Joe can lift one-sixty.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Well, I did, actually. Joe was probably six inches shorter than Jake; he’d get clobbered. “I meant he had too much sense to mess with a guy who’s only trying to help us out. If there were more people like Jake in the neighborhood, maybe some of those women would still be around.”
“What? Are you inferring that it’s Joe’s fault that women are disappearing?”
“Implying,” I said. “Not inferring.”
She sputtered, defending her boyfriend, and I considered what she’d just said. Even if Angela didn’t consciously suspect him, did she sense that Joe had something to do with the missing nannies? Joe wasn’t local, but he was in and out of the neighborhood because of Angela. Besides, he had a nasty temper, insecurities about women. Should I mention him to Nick? What was happening to me? Because of Nick and his damned profile, I was beginning to suspect everyone. Joe wasn’t capable of kidnapping and murder. He couldn’t be.
Something out the window caught Angela’s attention. She stopped scolding and stood on her tiptoes to see better.
Beyond the passing cars, Phillip Woods stood on his porch, buttoning his coat. A construction crew huddled with thermoses of coffee.
“There’s Jake now.” Angela’s long nails arranged her hair. “I gotta go deal with this.”
“Are you sure? With the whole crew around, you might not want to—”
But she was already out the door, a petite, busty woman without a coat, in skin-tight jeans, high-heeled boots, and fancy fingernails, headed smack into a cluster of bulky construction workers. I expected hoots and fireworks, but as she strutted up to them, they nodded cordially or tipped their hats. She and Jake stepped aside. Talking, gesturing. If her body language meant anything, it wasn’t a fight.
“Here—I got it.” Molly returned with the nail kit. “Where’s Angela?”
Angela was standing in front of Jake, pointing her finger into his chest. Was she threatening him or flirting? Her clawlike nail rested on his jacket, provocative, either way.
“She’ll be right back,” I said. “Let’s pick a color. I have to go to work soon.”
“I want the same as Angela.”
“Red, then.”
“I know. Which red?” She searched the bottles, lining reds along the counter.
“Molly,” I said, “has Angela taught you kickboxing?”
She grinned. “Yeah. It’s like karate. Wanna see? Somebody comes at you from the front, you smash their nose like this and kick like that.” She demonstrated on the air. “Or you go like this behind their knee and they fall.”
She jabbed her foot into empty space, buckling an imaginary leg, an unfamiliar viciousness in her eyes. Who was this child? “I think this is the red Angela has.”
She came running over to look.
Outside, Angela tossed her head and sashayed back to our house. Jake stood watching her, head tilted, bemused. If she’d wanted him to leave her alone, she might not have made her point.
TWENTY-FIVE
AS ARRANGED WITH NICK, WHEN I GOT TO THE INSTITUTE, I set out to find Dr. Beverly Gardener’s office to pick up the profile. Her office was listed in the lobby as Room 37, in the basement, where most staff psychiatrists had their offices. My work almost never took me down there; in fact, I’d been in the basement only twice and hadn’t enjoyed either visit. The air there was tomblike and musty, the halls intricate and poorly lit. A catacomb.
But I was supposed to meet her there at nine to pick up a copy of her report. So, bracing myself, I walked past Agnes to the elevator at the end of the corridor and pushed the down button. Tired metal rattled and creaked, and slowly the dial indicated that the car was groaning its way to the first floor.
Finally, the elevator doors slid open. I was uneasy about the meeting. Dr. Gardener might think I wasn’t qualified to work with her—after all, I wasn’t headline material. But I didn’t have to justify my role was here at the request of the police. Nick had said he’d discussed my involvement with her.
The doors opened, and I entered the dimly lit labyrinth of marble floors and drafty corridors. A maze of gray walls lined with frosted glass doors. What was behind all those doors? Private offices? Patients’ rooms? Closets? Passing an open one, I peeked in. A huge expanse of white tiles surrounded a four-legged bathtub in the center of the floor. Nothing else was in there. Not a sink. Not a cabinet. Not a towel rack. Creepy. I kept walking.
I saw nobody, heard only