Dina Santorelli (17 page)

"Yes,
I remembered."

"Then
why were you there?"

In
so many ways, Albany, the capital city of one of the biggest states in the union,
was like a small town. "How did you know I was there?"

"Jason
Seegert... you know, Edna's son, had stopped in to pick up a pie and saw you
sitting alone at the counter."

"No,
no, I did remember," Phillip said. "I just wanted to grab a bite to eat. How
are you, Mother?"

"Oh,
I'm fine. Picked up a pretty little sweater at the outlets here although the
prices don't seem much lower than at a regular store."

"That's
nice," Phillip said. He hated keeping anything from his mother, with whom,
despite a few contentious years when he was a teenager, he had a relatively
good relationship. But there was no reason to alarm her yet. "Listen, I've got
to go, governor stuff... I love you."

"Love
back, Phillip." That was the closest his mother came to saying
I love you
.
"Aunt June says hello. And tell Charlotte that Grandma will see her this
weekend."

"This
weekend?"

"Yes,
you haven't forgotten, have you?"

"No,
no... I, um..."

His
mother breathed a heavy sigh of annoyance. "For the tulip festival. Check your
calendar, dear. I'm sure it's on there. And remember to give that housekeeper,
nanny, whatever she is, the afternoon off. I don't need her hovering around."

"Her
name is Rosalia, Mother."

"Whatever."

"Have
a good day, Mother."

Phillip
stuck his phone in his pocket and ran his fingers through his hair. The feeling
that time was running out overcame him, and even after Henry opened his door,
he stayed inside the car to gain his composure.

"Sir?"
Henry's face looked concerned.

Henry
Jackson, named after his great-grandfather, three kids, married for twenty-seven
years, hired three days after the beginning of Phillip's second term
. Everything Phillip knew about Henry filled his mind.
But what didn't he know?
Someone
had to be Bailino's inside man. As good
as Bailino was, he needed access, someone to guarantee that he could get in and
out of the mansion undetected. Was it Henry? Or Barry?

"Yes,
Henry, thank you." Phillip stepped out of the car and was instantly reminded of
one of those horror films where all the villagers turn into zombies and stare.
The groundskeepers, normally quite reticent no matter what time of day, instead
were alert and chatty, but they all stopped what they were doing when Governor
Grand walked toward the mansion. Mario, the gardener, who was tending the rose
bushes along the main walkway, took off his cap and placed it by his heart.

Mario
Lopez, twenty-seven years old, single, conscientious worker, helped Katherine
into the house that day last fall when her briefcase flopped open and her
paperwork spilled out.

Glen,
the head groundskeeper, stopped mowing and bowed his head.
Glen Scheuer, thirty-two,
majored in accounting at SUNY Albany, but fell in love with flowers while
working part time at Gretchen's Greenhouse and switched his major to business. Opened
up his own landscaping firm seven years ago.

He
eyed them all distrustfully.

"Governor."
Det. Matrick was standing just outside the front door to the mansion. He nodded
as Phillip came up the front steps. "Did you have a good drive?"

Phillip
thought he could sense irony in the detective's voice, but he just nodded and
walked inside. Katherine was sitting in the main dining room at the head of the
long wooden table, a historic furnishing that still featured the parallel
etchings at its head made by Franklin Roosevelt's wheelchair. Her laptop was
open, and Phillip could see she was working on an Excel document.

"Why
were you at the diner?" Katherine asked without looking up when Phillip walked
in.

Phillip
sighed. He didn't know why he even bothered trying to be so secretive. "I
needed air."

"The
air here isn't to your liking."

"Jesus,
Katherine, after what's happened, is it that unusual I needed to get away from
you? I mean... here?"

Katherine
was quiet.

"Have
you heard anything?" Phillip asked.

She
shook her head. "Have you?"

The
thought of lying to Katherine again within the span of a few hours made Phillip
feel more than deceitful—it made him feel practically unfaithful. Eventually,
he was going to have to tell her, but before he could say anything, Katherine's
cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID.

"Hello,
Mara," she said into the phone, glaring at Phillip. "What? I can't understand...
TMZ what?" Katherine frowned.

