Billy had been the first detective to arrive on the scene when the 911 call came that a three-year-old was missing in Central Park nearly two years ago. He had rushed there with a sinking heart. For him the worst part of his job was to respond to a crime involving a dead or missing child.
That hot summer day in June it had been Tiffany Shields, the babysitter, who sobbed hysterically that she had fallen asleep next to the stroller and when she woke up Matthew was gone. While every inch of the park was being searched and nearby visitors questioned, the divorced parents had arrived separately. Ted Carpenter, the father, had been on the verge of attacking Shields, who admitted that she had fallen asleep; Zan Moreland, the mother, had been eerily calm, a reaction that Billy had attributed to shock. Even as the hours had passed without a trace of Matthew, and not one single witness who might have observed him being taken had come forward, the mother had remained impassive in demeanor.
In the nearly two years since that day, Billy Collins had kept Matthew’s file on the top of his desk. He had scrupulously followed up on both parents’ explanation of where they had been when their child disappeared, and both their statements were backed up by other witnesses. He asked them about any enemies who might have hated them enough to kidnap their child. Zan Moreland had hesitantly confided that there was one person she did consider an enemy. He was Bartley Longe, a prominent interior designer, who scoffed at the idea that in any way he would kidnap the child of a former employee.
“That statement from Zan Moreland validates everything I have ever said about her,” Longe had told Billy, his tone furious and disgusted. “First she practically accused me of causing her parents’deaths, because if they hadn’t been on their way to pick her up at the airport, her father might have had his heart attack at home and wouldn’t have been in the accident. Then she told me that it was because she was working for me that she didn’t see her parents more often. Now she’s telling you that I kidnapped her child! Detective, do yourself a favor. Don’t waste your time looking anywhere else. Whatever happened to that poor child was because his deranged mother made it happen.”
Billy Collins had listened, but then trusted his own instincts. From what he had learned, Bartley Longe’s anger at Zan Moreland was triggered by the fact that she had become his business competitor. But Billy had quickly decided that neither Longe nor Moreland had anything to do with the little boy’s disappearance. In his heart and soul he firmly believed that Zan was a victim, a deeply wounded victim who would have moved heaven and earth to get her child back.
That was why when he received a call on Tuesday evening about a breaking development in the Matthew Carpenter case, Billy had been tempted to jump in his car and drive from his home in Forest Hills, Queens, to the precinct.
His boss told him to stay put. “For all we know those photos that were sold to that gossip magazine may have been doctored. If they’re on the level, you need to have a clear mind to start reworking the case.”
On Wednesday morning, Billy woke at seven A.M. Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved, and dressed, he was on his way into the city. By the time he arrived there, the photos that were published in Tell-All Weekly and online were on his desk.
There were six in all; the original three the English tourist had taken, plus the three he had blown up for the family album. They were the ones whose background seemed to indicate that Zan More-land had kidnapped her own son.
Billy whistled softly, his only physical response to the fact that he was both shocked and chagrined. I really did believe that sob-sister, he thought, as he studied the three photos that showed Zan bending over the stroller, then picking up the sleeping child, and finally walking down the path away from the camera. There’s no mistake, Billy thought as he went from one photo to the next. The long, straight auburn hair, the slender frame, the fashionable sunglasses …
He opened the file that was always on the corner of his desk. From it he extracted pictures that had been quietly taken of Zan by the police photographer when she rushed to the crime scene. The short flowered dress and the high-heeled sandals she was wearing when she arrived in the park that day were identical to the clothing worn by the kidnapper.
Billy normally patted himself on the back that he was an excellent judge of human nature. His sharp sense of disappointment in his own bad judgment was immediately vanquished by his overriding concern about what Zan Moreland might have done with her own son.
Zan’s alibi about her whereabouts that day had seemed straightforward. Clearly he had missed something. I’m starting with the babysitter, Billy thought grimly. I’ll pick apart Zan Moreland’s account of every minute of that day and find out how she’s gotten away with lying. Then by God, I’m going to make her tell me what she did with that little kid.
19
Tiffany Shields was still living at home, completing her second year at Hunter College. The day that Matthew Carpenter disappeared had been a turning point in her life. It wasn’t only that she had been in charge of Matthew and had fallen asleep, it was that whenever the case came up in the media, she was branded as the careless babysitter who had not only not bothered to strap him into the stroller, but who had stretched out on a blanket and, as one reporter wrote, “passed out.”
Almost every article referred to the hysterical call she had made to 911. The tape of it was played on some of the TV coverage. In the past two years when a child was missing anywhere, Tiffany had been forced to read or hear that it was or wasn’t a Tiffany Shields-sleeping-babysitter kind of situation. Whenever she read or heard those media reports, Tiffany’s anger at the unfairness of it grew into a block of solid fury.
The day was still vivid in her mind. She woke with what felt like the beginnings of a cold. She canceled plans to meet some of her girlfriends to celebrate their impending graduation from Cathedral High School. Her mother had gone to work at Bloomingdale’s where she was a sales clerk. Her father was the superintendent of the apartment building where they lived on East Eighty-sixth Street. At noon, the phone rang in their apartment. If only I hadn’t answered it, Tif fany thought over and over again in the next twenty-one months. I almost didn’t. I figured it was some tenant calling to complain about some damn leaking faucet.
