TEN

Rasbach stops by the Contis’ house and picks up Jennings. When the detectives arrive, watched by reporters, at the neighbors’ door, they find that the husband, Graham Stillwell, is not at home.

Rasbach had already met the couple, briefly, in the middle of the previous night, when the child had first been reported missing. Cynthia and Graham Stillwell had been shocked into speechlessness by the abduction of the baby next door. At that time Rasbach had focused his attention on the backyard, the fence, and the passageway between the two houses. But now he wants to talk to Cynthia, the hostess of the dinner party, to see what light, if any, she can shed on the couple next door.

She is a beautiful woman. Early thirties, long black hair, large blue eyes. She has the kind of figure that stops traffic. She is also fully aware of her own attractiveness, and she makes it difficult for anyone else not to be aware of it, too. She is wearing a blouse, deeply unbuttoned, flattering linen trousers, and high-heeled sandals. She is perfectly made up, even though someone stole her guests’ baby while they were at her house late the night before. But beneath the perfect makeup, she is obviously tired, as if she has slept poorly, or not at all.

“Have you found out anything?” Cynthia Stillwell asks once she’s invited them in. Rasbach is struck by the similarities with the house next door. The layout is the same, and the carved wooden staircase curving to the upper floor, the marble fireplace, and the front window are identical. But each home has the unmistakable stamp of its own occupants. The Contis’ home is done in subdued colors and filled with antiques and art; the Stillwells’ has more modern leather furniture—white—glass-and-chrome tables, and punches of bright color.

Cynthia takes the chair in front of the fireplace and elegantly crosses one leg over the other, dangling a sandaled foot featuring perfectly painted scarlet toenails.

As he and Jennings seat themselves on the sleek leather sofa, Rasbach smiles regretfully and says, “I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to discuss details.” The woman across from him seems nervous. He wishes to put her at ease. “What do you do, Mrs. Stillwell?” he asks.

“I’m a professional photographer,” she says. “Freelance, mostly.”

“I see,” he says, flicking his eyes to the walls, which display several nicely framed black-and-white photos. “Yours?”

“Yes, actually.” She gives a small smile.

“It’s a terrible thing, the baby being taken,” Rasbach says. “It must be very unsettling for you.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she says, in evident distress. She furrows her brow. “I mean, they were here when it was happening. Here we all were, having a good time, oblivious. I feel awful.” She licks her lips.

“Can you tell me about the evening?” Rasbach asks. “Just tell me about it in your own words.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “I had planned a party for Graham’s fortieth birthday. He just wanted something small. So I invited Marco and Anne for dinner because we sometimes have dinner together and we’re all good friends. We used to have dinner together a lot before the baby, not so much after. We hadn’t seen much of them for a while.”

“Did you suggest that they leave the baby at home?” Rasbach asks.

She flushes. “I didn’t know they couldn’t get a sitter.”

“My understanding is that they had a sitter but she canceled at the last minute.”

She nods. “Right. But I would never have said they couldn’t bring the baby, if they didn’t have a sitter. They showed up with the baby monitor and said the sitter had canceled and they would just plug the monitor in and check on her a lot.”

“And what did you think of that?”

“What did I think of it?” she asks, raising her eyebrows in surprise. Rasbach nods and waits. “I didn’t think anything of it. I’m not a parent. I assumed they knew what they were doing. They seemed fine with it. I was too busy getting the dinner prepared to give it much thought.” She adds, “To be honest, with one of them leaving every half hour to check on her, it would probably have been less disruptive just to have the baby here.” Cynthia pauses. “On the other hand, she’s a pretty fussy baby.”

“And Anne and Marco—you say they went next door to check on the baby every half hour?”

“Oh, yes. They were rigid about it. The perfect parents.”

“How long would they be gone when they checked on her?” Rasbach asks.

“It varied.”

“How do you mean?”

She tosses her black hair over her shoulder and straightens her back. “Well, when Marco went, he’d be pretty quick. Like five minutes or less. But Anne would stay away longer. I remember I joked with Marco at one point that maybe she wasn’t coming back.”

