Dina Santorelli Read online

  "So can screaming toddlers."

  "You haven't met our models."

  Jamie forced a smile.

  Ms. Wiles stood up. "You know..." She handed Jamie her portfolio, "Our division also has a parenting book. It's for the trade, not the consumer market. If you like, I can give your name to the editor there."

  "That would be great. That's very nice of you."

  "Oh, it's nothing, really." Ms. Wiles extended her hand. "Well, it was nice meeting you."

  Jamie shook it. "You too, and good luck with everything," she said, motioning to the office door.

  "Yes, I'll need it." Ms. Wiles opened the conference room door, and five anxious-looking people holding paperwork were standing behind it led by the guy in the Led Zeppelin T-shirt. "Good luck to you too. I'm sure you'll find something that suits you."

  Chapter 3

  Detective Sergeant Mark Nurberg peered out the missing infant's nursery window, which was three stories up from ground level. He had never been to the governor's mansion before. The view was breathtaking. Perched on a hill above the Hudson, the stately home was surrounded by lush and delicately landscaped greenery, all with a historic air: The weeping elm in the back of the house had been planted by Governor Charles Whitman to commemorate the birth of his son, and the sugar maple to the left was planted by President Harry Truman and Governor Averell Harriman in observance of Arbor Day on April 25, 1958.

  Nurberg turned his attention inside, where two forensics officers were finishing up and the governor's housekeeper was sitting still in a rocking chair. The team already had been through this room several times and found nothing. It was as if the child had just vanished.

  Since joining Albany PD's Children and Family Services Unit two years ago, Nurberg had seen his share of domestic-violence incidents, juvenile delinquencies, sex-offender violations, and other crimes where children were both victims and offenders. The CFSU team was relatively small, consisting of six detectives, two domestic-violence advocates, two detective sergeants and one detective lieutenant. Until today, there hadn't been a missing-persons case involving a child—let alone a toddler—or a crime this high profile.

  Rosalia sat still in the rocking chair with her feet close together and Miss Beatrice in her hands; she absently played with the doll's hair. Nurberg walked over to her.

  "Ma'am?"

  Rosalia sat up straight and wiped her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and puffy, and strands of her long, gray hair were wet and tucked behind her ears.

  "Ma'am, my name is Detective Sergeant Mark Nurberg of the Children and Family Services Unit of the Albany Police Department." He bent down onto one knee next to Rosalia. "I know this is difficult, but can you tell me what happened?"

  Rosalia took a deep breath. "I... I already told the other policía." She wiped again under her eyes, where the eyeliner and mascara were falling and leaving black circles.

  "Yes," Nurberg said gently, "but I need you to tell me again, if that's all right?"

  Rosalia nodded and told him what she had told the other officers and what she had gone over and over in her mind for the past two hours: She had placed Charlotte in her crib for a nap, like she always had, gone downstairs to put groceries away, and when she had returned, the child was gone.

  "How long were you away, from the time you first put down the child to when you returned?" Nurberg asked.

  "Not long," she said. "Maybe ten minutes or fifteen?"

  "Okay. What happened next?"

  "I... I... started screaming, and... Henry come running up."

  "Who's Henry?" Nurberg asked. He knew the answer—in fact, he knew most of these answers—but wanted to hear it from the housekeeper.

  "He drives the car for Governor Grand."

  "Is that when you called the police?"

  Rosalia shook her head. "Henry... he called the police."

  "You didn't call?"

  The skin around Rosalia's eyes tightened. "I... I..." She buried her head into Miss Beatrice, her cries muffled by the yarn of the doll's hair.

  Nurberg stood up and looked down at the crumpled housekeeper, trying hard to resist the urge to put his hand on her shoulder. "Do you remember anything out of the ordinary? Anything that was different this time that can help us?"

  Rosalia shook her head again.

  "Where is Henry now, ma'am?"

  "I don't know." Rosalia was talking to the floor, her eyes fixed on the doll in her hands.

  "Ma'am, why don't you come with me downstairs? Have you had something to eat?"

  "No, I want to stay here," she said.

