Now You See Her

FOURTEEN


DO YOU WANT TO tell us what happened?” the police officer was asking.

“I’ve already told you.”

“Tell us again.”

Marcy lowered her head, the left side of her face still throbbing as she stared at the gray concrete floor. Could she really go through the whole sad story again? What more could she say? That it was all a huge mistake? That she was sorry? That they were wasting precious time? That Shannon had undoubtedly contacted Audrey by now, told her that some crazy woman named Marcy had been asking questions about her and was currently being detained at the Garda station along the South Mall? “I wasn’t trying to steal the baby,” she said instead, sure that Devon was packing her bags at this very minute and preparing to leave the city. She raised her head toward the two men and one woman, all dressed in neat, dark blue uniforms, then turned quickly away. She hated uniforms.

“We know that,” the older of the two men admitted after a pause. His name was Christopher Murphy and he was about forty, with close-cropped blond hair and a wide nose that had been broken at least once and not properly reset, so that it veered sharply to the right. He sat on the edge of the wide oak desk that occupied most of the room and smiled at her indulgently.

His teeth could use a good cleaning, she heard Peter say.

“You know that?” Marcy repeated.

“The girl, Shannon Farrell, gave us a statement, said she’d just as soon forget the whole incident.”

“Then what am I doing here?” Marcy was already beginning to rise from her chair. “If you’d just give me back my passport …” She nodded toward the stack of papers on his desk. Her passport was lying open on the top.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Taggart.”

Marcy took a cursory glance around the windowless room, surprised by how familiar it seemed. Why was it that wherever you went in the world, police stations always looked the same? Did they all use the same interior decorator? she wondered. Was there a special handbook that prison authorities gave out to potential designers? Not that she’d seen the insides of many police stations, other than in the movies and on TV.

Just one, Marcy thought with a shudder, stifling the memory before it could take root.

Still, she’d expected something more colorful from a country like Ireland, with its deep sense of history and innate flair for melodrama. The old Cork City Gaol she’d visited with her tour group had been suitably majestic, a three-story castle-like building whose cell walls still boasted their original graffiti, even though its prisoners were now made of wax. In contrast, the new Bridewell Garda Station, on the line of the old city wall on the north channel of the river Lee, was relatively modern in structure and appearance. Unfortunately the station where she was currently being detained was an uninspired combination of the two—ancient without being imposing, modern without being sleek, a muddle of conflicting styles whose end result was no style at all. It was dreary, tired looking, and smelled of body odor and disillusionment.

“I don’t understand. If you already have Shannon’s statement …,” Marcy told the officer, or “garda,” as policemen in Ireland were called. She shifted her gaze toward the female garda standing against the dull green wall. Her name was Colleen Donnelly—lots of Ls, lots of Ns, lots of Es, Marcy had thought when the young woman introduced herself—and she was maybe twenty-five. Surprisingly delicate in appearance, she had pale skin that was liberally sprinkled with freckles and a mouthful of tiny, niblet-like teeth.

Some good veneers would do wonders, Peter observed from behind Marcy’s eyes.

The remaining garda gave his name as John Sweeny, although Marcy noted that his colleagues always referred to him as Johnny. He was about thirty and of average height and weight, although his gut was surprisingly prominent for someone so young. His ruddy complexion gave weight to otherwise bland features, and his mercifully ordinary teeth drew no unsolicited comments from the dark recesses of Marcy’s brain.

As with almost all law enforcement officers in Ireland, none of them was armed. For one giddy moment, Marcy considered making a run for it.

“We can still charge you with disturbing the peace,” Christopher Murphy told her.

“Disturbing the peace? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“A table was overturned, a teapot was smashed, some dishes were broken.”

“I’m the one with the black eye.”

“A regrettable accident.”

“Exactly.”

“What were you doing with the baby, Mrs. Taggart?” Christopher Murphy asked.

“I’ve already told you.…”

He referred to his notes. “Shannon asked you to hold her.”

“Yes. The baby has colic. For some reason, when I hold her, she stops crying.”

“And how do you know Shannon Farrell?” Colleen Donnelly asked.

“I met her in the park a few days ago. We happened to bump into each other again today on St. Patrick’s Street. She asked me if I’d like to go somewhere for a cup of tea. Like an idiot, I said yes.”

“Like an idiot?” Christopher Murphy repeated.

“In light of what happened, yes.”

“What are you doing in Ireland?” asked John Sweeny.

“What?”

“What brings you to Ireland?” he said again, as if they were just two people having an innocently pleasant conversation.

“How is that relevant?”

“Indulge me.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have lots of time.”

Marcy sighed her resignation. “I’m here on holiday.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone. Is that a crime?” She noted the look that passed between the two men. The look warned her to watch her tone. “Sorry. I just don’t understand the point of these questions.”

