Water from Stone - a Novel (6 page)

“Thanks, Sy, but that’s crap. Look at this city.” Jack waves at the view, at the endless expanse of concrete, steel and glass. “There’s drama going on all over the place and the cops can’t keep up with it. At first, with the FBI staying at the house, waiting for a ransom call, we thought it’d be over in a day or two, a week at the most. But the call never came.” He shakes his head, remembering. “They left, took all their equipment and just left. Said if this was a kidnapping for ransom, the call would’ve come within the week. They waited three weeks and then couldn’t ‘justify’ it any more. We thought that with the reward and all…” his voice trails off, taking the failure personally. Amanda had hired the Merritt Agency to find the baby and they’d all thought they’d be enough, what with the cops and the FBI and all. But there hadn’t been any new leads in months. It was like the woman who had taken Mia had fallen off the face of the earth. No one knew where she’d come from or where she might go. She could be anywhere. She could be dead. She and the baby could be dead. Jack lets his head fall so that his forehead hits the window. He can’t allow his mind go there or he’ll go crazy. His voice is muffled when he speaks. “I’ve got a list for you,” he says. “It’s not much and it’s probably mostly crap anyway. The FBI just about creamed over it, though, thought they could tie the kidnapping to someone I’ve pissed off, a revenge kind of thing.”

“You think that’s possible?” Sy’s voice is filled with even amounts of doubt and disgust. “Sounds like a buncha crap to me. I mean, yeah, sure, you’ve taken on some bottom feeders, those skinheads, remember them? Fuck, Krillov. Those kinda people don’t like you showing the world what they’ve been up to. Those guards diddlin’ the girls in that rehab joint, but still.”

“He came to my office, did I ever tell you that?”

“Krillov?”

“Just marched right in, about gave Elena a heart attack, him and his guys. Said he came to tell me how sorry he was about ‘the way things turned out.’ Said it’s not right to take a man’s kid. Can you fucking believe it? Here’s the guy that would dunk a little girl in blood, that’d poison an entire family with prions, not kill them right away, mind you, but leave them alive for a couple of years, watching their kids’ brains melt to goo.”

“He was messing with you, Jack.”

“No fucking kidding!” Jack yells. “And you know what? If I’d had a gun, I could of killed him right on the spot, just fucking killed him.” He takes a deep breath. “Only, I know it’s crap. He had nothing to do with taking Mia, with the accident. How could he?”

“But he had someone waiting outside your building, someone who saw Lindsey leave for the hospital.”

Jack waves this away. “The woman who took Mia, she’d been working at the hospital for awhile. Krillov couldn’t have had someone working in every single hospital waiting for Lindsey to go into labor.”

“He could have found out who Lindsey’s doctor was, found out which hospital she works out of.”

“You know what all that is?” Jack gestures at the stacks of files that litter the living room, that are piled on the sofa and coffee table, that overflow the dining room table he’d dragged there and that crowd the storage boxes that lean against the walls. “Those are the files of every single case I’ve ever worked on. Every single one. That’s about eight years of cases here and another seven years of notes from the D.A.’s. Do you know what I’ve been doing for the past six months while the cops’ve found shit? I’ve been going over those, page by page. And you know what I’ve found? Nothing! No one had the balls, or the money, or the opportunity, hell, the brains, to pull that accident off. That’s just insanity! And then, to take my kid! What the hell were they thinking?” Jack sighs deeply and stuffs his hands into his pockets, his shoulders slumping. Returning to the chair, he sits heavily. “Anyway, I made the list, people who lost a case, anyone who might hold a grudge.”

“Nah, there’s easier ways to kidnap a kid, if that’s your thing, than hanging around a hospital waiting for it to be born,” Sy agrees. “That’s way too Twilight Zone. Course, that’s probably why it appeals to the Feds.”

“You know it’s Shaheen who got the case, right?” Jack asks, referring to Sy’s old nemesis from when Sy was a cop and he and Shaheen had gotten into a jurisdictional pissing contest. It was a good case, a big case, one that Sy had wrapped up but that Shaheen and the Feds had taken all the credit for.

Sy returns Jack’s stare calmly and then nods. “He’s good,” Sy says.

“But he hasn’t found a thing.”

Sy pushes out of the chair and moves to the row of whiteboards on the walls. On one board, Jack has drawn out a timeline of the events leading up to the kidnapping. Several others, covered in drawings and sticky notes, contain lists of leads arranged under such titles as, “Krillov,” “Ransom,” “Black Market,” and “Random.”

