The Perfect Mother(49)

“I can probably scare up some decaf if you’d like.”

“Then yes,” she says. “Thank you.”

He partially closes the door behind him, and she takes in his office. Mark Allen Hoyt. Born in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Grandson and son of cops. Six years with the US Marine Corps. Graduate of the New York City Police Academy. She found his biography online, posted as part of a talk he gave at a Staten Island high school career fair last year. She leans over his desk, examining the stack of folders, assuming they deal with Midas. He can’t possibly be working on another case. She timidly reaches across the desk as the door swings open behind her. She snatches back her hand, knocking a coffee cup with her elbow, its contents spilling onto her shins and sandals and the stained carpet below.

It’s Stephen Schwartz. “I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching into the diaper bag for wet wipes. “I’ll clean this up. I didn’t mean to—”

“Come with me.”

His tone is unfriendly, stern even, which annoys her. Perhaps she shouldn’t be snooping around Detective Hoyt’s desk, spilling his disgusting, moldy coffee, but Schwartz should be happy to see her. As far as he knows, she may have valuable information to help the investigation, something to assist in actually solving the case and finding Midas alive. But there’s not a hint of gratitude in Schwartz’s voice as he gestures down the hall. “Leave it. I’ll have someone take care of it.”

“But Detective Hoyt is on his way back. He’s getting me coffee.”

Schwartz waves his hand. “Come with me.”

She follows him, relieved Will shows no sign of waking. The formula she’s been feeding him has really helped his sleep, and she’s hopeful the eight ounces he hungrily drank on a bench outside the police station will keep him down for at least another hour.

Schwartz opens a door at the end of the hall. It’s frigid inside and stark, the fluorescent light yellowing the plain white table and four metal folding chairs. Francie catches her reflection in the glass wall opposite her—the growing plane of gray at her roots, her protruding belly—and looks away. Hoyt is sitting in one of the chairs, his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He points to a chair and slides a Styrofoam cup of coffee toward her.

“Have a seat.”

“I’m going to keep standing, if that’s okay. The baby doesn’t really tolerate stillness.” Francie picks up the cup, feeling nervous. “A lot of babies don’t.” She takes a sip of the coffee. It’s lukewarm and bitter, swimming with coffee grounds; she resists the urge to spit it back into the cup. Schwartz closes the door and leans against it. “So, Mary Frances Givens. What gives us the pleasure of seeing you this morning?”

She sets the coffee on the table and resumes bouncing Will. “I’d like an update on the investigation.”

Hoyt raises his eyebrows. “You’d like an update?”

“Yes. It’s been six days since Midas was abducted. I’d like to know where things stand.” She fights to keep the apprehension from her voice. “I’d like to know why you haven’t found this baby.”

Schwartz glances at Hoyt. “Well, you should have told us that sooner,” Schwartz says. He pulls back an empty chair, sits down, and draws a small notebook and pencil from his chest pocket. He licks the pencil’s tip, his face a study of concern. “Can I have your e-mail address?”

“My e-mail address?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I want to send you the full report. And updates as they come in.”

“Text is much more efficient,” Hoyt says. “You might want to get her cell.”

“Good idea.” Schwartz’s pencil is poised above the paper, his enormous eyebrows raised expectantly. “What’s your cell?”

“You’re being funny.”

Schwartz snickers and tosses the pencil onto the table. “Yes,” he says. “I guess you might say I’m being funny.”

She feels her face flushing with anger. “Well, can you at least tell me what’s happening with Bodhi Mogaro? Are you going to charge him? Or is it true about the mix-up with that surgeon?”

“Francie,” Hoyt says. “You know we can’t comment on an active investigation.” He takes a sip of his coffee, watching her. “Is this why you came today? To see what we know?”

“Yes. Well . . . I’ve also been thinking about some things. Things you might want to be aware of.” She keeps her eyes on Hoyt. Unlike Schwartz, he wears a wedding band. Maybe he has children himself. “There’s a guy who lives a few blocks from Winnie.”

“Okay,” Hoyt says.

“A registered sex offender.”

She’s right. Hoyt is sympathetic. Something in his face softens when she says this, and he leans forward on his elbows. “Francie, do yourself a favor. Stop reading the crime blogs. It’s going to make you crazy.”

“No, you don’t get it. Apparently, there was a middle-aged white guy sitting on the bench near her house that night, and he’s a sex offender. Yes, fine, I read about it on a crime blog, but so what? And you can look it up—where sex offenders live. There’s one in the big apartment complex a few blocks away.” Francie knows she’s talking too fast, and she tries to slow down. “I’ve been watching her house.” She reaches into the front pocket of her diaper bag for the photograph she took and had printed at the pharmacy. “This guy comes by a lot, walking a little dog. He seems to have a weird interest in her building. Like, he’s always stopping in front of it, peering into the windows. Almost like he’s casing it, to be honest.”