Dina Santorelli Read online

  "Indeed." Mrs. Grand returned to her tea.

  "What can we do?" the governor asked Nurberg.

  "I'm assuming the first officers on the scene questioned you both along with everyone else in the home."

  "Yes," the governor said. "I don't know how much help I was. Katherine and I were at the Kliger Nursing Home on the other side of town when all this happened." The governor massaged his temples with his right hand. "I just can't believe this ... I've cleared my schedule for the next few days. I'm available for anything you need."

  "There are some reporters skulking around outside, Detective," Mrs. Grand said, motioning with her chin toward the kitchen window.

  "They may have followed the police cars here, ma'am." Nurberg walked over to the window and gazed out.

  "Can't you control them?" the First Lady asked.

  Nurberg couldn't help but smirk. Mrs. Grand, a seasoned PR strategist before she married the governor and began her life of charity events and proclamation dinners, had a reputation for turning any event, no matter how small, into a media frenzy. She had press conferences for each of her three trimesters; for the decorating of the nursery; for the naming of the child, who was named after the First Lady's paternal grandmother—a descendent, she claimed, of Mary Boleyn, mistress to Henry VIII—and, of course, for the actual birth, baptism, and first tooth of Charlotte Grand.

  "We'll do our best," Nurberg said. "In fact, it would be a good idea if we kept this quiet for as long as possible. The last thing we want is a media circus, which would just hinder our ability to conduct a thorough investigation." He paused. "Do either of you have any ideas as to what could have happened here?"

  The First Lady placed her teacup down. "I'm not sure what you mean, Detective."

  "Well," Nurburg said, "any thoughts on who might have taken the baby or why?"

  "No, not at all," the governor said. "Everyone loves Charlotte. She has brought so much joy to everyone's life. Right, Katherine?"

  Mrs. Grand's nod was short and tight. If Nurberg hadn't been looking for it, he would have missed it altogether.

  "Any enemies, Governor?" Nurberg asked.

  Governor Grand threw up his hands. "Take your pick, Detective. The political climate is hostile these days, particularly for Republican government officials. Anyone who is anti-gun, pro-abortion, or anti–death penalty seems to have, at one time or another, picketed in front of my door, called me names, and made my political life hell, as if my principles were of any less value or substance than theirs."

  "Recently, though, sir, any threats or people with a particular ax to grind?" Nurberg asked.

  The governor thought for a moment. "No," he said. "No one comes to mind."

  "And you, ma'am?" Nurberg turned toward the First Lady, who was staring out the window. "Ma'am?"

  Mrs. Grand took her napkin and patted her lips, wiping off the last traces of lipstick she was wearing. She placed the napkin down and shook her head. "Why don't you ask me what you really want to ask me, detective?" she said.

  "And what is that, ma'am?" Nurberg kept a steady eye on Katherine.

  "If I had anything to do with the disappearance of my child."

  "Now, Katherine, please..." The governor walked toward the sink and poured a glass of filtered water.

  Nurberg said nothing as the First Lady sat back in her chair, pushing her tongue against her bottom front teeth. When she did, her eyes squinted.

  "Sure," Mrs. Grand said. "I could see it the moment you looked at me; because I'm not sitting here weeping and distraught means that I don't love my daughter, that I'm to blame. Well, Detective, I'm disappointed. You think like a police-academy graduate. Would you rather I be like those mothers who cry and scream and go on television and beg for the return of their child? The ones for whom there is public outcry, national AMBER Alerts. The ones sought after by the morning network programs for exclusive interviews, and for whom the local press has a field day, thrilled to have something else to cover besides ribbon cuttings and teen graffiti." Mrs. Grand stood and put her teacup in the sink, her eyes now wild and incredulous. "Neighborhood watches are formed. Law enforcement canvasses the neighborhood, led by the grieving mother who is draped in blankets crocheted by neighbors. Quiches are baked, lakes and ponds dredged, manpower is doubled, supportive family and friends arrive in droves... Only, in the end, to find out that it was that helpless, pitiful mother who..."

