The Stolen Ones (19 page)

Jessica’s first cousin Angela was a registered nurse, working nights at Children’s Hospital. On the way into the city Jessica had called Angela, telling her about the little girl they had found. Angela had agreed to meet them at the emergency room intake.

‘She’s fine,’ Angela said, taking off her latex gloves and popping them into a waste receptacle. ‘No bruises, no trauma. Externally, anyway.’

They stood in the ER waiting room, all but empty at this hour.

The question had to be asked, as little as Jessica wanted to ask it. ‘No sexual assault?’

‘No,’ Angela said. ‘Nothing like that. Thank God.’

‘How old would you say she is?’ Byrne asked. ‘Two?’

Angela looked through the glass, back. The little girl was sitting on the examining table, her hands folded piously in her lap.

‘A little older,’ Angela said. ‘Two and a half. Give or take.’

‘And she didn’t say anything?’ Jessica asked.

Angela shook her head. ‘Not a word.’

For a moment Jessica considered that the girl might not speak English, but even if that were the case she would have made a sound of some sort. Wouldn’t she? Children her age were rarely quiet for long.

‘So, she responded to you?’ Jessica asked. ‘I mean, she seemed to understand what you were saying?’

‘
Oh
, yeah. I asked her to open her mouth and say
ah
and she did. I asked her to sit back a little bit on the table and she scooted. Very responsive. Right now I’d have to say she’s my patient of the day. Hands down the most adorable.’

It was true. Even in the unforgiving glare of the fluorescent lights she looked like a little angel.

‘Do you think she —’

‘But I will say this,’ Angela said, interrupting Jessica. ‘Every time I asked her to do something she looked out here first.’

‘Out here?’ Jessica asked. ‘At us?’

‘Not at both of you. Just Kevin,’ Angela said. She gave Byrne a playful punch on the shoulder. Ever since Angela had met Kevin Byrne she’d had a major crush on him. ‘Looks like you have a little buddy.’

Jessica glanced back in the examining room. Angela was right. The little girl was sitting on the paper-covered examining table, staring at Byrne with her big blue eyes.

‘She’ll be okay in there for a few minutes?’ Byrne asked.

‘Oh, yeah,’ Angela said.

Jessica and Byrne walked down the hallway, to the vending area.

‘What do you want to do?’ Byrne asked.

Jessica considered their options. She checked her watch. It was 4.10 in the morning. If it had been much earlier – as in yesterday – and they were off the clock, they might have driven back to the area and done a door-to-door. There was no way they could do that now. In just a few hours this would be a job for the divisional detectives in the Northeast. It certainly wasn’t a case for Homicide.

On the record, they’d found a missing child – a child no one appeared to know or care was missing – and they’d followed procedure. More or less. The little girl seemed to be fine. They’d taken her to a hospital, had her checked out.

No dead body, no homicide. There was only one thing they could do.

They would have to take the little girl to DHS, the Department of Human Services.

On the way to DHS, they stopped at an all night carryout. Jessica pulled the car to the curb, put it in park.

‘Want something?’ Byrne asked.

‘I’m good,’ she said.

Byrne unsnapped his seatbelt, lifted the little girl effortlessly from his knee, placed her gently on the seat. ‘I’ll be right back.’

While Byrne went into the store the little girl watched him. Jessica wanted desperately to connect with the girl, but she remained silent. Part of it was due to her fatigue; the rest came from her belief that anything she said right now might serve to weaken the bond that her partner had begun to build with the girl.

Five minutes later Byrne came out with a big bag. He got in the car, reached in the bag, handed Jessica a diet decaf Snapple. He knew her too well. ‘I’m good’ meant:
Get me something that doesn’t trash my diet or circadian rhythms any more than they already are.

In the intake room at DHS, Jessica watched as Byrne walked the little girl over to the DHS worker. With the appropriate forms signed, it was time to leave. Before turning to the door, Byrne reached into the shopping bag and removed the small plush rabbit he’d bought at the bodega at some ridiculous markup.

At first the girl did not respond, but after a few moments she took the toy. Byrne then took out his camera, took a few close-ups of the girl. This would be sent to the detectives at the Special Victims Unit. If that turned up nothing, the picture would be sent to all the TV stations.

Byrne put his camera away, stood up. Even though Jessica had worked with Byrne for years, she often forgot how big he really was. Jessica was five-eight in stocking feet, but presented herself taller, especially on the job.

Now, looking at her partner, he looked so much bigger than the little girl. Like a giant. Byrne kissed a forefinger, touched the girl on top of her head, turned and walked out to the parking lot.

The little girl, now hand in hand with the DHS worker, didn’t take her eyes off him. Outside, Byrne stood next to Jessica. They both waved. Instead of waving back, the little girl lifted a hand to her face, extended a tiny forefinger, and placed it to her lips.

