sticking with our deal.” He turned his back to Calvano and the colonel. “I think I’ve seen enough.”
Gonzales was restless, a little peeved, but I could not tell what the cause was. Was it just the tawdriness of the situation, the scummy nature of a world where even fifty volunteers had a hard time keeping the wolves from the lambs? Or, like Maggie, did he not like the slightly holier-than-thou attitude the colonel emitted? It was hard to tell.
There was a knock at the door of the observation room and Freddy, the desk sergeant, stuck his head inside. His face was grave.
“What’s up, Freddy?” Maggie asked.
“There’s a lady downstairs I think you better see . . .” His voice faltered. “She heard about the boy who went missing this morning.”
“Who the hell is it?” Gonzales asked. The last thing he needed was another complication.
“It’s Rosemary D’Amato, the mother of the boy who was abducted north of town sixteen years ago,” Morty explained. “She comes in every time there’s a child abduction or, really, any case that she thinks might tell her what happened to her son. She shows up here two, three times a year and has for the last sixteen years.”
Gonzales looked a little stunned at this.
“I’ll go talk to her,” Maggie volunteered.
“I’ll go with you,” Morty offered. “I’ve talked to her before.”
“Go,” Gonzales agreed, looking at his watch. “Sixteen years of waiting for us to do our jobs? God, just go to her.”
I had a feeling the feds couldn’t get here fast enough for Gonzales. He wanted to be rid of this case.
Chapter 12
Rosemary D’Amato looked exactly like a million other middle-aged mothers who drive their kids to soccer practice and try unsuccessfully to find a little time to take care of themselves. She was overweight with short, dark hair, no makeup, and an indifferent outfit that did nothing to flatter her figure. The only difference was that her son had disappeared off the face of the earth one ordinary morning, and her self-neglect was caused by apathy. She was sitting in a plastic chair in the waiting area of the lobby, eyes fixed firmly on her lap, as if fighting off the memories the station house held.
It made me sad to see her sitting there alone without someone to support her. I was pretty sure her husband had moved to another town because he was unable to hold on to the immense sorrow his wife clung to. I’d seen that happen before. And I could feel it around her. It was a sense of overwhelming loss very like what I had felt in the park earlier when little Tyler Matthews had been taken— only this woman’s sorrow was tempered by resignation. Yet she could not give it up. Rosemary D’Amato had held on to her terrible sadness for sixteen years. I didn’t know where she had found the energy to keep living under such a burden. I had seen people crippled by losses like that for life and, even as I’d failed to do anything about it when I’d been a detective, I had known that grieving loved ones were the final victims of whatever terrible crime I’d failed to solve.
Maggie was kind to Rosemary D’Amato. Morty was respectful and grave. Mrs. D’Amato recognized him and a wave of gratitude welled in her. She clung to Morty like a lifeboat. “I heard another little boy was taken,” she told him. “Have they found him?”
Morty led her to a table in the coffee bar. “They have not found him yet,” he said kindly. “This is Detective Gunn. She can tell you more. Let me go get you some tea.”
Mrs. D’Amato looked at Maggie apologetically; she was not a woman who wanted to trouble anyone. My heart ached for her. What must it be like to have to beg people for scraps of information year after year—and get only apologetic smiles in return—because you could not bear to give up the only thing you had left of your son: the hope that you might see him again?
“Mrs. D’Amato,” Maggie said quietly as she sat with the woman at a
Gonzales was restless, a little peeved, but I could not tell what the cause was. Was it just the tawdriness of the situation, the scummy nature of a world where even fifty volunteers had a hard time keeping the wolves from the lambs? Or, like Maggie, did he not like the slightly holier-than-thou attitude the colonel emitted? It was hard to tell.
There was a knock at the door of the observation room and Freddy, the desk sergeant, stuck his head inside. His face was grave.
“What’s up, Freddy?” Maggie asked.
“There’s a lady downstairs I think you better see . . .” His voice faltered. “She heard about the boy who went missing this morning.”
“Who the hell is it?” Gonzales asked. The last thing he needed was another complication.
“It’s Rosemary D’Amato, the mother of the boy who was abducted north of town sixteen years ago,” Morty explained. “She comes in every time there’s a child abduction or, really, any case that she thinks might tell her what happened to her son. She shows up here two, three times a year and has for the last sixteen years.”
Gonzales looked a little stunned at this.
“I’ll go talk to her,” Maggie volunteered.
“I’ll go with you,” Morty offered. “I’ve talked to her before.”
“Go,” Gonzales agreed, looking at his watch. “Sixteen years of waiting for us to do our jobs? God, just go to her.”
I had a feeling the feds couldn’t get here fast enough for Gonzales. He wanted to be rid of this case.
Chapter 12
Rosemary D’Amato looked exactly like a million other middle-aged mothers who drive their kids to soccer practice and try unsuccessfully to find a little time to take care of themselves. She was overweight with short, dark hair, no makeup, and an indifferent outfit that did nothing to flatter her figure. The only difference was that her son had disappeared off the face of the earth one ordinary morning, and her self-neglect was caused by apathy. She was sitting in a plastic chair in the waiting area of the lobby, eyes fixed firmly on her lap, as if fighting off the memories the station house held.
It made me sad to see her sitting there alone without someone to support her. I was pretty sure her husband had moved to another town because he was unable to hold on to the immense sorrow his wife clung to. I’d seen that happen before. And I could feel it around her. It was a sense of overwhelming loss very like what I had felt in the park earlier when little Tyler Matthews had been taken— only this woman’s sorrow was tempered by resignation. Yet she could not give it up. Rosemary D’Amato had held on to her terrible sadness for sixteen years. I didn’t know where she had found the energy to keep living under such a burden. I had seen people crippled by losses like that for life and, even as I’d failed to do anything about it when I’d been a detective, I had known that grieving loved ones were the final victims of whatever terrible crime I’d failed to solve.
Maggie was kind to Rosemary D’Amato. Morty was respectful and grave. Mrs. D’Amato recognized him and a wave of gratitude welled in her. She clung to Morty like a lifeboat. “I heard another little boy was taken,” she told him. “Have they found him?”
Morty led her to a table in the coffee bar. “They have not found him yet,” he said kindly. “This is Detective Gunn. She can tell you more. Let me go get you some tea.”
Mrs. D’Amato looked at Maggie apologetically; she was not a woman who wanted to trouble anyone. My heart ached for her. What must it be like to have to beg people for scraps of information year after year—and get only apologetic smiles in return—because you could not bear to give up the only thing you had left of your son: the hope that you might see him again?
“Mrs. D’Amato,” Maggie said quietly as she sat with the woman at a
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