The Perfect Mother(67)

“Her kid. Abducted.” He shakes his head, sitting up and reaching for the rest of his beer. “I sure hope the police are asking her some questions. That girl was fucking nuts.”



Nell sits at a table near the window at the Spot, her mug of black tea growing cold in her hand as she scrolls through the photos she took last night of Beatrice; dozens of pictures of her tiny hands, her minute feet, the bottoms yellow like butter, sweet enough to eat.

Nell checks the door again, hoping Colette and Francie are on their way. She’s impatient to get to the day care to pick up Beatrice—knowing how ludicrous it is, the number of hours she spends staring at photos of her baby’s feet while paying strangers to care for her.

Nell drops her phone in her purse, and when she looks up, Colette is standing at the table, Poppy peeking out from the fabric of a Moby Wrap. Colette’s eyes are red and her freckles are stark and lacy against her skin, which is unusually pale. “You okay?” Nell asks.

“Did you see it?” Colette sits heavily on the chair across from Nell. “They identified the body.”

Nell nods. “I watched it at work, in the corporate café. Everyone was glued to the television. I thought it was going to be Midas. Ever since you called yesterday, I was sure the body was going to be his.”

“I know. Me too.” Colette leans in toward Nell. “I have to talk to you about something. I got this thing in the mail—”

Nell spots Francie near the door, squinting up at the chalkboard menu over the counter. “Oh good, she’s here,” Nell says. Nell stands and waves to Francie, surprised to see she’s wearing a tight, low-cut dress, offering a peek of her black lace bra underneath.

“Did you see it?” Francie asks, approaching the table. “The body?” Her mascara runs in smeared arches over her eyes, which are framed in long, false eyelashes, like the thin legs of a spider.

Nell nods. “I saw it. It’s—”

She sits down. “And Bodhi Mogaro? They’ve released him.” The news of his release broke earlier that day, in a press conference called by Oliver Hood. Standing on the steps of the jailhouse beside Mogaro, his wife, and his mother, Hood demanded an apology from the police officers involved in the investigation, from Commissioner Rohan Ghosh, from Mayor Shepherd.

“We’ll see the NYPD in court,” Hood said.

“I really need a coffee,” Francie says. “And some water.” Nell notices the way her words slur, the sheen of perspiration above Francie’s lips.

“Francie, are you drunk?”

Francie throws Nell an irritated look. “No, Nell. I’m not drunk. I’m a nursing mother.” She reaches for the water in front of Nell and takes a long drink. “I’m very shaken by this Hector news. I saw it on the way here. Do they have any idea who killed him?”

“No, but listen—” Colette says, but Francie cuts her off.

“He had keys to her building. He could have gotten in. Or let someone else in. They’re going to put that together, right? Even an idiot like Mark Hoyt will be able to make that connection?”

“Yes,” Nell says. “And they’re asking for volunteers to search the property and surrounding areas for Midas. We should go.”

Francie’s face is pinched. “You mean search for his body.”

Colette leans forward. “Listen. I have something I need to tell you—something very disturbing happened today.” She takes an envelope from her diaper bag, her name written in green block letters on the front. “This came for me today, at the mayor’s office.”

Nell sees the block handwriting. The green ink. She reaches into her bag at her feet and retrieves a similar envelope, her name written in the exact same print. “This came for me, at work,” Nell says. “It’s why I asked to see you. To show you this.”

The envelope was in her mail slot when she returned from lunch. She opened it sitting at the head of a conference table, before a meeting to brief the other officers of the company on the impending changes to the security system. She stumbled through her presentation, flustered by what was inside.

Francie’s eyes are wide. “Oh my god. I got one of those too. At home, this morning. I didn’t open it. What is it?” She snatches Nell’s envelope and pulls out the mug shot. “Who sent this?”

“I have no idea,” Colette says, her voice just above a whisper. “Someone who knows I’m working for the mayor. Which is, like, you guys, and Token, who I somehow doubt was the one who sent this.”

“What was he arrested for?”

“It doesn’t say here,” Nell says. “I did some digging, but—”

“Digging?” Francie is staring at Nell. “Where?”

“A few places. I wanted to see what I could find. I mean, why would I be sent this? It’s even creepier now. Why were we all sent it?” She lowers her voice. “I went into The Village website, to the May Mothers admin page. I broke into it, to see his profile, to learn a little bit more about him.”

“How—” Francie’s gaze is intent on Nell.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s something I can do.”

“And?” Colette says.

“And nothing. He hardly filled it out. He grew up in Manhattan, which I think we knew. His partner’s name is Lou. He didn’t even include a photo.”