“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.
THIRTEEN
Anne sits in the cool interview room and shivers. She is wearing jeans and only a thin T-shirt. The room is over-air-conditioned. The woman officer stands by the door, discreetly watching her. They told Anne that she’s here voluntarily, that she’s free to go at any time, but it feels like she’s a prisoner.
Anne wonders what is going on in the other room, where they’re interviewing Marco. It is a stratagem, to separate them. It makes her nervous and unsure of herself. The police obviously suspect them. They are going to try to set Anne and Marco against each other.
Anne needs to prepare herself for what’s coming, but she doesn’t know how.
She considers telling them that she wants to speak to a lawyer but fears that will make her look guilty. Her parents could afford to get her the best criminal lawyer in the city, but she’s afraid to ask them. What would they think if she asked them to get her a lawyer? And what about Marco? Do they each need a separate lawyer? It infuriates her, because she knows they did not harm their baby; the police are wasting their time. And meanwhile Cora is alone somewhere, terrified, abused, or— Anne feels like she’s going to be sick.
To stop herself from throwing up, she thinks instead about Marco. But then she sees it again in her mind, him kissing Cynthia, his hands on her body—the body that is so much more desirable than her own. She tells herself that he was drunk, that Cynthia probably came on to him, just like he said, rather than the other way around. She’d watched Cynthia come on to Marco all night. Still, Marco went out back with her for a cigarette. He was just as much to blame. They both denied they were having an affair, but she doesn’t know what to believe.
The door opens, making her jump in her seat. Detective Rasbach enters, followed by Detective Jennings.
“Where’s Marco?” Anne asks, her voice shaky.
“He’s waiting for you in the lobby,” Rasbach says, and smiles briefly. “We won’t be long,” he says gently. “Please relax.”
She smiles weakly back at him.
Rasbach points to a camera mounted near the ceiling. “We’ll be videotaping this interview.”
Anne glances at the camera, dismayed. “Do we have to do this on camera?” she asks. Then she looks nervously at the two detectives.
“We record all our interviews,” Rasbach tells her. “It’s to protect everyone concerned.”
Anne straightens her hair nervously, tries to sit up taller in her chair. The woman officer remains stationed at the door, as if they’re afraid she’ll make a run for it.
“Can I get you anything?” Rasbach asks. “Coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you.”
Rasbach says, “Okay, then, let’s get started. Please state your name and today’s date.” The detective leads her carefully through the events of the night the baby went missing. “When you saw that she wasn’t in the crib, what did you do?” Rasbach asks. His voice is kind, encouraging.
“I told you. I think I screamed. I threw up. Then I called 911.”
Rasbach nods. “What did your husband do?”
“He looked around the upstairs while I was calling 911.”
Rasbach looks more sharply at her, his eyes on hers. “How did he seem?”
“He seemed shocked, horrified, like me.”
“You found nothing out of place, nothing disturbed, other than that the baby was gone?”
“That’s right. We searched the house before the police arrived, but we didn’t notice anything. The only thing different or odd—other than that she wasn’t there and that her blanket was gone—was that the front door was open.”
“What did you think when you found the crib empty?”
“I thought someone had taken her,” Anne whispers, looking down at the table.
“You told us that you smashed the bathroom mirror after finding the baby gone, before the police arrived. Why did you smash the bathroom mirror?” Rasbach asks.
Anne takes a deep breath before answering. “I was angry. I was angry because we had left her at home alone. It was our fault.” Her voice is dry; her lower lip trembles. “Actually, could I have some water?” she asks, looking up.
“I’ll get it,” Jennings offers, and he leaves the room, soon returning with a bottle of water that he places on the table in front of Anne.
Gratefully, she twists off the cap and takes a drink.
Rasbach resumes his questioning. “You said you’d had some wine. You’re also on antidepressant medication, the effects of which are increased with the use of alcohol. Do you think your memories of what happened that night are reliable?”
“Yes.” Her voice is firm. The water seems to have revived her.
“You are certain of your version of events?” Rasbach asks.
“I’m certain,” she says.
“How do you explain the pink onesie that was found underneath the pad on the changing table?” Rasbach’s voice is not so gentle now.
