The Last Good Night (28 page)

These are the things that break your heart.

 

W
E HEARD THE
papers slap against the door just after six o'clock that morning.

I left David lying there, his back to me, his eyes open, glazed, and went to get them.

The first time I saw my picture in a newspaper fifteen years ago in an article about my initial foray into television in Pittsburgh, I stared at it without comprehension for long minutes before it began to register who it was. An inexplicable nausea filled the gap between the picture and the person I knew myself to be. It was Sophie I recognized on the covers of the
New York Post
and the
Daily News,
Sophie's sweet and rounded face laid out in the black and white dots of the tabloid pages, at once familiar and unknown. And then my own face in the background, our foreheads touching as I held her. “Jesus Christ.”

I went back to the bedroom and dropped the papers on the bed next to David. “So much for keeping it out of the press,” I said.

He picked them up and I watched him study them.

“How the hell did they get these pictures?” he demanded.

“That shit from
Vanity Fair
must have sold them.”

“What shit from
Vanity Fair
?”

“I told you. When they came to do the interview they took pictures.”

“I thought we had an agreement that no one in the press gets Sophie's picture?”

“He said they were just for us.”

“And you believed him?”

“Yes.”

David glared.

He scanned the stories in the tabloids and read bits and pieces out loud to me.

“‘The only child of network news anchor Laura Barrett and her husband, David Novak, was taken at gunpoint yesterday morning…. Baby-sitter Dora Rickley was held for questioning and later released…. No blackmail message has been received. Anyone with information on a blue sedan seen in the vicinity of
Washington Square Park between nine-thirty and eleven-thirty yesterday morning should contact…'” He continued to scan the article. “There's no mention of your friend Jack Pierce.”

“At least the cops managed to keep some things confidential.”

“Only if it helps their investigation to keep it out of the papers. If not, I wouldn't count on their munificence.” He flung the papers down and they landed with a thud on my lap.

“I had no control over this,” I said.

“Of course not.”

“David, that's not fair.”

He turned around, looked at me once, and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. I knew that he blamed me. Blamed me for everything. I understood. So did I.

I picked up the phone by the bed and dialed Harraday's number at the precinct, figuring he'd be in early. He was.

“Have you heard anything?” I asked.

“I'm sorry, Laura. Nothing yet. You know we would have called you if we had.”

My chest filled once more with dead weight, I could hardly breathe. “How could she just disappear?” I cried.

“I don't know.”

“Someone must have seen something. It was broad daylight.”

“We're looking into every lead we get, Laura.”

“You're not looking hard enough,” I accused him.

Harraday didn't answer.

“You told me you'd keep this out of the press,” I said.

“I'm sorry. There was a leak.”

“Obviously.”

“I don't know how it happened. Maybe when Pike radioed it in from the park someone overheard. The press monitors the police bands all the time, you know. Well, of course you know. Or it could have been someone from your own studio. Baldwin must have told more than his confessor.”

“Will there be other leaks?” I asked carefully.

“Not now. Not yet,” he answered just as carefully.

I pressed the receiver closer to my mouth. “Do you think she's okay?”

“I hope so.”

“You're going to find her, aren't you?”

“We're going to do everything we can.”

I hung up without saying goodbye and curled up in the fetal position.

When Sophie was first born, I didn't know the words to any lullabies so I used to sing her “Silent Night, Holy Night” over and over again as we swayed gently in the rocking chair, her warm body pressed tight to my chest until, finally, she slept.

I pulled the covers over my head and began to sing it now,
Silent night, Holy night, all is well, all is bright
….

I sang it again and again, in whispers and in tears, hoping that somehow, somewhere she would hear me.

 

T
HE DAY SPREAD
itself out before us, empty, unknown.

By eight o'clock when David went to the windows to open the curtains, our building was surrounded by the press, leather-jacketed men and women with a mass of indistinguishable faces, jumping up and down to keep their feet warm as they clutched paper cups of coffee, laughing with each other, trying to get a better angle, avid, eager, bored, their long-lens cameras and their eyes all trained steadily on us as they waited for something to happen, the next line of the story.

He quickly pulled the curtains closed. “Your fellow travelers,” he remarked.

I stayed in bed, unable to move.

Still when David glanced down at me, I caught his eyes just once and saw a glimmer of shared pain despite his anger.

We were hostages together, inexorably connected by our yearning and our fear. By our love for Sophie.

 

I
ONLY ROSE
when I heard Flanders talking on the telephone. I ran through the apartment until I found him in the kitchen.

He was hanging up when I entered.

“Did you hear anything? Did they find her?”

He shook his head. “Nothing so far.” His face was bleary from lack of sleep.

My shoulders sank.

What we all knew but did not mention was that the longer we went without hearing anything from the kidnapper the worse Sophie's chances were. A simple blackmailer wants the money quickly. It is a business deal, after all, an exchange of goods, the cleaner the better.

It is the more perverse of the criminals who drag their wretched escapades through time to their horrible conclusion.

Or worse, to no conclusion at all.

I walked barefoot back to Sophie's room and settled down in the corner away from the window, hugging her teddy bear close to my face.

 

“L
AURA?”

I looked up.

“Harraday's here,” David said.

He stepped gingerly into Sophie's room, his eyes haunted as he took in the crib, the changing table. He offered his hand to help me up. “Come on,” he said quietly. “He needs to talk to you.”

I started to follow him out. We were almost to the door
when he took the teddy bear from my arms and laid it gently on the changing table.

“Do you want to get dressed first?” he asked as we started down the hallway.

I shook my head.

“How about at least rinsing your face or brushing your hair?”

