Alma. Nell is adamant that Alma played no role, but Francie doesn’t know what to believe anymore. Is it really possible that someone came into Winnie’s home, took Midas from his crib, and Alma heard nothing? Yesterday Francie read that Alma’s brother in Tucson was arrested a few years ago for stealing a car. That an uncle back in Honduras had killed someone.
The thing that’s really beginning to trouble her, though, is Winnie’s stalker. Archie Andersen. She circles his name several times. There wasn’t much written about him, and she couldn’t find even one photo of him online. It was years ago, before the Internet and Facebook and twenty-four-hour news, and the only definitive information she dredged up was an article in People saying that Archie Andersen had showed up at the Bluebird studios, making it all the way to the set a few times, forcing Winnie’s mother to go to the authorities more than once, to eventually file for a restraining order. At the time he was sixteen years old, convinced he and Winnie were meant to be together. And then he appeared at Winnie’s mother’s funeral, wailing as if he’d lost his own mom, until he was forcibly removed by Winnie’s boyfriend at the time.
Archie would be in his early thirties now. Just like that guy at the Jolly Llama—the one who’d approached Winnie so suddenly, as soon as she was alone at the bar. The last person she was seen with.
Francie e-mailed Nell and Colette a few hours earlier, asking if they thought the police were making a mistake by not looking into Archie Andersen.
I would guess they are considering him, Colette wrote back. Despite what the media has suggested, the police are not that dumb.
But how could Colette be sure? If Mark Hoyt and company were, in fact, getting this Bodhi Mogaro thing wrong, what else might they be screwing up? Francie hears the shower water go quiet and then the curtain gliding open, and she shuts the notebook, sticking it hastily back into the drawer. In the living room, she lifts Will from the bouncy chair, grabbing the diaper bag and Moby Wrap, and calls good-bye to Lowell.
He steps from the bathroom in his boxer shorts, towel-drying his hair as she’s walking out the door. “Where you going?”
“May Mothers.” She clears her throat. “There’s a last-minute meetup at the Spot. Just got the e-mail.”
“I’m so glad to hear that, sweetheart.” He steps back into the bathroom. “That’s exactly what you need.”
Francie tries to block out the buzzing of an overhead light as she bounces Will back and forth in the chilly, empty waiting area, stopping to browse a table laden with stacks of pamphlets. Countering Terrorism through Information Sharing. LGBTQ Outreach. If you see something, say something.
She startles at the sound of a door slamming behind her and turns to see Mark Hoyt walking into the lobby of the police station with a man who has an unkempt beard and shifty eyes and is wearing a black T-shirt and baggy jeans. The man looks at Francie, making eye contact for a split second before he nervously looks away. Hoyt turns to her after the man has left the station. “Mrs. Givens. Sorry to keep you waiting. Why don’t you come on back?”
Francie follows him past an officer who sits at a desk behind a pane of glass, studying the sudoku board on the back page of the Post, and down a well-lit hall. “Was that guy here to talk about the investigation?” she asks Hoyt.
“No.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“No.”
The hall is lined with a few small offices, and when they reach Hoyt’s, he stands aside, inviting Francie to lead the way in. It belongs on the set of a bad cop show: a battered desk covered in crooked stacks of manila folders, papers spilling out messily. Three paper cups, half full of coffee, are lined next to an archaic desktop computer. A puckered layer of brown-and-green mold lines the top of one of the cups.
“You want some coffee?” he asks.
“No thank you. I’ve given up caffeine.” She nods down at Will on her chest. “For the baby.” She feels a twinge of guilt lying to the police, but she’s certainly under no obligation to tell them she’s mostly given up nursing. And besides, she’ll start crying if she says it out loud.
“I can probably scare up some decaf if you’d like.”
“Then yes,” she says. “Thank you.”
He partially closes the door behind him, and she takes in his office. Mark Allen Hoyt. Born in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Grandson and son of cops. Six years with the US Marine Corps. Graduate of the New York City Police Academy. She found his biography online, posted as part of a talk he gave at a Staten Island high school career fair last year. She leans over his desk, examining the stack of folders, assuming they deal with Midas. He can’t possibly be working on another case. She timidly reaches across the desk as the door swings open behind her. She snatches back her hand, knocking a coffee cup with her elbow, its contents spilling onto her shins and sandals and the stained carpet below.
It’s Stephen Schwartz. “I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching into the diaper bag for wet wipes. “I’ll clean this up. I didn’t mean to—”
“Come with me.”
His tone is unfriendly, stern even, which annoys her. Perhaps she shouldn’t be snooping around Detective Hoyt’s desk, spilling his disgusting, moldy coffee, but Schwartz should be happy to see her. As far as he knows, she may have valuable information to help the investigation, something to assist in actually solving the case and finding Midas alive. But there’s not a hint of gratitude in Schwartz’s voice as he gestures down the hall. “Leave it. I’ll have someone take care of it.”
“But Detective Hoyt is on his way back. He’s getting me coffee.”
Schwartz waves his hand. “Come with me.”
She follows him, relieved Will shows no sign of waking. The formula she’s been feeding him has really helped his sleep, and she’s hopeful the eight ounces he hungrily drank on a bench outside the police station will keep him down for at least another hour.
Schwartz opens a door at the end of the hall. It’s frigid inside and stark, the fluorescent light yellowing the plain white table and four metal folding chairs. Francie catches her reflection in the glass wall opposite her—the growing plane of gray at her roots, her protruding belly—and looks away. Hoyt is sitting in one of the chairs, his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He points to a chair and slides a Styrofoam cup of coffee toward her.
“Have a seat.”
“I’m going to keep standing, if that’s okay. The baby doesn’t really tolerate stillness.” Francie picks up the cup, feeling nervous. “A lot of babies don’t.” She takes a sip of the coffee. It’s lukewarm and bitter, swimming with coffee grounds; she resists the urge to spit it back into the cup. Schwartz closes the door and leans against it. “So, Mary Frances Givens. What gives us the pleasure of seeing you this morning?”
She sets the coffee on the table and resumes bouncing Will. “I’d like an update on the investigation.”
Hoyt raises his eyebrows. “You’d like an update?”
“Yes. It’s been six days since Midas was abducted. I’d like to know where things stand.” She fights to keep the apprehension from her voice. “I’d like to know why you haven’t found this baby.”
Schwartz glances at Hoyt. “Well, you should have told us that sooner,” Schwartz says. He pulls back an empty chair, sits down, and draws a small notebook and pencil from his chest pocket. He licks the pencil’s tip, his face a study of concern. “Can I have your e-mail address?”
“My e-mail address?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I want to send you the full report. And updates as they come in.”
“Text is much more efficient,” Hoyt says. “You might want to get her cell.”
“Good idea.” Schwartz’s pencil is poised above the paper, his enormous eyebrows raised expectantly. “What’s your cell?”
“You’re being funny.”
Schwartz snickers and tosses the pencil onto the table. “Yes,” he says. “I guess you might say I’m being funny.”
She feels her face flushing with anger. “Well, can you at least tell me what’s happening with Bodhi Mogaro? Are you going to charge him? Or is it true about the mix-up with that surgeon?”