the form of a brief memo. Dr. Wayne Werner, senior field epidemiologist, would be finished with his current project and would be available for reassignment in three to four weeks, it read. Anyone in the department needing Werner's help with an ongoing investigation should submit a request in writing within the next two weeks. Rosa knew that the memo was at least a demand for some sort of likely hypothesis from her, and at worst a threat that she was soon to be replaced.
The name crudely painted just above the mail slot of the first-floor flat was BARAHONA. Fredy Barahona, a laborer, was home all day, every day, drawing disability for a back problem. His wife, Maria, was working the night shift in a sneaker factory. Maria's daughter by her previous marriage, and the only child she would ever conceive, was Constanza Hidalgo.
Rosa was feeling the strain of her intensive investigation, now nearly seven weeks along. She had lost weight, quarreled with her husband for the first time in several years, and developed an annoying tic at the corner of one eye. But she was frightened enough and determined enough to keep pushing herself to the limit. She desperately wanted to leave her profession a winner. More important, she wanted to head off what she firmly believed was impending disaster.
Someone had deliberately torn pages from the hospital records of at least two of the three DIC cases she was investigating. Sarah Baldwin was being followed and had been accosted once. And the meticulous research techniques that had served Rosa so faithfully over the years were not delivering. She felt as if she were tiptoeing around a ticking bomb, with no clear idea how to disarm it. The only thing that seemed certain to her at this point was that unless answers were found, and soon, more women and their unborn infants were going to die.
Maria Barahona was a plump, work-weary woman who had almost surely been quite attractive at one time in her life. She kept up a cheery front, but the pain of losing her only child showed in her eyes. Once, during Rosa's initial interview with her, she had begun to weep. But just as quickly she composed herself, apologized, and went on answering questions. Now, with her husband across the room, dozing on a tattered recliner, she served Rosa tea and talked once again of Connie. Although her English was decent enough, she seemed relieved to be conversing in Spanish.
'There were drugs in the car, you know,' she said. 'They told us Connie had marijuana in her blood, but I don't believe it. She was a happy girl. A good girl, too. And so, so beautiful. Her only crime was falling in love with that bastard, Billy Molinaro. Please, Mrs. Suarez, please. Forgive me for swearing.'
'Mrs. Barahona, there is no need for you to apologize.'
'She was so beautiful. You should have seen her, Mrs. Suarez. Men would just stop what they were doing and stare when she walked by. We had already picked out her boy's name. Guillermo. Even though he would have been called Billy, Connie was going to spell it the Spanish way.'
As she had during their first interview, Maria Barahona was rambling. She was once again nearing tears. Rosa broke in somewhat desperately.
'Mrs. Barahona,' she said, 'somewhere between three and five years ago your daughter was treated for something at the Medical Center of Boston. Would you have any idea at all what that was?'
Some of the anguish left the woman's face as she focused on Rosa's question.
'I–I don't remember anything. She had some headaches and some stomach trouble-especially with, you know, her monthly. But nothing that didn't get better when she took medicine. She always had great faith in the doctors at the Medical Center. If they said take this pill at three minutes after four, my Constanza sat looking at her watch until three minutes after four.'
Another dead end. Rosa stared at the floor, trying to imagine Connie Hidalgo's mounting terror during those last nightmarish hours of her life. Was there anything else? Anything at all she could try?
'Mrs. Barahona, Maria, I know that Connie was living with Billy Molinaro,' she said finally. 'When did she leave home for good?'
'They were planning a wedding,' Maria said, obviously embarrassed. 'And she still spent many nights here. Many nights.'
'Please, Maria. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything at all. I just wondered if her room still had her things in it. That's all. If it does, with your permission I'd like to check it over.'
'Oh. Well, if you think it might help, certainly you can look at anything you want. It's the room back there on the right. I haven't changed anything. If you don't mind, though, I'd like to get dinner started. I work the night shift, you know.'
