Dina Santorelli (2 page)

Jamie wiped the sweat from
her palms onto the sides of her skirt, pushing down so hard that the linen hem
moved forward and covered her knees. She had done it so many times that she
imagined making grooves on her thighs in the way pacers wore holes in
carpeting.

She had
been sitting in the lobby for nearly fifteen minutes, watching flamboyantly
dressed men and very skinny women in short skirts hurry in and out of elevators
chatting amicably; some held breakfast or stacks of papers in their hands,
others zipped through with cell phones pasted to their ears, and, as if by
consensus, all passed by with nary a glance at her. She sat a little straighter,
imagining that invisible string pulling her up toward the ceiling, like her
yoga instructor once had suggested, and tried to look calm and bored like when
she rode the subways and wanted to thwart the would-be pickpockets hunting
tourists. To pass the time, she tried to guess which of the four elevator doors
would open next.

A
repairman was fixing a burnt-out recessed lightbulb high above Jamie's head,
causing threadlike dust to hang and tumble in the air. She swished herself to
the left on the long, leather bench to avoid being hit, but it was too late.
Using her suit sleeve, she brushed off the top of her black binder, in which
her entire professional career was neatly presented on 8½" x 11" paper—her hot-off-the-printer resume, letters of recommendation,
names and addresses in case she needed references, and clips of freelance
articles she'd written, in reverse chronological order. And tucked under the
front inside flap was a disk, carefully labeled with a Sharpie and containing
digital files of everything she had on paper. She reached in to make sure it
was still there and hadn't fallen out in transit. It was.
Relax, you're
ready
, she told herself.

The
receptionist, a pretty, young blonde, was deftly handling the phones, signing
for packages, and greeting workers. She glanced at Jamie and said, "Ms. Wiles knows
you're here and will be right with you."

"Thanks,"
Jamie smiled as a rolling rack jam-packed with clothing came speeding through
the reception area led by two harried young women.

"Ms.
Carter?"

Jamie
looked up to see a tall, slender woman wearing a suit with a very short skirt.
Her hair was auburn and tied back in a neat bun, and her eyeglasses were small
and stylish.

"Yes."
Jamie stood up and shook the editor's hand.

"I'm
sorry to keep you waiting. A morning meeting ran long. Would you like some
coffee?"

"No,
thank you," Jamie said.

She followed
Ms. Wiles through the glass doors and was struck by the expanse of the publishing
company's editorial offices. There must have been two hundred cubicles all
lined in a neat, little maze, with heads bobbing in and out of view and voices that
were loud but not understandable.

A
petite girl with a ring where her left eyebrow was supposed to be ran up to Ms.
Wiles as soon as they turned the first corner. "Lauren, we just got the photos
for the taffeta story, and I think you need to take a look at them."

"I'll
be there in a few minutes," Ms. Wiles said and continued walking.

"Lauren!"
a man yelled, sticking his head out of a cubicle about ten feet away. "We need
you!"

"Five
minutes!" Ms. Wiles thundered, holding up the five fingers of her right hand
for emphasis. She turned to Jamie and rolled her eyes as she guided her to a
room on the left, where there was a conference table and two people sitting at
the far end.

"I
need this office," Ms. Wiles said to the man and woman, who scrambled to get
their things and leave. Once they did, Ms. Wiles closed the door.

"Are
Tuesdays always this crazy?" Jamie asked.

"Every
day is this crazy," Ms. Wiles said, taking a seat at the head of the table.

The
door opened, and before a young man in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt could say
anything, Ms. Wiles said, "Five minutes, please."

The
door closed again.

"So,"
Ms. Wiles said, "what brings you to Gerbury Communications?"

"Well,"
Jamie said, her stomach twinging, "I'm looking for full-time work.
Freelancing's great, but it's not reliable."

"
Hmmm
,"
Ms. Wiles nodded. Jamie could feel the editor studying her, trying to make
quick judgments about her work ethic, about her ability to fit into the
magazine's hectic setting, all in the ten seconds she'd known her. "Is that
your portfolio?"

"Yes."
Jamie pushed her black binder across the table.

"Let's
see what you got..." Ms. Wiles looked over Jamie's resume. "
Hmmm
, you
worked at
USA Baby
?"

"Yes,
I was an associate editor for about a year."

"Do
you know Karen Jennings?"

Jamie
shook her head. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh,
I think she left before you got there. Why did you leave?"

"I
was laid off."

"
Hmmm
..."
Ms. Wiles continued flipping through the pages of Jamie's portfolio. "Have you
ever written about fashion before?"

"Well,
yes, I did, but for children."

"No,
I mean, ready-to-wear, couture, that kind of thing."

"No,
not really,"—
c'mon, Jamie, sell yourself
—"but as you'll see from my
clips, I have a very diverse portfolio as a freelance writer. I've covered
everything from swimming to nursing to—"

"Yes,
I see, you've been keeping busy."

Keeping
busy.
Like she had been knitting a
sweater.

"Well,
I tried to..."

"The
thing is, though, Jenny..."

"Jamie."

"Oh,
I'm sorry, Jamie... The thing is that we really need someone who knows the
markets. We don't have the time to train anyone."

"I'm
a fast learner," Jamie said, trying not to sound—although she knew she did—too
eager.

"I'm
sure you are, honey, and these pieces look wonderful, but I'm afraid we're
looking for someone already familiar with this territory. Fashion can be
murder."

"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."

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 the 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.