Stay With Me (18 page)

Diane sat waiting for a few more moments before that old cliché movie tagline flashed in her brain.
It was quiet. Too quiet
. It
was
too quiet. And when she looked around the room, Diane realized at last that there was a distinct reason for this: All the equipment had been turned off.

Diane switched on a light. Carver looked very pale, very still.

She moved toward his bed, rested her fingers against his neck . . . “Oh no,” she whispered, pressing the call button, jamming her fingers into it. “
Oh no, no, no . . .”
She pushed her hands into his chest, attempting CPR, but he didn’t budge, and as the door flew open and medical staff rushed in, Diane noticed the note pinned to the front of Carver’s hospital gown, pinned there with a tiny, glittering diamond stud earring.

It read, “She’s happy now.”

Part Three

Mom just told me, “I don’t know you anymore.” She said it angrily, like it was my fault. I don’t get it. If Mom doesn’t know me, why am I to blame?

From the diary of Clea Spector

June 6, 1979

14

“That’s Maya’s,” Brenna said.

It was 5:30
A.M.
, still dark outside. She was sitting across from Plodsky in the kitchen of Jim and Faith’s apartment. She’d been in here several times before, to pick up Maya, chat with Faith, maybe have a cup of tea—an airy room with stainless steel fixtures and a big, photo-shoot-ready island of polished wood, a granite chopping-block top she’d always coveted. But being here in this capacity, sitting around the island on tall stools with Plodsky, Jim, Faith, and Morasco, Plodsky’s briefcase placed at the center of the chopping block with the evidence bag on top . . . This was completely unfamiliar. It made her thoughts race around, especially after a night of no sleep—no rest, even—and no food other than Trent’s Red Bull. The worst night in Brenna’s life, capped off by Plodsky’s 5
A.M
.
phone call and then the cab ride to Jim and Faith’s, the briefcase and the evidence bag.

It had been kind of Detective Plodsky to call. It had been very kind of her to offer to come down to Jim and Faith’s instead of making them all drive up to 147th and Frederick Douglass Boulevard, where the offices of the Missing Persons Unit were located. And the fact that Plodsky had waited it out at the hospital long enough to find Carver’s body the way she did . . . that had been heroic. This was what Brenna was trying to focus on—the good. But all she could see was the evidence bag, what was in it.

Plodsky said, “Are you sure it’s Maya’s?”

Brenna nodded, tears welling in her eyes, pain tearing at her. It was an earring, like thousands of others. But as seen through the thick plastic, it might as well have been a lock of hair, a severed fingertip. “Her favorites,” she said. “Her grandmother gave them to her.”

“She wore those all the time,” Faith said. “She liked them because her ears had a tendency to get infected and the posts are twenty-four-karat gold which—” Her voice broke off. She closed her eyes. “Yes, they were her favorites.”

Jim put a hand over hers.

Brenna said, “Can we see the note?”

Plodsky nodded, and Brenna noticed something strange in her expression—a softness to the eyes.
Sympathy.
It made her not want to look at the note. It made her want to get up and run, and she had to steel herself in order to ask again. “Please,” she said.

Plodsky opened the briefcase, removed another bag, and slid it across the island so they could read the note inside.

“Oh my God,” Faith whispered. She started to breathe hard and fast, Jim taking her into his arms. “It’s okay,” he said.

“No,” she said. “No, you don’t understand . . .”

Brenna stared at the carefully printed block letters: “She’s happy now.” It brought on a memory—February 16, 2005,
phone pressed to her ear, guilt tugging at her as she grasps for the words. “I’m so sorry, but we can’t take every case . . .”

Nick squeezed Brenna’s hand, bringing her out of it.

“My thought is that this is a message to you,” Plodsky was saying, her voice calm and quiet as Faith caught her breath. “It could be from someone Maya went with willingly, but considering what was done to Mr. Carver, the person is still dangerous. I’ve recommended issuing an AMBER Alert. My superiors are still considering whether that’s the best possible approach in this particular situation. In the meantime, does that phrase, ‘She’s happy now,’ or maybe the handwriting is familiar . . . is there anything about the note that feels personal?”

Faith said, “I know who took her.”

Brenna stared at her.

“I got a strange phone call on Saturday, when I was interviewing Ashley Stanley,” she said. “A woman with a very deep, husky voice—someone who clearly had smoked a lot of cigarettes. She told me not to let Maya out.”

