Dina Santorelli (24 page)

"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 they'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.

"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 work 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.

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."