Anne feels her composure deserting her. “I . . . I thought I put it in the hamper, but I was very tired. It must have gotten shoved under there somehow.”
“But you can’t explain how?”
Anne knows what he’s driving at. How much can he trust her version of events when she can’t explain something as simple as how the onesie, which she said she remembered putting into the laundry hamper, was underneath the pad on the changing table?
“No. I don’t know.” She begins to wring her hands in her lap beneath the table.
“Is there any possibility that you might have dropped the baby?”
“What?” Her eyes snap up to meet the detective’s. His eyes are unnerving; she feels they can see right through her.
“Is there any possibility that you might have accidentally dropped the baby, that she was harmed in some way?”
“No. Absolutely not. I would remember that.”
Rasbach is not so friendly now. He leans back in his chair and cocks his head at her, as if he doesn’t believe her. “Perhaps you dropped her earlier in the evening and she hit her head, or perhaps you shook her and when you came back to see her, she wasn’t breathing?”
“No! That didn’t happen,” Anne says desperately. “She was fine when I left her at midnight. She was fine when Marco checked her at twelve thirty.”
“You don’t actually know if she was fine when Marco checked on her at twelve thirty. You weren’t there, in the baby’s room. You only have your husband’s word for it,” Rasbach points out.
“He wouldn’t lie,” Anne says anxiously, continuing to wring her hands.
Rasbach lets silence fill the room. Then, leaning forward, he says, “How much do you trust your husband, Mrs. Conti?”
“I trust him. He wouldn’t lie about that.”
“No? What if he went to check on the baby and found she wasn’t breathing? What if he thought you had harmed her—hurt her by accident or held a pillow over her face? And he arranged for someone to take the body away because he was trying to protect you?”
“No! What are you saying? That I killed her? Is that what you really think?” She looks from Rasbach to Jennings to the woman officer at the door, then back at the detective.
“Your neighbor, Cynthia, says that when you returned to the party after you fed the baby at eleven, you looked like you’d been crying and that you’d washed your face.”
Anne colors. This is a detail she’d forgotten. She had cried. She’d fed Cora in her chair in the dark at eleven with tears running down her face. Because she was depressed, because she was fat and unattractive, because Cynthia was tempting her husband in a way that she could no longer tempt him, and she felt useless and hopeless and overwhelmed. Trust Cynthia to notice—and to tell the police.
“You are under the care of a psychiatrist, you said. A Dr. Lumsden?” Rasbach sits up straight now and picks up a file from the table. Opens it a
nd looks inside.
“I already told you about Dr. Lumsden,” Anne says, wondering what he’s looking at. “I am seeing her for mild postpartum depression, as you know. She prescribed an antidepressant that’s safe while breast-feeding. I have never thought about harming my child. I didn’t shake her or smother her or hurt her in any way. I didn’t drop her by accident either. I wasn’t that drunk. I was crying when I fed her because I was sad about being fat and unattractive, and Cynthia—who is supposed to be a friend—had been flirting with my husband all evening.” Anne draws strength from the anger she feels, remembering this. She sits up straighter and looks the detective in the eye. “Maybe you should become a little better informed about postpartum depression, Detective. Postpartum depression is not the same thing as postpartum psychosis. I am clearly not psychotic, Detective.”
“Fair enough,” Rasbach says. He pauses, puts down the file and asks, “Would you describe your marriage as a happy one?”
“Yes,” Anne says. “We have some issues, like most couples, but we work them out.”
“What kinds of issues?”
“Is this really relevant? How is this helping to find Cora?” She moves restlessly in her chair.
Detective Rasbach says, “We have every available person working on finding Cora. We are doing everything we can to find her.” Then he adds, “Maybe you can help us.”
She slumps, discouraged. “I don’t see how.”
“What sorts of issues come up in your marriage? Money? That’s a big one for most couples.”
“No,” Anne says tiredly. “We don’t fight about money. The only thing we ever fight about is my parents.”
“Your parents?”
“They don’t like one another, my parents and Marco. My parents never approved of him. They think he’s not good enough for me. But he is. He’s perfect for me. They can’t see any good in him because they don’t want to. That’s just the way they are. They never liked anyone I dated. No one was ever good enough. But they hate him because I fell in love with him and married him.”