  "We'll need to cordon off this room in a little while. You can stay until then, but then you'll have to leave, all right?"

  Rosalia nodded.

  "Do the other officers know how to reach you if we need to speak with you again?"

  "Yes."

  "All right, then." Nurberg turned to leave when Rosalia grabbed his hand.

  "Please, Detective... please find my baby." Her voice cracked. "She must be so scared. Who will calm her? Who will tuck her in? Who will know..."

  "Mrs. Garcia," Nurberg said. The housekeeper's hand was trembling, and he placed his other hand over hers. There was a sweet sincerity in her eyes, a rare quality in Nurberg's line of work where glassy stares and averted eyes were the norm. "I'll do everything I can, ma'am. I promise."

  As Nurberg exited the nursery, the word promise echoed in his ears. His thoughts flashed to his boss, Det. Lt. Grohl, in the way that a child thinks of a parent whenever he or she has done something wrong. Nurberg had a nasty habit, as Grohl liked to say, of making promises he couldn't keep. Last month, he had pledged to a young, distraught newlywed whose husband had disappeared after a drunken rampage that he would bring him back safely. The man was found dead hours later inside the valet booth of the parking lot behind the downtown Hampton Inn, apparently having gotten inside by breaking the glass and then using the shards to slit his wrists. "You're not Superman," Grohl had scolded. "Not all problems are fixable or cases solvable. If you make promises, then they have expectations and false hope. You have to remember that and just do the best you can." Since then, Nurberg had been tempering his assurances to the much more attainable I'll do everything I can. But in his attempt to shield the public from disappointment, he felt as though he was letting himself down.

  "Excuse me, Detective Nurberg?" Det. Matrick stood on the top step of the mansion staircase. "The governor and Mrs. Grand are downstairs."

  "Thank you," Nurberg nodded. "I'll be right there."

  The governor and his wife had been across town, at the first of several personal appearances scheduled for Phillip Grand that day, when they received the call from Henry, who contacted them immediately after calling 911. Under normal circumstances, Henry would have accompanied the governor on these types of local outings, but he told police he had stayed behind because of a late-morning dental appointment—which, although it checked out, already was causing some speculation among the detectives. Gossip was also spreading fast about Mrs. Grand, who had answered Henry's call, since the governor was in the midst of a speech, and she had ostensibly allowed him to finish as well as field several questions from the press before breaking the news to him of their daughter's disappearance.

  As his colleague descended, Nurberg lingered on the landing, his eyes resting on The Marriage of Pocahontas, a nineteenth-century oil on canvas by Henry Brueckner that hung at the base of the staircase within the realm of the public viewing areas. Although the mansion didn't have an official art collection, it was filled with striking paintings and sculptures throughout on loan from some of the state's museums. This particular one was donated by Governor Rockefeller and depicted Pocahontas' marriage to John Rolfe in Virginia in 1614 in a scene that was grand and romanticized, considering the actual setting for such a wedding probably would have been small and commonplace. And Pocahontas, who, as the story goes, saved adventurer John Smith from death at the hands of her father, appeared rather demure on t
he canvas, falling in line with traditional gender roles and perhaps obscuring the facts of history that described an energetic and courageous young woman whom generations had come to know through school books. Nurberg could not think of a better painting to hang inside the household of Governor and Mrs. Phillip Grand.

  Chapter 4

  The traffic light turned green, and the crowd surged into the crosswalk. Jamie held her portfolio tight to her chest to keep it from being bumped by the other pedestrians and kept her hand locked on the strap of her pocketbook, the way her mom used to. Frank's Deli had been Jamie's favorite place to eat when she'd had a bad day at USA Baby, and she could already taste their homemade egg salad, a Brooklyn recipe that was reminiscent of the kind her grandmother used to make. She tried not to think about the interview at Gerbury, but it was impossible. That was the third interview this month. With so many writers out of work, it was going to be difficult to find something, even with her years of experience. And as magazines continued to fold, and content, particularly the long-form, objective kind that Jamie had been trained for, continued to become devalued with the rise of blogging and e-zines, she was never going to be able to pay her rent. She already owed her brother five hundred dollars from last month.

