Bill Braverman.
She recognized him instantly from the online photos. He was slim, in a light gray sport jacket with jeans, but was too covered up to show the wiriness she’d seen online. Nor could she see his features clearly at this distance. She fake-read a menu posted in front of one of the restaurants, letting the crowd flow around her and waiting to see what the Bravermans would do. The crowd chattered away, and the sun vanished behind the palm trees, their spiked fronds waving. She glanced back at the Bravermans, and hidden by the crowd, edged closer to their table.
They were seated in the center of the outdoor dining area, and she got a good look at Bill’s face. He was handsome, with his spray of black bangs over dark round eyes and a nose that looked like an older version of Will’s. From time to time, he leaned back in his bistro chair, his cigarette smoldering between his fingers, and he spoke animatedly, laughing frequently.
Time to rock.
Ellen slipped her purse onto her shoulder, walked toward the maitre d’ of their restaurant, and asked, “Is there a ladies’ room inside?”
“In the back, to the right.”
“Thanks.” Ellen went inside the restaurant, and it smelled like Thai curry, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in ages. She found the ladies’ room, went inside, and slipped off her sunglasses. She headed into one of the stalls, closed the door, and went into her purse. On the bottom was a white plastic bag, her DNA kit.
She took it out and checked the contents. Directions she’d downloaded, two pairs of blue plastic gloves she’d had under the sink, and two brown paper bags, which she used to pack Will’s snack for school. She opened the directions and read them again, because she didn’t want to screw up:
Our paternity test is the most accurate in the country! We analyze your samples at our state-of-the-art laboratory, using a 16-marker DNA test! Be thorough and collect all samples possible! Results are ready in 3 business days, but can be expedited for a small RUSH charge!
Ellen skipped the blah blah blah, which she’d read online. There had been plenty of DNA-testing companies on the web, including the one she was using. Her research had taught her that there were two testing options: the first was a standard paternity kit, which was admissible in court and required collection of the DNA by a cheek, or bucal, swab. She didn’t need that one, and she doubted the Bravermans would offer up a sample. The second test was the one she was using, a nonstandard DNA test for paternity. Her gaze returned to the form:
For times when the bucal swab method just isn’t possible, simply obtain one of the following items, place it in a brown paper bag, store it at room temperature, and send it to us. Follow precautions below!
Ellen read the precautions:
Must wear gloves so as not to get your DNA on the sample. Store at room temperature and do not get the sample wet. Must be put in a paper bag, not plastic.
She scanned the list of permissible collection items, just to make sure she remembered it correctly:
No need for silly collection kits! You can get DNA from a licked envelope, chewed gum, a soda can or any kind of can, including beer, glass, toothbrush, semen, dried blood stains (including menstrual blood), a strand of hair with the follicle attached, or a cigarette butt!
Ellen folded the papers up and put them in her purse, then slipped the plastic gloves into her jeans pocket. She used the bathroom and left the stall, washing her face and freshening her makeup, which made her feel almost civilized, then took a last look at herself in the mirror, letting her eyes meet their reflection. She had her mother’s eyes, a fact that secretly made them both happy, as if it were confirmation of their closeness. Even now, looking at herself, she could still see her mother, within.
Follow your heart.
It was showtime.
Chapter Fifty-one
Ellen got a table in the outdoor dining area of the restaurant next door to the one with the Bravermans, with a clear view of their table. While the couple ate dinner, she checked her email on the BlackBerry, but there was nothing from Amy Martin. Then she’d called home and said good night to Will while she’d devoured a delicious seviche appetizer, a red-lacquered model boat of sushi, and a frothy cappuccino with almond biscotti.
She watched the Bravermans finish their coffee and share a tiramisu. Bill smoked a final cigarette, his third of the evening, but Carol didn’t smoke, so Ellen would have to take her glass to get a DNA sample from her. The couple had laughed and talked throughout the entire dinner, cementing their qualifications as a happily married couple.
Which doesn’t mean they’re better parents than me.
