Authors: Joanne DeMaio
“Calm down, George, and just think about it. If you talk, A—the feds will never believe you weren’t in on it. So you’ll do time because any participation is guilt. And B—Reid won’t stand for it.”
“Those two are a piece of work. You trust them with all this?”
“Reid? And Elliott? They got what they wanted. They’re happy. Now we just have to keep it that way, understand? And you’re the only one the cops are going to tap into, so you’re better off unaware of the details.”
“What about Amy? They’ll talk to her, too.”
“She doesn’t know shit.” Nate pulls his sandwich from the microwave and sets it on the island. “All she wanted was her baby back, and we did that.”
“You did more than that. She can barely leave the house now on account of the flashbacks she’s been having.”
“Flashbacks? Now how would you know that?” He lifts the top off his steaming sandwich roll. “And give me your ketchup.”
“I was there for dinner. She had me over to thank me for getting her daughter back to her.”
“No shit.”
George hands him the ketchup bottle from the fridge, then empties the rest of his coffee down the sink and checks his watch. “You staying here?”
“For a couple hours. I’ve got to fix that crazing.” Nate eyes George’s outfit, jeans and an old college tee. “You going in to work looking like that?”
“I’m actually stopping by Amy’s house on the way.”
“Again? For what?”
“I’m doing her a favor, helping out with something in the yard.” From over a chair, he lifts a hanger holding black trousers topped with a white button-down shirt. “I’ll change when I get to work.”
“Jesus. All dressed up to cut meat,” Nate says around a mouthful of egg sandwich. “Just like the old man. Always worried about your image.”
“Don’t even start about Dad, okay?”
“Fine. But it’s not a good idea, George, seeing that woman. You’ll slip up. I hope this isn’t going to be a regular thing with you two now.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. What’s it to you?”
“You’ve got to leave her alone before she figures out you were there that day, somehow. Or her kid will. Just get back to your old life. I thought I told you that already.”
“Do me a favor, will you? Quit thinking about me.”
* * *
From the dark cloud that descended on Amy’s life, the silver lining starts to emerge. It is the good that comes with the bad. The good is George stopping by to hang the tire swing on his way to work. The good is in Grace’s bright smile as Amy pushes the swing gently beneath the shade of the tall maple tree. The good is in knowing she can swing her daughter every single day of the summer now, morning, noon and night, gently swaying her in the warm air, serenaded by robins and chickadees.
“I’m so glad you called yesterday. Grace loves the swing.”
“Well when you didn’t return my call, I worried.”
“I don’t know what happened to those messages while I was at my parents’. I guess that answering machine is so old, I really need a new one.” Tiny yellow wildflowers spread through cracks in the old patio stones beside the maple tree. Red geraniums, vinca vines and spikes spill from two stone urns. George sits in an Adirondack chair there, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “So thanks for checking up on us. I appreciate that.” She gives the tire swing a very slow spin.
“I’m glad. Because if seeing me brings back too many memories from that day, I’d understand.”
“You don’t bring any bad memories. You’re the good in all this, George. We like having you visit.”
George stands and pulls his keys from his pocket. “Well that’s nice to hear.”
Amy glances over at him. “I know that Grace and I aren’t the easiest people to be with right now. We’ve got some issues going on, trust issues really. Especially in public places.”
“I can understand why. But you trust me?”
“Yes, yes I do.” She gives Grace another gentle push.
“Okay then.” He looks at his watch. “I’ve got to get to the shop.” He backs up a few steps toward his pickup truck, watching her. “Listen, there’s a fair on The Green next weekend. It’s nothing much, just pony rides, food booths, that sort of thing. Maybe you’d feel better about being out in public if you weren’t alone. What do you think?”
“The Strawberry Festival? I thought about taking Grace to get her out a little.”
“How about if I bring the two of you? For a couple hours? We’ll make it an afternoon.”
Amy hesitates. She looks out to the street, seeing the old stone wall running along the yards, the distant farm with rows of young corn plants lining its fields. It’s so easy to not venture out, to stay right here. But still. “If things go well all week with Grace, then okay, that sounds nice. Maybe a fair would help her.”
