Night Film

89

The following day, we planned to be at Hugo Villarde’s antiques shop, The Broken Door, when it opened at 4:00 P.M.

But in the mayhem of the past week, I’d forgotten one crucial detail: Santa Barbara. I had custody of Sam for the long weekend. Cynthia called me early, telling me that Sam’s new nanny — a woman named Staci Dillon — was going to pick up Sam from school at three-fifteen and bring her straight to my apartment. Cynthia had given the woman a set of my keys, so this wasn’t a problem; I figured she could let herself in and wait with Sam until we returned from the antiques shop.

But the entire morning passed, then the early afternoon, and there was no word from this new nanny. I called her every half-hour, wondering how in the hell my ex-wife decided to trust a woman who ended her name in i. She might as well have hired someone named Ibiza or Tequila. Finally, at two-thirty, Staci called. She’d had an emergency; her seventeen-year-old son had been in a car accident on the Bruckner Expressway. He was okay, but she was coming from a Bronx hospital and running about an hour late. The earliest she could be at my apartment was five. I assured her it was no problem for me to pick Sam up from school. This meant, however, I’d have to bring Sam with me to The Broken Door — an unpleasant prospect.

“Call Cynthia,” said Nora. “She might have a backup nanny.”

“I can’t do that. She’s about to get on a plane.”

“What about some 1-800 emergency nanny service?” asked Hopper, sitting on the couch’s armrest.

“I can’t send a stranger to pick up Sam.”

“Hopper and I can go to the shop,” said Nora.

“And I sit this one out?”

She nodded. It wasn’t a mystery where that suggestion was coming from; she was still stonewalling me after last night’s heated discussion about what was real and what wasn’t.

“Just take her with us,” said Hopper. “If it’s sketchy? Leave.”

I said nothing, thinking it over. We were close to something. I could feel it. If I left such a critical confrontation in the hands of Hopper and Nora, the lead could be blown entirely. Villarde could be tipped off, and he’d slip right through our fingers. But to put Sam in any kind of danger was inconceivable.

“Better decide soon,” said Hopper. “We need to go.”