Powers ignored the man and continued. “In addition, we have been conducting a roadblock search at the entrance to Bay Ridge, talking to people who use that route every day to see if we can come up with any witnesses who remember seeing Timmy or any unusual vehicles.”
“Sir, sir⦔ The jerk in the windbreaker again.
Powers's head swiveled our way. “Yes?”
“At what time was the child taken?”
“I believe we've already answered that question. Next?”
“How about other surveillance cameras?” another reporter wanted to know.
“The spa has surveillance cameras. We're working on that now.”
Dennis's head spun in my direction.
What?
he mouthed.
I shrugged and whispered into his ear, “They're not working. Apparently the FBI doesn't want the kidnapper to know that.”
And the FBI seemed to have the situation well in hand. While we stood outside the house listening to Officer Powers answer questions, the FBI's crisis negotiation team was inside, manning the command center. We'd given them complete run of the upper level of the house, including its three bedrooms.
Dante and Emily had checked out of the hotel, but they'd decided to occupy the “mother-in-law” suite of their split-foyer home, a bed, bath, and pocket kitchen combination that had been built into the basement by a previous owner. As for Chloe and Jake, we would try to keep their lives as normal as possible. They'd stay with Paul and me, for the time being, at least.
For one thing, I didn't want the children to witness their mother's inexorable slide into depression. Emily was, completely understandably, going through a wide range of emotionsâupset, frightened, and clinging to her husband one minute, angry and argumentative the next, refusing to be comforted, either by Dante or anyone else. In coaching my daughter in how to deal with the kidnappers, the FBI had its work cut out for them. Crisp urged Emily to pull herself together, to be strong to help save her son's life. Emily responded by alternating between screaming insults at everyone and staring at the wall. Once, in exasperation, I'd threatened to drive my daughter back to the Marriott where she could hole up in her room, watch television, and order junk food from room service. She told me to go to hell, but it did seem to calm her down.
While I took care of the children, Connie had been designated community liaison. She would answer the telephone, keep notes, organize the volunteers (who were already starting to call), and decide which visitors to admit to the residence. Taking her responsibilities seriously, Connie had arrived around noon with an assortment of salads and carbonated fruit drinks she'd purchased at the Whole Foods market in Harbour Center. These were sitting in the refrigerator, however, largely untouched, because nobody felt much like eating.
“Officer Powers!” The questions seemed to go on and on. Powers was built like a Sherman tank; he could roll on forever.
“Agent Crisp! Would you comment onâ¦?” Even Amanda Crisp hadn't wilted under the barrage.
Emily, though, was flagging. “Take care of Em,” I whispered to Connie. “It's time for me to pick up the children.”
Connie nodded, and I managed to slip away without attracting attention.
As I passed Locust Lane on my way to Edgemere Drive, where I had abandoned my car, I ran into the name tag lady from church, Erika Rose. I'd never seen Erika in anything but a suit, so I almost didn't recognize her in khaki pants, a white shirt, and a bright pink cardigan. Mother always told me that redheads shouldn't wear pink, but on Erika, especially with her hair pulled back, the effect was stunning. She was carrying a white and blue casserole dish covered with foil.
I didn't much feel like talking to Erika or anybody else, but since she was chugging in my direction bearing food for my starving children, I really had no choice in the matter.
“Erika! How good of you to come.”
She greeted me soberly. “Eva called and suggested I come right over.”
“I'm very glad you did,” I said, truthfully. “And thanks for bringing the casserole.” I gestured back down Cedar Lane. “It's only fair to warn you, though, that there's a press conference going on, and it's a madhouse over there. They should be wrapping up soon.”
“Don't worry.” She smiled grimly. “I have plenty of experience dealing with the press.”
I'll bet you do
, I was about to say, remembering that Erika had been all over the news when a firm she used to work for had been defending a Baltimore slum lord against charges of flipping houses. “We could use some advice, I guess.”
Erika looked me up and down, taking in my crumpled sweat pants, tank top, and hoodie. “How are
you
doing, Hannah?”
“I'm doing okay, under the circumstances, but I'm really worried about my daughter. The FBI has been trying to prepare us for all eventualities, but some of those eventualities are more than Emily can take. Everything they say just seems to upset her. My sister-in-law is with her right now, but I would appreciate any suggestions.”
Erika hoisted the casserole dish. “I'm not sure a turkey-noodle casserole will do much to help in that department, but I'll give it a try.” She studied me thoughtfully. “I'm sure you're aware that I do quite a bit of pro bono work.”
I wasn't, but didn't want to admit it. “Yes?”
“I'm a passionate advocate for children's rights, for one thing,” she told me, “and fortunately, my firm encourages my efforts. Recently I worked with Amnesty International seeking asylum for a woman who'd fled to the United States with her seven-year-old daughter to prevent the daughter from being subjected to female genital mutilation.”
I shivered. Chloe would be seven next year! Just thinking about the torture female children were subjected to in the name of cultural tradition made me ill. And the practice wasn't limited to third-world countries, either, I'd heard. “Tell me you were successful.”
“Oh, yes,” Erika said, in a tone of voice that suggested that once she was on the case, you'd better lend her a hand, or get the hell out of the way.
“Thank goodness!” I glanced at my watch. “Oh, gosh, it's getting late, and I have to pick up my grandchildren from school.”
“Don't let me keep you, then.”
I smiled a genuine smile of gratitude. “Thanks, Erika.”
She'd taken several steps past me, and then turned back. “Hannah?”