Ten minutes later, in the parking lot at the Roundhouse, each by their own car, they stood, each to their own thoughts. The discovery of the little girl had interrupted their train of investigative thought regarding the horrific scene they had encountered in the park. They would be back to that soon enough.

The sky was still black. Jessica was thankful for that. She hated going to sleep at dawn.

Jessica broke the silence. ‘What is the maximum number of hours a person can be awake and still function?’

‘Human or cop?’

‘Cop.’

‘Forty-eight.’

‘Damn,’ Jessica said. She wasn’t even close. She opened her car door, hesitated. ‘You and I both know we’re going to follow up on this,’ she said, pointing in the general direction of the Department of Human Services at 15th and Arch.

‘Yeah,’ Byrne said.

‘So, when we talk about her tomorrow, we have to call her something, right?’

Byrne nodded.

‘I mean, something other than “The Little Girl We Found in the Middle of the Street”.’

‘True.’

Jessica continued, as if this were an opening statement. It reminded her that she had homework. At her age. ‘And I refuse to call her Jane Doe.’

Byrne opened the door to his car, hesitated for a moment. He reached into the shopping bag, pulled out the little pink purse.

Jessica smiled. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good look for you.’

‘You haven’t seen my new Easter outfit yet.’

‘So, how did you get her to give it up?’

‘I made her a swap for the stuffed bunny,’ Byrne said. ‘She was a pushover.’

‘Sweet-talker.’

‘It’s a gift.’

‘So you saw that, right? When we left? She put a finger to her lips like she was telling us to be quiet.’

‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘I saw it.’

‘Any idea what that was all about?’

‘Not a clue.’

Jessica took a deep breath of cold night air, trying to will herself awake. It didn’t help. She took out her keys. ‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘You’re not going straight home, are you? You’re going to make a stop at Eighth and Poplar.’

Byrne laughed. ‘I thought I’d swing by the lab and drop this off. It’s on the way.’

It was technically true. Jessica slipped into her car.

‘What was the name of the street where we found the little girl?’ Byrne asked.

Jessica thought about it. She tried to visualize the encounter. Then she remembered. She’d taken a picture of the girl standing in the intersection. It was an old habit – at least as old as camera cell phones on the job – and a few years earlier she had gotten into the habit of taking establishing shots at crime scenes. She fished the phone out of her jeans pocket, navigated to the photo folder. She soon found the picture she was looking for, a photograph of the girl standing in the middle of the street, looking tiny, and precious, and lost. Jessica’s heart flickered at the sight.

‘Got it.’ She tapped the screen, enlarging the photo, and swiped to the top. ‘The intersection was Abbot Road and Violet Drive.’

Byrne slid into his car, thought for a moment, turned and said: ‘Let’s call her Violet.’

As she approached the row house on Callowhill, Rachel noticed from across the street that her sign – one she had put up with great care just a few days earlier – had been defaced with some unrecognizable gang graffiti.

Assholes
, she thought.

She opened her trunk, took out her drill, turned the Phillips head bit into the chuck. She hit the button. Of course, the battery was low. A few minutes later, new battery in place, she took down the Perry–Hayes sign with a small picture of Rachel Gray in the corner (Denise called it actual size, ha ha), and put up the new one. It was quick enough work, but one she had done too often in recent days.

By the time she put the old sign in the trunk of her car, she saw the woman heading up the street.

‘Hi, Gloria,’ Rachel said.

‘Hi,’ the woman replied.

Because Rachel had a background in women’s fashion, she was very attuned to a potential buyer’s wardrobe. Most of the time she could pinpoint every aspect of an outfit: designer, price point, shoes, bag, accessories, jewelry. Sometimes she even played a game with it. When a woman who was particularly well turned out had her back to Rachel, she would close her eyes and sniff. If she detected a fragrance, she would compliment the woman on it, asking the label. Nine times out of ten she was right.

With Gloria, sadly, it was another game Rachel played, one for which she rebuked herself every time. Gloria Vincenzi had two or three outfits that she mixed and matched. Rachel had noticed the seams coming apart on the woman’s jacket a few months earlier, and now noticed that the seam had begun to separate even further. It broke her heart.

‘When Frank and I were first married we lived in a house not much smaller than this. It was over on Fitzwater Street. Do you know Fitzwater?’

‘Yes,’ Rachel said. ‘I have a property on Fitzwater. Where was your house?’

Right near the corner of Fitzwater and Fourth.
 

‘Right near the corner of Fitzwater and Fourth,’ the woman said.

Next door to the dry cleaner’s.
 

‘Next door to the dry cleaner’s,’ Gloria added.

Frank Vincenzi
, Rachel thought.

After Rachel had shown Gloria Vincenzi fifteen or so properties – houses with a more than three-hundred-thousand-dollar spread in asking prices, a range no home buyer in the history of realty ever spanned – Rachel did a little digging.