  Mrs. Grand caught herself. Then she continued in a calmer, more controlled tone. "So you'll understand and forgive me, sir, if I don't feel the need to waste my time and put on a dog and pony show to satisfy your delusions about what grief actually looks like."

  "You still haven't answered my question, ma'am," Nurberg said. He knew he was pushing it, risking both the governor's enmity and dismissal from the case, but he also knew it was important for him to stand his ground early and often with Mrs. Grand, who had a long and dubious history with the Albany PD. If she wanted a pissing contest, then that was what he'd give her, as long as it would help him, in the end, to find Charlotte Grand.

  The First Lady gave a flippant laugh. "Very good, detective. The answer is no. I can't think of anyone who would want to see my daughter harmed." She paused. "Including myself. And now if there's nothing else, may I go?"

  "Just doing my job," Nurberg said. It was true. Sort of. "I will contact you if I need anything more."

  "I'm sure you will," spat Mrs. Grand, who grabbed her pocketbook and strode out of the kitchen.

  The governor and Nurberg watched her leave. She left in such a huff that some idle paperwork had flown off the nearby counter onto the floor. The governor bent down to pick it up. "We're all on edge, Detective, as you can imagine," he said.

  "Yes, sir, I understand."

  The governor neatly stacked the papers where they had been, and then the most important political figure in the state of New York stood facing the corner like a child sent into a time-out. "The house seems so quiet," he said finally, when he turned around. "Don't you think?"

  Nurberg, of course, couldn't say, having never been to the mansion before. And although the assorted murmurs of detectives and uniformed officers were creating an undercurrent of noise, right now the governor was simply a man standing in his home missing the sounds of his infant daughter.

  The words came out before Nurberg could stop them. "Governor Grand, I promise you, we will find Charlotte and bring her home."

  Chapter 8

  The lit ash of Gino Cataldi's cigarette burned brightly in the small, dank cell of the Stanton Correctional Facility. Early that morning, officers had removed all of his personal belongings, allowing him only his underclothing and a pair of state-issued sandals, made of paper. The morning edition of the Daily Telegraph was strewn next to him on the threadbare mattress, and as he thumbed through the pages, black smudges appeared on the pads of his wrinkled, yellow fingers. He took a long drag of the cigarette that he had bummed off the night-duty guard in exchange for a tip in the seventh race at Belmont, and as he did, deep crevices formed around his mouth like concentric circles of a tree. A passing guard made a discourteous comment about the gloriousness of the weather, and although there were no windows in Gino's cell, he could smell the fresh air on the guard's clothing.

  In two days, six hours, and twelve minutes, Gino Cataldi would be the sixth man put to death in New York State in six years. And leading up to that moment, there would be a guard stationed in front of his cell round the clock, watching his every move.

  New York State, considered blue through and through, had surprised all the political pundits—and Gino as well—six years ago with the election and then reelection of Governor Phillip Grand, a junior state assemblyman and staunchly conservative Republican. Capitalizing on the continued illegal-immigration and terrorism fears after 9/11, Grand quietly had assembled a coalition of hardworking, blue-collar constituents, the very same ones that President Barack Obama had once claimed clung to their guns and religion, and managed to eke
out a victory against his popular Democratic rival.

  This was good news for the rural counties of upstate New York that crowded the Canadian border and were known as Little Siberia because of their harsh winters and because prisons were a big part of the local economies, viewed with the same allegiance as the area's factories or farms. Prior to Governor Grand's election, declining inmate populations threatened the livelihood of many otherwise unskilled New Yorkers who had worked in those facilities for decades; during that time, Gino had heard lots of talk among the guards of downsizing and forced retirements, eliciting a general bad mood among prison staffers. As promised during his campaign stumping, Grand, once elected, increased state funding to local municipalities to beef up their law-enforcement agencies, particularly in the northern and western sections of New York, and within six years' time there was no more talk about closing prisons—inmate populations tripled. Ever since, Gino noticed a few changes at the prison, including vending machines in the west cafeteria, new computer terminals in the rec room, and a hint of lavender on his prison uniform. For his part, Governor Grand canvassed the state claiming that because of his efforts, the streets were safer, crime syndicates had been dissolved, and drug warlords were dethroned. He was hailed as the Rudy Giuliani of upstate New York.