Bill signaled for the check, so Ellen did the same, catching her waiter’s eye. They paid at about the same time, and she rose right after the Bravermans, ready to swoop down on their table.
Now!
They left and threaded their way to the aisle, and Ellen made a beeline for their table. Suddenly a group of tourists shoved in front of her, blocking her way, and she didn’t reach the table until after the busboy had gathered the glasses.
Damn!
“Table no is clean,” the busboy said in an indeterminate accent, picking up the plates and setting them with a clatter in a large brown tub.
“I’ll just sit a minute.” Ellen plopped into Bill Braverman’s chair. “I only want dessert.”
“No is clean.” The busboy reached for the full ashtray, but Ellen grabbed it from his hands.
“Thanks.” She checked it for gum, in case Carol had chewed some, but it only contained three cigarette butts, all Bill’s. “I’ll need this. I smoke.”
The busboy walked away, but the maitre d’ was craning his neck and peering at the table, along with a foursome of hungry patrons. She had to act fast. Her heart pounded. She slid the gloves from her pocket and shoved her right hand in one. The maitre d’ was making his way over, with the foursome. She gathered the three cigarette butts from the ashtray, opened the paper bag under the table, tossed the butts inside, then closed it up and shoved it back into her purse.
“Miss, do you have a reservation?” the maitre d’ asked, reaching the table just as Ellen rose, shaking her head.
“Sorry, I was just resting a minute, thanks.” She headed out of the dining area to the sidewalk, crowded with dogs, skateboarders, Rollerbladers, and a tattooed man on a silver unicycle.
She melted into the crowd, exhilarated. Bill’s DNA sample was safe in her purse. She wondered if she could get Carol’s tonight, too.
One down, two to go.
Chapter Fifty-two
Ellen cruised around the block after Carol had pulled into her driveway, followed by Bill driving a gray Maserati. The sky was a rich marine blue, and the street silent, the fancy cars cooling for the night. Lights were on inside the houses, and high-def TVs flickered from behind the curtains.
She had a second wind, energized by her success with the cigarette butts, and was thinking of the other ways you could get DNA samples. Cans, glasses, licked envelopes.
Licked envelopes?
Ellen rounded the corner onto Surfside and eyed the Bravermans’ green cast-iron mailbox. It was at the end of their driveway, but the red flag wasn’t up, so there was no letter inside.
Rats.
She drove slowly past the house, reconnoitering. All the lights in the house were off, its modern oblong windows gone dark, and the only movement was the gentle whirring of its automatic sprinklers, watering the thick grass like so many mechanical whirligigs. Flowers bloomed at the foot of the HELP US FIND OUR SON sign, and the larger-than-life face of Timothy, or Will, floated ghostly in the dark.
Maybe not tonight.
Ellen was about to leave for the hotel when a light from the Bravermans’ first floor went on from on the far right. She slowed to a stop, just past the house. The window had no curtains, and she could see Bill walk through the room and seat himself at a desk, inclining forward. In the next minute, his profile came to life, illuminated by the light of a computer laptop.
&nbs
p; Ellen pulled the car over and parked on the opposite side of the street, then lowered the window, turned off the ignition, and watched Bill. She could see bookshelves and cabinets in the room, so she gathered that it was a home office. Bill spent a few more minutes on the computer, then got up and moved around the room, doing something she couldn’t see. In the next minute, the front door opened and he emerged, carrying a black trash bag.
Yikes!
She ducked in the front seat and watched in the outside mirror. Bill put the trash bag in a tall green trashcan and rolled it to the end of the driveway, then went back toward the house. She stayed low until she heard the front door slam, then she eased up in the seat, looking behind her. The light in the home office switched off, and the house went dark again.
Trash could contain DNA.
She scanned the street, front and back, but there was no one in sight. She slid off her clogs, opened the car door as quietly as possible, and jumped out, her heart pounding. She bolted for the trashcan, tore off the lid, plucked out two bags at warp speed, and dashed back to the car like a crazed Santa Claus.
