Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel (3 page)

“Sorry. Yoga practice with the instructor at his studio. No last-minute cancels, or I’m out one hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“This is important,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “I really do. It’s fine. I’ll talk to him. I’ve never canceled before, so maybe he’ll make an exception.”

Lock looked at his calendar again. “How about the night after, then? Wednesday. Seven thirty. Do you need to call your husband to make sure he’ll be available?”

“He’ll be here, believe me. Too much of a control freak to miss this.”

There was a knock at the door. Candice came in from another room and walked past Lock and Natalie. She opened the door. The driver and two young children came into the kitchen.

“They’re home,” the driver said. “And look what little Edwina has to show you.”

Candice took the younger child into her arms and left the room. Lock watched them leave. He had wanted to get a good look at both kids.

Edwina dropped her coat onto the tile floor, ran to her mother, crawled into her lap, and waved a brightly painted papier-mâché object in her face. The coat told Lock that at least today the kids weren’t underdressed. And the way Edwina had run to her mother was at least some evidence of a loving relationship. That made him feel a kind of relief, and he knew he was allowing himself to take her side before he knew enough.

Natalie took the papier-mâché from her daughter’s hand and examined it. “This is wonderful, honey. What is it?”

“You know, silly,” the child said. “It’s White-Mane.”

Natalie looked at Lock. “That’s her pony.”

Lock put his pen down and turned in his seat to Edwina. He looked at the child’s creation and smiled. “Is your real pony in your bedroom?”

“No!” Edwina said, laughing.

“White-Mane is out in the barn. He’s real,” said Natalie.

“If your pony’s mane is white,” Lock said, “why did you paint it blue? Is that your favorite color?”

Then Edwina pushed herself back further into her mother’s lap and buried her head into Natalie’s chest. Lock looked for bruises, but Edwina was wearing leggings and a sweater. Her behavior showed none of the telltale signs of abuse, no extreme shyness or clinging or crying without apparent cause.

“That’s Mr. Lock, honey. He’s our friend. You can answer him.”

“No.”

“That’s okay,” Natalie said.

“See you in the morning,” the driver said.

‘Thank you, Jackson,” Natalie said. “We won’t forget your coffee tomorrow morning. Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay, ma’am,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Edwina wriggled the papier-mâché pony free from her mother’s grasp and slid off her lap. She approached Lock and held the little pony out to him.

“Do you want to keep this forever?” she said. “It’s White-Mane.”

“Could I really? I would keep him forever, and I would feed him and brush him every day.”

Edwina laughed again. “Okay,” she said.

Lock took it and set it on the table and admired it. “What should I feed him?”

“Apples and oats. He even eats apples with brown spots on them. He doesn’t care.”

“That’s good, because I don’t eat the ones with brown spots,” Lock said. “Thank you so much, Edwina.”

“Okay, honey,” Natalie said. “Go see what Candice and Dahlia are up to.”

Edwina gave her and Lock another look before walking toward the other room.

“Say goodbye to Mr. Lock,” Natalie said.

“Can he stay and eat dinner with us?” Edwina said.

“Not tonight, honey, maybe some other night.”

Edwina pouted.

Lock said, “Thank you so much for White-Mane, Edwina.”

The child skipped out of the room, and Natalie stood up. “So? Did I pass?”

“She seems fine, Mrs. Mannheim,” he said, writing on a form. “She looks fine.”

“My name is Natalie. Please don’t call me Mrs. Mannheim. It reminds me of Mr. Mannheim.”

“Natalie. Got it.” Lock continued to write.

“Anything else, then?”

He looked up and they locked eyes for a moment.

“Uh, yes, a couple of things. Any chance you could call the nanny to bring the little one—”

“Dahlia.”

“Any chance you could bring Dahlia back? I’d like to meet her.”

Natalie nodded and called, “Candice? Can you come in here with Dahlia?”

Candice appeared instantly, holding Dahlia in her arms.

“Were you standing in the hallway listening to us?” Natalie asked.

“Not at all. I don’t eavesdrop.”

“Not much,” Natalie said. “Give me Dahlia.”

Candice handed Dahlia over, and Natalie gave the child a hug and set her down on the floor. She immediately crawled to Lock and pulled herself up into a standing position, using Lock’s pant leg as a grip.

“May I pick her up?” he asked Natalie.

“Of course,” she said. “You’re very good with kids.”