Brenna’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t you say anything about that?”

Plodsky said, “Do you get calls like this often, Mrs. Rappaport?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you didn’t tell us about it earlier?”

She looked down. “Yes,” she said. “I get them all the time. They try to screen them at the studio but . . .”

Brenna said, “Mentioning Maya?”

“Mentioning everyone.” Faith turned to her. Her eyes looked weary and cold. “After I interviewed you in October, I got quite a few mentioning
you
.”

She said it like an accusation.
What is going on with you
,
Faith?
Brenna thought. She cleared her throat. It had been a long day, a long night, a nightmare they were all still trapped in. It was natural to start bumping against each other, trying to get out.

Brenna said, “Was the call from a restricted number?”

“Yes.”

“It can still be traced.”

“Please give me your cell phone carrier information and the time of the call,” Plodsky said.

“But I think I already know who the caller is,” Faith said. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

They all looked at her.

“Renee Lemaire is a smoker,” Faith said.

“The woman who abducted Ashley Stanley,” said Plodsky. “You think she was the one who called?”

“Yes. She’s a chain smoker. Ashley told me.”

“You think she warned you she was going to take Maya, then took her anyway as . . . what? Why?”

“As payback for putting Ashley on TV and bringing the story into the spotlight. They’ll never be able to take her again, so they traded one blonde, thirteen-year-old girl for another.”

“Were the Lemaires drug users?”

“Ashley said they sometimes gave her pills. Why?”

“Mark Carver died of a heart attack, induced by an overdose of oxycodone. His doctor had specifically ordered no opiates. The medical examiner noticed bruising at the neck, consistent with an injection. So whoever left the note—presumably the same person who killed him—would have known their way around a needle.”

“Listen to me,” Faith said. “In the interview, Ashley told me that Renee Lemaire used those exact words with her. She said she told her, ‘We chose you, and you’re happy now.’ ”

Plodsky said, “I’ll need a copy of the interview.”

“I’ll have the studio send one over to you right away.”

“Ashley said that on TV?” Nick said. “She used those exact words?”

“Yes.”

“How would Renee Lemaire know how to find Maya?” Jim said.

“Don’t you see? The paps caught Ashley and me having lunch weeks ago. It was in all the papers. Her husband could have found out about Maya. He could have been stalking her for weeks. Maybe she called and tried to warn me, but now she’s in it again . . . She’s in it with him and they have her.”

“Carver did say he was partying with a woman.” Jim looked at Nick. “Right?”

Nick nodded.

“That woman could have been Renee Lemaire,” Faith said.

Plodsky said, “I suppose it’s possible.”

“You suppose?” Faith said. “The words on the note were Renee Lemaire’s exact words.”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re everyone’s words now.”

“
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
”

“They were said on a TV show with millions of viewers,” Brenna said. “Anyone who saw her use them could have taken Maya, killed Carver, and left that message.”

“That’s true,” said Jim.

Faith shot him a look, which again made Brenna wonder why. “I don’t mean it’s not Renee Lemaire,” she said. “I was just pointing out that she’s not the only one who knows about that phrase now.”

“Ms. Spector is right,” Plodsky said. “And objectively speaking, a message like ‘She’s happy now’ could mean any number of things. Including exactly what’s on the piece of paper. Maya herself said something similar in the text message—”

“That wasn’t Maya,” Nick said.

“Look,” Plodsky sighed out the word. “I understand that all of you have your opinions—”

“It isn’t an opinion. It’s a fact.”

“—and the four of you are more knowledgeable on the topic of police proceedings than most parents, but that doesn’t change . . .”

As she continued to talk, Brenna stared down at her hands, seeing them on her own desk on February 16, 2005, a Wednesday. She could feel the dry heat from the radiator in her office space,
her face flushing from it, flushing from nerves, too, because she hates to let her down—poor, sad Sophia Castillo, her pain so deep you can feel it through the phone.

A mother, just like Brenna. Missing someone, just as she does. Her own son. Her only son.

The clock at the bottom of Brenna’s computer screen reads 3:04
P.M.
Brenna stares at it, watches it turn to 3:05, all to avoid looking at the open e-mail.

“Ms. Castillo.” Her throat is dry, her voice barely audible. “I’m very sorry but I can’t take your case.”

