The next morning they arrived at Charlie Bright’s mother’s house early. A garbage truck rambled down the street. Cap pressed the doorbell, a grimy little button set in a rusty diamond.
“Do you want to talk about goals?” he said.
Vega’s right shoulder jerked, the suggestion of a shrug.
“No change,” she said. “Right?”
“You’re asking me?” said Cap.
“Yes,” said Vega.
Cap almost believed her.
Then a dog started barking. Low bark, big dog, he thought. He could hear it sniffing at the door.
He pulled the screen door open and knocked, and the dog continued to alternately bark and sniff. He turned back to Vega.
“Your guy sure she’s here?”
“Yes.”
Cap kept knocking, driving a stick in an anthill and shaking it around. Up and out, everyone.
Then footsteps, and a voice shouted either at Cap or the dog or both, “That’s enough! That’s enough!”
The door opened, and there was a slice of a woman, fat, loose gray curls on top of her head like Easter basket grass, and the dog, medium-sized, pushed his black-olive nose on either side of the woman’s legs.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Mrs. Lanawicz?” said Cap.
“Who’s askin’?”
Great start, lady, thought Cap.
“My name is Max Caplan; this is Alice Vega. We’re private investigators working with the Denville Police.”
Mrs. Lanawicz remained unmoved. She eyed them both.
“I’m all paid up on tickets,” she said.
“Ma’am, we’re hoping you might help us locate your son, Charles Bright.”
A little flare in the dull eyes at the name.
“He ain’t here,” she said quickly.
“Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“He lives up Camden. I don’t know; I ain’t talked to him in six months.”
It was like she had rehearsed a few different things but forgot she was supposed to pick only one story.
“It’s very important we find him,” said Cap. “It’s about the Brandt girls.”
Mrs. Lanawicz puckered up her mouth.
“He’s got nothing to do with anything like that,” she said.
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” said Cap. “We’re looking for someone he used to work with at the Giant, hoping he can give us a lead.”
Mrs. Lanawicz stepped back, a little disarmed.
“Like I said,” she said, quieter now, secretly sheepish. “He ain’t here.”
“Do you have a phone number where we might reach him?” said Cap.
From the side Cap saw Vega step back, off the walkway, toward the street. Now where are you going, girl?
“Nah, he uses those disposable cell phones because he can’t afford a plan, a monthly plan.”
“Address?”
She placed her hand, thick and arthritic, on the doorframe.
“He’s living with my niece, I think. It’s, uh, 2040 Filbert in Camden.”
Cap watched her eyes wander to where Vega was. He didn’t turn around.
“2040 Filbert in Camden,” he repeated. “That a house or an apartment?”
“It’s a house,” she said, still watching Vega.
“Your niece have a phone number?”
“Yeah, I have it, I think some—” she said, and then she stopped, mid-thought and mid-word, and she made her mouth into a little O and her eyes shot open wide.
“What?” she said, pointing past Cap.
Vega charged by him and shoved the door open, Mrs. Lanawicz falling backward but managing to steady herself against a table an eighth her size. The dog looked like a large hamster, a shaved square patch on its side, and continued to bark.
“What the hell are you doing?! You can’t do this,” Mrs. Lanawicz shouted, bringing her claw hands to her head.
“He’s upstairs,” Vega said to Cap, heading for the stairs.
“Vega, wait, goddammit,” Cap said to her.
Vega stopped at the bottom and shot him a glare.
“This ain’t right! This ain’t right!” said Mrs. Lanawicz, waving her arms. “You people think you can do whatever you want.”
Cap looked around, faded floral-patterned couches facing each other, green carpet flipping up at the corners, narrow staircase to the right.
Mrs. Lanawicz struggled to walk, her legs bowed, back bent at the base. She made her way toward Vega, shouting various threats: “You can’t come into my property. I have a lawyer. This is a home invasion situation….”
“Mrs. Lanawicz,” Cap said loudly. “Shut up for a second.”
She shut up and blinked, and sort of a whirring sound came from her throat, reminded Cap of an eggbeater.
“We’re not going to hurt you or your son. We’re not going to arrest either of you. But if we leave and find out you were holding back information or harboring your son here, then there will be a good deal of trouble landing in your lap.”
Then she started to cry and let out a plaintive moan. Sometimes it really didn’t take too much.
