Two Girls Down(86)

Then a crowd came out of the office: Traynor and Junior and the Fed, the doctors and the nurse, the hospital administrator, and Maggie Shambley. The administrator shut the door.

“Family needs a few minutes,” said Traynor in Cap’s direction.

“Miss Vega,” said Maggie, rushing up, then to Cap, “Thank you both. I knew you could do it,” she said to Vega, taking one hand in both of hers. “I read about how you found that boy in Modesto, and I just knew it.”

She whispered the last few words, overcome. Vega gave a mandatory smile, and her eyes were lazy from the drugs, also sad because she was Vega—it was Friday and they were still one girl down.

—

After everyone had thanked everyone two or three times, and Traynor and the Fed had laid out the schedule, they’d all decided that it made sense to do the interviews right there in the hospital to (a) get the freshest statements; (b) play keep-away from the media; (c) get McKie and possibly Dena to talk before they figured out they wanted lawyers.

They were gathered in the hospital staff room, just marginally larger than the administrator’s office. The Brandt-White family lawyer was named Sam, tall and horsey with blond highlighted hair and a blouse with a silky ascot attached. Gail White had whispered to Vega in the hallway, “She’s from Philly,” to explain the sophistication, foreign and apparent. As Sam spoke she held out one hand and cut across it with the other, like she was chopping onions.

“Jamie’s ready, and Bailey’s ready,” she said. “You’ve got to wait for the social worker from CPS or you’re going to get heat from your DA.”



“We’re fine with that,” said Traynor. “We know most of them. Do we know if Dena Macht’s awake?”

“In and out,” said Cap, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. “McKie’s awake.”

“Anyone coming for either of them?” said Traynor.

“Hospital notified Dena’s parents,” said Junior. “They’re on their way. Still looking for next of kin for McKie.”

“I’ll take McKie,” said the Fed, fairly definitive. Then, “My supervisor’s meeting us in Denville.”

“I’d like someone in the room,” said Traynor. “Junior?”

Junior nodded. Cap cracked his neck to one side quickly, without sound. Vega recognized it as a signal that he was getting ready to be pissed off.

“Hey, we brought him in,” he said, looking at Vega. “We should be in there too. At least one of us.”

Traynor shrugged very gently and said to the Fed, “I have no problem with that.”

The Fed thought about it for a minute and then said, “I lead.”

“Of course,” said Cap.

And Junior will be there as window dressing, thought Vega.

“You can’t interview McKie right now,” said Sam the lawyer to Cap.

He shook his head, incredulous, preparing again to be pissed off.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because the Brandt-White family wants you to interview Bailey. With the social worker,” she said.

Cap was confused now. All the men were, actually, but Vega knew exactly what was coming. She’d seen it when she’d come down the stairs from the Macht cabin, the blurry vision of Bailey’s arms linked around Cap’s waist, the little girl’s face turned up to him, making a study of his chin.

“Jamie Brandt asked for me?” he said.

That made Sam the lawyer smile, tickled that he didn’t understand.

“Jamie agreed, but it was Bailey who asked for you,” she said.

They all took a second to absorb that. Vega watched as Cap’s brow softened.

“Fair enough,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Then Vega can be the third with McKie.”



Junior bristled and said, “Maybe not the best idea seeing she so recently beat the crap out of him?”

“I’ll stand somewhere where he can’t see me,” she offered.

The Fed perked up and pointed at her.

“You keep yourself controlled, ma’am. We can discuss ahead of time what you want covered, but you don’t make a sound, and you don’t make yourself known. Yes?”

He reminded Vega of someone, but it was surprisingly not the high school vice principal. There was nothing condescending about the tone, only firm and informative. Like a stern museum docent: Stand right behind this piece of tape, please. And do not touch a thing.

—

For the first time that day, Cap noticed there was a ripe smell coming off Bailey, like something fermenting, not entirely unpleasant. She had not been bathed and was in a frayed gown with sleeping tigers printed on it, sitting on her mother’s lap on the edge of a bed. Even though she was slight, she was still about fifty pounds and four feet tall, and Jamie struggled to hold her but showed no sign of letting go, one hand around Bailey’s thigh, pulling her legs into place, the other on Bailey’s head and hair. Bailey leaned her head on Jamie’s shoulder, the tips of her toes grazing the floor.

The CPS rep was young and named Krista. Cap remembered her a little from when he was a cop; there were only so many social workers in the county dispatched to do the uncompromising work of child abuse investigation. She blended in, though, with all the human services professionals he knew—mostly women, smart and overworked, usually with clothes that didn’t fit quite right, slacks and cardigans bought on sale.