TWELVE

It is Sunday afternoon. There have been no new leads. No one has called claiming to have Cora. The case appears to be at an impasse, but Cora is still out there somewhere. Where is she?

Anne walks over to the living-room window. The curtains are drawn shut for privacy, filtering the room’s light. She stands to the side and holds the curtain open a little to peek out. There are a lot of reporters on the sidewalk, spilling over onto the street.

She is living in a fishbowl, everyone tapping on the glass.

Already there are indications that the Contis aren’t turning out to be the media darlings the press had hoped for. Anne and Marco haven’t welcomed the media; they clearly see the reporters as an intrusion, a necessary evil. They are not particularly photogenic either, even though Marco is handsome and Anne was pretty enough, before. But it’s not enough to be handsome—one should preferably have charisma, or at least warmth. There is nothing charismatic about Marco now. He looks like a shattered ghost. They both look guilty, beaten down by shame. Marco has been cold in his interactions with the media; Anne has said nothing at all. They have not been warm to the press, and so the press has not warmed to them. This is, Anne realizes, probably a tactical mistake, one they may live to regret.

The problem is that they had not been home. It has come out that they were next door when Cora was taken from her crib. Anne was horrified when she saw that morning’s headlines: COUPLE NOT HOME WHEN BABY TAKEN, STOLEN BABY WAS LEFT ALONE. If they’d been sound asleep in their own house while their child was kidnapped from her room, there would have been a much greater outpouring of sympathy, from the press and from the public. The fact that they were attending a party next door has scalded them. And of course the postpartum depression has also been made public. Anne doesn’t know how these things happen. She certainly didn’t tell the press. She suspects Cynthia might have been the source of the leak about their leaving the baby alone in the house, but she doesn’t know how the media found out about her depression. Surely the police would not have leaked her private medical information. She has even asked them, and they say it didn’t come from them. But Anne doesn’t trust the police. Whoever is responsible for the leaks, they have only damaged Anne further in the eyes of everyone—the public, the press, her parents, her friends, everyone. She has been publicly shamed.

Anne turns to look at the steadily increasing pile of toys and other colorful debris collecting on the sidewalk at the bottom of their front steps. There are bouquets of wilted flowers, stuffed animals of all colors and sizes—she can see teddy bears, even an outsize giraffe—with notes and cards stuck on them. A mountain of cliché. Such an outpouring of sympathy. And of hate.

Earlier that day Marco had gone out and brought an armful of the toys and notes in to her, to cheer her up. That was a mistake he won’t make again. Many of the notes were venomous, even shocking. She read a few of them, gasped, balled them up, and threw them to the floor.

She twitches the curtains with her fingers and looks out again. This time a thrill of horror slides down her back. She recognizes the women coming single file down the sidewalk toward the house, pushing their baby strollers: it is three—no—four women from her moms’ group. The reporters fall away to let them through, sensing impending drama. Anne watches in disbelief. Surely, she thinks, they have not come to visit her with their babies.

She sees the one in front, Amalia—mother of cute, brown-eyed Theo—reach beneath her stroller and grab what looks like a large container of prepared food. The other women behind her do the same thing, applying the brakes to their strollers, reaching for covered dishes in the baskets beneath the seats.

Such kindness, and such thoughtless cruelty. She can’t bear it. A sob escapes Anne as she turns abruptly from the window.

“What is it?” Marco says, alarmed, coming up to her.

He pushes the curtain aside and looks out the window at the sidewalk.

“Get rid of them!” Anne whispers. “Please.”

 • • • 

On Monday morning at nine o’clock, Detective Rasbach requests that Marco and Anne come to the police station for formal questioning. “You are not under arrest,” he assures them as they stare back at him, dumbstruck. “We would like to take a statement from each of you and ask a few more questions.”

“Why can’t you do that here?” Anne asks, in obvious distress. “Like you’ve been doing?”

“Why do we have to go to the station?” Marco echoes, looking appalled.

“It’s standard procedure,” Rasbach says. “Would you like some time to freshen up first?” he suggests.

Anne shakes her head, as if she doesn’t care what she looks like.

Marco does nothing at all, just stares at his feet.

“Okay, then, let’s go,” Rasbach says, and leads the way.

When he opens the front door, there is a flurry of activity. The reporters cluster around the front steps, cameras flashing. “Are they under arrest?” someone calls out.

Rasbach answers no questions and remains stonily silent as he steers Marco and Anne through the crush to the police cruiser parked in front of the house. He opens the rear door, and Anne goes in first and slides across the backseat. Marco steps in after her. No one speaks, except the reporters, who clamor after them with their questions. Rasbach climbs into the passenger seat, and the car pulls away. The photographers run after them, taking pictures.

Anne stares out the window. Marco tries to hold her hand, but she pulls it away. She watches the familiar city pass by the window—the produce stand on the corner, the park where she and Cora sit on a blanket in the shade and watch children splash in the wading pool. They cross the city—now they are not far from the art gallery where she used to work, close to the river. Then they are going past the Art Deco building where Marco has his office, and then suddenly they are out of downtown. It all looks very different from the back of a police cruiser, on the way to be questioned in the disappearance of your own child.

