Stay With Me: A Brenna Spector Novel of Suspense Page 20

  “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 th
e 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 reread 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.”

  Brenna closed her eyes, put a hand up. “Please,” she said, not so much to Faith or to anyone in the room but to herself, to the exhaustion and pain that kept cutting into her thoughts, her memories, making it so hard to recall February 16, 2005, and Sophia Castillo on the phone and the sound of Brenna’s own voice, the words coming out of her own mouth: He’s happy now . . .

  She looked at Plodsky. “I may have a lead for you,” she said.

  “What the hell is wrong with her?” Nick said, once they’d left Jim and Faith’s apartment.

  “Plodsky?” Brenna said. That was the only “her” on her mind. Plodsky, who’d done everything short of rolling her eyes at the mention of a disgruntled mother stealing Maya away, seven years after getting turned down as a client. “I guess for all her talk about exploring all options, she thinks the Lemaires are a sexier lead than Sophia Castillo. Can you look her up on NCIC? You still have access, right? It’s probably a crap lead after all, but maybe it isn’t. And I don’t trust Plodsky to follow up.”

  “Sure,” he said, “but I wasn’t talking about Plodsky.”

  Brenna turned to Nick. The sun was rising. It cast a pink glow across his face, made it softer, sadder. “Faith?”

  He nodded, Brenna noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hair stuck out at odd angles. She ran a hand through it, “I did the same thing to you, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father killed himself. My mother lied about it for more than thirty years. When I finally find out, who do I get angry at? You.”

  “That was different. You’re hurting now and she should have some consideration.”

  “Faith’s hurting, too. She’s lashing out at me like I lashed out at you. Sure it’s unfair, but this whole situation is unfair. It’s making us all go a little crazy.”

  He brushed his hand against her cheek. “You haven’t slept, have you?”

  “No,” she said. “When Plodsky called, I’d just gotten home.”

  “From where?”

  “Screaming at a doorman.”

  “Oh,” he said, as though screaming at a doorman were the most normal thing in the world. No Why? No Are you all right? No Why didn’t you call me? I could have helped. Morasco had changed, too. His eyes were stricken. “Did it get you anywhere?”

  “It may have,” Brenna said. “I’ll be able to tell you for sure in a couple of hours.”

  “Please,” he said. “Let me know anything that happens.”

  “You care about Maya.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re scared.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going to find her.” Brenna stared into his stricken eyes. More than anything, she wanted him to agree.

  “Yes,” he said again, his gaze still locked with her own. “Yes we are.” As though to prove his point, Nick took a steno pad out of his jacket pocket, and asked Brenna to tell him everything she knew about Sophia Castillo.

  What Brenna knew about Sophia Castillo wasn’t a lot, but she did have her phone number. For Nick’s computer search, Brenna had scrolled back yet again to February 16, 2005, recalled the moment Trent had transferred Sophia Castillo’s call to her, and basically read the number to him off a five-year-old phone screen—same as she’d done with Trent yesterday when he’d told her about Castillo’s new call.

  “You’re amazing,” Morasco had said to her, just before heading off to yet another Internal Affairs interview.

  Brenna had shaken her head. “It’s just wires crossing in my brain. You know that.”

  He had kissed her then, quickly, but with such tenderness. “I wasn’t talking about your memory.”

  After he left, Brenna stood on the sidewalk, wind whipping at her skin, burning it. Can Maya feel this? Is she cold?

  The number was still in her mind, and so she plucked her phone out of her bag and tapped it in. The call went to voice mail after a few unanswered rings, Sophia Castillo sounding a lot more cheerful than she had five years ago. Please leave a message and I will call you back!

  “Hi, Ms. Castillo, this is Brenna Spector . . .”

  It was a long shot, she knew. But at this point, Brenna would take any shot, she’d talk to anyone. She’d do anything, anything at all.

