Little Girl Lost Page 6

Later photos, snapped by the press at the trial, depict a haunted young woman visibly pregnant beneath a bulky winter coat. The one printed in the Daily News on January 7, 1969, showed her leaving the hospital with a newborn baby. The picture is black-and-white, but the caption mentions a pink blanket, indicating the child was a girl. That was the last public sighting, as portrayed in the media.

  She’d been harder to track down than the others, her identity uncertain even when Red had finally found her here. Her beauty, dimples and all, has sunk into that haggard face like diamonds in quicksand. She’d have been completely unrecognizable if not for the distinct widow’s peak atop a mass of stringy dark hair.

  Red slips from the shadows, knife in hand as she scuttles out onto the street and around the corner onto Avenue D. She’s desperate for her fix, same as every other day. But today will be her last.

  Red trails her into the lawless epicenter of East Village blight. Tompkins Square Park had been swampland before its nineteenth century transformation into a grassy, gaslit oasis in this overcrowded immigrant neighborhood. It’s seen its share of controversy in Red’s lifetime—wartime neglect, racially charged turf wars, counterculture protests. Street gangs and hippies have been eclipsed by drug dealers, junkies, prostitutes, and a vast homeless population encamped on graffiti-covered benches.

  Mayor Koch, the Parks Department, and the NYPD are threatening to turn things around in this socioeconomic wasteland, but it’s hardly a priority. No one will bat an eye later when another dead addict is found near the decaying fountain littered with drug paraphernalia and human waste.

  But Red spots a couple of police sedans on the outskirts of the park, and uniformed officers on foot patrol. The woman sees them, too, and slows her pace, seeming to weigh her options before joining a group of regulars on a bench. She’s either going to wait out the authorities or furtively do what she has to do and hope she doesn’t get busted.

  Red can’t risk being seen. Can’t wait around, either. The day holds a far more important task, one that must be performed according to schedule.

  Nothing to do but leave Margaret Costello there in the park, unaware that her life has just been spared. For now.

  “Looking forward to some excitement tonight?” the deli guy asks, wrapping a meatball sub in a layer of foil.

  Barnes nods, though he’s experienced more than his share of excitement lately, thanks to a wrong move that coulda-shoulda-woulda ended his detective career—and his life—in a Hell’s Kitchen alleyway three weeks ago.

  On October 4, at precisely 4:36 a.m., Barnes foolishly lifted his head, the perp fired, and Detective Frank DeStefano dove on top of him.

  Maybe not in that order.

  Whenever Barnes looks back on it, he’s nearly certain that Stef instinctively pushed him down a split second before the gun went off. But his partner wasn’t interested in analyzing whether the life-saving move was simultaneous or even preemptive; a lucky coincidence, as opposed to reaction to an action. All in a day’s work, as far as he was concerned.

  The perp is now in jail and this newbie detective’s knuckleheaded head is intact.

  “Kid got off without a scratch,” Stef bragged to everyone at the precinct, seizing the opportunity to bare the angry red welt on his abdomen where he’d been knifed as a rookie because his older, wiser partner hadn’t intervened.

  The deli counter guy isn’t referring to Missing Persons Squad excitement, though. He’s talking about tonight’s World Series Game Five between the Minnesota Twins and the Saint Louis Cardinals. “Game Six on Saturday no matter who wins,” he tells Barnes as he tucks the sub into a paper bag with some napkins. “That’s my day off. How about you?”

  “I’ll probably be working.”

  An hour ago, he and Stef returned a disgruntled teen runaway to her mother’s custody. Another case will come along any minute now. This time, maybe a disoriented senior citizen who can’t find her way home from her weekly mahjong game. Or a child who took hide-and-seek a little too far, or a college kid sleeping off a weekend binge in someone else’s bed . . .

  Those are the cases you want. The ones that end with no one getting hurt.

  He pays for his sandwich and heads out into the dusk, trudging several steep uphill blocks toward home. They call this neighborhood Washington Heights for a reason. Perched at the top of Manhattan, it’s home to the island’s highest natural elevation. A little over two hundred years ago, General George Washington was headquartered here. Now it’s an ethnic melting pot, with lower rents attracting newcomers like Barnes, who might have been the only black man in his building a decade or two ago.

