The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(5)
That kind of bickering doesn’t hold up to a neighborhood-wide tragedy.
Eddison’s tan duster flaps as his long legs carry him ahead of the rest of us to the Mercers’ porch. He stops just short of introducing himself to the captain, looking back at Watts.
She just gives him a slight smile as she passes him, letting it go. He’s been the leader of our team for four years; he’s used to being the first contact. “Captain Scott,” Watts greets the man standing on the steps, credentials folder already open in her hand. Her tidy, grey-streaked hair bobs around her face with her nod. “SSAIC Kathleen Watts.” She introduces us each in turn.
“Frederick Scott,” the captain replies, returning the nod. “I’d say welcome, but let’s not pretend.” He glances at me and almost manages to hide his flinch.
“I won’t be dealing directly with the Mercers at this time,” I tell him.
“That come up often?”
“Often enough.”
“Nelson! Murdock!” Two cops near the end of the driveway turn at the captain’s yell. “Stick with these agents. Give ’em what they need. Agent Watts, I’ll introduce you to the parents. Detective McAlister is with them; she’ll be your point inside.”
“Ramirez,” says Watts.
Hurrying up the steps after Watts, Ramirez tosses me the small nylon tote she took from the trunk and follows the captain inside. Eddison remains to talk to the captain, while the rest of Watts’s team scatter to their own assignments.
Nelson and Murdock are both youngish, probably mid-to late twenties, and have been cops too long to think the FBI coming in is a dick-measuring contest, but not long enough to be disgruntled over past partnerships and territory. It’s a surprisingly narrow window, but I get it. Different branches of law enforcement want to be able to work together well; it just doesn’t always happen.
Murdock has glasses sliding down a long, narrow nose, and that’s about as much of a distinguishing feature as we get with these two at first glance. Kearney introduces us, and they start to offer their hands to shake, then question themselves—probably because we’re women—and end up in a sort of awkward half wave in the space between us.
I’m leaning more toward midtwenties after that.
“Which neighbor does she normally walk home with?” I ask them.
“That one,” Nelson answers, pointing directly across the street. “Rebecca Copernik. Parents are Eli and Miriam, brother is Daniel. Whole family’s home today.”
We start walking across the street, and after a moment’s hesitation, the officers follow us like startled puppies. Kearney knocks on the door. I’ve been on the team longer, but she has more experience as an agent. We’re not rigidly bound by seniority, but in moments of crisis the expectation reassures people, tells them the chain of command and who they can go to.
Eli Copernik opens the door, looking exhausted. Either he’s a generally rumpled sort of person or he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He leans heavily against the doorway, his fingers rubbing against the blue-and-gold mezuzah on the frame.
Kearney introduces us again, less briskly than she did with the officers. Eli nods slowly and lets us in. The officers dither a bit and decide to stay on the porch for now, in case their captain yells for them. Or at them. It’s hard to know where their specific concern is on that.
“I know Rebecca came home sick from school yesterday,” I begin once the strained pleasantries are done. “I know she’s been through a lot in the past day, but do you think she’d be up for a few questions?”
“My wife is up with her now,” he says instead of yes or no.
Kearney meets my eyes, then glances up the stairs. As she settles into the living room with Eli and Daniel—a gangly boy who looks like the kind of fourteen that can almost double in height over a few months—I head up. Rebecca’s door isn’t hard to find; there’s a messily painted wooden sign in the shape of a rainbow. The clouds the arc ends in are covered in glittering unicorn stickers layered over each other. I knock softly in case she’s sleeping.
Miriam opens the door, and if anything, she actually looks more exhausted than her husband. “Oh, God,” she groans. “No, wait, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Copernik. It’s the situation. I don’t take it personally.” I don’t smile—it wouldn’t be appropriate—but I do give a friendly nod. “My name is Eliza Sterling, and I’m with the FBI. I’d like to talk to Rebecca, if you think she’s up for it.”
“She’s got a sinus infection. The doctor gave us antibiotics for her yesterday, but . . .”
“I understand. If it’s okay, you can stay right here with us, and the second you think it’s too much, we’ll stop.”
She looks at the gold Magen David on the thin chain around my neck, her hand rising to brush her fingers against the nearly identical pendant over her shirt. “All right.”
Rebecca looks miserable, mostly pale with a splotchy, feverish sort of flush. There’s some swelling across the middle of her face, but it’s hard to tell how much of that is sinus pressure and how much of it is the amount she’s probably been crying. Her mother sits next to her on the far side of the narrow bed and picks up a glass of orange juice with a straw sticking out of it.