The Truant Officer v5

by Derek Ciccone

  He folded the paper under his arm and began heading toward the pilot’s parking area. But blocking his path was the same reporter from earlier.

  “I have no comment,” he replied before she even opened her mouth, and continued his walk toward the parking garage.

  “I don’t know where you’re going, your wife dropped you off on Saturday morning. You have no car at the airport.”

  He had forgotten—the plan was for Lilly to pick him up when he returned. “How do you know that?”

  “I’m a reporter, remember? Sounds like you have a lot on your mind, maybe you’d feel better if you talked to someone about it.”

  She was right—he did have a lot on his mind. He mentally pictured Brett Buckley from one of their encounters at Lilly’s tutoring sessions. He stood out to Darren because he seemed much more mature than some of his classmates. Darren also remembered his intense eyes and powerful looking physique. Now he pictured him in that ski mask with a knife, throwing his wife into the back of their vehicle and driving off. Darren felt ill, causing him to stop in his tracks.

  Jessi caught up to him. “So do the police have any leads?”

  He doubted it would really make him feel better, and logic told him that he’d regret it if he engaged this reporter, but he felt compelled to talk to someone, and she was the most readily available. “They had some theories, but seemed to be fishing. They definitely didn’t think it was gang related. Hinted that it might have been one of my wife’s students, she is a…”

  “Teacher at South Chandler High, I know,” she informed, as if to showcase her reporter cred.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you anything,” he said, having second thoughts, and began walking away again. But he couldn’t shake her.

  “So they think one of your wife’s students was stalking her?” she asked. “I’ve had a few stalkers myself, makes you feel very alone and vulnerable. Did the police give you a name of the student they suspect?”

  “No,” he lied, but his thoughts were on the first task in front of him—getting home. Maybe when he saw Lilly’s things or smelled her perfume he would be able to think more clearly.

  “I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with—I’m not some local yokel, I used to work in New York—the police would’ve run possible suspects by you, want to know if she ever talked to you about X student or Y student. Maybe she mentioned being scared of one of them, or had some romantic overture made toward her, something along those lines. So how about we start with some honesty?”

  Coming from the person who stole his wife’s credit card, that was a bit rich. Darren should have left her behind, but for some reason he didn’t, and continued talking, “They were throwing some theories against the wall, hoping they’d stick. The local police practically accused me of being involved in her disappearance, but then the FBI came in and acted like they were my best friends. If they can’t get on the same page, then I have no idea how they expect to find Lilly.”

  Jessi continued to cling to his side like flypaper, and let out a condescending laugh. “Don’t you get it—they were playing good-cop/bad-cop. I hope you’re smart enough to figure out that they think you’re involved.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I love my wife—all I want is her to be safe.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Tell it to the jury. It’s textbook. You’re conveniently in New York, which gives you a perfect alibi, and you and your wife were obviously having problems. So you hire one of her students and make it look like one of the gang abductions.”

  “I’m a pilot. It was my job to be in New York. And what makes you think we were having problems?”

  “Some reporters might see your sad puppy dog eyes and fall for your story, but I see a husband away and a wife strutting around in a skimpy outfit like she’s heading to a club. And you seem like one of those inadequate guys who wants a bunch of kids so you can imprison her. But your wife didn’t give you children, so my guess is she had a boyfriend that she was going to better-deal you for, and that’s why you had her abducted, and possibly killed.”

  “What are you talking about?” Darren said, lowering his voice, “Boyfriend? Killed? You’re crazy! And obviously you don’t know Lilly. We love each other and I’m going to find her!”

  Darren barged by Jessi toward a car that wasn’t there. She jumped back in front of him. “You’re going to need my help to find her.”

  “I don’t know how you could help me.”

  “You need to make a public plea on television. I have the power to set it up.”

  “If you think I was involved, then why would you help me?”

  “It’s in both our interests to find your wife. For me, I need to break the big story that will get me back to New York. In your case, if you really had nothing to do with her disappearance, then you obviously want to find her before she ends up like those other women, or worse. But if you did hire this kid to get rid of her, then you best start playing the role of the concerned husband ASAP.”