  The broad, tree-lined blocks and prewar elevator buildings fall away. Now he’s in his territory, a more run-down—yet up-and-coming, if you believe the Realtors—part of the Heights. He hasn’t been mugged in the three months since he moved in, but it’s probably only a matter of time. Still, it’s safer here than East Harlem. More space, too, in his new place, on the top floor of a yellow brick walk-up.

  He moved up here in July. The weather was beautiful, Wash was still feeling pretty good, and Barnes had been promoted at last.

  “Guess he’s not a racist, after all,” he told Marsha when he learned he’d be partnered with Stef.

  “Don’t be so sure about that.”

  According to her, Barnes’s short-lived predecessor, the young, white, earnest Jason Sturgis, had considered filing a complaint about Stef’s bigotry.

  “But he didn’t.”

  “Not because it wasn’t valid. Word got around, and someone obviously convinced him the code of silence is more important.”

  Barnes isn’t surprised. It’s one thing to report a fellow officer for a major infraction. But for anything less, you look the other way.

  “Anyway, I heard the same someone—or someones—convinced Sturgis that law enforcement wasn’t for him. Next thing you know, he’s out.”

  “And I’m in. So you’re saying I’m supposed to teach Stef a lesson in tolerance?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe, if he tolerates you, you’ll come in handy if a complaint ever does pop up. Look, I don’t want to put a damper on your promotion. I’m happy for you. Just watch your back.”

  He has, but Stef has his back.

  He proved it when he saved my life.

  Barnes lets himself into the building and climbs the stairs, keys in hand. Every time he looks at them, he sees the little gold baby ring he found at the hospital back in March. He’d forgotten to turn it in to lost and found the next day.

  Or had he? Maybe he selfishly wanted to keep it, because the C reminded him of his father. Maybe it was his father’s way of letting him know he’s still around. That everything is going to be okay with Wash.

  Even though it isn’t.

  As Barnes reaches his door, the one across the hall opens and a neighbor sticks her curly gray head out.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Stockton.”

  “I can see that, Mrs. Klein. Do you need help moving something?” Yesterday, he’d wrestled a marble coffee table from one end of her living room to the other. Not a great distance, but she decided she wanted it back in the original position . . . and then, predictably, returned to the new location.

  “I just wanted to give you this. I signed for it this morning. It’s from a lawyer’s office. Do you know what it is?”

  “No, but thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

  She’s fishing for more information, but Barnes isn’t about to speculate. He takes the envelope, thanks her again, and closes the door. It has to be about his mother’s tangled finances. At least this time, it’s not from the IRS.

  Flicking on the kitchen light, he sees Connie scurrying for cover. That’s his pet name for the fat cockroach that’s been keeping him company the last couple of days. Maybe it’s not always Connie, but he’d prefer to think there’s just one.

  “Yeah, I wish I could hide, too.” He tosses the sandwich on
the counter with his keys and the letter. “Lawyers never send good news, do they, Connie?”

  He opens a cupboard to find the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he bought Monday, and it takes him a moment to remember why it’s nearly empty. Tuesday, he’d invited a woman back here for a nightcap. He drank Jack, and she had a couple of the wine coolers he keeps stashed in the fridge for female guests. She was a fair-skinned, quick-witted redhead. He’s always had a weakness for women like her. They shared a few drinks, laughs, and hours in his bed before she left at sunrise. Though he dutifully exchanged numbers, he hasn’t heard from her since, and he doesn’t plan to call. It was an unremarkable encounter he finds appealing for its lack of consequence, aside from having depleted this week’s whiskey supply.

  He takes a swig from the bottle before tearing open the envelope. Whatever it is . . .

  This too shall pass, he hears Wash saying, as he so often does.

  He’s never heard of the firm engraved at the top of the letterhead, or the name scrawled with swagger at the bottom. He scans the dense paragraphs. The attorney is contacting him on behalf of . . .

  Who? Who the heck is . . .

