Page 92 of Girl in the Water
Ian thought about that on his way back to Daniela.
Essie’s boyfriend was a no-good loser. Maybe the type of guy who could talk his girlfriend—whom he controlled with violence—into doing something criminally stupid.
Let’s say Fabricio talked Essie into helping him steal the baby. Then the guy took the baby up north, maybe to Mexico, or all the way to the US for an illegal adoption. Essie might be waiting somewhere around here for him to come back with the money.
If the neighbor had seen Essie in Manaus, that probably meant they didn’t have the money yet; the baby hadn’t been sold yet. If they had the money, they’d be out of here. Why risk running into someone who knew them? If they suddenly came into money, people around here would wonder where it came from.
But in another city, they could easily start fresh.
Halfway up the stairs, Ian turned around and went back down again. On a hunch, he hopped on the bus that went to the nearest market, the one where Clara would most likely be doing her shopping. If Essie was seen shopping at that particular market, then she had to live somewhere in that direction.
As the bus pulled away from the curb, Ian called Essie’s cell phone number.
The phone rang and rang before a woman picked up with a tentative, “Alô.”
“This is Dr. Ian at the Hospital Adventista,” Ian said in his best Portuguese, but didn’t bother hiding his accent. There had to be some foreign doctors who worked in Brazilian hospitals. “We have your boyfriend, Fabricio Melo. He’s been in a car accident and has a concussion. We can’t release him unless someone comes to pick him up. He gave your number as his emergency contact. Can you come and get him?”
Silence stretched on the line. Then muffled praying. “I can be there by three.”
Ian glanced at his phone as he hung up. Two p.m. He was standing right behind the bus driver, so he asked the guy how to get to Hospital Adventista.
“Get off at the next stop, then take Bus 418,” the driver said around some candy he was chewing, then yelled out the window to curse at a cab that cut him off.
Ian followed directions and was standing in front of the hospital in under thirty minutes. Then he settled in by the front doors and waited for Essie, visualizing the young woman he’d seen in her neighbor’s photograph.
Essie arrived a few minutes early, jumping off the bus, rushing toward the doors, her narrow face pinched, thin shoulders hunched, her threadbare dress too large on her. She kept rubbing her arms in a nervous gesture.
Ian waited until she walked back out twenty minutes later, a lot less frantic but now with a puzzled frown. She crossed the road and got on a bus. He followed her.
She led him to a poor but fairly decent neighborhood of what looked like blue-collar apartments, up to a second-floor rental. Ian waited on the turn in the staircase while the door closed behind Essie, and she turned the key in the lock. Then he hurried up.
He listened at the door. Couldn’t hear anything. He knocked.
“Who is it?” a tentative female voice called in Portuguese after a few seconds, the same voice as the one he’d heard on the phone when he’d called Essie.
“New neighbor. I’d like to introduce myself.” Now he tried to hide his accent, but had a feeling he didn’t quite succeed.
“My husband doesn’t want me to open the door to strangers when he’s not at home.”
“No problem. I’ll come by when he’s home. Sorry to bother you.”
He listened again. He thought he heard a baby making noises. Nothing suspicious there. Essie had a toddler.
But what if, at one point, she’d had more than one kid in that apartment?
Ian went downstairs, then across the street, settling in next to a smoke shop to see if she might come out, maybe with a stroller to take her little boy for a walk. Ian wanted a chance to talk to her, to ask questions. He wanted to get a feeling for her, what type of person she was. Capable of kidnapping?
From her neighbor’s description, Essie wasn’t a criminal. If she lied to Ian, he would be able to tell.
But Essie never reappeared.
Ian called Detective Santos. “Any chance you could pull me a police report on a Fabricio Melo? He’s a fisherman. Young guy. Aggressive. I’m thinking he might have a record, possibly in domestic violence.”
“You found something?” The detective sounded muffled, as if he was talking around his dinner.
“I don’t know yet. He’s the boyfriend of a woman who used to live behind See-Love-Aid. The woman took off just before the kidnapping. I’m just running down everything that even distantly resembles a lead.”
A moment of silence on the other end, Santos probably chewing and swallowing. Then he said, “I’ll send the report to your phone. But I probably won’t have it until tomorrow morning.”
