“But we still need to know who bore this child,” I persisted. “Like, medical history. You need to know about his real mother and father, what diseases or conditions they might have.”
“Why don’t you want me to be happy, David? Don’t you think, after all I’ve been through, I deserve some happiness?”
I didn’t know what to say, but it turned out I didn’t have to come up with something. Marla said, “I’m going to freshen up. Now that you’re here, I can have a shower, put on some clean clothes. I was thinking Matthew and I would go out and get a few things.”
“The stroller, behind the door,” I said. “Did you buy that yesterday?”
“No, the angel brought that,” she said. “Did your mom send over some more goodies for me?”
“She did,” I said. “I’ll put everything into the freezer for you.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I won’t be long.” She slipped into the bathroom and closed the door.
I took a quick look at the child, saw that he was sleeping peacefully and unlikely to roll out of his pillow prison. I put the frozen food Mom had sent with me into Marla’s freezer—I am nothing if not practical—and then went to the living room to check out the stroller. It was in the folded position, making it easy to drop into a car trunk, or stow away in a closet.
On the right handle were more smudges that looked like the one I had seen on the doorjamb.
I opened up the contraption, tapped a small lever with my foot to make sure it was locked into position. The stroller had seen some use. The once-black rubber wheels were rough with wear. Stale, dry Cheerios were stuck in the crevices of the seat pad. A small zippered pouch was attached to the back. I opened it, reached inside. I found three rattles, a small wooden car with thick wooden wheels, a flyer for a store that sold baby supplies, a half-full package of predampened wipes, and some tissues.
Something about the flyer caught my eye. A few words printed on one side, on a label.
It was an address. This was not a general piece of junk mail, but a targeted flyer for Baby Makes Three, a Promise Falls clothing store for infants. And even more important, the label had a name attached to the address.
Rosemary Gaynor. She lived at 375 Breckonwood Drive. I knew the street. It was in an upscale neighborhood—certainly nicer than Marla’s—a couple of miles from here.
I got out my cell, tapped on the app that would allow me to find a number for the Gaynor household. But once I had it under my thumb, I considered whether making the call was the smartest thing to do.
Maybe it made more sense to go over there.
Right fucking now.
I heard water running in the bathroom. The shower. The phone still in my hand, I called home.
It picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Dad, I need to talk to Mom.”
“What’s up?”
“Just put her on.”
A fumbling sound, a muted “He wants to talk to you.” And then: “What is it, David?”
“Something’s happened here at Marla’s.”
“Did you give her the chili?”
“No. I mean, I brought it. But . . . Mom, there’s a baby here.”
“What?”
“She’s got a baby. She says it’s hers. She says some woman came to the door and just gave it to her. But the story, it’s just not holding water. Mom, I’m starting to wonder . . . I hate to say this, but I’m wondering—God, this sounds totally crazy—but I’m wondering if she snatched this kid from someone.”
“Oh, no,” Mom said. “Not again.”
FIVE
BARRY Duckworth wanted officers dispatched to the neighborhoods surrounding the park to canvass residents in case anyone had noticed anything suspicious the night before. A person carrying a heavy sack, maybe, hanging around the fence long enough to string up nearly two dozen squirrels.
The first uniformed cop on the scene, a six-footer by the name of Angus Carlson, saw the assignment as an opportunity to perfect his stand-up act.
“This case could be a tough nut to crack,” Carlson said to Duckworth. “But I’m feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to get at it. But if we don’t find a witness soon I’m gonna go squirrelly.”
Duckworth had encountered Carlson at several crime scenes in recent months. He seemed to think he’d been assigned the role of Lennie Briscoe, the Law & Order detective played by Jerry Orbach, who always had some clever quip to make before the opening credits. From the few conversations Duckworth had had with the man, he knew that he’d come here four years ago after working as a cop in some Cleveland suburb.
“Spare me,” Duckworth told him.