“Your husband didn’t come with you?” the older garda asked, more statement than question.

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

“No, you may not.”

Another shared glance.

“We’re getting a divorce,” Marcy finally offered, sensing that this information diminished her even further in their eyes. Now she was not only a troublemaking foreigner, she was pathetic as well, a woman whose wild, unpredictable ways had no doubt cost her the love of a stable orthodontist. She felt the sudden threat of tears and raised her hand to her cheek, as if to ward them off.

“Cheek still sore?” Colleen Donnelly asked. “Would you like more ice?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” It did hurt and she wasn’t fine, but what the hell. She’d tend to her black eye later. She’d wasted enough time. All she wanted was to get out of there as soon as possible.

“You’re Canadian, I see.”

“Yes.”

“Toronto’s a lovely city.”

“Yes, it is.”

“When are you going back?”

Marcy almost laughed. The Irish were many things, she was discovering, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “I’m booked to go home at the end of next week.” Another shared glance between the two men. “Is that it? Are we finished? Can I go now?”

“Who’s Audrey?” Christopher Murphy asked, as if Marcy hadn’t spoken.

“What?”

“Miss Farrell said you seemed awfully interested in a friend of hers named Audrey.”

Marcy shrugged, lifting her hands into the air and opening her palms toward the recessed ceiling, then bringing them back together in her lap. “Shannon mentioned her. I was just making conversation.”

“She said you asked a lot of questions about Audrey and a young man named Jackson.” Again, he checked his notes. “Jax,” he stated, putting particular emphasis on the X.

“You say that name as if you know him,” Marcy said hopefully, trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible. Hadn’t Shannon told her that Jax had something of a reputation? Was it possible he’d ever gotten into trouble with the law, that these officers were familiar with him?

“Can’t say the name rings any bells,” Christopher Murphy said, answering her silent question. “What about you, Johnny? You know anyone named Jax?”

The younger garda shook his head.

“My cousin just named her baby Jax,” Colleen Donnelly said.

“Like I said,” Marcy told them, “I was just making conversation, trying to be polite.”

Officer Murphy waved his hand in the direction of her bruised face. “This is you trying to be polite?”

“Look. None of this is my fault. I’m the victim here. I was the one who was attacked.”

“And we can press charges, if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to press charges. I told you that. I just want to get out of here.”

“Then tell us what’s really going on, Mrs. Taggart,” Colleen Donnelly said. “Maybe we can help you.”

Marcy looked from one garda’s face to the next, all three of the officers staring back at her with varying degrees of compassion and curiosity. Could they help her? she wondered. Could she trust them with the truth?

“Audrey is my daughter,” she said after a lengthy pause, deciding she had no other choice but to trust them.

“Your daughter,” all three repeated, their voices overlapping.

“She disappeared almost two years ago.”

They waited for her to continue. Christopher Murphy raised one thin eyebrow and brought his lips together, as if he were about to whistle.

How much could she tell them? “We thought she was dead—”

“Why would you think that?” John Sweeny interjected.

“Because that’s what she wanted us to think. Because she was confused and depressed.” Marcy answered their next question before they could ask it. She told them about Devon going up to their cottage and the subsequent discovery of her overturned canoe in the middle of the bay. She told them of her marriage’s disintegration and her husband’s desertion. She told them of coming to Ireland and seeing Devon walk by Grogan’s House, of Liam and Kelly identifying her daughter’s picture as the girl they knew as Audrey, and their revelation that Audrey was friendly with a girl named Shannon who worked as a nanny for a wealthy local family.

“So, let me get this straight,” Christopher Murphy said when she was through. “You’re saying you spied on the O’Connor house, that you followed Shannon to the park—”

“I didn’t follow her to the park. I was already there—”

“But you had followed her previous to that meeting in the park?”

“I was hoping she’d lead me to my daughter.”

“Why didn’t you just ask Shannon where to find her?” was the next logical question.

How many times had she asked herself the same thing? “Because I was afraid that if Devon knew I was here, if she knew I’d seen her, then she’d disappear again. And I couldn’t take that chance.”

“Who’s Devon?” Johnny asked, his unlined brow wrinkling in confusion.

“My daughter.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you said your daughter’s name is Audrey.”

“Audrey is the name she’s using.”

“Why would she be using an alias?”

“Obviously because she doesn’t want to be found,” Marcy replied testily.

“You don’t think she’d be happy to see you?” Colleen asked.

“No.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Taggart?”

“Because there were issues.…”

“What kind of issues?”

“It’s complicated. Our relationship was …”

“Complicated,” Johnny repeated.

“Yes. Devon was having a hard time. She blamed me for a lot of her problems—”

“Such as?”