“He’s sick; he hurt his back. Please don’t hurt him,” she said to Cap.
Vega looked at Cap once more and then took the stairs, two at a time.
Cap turned to follow, and Mrs. Lanawicz grabbed his sleeve.
“He hurt his back working construction two years ago,” she whispered, spitting on him a little bit.
“I understand that,” said Cap, unlatching her.
He followed and Mrs. Lanawicz started to climb slowly behind him. The dog ran in a little circle at the bottom, barking and wiggling.
On the second floor, Vega glanced at the closed doors and approached the one with Eagles and Flyers stickers lining the border.
“Can you wait a minute?” said Cap in a hushed voice.
“He’s right in here,” she said, finger touching the door.
“How do you know?”
“Cigarette butts all on the right side of the lawn, tamp marks on the sill. This sill.”
Mrs. Lanawicz kept coming, bellowing.
“He’s sleeping right now! He needs his sleep!”
Cap whispered, “You don’t have to break every fucking door down, Vega.”
This seemed to surprise her.
“Not every door, Caplan,” she said, almost sweetly. “Just this one.”
She pushed open the door, slammed it against the back wall.
The room was dark and humid, dirty curtains drawn over the single window. Posters of wrestlers, male and female, covered the walls. Cap doubted the décor had changed since Charlie Bright had been in junior high. There was a figure in a twin bed stirring under a blanket, without urgency.
“Charlie!” yelled Mrs. Lanawicz, almost at the top of the stairs. “They’re police, Charlie!”
This got his attention. Charlie Bright sat up on his elbows, long hair and a raggedy beard and small eyes lolling around.
Cap held his hand out to Vega. Stand back for one second, he said to her in his head. To his relief, she did.
“Charles Bright?” said Cap.
“Yeah?”
“We need to ask you some questions about a former co-worker of yours, Evan Marsh.”
Bright coughed and spit into a mug on the floor next to his bed.
“Don’t know him,” he said.
Cap sighed.
“Charlie, they wanna ask you questions!” yelled Charlie’s mother from the hallway.
“I worked at the Giant six months ago,” said Bright. “I’m out on disability.”
“What’s the injury?” said Cap.
“Back. Got a pinched nerve between L4 and L5.”
“I would imagine you’re medicated for that,” said Cap.
Bright sucked on his two front teeth.
“Got legal prescriptions from doctors.”
“He’s got a pinched nerve,” said Mrs. Lanawicz, breathing heavy in the doorway. “Between L5 and L6.”
“I told them!” yelled Bright. “They don’t want to listen.”
“So just to clarify,” said Cap. “You were employed by the Giant during roughly the same time frame as Evan Marsh, but you never met him or associated with him in either a personal or professional context?”
“Uh,” said Bright. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Then he yawned.
You dumb motherfucker, Cap thought. He looked at Vega and said, “I’ll get Mama.”
Vega’s eyes lit up, Roman candle style, and then she charged the bed. Bright was so surprised he pulled the blanket up to his face, trying to hide. Vega gripped the sheet beneath him and yanked. Bright shouted and rolled out of the bed, landing hard on the floor.
“No! My boy!” screamed Mrs. Lanawicz, lurching forward.
Cap held his arm in front of her, not forcefully.
Meanwhile Bright moaned, and Vega stood above him and shoved her boot into his neck. Bright coughed and grabbed her ankle. He tried to build some rocking momentum with his legs, lifting them up and down, but he was overweight and doped and didn’t have the sharpest reflexes, it turned out.
“What are you—cops?” cried Mrs. Lanawicz.
“Evan Marsh,” said Vega, crouching down. “We know you knew him.”
“I don’t know where he is,” said Bright.
“He’s nowhere,” said Vega. “He was shot in the fucking face.”
Bright stopped squirming.
“Marsh is dead?” he said.
“You ain’t cops!” announced Mrs. Lanawicz, departing from the doorway. “I’m calling the cops!”
“That’s right, Charlie,” said Cap. “He knew something about the Brandt girls and someone didn’t want him to talk. So if you know something about the Brandt girls, someone might not want you to talk either. You following this?”
Bright’s face was red, veins squiggling down his temples.
“He came to me.”
“Who did?” said Cap.
“Marsh.”