Jack waits for Sy, lets him think through the possibilities. Sy has a way of cutting through the b.s., of getting to the heart of the matter. Twenty-plus years working as a cop and a dozen or so as a P.I., Jack trusts Sy as no other and curses himself again for waiting so damn long to call him in.

“Listen, Jack,” Sy finally says, “I’ve been following it, in my own way, and I think you’re right. It was an opportunity kind of thing, had to’ve been.” He taps a grainy photo of the candy striper who carried Mia out of the hospital bundled in an oversize bag. “Any case, I’m gonna need copies of the reports Amanda’s been getting from that agency, whatever you’ve got. Can you get me that?”

Jack picks up a manila folder that is painfully thin and tosses it to Sy.

“This is it?” Sy asks. “This is all they got in six months? What the hell kind of detectives do they hire down at that fancy place?”

“That’s it,” Jack apologizes. “I told you, it’s garbage.”

Jack watches as Sy flips through the scant reports in the file, reports that he himself has poured over countless times, has dissected and memorized until they burn in his brain even while he sleeps. More photos of the candy striper as she hurries past a security camera, copies of her stolen Social Security card, stolen I.D., finger prints not on file, questions leading to dead end after dead end.

When he reaches the end, Sy slaps the file closed. “It’s a start,” he says and Jack nods, his fear that it is all crap confirmed.

“Listen,” Jack says, “as far as I’m concerned, the cops have given up. Shaheen’s stuck on Krillov and kids being sold on the black market. Amanda’s got the Merritt guys on retainer looking I don’t know where. I want you to focus on that girl.” He points to the photo. “She’s the one who knows everything.”

Sy nods and Jack leans forward, finding Sy’s eyes and holding them. “And when you find her?” he says, “I don’t want you to do anything. Just tell me where she is.”

“Uh, Jack…”

“Just tell me where she is, Sy.” Jack’s voice is flat and leaves no room for argument.

“Sure, Jack,” Sy says. “Sure.”

Six

Mar.

Mar drives her Hunter-Green Explorer through snow-blanketed streets. Even on this Dream morning, the towering mountains of the Front Range soothe her.  When she packed her bags four years before, two weeks to the day after Joaquin’s funeral, and left the Florida Keys for good, she hadn’t known where she’d end up. At the time, all she’d known was that the ocean called to her and mocked her, invited her to join her husband. The invitation was almost more than she could resist. She’d found Boulder, nestled into the foothills of the Rockies, no ocean or other large body of water nearby. And that had been important to her then. Still is. The sheer massiveness of the mountains at her back makes her feel strong. Back to the wall, this is where she’ll make her stand. No sharks in sight.

On this morning, she makes her way to Shirley’s office. Located near the University, The Center for Child Welfare is a warm and welcoming place. Prettily painted walls, soft, framed prints and fresh flowers, even in the cold month of February, soothe the senses and refresh the spirit. And everywhere there are toys and books arranged to draw out and delight even the most introverted of children.

Mar parks behind The Center’s van and lets the engine idle. She already regrets telling Shirley she’d come. If nothing else, Joaquin’s death made her realize that loving another person is too dangerous, is too all-consuming. Max’s death underscored that lesson. That is why she does not date, though she’s had offers, why she prefers to be alone and why, a year ago, she’d asked Shirley to take her name off The Center’s list of certified foster parents.  Mar tilts the rear-view mirror down. Drawn, pinched features, swollen, raw cheek, tired brown eyes, ragged auburn hair escaping from the butterfly clip she’d tried to capture it with. “Is this the face of someone who should be entrusted with the care of a child?” she asks. She gives it a chance, but the mirror doesn’t answer, and so she pushes it back into place and reaches for her earmuffs and gloves. Puts them on before opening the car door and making the twenty-foot dash to the front door.

The reception alcove is empty. “Shirley?” Mar calls. “Where are you?”

“In the kitchen. Come on back.”

After hanging her coat, Mar follows the sound of laughter through the converted house to the kitchen. She can’t help but smile at the sight of Shirley surrounded by five neighborhood children, all of whom seem to be covered in flour. Dylan, who is both Shirley’s lover and a well-respected PhD in Developmental Psychology, is there as well, decked out in a frilly apron. He, too, is covered in flour and Mar freezes in the doorway, stunned by the sudden urge to paint this scene. This, she thinks, and the fingers of her right hand curl around an imaginary pencil. For a brief moment, she sees the completed piece in her mind, the muted colors of an Andrew Wyeth watercolor, setting, facial expressions and body dynamics more important than color. This is what she would paint, if she could trust herself to feel. She pushes her hands into the pockets of her jeans, smiles broadly, and steps into the kitchen.