  Grand also made reinstitution of the death penalty a central theme of his campaign, and it was his first priority once sworn into office. Gino knew that with the simultaneous increase in arrests and, therefore, inmate populations, the governor conveniently had a pick of the litter in terms of the cases in which to urge execution. The state of Texas, of course, puts to death more people than any jurisdiction, but in less than ten years' time, New York, the former political kingdom of Democratic softies like Governors Hugh Carey and Mario Cuomo, was becoming a capital-punishment contender. Although Gino heard the dissenters picketing in droves outside the correctional facility—armed with statistics that showed only a small percentage of police chiefs believed that the death penalty significantly reduced homicides and arguing that the death-row inmates' cases had been compromised by unreliable evidence, as well as dubious defense attorneys and psychiatric testimony—all five of the executions under Grand's administration had gone off without a hitch.

  Over the years, Gino had kept a very close eye on the political comings and goings of Phillip Grand. Every morning of his fifteen-year stay at Stanton, he scoured the local newspapers and, later, googled Grand's name at the prison library to view the national and international news coverage of the up-and-coming statesman. After his failed appeal five years ago for the 1992 murders of three witnesses in the trial of Bobby DeLuca—horrific deaths to which Gino never conceded guilt—the governor leapt at the opportunity to pursue a capital-punishment sentence when Gino bludgeoned a fellow inmate to death with a pair of solid steel barbells in the prison weight room. After Gino's well-paid lawyers exhausted all possible legal avenues, the date was finally set for April 12, 2012.

  Gino lay back upon the flat mattress of his small cell and extinguished his cigarette on the crumbling brick wall. His thoughts turned to the philosophers and poli-sci students who, at that very moment, probably were arguing whether the death penalty was an effective deterrent to crime or a violation of the US Constitution. He remembered reading that Carol Rosenstern, witness number fourteen in the case against Bobby DeLuca, had been the head of the SUNY Cortland chapter of the National Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty. He would have gladly debated the moralities of capital punishment with her before he cut out her tongue with a steak knife.

  "Just think," snickered Hank, the sentry outside Gino's cell. "In two days' time, this will all be over."

  Gino smiled and said nothing.

  Chapter 9

  "Rise and shine, Dimples."

  Jamie felt hard slaps on the sides of her face and opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor of the limousine. The doors were open on both sides, and a strong, fresh breeze swept through the car interior like a wind tunnel. Horizontal sunlight streamed across her, although it did nothing to cure her shivering. Her body ached, and the bald guy was hitting her.

  "Give it a rest, Leo," said the man who'd grabbed her. "She's awake." He looked at Jamie. "C'mon, honey, let's go."

  Jamie emerged from the parked car on all fours. Her head was cloudy, and her cheeks stung. The red haze of dusk coated her surroundings so much that it was difficult for her to see exactly where she was. She pushed herself up and saw the bald guy, Leo, standing behind the car next to the driver, his arm around the shoulder of the kid in the jeans.

  With the sun behind her, Jamie faced east as her head cleared and her brain made sense of the puzzle pieces coming in through her senses: Trees. Crickets. A wood-burning stove. They were in the woods. Somewhere upstate, she guessed. In front of her was a beautiful three-level log cabin, but other than that there was nothing else within view except for natural landscape as far as the eye could see. The sounds of running water hummed in the background, and Jamie thought she could see low mountains behind the cabin, which appeared to be on a hill. If there was anywhere to run, Jamie couldn't find it. She swatted her left forearm, squashing a mosquito, which left a small trace of blood.

  The man in black was standing on the deck of the cabin, flipping through mail, his elbow leaning on one of those rural mailboxes whose little door was hanging open like a tongue. The name on the mailbox, written in big, gold capital letters, was "Bailino."