She jumped in the car, threw the bags in the passenger seat, and hit the gas, then went around the block and ended up on the main drag, speeding to the causeway with her booty. She pulled over and cut the ignition, turned on the interior light, and grabbed one trash bag. She undid the drawstring and peeked inside, but it was too dark to see the contents. It didn’t smell like garbage, so she dumped it out onto the passenger seat, dismayed at the sight.
The trash was shredded, and it tumbled out like a ball of paper spaghetti. She pawed through it anyway to see if there was any item that could contain Carol’s DNA, but no dice. It was Bill’s home-office trash, strips of numbers, portfolio statements, and account statements. She remembered that Bill was an investor, so it made sense that he’d shred his trash. She never shredded anything, but her home office trash consisted of Toys“R”Us circulars.
She gathered up the trash, stuffed it back into the bag, and tossed it into the backseat. Then she reached over and grabbed the other bag, which was heavier. She yanked on the drawstring and opened the bag, releasing the yucky smell of fresh garbage. She held the open bag directly under the interior light and peeked inside. On top of the trash sat a heap of gray-blue shrimp shells that stank to high heaven, and she pushed them aside, going through wet coffee grounds, the chopped bottom of a head of Romaine, a Horchow catalog, and underneath that, a mother lode of mail. None of this would yield a DNA sample for Carol.
Bummer.
She pulled out the mail on the off-chance there was a sealed envelope. She flipped through it, but no luck. It was all unopened junk mail from Neiman Marcus, Versace, and Gucci, plus a glossy copy of Departures magazine. Stuck inside the magazine was a pink card from the dentist, a reminder that somebody had to get her teeth cleaned next month. She flipped the card over. The front read, Carol Charbonneau Braverman.
Ellen blinked. Charbonneau sounded familiar. She couldn’t place if she’d heard it or if she was imagining it, her exhaustion finally catching up with her. She rooted through the rest of the trash, but there was nothing yucky enough to contain Carol’s DNA. She tied the drawstring tightly, so it wouldn’t stink up the car, and hoisted the bag into the backseat with the other. She took off for the hotel and threw the trash in a Dumpster on the way.
But when she finally reached her hotel room, she checked her email.
Amy Martin hadn’t written yet, but her sister Cheryl had.
And her email brought the worst news imaginable.
Chapter Fifty-three
Ellen felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She sank slowly onto the quilted bedspread, staring at her glowing BlackBerry screen. The email from Cheryl had no subject line, and it read:
Dear Ellen,
I’m sorry to tell you that yesterday, we found out that Amy passed away. She died of a heroin overdose in her apartment in Brigantine on Saturday. Her wake will be Tuesday night, but there will be a private one for the family before her burial, on Wednesday at ten o’clock in Stoatesville, at the Cruzane Funeral Home. My mother says you can come to either time, and she would like to see you.
Sincerely, Cheryl
The thought overwhelmed her with sadness. Amy was too young to die, and so horribly, and Ellen thought of how Cheryl must be feeling, then Amy’s mother, Gerry, who had been so kind to her. Her thoughts came eventually to herself and Will. She had just lost her chance to learn anything from Amy.
Her gaze wandered over the blue-and-gold bedspread, the photographs on the wall, of nautilus and generic conch shells, and the balcony sliders. The glass looked out onto a bottomless Miami night, the same night that was falling at home. The sky was dark and black, no way to separate earth from heaven, and she felt undone, again. Loosed, untethered. She had a nagging fear, gnawing at the edges of her mind.
Quite a coincidence.
It seemed odd that Amy would turn up dead now, just when Ellen had begun asking questions about her. It seemed stranger still, considering the suicide of Karen Batz. Now, both women with knowledge of Will’s adoption were dead. The only one left alive was Amy’s boyfriend, and he was the one who looked like the kidnapper in the composite.
Not just a kidnapper. A murderer.
Ellen started to make connections, but even she knew she was entering the wild-speculation realm. There were innocent explanations for everything, and she flipped it. Amy had lived a fast life. Heroin addicts overdosed all the time. Lawyers committed suicide. Not everything was suspicious.