  A taxi driver inched his way into the flow of pedestrians, trying to turn onto Sixth Avenue, the nose of his cab jutting forward not quite so gently and causing a few people to glare and give him the finger, but the driver remained impervious. Jamie stopped to let him go by, annoying the people who had been walking behind her, who huffed and puffed their way around her as if she were an obstructive buoy in a strong river current. As the taxi sped down Sixth, she was reminded of something her mother once told her when she had gotten her learner's permit: "Driving is easy—go when it's green, stop when it's red. The real trick is learning to live your life that way." It was a maxim, as the taxi driver probably could attest, that Jamie could never quite master.

  There was a bottleneck of people at the curb—customers exiting the deli, men and women waiting in line at the magazine kiosk, walkers trying to get by in every direction. As Jamie jostled her way through the patterns of people, the cover of O, The Oprah Magazine, hanging from the window of the kiosk, caught her eye:

  SINK OR SWIM: THE TIME IS NOW TO LIVE THE LIFE YOU DESERVE.

  Another headline below it, in purple, screamed out:

  NEVER LOOK BACK: 10 SUREFIRE STEPS TO MOVE FORWARD.

  The cover photo showed Oprah wearing a floral print dress with her feet up in the air on a children's swing and looking as happy as could be—the kind of carefree that, Jamie knew, came but once in a stream of digital photos featuring mostly closed eyes, awkward expressions, and misbehaving props, the kind of carefree that, she also knew, was probably one in a million in the real world. Still, she got in line, paid the four bucks for the magazine, and found a spot against the deli's dirty front window to flip through its pages as the nearby subway entrance emitted a harsh puff of warm air and a train rumbled somewhere below. Bob had always teased Jamie for buying O. He said it was a waste of money and time and that Oprah had made a living out of duping people into believing that what she said mattered; that alone made Jamie feel that it was the best four dollars she'd ever spent.

  She looked north, across the street, where Bryant Park was filled with people. It was a beautiful day in Manhattan. The local weathermen had all predicted an unseasonably sunny and warm April day, and after a dreary morning of keyboard punching and sales meetings, modestly successful professionals were flocking to that tiny, renovated grass area, the only immediate and economically sound choice for weary fingers and brains.

  The idea of sitting inside the deli and eating as fast as she could, only to dash onto the subway and catch the earliest Long Island Rail Road train home—Jamie's typical MO—suddenly lost its appeal. It was one thing if there were a destination that demanded hurrying off to—schoolchildren to escort off an afternoon bus, dinner to make for a returning husband, or even a rush-hour crowd to beat—but Jamie had none of those things awaiting her and nothing else planned for the day. For the first time in a long time, she was feeling untethered, which was a strange and unusual feeling for a thirty-two-year-old woman who had spent practically all her life as someone's girl—a mother's daughter, a brother's sister, a husband's wife. She looked again at the magazine in her hands:

  NEVER LOOK BACK.

  Across the street, a hot-dog vendor catered to a long line of patrons, and, on a whim, Jamie got on the back of the line, deciding to forgo the egg salad and the comforts of routine. "One with mustard and sauerkraut and a water, please," she said when it was her turn in line. The vendor never looked up as his hands flipped metal covers open and shut and his hands slid the dog into its bun. Years from now, Jamie imagined that she would remember this hot dog as emblematic of the beginning of a new life path, how she had chosen the hot dog of tomorrow rather than the egg salad of yesterday. She paid him and made her way toward Bryant Park.

  It was hard to believe that Bryant Park, with its lovely gardens and European-flavored promenades, had seen its share of ill repute over the years. Back in the days of disco and graffiti-ridden subway cars, the park was an eyesore, a mainstay of muggers and drug lords, and was avoided by savvy New Yorkers. However, since that time, it had been transformed into a Manhattan oasis of lush greenery, while still retaining its "city park" feel with a spattering of historical monuments and urban amenities. In 1994, Bryant Park became the locale for Fashion Week, the semiannual fete in which clothing designers premiered their latest collections in invitation-only runway shows, but Jamie was glad when the event moved uptown to Lincoln Center a few years ago—the sudden intrusion of celebrity, hidden beneath a series of large white tents, made the park look to her as if it had sprung a glitzy fungal infection.