The reason Rachel had never met Gloria’s husband Frank, a man about whom she knew a great deal, even down to his taste in instant mashed potatoes – Hungry Jack – was that there
was
no Frank Vincenzi. Frank Vincenzi passed away from pancreatic cancer in 2001.

Gloria Vincenzi was still looking for their first little house.

As Rachel locked the front door, Gloria said what she always said, and that was: ‘Well, I guess we’ll keep looking. I’ll call you.’

Rachel did not know how much longer she would do this. But for now it was all right.

She understood.

She was looking for something herself.

When Rachel returned to the office there was a note on her desk from her boss. Diana wanted to see her.

Rachel got a cup of coffee, walked down the hallway to her boss’s corner office, knocked on her door.

Diana Perry was the co-owner of the company, in addition to being a broker and an agent.

‘Come on in,’ she said.

Diana was always well-dressed. Although she saved her pricier outfits for the monthly staff meetings, awards banquets, and the like, she was always stylish in the office. Diana had to be in her early forties, but she presented herself much younger.

‘Mr and Mrs Bader stopped in this morning.’

The Baders were the amazon couple, the cowboy and the Saks model. Rachel tried to read her boss’s face. Diana Perry, like all the best brokers, revealed nothing.

‘They made an offer on the property you showed. Full price. Cash.’

Yes.
 

Rachel tried to contain her joy. ‘You know, I had a feeling about them,’ she said. It wasn’t true. She had long ago given up on those sorts of hunches. ‘Did we call the seller?’

‘We did. Paperwork is underway. Not bad for twenty minutes’ work.’

It was true. Outside of drug dealing, there were few ways to make more money in less time than selling real estate.

Diana got up, walked around her desk, closed the door to her office. She sat on the chair next to Rachel’s.

‘First off, congratulations. Good work.’

‘Thanks.’

Diana took a few moments. ‘I got an interesting call yesterday.’

‘A new listing?’ Rachel asked.

‘Yes and no.’

Diana Perry, although in possession of a good sense of humor, was not one to play games. Especially when it came to the agency.

‘I don’t understand,’ Rachel said.

Diana tapped her pen a few times on the desk. ‘It was about your house. We have an offer.’

At first Rachel thought she misunderstood. ‘My house?’

Diana nodded.

‘But my house isn’t for sale.’

‘That’s what I told them.’

Rachel was one of the few people she knew in her age group to own a house. She had paid off the house with her first big commission, a multi-unit sale in the Piazza, a condo complex built on the site of the old Schmidt’s Brewery.

Diana continued. ‘I just thought that maybe it was…’

Time
, Rachel thought. That’s what Diana wanted to say. But she’s too nice to say it. ‘Time?’

‘That. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’

‘It’s okay,’ Rachel said.

‘They mentioned a number, though. I think you should know that.’

‘A nice number?’

‘A
very
nice number. You think about it, and let me know if you want to hear it.’

‘Okay,’ Rachel said. ‘I will.’

She got up from the chair in a sort of a fugue state, afloat on her great sale – and the nice check it would bring – but also on the concept of actually selling her house. It had never occurred to her that she might do it, or at least not until she was older. Then again, she didn’t want to turn into a Gloria Vincenzi.

She thought about it all through dinner, a quickly forgotten meal at the Chinese restaurant around the corner from her house.

When she got home she put on the TV just for the sound. At about ten o’clock she flipped it off, went upstairs to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, moisturized. She stood for a moment considering her reflection. She had not known many of her relatives, indeed she did not even know what mix of nationalities and heritage she was. She had fair skin and hair, with eyes a deeper blue than most. Was she Irish? Scots? Or perhaps she was something further north than that. Nordic or Baltic, perhaps.

She flipped off the light, walked out of the bathroom, down the hall. She anticipated the slight creak of floorboards near the top of the steps, as she always did.

She glanced at the white bar of light beneath the door at the end of the hall. She did not touch the knob, nor turn it and enter. She never did. She wondered if she ever would.

It was about your house. We have an offer.
 

Rachel had many times wondered how she might react to such news. She thought about the number of properties she had sold over the last few years, how the news of a good offer to the sellers changed their lives. Properties, especially homes, changed hands many times in the lives of the brick and mortar and wood.

She walked down the stairs and entered the kitchen, made herself a cup of chamomile tea.

As she put away the tea she noticed that there was only one other cup in the cabinet. When had she packed all the others away? On what day had she resigned herself to this all but solitary existence, even to the point of packing away dishes and cups and saucers and bowls and platters?

She got dressed, walked out the front door, stood on the sidewalk. The street was dark and quiet.

She looked at the solitary light burning in the upstairs window. She always thought she saw shadows move on the blinds, but she never had.

She never would. She knew that, but it never stopped her.

We have an offer.
 

Maybe Diana’s right
, Rachel thought.

Maybe it
is
time.