Now, after visiting his wife again late in the evening and getting nothing out of her because she was still unconscious, he was tormented by another policeman taking an I-can-beat-you-up-if-I-want-to pose. He flushed purple. He wasn't leaving his wife there alone to be tortured by them as soon as she opened her eyes. He was going to wait until she awoke so he could talk to her himself.
But he couldn't get to her. Standing in the doorway of her room, the officer had blocked his way, staring at him in a threatening manner. The moment stretched into several long minutes as the cop silently challenged Anton to let go of all his restraint and pop him one. Anton debated his options. On the other side of the room in the hospital bed was his unconscious wife, with tubes in her arm and nose and a swollen eye and lip. He looked over at her, praying for her to wake up and help him. She hadn't stirred since he came in. But the Chinese could be a solid wall of noncompli-ance when they wanted to. They were supposed to be so weak and submissive, but that was a crock. He felt like shaking her. How could he talk to her when she was hiding out inside her head—the way she did sometimes just to spite him—but this time hiding in her head in the hospital, where he couldn't reach out and pull her back into reality. What if she lost her mind altogether and flipped out with the baby still missing? How could he save either of them then?
Come on, Roe, don't do this to me. He willed her to speak.
No answer.
"You want me to walk you to the elevator, sir?" Suddenly the cop dropped the aggressive stance and became helpful.
No, he did not want a police escort to the elevator. He wanted his wife to wake up so he could get her out of there and take her back home where she belonged. He was hungry. He was upset. He wanted his wife back, his baby, his happy life. His face contorted with pain as the cop escorted him to the elevator.
When he stepped off the elevator, it got worse. He'd forgotten about the reporters. Downstairs, by the hospital front door, a reporter took his picture. Anton was surprised and recoiled at the flash of light.
"Any word on your baby, Mr. Popescu?"
Anton was so stunned he couldn't even shake his head. Blindly, he pushed past the man and hurried east toward Central Park. The reporter followed him. Then a woman and another man ran to catch up.
"Is that him, Grady?"
"The police are saying there was no kidnap—" The first reporter dogged Anton's steps.
"Did she see her attacker?"
Why didn't the cop who'd been on his tail help him with
this?
Anton began to run.
"Can you tell us—"
He was like an animal looking for a bolt-hole. His wild eyes searched the sidewalks for a way out as first three, then four reporters came after him. There was no escape but the street and the oncoming cars. He ran into the street against the light. Cabbies leaned heavily on their horns as two drivers trying to avoid him crunched to a stop, barely missing each other. Anton spun around, swearing. "You stupid assholes!"
When he reached the other side of the street, he raised his hand. Another taxi stopped beside him. He got in, giving instructions as the driver took off. Then he saw two cops drive up in a squad car. He gave them the finger, but they stayed with him. When Anton arrived home, two more squad cars were parked across the street from his building, and Perry, the night doorman, was on duty. Perry was not one of Anton's favorites. More than once, he'd considered getting him fired. The man was a classic working drunk, never totally out of it, but always on the other side of vague. He had a big, puffy body and an enviable head of springy pale hair, and he kept several layers of smell over a solid base of whiskey and beer.
At the moment Perry had a forbidden cigarette cupped in one fist as he watched Anton get out of the cab. Slowly he doused the cigarette in the dregs of a take-out coffee, put down the container, then moved to open the door. He reeked of cough medicine and cigarette smoke.
"How's the missus?" he asked when Anton shuffled in. "She as bad as they say?"
Anton glared at him. "Get rid of that fucking cigarette."
"I don't smoke on duty. Must be all the cops. Could be anybody's smoke." The man's eyes were shrewd through his alcohol haze. He sucked his teeth and gave his head a shake. A shock of hair fell over his forehead. "Police up and down the street all night," he added with some satisfaction. "Talking to everybody and checking the garbage before pickup tomorrow morning."
Now Perry didn't look at all drunk, and Anton's pulse went crazy. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.
The doorman, in his red uniform that didn't fit, shrugged importantly. "The garbage gets picked up tomorrow morning, so they have to do their looking tonight. They're out in the park, too." He gestured with his chin across the street toward Central Park.
Anton's eyes narrowed at the lights clearly moving through the shrubs, illuminating the spring blooms on the taller bushes and trees. He made a noise in his throat as if he were choking. He couldn't seem to take in the full impact of the horrors being visited upon him.
"They're looking for the baby's body," Perry told him.
Anton saw a van cruise toward the circular drive in front of the building. It had a dish on top and a TV station's call letters painted on the side. Anton grabbed some cash from his pocket and thrust it at the loathsome doorman without looking at it.
"If you ring me upstairs for any reason or let any of those reporters in, you'll be out on the street picking through garbage cans yourself tomorrow." Then he ran across the lobby to the elevator and pushed the button. When the door slid open, he disappeared inside.
An hour and a half later his phone rang for about the fiftieth time, and for the fiftieth time, the two detectives in the living room tensed. Both were chubby and bald. Both wore headphones and drank a lot of coffee.
"You ready?" asked the one who had a mustache. That was how Anton told them apart. One had a mustache and one didn't. He hadn't bothered to learn their names.
Anton rolled his eyes and picked up. This one wasn't a crank call or a reporter. The soft voice of his brother, Marc, came on the line. "What the hell is going on? Some detective wants to talk to me about Roe and Paul. What happened? Is everything all right?"
"Go ahead and talk to the detective, Marc. It's for sure you can't talk to me. I'm under surveillance. And this phone is tapped for the ransom call."
There was a stunned silence.
"What ransom call?" Marc asked finally.
"Well, the police think there's going to be one."
"Huh?"
Anton hung up before Marc could say anything more. The two detectives turned their recording equipment off and looked at him. He gave them a grim little nod and reported the caller's name. They turned the machine back on and asked him to repeat it. While they were listening to the conversation, the doorbell rang. The detective working the phone paid no attention. Anton crossed the living room to see who it was. Through the peephole in the door he saw the Chinese detective and her sidekick.
"Jesus," he muttered. He was sweating and badly needed a drink. He felt like a squirrel caught in the middle of the road with cars coming in both directions. The doorbell rang again. He opened it, his heart beating at his chest like a hammer.
"Mr. Popescu?" The male cop spoke.
"Did you find him?" For the first time Anton's voice came out no louder than a faint whisper.
The two detectives traded looks. This time the woman answered. "No, sir. Not yet."