  Faith felt Jim’s hand on her shoulder. “I love you,” he said. She looked at him, his face so pale and tired, sheen across his forehead from the hot lights. Faith put her hand over Jim’s and grabbed it, the way you’d grab on to someone’s hand to keep from falling, so tight it hurt, based more on need than on any softer emotion. “I love you, too.”

  “You guys ready?” said Danielle, the executive producer. Her voice was too cheerful, given the situation, and to Faith everything seemed a little off—a little too bright and professional. Life going on, business as usual . . . nothing could hurt as much as that.

  Ashley had said something along those lines during the interview—how her happiest moments were when the Lemaires left her alone, but in some ways they were the saddest, because she’d have time to think about life outside, how it was going on without her . . .

  Faith reminded herself that Danielle was doing her a favor—allowing her to make this announcement—a personal one and quite a downer—before the regularly scheduled Sunrise Manhattan, even coming in early to personally supervise the broadcast. That was kind, though the cynical side of Faith’s brain reminded her that today’s regularly scheduled show was the rebroadcast of the Ashley Stanley interview, and you couldn’t ask for better PR than the host’s own daughter going missing, probably as a result of what-you’re-about-to-see.

  For Danielle, this was win-win.

  Faith pushed the thought away. The klieg lights hummed in her ears and Nicolai counted down, and Faith’s gaze went to one of the monitors, Maya’s ninth grade picture filling the screen. Please, please, please . . . She took a deep Pilates breath, tightened her grip on Jim’s hand. Don’t let me fall.

  “Action,” Danielle said.

  Faith launched in without a missing a beat. “My name is Faith Gordon-Rappaport and this is my husband, Jim,” she said. “Our daughter, Maya Rappaport, has gone missing . . .”

  “That girl goes to your school,” said Miles’s mom.

  “What girl?” said Miles. Dumb thing to say. Maya’s picture was on TV, they were watching TV over breakfast, what other girl could she be talking about?

  “The girl on TV, M
iles. Her mother just said she’s a ninth grader at P.S. 125. Stop texting for a minute and look.”

  Miles felt like he was in the middle of the worst dream he’d ever had, like he was banging his fists on the side of it, but the dream wouldn’t give. It wouldn’t let him out. He hadn’t eaten any of his breakfast burrito, which was weird. His mom would remark on that soon. He glanced at the phone in his lap, at Lindsay’s latest text: Just act normal. He took a bite of the burrito. Choked it down.

  “Do you know her?” Miles’s dad said.

  “Kind of. Not really. She’s younger. She’s in my art class.”

  “If she’s in your art class, that would mean you know her.”

  “Her poor parents,” Miles’s mother said.

  Miles took another bite. His stomach ached and churned. He felt like he might throw up. “Can I have some water?”

  His mother started for the cupboard, but his dad stopped her. “Glasses are by the sink,” he said. “Water’s in a pitcher in the fridge. You’re not paralyzed.”

  Be normal. “Whatever,” Miles said.

  His little brother laughed.

  “Shut up, Neil.”

  “Miles,” his mother said. “That isn’t nice.”

  “Sorry.”

  Neil laughed some more. He was six years old. He didn’t have a problem in the world that couldn’t be fixed with a nap or an ice cream cone. Miles hated him.

  He got up from his chair and moved toward the sink. The air around him felt thick, like something swollen. It was hard to breathe. He’d once read a story by Edgar Allan Poe—when was that? Seventh grade. Right. The one about the heart, beating through the walls, pounding in the murderer’s head until he has to confess, he has to . . .

  “You okay, dear?”

  “Uh, yeah, Mom. Why wouldn’t I be?” He opened the cupboard, took out a glass. On TV, the image flipped from Maya’s school picture to her dad and stepmom. “When I taped the following interview with Ashley Stanley on Saturday, January 16,” Maya’s stepmom said, “my daughter was at home. She was safe. She left our apartment in the West Twenties that day, sometime around sunset. We don’t know where she went after that. But she never came home. Maya is five-eight and 120 pounds. She has waist-length blonde hair and blue eyes and she was last seen wearing a bright blue coat with brass buttons . . .”