Cap nodded at Vega, and she removed her foot from Bright’s neck. Bright sat up and coughed, rubbed his Adam’s apple.
“He offered me money. Fifty K to move two girls.”
He stopped talking and looked up at them, embarrassed.
“I didn’t do it,” he said, scissoring his arms in front of him like an umpire. Safe. “I didn’t take it. I didn’t want to get involved in all that. Come on.”
“He flat out asked you?” said Cap.
“We were smoking after work one day, and he said it all off the cuff, that he’s got a way for me to make fifty K, and all I gotta do is drive the car.”
“And you weren’t interested in that at all?”
“No, man. You can clean this place out; you’re not gonna find fifty K.”
“Where did Marsh get that kind of money?”
“I don’t know,” said Bright. “I swear, I don’t know who was laying it out.”
“Do you have any idea who might be interested in a deal like that?”
Bright struggled to sit up, hunched over his knees.
“Shit, man, this is fuckin’ D-Ville,” he said, laughing, sad in a way. “Take your fuckin’ pick.”
Traynor had a list.
They’d put Bright in a small room with the cop named Harrison, and out had come a list. Now Vega was in Traynor’s office with Cap, Harrison, and the Fed. She stood in the corner while the men talked.
“Revs Cleary, John McKie, Harland DeMarco, Jason Boromir, goes by Bent. You remember these guys?” Traynor said to Cap.
“Little bit,” said Cap.
“They’ve all been in and out two, three times for possession, but nothing sticks. If they’re dealing, they clean out before we get to it.”
“We’re just going on Mr. Bright’s opinion at this point?” said the Fed.
“That’s correct,” said Traynor, looking up from his notes. “You’re saying this might not be the best use of our time?”
The Fed didn’t move. “I’m saying that, yes.”
It was maybe the most civilized exchange Vega had ever heard. It was like they were discussing what color to paint the living room.
Then she said: “It’s Bright’s opinion, but these are Evan Marsh’s known associates, right?”
The men turned to her.
“Right,” said Traynor.
“And they’re dealers or fences or whatever?”
“Right. Users at the least.”
“So you’d agree that’s a demographic likely to traffic in large sums of money illegally obtained?”
“Ma’am,” said the Fed. “I have no doubt these gentlemen are likely candidates—what we’re looking at is men and the time it will take to chase all of them down. We’re looking at the most likely, and how do we discern that in the quickest amount of time possible.”
She stretched her fingers at her sides, thought, Well, we stop sitting around fucking chitchatting about it for one motherfucking thing. Then she glanced at Cap. He was staring at her intently, and then he tilted his chin downward, nodding. She was confused by the gesture at first, couldn’t identify his expression.
It was conviction, that thing underneath. I am calm because I believe in you. I am right here.
“So ten minutes, okay?” she said, her mouth dry. “You have something on them, right—pictures, priors?”
“Yeah,” said Traynor.
“Let me and Caplan look at them for ten minutes, that’s it, match up the names to Maryann Marsh’s list. See if anything jumps?”
She said it like a question out of respect. I am not pissing on your investigation, Chief. I will not make trouble, Special Agent. I will stay out of your way and keep being right, and you all can come around any time you want.
In the blue room Ralz laid out photos and files. The faces were all familiar to Cap—he wasn’t sure if that was because he knew them personally or if they just looked like a hundred other drug dealers he’d shoved into the back of his car when he was a cop. Same dim stares, same dumbass tribal tattoos, same line of bullshit too—I wasn’t there, been outta town since Tuesday. Where’s your warrant, asshole? And then the ones who wanted to get to him, threats spit through their hillbilly teeth: You got kids, officer, I’ll find ’em. Sure hope you have a daughter.
“So,” said Junior, impatient. “What’s the course here, Cap?”
Cap looked at the three of them—Hollows, Ralz, and Vega—and realized they were all waiting for him, and also that it might be a nice thing to stop and take a little dip in the moment, but there was no time.
“We’re taking ten minutes, seeing if anything jumps for anyone. We’re looking for a type desperate enough to get past dealing or fencing or possession into kidnapping.”
“Okay,” said Junior, picking up a mugshot. Shaggy red-eyed stoner. “Revs Cleary, last time in was last year for speeding; we found marijuana in the car but just under thirty grams. He was in County for a month and released.”