“All right then,” George says, jangling his keys in his hand. “I’ll call you later in the week to see if we’re still on.” He reaches for Grace on the swing and gives her foot a shake. “And to see if someone would like to ride a pony there.”
Amy smiles. “And thanks again for the swing,” she calls after him as he heads to his truck. He waves back at them, and Amy thinks it’s more than a swing he’s given her. It’s a summer with her daughter, in the shade of an old tree.
* * *
When Detective Hayes calls later that morning wanting to stop by with further questions, Amy’s long easy summer seems out of reach once again.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee, Detective?” she asks when he arrives.
“No, thanks. This won’t take long.” He sets a briefcase on her kitchen table, unsnaps two clips and opens the top. Papers and file folders are neatly stacked inside. He lifts out a pen and notepad. “I understand your reluctance to go out, so I hope you don’t mind my stopping by. It’s just that I like to check in to see how things are going.”
“It hasn’t been easy, that’s for sure.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t, but time is critical and I do have a few questions, especially about Grace. Have you gotten any details from her at all?”
Amy sits down and crosses her hands on the blue table. “Nothing,” she answers. “I’ve tried a few times, but she just clams up.”
Detective Hayes snaps the case closed. He sets it on the floor and flips open his pad to a blank page. “That’s understandable, she went through a lot. How about yourself? Any new details come to mind since we last talked?”
“No. Nothing of significance, anyway.”
“Stop right there, Amy. Everything is significant. Every detail. The more we know, the better picture we get of the perpetrators. One random characteristic can tie everything together so it all makes sense. A tone of voice or accent, a brand of shoe, any little thing.”
Amy watches him waiting, pen poised over his notebook. She stands and opens a kitchen drawer to retrieve her sketch pad. There’s a moment of uncertainty when it feels as though the pad is her own diary, personal and difficult to relinquish. But she sets it on the table, nodding at him to open it. “I’ve been under a doctor’s care,” she begins. The detective studies her first handgun sketch. “I have flashbacks.”
Hayes looks up at her. “A flashback can be just as good as a photograph.” He lifts the page to the next picture, a second angle of the same gun.
“Dr. Berg advised me to keep a pad and put down, either in words or pictures, any new images that I saw.” She sees the next sketch in the pad, one of Grace’s upper body with a man’s arm wrapped around it, his large watch visible. “He thought it might help me process the day. And that something might help the investigation.”
“What is this?” Hayes asks when he sees the picture she drew just this morning, right after George left. It shows a man’s hand covering hers, both hands slightly cupped.
Amy sits and slides her chair close to point out the details. “It’s a hand of one of the gunmen. Remember I said there was a struggle for my daughter’s shoe?”
“Yes.”
“This image really bothers me. I guess it’s because I was so near to him.” The pencil sketch shows their hands atop the shoe. “We were inches apart,” she explains. “I saw everything so close, I felt his grip, I heard his breath. And his hand, it was warm. That surprised me, that feeling.” Finally she shakes her head in frustration and pulls the sketch pad closer. “There’s something more, I
know
there is. And I’m not seeing it.”
“But you got the shoe back?”
“Not until later. This was the man whose gun I witnessed up close. When we struggled for the shoe and I looked up at his face beneath that hosiery, I flinched. That’s when he took the shoe and backed off.”
“He took the shoe? What did he do with it?”
“I guess he put it on Grace’s foot. When I got her back that night, she had on both her shoes.”
“In your picture, he isn’t wearing any gloves.”
“No. No, he didn’t have gloves on.”
“That shoe should have been checked for prints.”
“It wasn’t. Grace had it on, and now I have it here, in her room.”
“For Christ’s sake. It’s probably no good to us now, but can I see it?”
And just like that, suddenly, there’s a new sliver of hope. Just a sliver, she feels it. A mountain. An ocean. A fingerprint. That might be all it takes to put an end to this. “That night of the kidnapping, I put her things in the closet and haven’t touched them since. Her jeans, shirt, everything.”
“Do you have a bag? A plastic bag, maybe?”
She retrieves a brown lunch bag from a drawer near the refrigerator. “How’s this?”
“That’ll work fine.”