“Yes?”
“I'm sure the police are doing an excellent job with their investigation, but I know from experience that there are other things we can do that might improve our chances of getting Timmy back. And time is of the essence.”
“I know that,” I said. “And we're prepared to do whatever it takes.
Anything
.”
“Good. Well, you'd better get on with picking up your grandkids, we can talk later. Will you be coming back here?”
I shook my head. “Not tonight. We've decided it's better for Chloe and Jake to stay with Paul and me.” I indicated the bag I was carrying. “Emily picked out some clothes for the children to wear over the next couple of days, but in her rattled state, she didn't do a very good job of it, I'm afraid. It's a good thing I checked, because Emily'd forgotten the socks and the underwear.”
“Is anyone with her, then?” Erika took a breath. “A woman, I mean. Husbands aren't always the best choice in times like this, I've discovered.”
That was certainly the truth. Dante had been trying to help, Lord knows, but Emily had seemed inconsolable.
“Her aunt is with her,” I said.
“Good. Good. Well, I'll see you later, then.”
See you later
. That, as it turned out, was the understatement of the century.
The next morning, to avoid the press corps that
was camped out like Boy Scouts in my daughter's driveway, I parked in the next block, cut through the neighbor's backyard, squeezed under a split rail fence, and let myself in through the back door.
To my surprise, my baby sister, Georgina, was in the kitchen, fixing coffee. I hadn't seen her since her new baby, Tina, was born six months ago.
“Georgina!” I spread my arms wide and gave her a hug.
“Careful, or you'll spill the coffee.” She set the grinder down on the counter. “So good to see you, Hannah. I've been trying to get to Annapolis for several days, but with the kids⦔ She shrugged. “I just couldn't bring the kids.”
“I understand. How are they?”
“A handful.”
“I'll bet.” Sean and Dylan, the twins, were nearly nine, and their younger sister, the wise, witty, and wonderful Julie, was seven going on twenty-seven. “And Scott?”
“Bitching and moaning. I simply told him I was coming down to help out and he would be in charge of the children. It's not like he has to drive to the office or anything.”
“I thought he was going to share an office with some other CPAs.”
Georgina stuffed a paper filter into the coffee machine and tapped the fresh grounds into it. “I wish. It's always wait until this account comes through, or that one.” She sighed. “I'm afraid I'll never get him out of the house.”
“You make it too comfortable for him.”
“I guess I do. Maybe I should stop cleaning up after him. Once the papers reach his ears, maybe he'd take the hint.” She grinned.
I grinned, too, pleased with how normal my sister sounded. Her new shrink deserved a bonus.
“What's happening?” I asked. “Any news?”
“No, and it just breaks my heart. If anything happened to our little Tina⦔ Georgina dabbed at her eyes with the paper towel she'd been using to blot water up from the counter. “I can't imagine what Emily's going through. I took her some hot tea with honey a few minutes ago, and she looked like she'd been run over by a truck.”
“I know.”
“Dante's with her now, trying to get her to drink some of it.”
“Good,” I said, somewhat distracted by a noise wafting in from the direction of the driveway. I raised a hand. “What's that?”
Over the gurgle of the coffeemaker, what began as a murmur became a dull roar. One shout, then another, and another. Then silence.
Dante met us coming down the hall. “What the hell? Just as I got Emily settled down.” He muscled his way past us to the living room window, drew the drapes aside and peered out.
“What is it?”
“The reporters are talking to somebody.”
I hurried to the window and opened the curtain just wide enough so that both Georgina and I could see what all the fuss was about.
The press was interviewing a woman who stood before them, her fingers laced primly together at her waist. She was dressed in a long black skirt, a tailored white shirt, and wore a shawl with a peacock feather design fastened at the shoulder in a bulky knot. Her eyes were just visible under a coarse black fringe that looked like it'd been nibbled by a small and very hungry animal.
“I don't recognize her, do you?” Georgina said.
“No.”
“What's going on, then?”
“I don't know, but I'll find out.”
I'd just opened the front door and stepped out onto the stoop when the woman extricated herself from the clot of reporters and hurried up the driveway toward the house. As she got closer, I saw that her eyes were rimmed in black. Eyebrows had been painted on generously with a pencil. She had pink cheeks never dreamed of by Mother Nature. Clearly, a woman not in the habit of studying herself in the mirror each morning, wondering if she was wearing too much makeup.
She lifted her skirt slightly as she climbed the steps. “Mrs. Shemansky?”
I had to admit being flattered at being mistaken for my daughter. “No. I'm Emily's mother. How can I help you?”
“Is Mrs. Shemansky in?”
Dante squeezed past me.
“Mr
. Shemansky is in. How can I help you?”
“It is I who can help you,” she said, her glossy red lips pulling back over impossibly white teeth. “At least I hope so.”
As we stood on the stoop with our mouths agape, she continued. “I beg your pardon. I'm so nervous I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Montana Martin. Perhaps you've heard of me.”
From our silence, she could only assume not.
First an author named Nevada, then an actress named Dakota, now Montana? The next thing you knew, some fool would name their daughter Mississippi
.
“I'm a psychic detective,” she told us. “I've worked with police departments all over the country. Perhaps you've heard of the Lonnie Edwards case?”
Dante shifted his weight from one foot to another. “No.”
“Well, it's like this. I see, and talk to dead people.”
I didn't know Emily had come out of her bedroom until she screamed. “Oh my God! Timmy's dead!”