'I know,' Rosa said, glancing over at Fredy Barahona, who was in need of a shave and hadn't so much as stirred since her arrival. She wondered if he had ever prepared a meal on his own, and reflected momentarily on how lucky she was to have spent forty years married to Alberto Suarez. 'Thank you, Maria. I'll be fine.'
Connie Hidalgo's bedroom spoke, of a woman who had never really stopped being a little girl. The bureau and bed, possibly painted by Connie herself, were white with pink accents. The pillow cases, also pink, were frilly, with hand-painted teddy bears and balloons. And there were stuffed animals everywhere-a hundred or more. Zebras and elephants; bears and orangutans; kittens and all manner of dogs. The walls were covered with posters of romantic island getaways and neon-lit cities. Rosa swallowed against the sadness in her throat. Despite the marijuana reported in Connie's bloodstream, Rosa sensed she would have developed into a loving, devoted parent.
Rosa took a framed five-by-seven snapshot from the bureau and raised the window shade to view it in better light. Connie, looking even more vibrant than in the newspaper photo Rosa had in her files, stood arm in arm with a swarthy, handsome, confidently grinning young man, whom Rosa was certain was Billy Molinaro. The snapshot was taken on board a boat of some sort, possibly the sightseeing kind. Behind them was the distinctive skyline of Manhattan. Connie, copper skinned, slender, and full breasted, was absolutely lovely.
Uncertain of what she was after, Rosa first checked the bureau drawers and then the contents of the small bookcase. The books were mostly paperback romances and library books that had never been returned. There were no photo albums or scrapbooks, but there was a yearbook-The Sword and Rose-from St. Cecilia's High School. The yearbook was clearly low budget-a far cry from the glossy, full-color productions Rosa had seen from other high schools, including the one her daughters had attended.
She skimmed through the pages of black-and-white photos, searching for some that included Connie. There were, at least on first perusal, none. Nor were there many messages from classmates. The few she read were hardly passionate: All the best to a terrific kid… We didn't know each other well, but I hope you have a wonderful life… Good luck from your friend in Latin 213… Rosa glanced again at the radiant, sensuous woman sharing a harbor cruise with the dashing young man who was to become her husband. The tepid comments from Connie's schoolmates did not jibe at all with that woman.
Rosa flipped to the class photos at the back of the book. Where her daughters' yearbooks had four good-sized color portraits per page, The Sword and Rose had ten-all black-and-white. Printed in minute type beside each photograph was a summary of that student's activities during her years at St. Cecilia's. Constanza Hidalgo had been a cafeteria aide and a member of the culinary arts club. Nothing else. No music, no drama, no sports. Rosa stared at Connie's photograph. Even allowing for the fact that the portrait was slightly out of focus, Rosa doubted she would have been able to identify its subject without being told.
Once again she held up the framed snapshot. The girl in the yearbook was most certainly the woman with Billy Molinaro… yet she wasn't. The mouth was the same, and the eyes, too, although they held none of the spark that Rosa saw in the more recent picture. But the face in the yearbook was much rounder and very much less interesting. It was as if someone had taken a paring knife and carved away the younger Connie's plainness.
Rosa set the yearbook on the bed and completed her inspection of the room. There was nothing else of interest in the bookcase or on the floor. She opened the small closet. Along with two maternity dresses, there were a number of fairly chic outfits and dresses, all size six, and a dozen or more pairs of shoes. If what Rosa was seeing were the clothes Connie had chosen not to move to Billy Molinaro's place, the former cafeteria aide and cooking club member had become a legitimate candidate for any best-dressed list.
The floor of the closet, like much of the room, was covered with stuffed animals. Rosa would never know what caught her eye, or what instinct made her bend down and move part of the pile aside. But there beneath the bears, snow leopards, and toucans was a shoe box, bound with rubber bands.
And inside the shoe box was a diary.
Matt delighted his secretary by sending her home for the remainder of the afternoon. Then Sarah and he split the corned beef sandwich and fries they had picked up at Gold's and talked for a time about absolutely nothing of