  "Don," the driver called, walking toward him.

  Don Bailino.

  "Whatcha lookin' at, Dimples?" asked Leo, standing in her line of sight.

  Jamie looked away, but Leo followed her gaze.

  "Peekaboo," he said, popping again into view.

  Leo was shorter than Jamie had first surmised in the limo. He probably only had a few inches on her, but he had considerable bulk. His eyes were deeply set into his round face, which had a line of pockmarks along the cheekbones, and he had plucked his eyebrows so thin that his features appeared bloated and exaggerated. He was about to say something else, but stopped when Don Bailino came toward them.

  "Okay, here we are," Bailino said to Jamie. "You're here because of me, and I can just as easily get rid of you. As far as you're concerned, you do as I say, and things will go a lot smoother. Understand?"

  Jamie nodded obediently, dizzied by the closeness of Don Bailino, whose size and presence was just as foreboding as she had remembered. A tiny voice inside beseeched her to run, anywhere, told her that if she entered that house he would never let her out. And although she believed it, she didn't move.

  The sun vanished under the horizon, taking with it the last vestiges of light and heat, and Jamie's shiver became a tremble. Bailino took off his suit jacket and placed it over her shoulders.

  "Okay then, let's go." He took her hand in his, a large, calloused knob, and led her toward the house like a parent bringing a reluctant child to her first day of school. As they walked, the three other men followed behind.

  The inside of the log cabin was even grander than the outside. The entrance led into a generously proportioned space that was anchored on the right by a state-of-the-art open kitchen featuring stainless-steel appliances and a wide, two-tiered kitchen island flanked on one side by four bar stools. A stack of dirty dishes was piled in the sink as well as on the table of a breakfast nook situated in the rear. Across from the kitchen, a leather sofa and loveseat faced a stone fireplace that also served a small, but stately dining room. On the back wall, large glass sliding patio doors, which seemed to divide the house in half, were closed. To Jamie's immediate left were a bedroom and bath, the only enclosed rooms on the floor. The smell of wood, which had been so strong when they first entered the home, was now mixed with the stench of cabbage and nacho cheese—and urine.

  Bailino stopped and looked around. Then he led Jamie through the kitchen and made a sharp right and pulled her down a set of stairs that led into a basement. Although the lights were off, twilight trickled into
the small windows that were high on the wall, revealing more bedrooms and a laundry room with appliances that still had the sticker prices on them. At the far end was a rec room with a pool table and dartboard, a plasma television on the wall, and a large sectional. Under any other circumstances, the home would have been the perfect vacation home. Or hideaway, Jamie thought.

  Bailino led the group toward a room on the far right, one that was closed off from the rest of the open space and looked as if it didn't belong. There were panels of Sheetrock and insulation material lying against the walls, and a hammer and nails were scattered along the floor. The door was closed, and as they got closer, Jamie could hear a string of muffled noises coming from inside. She braced herself. Even muted, the sounds were oddly familiar, and just as Bailino opened the door, she realized what it was. A baby was crying.

  Chapter 10

  Bob sat in the usual evening rush-hour crawl on the Long Island Expressway, hoping, pointlessly, that traffic might let up. He opened his car window, clicked to the '90s station on his satellite radio, and adjusted himself in the still-crisp leather seat of his new PT Cruiser. He looked at his watch.

  "Shit," he muttered.

  Bob flipped down his visor and looked at himself in the small mirror. Even he had to admit, he looked damn good. He moved his face from side to side, then up and down, and reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small bag. He took out tweezers and plucked a stray hair above the bridge of his nose.

  "Gotcha, you devil," he said, flicking the hair out the window.

  Something caught his attention on the road up ahead: a glimpse of blinking red lights around the bend. Thank God, an accident, he thought, again looking at his watch. Once he passed it, he put his foot on the gas pedal, merged into the left lane and sped east.

  His cell phone rang.

  "Hello," he said into his headset without checking the caller ID.