When they arrive at the police station, a modern building of concrete and glass, the cruiser stops at the front doors and Rasbach shepherds them in. There are no reporters here—there had been no advance warning that Anne and Marco would be taken in for questioning.

When they walk into the station, a uniformed officer at a circular front desk glances up with interest. Rasbach hands Anne over to a female officer. “Take her to Interview Room Three,” Rasbach tells her.

Anne looks at Marco in alarm. “Wait. I want to be with Marco. Can’t we be together?” Anne asks. “Why are you separating us?”

Marco says, “It’s okay, Anne. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay. We haven’t done anything. They just want to ask us some questions, and then they’re going to let us go, isn’t that right?” he says to Rasbach, a hint of challenge in his voice.

“That’s right,” the detective says smoothly. “As I said, you are not under arrest. You are here voluntarily. You are free to leave at any time.”

Marco stands still and watches Anne go down the hall with the female officer. She turns and looks back at him. She’s terrified.

“Come with me,” Rasbach says. He takes Marco into an interview room at the end of the hall. Detective Jennings is already there. The room contains a metal table with a single chair on one side and two chairs on the other side for the detectives.

Marco doesn’t trust himself to make any sense, to keep things straight. He can feel the exhaustion hitting him. He tells himself to talk slowly, to think before he answers.

Rasbach is wearing a clean suit and a fresh shirt and tie. He is newly shaven. Jennings is, too. Marco is wearing old jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt that he hauled out of his drawer that morning. He hadn’t known he was going to be brought down to the station. He realizes now that he should have taken advantage of the detective’s offer to shower, shave, change clothes. He would have felt more alert, more in control. And he would have looked less like a criminal on the permanent recording of this interview; he has just realized that he is probably going to be videotaped.

Marco sits down and nervously watches the two detectives standing across the table from him. It’s different being here, instead of in his own home. It’s frightening. He feels the shift of control.

“If it’s okay with you, we’re going to videotape this interview,” Rasbach says. He gestures to a camera positioned just below the ceiling, pointing toward them at the table.

Marco has no idea if he really has a choice. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then says, “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

“Would you like some coffee?” Rasbach offers.

“Yeah, sure, thanks,” Marco says. He tries to relax. He reminds himself he is here to help the police find out who has taken his child.

Rasbach and Jennings go out to get coffee, leaving Marco alone to fret.

When the two detectives return, Rasbach places Marco’s paper cup on the table in front of him. Marco sees that he has brought him two sugars and one cream—Rasbach has remembered how Marco takes his coffee. As Marco fumbles with the sugar packets, his hands are trembling. They all notice.

“Please state your name and today’s date,” Rasbach says, and they begin.

The detective leads him through a series of straightforward questions that establish Marco’s version of what happened on the night of the kidnapping. It is a rehash of what has gone before, nothing new. Marco can feel himself relaxing as the interview progresses. Finally he thinks they’re finished, that they’re about to let him go. His relief is enormous, although he’s careful not to show it. He has time then to wonder how it’s going in the other room, with Anne.

“Good, thank you,” Rasbach says when they’ve taken his statement. “Now, if you don’t mind, I just have a few more questions.”

Marco, who had started to rise out of his metal chair, sits back down.

“Tell us about your company, Conti Software Design.”

“Why?” Marco asks. “What has my company got to do with anything?” He stares at Rasbach, trying to hide his dismay. But he knows what they’re getting at. They’ve been looking into him; of course they have.

“You started your company about five years ago?” Rasbach prompts.

“Yes,” Marco says. “I have degrees in business and computer science. I’d always wanted to go into business for myself. I saw an opportunity in software design—specifically, in designing user interfaces for medical software. So I started my own company. I’ve got some key clients. A small staff of software-design professionals, all working remotely. Mostly we visit clients on site, so I travel a fair bit on business. I keep an office downtown myself. We’ve been quite successful.”

“Yes, you have done very well,” Rasbach agrees. “Impressive. It can’t have been easy. Is it expensive? To start a company like that?”

“It depends. I started out very small, just me and a couple of clients. I was the only designer in the beginning—I worked from home and put in very long hours. My plan was to build the business gradually.”

“Go on,” Rasbach says.

“The company became very successful, very quickly. It grew fast. I needed to hire more designers to keep up with demand, and to take the business to the next level. So I expanded. The time was right. There were bigger costs then. Equipment, staff, office space. You need money to grow.”

“And where did that money come from, to expand your business?” the detective asks.

Marco looks at him, annoyed. “I don’t see why it matters to you, but I got a loan from my in-laws, Anne’s parents.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?” Marco says irritably. He has to remain calm. He can’t afford to get ruffled. Rasbach is probably doing this just to piss him off.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” the detective says mildly. “How much money did you get from your wife’s parents?”

“Are you asking me, or do you know already?” Marco says.

“I don’t know. I’m asking.”

“Five hundred thousand,” Marco says.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Yes, it is,” Marco agrees. Rasbach is baiting him. He can’t rise to it.

“And has the business been profitable?”

“For the most part. We have good years and not-so-good years, like anybody else.”

