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“Thanks, Ellie.” He finally grinned; it made him look about seventeen years old again. “I’m sorry I gave you the finger this morning.”
“It’s fine, Cal. Sometimes a man just has to make his point.” It was what her father used to say whenever he banged his fist on the kitchen table.
Cal plucked his department issue rain slicker off the antler hook and left the station.
Ellie returned to her desk and sat down. To her left was a stack of faxes at least two inches tall. Each sheet of paper represented a lost child, a grieving family. She’d gone through them carefully, highlighted the similarities and the distinctions. As soon as the press conference was over, she’d start calling the various agencies and officers back. No doubt she’d be on the phone all night.
“You’re getting that faraway look again,” Peanut said, sipping her soup.
“Just thinking.”
Peanut set down her mug. “You can do it, you know. You’re a great cop.”
Ellie wanted to agree with that wholeheartedly. On any other day she would have. But now she couldn’t help glancing at the small stack of “evidence” they’d gathered on the girl’s identity. There were four photographs—a face shot, a profile close-up, and two body shots. In each, the girl was so sedated she looked dead. The press would have a field day with them. Below the stack of eight-by-tens was a list of the girl’s scars, identifying moles, and, of course, the birthmark on her back shoulder. In the photograph that accompanied the list, the birthmark looked remarkably like a dragonfly. The record also included X rays; Max estimated that her left arm had been broken when she was quite young. He believed it had healed without professional medical treatment. Each injury, scar, and birthmark had been marked on a diagram of her body. They had taken blood samples—she was type AB—fingerprints, and dental X rays; her blood had been sent off for DNA analysis, but that report wasn’t back yet. Her dress had also been sent away for analysis.
There was nothing for them to do now except wait. And pray that someone came forward to identify the girl.
“I don’t know, Pea. This is a tough one.”
“You’re up to it.”
Ellie smiled at her friend. “Of all the decisions I’ve made in this job, you know what was the best one?”
“The ‘Drive a Drunk Home’ program?”
“Close: it was hiring you, Penelope Nutter.”
She grinned. “Every star needs a sidekick.”
Laughing, Ellie went back to work, reading through the pile of documents on her desk.
A few moments later there was a knock at the door. Peanut looked up. “Who knocks at a police station?”
Ellie shrugged. “Not a reporter. Come in,” she said loudly.
Slowly, the door opened. A couple stood on the front step, peering inside. “Are you Chief Barton?” asked the man.
They weren’t reporters, that much was certain. The man was tall and white-haired, thin to the point of gauntness. He wore a pale gray cashmere sweater and black pants with knife-sharp pleats. And big city shoes. The woman—his wife?—was dressed in black, from head to toe. Black coatdress, black hose, black pumps. Her hair, an expensive trio of blonds, was drawn back from her pale face and coiled in a French twist.
Ellie stood. “Come on in.”
The man touched the woman’s elbow, guided her to Ellie’s desk. “Chief Barton, I’m Dr. Isaac Stern. This is my wife, Barbara.”
Ellie shook both of their hands, noticing how cold their skin was. “It’s nice to meet you.”
A blast of wind hit the open door, made it smack hard against the wall.
“Excuse me.” Ellie went to shut the door. “How can I help you?”
Dr. Stern looked at her. “I’m here about my daughter, Ruthie. Our daughter,” he corrected, looking at his wife. “She disappeared in 1996. There are many of us here. Parents.”
Ellie glanced outside. The reporters were still congregated in the street, talking among themselves and waiting for the press conference, but it was the line of people that caught her attention.
Parents.
There had to be one hundred of them.
“Please,” said a man standing on the steps. “You threw us out with the press, but we need to talk to you. Some of us have come a long way.”
