equipment in here or anything, is there?
No, but that’s an excellent
idea to keep watch on the street. Would you mind
if we put some up?
I’m pretty sure you don’t have to ask my permission.
You’re right, I don’t. But I am?
His damn smiley face threatened to put a smile on my own face. I fought it with a twist of my lips and barely succeeded.
Fine. But don’t be obvious when you get here.
10-4.
While I waited, I flipped through files on the other two moms.
Jana held a degree in communications and had done a brief stint at a PR firm before she married Paolo. As a teenager, he’d moved to the U.S. from Italy with his parents. The two met at an event Jana’s company had been promoting. They had a three-year-old son and an infant daughter.
Sandra had attended journalism school and had bylines in several major outlets. In recent years, her work appeared mostly in parenting and family lifestyle outlets. She had a four-year-old son—who must have been the little boy needing thebathroom at the park—and her second child was due in the fall.
Nothing about any of the moms screamedcriminal.On paper, they all looked normal. Harmless. The photos Bray had of them—in the park with their kids, having coffee at a sidewalk café, dressed up and glamorous for black-tie fundraisers—looked nothing but ordinary. I knew, though, the best criminals hid in plain sight. They blended into the scenery so no one saw the misconduct going on right under their nose.
I flipped next to a file of bank records.
“Whoa.” The word slipped from my lips. I figured they had to be loaded, given the neighborhood but,whoa.
Scott Browning’s income was exorbitant. Same for Paolo Russo, and Michael Vassar’s was too before he got laid off. Despite Bray’s comments about Sandra’s new car being out of budget—which it was, based on their family income records—she still did plenty well for herself. These were the types of families to use “summer” as a verb, to have hired help for everything, to never have to think about the price tag before purchasing, whether it be a gourmet cheese at the grocery store or a house.
On paper, none of the familiesneededmoney. Whatever bad debt the moms had, there was no paper trail. I wondered if it had come as aresultof their operation somehow, rather than them starting a smuggling ring to clear an existing debt. But still, why would a group of neighborhood moms be running an underground smuggling ring for baby products? What was their motivation?
I spread out the files around me, looking for an answer and making a nest of papers on the bed. The title of one of Sandra’s written pieces caught my eye. The printout poked from underneath Sandra’s photo. “The 21st Century American Mom.” I pushed it sideways to find several more beneath it: “The Silent Struggles of Motherhood.” “Seven Natural Solutions forDiaper Rash.” “What to Do When None of Your Friends Have Kids.”
I read what was available. Sandra was an excellent writer, her tone adapting to the variety of topics ranging from the mundane to the profound. Her commentary was searing in pieces about the brunt of labor many moms bore and lighthearted in others, like the pieces suggesting honey for an angry baby bottom. I was midway through a piece on breastfeeding in public when my phone rang.
My heart seized when I looked at the screen and sawUnknown.My reflex was to answer—I still hadn’t fully accepted Wallace was dead. But I hesitated due to the fact he was supposed to be.
Curiosity won out and I picked it up.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?” I tried again.
Over the sound of my own heart beating in my ears, I thought I heard a soft exhale.
“Who is this?” I asked, at the same moment I heard activity at the front of the apartment. I gasped as the call dropped and left me staring at the empty bedroom doorframe in fright.
I knew how to defend myself; I’d insisted on lessons years before when Wallace kept putting me in increasingly dangerous situations. But I had not had time to outfit my new home with anything resembling a weapon.
I quietly slid from the bed, aware of every breath, and moved to the closet. I hoped for a bat or maybe even a shoehorn but only found an umbrella. It wouldn’t do much, but it was better than nothing.
I did not know who had just called, but I assumed it was the same person who’d called at the park, and any option of someone mysteriously calling me was not good. Paired with someone sneaking into my apartment—the sounds coming from down the hall were obvious—I’d gone nearly rigid with fear.
My heart beat in my throat. My sweaty hands gripped the umbrella. I’d done plenty of creeping in my time, but most of it involved the protection of a real weapon and shoes to run away, not socks and a parasol.