God help me.
Ellen willed herself to stop thinking, because she was making herself crazy. This had been the longest day in her life. She had one DNA sample, which was one more than she thought she’d get the first day. Her job was in jeopardy, as was her love life, but that was back home, which seemed suddenly very far away. Another world, even. She flopped backwards on the bed, and exhaustion swept over her, mooting even her darkest fears.
In the next minute, she fell into a terrible sleep.
Chapter Fifty-four
The next morning, Ellen parked her car in the same spot on the main drag, perpendicular to Surfside Lane. It was another hot, tropical day, but she was dressed for it today. She’d stopped at the hotel’s overpriced gift shop and bought a pink visor, a pair of silver Oakley knockoffs, and a chrome yellow T-shirt that read SOUTH BEACH, which she’d paired with white shorts from home. Inside her pockets were a plastic glove and a folded brown paper bag.
She took a slug from a bottle of orange juice, still cold from the minibar. She felt weighed down by the news of Amy Martin’s death and couldn’t shake the fear that the overdose wasn’t accidental. She put aside her dark thoughts to tend to the task at hand, especially because she wanted to get back home in time for the funeral.
She set the bottle in the cup holder and scoped out the scene, which was quiet except for people exercising. Two older women power-walked around the block, carrying water bottles and yammering away, and a younger woman was running in a sports bra with a black bathing suit bottom. Yet a fourth woman walked her white toy poodle, her cell phone and pedometer clipped to her waist like so much suburban ammunition.
Ellen was trying a new tack, so she got out of the car, pocketed her keys, and started walking. She strolled ahead with purpose, scanning the houses on either side of the street. No one had any red flags up on their mailboxes, and she wondered what time the mail would be picked up. She hoped Carol would mail a letter, so she could get DNA from the envelope.
She picked up the pace, gaining on the two older women who motored ahead in their sneakers. They wore Bermuda shorts in pastel colors and patterned tank tops, and even at seventysomething, looked in terrific shape. Each had short silver hair, but the woman on the left wore a yellow terry-cloth visor, and the one on the right had a white baseball cap. Ellen fell into stride with them before the Bravermans’ house.
“Excuse me, ladies,” she began, and they both tu
rned around. “Do you know what time the mail pickup is in this neighborhood? I’m house-sitting on Brightside Lane for my cousins, and I forgot to ask them before they left this morning.”
“Oh, who are your cousins?” Yellow Visor asked pleasantly.
“The Vaughns,” Ellen answered without hesitation. Earlier this morning, she had driven down Brightside, about eight blocks away, and picked a name from one of the mailboxes. “June and Tom Vaughn, do you know them?”
“No, sorry. Brightside’s a little too far over.” Yellow Visor cocked her head, eyeing Ellen with confusion. “So why are you walking here and not there?”
Uh. “There’s a big dog on that street, and I’m afraid of dogs.”
“I agree with you. We’re cat people.” Yellow Visor nodded. “Mail gets picked up around eleven o’clock in the morning. I’m Phyllis, and you’re welcome to walk with us, if you’re all alone.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Ellen hoped to pump them for information until Carol mailed a letter or her DNA otherwise fell out of the sky.
“Good, we like new faces. We’ve been walking every day, two miles for the past six years, and we’re sick of each other.” Phyllis laughed, and her friend in the baseball cap nudged her.
“Speak for yourself, Phyl. You’re not sick of me, I’m sick of you.” She looked at Ellen with a warm smile. “I’m Linda DiMarco. And you?”
“Sandy Claus,” Ellen answered, off the top of her head. They approached the Bravermans, where Carol’s car was in the driveway, but Bill’s was gone. She gestured casually to the memorial on the lawn. “What’s that sign all about, do you know? And all these yellow ribbons?”
“Oh my, yes,” Phyllis answered. A petite woman, she had bright eyes, a hawkish nose, and deep laugh lines that bracketed thin lips. “Their baby was kidnapped several years ago and they never got him back. Can you imagine, losing a child like that?”