Cap flipped through the file and handed it to Vega.
“Jason ‘Bent’ Boromir. Busted for possession of oxy, but the cognitively impaired prosecution couldn’t manage to prove that he had intent to sell. Apparently he had a couple thousand pills and ten boxes of commercial food service sandwich bags for his own personal use. Did just one year at Allenwood.”
Cap and Vega stared down at the photo—shaved head, teardrop tattoos. Cap handed her the paperwork.
“Harland DeMarco,” said Junior.
“I know this guy,” said Cap, remembering.
He held the picture in his hand. DeMarco was older than the rest, with white hair and tinted glasses, looked like he should have been at the other end of a craps table.
“I thought Forman got him,” said Cap.
“Forman did get him,” said Junior. “On back taxes. DeMarco lived in a new development, kept his stash in the damn wine cellar. The warrant said we could search the immediate premises, and his lawyer, some ringer from New York, got the jury to agree that the wine cellar didn’t count as immediate. We could have him on a felony. Instead we get back taxes.”
“Fuck me,” said Cap.
“Classic Denville clusterfuck,” said Junior.
Cap passed the file to Vega, said, “I can’t see him getting into kidnapping kids.”
“Why the hell not?” said Junior. “He’s got his hands in everything else from here to Harrisburg, why not kidnapping?”
“Junior,” said Cap. “Likelihood. Odds.”
Junior pawed at the ground with his foot.
“All right,” he said. “Then I say Bent could do it—he smokes a little meth himself; he’s pretty shithouse crazy. Revs, no—if we’re placing odds, no.”
“Why not?” said Cap.
“He’s a stoner, he has family money, and the only reason he deals is because he got kicked out of private school. I don’t like him for this.”
“John McKie,” said Vega, sliding a folder toward Cap.
She held on to the picture.
“Sure, McKie could do it,” said Junior. “Did a little time for assault and possession. And sexual assault, I think.”
“But not of a minor,” Cap said, reading.
“So what? We’re just looking for kidnapping, not abuse, right?”
“Right.”
“Caplan,” said Vega.
They all turned to her. She stared at John McKie’s photo, her eyes covering the page quickly, manically.
“Yeah?” said Cap.
“Look familiar?” she said, flipping the photo around.
He saw and thought, Goddamn yes it did, it really truly did.
It made Alyssa Moser smile, the mugshot.
“Yeah, I see it, sure,” she said. “And he’s having a good day, but still, you shouldn’t, you know, get your hopes up.”
“We understand,” said Cap. “We just want to see if this photo sparks anything at all in your uncle’s memory. We’re comfortable with long shots, Miss Moser.”
Alyssa shook out her shoulders and said, “Okay, then, let me go make sure he’s awake.”
She left them, went down a hall, into another hall; then Vega heard her speaking softly. She looked at a glass case full of plates and thin-stemmed glasses.
“You realize—” Cap started.
Vega held up her hand to him, said, “I realize.”
“You’re not even going to let me finish?”
“I’m not,” said Vega. “I realize.”
“Well, okay,” said Cap. “Miss Vega realizes.”
She started to smile, and Alyssa Moser returned.
“You can come in,” she said.
They followed her down the hall, into a room where an old man lay, propped up by pillows, his head thin and spotted.
“Uncle Roy, these are the folks I told you about. They’re trying to find those girls,” said Alyssa, her voice amplified.
Roy Eldridge stretched his neck, his head reaching toward them.
“Hello,” he said with some effort.
“Hi, Mr. Eldridge,” said Cap. “We’d like to show you some pictures, and if anyone looks familiar to you from last Saturday at Ridgewood Mall, or if you remember anything at all from that day, we’re hoping you could let us know. Does that sound all right?”
Eldridge wet his lips with his tongue, and Alyssa held a glass of water underneath him. His mouth found the straw, and he drank.
“Sure,” he said. “Shame…shame about those girls.”
“Yes, sir,” said Cap. “Now first, could you tell me, are these the girls you saw when you were leaving the mall last Saturday?”
Cap brought the school photos of Kylie and Bailey to Eldridge.
“Wait!” said Alyssa. “Wait, wait, wait,” she muttered.
