As she climbs the steps of City Hall, Colette’s thoughts turn to the caption she’d read under Midas’s photo: The baby’s Sophie the Giraffe, a plastic squeak toy from France popular with American parents, and a blue baby’s blanket are also missing. The police are asking anyone with information to call 1-800-NYPDTIP.
Whoever took Midas, why would they take those things? It’s good news, Colette decides, stepping into the elevator. After all, only a person who loves him—or at least someone who doesn’t intend to hurt him—would think to also take his favorite blanket and toy.
The question trails her as the elevator doors open on the fourth floor. The lobby is uncommonly quiet, and Allison is at her desk, staring at her computer. She looks up at the sound of Colette’s heels clicking on the marble floor.
“Good afternoon,” Allison says, and Colette sees the images on Allison’s screen—a high chair, a car seat, a blue plastic tub in the shape of a whale.
“Let me guess,” Colette says. “Baby registry?” Allison told Colette about her pregnancy a week earlier, in strict confidence. “I’m only eight weeks, so don’t tell anyone,” she said. “Especially Mayor Shepherd. He’s got enough to worry about with his election, and this book.”
“This is crazy,” Allison says now, leaning in close. “I can’t believe all the stuff you need when you have a baby.”
Colette glances at the computer screen. “You really don’t need all this. The kid will survive being cleaned with a room-temperature baby wipe.”
“That’s what my sister said,” Allison says. “I guess I should trust the experts. Thanks. And guess what? He’s running late.”
“You’re kidding.” Colette raises her eyebrows in feigned surprise. “Mayor Shepherd is running late?”
Allison laughs. “He said you should drink all of his coffee. As punishment. I just made a fresh pot, and there’s some pastries in there from his early meeting.”
“Thanks,” Colette says, suddenly aware of her hunger. She’s eaten very little since the french fries at the Jolly Llama two nights earlier, too consumed with worry about Midas to think about food.
The mayor’s office is peaceful when she enters. Although she’s been coming here for the last several months, she can’t help but feel impressed each time. The large windows offering a view of the Brooklyn Bridge, the working fireplace, the desk that once belonged to James Baldwin—a gift from the family—it’s a far cry from the windowless principal’s office at Public School 212 in the Bronx where she and Teb had spent endless hours together four years earlier, working on his first memoir over takeout beer and burritos from the local taqueria. The book had done better than anyone expected, bringing front-page reviews, magazine profiles, a national speaking tour, and then, a year later, a successful run for the mayorship of New York. His publisher had offered him a fortune for a sequel focused on his relationship with his mother, a civil rights activist who’d marched with Martin Luther King Jr. on Selma.
Colette pours herself a mug of coffee and takes a seat at the round table overlooking City Hall Park, trying not to feel annoyed at having to wait for him—yet again. She should take advantage of the time alone, time she can use to make progress on the new material she’s meant to deliver in a few days. She removes her laptop from her bag and opens the manuscript, skimming the chapters she sent Aaron Neeley, Teb’s chief of staff, the afternoon before. Her skin pricks with embarrassment. The pages are terrible. The writing is stilted and childish, the dialogue almost unreadable.
She hears her phone beep with a new e-mail and reaches for it, grateful for the distraction. It’s Francie. She’s been in frequent contact with Nell and Francie over the last two days, sharing articles about “Baby Midas,” as he was quickly becoming known in the press, checking in, asking if anyone has heard from Winnie yet.
Colette e-mailed Winnie the day before, and a few hours later, she responded.
Who has my baby? How am I going to survive this?
Colette wrote back immediately, asking if she wanted company, offering to drop off some groceries. But Winnie still hasn’t responded to Colette’s e-mail, or the text message she sent a few hours later.
Did you guys see this? Francie wrote. Attached to her e-mail is a link to a crime blog—one of many that comprised an entire online world of amateur sleuths Colette hadn’t known existed before this: people who seemed to devote a surprising amount of time trying to unravel unsolved crimes. Colette reads the post:
A neighbor said she passed a woman near Winnie’s apartment around 9:30 that night. She was walking down the hill carrying a crying baby that could have been Midas’s age.
A new message from Nell arrives immediately. People are aware this is Brooklyn, right? They levy fines against women who live here and are not, at some point, seen carrying a crying baby.
“Hey, Colette. Sorry about the wait.” Colette clicks her e-mail closed. Aaron Neeley is standing in the door. His shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a line of dark stubble at his chin that he missed while shaving.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
Aaron carries a stack of folders at his chest and places them, one by one, onto Teb’s desk. “Yeah, he’s meeting with Ghosh. This abduction thing. What a nightmare.” He glances at her. “I’m assuming you heard about it?”
She clears her throat. She should explain the situation—she should tell Aaron that Winnie is a friend of hers, that she was there that night—but something tells her to wait, to speak to Teb about it privately. She knows what it might mean for him if it gets out that someone close to him is linked to this. “Yeah.”
“How old is Patty now?”
“Poppy. Almost eight weeks.”
Aaron shakes his head. “The twins are seven. I can’t even imagine.”
“What’s the latest?” Colette asks.
“Oh, I don’t know. Ghosh is on the defensive. One of the officers—some young kid, a week out of police academy—really screwed things up. Didn’t use gloves, left his fingerprints all over the place. It’s a real mess.” Aaron sighs and then looks up at Colette. “Anyway, the mayor shouldn’t be long. Looking forward to discussing the stuff you sent yesterday. We’re getting down to the wire, huh?”
“We sure are.” She turns toward her screen as Aaron leaves. Meeting with Rohan Ghosh. Ghosh and the mayor were friends at SUNY Purchase, and when Teb tapped Ghosh from his post as Cleveland’s deputy commissioner, everyone claimed it was a classic case of nepotism. Ghosh was largely considered the least experienced person to serve in the top position at the NYPD.
Colette opens the manuscript again, doing her best to stay focused. Seeing the folders Aaron left on Teb’s desk, though, she wonders if they include his notes on the chapters she submitted yesterday. She stands and walks to the credenza for a Danish, glancing down at the stack. She stops, having to look twice to make sure she’s correctly read the name printed in wiry black handwriting on the tab of a manila folder on the top of the pile.
Ross, Midas.