  Oh. Right. Barnes remembers her. Tall and attractive, with big hair and big . . .

  Yeah. Just his type.

  And now, according to her lawyer, she’s pregnant with his child.

  Sprung from the low-budget self-service West Side parking garage where it’s been stashed the last few hours, the Mercedes zips along in the northbound lanes of the Henry Hudson Parkway. Rush hour is long over. Up ahead, the George Washington Bridge glitters like an emerald crown at the top of Manhattan, its swooping suspension cables lit in green tonight.

  Even from here, it’s easy to see that taillights on the upper span are moving toward New Jersey more quickly than those on the lower. Good, because the upper span has the walkways, and is of course preferable for suicide.

  Not many people who watch M*A*S*H on television know the dark lyrics to the instrumental theme song. Those who do shouldn’t believe them. Suicide is not painless, unless you do it right.

  Take slitting your wrists. Mother had bled out on the kitchen floor—excruciating and messy. There are better, more efficient ways to go.

  Not hanging. Unless you tie the knot just right to snap your neck, you’d slowly strangle. Not overdose, either, because you might vomit the lethal dosage before it takes hold. Plus, there’s lag time, after you swallow the pills, during which you might think second thoughts.

  Gunshot? No. You can fire a bullet into your mouth, but it’s not easy to take steady aim in that position. What if your hand slips at the last moment and you miss the spot that would kill you? You might live on indefinitely, maimed, physically paralyzed, unable to see, hear, speak. Trapped, no way out.

  Jumping is the ideal method. You’re pretty much guaranteed to die instantly if you hurtle yourself from a sufficiently high spot. Like the upper span of the George Washington Bridge. They might not find your body in the Hudson River for days. If ever.

  Yeah, jumping is perfect.

  So is this plan, though not foolproof.

  The Mercedes hugs the on-ramp curves like a dream, speeding across the first half of the span before slowing.

  To the south, beyond the concrete divider, eastbound headlights, and pedestrian walkway, Manhattan’s skyline dazzles. To the north, past another walkway bordered by low railings, the Hudson Highlands hug the river on both sides.

  When you’re three quarters of the way across, park the car, leave the keys, wait till the coast is clear and get out.

  But how clear can it be in the middle of a busy bridge?

  A lull, then. When there’s a lull, you make your move.

  But—

  Don’t worry. Even if a few people spot you, they’re zipping past. They won’t think anything of it, and you’ll be out of there in no time.

  Sure. Easy for someone to say when they’re not stuck taking this monumental risk.

  Park.

  Done.

  Leave the keys in the ignition.

  Done.

  Wait, with one gloved hand on the door handle, eyes on the rearview mirror . . .

  Wait . . .

  Wait . . .

  At last, there’s a break in the rushing headlights. The perfect moment to open the door and climb out, if not entirely without notice, then at least without getting mowed down by passing traffic.

  A fierce gust grabs the car door, making it difficult to push closed. Forget jumping—on a stormy night, a careless person might very well blow off the bridge.

  Hurry, hurry.

  One sneaker over the railing, the other foot, and hit the eight-foot-wide pathway running, back toward Manhattan. Anyone who now notices the abandoned Mercedes might assume that if the Jersey-bound driver had car trouble, he would just walk the remaining distance, a quarter mile at most, to find help at the Fort Lee Bridge Plaza. Later, when he doesn’t turn out to have done that, they’ll assume that he’d jumped.

  One thing is fairly certain: no one who comes along now is going to connect the absent Mercedes driver with a jogger running back toward Manhattan, dressed in a bright purple sweat suit, hood up against the chill.

  The sprint along the span is exhilarating. So much to think about, so many things to look forward to, and zero complications.

  On this brisk October night, as expected, the northern walkway is otherwise deserted. The Port Authority opened it to cyclists last May, in an effort to separate speeding bikes from ambling walkers who use the other side. But who wants to lug a bike up and down the steep stairways on either end? Most bikers have ignored the new regulation and stuck with the other side, where there are just ramps.

