One Cold Night

call Dave,” Susan said. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her wrists. No more tears for her; she wasn’t allowed any. She had brought Lisa into the world, spun trouble for her and had no right to feel sorry for herself. She crossed into the kitchen and picked up the cordless phone off the counter.

Chapter 15
    Wednesday, 12:15 p.m.
    Dave walked into his home to find his wife and her parents huddled together on the couch, their faces swollen from crying. All the windows in the loft were closed, and the air felt as oppressive as the inside of his brain. That Susan had received a letter, perfectly timed and from the Bronx, was terrible news. Only those with inside knowledge of the Rothka case had known about the first letter, last year — insiders, and the groom himself. Dave could still recall the sour smell of Becky’s blood, her tiny green beads, found in the Dumpster just two blocks from the FedEx box where her letter had been dropped. The smell, of course, was probably garbage, not her blood — there had been only traces of it, not enough to transmit an odor — but the smell and the free fall of hopelessness that day had merged permanently in his mind.
    He kissed Susan’s forehead and Carole’s cheek, and shook Bill’s hand. Then he went to read the letter.
    It sat on the table, a duller yellow than the paint, butstill yellow — a color Dave was coming to loathe. The top of the paper was jagged from being hastily ripped from a pad. Dave stood there and read it through three times. Becky’s letter had been on smaller white paper, written in blue ink, in a similar rounded penmanship also applied with the lightest touch. He remembered comparing Becky’s letter to a sample of her own handwriting, which was denser, smaller, filled with impulsive corrections. Dave recalled how Marie had known instantly that her daughter hadn’t written the letter; not just the handwriting but the sentiments had been off-key. He now had the same reaction to this letter. He lived with Lisa and knew her handwriting, which was rushed and slanted reliably to the right. And she never would have referred to Him without irony. Clearly, someone else had written it and signed it with Lisa’s name.
    Ramos stood next to him, reading the letter and shaking her head. When first Susan and then Detective LaPierre had called them at the precinct about the letter, they had jumped. Dave and Ramos had headed right over to see it for themselves and to talk with the Baileys, while Bruno had stayed behind to surf the Internet for any flotsam and jetsam the groom may have floated in cyberspace, and also to pursue the search for Peter Adkins. Lifting her eyes from the letter, Ramos gave Dave a look that could have been interpreted in various ways: There goes my day or We’re gonna catch him this time or Don’t you just hate it when the psychos come out of hiding? She then went down the hall to Lisa’s room to confer with LaPierre and Shabbaz. Dave was glad she hadn’t voiced her thoughts with his family so close.
    Marie, who had insisted on coming along, took aseat quietly at the table. He had tried to talk her out of coming, she had refused to take no for an answer, and he had lacked the fortitude to insist she go home. She was a mother, a lost mother, trying to help in any possible way. Dave realized that Marie still had hope for Becky’s return, which both concerned and amazed him, yet he was beginning to find her hope infectious and even a little inspiring.
    Susan dried her eyes, came over to the table and stood in front of Marie. Dave introduced them. “She’s hoping she’ll be able to help.”
    “If that’s all right with you,” Marie said gently.
    “Yes, of course.”
    Susan sat beside Marie at the table, joining her hands into a single knotted fist that caused Dave a jolt of sadness. Susan seemed to be hanging on for dear life. He was about to walk around the table to comfort her when Marie laid a hand over hers. The personal nature of the gesture surprised Dave, but it was not the first time he’d seen women who were strangers dig deep, immediate channels to each other. He could practically see his wife relax a notch, and for that alone he felt grateful Marie was there.
    Ramos reappeared and took a seat at the table beside Dave.
    “Let’s get started,” she said. “We’ve all had a look at the letter now. Same handwriting — probably — Forensics will tell us yes or no. Meantime let’s work on the birth father.