But she did answer it.
It was Zan Moreland. “Tiffany, can you possibly help me?” she had pleaded. “Matthew’s new nanny was supposed to start this morning and just phoned that she can’t be here until tomorrow. I’ve got a terribly important appointment. It’s with a potential client, and she’s not the kind of person who would care about my babysitting problems. Would you be an angel and take Matthew out to the park for a couple of hours? I just fed him and it’s his naptime. I promise you he’ll probably sleep the whole time.”
I used to mind Matthew once in a while when the nanny had an evening off and I loved that little guy, Tiffany thought. But that day I told Zan that I thought I was getting sick, but she was so insistent that I finally gave in. And ruined my life in the process.
But on Wednesday morning, as she glanced at the morning paper over a glass of orange juice, Tiffany had two reactions. Explosive anger that Zan Moreland had manipulated her, and unbelievable relief that she would no longer be the victim of Matthew’s disappearance. I told the cops that I had taken some antihistamines and felt kind of groggy and that I didn’t really want to babysit, she thought. But if they come back to talk to me again, I’m going to rub it into them that Zan Moreland knew I was feeling tired. When I picked up Matthew, she offered me a Pepsi. She said it would make me feel better, that the sugar in it was beneficial when a cold was coming on.
Looking back, Tiffany thought, I wonder if Zan may have put something in that soda to make me really sleepy? And Matthew never even stirred while he was in the stroller. That’s why I didn’t bother him to put the strap on … He was out like a light.
Tiffany reread every word of the story and studied the photos carefully. That’s the dress Zan was wearing, she thought, but the shoes are
n’t the same. By mistake, Zan had bought two pairs that were alike and had another pair that was almost the same. All of them were high-heeled beige step-in sandals. The only difference between the two styles was that one crossover strap was narrower than the other. She gave me one of the identical pairs with the narrower strap. We were both wearing them that morning. I still have them.
I’m not going to tell that to anyone. If the cops knew they may want my sandals and by God I earned them!
Three hours later, when she checked the messages on her cell phone after her history class, Tiffany saw that one of them was from that Detective Collins who had questioned her over and over again when Matthew disappeared. He wanted to talk with her again.
Tiffany’s narrow mouth hardened into a slit. Her normally pert features suddenly lost their attractive, youthful expression. She pressed the button to return Billy Collins’s call.
I want to talk to you, too, Detective Collins, she thought.
And this time I’ll be the one to make you squirm!
20
Glory was putting that gooey stuff on his hair again. Matthew hated it. It made his scalp feel burned and some of it almost got in his eye. Glory rubbed hard to catch it, but the washcloth went in his eye and it hurt. But he knew that if he said he didn’t want her to put the stuff in his hair, she would only say, “I’m sorry, Matty. I don’t want to do it, but I have to.”
Today he didn’t say one single word. He knew Glory was really mad at him. This morning, when the doorbell rang, he had run into the closet and closed the door. He didn’t mind this closet at all because it was bigger than some of the other ones, and it had a light big enough that he could see everything. But then he remembered he had left his favorite truck in the hall. It was his favorite because it was bright red and had three speeds, so when he played with it in the hall he could make it go very fast or really slow.
He had opened the closet door and ran to get it. Just then, he saw that Glory was closing the door and saying good-bye to some lady. After Glory locked the door she turned around and saw him. She looked so mad he was scared that she would hit him. “Next time I’ll stick you in the closet and never let you out,” she had said in a mean, low voice. He’d been so scared that he ran back into the closet and started to cry so hard that he couldn’t get his breath.
Even after a while, when Glory said it was all right to come out, that it wasn’t really his fault, that he was just a little kid, and that she was sorry she had yelled at him, he still couldn’t stop crying. He was saying, “Mommy, Mommy,” over and over, and he wanted to stop but he couldn’t.
Then, later, when he was watching one of his DVDs, he heard Glory talking to someone. He tiptoed to the door of his room, opened it, and listened. Glory was on the phone. He couldn’t hear what she was saying but her voice sounded really mad. Then he heard her shout, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and he could tell she was really scared.
Now he sat with the towel around his shoulders and the stuff dripping on his forehead and waited until Glory told him to get over to the sink, that it was time to rinse out his hair.
Finally she said, “Okay, I guess you’re about ready.” When he leaned over the sink, she said, “It’s really too bad. If you ever get the chance, you’ll be a cute redhead.”
21
With intense satisfaction, Bartley Longe sauntered down the corridor to his office at 400 Park Avenue with the morning newspapers under his arm. Fifty-two years old, with silver threads in his light brown hair, ice blue eyes, and an imperious manner, he was the kind of man who could intimidate a headwaiter or a subordinate with a single chilling glance. On the flip side of his personality, he was a charming and welcome guest among his many clients, both the current celebrities and the quietly wealthy.
