paint, the ingresses and egresses of the surrounding buildings — all window eyes and blind spots — webbed together by glowing strands of possibility. Connected.
In his gut he believed that Susan was right, that Lisa had been here. Someone had been with her. A man with yellow paint now on his shoe.
Susan was shivering. He sat beside her and put his arm over her shoulders. Right away he felt her skin and muscles softening and warming.
“What are you thinking?” Her voice was scratchy, exhausted.
“Can you tell me now,” he asked, “what you two argued about?”
Her eyes seemed to open to him, dilating in search of any available light in the darkness. “Oh, Dave —” she began, when a police car came rolling along Water Street and pulled to a stop in front of them. He felt a twist of frustration as she abruptly withdrew the explanation.
The first responding officer was a rookie from the Eight-four, a young, clean-cut black man with creased slacks and a polite attitude. His badge read, P.O. ZEB JOHNSON.
Dave introduced himself to Officer Johnson as an MOS — Member of Service — by showing his gold shield. Johnson seemed nervous at first about running a detective first-class down the initial response checklist for any missing-child call: Where was she last seen, when, what was she wearing, how was her mood? Dave noticed with approval that Johnson swallowed his nervousness quickly, pulling a small notepad and ballpoint pen out of his jacket pocket and continuing with his questions: Could she be with a friend, where did she live, where did she go to school, any custody issues? Dave answered calmly and carefully — he knew a report would have to be filed — but he had already satisfied an internal checklist and was ready for the next level. A girl was unaccounted for. A girl with a loving family and good friends. A girl who liked school. A girl too levelheaded and well aware of her special gifts to squander them on extreme recklessness. Johnson continued: Had she run away before?
“Lisa didn’t run away,” Susan said.
“I apologize, ma’am,” Johnson said, “but ninetimes out of ten with kids this age, they’ve run away. Sometimes they don’t even realize how worried everyone is until they see their own face on a poster.”
Susan’s squeamish expression made Dave wish Johnson hadn’t said that. They both knew the police didn’t distribute posters unless an amber alert was is-sued — then they’d tap the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children’s LOCATOR system and broadcast posters via e-mail and fax at lightning speed. Without an amber alert, it was a case-by-case decision.
“We had an argument.” Susan’s tone was firm.
“Mind if I ask what about?”
Susan kept her eyes fixed on Officer Johnson. “About her birth parents. She wants to find them.”
Johnson jotted a note. “Are you her adoptive mother?”
“I’m her sister. Our parents live in Texas. Lisa moved in with me and Dave about a year ago.”
“Why’s that?”
Dave watched a million thoughts pass through Susan’s mind before she answered the question. Because Texas was too small for Lisa. Because she had outgrown the Baileys. Because she was too brilliant and insufferable for the church community of their small country town. Because she was a diva destined for the city’s stages, magnetized toward them, and Brooklyn was to be her launching pad.
“Because she wanted to attend a certain school here in the city and she needed residency to qualify.”
A good, simple, true answer. Yet Dave’s mind reeled; he sensed there was more. What had they really argued about so fiercely that Lisa would leave?Why had she wanted to paint the yellow line herself? Why now?
“That’s LaGuardia, you said before.”
“Yes,” Susan answered.
LaGuardia High School of Music and Art and Performing Arts, the renowned public school where every year a few hundred freshmen were culled from thousands of applicants. Lisa had
In his gut he believed that Susan was right, that Lisa had been here. Someone had been with her. A man with yellow paint now on his shoe.
Susan was shivering. He sat beside her and put his arm over her shoulders. Right away he felt her skin and muscles softening and warming.
“What are you thinking?” Her voice was scratchy, exhausted.
“Can you tell me now,” he asked, “what you two argued about?”
Her eyes seemed to open to him, dilating in search of any available light in the darkness. “Oh, Dave —” she began, when a police car came rolling along Water Street and pulled to a stop in front of them. He felt a twist of frustration as she abruptly withdrew the explanation.
The first responding officer was a rookie from the Eight-four, a young, clean-cut black man with creased slacks and a polite attitude. His badge read, P.O. ZEB JOHNSON.
Dave introduced himself to Officer Johnson as an MOS — Member of Service — by showing his gold shield. Johnson seemed nervous at first about running a detective first-class down the initial response checklist for any missing-child call: Where was she last seen, when, what was she wearing, how was her mood? Dave noticed with approval that Johnson swallowed his nervousness quickly, pulling a small notepad and ballpoint pen out of his jacket pocket and continuing with his questions: Could she be with a friend, where did she live, where did she go to school, any custody issues? Dave answered calmly and carefully — he knew a report would have to be filed — but he had already satisfied an internal checklist and was ready for the next level. A girl was unaccounted for. A girl with a loving family and good friends. A girl who liked school. A girl too levelheaded and well aware of her special gifts to squander them on extreme recklessness. Johnson continued: Had she run away before?
“Lisa didn’t run away,” Susan said.
“I apologize, ma’am,” Johnson said, “but ninetimes out of ten with kids this age, they’ve run away. Sometimes they don’t even realize how worried everyone is until they see their own face on a poster.”
Susan’s squeamish expression made Dave wish Johnson hadn’t said that. They both knew the police didn’t distribute posters unless an amber alert was is-sued — then they’d tap the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children’s LOCATOR system and broadcast posters via e-mail and fax at lightning speed. Without an amber alert, it was a case-by-case decision.
“We had an argument.” Susan’s tone was firm.
“Mind if I ask what about?”
Susan kept her eyes fixed on Officer Johnson. “About her birth parents. She wants to find them.”
Johnson jotted a note. “Are you her adoptive mother?”
“I’m her sister. Our parents live in Texas. Lisa moved in with me and Dave about a year ago.”
“Why’s that?”
Dave watched a million thoughts pass through Susan’s mind before she answered the question. Because Texas was too small for Lisa. Because she had outgrown the Baileys. Because she was too brilliant and insufferable for the church community of their small country town. Because she was a diva destined for the city’s stages, magnetized toward them, and Brooklyn was to be her launching pad.
“Because she wanted to attend a certain school here in the city and she needed residency to qualify.”
A good, simple, true answer. Yet Dave’s mind reeled; he sensed there was more. What had they really argued about so fiercely that Lisa would leave?Why had she wanted to paint the yellow line herself? Why now?
“That’s LaGuardia, you said before.”
“Yes,” Susan answered.
LaGuardia High School of Music and Art and Performing Arts, the renowned public school where every year a few hundred freshmen were culled from thousands of applicants. Lisa had
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