“I’d really rather not get into that.”

“If you want our help, isn’t it best we know all the facts?”

“I’m not asking for your help,” Marcy said.

“Why not?”

“What?”

Christopher Murphy reasserted his position as leader. “I assume you have pictures of your daughter. Can I see them, please?”

Marcy reached inside her purse and pulled out the photographs of Devon, placing them in his outstretched hand. The other two officers immediately pressed against his side, passing the pictures back and forth across his midriff.

“Pretty girl,” Johnny remarked.

“Can’t say she looks familiar,” Colleen said.

“No. Don’t know her,” Officer Murphy agreed. “Tell me, why didn’t you come to us when you first saw her?”

Marcy stared at him blankly. Another question for which she had no satisfactory response.

“I mean, I think I understand your not wanting to confront Shannon,” he continued gently, “but we might have been able to help you find Audrey.”

“How could you have helped me?”

“Well, that is our job, Mrs. Taggart. We help people. Or try to anyway. We could have circulated her picture, talked to Shannon in an official capacity, asked around, found out about Audrey, made sure she really is your daughter.”

“What are you saying? That you don’t believe me?”

“I’m not saying that at all. It’s just that you only saw her for half a second through the front window of Grogan’s House,” the senior garda reminded Marcy. “If I’m not mistaken, those windows are covered with advertisements.”

“I know what I saw.”

“I don’t doubt it’s what you think you saw.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like my husband,” Marcy said with a sneer, instantly regretting voicing this thought out loud.

“Your husband thinks you might be mistaken?”

“My husband’s thoughts are no longer my concern.”

“Have you spoken to him about this?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

“And?”

Marcy swallowed her growing frustration. “He prefers to believe our daughter is dead.”

“Why would any father want to believe his daughter is dead?”

“Because sometimes it’s just easier that way. And Peter has always preferred to take the easy way out.”

“Always?” Christopher Murphy asked, his eyebrows moving toward the bridge of his nose. “You’re saying this has happened before?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Has it happened before, Mrs. Taggart?”

“Has what happened?” Marcy demanded. Then, before he could answer, “Look. I’ve had enough of this. I appreciate your wanting to help, I really do, but it’s not necessary. So if you’ll just give me back my passport, I’ll be out of your hair.” Instinctively Marcy’s hand reached for her head, her fingers disappearing into a mass of frenzied curls. I must look like a lunatic, Marcy thought. No wonder they think I’m deranged.

Officer Murphy pressed her. “This isn’t the first time you’ve thought you’ve seen your daughter, is it, Mrs. Taggart?”

“I don’t understand how any of this is relevant.” How many times had she said that already? Maybe it was she who was irrelevant.

“Has this happened before, Mrs. Taggart?” he repeated a fourth time.

If he asks me that again, Marcy thought, I’m going to punch him right in the mouth. She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Yes, it’s happened before.” She reopened her eyes in time to catch the knowing look that passed among all three officers. Just what is it you think you know? Marcy demanded silently. Trust me, you know nothing.

“So, it’s possible you could be mistaken this time as well, is it not?”

“No, it’s not poss—Yes, I guess it could be possible,” she said in the next breath, deciding she might as well tell them what they wanted to hear. She’d been a fool for thinking she could trust them or that they might be able to help her. Tears filled her eyes and fell the length of her cheeks. They stung where her flesh was bruised and tender, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Christopher Murphy said with a sigh. “I believe it is.”

“Good. Then I can go?”

“You can go.” He reached toward the pile of paperwork on his desk, retrieved Marcy’s passport, and handed it to her along with the pictures of Devon.

Marcy tucked them into her purse as she rose to her feet. “Thank you.”

“Would you like us to call someone for you, Mrs. Taggart?” Colleen asked gently.

Marcy thought of Liam. She could use a friendly face about now, she thought, shaking her head. “No. There’s no one.”

“Actually, I believe there’s someone waiting for you in the hall,” Christopher Murphy said, reaching for the old-fashioned black rotary phone on his desk. “Jenny, is that gentleman still waiting for Mrs. Taggart?” he asked. “He is? Good. Tell him she’ll be out straightaway.”

Marcy made an effort to smooth down her hair as John Sweeny opened the door to the hall. Thank God for Liam, she was thinking, hoping he wouldn’t get in trouble for taking off work or that he wouldn’t be held responsible for the damage she’d caused. Mostly she hoped she didn’t look too awful.

She stepped into the dust-lined, narrow hallway, her head turning from side to side, looking for Liam.

She saw the blue eyes first, the rest of him only gradually coming into focus as he pushed himself off one of the folding chairs lining the wall.

“Marcy,” Vic Sorvino said, rushing to her side. “My God, look at you.”