"What
is it?" the governor asked.

Mrs.
Grand threw the phone on the table and typed
TMZ.com
into her browser. A
large photo of Charlotte Grand, credited to an anonymous source, appeared on
the Web site's homepage. The photo looked like it had been taken at the
Veterans Day parade in November: Charlotte, who was being held in Phillip's
arms, was dressed in red, white, and blue and waving a small flag. Beside the
photo, a screaming headline read: "Grand Larceny? NY Gov's Daughter Goes
Missing."

"Son
of a bitch!" Katherine said. She and Phillip inched closer to the computer
screen.

"According
to an Albany police report—obtained by TMZ—Charlotte Grand went missing on the
afternoon of April 10, 2012. Police at this time have no leads, but have
questioned the mansion family and staff."

"What
the fuck!" Katherine said, bolting upright. "How did that asshole Harvey Levin
get his hands on an Albany police report? Nurberg, that goddamn novice!"

"It
could have been anyone," Phillip said. He turned the monitor toward him. Charlotte's soft, kind blue eyes stared back at him.

"Yes,
you're right." Katherine was leaning on the table and running her fingernails
up and down the wheelchair scratches. "People will sell nude photos of their
mother for fifty dollars and virtual bragging rights."

"But
this isn't even Los Angeles?"

"Oh,
Phillip, please. You're a public figure, makes you fair game for any juicy
story no matter the jurisdiction."

The
cell phone rang again. The caller ID said CNN.

"Jesus,
CNN is calling. Don't answer it. Where the hell is Maddox? Get him on the
phone. Damn, now we need to get a statement together fast."

Katherine
was in the zone.

"I
thought we were going to stay quiet, like the detective said."

"It's
too late for that." The mansion phone rang. "Get Nurberg on the phone. We have
a mole."

Phillip
agreed, but, for no particular reason, other than an increasingly small well of
denial, or perhaps hope, he decided to play devil's advocate. "You don't know
that, Katherine."

"The
hell I don't." Katherine was pacing up and down the length of the table and
then stopped to survey the workers outside through the front window. Henry was
chatting with Barry outside the guardhouse.

"You
were with Henry the whole time?" she asked. "During your drive?"

Before
Phillip could even think about a response, Katherine asked, "Did you use the
phone at all? Was it in Henry's presence? Did Henry talk to anyone? Did he use
his phone?"

Phillip
had seen Katherine like this many times before, her brain on overdrive, trying
to connect the random dots of a giant puzzle. She wasn't particularly looking
for answers to any of her questions, but liked having a witness to her mental
checklist.

Katherine
focused back on the room, then on Phillip, and then on her laptop computer,
which still showed the photo of Charlotte. She pulled the screen toward her and
away from her husband. Beneath the photo and the Excel document, in a separate
browser there were no fewer than six tabs displaying various search results for
the name "Don Bailino." She closed them all and deleted the browsing history.

"We
have to remember that everything we do and say will be seen and heard by the
people who have Charlotte," she said.

The
people who have Charlotte...

Probably
for the first time in his married life, Phillip Grand realized he was a step
ahead of his wife. And he didn't like it. Not at all. Little did he know that,
at that moment, his wife was thinking the very same thing.

Rosalia had outdone herself:
a western omelet, stuffed with green peppers, onions, and ham—served with home
fries and buttered toast. On a normal day, a cup of coffee and a cigarette was
as close as Reynaldo got to the five major food groups, and as worried as he
was about his aunt, who looked as though she hadn't slept a wink, he had to
admit that it was nice to have a home-cooked meal for a change.

"
Gracias,
Tía
," he said, as she refilled his glass with orange juice.

"
De
nada
, Reyito," she said, patting his head.

The
small television sitting on the kitchen counter was playing a rerun of
Family
Matters
, Rosalia's favorite program next to
The George Lopez Show
,
but she ignored it and began putting the dirty pots and pans into the sink for
washing. Watching his aunt scoot about the kitchen, Reynaldo again thought of
his mother, and that familiar lump lodged in his throat. As the water fell from
the faucet into Rosalia's soapy sponge, he thought of his mother filling the
sink so that he, as a boy, could take a bath.