Lock smiled and said, “Best part of the job.” He picked her up and sat her on his knee. He looked her over. She seemed normal in weight and height, her color was good, and there was no bruising he could see. Dahlia extended both of her arms toward Natalie and whimpered. Lock immediately handed her over, though he wished he could hold her for a little longer. He loved the contradictory lightness and solidity of little children and their moment-to-moment way of navigating each day. They met the world with no preconceptions. A child was an empty cup to pour the whole universe into. All they needed was to be nurtured and loved, and they became people. Lock had always thought that was a kind of magic, the way you could just put a seed into dirt and something wholly different grew from it.

He smiled at Natalie, and he knew from the look on her face that his smile must have reflected some sadness. He could tell she wanted to ask him a question, but he shook his head. He lived with his losses, and he thought he wouldn’t mind telling her about them, but not now. This was work, not friendship.

The baby struggled to stand up in her mother’s lap. Natalie helped her. Dahlia threw her arms around Natalie’s neck and craned around to see Lock. He forced a smile.

“And what do you think of her? Starved and beaten?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to say things like that in front of her,” Lock said.

“You think she understands?”

“Yes, I do. And no, I don’t see any sign of anything wrong. She seems happy and healthy.”

“I’m glad you think so. You know, you love your kids so much, it’s scary to think someone is saying you don’t. That you might lose them because of it.”

“I understand,” Lock said. “I don’t want you to worry. Remember, I’m not here to find you guilty of anything. I’m just here to make sure the kids are okay. If they’re okay, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“You don’t know my husband,” Natalie said. “Money and lawyers. The whole point of money and lawyers is so that people like me always have to worry. Sorry, I know I sound bitter.”

“It’s okay, and I know what you mean. I’ve been doing this a long time,” Lock said. He wrote some notes and then began to gather the papers and put them into the envelope. “All right,” he said. “Here’s the procedure. Wednesday night, you, your husband, the nanny, and the kids will all need to be here. I’ll talk to Edwina privately for a few minutes, then the nanny can take her, and then I’ll speak with their father, and then we’ll all talk together. That’s the procedure.”

“That’s fine with me,” said Natalie. She looked up and caught his eye. “What if he isn’t cooperative?” she asked. “What if Humphries tells him to keep his mouth shut?”

“Not likely. I’m sure he’ll want to cooperate.”

“Don’t be so sure. Anyway, you can make a note that I’d like to cooperate fully. Anything you want.”

He smiled and pretended to write. “Noted,” he said.

She tilted her head, trying to catch his eye again, but he kept his eyes focused on his paperwork, busying his hands with the forms. When he was done, he gathered his papers and got up to go. She was still looking at him, a curious look on her face. Lock thought she wasn’t used to her flirtations being ignored. She smiled suddenly, and he reddened, sure she knew exactly what he had been thinking. She reached out and touched his shoulder, and he shifted the clipboard from one hand to the other.

He said, “Your children are beautiful. Edwina is adorable. What a personality.”

He picked up White-Mane.

“Don’t throw White-Mane in the trash,” Natalie said.

“I promised Edwina I’d take care of him,” he said. “Maybe not the feeding and brushing part.” They both smiled at that. “But I’ll keep him. He’s going on my mantel.”

Lock saw she was about to say something, but instead she led him to the door.

“I think we’re finished for now,” he said. “Seven thirty. Wednesday. There may be another investigator with me, a woman. She may examine the children briefly.”

Natalie extended her hand, and they shook.

“Seven thirty, Wednesday,” she said.

It’s a date
, Lock thought, and then,
It’s not a date, it’s an interview, stupid
.

Lock nodded and walked to his car.

As he turned the car around, he looked back at the house and saw the huge solarium.
That’s “greenhouse” to you and me
, he thought. The windows were fogged over, but he could see the dim form of Natalie standing and watching him.
Ghost and her flowers
, he thought. He made sure White-Mane was safe on the passenger seat and accelerated slowly down the long drive. As young girls often did, Natalie Mannheim’s kids had reminded him of his Hannah, and he felt a pang, wondering what things like White-Mane she might have given him.

He cleared his throat and shook his head and, as was his habit, let his eyes roam over the trees on the property. Trees were his infatuation. He was obsessed with trees. Reading about them, traveling near and far to see various specimens, touching them, photographing them, taking notes, imagining himself a kid climbing them. Next to White-Mane and his work papers on the passenger seat was his book, something like a birder’s life list, but for trees. It was a hand-bound notebook with a scuffed leather cover, and a little pen held in place with two elastic loops, and a frayed ribbon that served as a bookmark. It was simple but well-made, and soft in the hand from years of use.

