Fingers pressed to her mouth, Kaycee watched the girl until she faded into blackness.
THIRTY-ONE
The first thing Lorraine did was stop by the apartment to pick up Belinda.
As she turned her van into AC Storage, Lorraine clamped a lid on her emotions for Tammy’s sake — and partly for her own. She could so easily lose it right here, right now. She knew she teetered on the edge of that chasm in her soul. Get too close and she’d fall in. And there’d be no climbing out.
She chose not to park in their usual place around the corner from the apartment. That area was too close to the yellow crime-scene tape. And next to her spot sat Martin’s Pontiac. Lorraine couldn’t bear to look at it.
She pulled up beside the end of a storage building.
“What those people doing at our house, Mommy?” Tammy screwed up her face. A crime-scene technician wearing gloves disappeared into the apartment. A uniformed officer holding a clipboard stood guard just outside the taped-off area.
“They’re looking for things.”
“Like what?”
“Things to clean.”
The answer made no sense, but Tammy seemed to accept it.
Throat dry, Lorraine unbuckled her seatbelt and patted Tammy on the arm. “Stay here, okay? I’m just going to walk over and ask someone to bring out Belinda.”
Tammy nodded, her brows knit together, as if she understood the grimness of the situation.
The crime-scene tape fluttered in a slight breeze as Lorraine approached. Its yellow color stood out starkly against the gray of the office-apartment building and the sun-washed concrete. The young officer locked eyes with her as she drew to a halt. She didn’t recognize him from that morning.
“May I help you?”
“I want . . . that’s my apartment.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “My little girl needs her stuffed bear. It should be on her bed. It’s light brown and about so big.” She held one hand above the other a foot apart. “Real soft.”
“Okay.”
He walked to the door and opened it. Stuck his head inside. Lorraine heard his low voice, although she couldn’t make out the words. Beyond the doorway she could see movement. What could those people possibly be doing in there for so long?
How strange it was to see her own home and not be allowed inside. Lorraine pulled her arms across her chest. She felt like a refugee. A lost orphan.
The officer backed out of the threshold and closed the door. He held Belinda by one arm.
“Here you go.” He offered the bear to her with a small, sad smile.
“Thank you.” She clutched the bear in both hands.
“Does your daughter have a name for it?”
“Belinda. I don’t even know where she got that name. Must have heard it somewhere.”
He tilted his head. “Kids pick up more things than you’d expect.”
Lorraine shot him a look, but his expression belied no ulterior message.
Her gaze pulled back to the apartment. She envisioned the scene inside. The horrible job that awaited her.
A small seed of hope sprouted.
She ran her tongue over her lips. “When the people are done in there, will they clean up . . . everything?”
Remorse flicked over his face. “No ma’am. Afraid not.”
She ducked her chin in a nod and turned away.
Back in the car she held out Belinda. Tammy grabbed the bear and hugged it tightly, her eyes squinching shut with bliss.
On the way to the bank Lorraine stopped at McDonald’s. Tammy wanted a Kids Meal. Lorraine managed to swallow three bites of a hamburger.
When they reached the bank Tammy brought Belinda inside with her.
In no time Lorraine and Tammy found themselves surrounded by Martin’s coworkers. Two assistant managers left customers at their desks to greet her and extend their condolences. Even the tellers stepped out from behind their windows when they could. Neither of the two women who’d been held up with Martin were at work. “We gave them the day off,” a senior manager with a name pin reading Sandy Tourner told Lorraine. Sandy was in her forties with sleek dark hair and a perfectly fitting black business suit. Lorraine felt grimy and unkempt in the jeans and top she’d managed to throw on after the 911 responders screeched up to her door.
“Martin was a hero.” Sandy placed a hand on Lorraine’s arm. “Olga and Shelley both told me all he did. How he got them out of the vault and untied them. They said they owe their lives to him.”
They owe their lives to him. The words sank down inside Lorraine. Yes. Yes. Martin deserved to be remembered that way. For his own sake and for his daughter’s. It didn’t matter what she suspected. The truth didn’t matter. The only thing Martin had left now was his reputation.
Her gaze on Tammy, Lorraine made a silent vow to never say anything that could harm the memory of Martin Giordano.
Sandy promised she would cut Martin’s final paycheck as soon as possible and personally see that it was deposited into their checking account. One less thing for Lorraine to worry about. “And please let us know when the funeral will be.”
“Yes. I will.”
Lorraine left the bank on wooden legs, Tammy’s fingers entwined in hers.
One final stop. Before leaving the motel Lorraine had located a funeral home from the Yellow Pages. Her mind on hold, her heart dried up, she went through the motions of choosing a casket and making the arrangements for a ser vice. Tammy sat next to her on a chair, swinging her legs and talking to Belinda.
Back in the motel Lorraine crawled onto the bed, not an ounce of energy left. How was she supposed to take care of Tammy now? How were they going to survive?
Tammy smiled and talked to Belinda. She was obviously feeling better. “Mommy.” She nudged her mother on the arm. “Let’s play a game.”
As Lorraine forced herself to sit up, a voice echoed in her brain. The newspaper reporter at her apartment that morning, yelling a question: “I heard you were home during the murder, Mrs. Giordano . . .”
She tensed, her fingers digging into the side of the bed.
“Mommy, whassa matter?”
Lorraine blinked at Tammy. “Nothing, nothing. Just . . . let me go to the bathroom first.” She fled into the tiny room and shut the door. There she sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at the floor.
“I heard you were home . . .”
The TV reporter hadn’t mentioned that when Lorraine watched the news — maybe because the woman only had a minute or two to tell the story. But tomorrow’s newspaper article would be full of every detail its reporters had gathered today.
Lorraine lowered her head in her hands, a sick feeling worming its way through her stomach. Forget whether or not Martin’s murderer had informants on the Atlantic City police force. All that man had to do tomorrow was read the paper. He’d know she’d been home when her husband was killed. What if he thought she’d seen him through a bedroom window?
If he’d stormed over in broad daylight to kill Martin, what would stop him from coming back for her?
THIRTY-TWO
Chief Davis arrived at the station soon after Mark called him with the news. Minutes before he drove up, Kaycee had been pacing on the sidewalk out front, hands fisted and her lungs unable to get enough air. Every shot of that video screamed in her mind. Over and over she envisioned Hannah on Rice Street, pulling that little suitcase. Sucked into the night.