“It's all right.” The simplest rituals, washing, eating, were abstractions to me now.

Harraday was standing in the living room with Carelli, waiting to pick up the photograph. His hair was freshly slicked back and his ruddy cheeks newly shaved. His breath smelled vaguely of menthol cigarettes and coffee.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” David replied.

“Quite the crowd out there,” Harraday said as he unbuttoned his coat.

“Crowd is a polite word for it,” David muttered.

“Actually, it can help us if it makes more people who might have seen something come forward. Of course, it can also bring out every lunatic between here and the Mississippi.” Harraday told us that a phone line had been set up for tips and the “800” number had been given to the media.

“What have you found out about Pierce?” David asked.

“The police in Florida went to his house but there's no sign of him. As far as we know he hasn't been back in weeks. We're running credit card checks, but nothing's turned up since he left the Hotel Angelica. We talked to his wife, Carol, this morning, but she says she doesn't know where he is and we have no reason not to believe her. As you told us, they're separated, so it's not so surprising. I gather they're not on very good terms, so I doubt he'll contact her.”

“What about Shana Joseph?”

“We haven't found her yet, but we did learn that her friend Jay's last name is Lopez.”

“Did they find him?”

“No. We talked to some of his friends. They think he left town about a week ago. No one knows where he went, but wherever it is, it's probably with Shana.”

Carelli turned to me. “It seems your friends are running a regular missing persons bureau all their own.” He glared in my direction. He'd had to clean up after more than one errant celebrity before, no doubt. Manhattan was cluttered with them. When he did his job right, the public never even heard about it, so untarnished did the image remain.

I said nothing as I gave the photo of the Breezeway to Harraday. He picked it up with tissues and turned it over, examining the message while Carelli peered over his shoulder.

“We'll dust for fingerprints and have our handwriting experts check the scrawl on the back,” Harraday said as he slipped it into a plastic evidence bag. “I want a list of everyone who has your home address as well as everyone who could have had this photo to begin with. Besides Pierce, of course.”

“My parents ran a motel. Hundreds of people went through there.”

“I would assume hundreds of people wouldn't have a motive, though. Think. Think of who you knew then.” He waited, his pen and pad at the ready.

I ran my fingers through my knotted hair. “I just don't know.”

“Well, you work on it.”

“What about Sean McGuirre?” David asked. “Any more news about him?”

Harraday let an uncomfortable pause ensue before he spoke. “His aunt in Poughkeepsie says he came by to collect some things on the night of his release three weeks ago. No one's seen him since.”

“This wasn't supposed to happen,” David said. “We were supposed to be warned. How could he just be let go with no word?”

“There appears to have been a breakdown in the system,” Harraday responded flatly.

“That's great. That's just fucking great.”

“Unfortunately, it happens.”

Harraday put the photo in his briefcase and began to tuck his charcoal gray wool scarf about his neck. When no one was looking, he reached over and touched my arm lightly. “Hang in there.”

I knew then that he hadn't called the D.A., not yet anyway. I walked him to the door. “Thank you,” I said softly.

He looked closely at me, and he nodded without saying a word.

 

K
EN
D
RAPER, THE
vice president of the news division, showed up with another man in tow as Harraday and Carelli were leaving. “This is Thomas Borstein, from the network's public relations office,” Draper informed us as David reluctantly took their coats.

Borstein looked at me curiously and I tightened the sash of my bathrobe.

I realized suddenly that I was a problem. As much as the network might sympathize with my situation, they were terrified of any whiff of scandal when it came to the news division. The kidnapping was terrible, it was heartbreaking, yes, but what exactly should the spin be?

“Do you mind if we sit down?” Draper asked.

“Of course,” I said dully as I led them into the living room.

“What are we, running a cocktail party here?” David mumbled.

Draper and Borstein looked at him condescendingly. “It's important that we talk to Laura,” Borstein said.

“I don't think this is exactly the time for career counseling, fellas.”

“It's all right, David,” I reassured him. They were nothing but meaningless chess pieces to me now, these men in their suits, part of a senseless game I used to play.

Draper and Borstein stared down at their shoes and then back up. “Of course,” Borstein began, “we can't begin to express our sympathy and concern. Whatever we can do to help, you just let us know. The network's entire resources are at your disposal.”

“Thank you,” I answered numbly.

“People in the public eye can pay a very high price,” Draper said. “It's one of the things we report on all the time, but until it happens to you, well…”

“It's not happening to you, is it?” David said. “It's happening to us.”

“Yes, of course.”

We all sat down at once as if through some silent agreement.

It was Draper's turn. “As you know, we made no announcement on the news last night about your absence.”

I nodded. I hadn't watched the news, hadn't thought of it.

“Now that it's in all the papers though, we have to discuss how to handle this. What would you like us to do, Laura?”

“Do?”

“Would you like Quinn to make some sort of statement on-air?”

“What kind of statement?”

“Well, that's why Thomas is here. We thought he could help you draft something appropriate.”

“Just what do you consider appropriate?” David demanded.

“I'd rather there not be a statement for now,” I said.

“I'll try to keep any mention off the air for another day,” Draper answered. “But after that, we're going to have to reassess. Is there anything we should know about? Not for public consumption, necessarily, but anything that might be, well…”

“No.”

He smiled. “Of course, whenever you are ready to, I mean, whenever this thing resolves itself, your position is waiting. The calls of support are pouring in from the public.”

David stood up. “‘This thing,' as you put it, is my daughter. Our daughter. My wife's Q ratings are not exactly our gravest concern at the moment. If that's all, gentlemen?”