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“No, no news on that front yet, I’m sorry to say.”
Nora felt tears come to her eyes. She wiped them away.
“Did you see anyone here today you didn’t know?”
She thought and then shook her head. “Just old friends of my parents. My boss, a few colleagues, that’s all.”
Richards nodded. “Well, we have found out a few things I’d like to tell you about.” He pointed to a concrete bench by the oak. “Let’s sit.”
Nora suddenly felt so exhausted she wondered if she could manage those few steps. She wished she could just curl up under that huge, leafy tree and go to sleep. And never wake up.
She sat on the hard bench. Richards sat, reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and lit it with a silver lighter.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
He gave her a half smile. “Goes with the job.”
She nodded. Yes, that’s all she wanted, small talk. If it wasn’t about Rose, then focusing on Anneke’s murder would require more energy than she could muster.
Richards took a deep drag and then exhaled. “We have something to tell finally. The perpetrator checked into a Motel 6 the day before the murder and never checked out. My men were able to get into his room.”
Nora felt some of her energy return. “Was there anything to help us find Rose?”
Richards put up a hand. “Hang on. Let me run through it all first. We found a passport.” He took out a small notepad and read from a worn page. “The fingerprints match those we took from the dead man. Dutch Immigration confirmed yesterday that his name was Wim Bakker, born in Amsterdam, address Westerstraat 453, fifty-seven years old.” He gave Nora a sharp look. “Have you ever heard that name?”
Nora shook her head. “But that doesn’t mean anything. My parents never talked about their life in Holland. All they told me was that they had family there, but that they were estranged and did not want to discuss their past. When I lived in Amsterdam, I tried to find them, but never did. The name ‘de Jong’ is very common in Holland.” She shrugged. “I suppose they could have known this Bakker before they came here, but how would I know?”
“You’re absolutely sure you’ve never heard of him?”
“Yes, of course.” Impatience rose in her. “Who was he? How did he know my mother? Do you have any idea why he killed her?”
Richards shrugged. “We asked the Dutch police to obtain a warrant to search his home, which they did yesterday. All they found was a bed and a few chairs. Looked like he hadn’t been there in a while.”
All she wanted now was to jump up from the bench and run—somewhere! It was maddening getting these useless bits of information in drips and drabs.
She stood and paced. “Are they going to find his family? He must have children, friends, maybe an employer. Someone will know why he did this and who was with him. And who took Rose!”
Richards flicked his cigarette on the ground and looked up at her. His eye twitched. Nora stopped. She remembered that twitching when he first saw her mother’s body on the floor. When she was hysterical about Rose and he tried to calm her down. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”
Richards avoided her eyes. “It looks like we’re at another dead end.”
“What do you mean?” She made him meet her eyes.
“We just got another call from Dutch Immigration,” he said quietly. “Apparently the ‘Wim Bakker’ whose information was on the passport is not the man who killed your mother.”
“But that doesn’t make sense!”
“The Dutch police have confirmed that Wim Bakker is a heroin dealer who was arrested when he went through Immigration in Amsterdam six months ago. He is now in prison.”
Nora shook her head several times. She needed the puzzle pieces to fit and they didn’t. “But how would this man who killed my mother get his hands on a fake passport?”
Richards stubbed his cigarette out on the grass and straightened. “Dutch Immigration says that because of Bakker’s incarceration, the killer could have gotten it anywhere. When a Dutch citizen is wanted for arrest, the typical protocol is for his passport number and photograph to be placed on a list for the Immigration agents to check in case the criminal tries to leave or enter the country. If the agent finds such a number on the list, they’re supposed to confiscate the passport and immediately alert airport security so the suspect can be taken into custody.”
“So why didn’t that happen?” Nora was furious. “Why was he permitted to go to Schiphol, waltz through Immigration, take a transatlantic flight and enter the U.S.?”
“Because he had an excellent forgery. He replaced his photograph with that of Wim Bakker, but he didn’t change the fingerprints.”
“But wasn’t the passport number the same?”
Richards shook his head. “One digit was altered.”
“How could that happen? Are they just idiots? People must try to get away with this all the time.”
