Cynthia had refused to say anything on the record last night. She had been willing to confirm that the police thought the disappearance of Brittany Little might be linked to the murder of her own daughter. Asked why, she had said nothing, just raised her eyebrows and tilted her chin in the direction of a photograph on the mantel. Mira saw the resemblance immediately.
“And that is-?”
“My daughter. Rosalind.”
“Does she-?”
“No. No, she does not look like her sister.” Cynthia seemed to disappear inside herself for a moment, caught up in some private sadness. When she spoke again, her voice was sharp. “That wasn’t on the record. This is all background. You can’t even say ‘a source,’ or whatever bullshit word you use now. I will tell you the facts as I know them, but it’s up to you to confirm them with someone else.”
“How do I do that? You know the county cops are going to no-comment me.”
And this was where Cynthia Barnes had told her how to do it, step by step. Mira looked at the piece of paper from her notebook, where Cynthia had written what she dared not say aloud, as if she feared Mira had a tape recorder hidden in her purse. She had torn it out after leaving the Barnes home last night, worried that it could somehow erase itself or get lost if it remained attached to the spiral metal clasp at the top of her steno pad. She had slid it into her pocket, then her billfold, then back into her pocket. Since last evening, she had looked at it at least two dozen times, almost as if it were a magic incantation that must be recited precisely in order to work.
Detective Nancy Porter
Alice Manning
Veronica Fuller
Those last two names alone were gold. Even if this story fell apart, Mira now had information that had eluded other Baltimore reporters for years. She had the names of the two girls who had killed a baby when they were eleven, names that had been protected and withheld. There had to be a story in their release, their return to the very neighborhood where they had done this unspeakable thing. She would prefer them, for the sake of her story, to be unrepentant sociopaths who had killed again. Hands down, that was the sexier story. But she could do a redemption tale, if necessary, although she personally found those a little tiresome. Born again, blah blah. She had read no shortage of stories like that. What people really wanted to know upon meeting a killer was How did you do it? Not how as in the method of dispatch, but how as in the sense of breaking that ultimate taboo.
What did it feel like to take another person’s life? That was what Mira planned to ask Alice and Veronica. But if they were locked up for Brittany Little’s death, which Cynthia had intimated could happen any minute, they would be out of reach. The best-case scenario would be for the investigation to drag on a little bit, so Mira could report that the girls had been questioned, giving her permission to recap their grisly histories, without having to worry about the libel issues raised by the latest case. Also, that would give the Carroll County murders, the one with the deranged fourteen-year-old, time to play out. No one could compete with that.
Wasn’t it news enough that these two girls had returned to their neighborhood without the community being alerted? If they had been adult sex offenders, they might have fallen under one of those whatchamacallit laws, the one named for yet another little girl victim. But because they were juveniles, they had been granted the right to move anonymously through the world. Was that right? Was that fair? Mira had convinced herself it wasn’t.
The phone rang and she grabbed it without thinking, forgetting she was in someone else’s office. It didn’t occur to her that there could be any other phone call in the world just now except the one for which she waited.
“This is Detective Porter. You paged me and used the emergency code?” Cynthia had told Mira that adding 911 to the phone number written next to the detective’s name would get her an automatic response.
“Yes, I’m Mira Jenkins of the Beacon-Light and I need to speak to you about the Brittany Little disappearance.”
“No comment.”
“Wait-” Her voice shrilled, and she struggled to get it under control. “I have information about the case, which I have confirmed from independent sources. I plan to publish this information with or without your cooperation. I’m just giving you the opportunity to correct or contradict my information.”
“No comment.” She was more tentative this time, less prompt. And she was still on the line.
“I’m going to write that you’ve interviewed Alice Manning and Veronica Fuller in this matter. Will I be incorrect if I say that?”
“No…no comment.”
“If you don’t tell me I’m wrong, I’m going with it. I also know the missing child bears a marked resemblance to Olivia Barnes’s sister. I’ve seen the photos, so I don’t need you to confirm that. But do you think that’s why the girls took her? Are they trying to get back at the family? Why are they so obsessed with hurting the Barneses?”
“No comment.”
“Do you think it’s racial? It’s my understanding that the first murder followed a racial outburst by one of the girls.”
“You can’t print this. You must not print any of this.”
“Why, is it wrong?”
“It could be harmful to our investigation.”
“But will I be wrong if I publish it?”
“I’m not playing this game.”
“I’m going to let five seconds of silence elapse. If you don’t say anything, I have to assume it’s right.”
“But-”
“So I’m wrong?”
“No comment.”
“If I’m wrong, you better say straight out I’m wrong.”
“You should call our press office. We don’t talk directly to reporters.”
“I’m not going to quote you. I’m just going to say, ‘Police sources confirmed.’ ”
“I didn’t confirm anything and I’m not your source.” The detective sounded almost hysterical.
“Didn’t you? Look, you have my number if you want to call me back. Meanwhile, I need to talk to my editors about what we’re going to print tomorrow.”
Mira hung up the phone and let out a little yelp of triumph, wishing she had a colleague to high-five. Then she composed herself before leaving the advertising director’s office.
“What were you doing in there?” the cop reporter asked.
“Talking to a doctor about why my hands are so cold all time. He’s going to do some tests.”
32.
“Fuck,” Nancy said after hanging up the pay phone in a back corridor at Value City. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary and fuck me.”
“What’s up?” Infante asked, coming out of the bathroom. He had a copy of the Pennysaver under his arm, a fact Nancy would have found hilarious in normal circumstances.
“A reporter is chasing the story.”
“Well, sure. They been chasing it.”
“Only she knows. She knows about the girls, has their names. She says I confirmed it by not contradicting it. But I didn’t, did I? You heard my end? Did I say anything?
“I didn’t hear anything, Nancy. I was in the can.”
“Damn it.” It was going to happen again. She was going to be in the paper, and other police would think it was because she was showboating, still desperate for attention. No one would believe she had changed, and she would have to live with it this time. She had run out of room, she had no place else to go, except over the state line to Pennsylvania.
“It might not be so bad,” Infante said, which convinced Nancy it was very bad indeed.
She leaned her forehead against the edge of the fake wood partition for the pay phone. They were in a dingy corridor on the top floor of Value City. Nancy remembered when a bakery used to occupy this space, back when Value City was Hutzler’s, the city’s grandest department store. Her mother had come here to buy Nancy’s first communion dress and then, to reward her for not fidgeting, had brought her to the bakery to pick out any treat she wanted. Nancy had chosen a strawberry cupcake, its pink frosting chunky with pieces of berry. Probably made from jam, she realized now. But at eleven she had believed it was the real thing.