“What about this year? Would you say it’s been a good year or a not-so-good year?”

“It’s been a rather shitty year, since you ask,” Marco says.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rasbach says. And waits.

“We’ve had some setbacks,” Marco says finally. “But I’m confident things will get on track. Business is always up and down. You can’t just throw in the towel when you have a bad year. You have to tough it out.”

Rasbach nods thoughtfully. “How would you describe your relationship with your wife’s parents?”

Marco knows that the detective has seen him and his father-in-law in the same room. There is no point in lying.

“We don’t like each other.”

“And yet they still loaned you five hundred thousand dollars?” The detective’s eyebrows have gone up.

“Her mother and father together loaned it to us. They have the money. They love their daughter. They want her to have a good life. My business plan was sound. It was a solid business investment for them. And an investment in their daughter’s future. It’s been a satisfactory arrangement for all concerned.”

“But isn’t it the case that your business desperately needs a cash infusion?” Rasbach asks.

“Every business these days could use a cash infusion,” Marco says, almost bitterly.

“Are you on the verge of losing the company you’ve worked so hard to build?” Rasbach says, leaning forward slightly.

“I don’t think so, no,” Marco says. He is not going to let himself be intimidated.

“You don’t think so?”

“No.”

Marco wonders where the detective has gotten his information. His business is in trouble. But as far as he knows, they didn’t have a warrant to go through his business or bank records. Is Rasbach guessing? Who has he spoken to?

“Does your wife know about your business troubles?”

“Not entirely.” Marco squirms in his seat.

“What do you mean?” the detective asks.

“She knows that business hasn’t been great lately,” Marco admits. “I haven’t burdened her with the details.”

“Why’s that?”

“We have a new baby, for Christ’s sake!” Marco snaps, raising his voice. “She’s been depressed, as you know. Why would I tell her the business is in trouble?” He runs his hand through his hair, which falls back haphazardly into his eyes.

“I understand,” Rasbach says. “Have you approached your in-laws for help?”

Marco sidesteps the question. “I think things will turn around.”

Rasbach lets it go. “Let’s talk about your wife for a moment,” he says. “You say that she’s been depressed. You told me earlier that she was diagnosed with postpartum depression by her doctor. Her psychiatrist. A doctor . . .” He consults his notes. “Lumsden.” He lifts his eyes. “Who is currently away.”

“Yes, you know that,” Marco says. “How many times do we have to go over this?”

“Can you describe her symptoms for me?”

Marco moves restlessly in the uncomfortable metal chair. He feels like a worm pinned to a board. “As I’ve told you before, she was sad, crying a lot, listless. She seemed overwhelmed at times. She wasn’t getting enough sleep. Cora’s a pretty fussy baby.” When he says this, he remembers that she is gone and has to pause a moment to regain his self-control. “I suggested she get someone to help her with the baby, so that she could take a nap during the day, but she wouldn’t. I think she felt she should be able to manage on her own, without help.”

“Your wife has a history of mental illness?”

Marco looks up, startled. “What? No. She has a bit of a history of depression, like a million other people.” His voice is firm. “Mental illness, no.” Marco doesn’t like what the detective is suggesting. He braces himself for what’s coming next.

“Postpartum depression is considered a mental illness, but let’s not quibble.” Rasbach leans back in his chair and looks at Marco as if to say, Can we speak frankly? “Did you ever worry that Anne might harm the baby? Or harm herself?”

“No, never.”

“Even though you looked up postpartum psychosis on the Internet?”

So they have been through his computer. They’ve seen what he’s looked at, the stories about women murdering their children. Marco can feel the sweat break out in tiny beads on his forehead. He moves around in his chair. “No. I told you about that. . . . When Anne was diagnosed, I wanted to know more about it, so I did some searches on postpartum depression. You know what it’s like on the Internet, one thing leads to another. You follow the links. I was just curious. I didn’t read those stories about women who went crazy and killed their kids because I was worried about Anne. No way.”

Rasbach stares at him without saying anything.

“Look, if I was worried that Anne might harm our baby, I wouldn’t have left her home alone with the baby all day, would I?”

“I don’t know. Would you?”

The gloves have come off. Rasbach looks at him, waiting.

Marco glares back. “Are you going to charge us with something?” Marco asks.

“No, not at this time,” the detective says. “You’re free to go.”

Marco stands up slowly, pushing his chair back. He wants to run the hell out of there, but he’s going to take his time, he’s going to look like he’s in control, even if it isn’t true.

“Just one more thing,” Rasbach says. “Do you know anyone with an electric car, or possibly a hybrid?”

Marco hesitates. “I don’t think so,” he says.

“That’s all,” the detective says, rising from his chair. “Thanks for coming in.”

Marco wants to get right in Rasbach’s face and snarl, Why don’t you do your goddamned job and find our baby? But instead he strides, too quickly, out of the room. Once outside the door, he realizes he doesn’t know where Anne is. He cannot leave without her. Rasbach comes up behind him.

“If you’d like to wait for your wife, we shouldn’t be too long,” he says, and goes down the corridor and opens a door into another room, where, Marco presumes, his wife sits waiting.