The stark and terrible reality from his perspective, all the hopeful talk of "best-case scenario" notwithstanding, was that the boy likely faced open-heart surgery in the next few days or weeks, as soon as he was old and stable enough to possibly survive it. That possibility hung over him and Treya like a thick cloud of dread.
They might still lose their baby.
The thought was paralyzing and at the same time acted like a narcotic, a numbing agent that worked as a barrier to whatever reaction the events in the real world might otherwise have caused-whether anger or hurt or betrayal. Clearly, the city was getting itself worked up over this alleged conspiracy between himself, Kathy West, Dismas Hardy and Catherine Hanover, but Glitsky felt no sense of urgency to refute any of it, or even to respond to the half dozen requests from reporters in various media. It was as if it were all happening somewhere else, already on television perhaps. Just another story that would fade when all the facts had come out because it simply wasn't true.
What was true was that they were taking Zachary to the doctor's at one o'clock to check his progress, or lack thereof. That, as far as Glitsky was concerned, was the whole world.
He went to the darkened bedroom for the fifth or sixth time this morning. Zachary was still swaddled, sleeping peacefully. Treya, completely covered in blankets, didn't so much as stir. Coming back into the light, he went out to the living room and stood at the windows, looking down at the street. He was wearing the same clothes he'd worn all day yesterday.
Hands in his pockets, he stood and listened to the faraway drone of the children's channel on the television down the hall, and watched the rain fall and fall.
When Glitsky first pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket, its origin and significance eluded him for a second or two. On it was a woman's handwriting, in pencil, barely legible. Then it came back to him. Ruth Guthrie. She'd written down the name of the store where Missy D'Amiens had worked, and her bank and account number. Last night, Hardy had said that he doubted that Missy D'Amiens was going to matter in the trial, and with this morning's blowup in the paper over the conspiracy nonsense, it appeared that the case was moving in an entirely new direction, one that would further remove either of the victims from the center of attention. To say nothing of the missing ring, which seemed a much more promising avenue of inquiry.
Still, Glitsky had discovered something they hadn't known before yesterday, and after all the time he'd spent on the investigation so far, that was provocative in its own right. He could follow it up in five minutes and get the last niggling tidbit off his plate, at least to his own satisfaction. God knew, he'd worked every other angle of this case trying to break Cuneo's lock on the apparent facts and he'd come up empty. A quick phone call or two would close the circle on D'Amiens, and then at least he would have been thorough, even if, as Hardy said and Glitsky believed, it was probably unimportant.
So he sat on the couch, picked up the phone and punched up information. Not identifying himself as a police officer, he finally got to the human resources office at the housing goods warehouse store and said he was an employer checking the reference of a woman who'd applied to work for him.
Replying that she was only allowed to verify the dates of employment, the woman went on to explain that she wasn't allowed to comment on the quality of the previous employee's work, or attendance, or anything else. "We have to be very aware of the potential for lawsuits," she said. "If we say anything, you wouldn't believe, it comes back to bite us."
"That's all right," Glitsky said. "I understand that. I'm just verifying the dates of employment."
"All right. The name please."
"Michelle D'Amiens. It says on her resume that she calls herself Missy."
There was a short silence; then the woman spoke again. "Did she say she worked at this store? This location?"
"Yes." Glitsky read off the address. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I have personally approved the hiring of everybody who's worked here for the past six years, and I don't recognize that name. I'll check my files, of course, if you'll hold on. But does she say she worked here for a long while?"
Glitsky knew roughly when she'd moved into Ruth Guthrie's duplex, and he took a stab. "A couple of years, starting three years ago."
"So she just left, like a year ago?" Now the officious voice reeked with skepticism. "Just one moment please."
"Yes."
A minute later she was back. "I'm afraid it's not good news," she said. "Nobody by the name of Michelle or Missy D'Amiens has ever worked here."
Some part of Hardy thought it was the stuff of comedy-Podesta's notion that asking someone to live without a television for a few days was cruel and unusual punishment would stick with him for a while-but somehow he failed to find any of it amusing. Too much was at stake. He had too little time.
Abandoning Catherine to the holding cell and another jailhouse lunch, he ducked out the back door of the Hall and took a cab to his office on Sutter Street. On the ride over, he'd considered calling Glitsky-he'd even punched in the first few numbers of his pager-but then stopped when he remembered that his friend was bringing his son in to the doctor for tests today. He wasn't going to be available to do legwork, and legwork was what Hardy needed.
He got out of the cab in front of his office, stood still a moment, then abruptly turned and entered the garage. Next to the managing partner's spot, the elevator allowed him to bypass the main lobby. And Phyllis. And
Norma, his office manager. And any and everyone else who would clamor for his attention or, in the wake of the article, for simple news of what was going on. Instead, he could ride straight to the third floor, where his partner Wes Farrell had his office.
"I'm afraid I can't, Diz. I'm busy, I really am."
Farrell didn't look busy. When Hardy had barged into his office after a perfunctory single knock at the door, Wes was in one of his milder trademark T-shirts-"Don't Use No Negatives"-and shooting a yellow Nerf ball at the basket he'd mounted on his wall.
"What are you busy doing? That's a fair question under the circumstances."
"Some people shoot darts to meditate. Your humble servant here shoots hoops."
"You're meditating?"
"Fiercely. I'm surprised you have to ask."
"Wes, listen to me." Hardy sat down on the overstuffed sofa. "I need to know what Catherine Hanover's mother-in-law-her name's Theresa-was doing on the day and night Paul got killed."
"Why don't you just call and ask her?"
"I don't want anybody to ask her directly. I'd prefer she didn't know I was interested in that. She's a prosecution witness and…"
"Wait a minute-your client's mother-in-law is testifying for the prosecution?"
Hardy nodded. "Sweet, isn't it? I don't know if Rosen actually plans to call her, but she's on his list."
"Against somebody in her own family?"
"Just the hated daughter-in-law."
"Jesus. And I thought my mother-in-law was bad."
"You don't have a mother-in-law, Wes. You and Sam aren't married."
"No, my first one. We weren't exactly close, but even so, I don't think she would have testified against me to put me in the slammer for life. What's she going to say, this Theresa?"
"Well, that's the thing. I haven't talked to her personally. When I saw her name on the list, I asked Catherine and she said Theresa and she just never got along about anything. She wasn't good enough for Will. She ought to get a job and help support the family. She was too strict with the kids. You name it."
"Wait a minute. Whose kids are we talking about?"
"Catherine's. Her own kids."
"What did Theresa have to do with them?"