The Nanny Murders Part 12

"The cops? Mostly to sort out false confessions-" "You mean someone's confessed?"

"Not just someone. Probably a busload of people have confessed already. Crimes like this generally bring out wackos who want to be in the spotlight. So the cops usually hold back some of the evidence, to see who knows about it. That's standard procedure. But listen to what they're holding back. A body. An actual body."

"What? They found someone?"

"I heard Stiles say they think they've found one. Right near you, on Lombard."

I sat up. "Wait. 'Think' they've found? What does that mean? That she's dead but not identified?"

"Who's dead, Mommy?"

"Shh, Molly. I'm on the phone."

"Who's dead?" she repeated. "Is it Tamara?"

"Don't worry-I don't know who it is," I whispered. Molly sighed.

Susan was still talking. ". . . means that the police weren't sure yet exactly what they'd found. The press hasn't even been told yet-it's hush-hush. But they can't keep it quiet for long. It's bound to hit the news any minute-"

"Wait, what?" I wasn't following, must have missed part of what she'd said.

Molly tugged at the comforter. "What are we going to do today, Mommy? Can we go somewhere fun?"

Again, her voice drowned out the beginning of Susan's, but I heard, ". . . by a garbage man on Lombard Street. The bag stank. It was full of body parts. Small pieces. They have to a.s.semble them."

"Get off, Mommy. Puh-leeeeze."

I heard the thud of flesh landing in a plastic bag. Susan was still talking, her words blending into a buzz as I envisioned Tamara, her bloodless face and matted hair, her eyes disappointed in death. I closed my eyes. It made no sense. A finger in the park. Body parts in a trash bag. Why? And why nannies? Why babysitters?

Chilled, I glanced out the bedroom window. Charlie was nowhere in sight. But he'd been right. Evil was prowling the city, wearing a disguise. Mailman, fireman, taxi driver, cop. The killer could be anyone, anywhere. He had been here, leaving a memento on our walk.

"Ow, Mommy-let go!" Molly squirmed, detaching my hand from her arm. Until then, I hadn't realized that I'd been squeezing it. The phone call left me jangled. I didn't want to be jangled. Didn't want to think about dismembered bodies or secret fingers or missing nannies or men who lied. I wanted peace. I wanted calm. I wanted explanations from Nick.

Who was Nick, anyway? Could I trust him? I could understand him not telling me about his wife; he hardly knew me, and those memories were painful and private. But what about the finger? Why, especially when she knew about it already, had he pretended to Susan that no finger had been found at my door? Even if he didn't want the press to jump on the story, why hadn't he told me-someone supposedly helping him-the truth about something so significant as finding a body? Deliberate omission was the same as lying, wasn't it?

I told myself not to jump to conclusions. I'd ask him about the finger and the body; I'd hear him out before reacting. He'd have perfectly reasonable explanations. Probably.

Meantime, I wouldn't dwell on it. I'd go about my business. Molly and I made a pot of chicken soup. Well, we didn't actually make it. We started with canned broth and added carrots, celery, noodles, onion, and chunks of cooked chicken. When it tasted like soup, we poured it into containers and delivered it across the street in time for lunch. First, we left one at Victor's, ringing the bell to make sure he'd find it. Then we took one to Charlie's. He opened his door, exhausted and bleary-eyed.

"I sweated all night, miss," he said. "I saw a demon come through the wall, heard h.e.l.l banging and buzzing, but I finally got the spell out of me. It was a spell, too, inside my head-"

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Charlie. Careful, the container's real full."

"Thank you, miss. I appreciate this." He took hold of the jar. "Remember what I said, though. Evil's all around-you be careful. I know what I'm saying-I've seen things-"

"Don't worry, Charlie. Get some rest and feel better." I took Molly by the hand and escaped before he could launch a diatribe.

"What was Charlie talking about?" she asked.

"I don't know," I told her. "Sometimes high fever makes people imagine things. It's like having a bad dream that seems real."

She nodded knowingly. "I've had those."

I squeezed her hand. So had I.

Sat.u.r.day pa.s.sed without news of further disappearances, but the nannies were still on everyone's minds. For the first time in days, I watched the early news on television. While the anchorwoman talked about the nanny case, a tips hotline phone number rolled along the bottom of the screen. The anchor said that so far over two hundred people had called in with tips and that the police were sorting through them, one by one. The screen showed a crisis center on South Street that had been opened to help locals deal with the stress caused by the case. Then the anchor discussed the ongoing investigation, mentioning the profile by an expert forensic psychologist. In the next shot, Beverly Gardener was standing close beside Nick Stiles, surrounded by a ring of handheld microphones.

"Dr. Gardener's profile has been invaluable. It's catapulted our investigation forward," Nick said.

Someone asked, "Detective Stiles, is it true that several people have confessed to being the Nannynapper?"

The camera zoomed in close; Nick's eyes penetrated the screen. "We have nothing credible at this point. False confessions are not uncommon in cases like this. But regardless, we intend to close this case soon."