“They told us that the forgery must have been done by a professional.”
“The black market?”
Again Richards shrugged. “They don’t know. Whoever did it had specific knowledge of the special papers and symbols used, the particular sequence of numbers and precisely what information was required.”
“Are the Dutch police going to figure this out?”
“It’s out of their jurisdiction. Immigration is in charge and they’re looking into it.”
Nora sat and felt her shoulders sag with hopelessness. “That’s the Dutch way of saying that they’ve done all they’re going to do.”
Richards stood. “I wish I had better news.”
Nora turned away, forcing herself not to cry. She heard her voice come out in a defeated whisper. “Me, too.”
They walked silently back to her car. Before Richards turned off the path toward his own vehicle, Nora grasped his arm. “What about prints? Did the crime investigators find any?”
Richards shook his head. “We have the killer’s prints, obviously.”
“No, no! I mean the kidnapper. He didn’t necessarily wear gloves, did he? Surely he touched something—the front doorknob, the furniture, maybe even Rose’s bassinet.”
“Well, if the killer wore gloves, we have to assume his accomplice did, too. Besides, we’ve dusted the entire place,” he said wearily. “We did find a few latents, but the FBI isn’t ready to say anything until they’ve run them through Quantico.”
“And when in hell will that be?”
Richards looked at her, surprised. “Soon, Nora. We’re pressuring them.”
Nora thought a moment. “What about footprints?”
“It appears that there was a struggle and movement on the staircase to your mother’s bedroom, and other footprints in the entryway and dining room.”
She looked up at him, feeling almost hopeful. “Maybe they were looking for something. Maybe that’s why they were all over the house?”
Richards shook his head. “We combed the house thoroughly taking prints, seeing if anything seemed to be disturbed. But other than the furniture that was in disarray, nothing else was tossed. When you confirmed that your mother’s jewelry and other valuables were still in the house, it might fit the profile of a robbery gone wrong. That might account for your mother’s murder, but it doesn’t explain the kidnapping. The last thing a robber caught red-handed would do is to take off with an infant.”
“Maybe they didn’t find what they were looking for and the struggle got out of hand before they could.”
“Who knows? It still doesn’t make sense that the accomplice didn’t steal something.”
“Except my child.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine that my mother would let Rose out of her sight or out of her arms, no matter what the struggle.” She looked up at Richards and finally let her tears fall. She was furious to feel so helpless.
Richards took Nora’s shaking hands into his own. They were warm, but Nora drew no comfort from them. He probably does this for every mother with a missing child, she thought. She withdrew and began pacing again. If she kept her feet moving, maybe something else would come to her. Something had to come to her.
“Once the FBI processes the prints we found in the house, we’ll send them on to the Netherlands. Maybe the killer had a record and they are on file. Maybe the partials we found—they must have belonged to the accomplice—will turn something up, as well.”
“You told me it was unlikely that latent prints would do us much good.”
“We’ll see.”
“‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’ That’s all I ever hear from you people.”
She stood and started to walk to her car. She flung a look back at Richards and spit out her next words. “I’m sick of this. No one is doing enough. You don’t have one damned lead about my daughter and she’s been gone for three days. I’m going to figure this out for myself.” She flung open the car door and started to climb in.
Richards held the door open. “Nora, wait!” His voice brooked no argument. “You can’t do that. You don’t have the resources to track this down and you’ll just do more harm than good.”
Nora yanked on the door, but he held it fast. “Let go,” she said in a menacing voice.
“Obviously, this isn’t the time for us to continue this conversation,” he said tersely. “We’ll discuss it later. But there’s one last thing you need to keep in mind. You have no choice right now but to stay at home.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you have to be there if the kidnapper calls.”
Nora got in and slammed the door closed. She felt a cold resolve as she rolled down the window and met his hard glance. “You know as well as I do that if that bastard wanted a ransom, he would have called days ago.” She refused to give way to tears. “I’m going to find my daughter. You tell your people to lead, follow or get the fuck out of my way.”
