sitting on the couch when Leo walked in, but had gone into the kitchen and was standing next to Bailino. "Inserting the key unarms the circuit and..."
"Yeah, whatever, kid." Leo said. "I didn't ask for an episode of How Stuff Works." Leo put his feet up on one of the dining-room-table chairs. "So what's the word? Is Grand gonna go for it?"
"I think so." Bailino took a tub of chocolate frosting from the top shelf of a cabinet.
"You think? My father's life is in your hands, and you think he's gonna go for it."
"Yeah, that's right." Bailino stuck a butter knife in the frosting and carefully coated the top of a brownie. "I think. Therefore, I am sure."
"Where ya been, Leo?" Tony was sitting at the computer again.
"Stanton."
Bailino stopped frosting. "Are you a fucking idiot?"
"Here we go..." Leo got up and grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator.
"What did I specifically tell you not to do? What did your father specifically tell you not to do?"
"I know, I know... I already got a tongue-lashing from my old man. I don't need another one." Leo looked around. "Where's the girl?"
"Didn't you bother her enough today?" Bailino asked.
Leo shot Joey a look. "You're a fucking tattletale, you know that."
"Don't yell at him." Bailino was holding the knife in the air, and the chocolate frosting oozed down onto his finger. He licked it.
Leo muttered something under his breath and sat back down at the dining-room table. "Back to virtual poker, huh?" Leo downed the beer and threw the can at Tony. "The real thing too much for you?"
"Why, you want to play again? Give me a chance to get even?"
"Sure, why not, I'll take more of your money, you putz." Leo turned to Benny. "You in?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Hey, Martha Stewart, you wanna play, or are you gonna crochet a blanket next?"
Bailino placed the brownies on a glass cake plate and washed his hands. "Yeah, I'll play a couple of hands."
"That's all you'll have money for, buddy, when I get through with you. Ton, tell him how much you're down from this afternoon."
"Three hundred," Tony said, reaching for the deck of cards on the buffet.
"No shit." Bailino sat down. "You must be real good."
"I am," Leo said, taking his feet off the seat next to him. "Joe, here, take this seat." He tapped the chair.
Joey hesitated.
"He's not playing." Bailino said.
"Why the hell not?"
"With what money?" Tony asked.
"He can play with his college fund, since he ain't gonna need it," Leo chuckled. He took the cards from Tony and started shuffling.
"Is that right?" Bailino put his hand on Joey's shoulder. "You want to play, Joe?"
"No, thanks."
"Sit the fuck down already. Just one hand. See how much of a genius you really are. Get me another beer before you do, though."
"I thought we agreed to dry out for a few days." Bailino reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a roll of hundred dollar bills.
"You agreed. I didn't agree." Leo took the beer from Joey. "Better say good-bye to that wad," Leo said, tilting his chin at Bailino's cash.
"What's the ante?" Benny asked.
"Five hundred." Leo tossed five hundred-dollar bills into the center of the table.
Joey looked concerned.
"I'll spot you," Bailino assured him.
"C'mon, cough it up, fellas." Leo said, as Benny and Tony each put their money in the pot and he dealt the cards.