Seven Minutes to Noon

Francesca Viola and Paul Giometti of the Seventy-sixth Precinct. They stood together in front of the blue-tiled police station, facing the inevitable cluster of microphones and a bank of lights that blanched the night’s natural darkness. They looked bone tired. Drained of their defenses, they stated the facts.
    “This afternoon we issued an Amber Alert for two children who appeared to have been abducted by their babysitter in Brooklyn. The children have been recoveredand are safe at home. The babysitter is Sylvie Devrais and she has not been found.”
    A picture of Sylvie suddenly filled the screen. Seeing her like this, as a suspect, stripped her of the sweet innocence Alice had always assumed for her. The detectives reappeared on the screen, explaining that Sylvie was also wanted for murder and that she may have had an accomplice.
    “We have a list of suspects who may have helped Sylvie Devrais, but without hard forensic evidence” — Frannie paused on camera, her shrewd eyes blinking — “we won’t make an arrest.”
    Alice read between the lines. Frannie had considered her words — can’t became won’t — free will substituted for helplessness. They were holding Julius Pollack at the precinct but they hadn’t arrested him? Wasn’t the print hit enough to get him on harassment and violating the restraining order? And what about Judy Gersten and Sal Cattaneo? Were the Three Musketeers of Brooklyn real estate all going to be questioned, then freed before hard answers were in hand? Either their lawyers were playing for time or the detectives were trolling for more action, setting traps. As Frannie spoke to the cluster of reporters, Alice knew the detective was calculating what she would put out to the media, as she had all along.
    “I understand JFK’s sealed off,” another reporter asked. “No flights going in or out. How long will that last?”
    “As long as necessary,” Frannie said. Her tone sharpened to add, “We’re looking for a murderer.”
    “What about Tim Barnet?”
    Frannie’s split second of hesitation told Alice something was up with Tim.
    “Tim Barnet is one of many people we’ve been talking to,” Frannie said, “but we have no reason to suspect him over anyone else at this point.”
    “He left town.”
    “We’ve been in close contact with him,” Frannie said too quickly.
    Had Tim’s guy lost him too? Had Tim needed to get lost? Was Austin okay? Alice felt the first pulse of adrenaline that was always a precursor to insomnia. She wouldn’t even try to sleep tonight, she decided. As long as Frannie was awake at the precinct, Alice would stay up too. Wait for news.
    “What about Simon Blue?” another reporter asked.
    “Oh, give me a break!” Simon howled, sitting between Maggie and Mike on the couch. “Have you poisoned everyone’s minds, Maggie dear?”
    Maggie gave Simon’s leg a sharp slap, and laughed. “If only I could.”
    Simon and Maggie clasped hands and leaned against each other.
    “Ms. Devrais worked for him,” Frannie told the microphones, “so traces of her are all over his house, but beyond that we’ve found no evidence of his involvement in the case.”
    “Bloody right!” Simon called out to the TV.
    “What about a money trail?” another reported asked. “How does Metro Properties tie into the missing women and babies?”
    “Yes, we’ve looked at all the bank accounts of Metro Properties, as well everyone else who has come under investigation.” A shaft of light momentarily blinded Frannie. She lifted her hand to shadow her eyes, and continued. “There’s no indication that anyone received unusual amounts of money. There’s nothing unusual there. Except” — she hesitated — “we haven’t located any bank accounts for Sylvie Devrais.”
    “So the baby sale thing is—”
    “We don’t know,” Frannie cut that reporter off. The whole issue of illegal baby sales clearly riled her. It was one hypothesis of many that had first been introduced, to Alice’s knowledge, by Erin Brinkley in one of her articles. “We’re looking at evidence, not taking shots in the dark.”
    “One more question—” a reporter shouted, but was interrupted by someone louder:
    “What is the connection between Sylvie Devrais and Julius Pollack?”
    Alice leaned in toward the television, listening closely.
    Frannie’s eyes narrowed. It was like she was standing in an avalanche of wild conjecture, fending off small bits while others flew