She went to the small table next to the bed, opened a drawer and pulled out a glasses case and a pair of large-rimmed black bifocals.
“Here,” she said, placing them on Eldridge’s head. They made him look like he was wearing a costume—a librarian for Halloween.
“Were those the girls you saw in the car?” said Cap.
Eldridge inspected the picture, like he was looking at a germ under a microscope.
“I’ll tell you, sir, I think so, but you understand my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“That’s fine,” said Cap, reassuring. “That’s not a problem. Now I’m going to show you another picture and if you could, please tell us if this person looks familiar to you.”
Cap pulled the mugshot of John McKie from his folder and held it up to Eldridge.
“Yeah,” said Eldridge, happy. “Now, that looks like Harry. Doesn’t it look like Harry?”
“Sure does, Uncle Roy,” said Alyssa.
“Except Harry’s never in a bad mood,” said Eldridge. “He’s a glass half full.”
“Mr. Eldridge,” said Cap, gentle, quiet. “Did you see this man with those girls in the car when you left the mall last Saturday?”
“Well, sure I did,” said Eldridge. “He was driving. I tried a get his attention, but Harry’s a good driver; he’s looking straight ahead.”
Vega glanced at Alyssa, who looked back at her, her face a mixed grill of sad and worried.
Then Eldridge placed a giant hand on the expanse of his forehead, his fingers crooked at the knuckles.
“Aw, hell, Lyssie,” he said. “Harry’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, Uncle Roy,” said Alyssa, crying a little bit. “Over in Vietnam.”
“This fellow, he only wears his hair the same way,” Eldridge said to Cap.
“I think so, Mr. Eldridge.”
Eldridge’s lips curled in and milky tears rolled down his face.
“ ’Cause Harry’s dead. Long dead.”
“Yes, sir,” said Cap, so soft and sweet it made Vega want to lie down and go to sleep. “Do you remember anything else about this man who looked like Harry, or the little girls, or the car?”
Eldridge pinched his nose with his thumbs.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Car was tannish, I think. Had a bumper sticker,” said Eldridge. “Giants, New York Giants.” Eldridge laughed. “Harry never woulda had that, would he, Lyssie? He was a true blue Eagles fan.”
It made Cap smile, the way Eldridge said “Eagles” like “iggles.”
“You bet, Uncle Roy,” Alyssa said, laughing too.
“That’s incredibly helpful, sir,” said Cap. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”
“Thank you,” Vega said, louder than she had planned, so even Cap turned and appeared surprised.
“We’re glad to help,” said Alyssa. “Isn’t it so, Uncle Roy? If we could help find those missing girls?”
Eldridge did not seem glad to help. He lowered his brow, looked wistful, could have been trying to remember what he had for breakfast or how he was a paper boy in the Depression. Could be anything, Vega thought.
“Aw hell, Lyssie, looks like I peed,” he said, shifting around.
“It’s okay, Uncle Roy, I’ll get the stuff,” said Alyssa. She turned to Cap and Vega. “You folks need anything else?”
“No, thank you, this has been very valuable to us. Thank you both,” said Cap.
He continued to talk to her as they left the room. Vega looked back once more at Eldridge, gazing up like he was trying to make out words on the ceiling. For a second Vega looked up there too, just in case.
Cap hung up with Traynor, stared at some boys in long T-shirts, hair falling in their eyes. They sat at a table in the food court, drinking juice from giant cups, straws squeaking in the plastic lids.
He saw Vega behind the counter at the Peking Express, showing photos to a large woman wearing a polo shirt, the manager. The woman also had papers for Vega and flapped her hands while she talked like she was swatting flies. Vega stared at the hands, and it made Cap smile because she looked like just another cop, listening to all the details a witness wanted to tell you along with their opinions and psychological diagnoses.
“Mr. Caplan?”
Cap turned around, saw a lovely tired woman with a toddler asleep in a stroller in front of her. The last time he had seen her, a couple of days ago, she had been just as lovely, only angrier.
“Hey. Hi, Mrs. Svetich,” he said. “Who’s this?”
“That’s Cammy,” she said. “He’s my youngest. This is when he’s the cutest.”
Cap laughed and started to say the thing about little kids, little problems, but she cut him off.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” she said. She was not shaking, but it looked like she was about to start. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for how I behaved the other day. In your office. I shouldn’t have taken out my anger about my shitty marriage on you.”
