Little Deaths(13)

He asked, “Anything happen yet?”

Anders shrugged. “It’s just a kid who wandered off. No big deal.”

His voice was clipped. Bored. He looked Pete up and down. “Why? You expecting something more interesting?”

Pete felt his face flush and looked away, pretending to fiddle with his camera. He turned away from Anders, snapped two or three pictures of the building, then approached the nearest group of women. They noticed the notebook and then the camera, and their hands went to their hair; they began smoothing, primping.

He pasted a smile onto his face and stepped forward.

“Good morning, ladies. I’m Peter Wonicke from the Herald. I’m here because my editor’s very concerned about the missing child. I wonder if any of you can tell me . . .”

“Children.”

She wasn’t looking at him, but he knew she was the one who had spoken. Stocky legs, wide hips, a tight print dress, and house slippers. Brassy blond hair scraped up to hide the roots. A round face, heavy on the rouge. No wedding ring. She was smoking and watching the cop flick through his notebook.

“Excuse me, Miss . . . ?”

“Eissen. Gina Eissen.” She turned toward him. “Double S.”

She blew a plume of smoke into the space between them. “You said ‘child.’ There are two children missing. Frankie and Cindy Malone.”

She looked at him now and under her stare, he felt his inexperience like a thick wool coat. His skin prickled and his armpits were damp.

He noticed a girl hovering nervously on the edges of the group. Maybe fourteen, fifteen. Then another woman stepped forward. Tall, with piled curls and a long nose, she wore a pale blue cardigan draped loosely around her shoulders, a white handbag over her arm. She held out a manicured hand.

“Maria Burke. What did you say your name was?”

“Wonicke. Peter Wonicke from the Herald.”

“I see. Well, it’s very nice that your newspaper has sent someone out to cover this, Mr. Wonicke, and I’m glad you’re at least wearing a tie, unlike that other reporter—but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.”

She was looking at his face, but her eyes didn’t meet his.

“Ma’am?”

“The Malone children aren’t missing. Mrs. Malone is sometimes a little . . . distracted, and they’ve just gotten out somehow when her back was turned. That’s all. There’s no story here. Children don’t go missing in this neighborhood.”

This he could deal with.

“Did you say Malone, Mrs. Burke?”

“I did.”

“And how old are the children?”

He got the full names and ages of the kids and the parents, how long they had lived on the street, and Mrs. Burke’s opinions on everything from Mrs. Malone’s clothes to the Herald’s coverage of the last presidential election to the slackness of municipal officials in Queens. He even took a picture of the women. All the time he was aware of the girl nearby. Finally she stepped forward and looked at Maria Burke.

“Uh . . . Mom?”

Mrs. Burke was in the middle of a tirade about garbage collection and scarcely paused for breath.

“Not now, dear. Mommy’s busy.”

“Mom, I have to . . .”

“Sally, I’ve told you before. It’s rude to interrupt adults when they’re having a conversation.”

“But it’s about Frankie and Cindy.”

That got all of their attention.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just . . .” She was twisting her hands, looking from Mrs. Burke to Gina Eissen to Pete. “I don’t know what to do. I tried to tell the policeman and he said he was busy too.”

“Tell him what, dear?”

“The stroller over there?” They all looked. It was a sturdy baby carriage with a box on top, standing a couple of feet from a window that was open to seventy-five degrees. Pete raised his camera, got off a couple of shots.

“What about it?”

“Last night, it was way over past Mrs. Rossi’s building. It’s been moved.”

She looked at Pete. “The open window? That’s their bedroom. That’s Frankie and Cindy’s bedroom.”

Mrs. Burke still looked impatient. “And?”

“Well, I just thought . . . maybe someone moved the baby carriage to . . . you know, to get them out that way. Or maybe they used it to climb out by themselves.”

“Sally, don’t be ridiculous. Two small children couldn’t move that great thing on their own—they could hardly reach the handle. Stop trying to draw attention to yourself, dear, and let the policemen do their job.”

Pete felt Gina Eissen’s eyes on him and turned his head to meet them.

“What do you think, Miss Eissen? What do you think happened to the children?”

No hesitation. “Someone took them.”

There was a gasp from a small, dark woman who had been silent until then. She turned to face them, her olive skin flushed. “Don’t say that, Gina! Don’t you say it!”

Gina dropped her cigarette and ground it out with her toe, slowly, deliberately.

“Why not? He asked me what I thought.”

She looked directly at Pete.

“Ruth Malone wouldn’t let those kids out of her sight, Mr. Wonicke. They’re everything to her. She isn’t distracted”—a venomous look at the pursed mouth of Mrs. Burke—“she’s busy. She works long hours and she’s bringing the kids up by herself. She’s busy and she’s tired, but she’d know if they wandered away. Someone took ’em. You’ll see.”