He slowed the car and squinted beyond the house at the towering tree in the middle of the backyard. He looked at it for a long moment. There were a couple dozen albino redwoods in California, huge trees with white needles, but it was hard to believe this might be one. Seeing one had always been on Lock’s must-see list, but he had never made it out to California. Anyway, he didn’t think a redwood could survive north of Virginia, or maybe Maryland, and an albino needed a parent tree—they didn’t produce chlorophyll, so they joined their roots to the parent in order to survive. Brandywine County was too far north, too cold, and there was no sign of a parent tree, so it must have been something else. Interesting, though, maybe even something new to him.

Most people didn’t notice trees, Lock had realized years ago. They knew what a maple was, what an oak was, maybe different kinds of pines, but they were background to lives that moved quickly. Trees were too dependable and too abundant for most people to appreciate. When they saw one that was different, they may or may not remark on it, but that would be it. Few would wonder if they were seeing something unique, a zebra in a herd of horses. Lock almost turned the car around to ask Natalie if he could have a look at it, but he didn’t. He told himself if was inappropriate, but deeper in his mind, he was doing the math—it wouldn’t happen during the next visit, not while the husband was there. So maybe there was a reason for a visit after that.

He turned away and started the car moving again, a smile on his face. That was the thing about trees. They could surprise you if you knew to look for something different, something new.

Traffic was slow on the way back to the office. As he often did, Lock considered the case as he drove. On the face of it, it was a routine he said, she said. Lock saw it all the time. It was a sad reality that people going through a divorce often used their kids against one another. Fire and forget, like a cruise missile, never a thought given to what it did to the children.

There was nothing to it, as far as he could tell. The kids were fine. Dahlia seemed well, and Edwina was adorable. There was probably nothing to the complaint, though he was experienced enough to know that the worst child abusers often had nearly perfect social camouflage. You had to run down each case, no matter what it looked like at first, and he looked forward to doing that.

Nothing’s going to happen with Natalie
, he told himself.
She’s from money, and it’s natural for her to play nice with the guy that’s investigating her
. There were a hundred reasons to forget about her. He kept thinking about her toes, though, and those toe rings. They were fancy, erotic in a way he couldn’t describe. Any other time, her feet would have been hidden by shoes. Lock felt like he had seen a secret part of Natalie’s life, something she did just for herself.
Or her husband
, he thought, but then shook his head. She wasn’t doing anything for Wittley Mannheim anymore.

Natalie. In his cubicle, he wrote up his report about the Mannheims but didn’t lay out his suspicions that the allegations were trumped up. He could add that later if further investigation supported the conclusion—a couple more visits to Red Cedar Woods, just to be sure.

3

Marked and unmarked police cars congregated in the parking lot of the Brandywine Mall Cineplex, where officers were questioning a middle-aged man wearing a windbreaker and rumpled khaki pants. About twenty yards away, other officers were talking with a gangly boy and his mother.

Abner, in a jacket, an ancient wide tie and one of his trademark caps, was there with Lock. He chewed on a sprig of licorice root, which hung out of his mouth like a cigarette. He still worked in the field despite the crushing load of his administrative duties, and sometimes he came with Lock on calls. Lock had let him take the lead on this one, which had come in late in the day. He liked to watch Abby work, and he knew Abby enjoyed calls like this one.

Abby leaned in close and poked the man in the belly with his finger.

“You should wise up,” Abby said.

“Hey!” the man said, backing away from the poke. “Nothing to wise up about,” he added, putting his hand over his belly.

Lock smiled. He never touched the people he was sent to interview. It was against the rules, and technically assault. But Abby had a presence about him. You just knew that if someone complained to the cops about being poked by an angry old man like Abby, the cops would figure the guy had it coming.

“This is embarrassing,” the man said. “And there’s a crowd now.” He turned away from the gathering throng.

A teenager shouted, “Cuff him!” and his friends jeered. They couldn’t have known why the man was being questioned, but that didn’t stop them. It was that kind of town. Other people’s misfortune was good entertainment. Lock shook his head. No doubt, thirty years before he would have been one of the kids jeering.

Abby glared at the suspect. “Of all the seats in a practically empty movie theater, you sit next to a little boy all by himself? Plus, you fit the description.”

“Maybe I fit it, but it wasn’t me,” the man said. “And there were other people in that theater. I was toward the back and the kid was near the middle. Didn’t even know it was a kid. I’m no pervert.”

“Then why did the officer have to chase you?” Abby asked.

“I didn’t know he was calling to me. My name’s not ‘Yo!’ And he’s in street clothes, not a uniform.”