She said it quickly, as if she’d said it before. Cap pictured her rehearsing in the mirror. Mr. Caplan, I’m glad I ran into you.
“Please,” said Cap. “You have nothing to apologize about.”
“I do,” she said firmly. “I tell my kids all the time: just because you’re in a bad mood doesn’t give you the right to take it out on the world.”
“What do they say to that?”
“They don’t listen to a thing I say,” she said. “But you know, I figure I keep telling them this shit, and then one day they’ll be twenty-five and they’ll remember it.”
“And where will you be then?” said Cap, not even thinking about what he was asking or why he was asking it, but if he thought about it he would know it was her, Mrs. Svetich, at exactly this point, with no filters, clogs removed from the drains, speaking plainly, and it made him want to do the same.
“When they’re twenty-five?” she said, charmed by the idea. “On a beach somewhere, I don’t know.”
Then she laughed, embarrassed, and Cap laughed and thought how this would be a part of her divorce story years from now, how she ran into the detective a few days after he had caught her ex, and he made her laugh.
“There you go,” said Cap. “I’ll expect a postcard.”
She laughed in a burst, and then tears filled her eyes.
“Mrs. Svetich—” Cap began.
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek and hugged him then, clung to him, pushed her face into his neck. Cap could feel her breasts against his chest, the moisture from her eyes and nose, her lips. Very slowly he put his arms around her and closed his eyes, did the hair-smelling thing (some kind of berries, but that could have been coming from Jamba Juice). Her arms were thin but strong like belts, stretching around his neck and pulling him close.
So much of it was unfamiliar, he had a hard time parsing it out—the smell, the skin, the closeness, the need. But all of it was good, glorious, exquisite.
Finally she stepped away. Cap let her go instantly, did not want her to think he might have enjoyed what was probably a peak moment of loneliness for her. She patted her damp cheeks and looked at him, not shy in the least.
She said, “Everything happens at the wrong time, doesn’t it?”
Cap felt spun and skinned by that one.
“Yes,” he said. “It does.”
She turned around and looked at her kid. “He’ll be awake any minute. It was nice to see you, Mr. Caplan. I hope I see you again.”
Her eyes were huge and dark, and there was nothing hidden away behind them. Cap was so caught off-guard by her honesty all he could say was “Yes.”
Then she left, wheeled the stroller around, shopping bags dangling from the handles. Cap watched her go, the shape of her moving under a flimsy drape of a dress that looked insubstantial for the beginning of spring. He watched her get smaller and smaller, turn a corner at the Old Navy and then disappear.
He looked at his hands, front and back, could still feel the warmth from Mrs. Svetich’s body, and leaned against the table so he could breathe, stoned from the intimacy.
Vega held the mugshot of John McKie in her hands and waited for the manager to come back with his original job application, which was the only information on him that was available. She examined the people standing around, sitting, eating, shopping bags at their feet. She studied their shoes and their earrings and the way they held their spoons. Noticed the irregularities of their faces: unevenly spaced eyes, discolored skin, moles, beards.
She realized Cap had been gone for some time, and turned to find him, and there he was, across the food court, hugging a woman. “Hugging” didn’t seem an accurate word to describe how they were touching each other. The woman was clinging to Cap like she was drowning, and he was the life raft, which made Vega the one on some distant shore with broke-ass binoculars.
The woman left Cap and wandered off, slowly pushing a stroller. Cap watched her and didn’t move. He was a little too far away for Vega to see his face, but she took in his posture—most of it was as she had observed before: minor slump in the shoulders, feet rooted slightly farther apart than the hips, neck curved and head tilted, quizzical. But one difference now: his hands were out in front of him a few inches, like he was waiting for the woman to come right back.
Vega’s phone buzzed with a text from the Bastard.
“Still looking for K. Brandt the person but found someone else looking for him too. Seems like you guys have a lot in common. Email coming with details.”
Vega put the phone in her pocket and looked back at Cap. Still facing the direction of the woman but on his phone, texting the way he did with an index finger tapping out one letter at a time. Then he turned around, eyes scanning the crowd for her. She didn’t wave or come forward, just waited for him to find her, and when he did he waved broadly, relieved or resigned, she couldn’t tell.