“I wanted you two to meet because it’s an interesting case and I thought you would get along,” Galloway intoned. “Sisters in crime.”
I had stopped listening. I was thinking about a Subway sandwich and a bag of chips.
“And on top of that, Ana is a natural to be a mentor.”
“Listen,” Kelsey was saying, “it doesn’t have to be a formal thing—”
“What doesn’t?”
“—because I’m still officially on the national security squad, so you can copy me the material and we can have coffee whenever you—”
I was prancing like a little kid who had to pee.
“This is really not a good time—”
Galloway was mouthing the cigar thoughtfully. “You say Santa Monica is handling the possible link to Arizona?”
“Yes.”
“I want us to do it.”
“Why?” My stomach tightened. “They’ve got a senior detective on it, very competent guy—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Galloway replied. “Headquarters is going to want no doubt about who makes this case.”
“What happened to the ‘new politics’?” I was riled. I was pissed. I did not want to have another conversation about this with Andrew. “I thought we were supposed to share.”
“Sharing is good. As long as we get the bigger piece. You have a problem?”
“I guess it’s been a while since I was in the sandbox.”
The phone was ringing. Kelsey was giving me a sisterly shrug.
“Yeah, Rick,” said Galloway, dismissing us both with a wave of the stogie. “What’ve you got?”
The surveillance team had been in place. That night it was a pair of rookies, I don’t know their names. As usual there had been little movement on the tranquil street since the last of the dog walkers, around eight. Lights were on in the Meyer-Murphy home, where day and night had merged into what Willie John Black would call a “candlelight situation,” wonderfully descriptive, if you think about it, of a halftone state in which the present and future are equally without meaning or illumination.
The first verbal report stated, “Someone is walking up the street.”
This was transmitted to walkie-talkies inside the house and recording equipment in the Bureau and command center.
“Walking slowly. Weaving. Possibly intoxicated.”
Someone muttered, “Ten-four,” to let the guys in the car know somewhere in the city another human was listening.
“I think it’s a female. Can’t tell in the fog.” More alert: “She’s heading up the path.”
In reply, Eunice Shaw’s voice from inside the house was sharp. You could sense her bearing down since the cell phone incident.
“I can see somebody out there,” she confirmed. “Who is it?”
“Coming your way,” warned surveillance.
“To the front door!”
“Can’t see shit in this fog—”
“Get out of the car,” she ordered,
And they were, in a heartbeat, because out of the heavy mist drifted a hollow, dirt-stained face with feral matted filthy hair — a crippled figure Eunice first made as a homeless alcoholic or some demented member of the kidnap outfit — until she came underneath the exterior lamp, and Eunice saw the T-shirt was hanging open like a vest, for it had been slit down the middle, and the torso had been wound with bloody gauze.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” Eunice breathed and opened the door and drew the girl inside. “Don’t be afraid, Juliana. I’m Eunice Shaw with the FBI. We’ve been looking for you, baby. Your parents are waiting for you, right upstairs.” Juliana swayed, listless, lightweight, as if about to float off her feet. She was pale and shocky. For a moment Eunice froze with hands on her shoulders, holding her upright, and made eye contact over her lolling head with one of the stupefied young male agents who had skidded through the doorway and Eunice’s black eyes were pleading and accusatory and infuriated and without being told he radioed 911 while the other agent went scuffling up the stairs to stammer to the parents that their little girl was home.
Eight
The parents were like strangers, sitting on opposite sides of the hospital corridor. The minute you saw them your heart sank.
Their anxious bickering had at least been a connection. Now, at this unimaginable moment, when they needed the comfort of rabbis and saints, these two could not even bring themselves to touch each other’s hand.
He, wearing a shiny purple jacket that said
“You all did a great job.”
“I’m glad we could be of help.”
She, back in control of her public self, had dressed in businesslike khakis with a blue sweater and spotless white tennis shoes, but looked, if it were possible, as if she had lost another ten pounds in the last twelve hours. Wordlessly, she put her arms around me, and I could feel the fragile shoulder bones.
“It isn’t over,” Ross warned. “You’ve got to get the guy.”
“Believe me, Mr. Murphy, that’s the plan.”
“Who,” said his wife, eyes communicating her private torment, “do you think it was?”
“I couldn’t speculate right now.”
“But you’ll keep us informed?”
“You’ll be informed.”
“I just want to say—,” but Ross couldn’t say it. He ducked his head and swiped at his eyes. “If I acted badly, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble … I was just trying to get my daughter back.”
I nodded, eyes stung with empathy. “It was a difficult time for everyone.”
“If there’s anything we can do for you,” he began stalwartly, “on a personal level—”
“No, no, no—” I may have blushed. “Please.”
“I understand.” He put up a meaty hand as if he were a kingpin in the Russian mafia. The fluorescent lights glinted off his gold spectacles. “Just know it’s there.”
Ross greeted him with some kind of white suburban power handshake and a dozen claps on the shoulder of his leather jacket.
“She’s back, huh? She made it! She’s a survivor, that kid! I feel like I should be handing out cigars!”
But there was a contradictory sadness behind Ross’s bravura. We all knew, standing there, the life of this family had been kicked off track and lay twisted and skewed like a toy train, smashed by the heel of someone who resented its ordered path around in a circle; the perfect miniature town inside.
“Ana, they want you.”
Ross: “What’s going on?”