  Just before the end of the bridge, a roadside assistance truck passes, flashing yellow lights. It’s undoubtedly en route to assist the stranded Mercedes.

  And so it begins.

  But the risky part ends with the descent from view, along the steep, unlit stairwell leading back to 177th Street.

  Almost to safety.

  Halfway down, a figure pounces from the shadows, brandishing a switchblade, demanding money.

  “Just don’t hurt me, okay?” The fright-laced plea isn’t entirely contrived. In all the imagined scenarios, a garden-variety thief never disrupted the sprint to freedom. Cops were the main threat. Good Samaritans, sure. Fellow pedestrians, nosy motorists . . .

  But an armed mugger?

  “Shut up and give me your wallet.”

  “Please, I don’t have . . .”

  “Then give me whatever you’ve got.”

  “Some cash. That’s all. It’s in my pocket.”

  Slowly, slowly, reach in, and then—

  A single shot. The mugger collapses.

  The pistol goes back into the jacket pocket and then, on second thought, over the railing.

  It lands far below and the splash, like the shot, is lost in the rush of traffic above.

  Wrapped in a sweater and clutching a blue Milk of Magnesia bottle she’d rescued from the trash, Amelia walks Lexington Avenue, looking for Marceline LeBlanc.

  Sometimes, she’s out here, sometimes not. She isn’t the sort of person who keeps a schedule.

  Familiar neighborhood faces, innocuous by day, are baleful in the wee hours of a Harlem morning. An acquaintance of Calvin’s greets her with a lewd proposition. Her father would be furious if he knew Amelia is even out here at this hour, but he’s at work. He’s always at work, and Amelia is always alone. Most of the time she prefers it that way. Not that she has much choice.

  She drifted from her old neighborhood pals after she went to college and they did not. She’s not on campus much this semester, and she has yet to cross paths with the friends she’d made last year. She doesn’t feel like seeking them out, or meeting new people, or dating, though a few guys have seemed interested.

  When you get to know someone, you have to talk about your past—who you are, where you come from. It’s easier to keep to hers
elf, isolated by her secret.

  She continues on toward Park Baptist, drawn to the church ever since Calvin had told her that it was where he’d found her. And it’s where Amelia often finds Marceline. Tonight, the old woman is there, sitting on the steps, feeding an alley cat from a paper cup of raw chicken innards.

  “Past your bedtime, child,” Marceline greets her.

  “I don’t have a bedtime anymore. I brought you a present.” She holds out the bottle, scrubbed clean.

  Marceline stares at it, turning it over in her hands.

  “It’s for your bottle tree,” Amelia explains, and the woman looks up sharply.

  “You seen my bottle tree?”

  “No. You told me about it, remember?”

  Marceline often speaks of the Gullah Geechee community she left behind on some coastal island down south, where everyone seems to believe in hexes and spells, potions and herbs, omens and spirits and mojo. Amelia was fascinated by the Gullah tradition of placing empty blue bottles upside down over crepe myrtle branches, preferably just outside the front door, also painted blue. The color is believed to ward off evil spirits and bad luck.

  There’s no crepe myrtle here in New York, but Marceline said there’s an oak growing beyond her fire escape, and she stuck blue bottles over the branches she can reach. Amelia has kept an eye out for the tree in her travels, wondering where Marceline lives. She won’t say. She doesn’t like to answer questions. She prefers to share stories about magic, and the past—not necessarily her own, and certainly not Amelia’s.

  Looking pleased with her gift, Marceline tucks the bottle into the pocket of her dress. “T’engky.”

  It means “thank you.” When Amelia first got to know her, she couldn’t comprehend the strange Gullah dialect even if it is plain old English. The more she hears it, the easier it is to understand, though there are some foreign phrases—like supshun, and buckrahbittle—that she’d never be able to translate. Her favorite is dayclean. Marceline told her it means “early morning, after dawn breaks”—a fresh start, with yesterday’s troubles scrubbed away.

  “Miss LeBlanc, when I found the bottle, it got me thinking about my baby ring. It was gold, with blue stones, and the letter C etched in blue. Maybe it was supposed to keep the evil away, but . . .” She shrugs.