“As you can see,” Dylan says by way of greeting, “she’s got us all working again.” But neither he nor the children seem to mind one bit.

“So this is how you spend your free time.”

“Free time? Girl, the only thing free about my time is how much I get paid for it. Otherwise, I’m busy 24-7,” Shirley says. “How you doin’?”

At forty-three, with closely-cropped graying hair, skin the color of warm caramel on a hot afternoon and a huge dimple in her right cheek that deepens when she smiles, which is most of the time, Shirley is a very striking woman. From Jamaica, she’d made her way to the United States twenty-some years before and worked hard to put herself through university, where she’d eventually earned two doctorates – one in Psychology, with a specialization in child psychology, and the other in Business Administration. Not easy by any means, but she’d managed to do it all as a single mother. She’d been courted by child welfare agencies the country over but, somehow, she’d ended up in Boulder, which ever since has enjoyed one of the highest adoption rates and lowest child abuse rates in the country.

Mar pours a cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee and moves to the table. Now that she is in their space, the children pay attention to her, pointing out their own decorations and trying to get her to pronounce one the prettiest. Not stupid, she
oohs
and
aahs
over each and, for her efforts, is rewarded with a cookie from each of the little chefs.

“Dylan, honey,” Shirley says, “will you watch the kids while I go talk with Mar?”

“It would be my greatest pleasure.” Dylan, holding the edge of the apron out like a ballroom dress, tips his head and curtsies. Squeals of laughter erupt from little mouths.

“Aw, Dylan, you just a big huggie-bear,” proclaims one little girl, looking up at him in adoration. The others take up the chant “huggie-bear” as Shirley and Mar make their way from the kitchen up to Shirley’s second floor office.

“What happened to you?” Shirley speaks over her shoulder. “You sure someone’s not using you as a punching bag? Your whole face is a mess.”

“Gee, thanks, and here I was thinking you liked me.”

“I love you, Mar girl, you know that, but…”

“I tripped.”

“Uh-huh, you tripped.”

Mar, sensing the eye-roll even though Shirley’s back is to her, grits her teeth. 

Shirley’s office is in what was originally the house’s master bedroom. Sponge-painted a cheerful pale yellow, the office, like everything else at The Center, is neat and organized. A Little Tykes yellow, blue and red picnic table occupies one corner of the spacious room and shelves offer books and art supplies. A photo arcade of smiling faces fills the credenza against the back wall, but other than a computer monitor and simple four-line telephone, the desk is bare. Except for one file. Mar settles into one of the two visitor chairs and watches as Shirley reaches for the file.

“What we’ve got here,” Shirley begins, her voice now businesslike, “is a little girl, probably five months old. When she was found, she was undernourished and had a pretty nasty chest cold. No bruises or bumps, however, which is encouraging and hopefully means she was not physically abused. She’s a quiet child and, even at such a young age, a bit wary. She startles easily and whimpers a little, but that’s about it. At the hospital, she was given antibiotics and is responding well. Luckily, the cold was just that and not pneumonia.” Shirley looks up at Mar. “She wouldn’t have survived pneumonia.”

“Where did you find her?” Mar asks.

“In a rat-infested flop-house. Just short of a shooting-gallery. We were lucky this time. When they’re this young, they can’t defend themselves and sometimes, especially in winter, the rats get to the kids before we do. Before tying off, the mother had sort of barricaded the baby in a box she must’ve used as a crib. Anyway, it kept the rats off the kid. Or maybe they had enough to eat with the mother.” Shirley sighs and lowers the file. “The mother, Natalie Jones, managed to swing the hundred-dollars-a-month rent the room cost her. They’d been there at least four months. She had a job at a head shop near the University, made minimum wage. Apparently, the rest of the money she made, and anything else she could get her hands on, went to crack, heroin, you name it. According to the guy she worked for, he’d wanted to fire her because she was becoming more and more irresponsible, go figure, but the only reason he didn’t was because of the baby. He was afraid of what would happen to the baby if the mother had no income. He even let her bring the baby to work. On a good note, he did say that the mother seemed to be devoted to the child, whose name is Elizabeth, by the way. She was always clean and the mother would fuss over her. He was afraid the baby wasn’t getting enough to eat and would bring in milk and baby food for her.”