  Darren gave her a dirty look. But when he met her eyes, he came to a scary realization—aligning with Jessi Stafford might be his best chance to get Lilly back.

  Chapter 13

  They drove in Jessi’s car, a convertible VW Cabriolet, red.

  The trip from Sky Harbor to South Chandler took about twenty minutes. There was always heavy traffic in the Valley, but they just beat the morning rush. Jessi spent the entire ride on her cell phone headset like a hard-edged labor negotiator, convincing her bosses to put his plea on television. From what Darren could make out, her appeal hit a roadblock. Lilly’s name had yet to be released, so besides the obvious legal issues it might raise, there was no way to check if Darren really was the husband, or just another wacko trying to break into reality TV. But she finally won out and victoriously hung up.

  “You’re tougher than you look,” Darren quipped.

  “Because I’m a pretty girl?”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have stereotyped you.”

  “Don’t be—I’ve been profiling you since before we met, and sadly it looks like I’m going to be right.”

  “What kind of person do you think I am?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think of you, it matters if the audience buys your story.”

  Darren was already questioning their alliance. “So what now—when do we do the interview?”

  “With most respectable news stations, there would be days of legal haggling, but Channel-6 is so desperate for ratings that they’ll risk getting sued. A high-profile lawsuit might actually help them become relevant. So to answer your question, as soon as we get to your house.”

  A knot tightened in Darren’s stomach as Jessi pulled into the driveway of his home in Mendoza Ranch, one of the many master-planned communities in Chandler.

  Darren was always comforted by the conformity of the neighborhood—all the homes were single-family-detached built in hacienda style, with similar exteriors. When they first came with a realtor, it reminded Darren of the pristine planned community in the movie Poltergeist where they moved the headstones but not the bodies. He sensed that Lilly saw it as monotonous torture. She wanted to paint their home hot pink or put up a neon sign to get some differentiation, which Darren explained was in violation of the neighborhood association ordinance.

  They entered through the garage. Lilly’s Jetta was there, but the other spot in the garage was empty. It was too much for Darren to take—he needed to get into the safety of the house. He led Jessi through an entrance-way that featured a vaulted ceiling and the hum of a gently rotating fan.

  On a typical Monday morning, he and Lilly would be sitting at the breakfast table with the warm rays of the morning sun shining off them. Lilly would go on and on about her lesson plans for the upcoming day. She loved teaching—especially helping the students with hardships and tough backgrounds—and he could listen to her for hours while sipping coffee. It seemed lonely and foreign without Lilly. He thought being back in the home they shared might give
him clarity, but it just made the whole thing seem all too real.

  Jessi looked around the orderly room with its plain furniture, and announced, “I see that boring has come back in style.” She chuckled to herself, before adding, “I guess you tried to bore her to death and when that didn’t work you hired someone to do your dirty work for you.”

  Darren’s face scrunched in disbelief. “You really think I killed my wife?”

  He couldn’t get past that.

  “It wasn’t even that creative. It’s like you stole Scott Peterson’s playbook—the marriage to the girl with the perfect smile, giving the perception of an ideal marriage to the outside world. Then when she disappeared, Peterson went to the tearful public plea card. Sound familiar?”

  “The plea was your idea—you said it would help find her.”

  “I just led the horse to water. It was your choice whether you’d drink or not, and I sure didn’t have twist your arm very hard to get you to agree.”

  Darren didn’t respond, his thoughts on Lilly. He stared blankly into the “boring” living room where he and his wife would spend “boring” nights watching TV. Even performing the most mundane tasks with Lilly was exciting for Darren—just being around her made his pulse rush like he was skydiving without a parachute—but sometimes he wondered if it was as exciting for her.

  “Can I get you anything? A cold drink, or something to eat?” Darren played host, out of his ingrained obligation to please.

  She thought for a second, and then said, “I need to use your bathroom to freshen up.”

  He led her through the main bedroom and pointed out the master bath.

  “No snarky comments about being in another murderer’s bedroom for a story?”