6
Late that evening, Nora sat in the living room with Marijke. Both were exhausted after the funeral and Richards’s discouraging news. The police were tapping her telephone, but no call had come from the kidnapper.
“I don’t think I can take any more today,” mumbled Nora.
Marijke poured Nora a glass of cold white wine and then one for herself. “Maybe we should try to sleep.”
Nora glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s only ten. I’m too wound up. How can I sleep when Rose is still out there?”
“Nora,” said Marijke softly. “You’ve been through so much today. The funeral, Rose, Richards...”
“I know, I know.” She joined Marijke on the couch and sipped her wine. Instead of calming her, it made her more anxious.
Marijke suppressed a yawn. “I think I might turn in.”
Nora noted the dark circles under her friend’s eyes. “You should. You’ve been shoring me up for three whole days.”
“I got a call from the nursing home. My mother isn’t doing well. After two strokes, I’m not sure how much longer she can hang on.”
“Oh, God, Marijke. I’ve been so selfish. How old is she now?”
“Eighty-five.” Marijke sighed. “I’ll have to go back soon.”
“Of course. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” No, she thought sadly. I won’t.
Nora stood and patted Marijke’s shoulder. “Go to bed and get some sleep. We’ll both feel better in the morning.”
Marijke yawned. “Don’t stay up too long.”
Nora summoned a smile. “I won’t.” After Marijke said good-night,, Nora paced for an hour, waiting for something. Someone. For Rose. Her wandering was useless, but she couldn’t face her empty bed and the nightmares she knew would come. She sat on the couch, staring at the Sony Walkman that Anneke had given Nora on her birthday, a wildly extravagant gift at two hundred dollars, the first gadget of its kind. Anneke had known how much Nora loved listening to music while she jogged at Memorial Park.
Nora stood and continued her pacing. As she passed the front window, a dark, official-looking Ford pulled up to the curb. A man got out and strode up the walkway. Nora looked through the peephole and opened the door before he could ring.
“Lieutenant?” Panic rose in her throat. “Have you found something?”
Richards shook his head. “Not yet.” He stood awkwardly on the doorstep. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” She stepped back and led him into the living room, avoiding the thick blue blanket she had spread over the bloody carpet. She couldn’t bear the sight of it.
When they sat, Nora turned to him. “I’m confused. Why are you here?”
He gave her a sheepish look. “I thought I’d drop by after you chewed me out this afternoon.”
Nora felt her color rise. “Oh...that. I was completely out of line.”
“No, I was thinking like a cop. I can’t imagine what you’re dealing with, even though I’ve seen so many parents go through it.”
“I owe you an apology.”
“No, no, I have a daughter, too. I can’t imagine how I would feel if the same thing happened to her.”
“Where is she now?”
“With her mother.” He loosened his tie and sighed. “Melissa’s autistic. It’s been a hard road.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” Nora felt terrible as she watched him stare at the floor. “How severe is it?”
He looked at her with pained eyes. “She’s nonverbal, has been since birth. Now she’s seven and things aren’t much better. She needs round-the-clock care. I couldn’t be there. My schedule.” He shrugged. “My wife couldn’t take it anymore and left.”
Nora didn’t know what to say. She held up a wineglass. “Red or white?”
He smiled. “Whatever you’re having.”
She waited for him to settle back and take a swallow. “I just realized I don’t even know your first name.”
“Nathan.”
She nodded. “Well, you didn’t have to come over so late just to apologize.”
“I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay,” he said. “But you’re right, it’s late. If you want me to go—”
Nora shook her head. “Oddly enough, I don’t. I’m terrified.”
“I hope you believe me when I say we’re doing everything we can.”
Nora felt a catch in her throat. “You don’t think you’ll find her, do you?”
“It’s way too early to think like that.”
“But how can I think about anything else? No witnesses. A murderer no one can identify. A kidnapper who hasn’t called for a ransom. My baby gone, maybe forever.” Her head fell into her hands.
She felt his arm around her shoulder. She shook her head and sobbed.
“Hey, it’s going to be all right.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose her,” she whispered. “She’s my whole life.”
“I know. We’ll find her, I promise. You should try to get some sleep.”