“When was this?” Rasbach leans forward slightly, fastening his eyes on hers.

“I think around eleven. She was gone a long time. When she did come back, I asked her if everything was all right. She said everything was fine, she’d just had to feed the baby.” Cynthia nodded firmly. “That’s right, it was eleven, because she said she always feeds the baby at eleven, and then the baby sleeps through till about five.” Cynthia suddenly looks uncertain and adds, “When she came back after the eleven-o’clock feeding, it looked like she’d been crying.”

“Crying? Are you sure?”

“That’s how it looked to me. She’d washed her face after, I think. Marco looked at her like he was worried. I remember thinking it must be a bore having to worry about Anne all the time.”

“Why do you think Marco was concerned?”

Cynthia shrugs. “Anne can be moody. I think she’s finding motherhood harder than she expected.” She flushes, realizing the awkwardness of what she’s just said, given the circumstances. “I mean, motherhood has changed her.”

“Changed her how?”

Cynthia takes a deep breath and settles more into her chair. “Anne and I used to be better friends. We used to have coffee, go shopping, talk. We actually had a lot in common. I’m a photographer, and she worked in an art gallery downtown. She’s mad about abstract art—at least she used to be. She was damn good at that gallery—a good curator, good at sales. She has an eye for quality and for what will sell.” She pauses, remembering.

“Yes?” Rasbach prompts.

Cynthia continues. “Then she got pregnant, and it seemed like all she could think about was babies. She only wanted to shop for baby things.” Cynthia gives a little laugh. “Sorry, but I found it a bit tedious after a while. I think she was hurt that I wasn’t that interested in her pregnancy. We had less in common. Then, when the baby was born, it took up all her time. I understand that—she was exhausted—but she became less interesting, if you know what I mean.” Cynthia pauses and crosses her long legs. “I think she should have gone back to work after the baby was a few months old, but she didn’t want to. I think she felt she had to be the perfect mother.”

“Has Marco changed much since the baby came?” Rasbach asks.

She tilts her head, thinking about it. “Not really, no, but then we haven’t seen much of him. He seems the same to me, but I think Anne’s been bringing him down a bit. He still likes to have fun.”

Rasbach asks, “Did Anne and Marco speak privately after she returned from checking the baby?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you and your husband go into the kitchen to clean up or anything and leave them alone together at all during the evening? Did they sit together in a corner or anything?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Marco was mostly hanging out with me, because you could tell that Anne wasn’t in too cheerful a mood.”

“So you don’t remember them conferring together throughout the evening?”

She shakes her head. “No, why?”

Rasbach ignores her question. “Describe how the rest of the evening went, if you don’t mind.”

“We were sitting around in the dining room mostly, because it’s air-conditioned, and it was such a hot night. Marco and I were doing most of the talking. My husband is generally pretty quiet, sort of an intellectual. He and Anne are alike that way. They get along.”

“And you and Marco get along?”

“Marco and I are more extroverted, for sure. I liven up my husband, and Marco livens up Anne. Opposites attract, I guess.”

Rasbach waits, letting silence fill the room. Then he asks, “When Anne came back after the eleven-o’clock feeding, besides looking like she might have been crying, did she seem different in any way?”

“Not that I noticed. She just seemed tired—but that’s the way she is these days.”

“Who checked on the baby next?”

Cynthia thinks. “Well, Anne got back around eleven thirty, I think, so Marco didn’t go. He was going on the half hour, and she was going on the hour—that’s the arrangement they had. So Anne went again at midnight, and then Marco went at twelve thirty.”

“How long was Anne gone when she went to check the baby at midnight?” Rasbach asks.

“Oh, not long, a couple of minutes.”

“And then Marco went at twelve thirty.”

“Yes. I was in the kitchen, clearing up a bit. He slipped out the back door saying he was going to pop out and check the baby and he’d be right back. He winked at me.”

“He winked at you?”

“Yes. He’d been drinking quite a lot. We all had.”

“And how long was he gone?” Rasbach asks.

