Eva stared out the window thoughtfully, then asked me for Emily’s address. Somehow I knew that in addition to a personal note of support from her former pastor, Eva was likely to sic the Daughters of the King on my wayward daughter, dedicated churchwomen all, who would serve up a nightly succession of hot casseroles along with their quiet evangelism.
“With your permission,” she continued, “I’ll go ahead and e-mail our prayer chains, get them going on prayers for Timmy’s safe return. And we’ll add his name to the Prayers of the People on Sunday, of course.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, taking both her hands in mine and squeezing, hard. “But let’s pray he’ll be home long before that.”
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help…” Eva began, and I felt a wave of comfort wash over me. We bowed our heads and Eva prayed in soft, soothing tones for Timmy’s safe return, for courage, for peace, and for the police who were working so hard to find my grandson. When we joined our voices in the Twenty-third Psalm-I will fear no evil, for thou art with me-I felt better armed for what I knew would be difficult days ahead.
Eva accompanied me out to the parking lot. “You know, if the Psalms don’t work for you, there’s always Dory,” she mused as we approached my car.
“Dory?” I wasn’t following her.
“From Finding Nemo,” she reminded me. “Dory is relentlessly optimistic in spite of overwhelming obstacles. She never loses hope, does she? And without hope, we cannot survive.”
While I climbed into the driver’s seat and fastened my seat belt, Eva stared into the woods as if what she were about to say were carved into the bark of one of the trees. “What’s that line? Ah, yes, ‘Hey there, Mr. Grumpy Gills. When life gets you down, do you wanna know what you’ve gotta do? Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.’ ”
CHAPTER 9
Spa Paradiso is closed until further notice. We
are sorry for any inconvenience.
The sign had been freshly painted in black letters on white metal, and hung from the gatepost on a triangle of stout wire. I imagined Phyllis Strother and her investors spinning in their Guccis over the inconvenience of the closing, all the while reassuring Dante that, okay-fine, under the circumstances, what could one do?
The police had established a perimeter approximately fifty yards from the gates, completely blocking Kimmel Lane.
Kimmel Lane. I had to smile. Like Puddle Ducks, the name was the invention of my son-in-law. Every street in the Bay Ridge community had been named after a naval hero, like Mayo, Bancroft, Wainwright, and Decatur. Rear Admiral Husband E. Kimmel, on the other hand, a 1904 Naval Academy grad, had been a scapegoat, summarily relieved of his command after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. History had long since cleared his name, but the Department of Defense had not. It’s not often one gets to thumb his nose at the DOD, and Dante enjoyed making his point.
Keeping my head low, I aimed my LeBaron at the gap between the gateposts, navigating my way around three television trucks from Baltimore and Washington, affiliates of the major networks, their communications stalks extending high into the sky, and running a gauntlet of unmarked vehicles parked higgledy-piggledy along the shoulder of the narrow road, probably by reporters and curiosity seekers.
I identified myself to the police officer on guard, who scrutinized my driver’s license and wished me well before waving me through into the grounds.
To my great relief, Paul’s Volvo already sat in a far corner of the parking lot, as did my sister-in-law Connie’s red Ford pickup. I didn’t have to wonder why they had parked so far away: the section of the lot nearest the main entrance to the spa had been cordoned off for use by the police, including three patrol cars, a pair of dark-colored Crown Vics, and-a welcome sight-the blue-striped, white SUV that belonged to the Baltimore County K-9 unit.
A uniformed officer was just unfolding her legs from the driver’s side of the SUV. I squinted at the vehicle, hoping to catch sight of the dog, praying that they brought a bloodhound, but, alas, the windows were tinted.
I pulled in next to Connie’s pickup and turned off the ignition. When I went to drop my keys into my handbag, I discovered that my hands were shaking so badly I could barely operate the toggle that secured the flap over the pouch. My heart was doing flip-flops in my chest, and I was short of breath from the simple effort of tugging at the flap of my handbag.
It’s the caffeine. Surely, it’s the caffeine. You’ll have to knock it off, Hannah.
I pulled on the flap until the snap gave, leaving four neat holes in the leather. The snap ricocheted off the steering wheel, pinged on the console, and dropped onto the passenger side floor mat. Damn! Not an auspicious omen for the remainder of the day.
Tucking the ruined bag under my arm, I stumbled up the drive and onto the porch. A police officer I recognized from the day before-Duncan? Dunham?-greeted me at the main door and directed me to the conference room where, he said, everyone had gathered for a briefing. I hustled along in that direction, but when I got to the reception area, I froze.
CRIME SCENE-DO NOT CROSS. The yellow tape stretched forebodingly from the door of the gift shop, along the paneled wall, and across the double doors that led into Puddle Ducks. I closed my eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths, but my heart continued to pound in my ears and my head swam. If I didn’t find a place to sit down soon, I’d keel over.
When I got there, the door to the conference room was closed, but through a garland etched in the glass I could see Paul and Connie seated next to each other at one end of the polished mahogany table. Next to Connie the sleeve of a pink sweater I recognized as Emily’s rested on the table; she must have been just out of sight to Connie’s right. I assumed Dante would be there somewhere, possibly seated next to his wife, and perhaps others, law enforcement types, would be in attendance, too. I rapped on the door, turned the knob, and went in without waiting for anyone to say “Come in.”
Dante was there, indeed, sitting between Emily and a pudgy, white-haired guy in a gray suit. A plainclothes policewoman stood at the head of the table, and seemed in charge of the proceedings.
“Sorry to interrupt.” I felt my face grow hot as I lurched toward the vacant chair next to my husband. “I’m Hannah Ives,” I began, before realizing that the woman I was addressing needed no introduction to me.
FBI Special Agent Amanda Crisp of the Annapolis Regional Authority hadn’t changed much since early last year, when I’d come so close to eluding her at the Ballston Metro station. Her honey-blond hair had grown out, and she’d gathered it neatly into a bunlike coil at the nape of her neck, but otherwise I would have recognized her anywhere. Same dark gray pantsuit and crisp white shirt. Same telltale bulge under her jacket. Same highly polished shoes. Besides, you tend not to forget people who roust you out of bed at five-thirty in the morning and haul your ass off to jail.
I grabbed the back of my chair for support. “Agent Crisp! Quite frankly, the last time we were together, I hoped it would be the last. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you how very glad I am to see you,” I added. “In spite of all the unpleasantness last year, I have a very high level of confidence in the FBI.”
“Thank you.”
Was it my imagination, or was there a hint of a smile? Just as quickly as it came, the smile vanished. “Chief Sheldon has asked us to coordinate the investigation into Timmy’s disappearance.”
“So soon? We’re so grateful.” I was thinking that Chief Sheldon probably had precious little to do with it. Lieutenant Dennis Rutherford had friends in high places, and his fingerprints were all over Crisp’s current assignment.