His staff always nervously anticipated his 9:30 A.M. arrival. What kind of mood would Bartley be in? A furtive peek at him answered that question. If his expression was pleasant and he graced them with a hearty “Good morning,” they relaxed at least for the present. If he was frowning and tight-lipped, they knew something had displeased him and that somebody was in for a nasty dressing-down.
By now, every one of the eight full-time employees had read or heard the stunning news that Zan Moreland, who had once worked for Bartley, was a person of interest in the disappearance of her own son. They all remembered the day she had burst into the office after her parents died in that accident and screamed at Bartley: “I hadn’t seen my mother and father in nearly two years and now I’ll never see them again. You made it impossible for me to leave because you said I was too valuable on this project or that project. You’re a nasty, self centered bully. You’re more than that. You’re a stinking devil. And if you don’t believe it, ask any of these people who work for you. I’m going to open my own firm and you know what, Bartley? I’m going to rub your nose in my success.”
She had broken into racking sobs and Elaine Ryan, Bartley’s longtime secretary, had put an arm around her and taken her home.
Now Bartley opened the door of his office, the smirk on his face a clear signal to both Elaine and the receptionist, Phyllis Garrigan, that all was well for his employees, at least for the present. “I guess unless you’re deaf, dumb, and blind, you know about Zan More-land?” Bartley asked the women.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Elaine Ryan said flatly. Sixty-two years old, her dark brown hair stylishly shaped, her hazel eyes the best feature in her narrow face, she was the single employee in the office with enough courage to occasionally challenge Bartley. As she often told her husband, the only thing that kept her working for Bartley was the good pay and the fact that at any time she could afford to walk out if he got too nasty. Her husband, a retired state trooper, was now head of security at a discount department store. Anytime Elaine came home fuming at something Bartley had said or done, he silenced her with one word, “Quit.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe, Elaine. The proof is in the photos. You don’t think that magazine would have bought them if there was any doubt about what they show, do you?” The smirk was leaving Bartley’s face. “It is clear now that Zan picked up her own little boy and walked out of the park with him. It’s up to the police to find out what she did with him after that. But if you want my theory, I’ll give it to you.”
Bartley Longe pointed his finger at Elaine for emphasis. “When she worked here, how often did you hear Zan whine that she wished she had grown up in one home in the suburbs instead of moving from place to place because of her father’s job?” he demanded. “My theory is that all the sympathy she got after her parents’ death was over and she needed a new tragedy in her life.”
“That’s absolutely crazy,” Elaine said, heatedly. “Zan may have mentioned that she would have preferred not to have moved around all the time, but she said it in a general way when we were talking about our backgrounds. It certainly doesn’t mean she said it all the time to gain sympathy. And she was crazy about Matthew. What you’re insinuating is disgusting, Mr. Longe.”
Elaine realized that Bartley Longe’s cheeks were becoming flushed. Thou shall not contradict the boss, she thought. But how could he possibly suggest that Zan might have kidnapped Matthew to get sympathy?
“I forget how partial you were to my former assistant,” Bartley Longe snapped. “But I will bet you that, as we speak, Zan Moreland is hunting for a lawyer, and I can assure you that she’s going to need a good one.”
22
Kevin Wilson admitted to himself that it was almost impossible to concentrate on the drawings on his desk. He was looking at the landscaper’s sketches for the plantings in the lobby of 701 Carlton Place, as the new apartment complex would be called.
The name had been agreed upon only after a heated discussion with the directors of Jarrell International, the multibillion-dollar company that was financing the building. Several members of the board of directors had suggestions of names they thought would be more appropriate. Most of them were in the romantic or
would-be historical vein, Windsor Arms, Camelot Towers, Le Versailles, Stonehenge, even New Amsterdam Court.
Kevin had listened with increasing impatience. Finally it had been his turn. “What is considered to be the most exclusive address in New York?” he had asked.
Seven of the eight board members named the same address on Park Avenue.
“Exactly,” Kevin had told them. “My point is that we’ve got a very expensive building to fill. As we speak, there are many very expensive residential buildings in Manhattan under construction. I don’t have to remind you that this is a tough economy, or that it’s our job to make our pitch to potential buyers a very special one. Our location is spectacular. Our views of the Hudson River and of the city are spectacular. But I want us to be able to tell our prospective buyers that when the name 701 Carlton Place is mentioned, everyone hearing that address will know that the person giving it is lucky enough to be living in a privileged location.”
I guess I carried the day, he thought as he turned his chair from the table to the desk, shaking his head. Dear God, if Pop were around what would he think if he heard that spiel? His grandfather had been the superintendent of the building next door to where he and his parents had lived. The name, Lancelot Towers, had been carved in stone over the six-story walk-up with its dreary railroad flats, creaking dumbwaiters, and ancient plumbing, on Webster Avenue in the Bronx.
Pop would have thought I was crazy, Kevin acknowledged, and so would Dad, if he were still alive. Mom is used to my salesmanship pitch by now. After Dad died, when I finally got her to move to East Fifty-seventh Street, she said I could sell a dead horse to a mounted policeman. Now she loves Manhattan. I swear she falls asleep at night humming “New York, New York.”