“Not long, two or three minutes. Maybe five.” Cynthia shifts in her seat, recrosses her legs. “When he got back, we went outside to the patio for a cigarette.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you two talk about?” Rasbach asks. He remembers the way Marco flushed when he mentioned having the cigarette with Cynthia, remembers how angry Anne had been about her husband flirting with the woman sitting across from him.

Cynthia says, “Not much. He lit me a cigarette.” Rasbach waits, saying nothing. “He began stroking my legs. I was wearing a dress with a slit up the side.” She looks uncomfortable. “I don’t think any of this is relevant, do you? What does this have to do with the baby being kidnapped?”

“Just tell us what happened, if you don’t mind.”

“He was stroking my legs. And then he got all hot and pulled me onto his lap. He kissed me.”

“Go on,” Rasbach says.

“Well . . . he got pretty excited. We both got a little carried away. It was dark, we were drunk.”

“How long did this go on?” Rasbach asks.

“I don’t know, a few minutes.”

“Were you not worried about your husband or Anne coming out and finding you and Marco . . . embracing?”

“To be honest, I don’t think we were thinking too clearly. As I said, we’d had a lot to drink.”

“So nobody came and found you.”

“No. I eventually pushed him off me, but I was nice about it. It wasn’t easy, because he was all over me. Persistent.”

“Are you and Marco having an affair?” Rasbach asks bluntly.

“What? No. We’re not having an affair. I thought it was just a harmless flirtation. He’s never touched me before. We’d had too much to drink.”

“After you pushed him away, then what happened?”

“We straightened ourselves out and went back inside.”

“What time was it then?”

“It was almost one, I think. Anne wanted to leave. She didn’t like that Marco had been with me out on the back patio.”

I bet, Rasbach thinks. “Were you out on the patio anytime earlier in the evening?”

She shakes her head. “No. Why?”

“I’m wondering if you had an opportunity to notice whether the motion-detector light went on when Marco went into the house anytime earlier in the evening?”

“Oh. I don’t know. I didn’t see him go over there.”

“Other than you and your husband—and Marco and Anne, of course—do you know if anyone else knew that the baby was alone next door?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” She shrugs her elegant shoulders. “I mean, who else would know?”

“Is there anything you can add, Mrs. Stillwell?”

She shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m afraid not. It seemed like a normal night to me. How could anyone imagine something like this happening? I wish they’d just brought the baby with them.”

“Thank you for your time,” Rasbach says, and rises to go. Jennings stands up beside him. Rasbach hands her his card. “If you remember anything else, anything at all, please give me a call.”

“Of course,” she says.

Rasbach looks out the front window. The reporters are milling around, waiting for them to emerge. “Do you mind if we slip out the back?” he says.

“Not at all,” Cynthia says. “The garage is open.”

The detectives slip out the sliding glass doors in the kitchen and make their way across the backyard and through the Stillwells’ garage. They stand in the lane, unseen from the street.

Jennings looks sidelong at Rasbach and raises his eyebrows.

“Do you believe her?” Rasbach asks him.

“About what, exactly?” the other man asks. The two detectives speak in low voices.

“About the hanky-panky in the backyard.”

“I don’t know. Why would she lie? And she is pretty hot.”

“People lie all the time, in my experience,” Rasbach says.

“Do you think she was lying?”

“No. But something about her is off, and I don’t know what it is. She seemed nervous, like she was holding something back or hiding something,” Rasbach says. “The question is, assuming she’s telling the truth, why was Marco making a pass at her shortly after twelve thirty? Was he able to do that because he had no idea that his baby was being taken at roughly that time, or did he do it because he’d just handed the baby off to an accomplice and had to look like he didn’t have a care in the world?”

“Or maybe he’s a sociopath,” Jennings offers. “Maybe he handed the baby off to an accomplice and it didn’t bother him at all.”

Rasbach shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” Virtually all the sociopaths Rasbach has come across—and after decades on the force he’s come across a few—have had an air of confidence, even grandiosity, about them.

Marco looks like he’s about to crack under the strain.