Seven Minutes to Noon

this.”
    Dana’s keen eyes slid to Alice but showed no reaction. “Nothing’s obvious,” she answered. “We collect the evidence and look it over. Whatever’s there, that’s what we work with. The facts.”
    But it had to be Julius. Who else? He was out there, plotting against Alice, against the police, against the world for stealing his family. A man with so much money and power, badly misusing his assets. You’ve been punished, Alice caught herself thinking of him, punished for your vile nature and the pain you cause other people. Unless he wasn’t always this way. Unless the loss of his family created the misanthrope that was Julius Pollack. Unless...
    “Yup,” Dana briskly said. Alice had not realized Dana was on the phone. “See you in twenty minutes if the tunnel isn’t blocked.”
    “Why is Frannie in New Jersey?” Alice shifted positions on the couch, unable to get comfortable.
    Dana now turned fully to Alice. “They found the crime scene. Forensics just got there. Paul stayed behind to supervise.”
    They found the crime scene. The very place where Lauren lost her life — no, had it stolen from her — at seven minutes to noon two Fridays ago.
    “What about the baby?” Alice asked. “Did they—”
    “No.” Dana sat beside Alice on the couch. “No baby. Just a lot of blood.”
    Staring across the space of Simon’s living room, Alice saw dust dance in a poststorm shaft of light. “What else did they find?”
    Dana pulled the blanket over Alice’s shoulders. “You’re wet. You should change your clothes.”
    “Tell me,” Alice said. “What else?”
    “Forensics is collecting everything. Frannie will give us a better idea when she gets here. Any minute, Alice. She’s on her way.”
    Then Alice thought of something. How could Lauren have crossed the Carroll Street Bridge in Brooklyn at eleven forty-five, and died in New Jersey at eleven fifty-three? Sitting forward, she faced Dana and asked how such a discrepancy could be true.
    “It happened in Brooklyn,” Dana answered, “inside a vehicle that was moved to New Jersey.”
    “A vehicle?” Alice closed her eyes and pictured it. Cars had windows, anyone could see in. It had to be one of those minivans with tinted windows. They were everywhere. Or a van with no windows. She had read the much-circulated e-mails warning you to keep away from vans; they were the vehicle of choice for serial killers. A door could slide open and snatch you up before anyone noticed. Never park next to one, you were told. If one parks next to your driver’s side, get in via the opposite door, then drive away as fast as possible. Now Alice could see it. A dark-eyed minivan sliding up next to Lauren. She would have been too heavily pregnant to run. Angry hands reaching out, pulling her in. Denying anyone, everyone, the happiness of a family.
    Julius Pollack, the bastard.
    Fury twisted through Alice and she felt the muscle of his hatred. Felt him haul Lauren into the van. Felt the jostle of his flesh as he held her down. Felt Lauren’s terror as a knife descended into her belly. Or had he shot her first? Alice felt Lauren’s last living moments and saw through her eyes as she searched in terror for a soul in the face of Sal Cattaneo as he butchered her. The secret partner. They wanted too much, those two. They stole everything, from everyone.
    Then, with sobering clarity, Dana corrected Alice’s vision.
    “It was an ice cream truck. Someone found it in an abandoned lot near Trenton.”
    A spiral of dizziness overcame Alice and she breathed deeply.
    One, two, three.
    How many times had she and Lauren and Maggie bought their children ice cream from those trucks? Nell had once admitted to Alice that she thought there was only one truck and it appeared at just the right moment. When she first saw the Mr. Frosty parking lot on Carroll Street, just past the bridge, her face startled into an odd, disenchanted expression. So there was no magic, just a lot of trucks.
    Trembling beneath the blanket, Alice yearned for the feel of her children’s warm, supple skin. The acrid sweetness of their breath. The chaos of their undisciplined joys. She wished Nell and Peter would rush into the room and cover her up.
    Where were they?
    She dialed Sylvie’s cell number and listened to it ring.
    Dana meanwhile bent down to pick up the peony pillow which had fallen out of the bag at their feet. She held the pillow on her lap, studying the intricate needlework, running