  Jamie searched the grass for a chair, but the quest was formidable. Not quite 2:00 p.m., the lunchtime masses had descended upon this tiny patch of green hidden within Manhattan's vast concrete and steel landscape. Men, clad in business suits just ten minutes prior, were now stretched out on the grass—jackets off, ties loosened, and shoes and socks placed neatly beside them. Women of all shapes and sizes were baring midriffs and painted toes.

  Jamie navigated the grounds, asking sheepishly, "Is this seat taken?," but to no avail. Manhattanites could be territorial about their seating, hurling unwanted jackets, pocketbooks, and brown paper bags on chairs that, if not in use now, must be available to hold their elevated feet at a moment's notice. Oprah would never approve, she thought with a smile.

  A couple was sitting at a table near the park's entrance, where there was an extra, empty chair beside them, but the gentleman pulled the seat closer to him when he noticed Jamie and leaned his forearm across its top. In the distance she spotted a bench that appeared vacant just off the grass. She quickly made her way across the park, balancing her lunch on the magazine on top of her portfolio. When she got there, she realized that one of the legs was broken, making the bench wobbly, which explained its availability. She decided to sit down anyway, careful not to lean back too much and to keep most of her weight on her left side.

  It wasn't until her bottom had touched the cool metal of the seat that she realized how nice it was to sit down. When the full-time employment in Manhattan had stopped, so had the walking, since driving was pretty much the only way to get around in the suburbs, and she found that the tiniest aerobic exercise exhausted her. She unfolded the aluminum foil from around her hot dog and unscrewed the cap from her water, careful to place her pocketbook on the foil, so it would not go flying into the breeze, and keeping her arm looped through its straps while she ate.

  The bright afternoon sun blazed down upon the park, and she put her sunglasses on and scanned the evolving crowd, which seemed to change minute by minute like the ebb and flow of a tide. In the center of the grass was a woman sitting alone and sipping what looked like an iced cappuccino, judging by the insignia of her tall paper cup. She was tanne
d from head to toe with skin tones that contrasted with her white suit, consisting of a halter top and miniskirt, and she had that relaxed, LA look about her—one of her white sandals had been tossed carelessly onto the grass, while the other dangled from the big toe of her left foot. To Jamie's left, a man was lying in the grass with his arms and legs stretched out as if he were making an angel in snow. People stepped over him in their search to find a vacant chair, but he didn't budge, seemingly unaware that anyone was around. Further west, near the Sixth Avenue entrance, a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man in a black suit leaned on the veterans' monument. Everything was still on—his suit jacket over a white-collared shirt, which was unbuttoned at the top revealing a large gold cross—and he was wearing dark sunglasses with his arms crossed over his chest, a far cry from the untroubled mood of the crowd. Jamie took another bite of her hot dog and watched several sheepish-looking men approach the woman in white and hover around her like bees while she stretched her arms in the air like she'd just awoken from a nap, her shifting halter top revealing a silver belly ring.

  Jamie looked down at her own double-breasted suit that she had plucked from the can-wear-one-more-time-before-dry-cleaning rack in her closet. She imagined her body language wasn't enticing anyone to just wander over and chat. Did she even remember how to do that? She looked again at the man in black. Jamie probably looked as unapproachable as he did.

  "Excuse me," someone said, making Jamie instinctively tighten her grip on her pocketbook. "Do you have the time?"

  In front of her was a short, balding man in a tracksuit wearing the kind of eyeglasses that strapped around one's entire head. He was still jogging, in place, looking a bit tense, waiting for Jamie to answer. She pulled out her phone.

  "Yes, it's just about two o'clock," she said.

  "Thank you." The man jogged there for a few seconds longer than he should have, according to Jamie's standards, before nodding and heading off toward Sixth Avenue.