They sipped the rest of their wine in silence and then she stood and walked to the foyer. Richards followed. “I’m going to do everything I can to bring Rose back to you.”
Nora felt a rush of gratitude. “I know you will. And I want to thank you—for caring.”
She watched him walk to his car, get in and drive away.
7
Nora held a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. She had slept fitfully, alternately waking in a cold panic without knowing why until the terrifying realization washed over her that Rose was really gone, maybe hurt, maybe dead. Interlaced with those terrors were images of her mother, bloody and battered, begging Nora to help her.
She glanced at the clock, her vision blurred, as if her eyes were filled with sand. Eight o’clock. She sipped the hot coffee gratefully, hoping that it would give her the strength to make it through another day. She looked at Marijke, calmly knitting on the couch.
The phone rang. Nora went to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Nora? It’s John Bates.”
Oh, God. The hospital. Her job. “Hi, John.”
“Nora, how are you? I can’t believe it. Your mother, your daughter—it’s awful.”
“I know, I know. And I’m sorry, but I just don’t know when I’ll be back. I have five surgeries this week, but—”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already covered them for you.”
Relief swept through her. “Thank you, John. I know how shorthanded you are.”
“I’ve told Personnel you’re on a leave of absence for a while.”
“I pray I’ll have Rose back soon, but I can’t even think about work now.”
“It’s a terrible situation.” There was an awkward pause. “You know I’ll give you as much time as I can.”
“I understand.” Nora closed her eyes. He couldn’t promise to keep her job open. Residencies like the one she had were rare. There were scores of young doctors who would kill to take her place. “John, how long a leave do I have?”
“I’ve bought you two weeks so far.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Call me when you hear anything. We’re all thinking about you.”
“Please thank everyone for me. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”
“Of course.”
Nora hung up and stared across the room. She had completely forgotten about work. God, was it only a few days ago that she had operated on Rita? Nora’s eyes felt gritty and raw as tears welled up and coursed down her cheeks. She remembered her dismay when she diagnosed the three-year-old with a brain stem tumor. And although she would have preferred a less dangerous course of action, the magnitude of Rita’s tumor forced Nora to perform a surgery that might kill her. She’d had no choice but to go in and pray that she could sufficiently debulk the tumor and give Rita a fighting chance.
Nora could still feel the nausea that had gripped her when she had opened Rita’s tiny skull. The cancer had spread, its evil tendrils wrapped around the ganglia of the lower hemisphere of her cerebellum and had already crept through the opening to her spine. There was nothing she could do. Then, as Nora began to close, Rita’s frail heart simply stopped beating. In her mind’s eye, she saw the monitor flatline. Her stomach clenched. She would never get used to the dread of that long walk from the O.R. to the waiting area. The mother had rushed toward her, had taken one look at her eyes and wailed—a keening that filled Nora’s ears even now.
And what about Michael, a seven-year-old whose malignant brain tumor had returned? The brave little boy had made Nora promise that she would do his operation. Then there was Alana, a teenager, terrified by the blindness caused by a tumor pressing on her optic nerve. Nora dreaded letting them down. But if she didn’t have Rose, she didn’t care about her job, about anything.
Her coffee was now cold and she felt too tired to pour herself another cup.
Rose, Rose. Each day that passed without a sign or information of her abductor meant that the chance she’d be found decreased dramatically. Thinking that Rose might be one of those kids, sought for years and then lost for all time, made Nora desolate. “We can’t just sit here,” she said through clenched teeth.
“What else can we do?” Marijke asked. “We have to let the police here and in Holland do their jobs. I know you hate this, Nora, but we have to be patient.”
“I’m sick of waiting.” Nora stood and paced.
“Then let’s do something productive.”
Nora heard the very Dutch, let’s-get-on-with-it tenor in her voice. “What do you suggest?”
“Have you thought about whether you want to stay in this house when Rose comes back?”
Nora sank to the floor in her old jeans and T-shirt, surprised by her friend’s question. “I haven’t given it a moment’s thought.”
“What do you think you will do?”
“I never want to live here again. I couldn’t bear it.”