“Who has this guy’s I.D.?” Abby asked.

A nearby officer stepped forward and handed Abby a Pennsylvania driver’s license. Abby read it and said, “Michael Densen.” He looked at Lock. Lock shook his head—he hadn’t heard the name before.

Abby compared the picture to the man, then held it out to a plainclothes officer standing nearby. “Can you run this guy and see if you have anything on him?”

The cop nodded and headed back to his cruiser.

“I already told you I was in the theater. I’m not denying that.”

The boy, a redhead wearing a short-sleeved shirt despite the November chill, edged closer, prodded by his mother.

Lock took over while Abby bent over and whispered to the boy.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Densen?” he asked.

While Densen sputtered his way through an explanation of why he was at the movies in the middle of the day, Lock watched the boy crane his neck so he could see the man over Abby’s shoulder. The boy nodded. Abby straightened up and patted him on the head.

“Okay, son. Thank you,” Abby said, turning to the boy’s mother. “We have your information. We’ll be in touch if we learn anything we can act on.”

“Aren’t you arresting that freak?” the mother asked. She narrowed her eyes at Abby.

Abby turned back to the man, then to the mother.

“Your son says the man had a red Phillies cap and sunglasses. We had a half dozen guys searching under the seats and in trashcans. Can’t find a Phillies cap or sunglasses. Nothing.”

The plainclothes officer walked over from his car holding the man’s license.

“Well?” Abby asked.

“Mr. Clean. But his license says he’s required to wear glasses while driving.”

Abby looked at the man. “What about that? Where are they, your glasses?”

The man pointed a finger at his eyes. “Contacts.”

The boy’s mom started to make a fuss. Abby held up a hand. Lock moved a little closer to her and put a hand on her arm to give her a sense someone was on her side. He knew Abby, and he knew he was about to pounce.

A news van pulled up, and within seconds a reporter, an assistant, and a cameraman were setting up.

“Okay, pal, you can go. But before you do, I want to tell you, this whole thing is making me thirsty.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I’ll tell you what it has to do with you,” Abby said, moving closer to the man. “I’ve been in this business for forty-one years. I’ve seen hundreds of predators—and when I see one, I start getting thirsty for a stiff drink. And being here with you for just a few minutes, I’d do just about anything for three fingers of scotch.”

The man’s round face reddened in aggravation. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Abby reached up, removed his cap and ran his hand down the back of his head. He said, “The problem with hats is they mess up your hair. You know what I mean, right?”

“Can I go now?” the man asked. Now he looked more annoyed than scared.

Lock had seen it before—Abby liked to think out loud, and sometimes people thought he was just some crazy old guy.

“Now I notice your hair,” Abby said, “and how it looks like it might have been wearing a hat, and then I look at the bridge of your nose, and I see the little red marks from glasses.”

“Why would I wear sunglasses at a movie? Look, man, can I go? I already had enough crazy today. Anyway, you said I could leave.”

Lock smiled at that. The guy was getting more annoyed, even aggressive. He touched the mother’s arm again, and he could tell she knew Abby was getting close to something.

Abby said, “I did say that. But that was before I got this thirsty.”

The man growled. “You’re not making any sense. Invisible baseball cap, marks on my nose, disappearing sunglasses. I’m reporting you to the chief of police. You’re babbling about whiskey. You’re too old to be a cop, or too drunk.”

“I’m not a cop, I’m the executive director of the Brandywine County Child Protective Services agency. I have the same privileges as the police to investigate and ask questions. And you’re well-advised to answer them. We’re not a law-enforcement agency, we’re a social service agency. We don’t carry guns and we can’t arrest you, but I can make that happen fast,” Abby said, pointing to a nearby uniformed officer who had been glowering at the man. The officer nodded.

Abby continued, “And if I ask him to, he’ll do it. I can get a subpoena faster than you can say ‘subpoena.’ So don’t be such a wise guy. Anyway, I’m tired of you, so you can leave...”

The man smirked.

“... with the police,” Abby said. “The boy I.D.’d you, and I know a judge that thinks that’s plenty to get a search warrant. What are we going to find at your house, Mr. Densen? Maybe pictures of you with a red Phillies cap on your computer? Maybe other kinds of pictures too, huh?”

Abby gave the high sign to a pair of officers, who took the astonished man into custody and marched him to a waiting unmarked police car.

“Too old or too drunk,” Abby said, turning to Lock and the boy’s mother and shaking his head. “Imagine the nerve of that guy.”