The Perfect Mother(63)

“Colette?”

Aaron is holding out his palm. She stands and gives him the photo.

“Thanks,” he says, winking at her. He ushers Joan into the mayor’s office, and Colette sits back down, the room spinning around her. She rests her forehead in her hands, fighting the desire to lower her head between her knees, the way she was advised to do by a bus driver in the second grade, who’d noticed her turning green with car sickness in the seat behind him. Remains were discovered. That photograph. The detective. The press conference they’re setting up for.

Midas is dead.

What else could it be?

She hears Teb’s voice and looks up, seeing him walking toward her. She stands, keeping her bag close to her body.

“I have some bad news, Colette,” Teb says. His tone is serious. “There’s something here I need to deal with. I’m really sorry.”

“What is it?” she asks, but then Aaron is there, his cell phone ringing. He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“Yep,” Aaron says into the phone. “Okay, good.” Aaron hangs up. “Commissioner Ghosh just arrived, sir. He’s on his way up.” Aaron glances at the podium in front of the windows and then back at Teb. “You might want to change ties. Something a little more solemn.”

Teb nods and turns to walk back toward his office. “Sorry, Colette,” Aaron says, guiding her toward the elevator, pressing the down button. “I know it must be frustrating when this happens, but sometimes things are beyond our control. Nature of the job.” The elevator doors open, and Elliott Falk of the New York Post bursts out. “I’ll have Allison call you to reschedule,” Aaron says. The elevator doors close between them, and when they open again, she runs outside, waving down the nearest taxi. She slams the door shut behind her.

“Where to?”

“Brooklyn,” she says, sliding across the hot, cracked leather. “Prospect Park West.”

She presses the power button on the television in front of her seat and the screen flickers, filling the cab with loud music, a jingle about buying a mattress. The cabdriver lays on his horn at the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge. A local morning program is on, in the midst of a cooking program. How to get kids to eat more greens. The driver turns up the radio, competing with the sound of the television. He’s listening to the all-news station.

She leans forward. “Did you hear anything about Midas, that baby that was taken?”

“The rich one?”

“Yes.”

“He’d dead,” the driver says. “An ex-boyfriend killed him, apparently.”

“No.” The word is choked. “Where did you hear that?”

“My wife. She told me that the other day.” He makes a face. “She’s obsessed with this story.”

Colette’s phone beeps. It’s Nell.

I NEED to see you. Meet me at 5? The Spot. I’m going to sneak out early, need to get Beatrice at 6.

I can’t. Colette types. Not today.

Three dots. Nell’s response is immediate. PLEASE. It’s important.

Colette places her phone on her lap and closes her eyes. Remember to breathe. She pictures the doula kneeling in front of her at the worst moments of her labor, repeating the phrase again and again. It all comes back to your breath.

I’m serious, Nell writes. I have to talk to you.

Fine. I’ll be there.

“Excuse me,” the driver says, fifteen minutes later. “We’re here.”

Charlie is in the kitchen making a sandwich when she enters the apartment.

“You’re back already?”

She drops her bag by the door, mutes his music and then turns on the television, flipping through the stations.

“What are you doing?”

“The mayor is holding a press conference. I think it’s about Midas—” When she gets to a cable news program, she sees Teb standing at the podium, holding up his hand to silence the reporters. “The remains were discovered in the woods about four hundred feet from Winnie Ross’s home, on her property in upstate New York. Because the body had been badly burned, we elicited the help of the FBI to identify the remains.”

“No.” Charlie comes to stand beside Colette and he takes her hand. “They found Mid—”

“Shhhhhh.”

“We received confirmation this afternoon that the remains belong to Hector Quimby, a longtime employee of the Ross family.” Teb consults the notes in front of him. “For the past thirty years, Mr. Quimby has worked as the groundskeeper at the Ross property, as well as maintaining the family’s home in Brooklyn, from which Midas was taken on the night of July 4.” A photo flashes on the screen. The man is in his late sixties, with gray hair, a gray mustache, and cottony blue eyes. “We do not yet know if there’s a connection between Mr. Quimby’s death and the abduction of Midas Ross, but we are proceeding with the investigation assuming there is.”

“How was the body discovered?” someone calls from the crowd of reporters.

“Investigators with the FBI and NYPD were led to Mr. Quimby’s body”—Teb coughs—“excuse me. They were led to Mr. Quimby’s body by cadaver dogs sniffing for the scent of Midas Ross.”

Colette unwinds her fingers from Charlie’s. “I need a second.” She walks to the kitchen, picks up her bag, and locks the door behind her in the bathroom. She sits on the toilet and removes the manila envelope, tearing it open. There’s no sign of who sent it. No letter. No signature. Just a single sheet of paper.