Marijke put down her knitting needles and stood. “So maybe we should just start packing things up? Wouldn’t that be more positive than just sitting here feeling trapped? Besides, I’ll have to go home soon and I don’t want you to have to do this alone.”
“God, Marijke, I’m so sorry. Of course, you have to go back. Is there more news about your mother? Is she worse?”
“She’s the same, but there’s also my job.” She poured herself another cup of coffee. “The director has subtly informed me that I must return soon. He knows I’m up for tenure, so I can’t risk disobeying him.”
“Damn. You told me you couldn’t stay much longer, but I didn’t want to think about it. It’ll be hell for me without you here.”
Marijke looked stricken and Nora forced a smile. “No, I’ll be fine. I always pull through. And I’ll let you know the moment I hear something.”
“Surely there must be someone you can call when I go?”
“Well, it’s embarrassing, but the answer is no.” Now she hesitated, avoiding Marijke’s gaze. “When I came back to the States, I was still broken-hearted about Nico.”
She hated hearing the sadness in her voice. Nora thought briefly of her two years in Amsterdam, the happiest of her life, and her fellowship with Dr. Jan Brugger, one of the world’s top researchers in brain cancer. It had been intense, thrilling, each day more fascinating than the next, and she somehow had become the superstar of his program, the reason that John Bates had contacted her to come work for him in Houston.
Nico. Falling in love with him, living together in perfect happiness. Until it all fell apart. She had so tried not to dwell on him and their tortured breakup, his refusal to move to Houston with no future for himself in America. Nora still felt a stabbing regret. She glanced at the silver ring of his she still wore, its tulip design delicate, lovely.
“Nora?”
Nora returned to the present. “I didn’t want to be around anyone except my mother. And she understood that I needed to be left alone until I could get my life back on track. Then just as I started meeting people, I found out that I was pregnant. What a shock! But so exhilarating. It eclipsed my life. I didn’t have time for anything else.”
She saw Marijke give her a sideways glance. “You’re still in love with him.”
Nora avoided her gaze. “No, I don’t think about him anymore.”
“Hmm,” murmured Marijke. Nora was relieved when she said no more about it.
She glanced at the silver-framed photograph on the coffee table. Rose’s newborn face was red and scowling, as if birth had not been the liberating experience it was cracked up to be. She stared out with her big eyes and fierce wisps of copper hair. Nora felt comforted. It made Rose look as if she had come into the world a fighter, a survivor. Like herself.
Marijke slipped her knitting into her bag. “So, if you’re not going to stay here, why don’t we start packing up boxes?”
“Not Rose’s room.”
“Sure. But we can work here and then tackle your mother’s bedroom.”
Nora was so deathly sick of waiting and of the adrenaline rushes that plagued her that Marijke’s words brought her a welcome sense of purpose. She stood and dusted off the seat of her jeans. “All right. You start here. I think I’ve got some empty boxes in the garage.”
“Fine.” Marijke stood.
“Wait a minute,” said Nora. “Do you suppose the killer and the kidnapper might have been looking for something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But the investigators said there seemed to be a struggle—footprints up and down the stairs.” She rubbed her chin, thinking. “What if killing my mother wasn’t the only thing they came for? And we still have no idea why they’d take Rose.”
“Nora, maybe you’re just grasping at straws.”
“But what can it hurt? We’re going to pack up all of this stuff, anyway—why not search for a clue?” Possibilities rushed through her mind. “Something my mother had that they needed? Something that could give us insight into why this nightmare happened?”
Nora thought she saw Marijke bite her lip. “We have to pack up everything, anyway, and if we do a thorough job, who knows what we’ll come up with?”
“There must be a link between my mother’s bizarre murder and that man on the floor. But what?” Her eyes now fixed upon Rose’s bassinet, a cruel reminder that pierced right through her.
Marijke returned to the couch and motioned for Nora to sit, but Nora remained standing, energized by her theory. “Look, the police searched the house, but how much time did they really spend looking? Their objective was physical evidence, not motive. And one guy said he could tell by the footprints that two people went upstairs. Maybe that’s what we should focus on.”