The anchorwoman came back, remarking that, despite an experienced police investigating team, an expert profiler, and hundreds of tipsters, there still were no concrete leads to the ident.i.ty of the Nannynapper.

I shut off the television and tried to do normal things. I made phone calls. I called Leslie to see how she and Billy were doing; no one answered. I reached Karen and set up a playdate for Molly and Nicholas. We talked about the nannies. Susan's gun. What we mothers were going to do. How we'd organize a buddy system, an e-mail list and phone chain.

Michael called twice; both times, I put him off. Mostly, I spent the afternoon doing the usual weekend ch.o.r.es: shopping, answering e-mail-mostly from Michael-scrubbing floors, straightening up, doing laundry. Molly and I worked as a team; while I cleaned one mess, she made another. Around six, just as I was about to order Chinese, the phone rang.

"Hi. You busy?" "Nick?"

"Bad time? Am I interrupting?"

"No-it's fine. What's up?" Ask him about the body, I thought. Find out why he didn't tell you.

"I remembered you said you hardly ever went out to dinner, so I took a chance, hoping you'd be free. Are you?"

Was I? "I guess so, but-"

"Good. I'm outside. At the door."

At the door? Now? Oh my. I was a mess. My hair tangled, hanging half out of a tired ponytail. Dressed in torn baggy jeans and an old gray sweats.h.i.+rt, no makeup at all. Still holding the phone, I went to the door and peeked out the peephole. Yep, Stiles was there, his forehead round as my fishbowl peephole, a cell phone at his ear. I smoothed my hair with my free hand and opened the door. We stood face-to-face, still talking on the phone.

He was holding a big pizza box and a bottle of wine. "What kind of pizza is it?"

He gave his half grin and disconnected his phone. "Can I come in?"

He looked so boyish, standing there, I had to smile. The pizza was white, covered with garlic, artichoke hearts, and shrimp. I was glad to see him but not certain why he'd come. Were we actual "friends" now? Were we going to hang out and watch a TV movie? Or was he here to talk more about the case-maybe to tell me about the bag of body parts? Molly had joined us. She stood beside me, gaping at him. It wasn't the time to ask.

"Molly, this is Nick Stiles. Nick, this is Molly."

"Mommy, 'sthis your boyfriend?" Her whisper was loud.

"Nick's my friend," I answered, my face warming. Molly had never tasted artichokes, but she seemed to want to impress Nick and gobbled down two slices. After dinner, we played board games. Chutes and Ladders, then Perfection. Molly, an expert, beat us at both. Then, as I was hoping to take her up to bed, she and Nick began a jungle jigsaw puzzle, spilling pieces all over the floor.

"Start with the corners," she advised. "It's easier that way."

"Like this?" Nick held up a piece.

"Yes. Very good. Now, find all the pieces with a flat side and connect them. Those are the sides." "Help us, Zoe," Nick invited me.

"Mom hates puzzles," Molly explained. "Don't bother asking her. It's hopeless."

Chatting and laughing, sifting through the pile, they isolated all four corners and separated pieces with flat sides. I sat beside them on the floor, sipping cocoa, watching them play, wondering if we looked like a family. If this easy comfort was how it felt to be part of one. We floated through the evening, and when I finally managed to get Molly to bed and tucked her in, Nick was waiting in the hall. At last I'd be able talk to him privately. I'd ask about the body parts, about Susan and the finger. But as I started to speak, he took my hand and gently put it against his lips. His eyes, when I looked up, seemed to see through mine, into my head. His arms wrapped around me, and I leaned against him, feeling safe and protected, letting my questions float away That night the moon was full, casting its rays, spreading its dust. As wolves howled, tides s.h.i.+fted, and lunatics raved, I, too, must have been swayed by moonbeams; I have no other explanation or excuse. Before I knew it, Nick's lips were on mine, melting my mouth. That night, Nick's face was what I saw last in the moonlight. And it was what I saw first when I awoke, a little after dawn.

TWENTY-ONE.

THE BED WAS RUMPLED FROM THE NIGHT. SO WAS MY MIND SO WAS MY MIND. Images and memories lingered, heavy like smoke. Maybe it had been the wine or the full moon, maybe my weakness after several long years of sleeping alone, but somehow I'd stopped thinking and allowed myself simply to let go.

Michael's pillow was smashed; it wasn't Michael's anymore. Nick had claimed it along with Michael's place in my bed and in my body. I'd kissed a chest less hairy than Michael's, tangled with longer legs, sucked on fuller lips for the first time in over a decade. And now, after just one evening, Michael seemed vague, limited, and long ago. In the most primitive way, I belonged to a new man. An invader who'd conquered me, inch by inch. I'd been alone for so long that I'd forgotten about the details of s.e.x, the antic.i.p.ation of each progressive step, the artichoke process, the peeling away of clothes, boundaries, inhibitions. And all the firsts. First ear nibble, first breast squeeze, first grinding of hips. Had I ever been that excited with Michael? Had I ever let go entirely, trusted him completely, cried out without caring that he'd hear? I didn't think so. s.e.x with Michael had been comfortable, cozy, predictable. With Nick, it felt reckless, dangerous. Unleashed. I'd had no precautions, nothing in the medicine cabinet to ward off pregnancy or disease. But Nick had taken care of everything, to the tiniest detail. Now, the morning after, I heard him downstairs, moving dishes and pots around the kitchen. His presence was everywhere, permeating everything. My possessions were no longer quite my own. The dresser, the bathtub, the bed had been touched, altered. They'd all acquired a new master; they sang out Nick's name. The kitchen, at that moment, was under his command.