Upstairs, she points out the pink and white saddle shoes sitting on the top shelf of Grace’s closet. Holding them by only the shoelace, Detective Hayes picks them up, one at a time, and drops them in the bag.
“I know it’s difficult for you to go out still, but I’ll need you to stop in at the station to be fingerprinted.”
“Me?”
“Yes. These will be dusted and if we get clear prints, I’ll need to differentiate yours from any others.”
“All right, I can stop in. Do you think the kidnapper’s prints can be deciphered too?”
“I don’t know, Amy. At this point, I just don’t know what we’ll find.”
The detective steps to the window and looks out to the yard where Celia is pushing Grace in her new swing and Amy can’t help but wonder, while watching the small child, if he feels that ocean, too. That mountain. Hoping with one single set of fingerprints to end this, finding that same thrill as when the swing flies so high, it feels as though your feet will touch the sky.
* * *
There’s something about that voice, that swagger in it, that gets his customers smiling, or tapping a foot as they consider the meat cases. Arranging a tray of boneless center cut pork chops in the display case, George hears only that, Sinatra’s voice on the stereo system. But then another voice comes through, louder than Frank’s.
“Mr. Carbone?”
He straightens and wipes his hands on his black apron. “What can I do for you?”
“Detective Hayes, Addison Police.” Hayes shows his identification. “Do you have a few minutes?”
His brother was right. The leads must’ve run cold and they’re back for more questions.
“Sure.” George motions to a small office near the back workroom, turning down the music on his way there. A wooden desk, two file cabinets, an extra mismatched chair and a large bulletin board fill the space. “Have a seat, Detective. How can I help you?” George leans up against the desk front, his arms folded in front of him. Years of playing poker count for something. Though he feels a nagging prickle of perspiration, he wears his poker face. Reveal nothing, show nothing.
Detective Hayes lifts a briefcase to his lap. “Well, Mr. Carbone.”
“George. Call me George.”
“Okay, George.” He glances over his shoulder. “What a business you run. Been here long?”
“Just over ten years. Took it over from my father.”
“Nice place, definitely. Food looks great.” Hayes opens his briefcase. “So listen, I like to check in with my witnesses periodically and see how they’re doing. If anything new has come to mind.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“All right then.” Hayes pulls his notepad from the briefcase and jots down a few lines of information. “There’s something I wanted to verify with you, Mr. Carbone. George.”
“Shoot.”
“When the Trewist girl was given to you at the market, you didn’t notice any weapons in the kidnappers’ possession. Is that right?”
“Yes it is. It was kind of dark out, though.”
“But you were called over to a car. And the girl, Grace, was put in the parking lot from the back seat of that car?”
“Correct.”
“And when that happened, the car’s door must have been open.”
“It was.”
“So the car’s interior light would have come on, with the door open.”
George pauses, watching the detective. Nate is right again. His best defense is ignorance. “It may or may not have been illuminated. I really don’t remember.”
“Nothing comes to mind? An interior seat color? A person’s hair as they set the girl out? A fabric of clothing, a sleeve maybe?”
George knows damn well exactly who sat in the car, what they were wearing, what they looked like. He also knows damn well that he can straight-up confess right here, right now. He considers the detective waiting, pen poised. “No. Nothing,” he answers. “Do you have a suspect in mind?”
“Just doing a little fishing.” Hayes makes a note in the pad. “How about on the car seats? Maybe they got careless and left a nine-millimeter in view? You wouldn’t have noticed anything by any chance, papers, a weapon, a cell phone in the dim light?”
George lets out a low whistle while his heart pounds in his chest. “Oh you’re wrong there. Weapons I would have noticed.”
“Seems they covered their bases pretty well.”
George shrugs. “People make mistakes. You’ve got to follow through, I guess.”
“Anything else you might recall in that low light?”
“No, nothing more than I’ve already reported.”
The detective flips his notepad closed and sets it in the briefcase. “You okay?” he asks when he looks over at George.
“Yeah. Why?” George asks, shifting his position.
“You must handle a lot of raw meat in here.” Hayes tips back his chair and looks out at the work area behind him. Meat grinders and a bone saw are readily visible on a long countertop. “You’ve got the air temperature pretty low.”