“Keep them safe, okay?” I said to Erica, handing her the picture. I felt water fill my eyes and bit the edges of my tongue to keep it from spilling out.
“Nobody touches them,” she said. My voice caught in my throat, so the best I could do in response was nod. She looked at the picture carefully, then put it back in my hand. “You keep this. I know what they look like.”
Then she got in the van, shut the door, and they drove away.
Robert Baglioni was a homicide detective in the 3rd District. I tried calling him at the precinct on the off chance he was working on a Sunday, but wasn’t surprised when I was told he wasn’t. I politely informed the operator that I did not wish to leave him a voicemail.
The next call I made was to my old house line. I’d waited about forty-five minutes to give Erica and Joey a chance to drive there and get set up for their stakeout. If Denise or one of the kids answered, I would’ve hung up. My cell number was blocked, so they wouldn’t be able to *69 me. This was assuming the house line was still in existence, or that anyone bothered to answer it anymore if it was. Ten years ago, land lines were already well on their way to extinction. The only reason we’d kept ours was so that we had a working phone in case of a power outage. Now, with most land lines running through a modem, even that one useful function had been removed.
On that cold, gray Sunday, though, I got lucky. Not only was the line still active—and still the same number as when I’d lived there—but Robert answered the phone on the third ring.
“Hello?” he said, and suddenly I was mute. I tried to respond but the words were like taffy in my mouth.
“Hello?” he said again, and I knew I had about two seconds before he hung up, thinking I was just one more person calling about extending his car’s warranty, wondering why he even bothered to answer the damned thing in the first place.
“Detective Baglioni?” I said. It didn’t come out sounding as strong and self-assured as I wanted, but just speaking was a victory at that point.
“Who is this?” The frustrated weariness of his previous tone was gone, replaced by straight up anger. “How did you get this number?”
“I got it from memory, Robert. It used to be mine.”
There was silence on the other end, but I could hear him walking from one room to the other. I wondered if they were still using the old white cordless phone we hung in the kitchen by the laundry room. Then a door clicked shut on the other end of the line and he said, “Who is this?” Only this time, the anger was mixed with genuine curiosity.
“It’s—”
I almost said Rick but caught myself. He had no idea who Rick Carter was. “—Ben. Ben Williams.”
I’d played this scene in my head several times. In none of the run-throughs was his reaction pleasant. Nor was it indifferent, but to my surprise, that’s exactly what I got.
“What do you want?” is what he said, almost like he’d been expecting my call. When my stunned silence drug on, he followed up with, “Do you want to talk with Denise? Because that’s not going to happen.”
“No,” I managed. I had been gearing up for a fight and got a casual brush off instead. I didn’t have a script ready for that.
“Who then, Mags? Sorry, champ, you missed her birthday by about a month.”
Oh I didn’t miss it, I thought. I bought her a card. One with a horse, because they were always her favorite animal. Filled it out, signed it Love, Dad and everything. Then sealed it in an envelope and threw it in the trash. Just like I’ve done every year since she turned eight. And in four months, I’ll do the same for Ethan. Champ.
What I said instead was, “Actually, Robert, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh really? What could you possibly have to say to me that I’d be interested in hearing?”
I took a shot. “Frank Portis and Nadia Spencer.”
I could hear the names land, like two bombs from an empty sky.
“You’ve got my attention,” he said. The bored tone was gone.
So you are involved in this somehow. God damn it, I hate it when that dark part of my mind is right.
“Not over the phone,” I said. “Colonial Diner. One hour.”
“How do you know those names?”
“Alone.”
“Tell me how—”
I hung up.
And immediately called Erica.
“I gave him an hour,” I said. “Let me know when he leaves and if he’s with anyone.”
“Want us to follow him?” she asked.
“No, stay with Denise and the kids.” I doubted either Ghost or The Persian was in the country yet, but I couldn’t be sure. If either was, I’d rather have my family protected than me and Robert.
“How’s Joey been treating you?” I asked. “He can be a lot to take.”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
“I bet you have,” I said, thinking of her former Nazi-loving CO. “Where is Joey, by the way? It’s awfully quiet.”
“He stepped out of the car to talk to his girlfriend.”