She takes a breath, waits a few seconds, but there’s nothing, no reply at all. “I . . . uh . . . I received an e-mail from a source of mine, within the legal system.”

“What source?”

“I can’t tell you that, ma’am. But what I can tell you is that I’ve learned that your husband, Christopher, has been awarded sole custody of Robert.”

“But I don’t . . . I don’t know where either one of them are.” Her voice sounds drugged beyond sadness.

Brenna shifts her gaze to the back of Trent’s head. She listens to Sophia’s shaking breath. She’s not sure she believes the rest of Len’s e-mail. Lots of things are said in a divorce proceeding that aren’t true. Lots of things are said that are out-and-out lies . . .

“Robert is my only child,” Sophia says.

“I know,” Brenna says, “and I’m sorry. I know how much you must hurt, believe me. I’m the mother of an only child myself—”

“You don’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t know how much I must hurt. Your only child is still with you.”

Brenna takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I can have my assistant e-mail you a list of qualified private investigators who may be willing to take your case.”

No answer.

“In the meantime,” Brenna says, “try to focus on the fact that unlike so many other missing children, Robert is probably well. He’s happy now.”

“You’re not going to take my case.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, no. I can’t.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Spector.”

“Ms. Spector?” Plodsky said.

Brenna gritted her teeth, shut her eyes tight. When she opened them, she saw everyone staring at her.

“I was just saying,” the detective said, “that we need to look at this case from all possible perspectives. This morning, a civilian representative from our community outreach department will be speaking to the other children at Maya’s school . . .”

He’s happy now.

Faith said, “I have a suggestion, Detective,” but Brenna didn’t hear it. She was back into February 16, 2005—not to the phone call with Sophia Castillo, but to the e-mail she’d avoided looking at during the conversation. It had come fifteen minutes earlier, from Len Kirch, a former legal reporter for Jim’s paper, the
Trumpet
.

Len used to be a very close friend, but on June 18, 2007, they’d gone out for drinks and he’d made an incredibly awkward and unwanted pass. Both of them knowing her memory all too well, they hadn’t spoken since.

Back in 2005, though, when Brenna had never heard Len say the words, “My wife doesn’t understand my needs,” she’d asked him to investigate Sophia after speaking with her on the phone the previous day. The e-mail had arrived on her screen with a shotgun blast—all her e-mails used to make that sound back then . . .

“She’s way into my pecs,” Trent says into his phone, his voice bounding off the thin walls of Brenna’s office area. In a month and three days, it’ll be this irritating kid’s one-year anniversary of working here. Brenna shakes her head at that. How could he have lasted this long?

Trent says, “And I can tell she wants to partay if you know what I’m sayin’.”

“Trent,” Brenna says. “What did I tell you about personal calls?”

“Uh, on my cell phone and during lunch break?”

“Bingo.”

“Sorry, boss.”

Brenna hears a shotgun blast—a new e-mail, from Len Kirch.

“Dude, I’m gonna have to call you laaaaatah.” Trent sings out the last word like it’s an
American Idol
audition. Brenna rolls her eyes. She moves the cursor to click on the e-mail, then notices the subject: “Re: Sophia Castillo: Yikes.”

She opens it.

“Ms. Spector?” Plodsky said again.

Brenna turned to the detective, the body of Len Kirch’s five-year-old e-mail still floating in front of her eyes
as she skims it, stopping at the words “serious danger
,”
at the words “trouble with authority
,”
at the words “psychiatric issues”. . .

“I was just telling Detective Plodsky,” Faith said, “that I am going to make an announcement on air this morning.” Faith had a piece of white paper spread in front of her. Her gaze stayed on Brenna, brittle and hard.

Brenna blinked at Faith. “Okay . . .”

“She thinks it’s a good idea,” Faith said. “And if you can get out of your own goddamn head for a few seconds, I can
re
read it to you and you can tell me if you have anything to add.”

Jim said, “Take it easy, Faith,” and Faith said, “
You
take it easy,” and it was only then that the iciness of her tone sank in. That phrase:
Your own goddamn head
. Faith never talked to Brenna this way. She hardly ever even swore.

“Are you okay?” Brenna said.

Jim said, “We’re all stressed.”

“Right.” Morasco glared at Faith. “We
all
are. And by the way, this is
Brenna’s child
that’s gone missing. You might want to take that into account before attacking her.”

“She’s
my child
, too.”