And what about Molly? Oh my G.o.d. What had she thought when she'd seen him making breakfast? I hadn't thought this through at all. Hadn't considered her feelings. How selfish and impulsive I'd been. How insensitive. What kind of mother was I?

Quickly, I splashed water onto my face at the mirror where he'd shaved. Folding the towel he'd used for his shower, I was guilt-ridden and wary. I smelled coffee and breakfast and braced myself to reclaim territory. I came downstairs as he was showing Molly how to flip pancakes as if they made breakfast together every day.

I waited, observing, struggling with what I saw. Ever since the social worker had handed her to me and I'd carried her home, Molly had been mine. We'd been a family unto ourselves, our own universe. Now, Nick had cut in on the waltz that I'd danced alone so long with Molly. Tapping my shoulder, he was taking her for a whirl across the floor. And while I admired their easy grace, I mourned the private pace of mother and daughter.

"This one looks ready-see the bubble holes?"

"Should I flip it?"

"Yup."

"Oops-"

Even so, I wasn't eager to return to that isolation. Nick seemed to belong with us, as if he were right at home. So why wasn't I entirely happy about it? I told myself that my ambivalence was normal. Nick was sudden and new. I shouldn't have let Molly meet him yet. Should never have let him spend the night. It was a delicate matter, introducing a lover to a child. I should have taken time to prepare her, or at least to prepare myself.

I watched them, Molly in pajamas and Nick, barefoot, in jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt. A man beside a child who was standing on a chair to reach the stove in a cluttered kitchen. A photograph. A greeting card. I came in slowly, cautiously. Molly turned suddenly and grinned.

"Mommy, look, we're cooking."

"Hi, guys." I kissed one head, then another. Nick smelled like soap.

"Morning. We've been busy. Molly did about a quarter of the puzzle and I climbed the Himalayas." "You what?" "On your StairMaster."

He'd used my StairMaster? The StairMaster had been my gift to myself. It was private territory, my own personal nemesis. I hadn't even broken it in yet. But I smiled, covering my feelings. I told myself it was no big deal; at least somebody had used the d.a.m.ned thing. Keeping my worries to myself, I ate pancakes and drank coffee. I smelled Nick's aftershave and felt his easy touch on my hand. I almost relaxed. But when Molly scampered off to get dressed, I had my moment, and I took it. This was my turf, my home. I had to make the rules. Had to.

"Nick. About Molly-"

"She's a great kid. Fun. You know what she said-"

"No. Wait. I have something to say."

"Uh-oh. Sounds serious. What did I do?"

"Nothing. No, not nothing. But you didn't do it. We both did. Look, what happened last night was, well, amazing. At least it was for me."

"It was amazing for both of us-"

I avoided his eyes. "Good. That's good. But it shouldn't have involved Molly. It isn't fair to her."

He blinked rapidly a few times. Was something in his eye?

"Exactly what are you saying? That you don't want her to know I was here all night? You don't want her to know about us?"

"She's a kid without a father, Nick. She craves a daddy. She used to ask me where her daddy was. Why he didn't live with us. I explained about her adoption the best way I could, and she doesn't ask anymore, but I know she longs for a man she can call Daddy."

"You're saying she wants me to be her dad?"

"I'm saying I don't want to risk her getting attached to anyone until I'm sure he's part of our lives-"

"So what's the bottom line here? Are you saying she shouldn't see you with a man until the wedding?"

"You know that's not what I mean-"

"What do do you mean?" His eyes were piercing. Cold. you mean?" His eyes were piercing. Cold.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he understand? "What I mean isn't about you and me. It's about Molly. That I need to protect her."

He folded his arms. Protecting himself? Or belligerent? I thought of his dead wife. Had Nick wanted children with her?

"Okay. So you're saying you don't want me around Molly?"

"No. I don't know. I just want you to understand. I want us to be careful of her."

He nodded. Arms still folded. Distancing. "Okay. I understand. Anything else?"

d.a.m.n. I'd hurt his feelings. Half of me wanted to unfold his arms and climb inside them, but the other half made me go on.

"Actually, there is. As long as we're talking."

"Shoot."

Shoot? His wife popped to mind again, holding a revolver.

"It's not about Molly. It's about the case. There's a rumor going around that a body was found. A nanny body, in a trash bag."

He didn't flinch. He looked me right in the eye, didn't even blink. "Where'd you hear that?

I didn't implicate Susan. "Neighbors. People. Is it true?" "It's bulls.h.i.+t. Who's spreading c.r.a.p like that?" "You haven't heard anything about this?" "Not a word."

Why was he lying? "But if it were true, would you tell me?"