"
Ay
,
Rey, that's yucky," his mother had told him once, when she caught him sucking
the water out of the sponge. She had taken the sponge from his mouth and tapped
him on the head with it. According to his mother, everything bad was
yucky
—her
favorite American word. It would be twenty years in August that Reynaldo would
never hear his mother utter that word again, twenty years since she had stood on
the street corner across from Crain's Grocery, her hands filled with shopping
bags, smiling, maybe even whistling, as witnesses later told police. She never
saw the car that hit her. Reynaldo ran his fingers along his cheeks and chin
and felt the prickliness of his uncut beard and the loose, sagging skin of his
cheeks, which every day seemed to sag a little more.

"I
should go to work," Rosalia said, inching Reynaldo's plate closer to him and
sitting down.

"No,
no, Aunt Ro." Reynaldo put his hand on hers. "They said to stay home. They will
call you if they need you."

"What
if she is in the house? I know her hiding spots."

"They
searched the house. She isn't there."

"Then
where could she be?" A tear welled in the corner of Rosalia's eye until it got
so fat that it fell onto the table. She wiped it with her finger. "Who wants to
hurt a little baby?"

"I
don't know." Reynaldo squeezed his aunt's hand. He looked at the TV, his eyes
squinting and then becoming very wide. "
Dios mío
!" he said.

"
Qué
?"
Rosalia asked, following Reynaldo's gaze.

At
the bottom of the television, in letters that raced across the screen, it read:

"Breaking
news: TMZ.com reports that Charlotte Grand, daughter of New York Governor
Phillip Grand, has been missing for nearly twenty-four hours. An investigation
is underway. We will keep you up to date on the latest events as we get them."

The
words kept running again and again, and Reynaldo clicked the remote to change
the channel, when video footage of Charlotte eating a french fry appeared on screen.
The image zoomed out, and Rosalia saw herself on television, standing behind
Mrs. Grand, who was holding the little girl. Charlotte was smiling, exuberant,
as the governor pinched her cheeks.

Overcome
with grief, Rosalia left the room as Reynaldo turned off the TV.

The
phone rang—an old-fashioned rotary phone that hung on the wall—and Reynaldo had
to cross the kitchen to answer. When he picked it up, its long cord, which hung
partly in a trash can, untwisted.

"Rey?"
Pedro's voice sounded scruffy and confused, as if he'd just woken up.

"
Sí
.
I'm here with Aunt Ro."

"Did
you see the TV? Is Aunt Ro all right?"

"
Sí
,
she is all right."

"What
happened?"

"I
don't know. The police are looking for Charlotte. That's all I know. Pedro, I
don't know if I'm going to be able to come in today. I need to stay with Aunt
Ro. Is everything okay at the garage?"

"Uh..."
There was muffled talking in the background.

"Pedro!"
Reynaldo stamped his foot. "You are at the garage, yes?"

"Ricardo
is there."

"Well,
get there too, and please remember to make sure to start the coffee."

"That's
Nada's job."

"Well,
don't forget to tell her."

Pedro
put his hand over the phone. "Nada, start the coffee when we get to the
garage." The line opened again. "Okay."

Reynaldo
sighed. "Nada is there with you?"

"
Sí
.
I told you. Ricky doesn't mind." Then there was a pause. "Why, do you?"

"I
don't care, if no one else cares."

"Oh,
you lie,
hermano
."

"Please,
just get to the garage," Reynaldo said, "and make sure Ricky is nice to Mr.
Pena, who is coming in for an oil change."

"Oh,
that prick," Pedro said. Reynaldo could hear Nada giggling in the background.
"He accused us of using used oil for his oil change."

"Just
let it go, Pedro."

"Not
everyone's like you, Rey, eh? Let enough things go, and the whole world slips
by."

The warehouse was buzzing
with activity. Two young male workers wearing jeans and identical navy-blue
polo shirts were standing on a platform before one of two semitrailer trucks
that had been parked just inside the rear wall. They waved to Bailino, who
entered the cavernous space from the back parking lot. He waved back.