  Darren had no idea what she was talking about, but was growing tired of the murderer insinuation. “Why would I say that?”

  “Don’t tell me you never heard of the Jane Callahan murder in New York?” she asked with a skeptical tone.

  Darren tried to think, but his mind was too cluttered. “No, should I have?”

  Jessi shook her head as she went into the bathroom and closed the door. She shouted through the door, “You’re going to need to be a better liar than that, Darren McLaughlin.”

  Darren waited for her in the living room, gathering his thoughts for the important interview. When she returned, she began casing the house to determine the best spot to set up the camera. She decided on the back deck by the swimming pool with the Superstition Mountains in the background.

  She instructed Darren to round up a couple of pictures of Lilly that could be displayed during the interview. He again questioned if he was making the right decision to make her name public. But after his morning interrogation, he no longer trusted the police—not that he had the utmost confidence in Jessi Stafford—but at least he was doing something. He decided it was worth the risk.

  One of the photos was the formal wedding picture that sat on the mantel above their fireplace. A ceremony that took place four years ago last October at a resort in Scottsdale. The other was a picture of Lilly and him on vacation. A trip to Acapulco where she actually convinced him to go cliff diving. Both photos portrayed the smiles of happier times.

  As they moved out by the pool, Darren focused on the interview that he hoped would propel his wife back into his arms. But the sound of footsteps inside the house jarred him out of thought.

  Jessi looked at her watch in a scolding manner. “Nice of you to show up, Byung. What part of ‘leading the morning rush show with exclusive interview’ did you not understand?”

  Byung shook his head as he set up the camera for the interview. “Sorry, I didn’t believe you. I thought you were one of those vampires who only comes out at night.”

  Jessi appeared too involved in her extensive primping to reply. Darren did have to admit she was quite a sight. But she quickly turned from beauty to the beast, barking orders and last minute instructions—she was much better on the eyes than the ears.

  Sounding like Treadwell, she declared that people trust a man in uniform, and insisted that Darren keep on his pilot uniform. Jessi applied make-up to his face like a professional, then dashed into the kitchen and returned with an onion, which she advised he use to help him cry to evoke sympathy.

  He didn’t want sympathy—he just wanted Lilly back.

  Chapter 14

  US Attorney Eicher walked to the window of his office and peered out. It was a peaceful morning outside, at least for Manhattan, featuring a pleasant spring sun. Part of him wanted to just jump out of his window onto the busy street below and get it over with. Career suicide was a much more torturous way to go.

  Dava Lazinski barged into his office without a knock, carrying two Styrofoam cups. The aroma of coffee perked him up, at least temporarily.

  Dava—short for Davnieska—was the Assistant US Attorney on this case that nobody wanted, and that was before last night’s debacle. But while Eicher had a bad habit of becoming too personally involved in his cases, Dava was a rock. It didn’t matter if it was just another Monday, or a day like today when Nick Zellen put them on Defcom-5.

  “After last night’s news, I figured you didn’t sleep a wink, so I ordered you the ginormous,” she said pleasantly and handed him the oversized cup of coffee.

  He took a long look at Dava, who was dressed in her usual power suit. She was only in her early thirties, but always seemed an old soul. There was something different about her today. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  “You have a good weekend?” he asked.

  “Pretty boring. Check that—the Rangers lost both their playoff games, so it was boring and crappy.”

  She was born in New York, but her formative years were spent in Lithuania, where to quote Dava, hockey gets in the blood. Eicher knew this because after spending the past year trapped under the Sarvydas case, they knew way too much about each other, including that neither, sadly, had much of a life.

  “No hot date?” Eicher pushed on between sips of coffee. He was a prosecutor by trade.

  “Just my usual—picked up a couple of strangers in a bar,” she kidded. “How ’bout yourself?”

  “I’m married to my job and it wouldn’t be right to cheat on it. Although, my ex-wife’s lawyer did call me a couple times, does that count?

  He continued to stare vacantly at her, trying to figure out what he was missing.

  She let out a heavy sigh. “It’s the hair, Eicher! I had like six inches cut off—real observant, counselor.”

  He pointed at her with a rare smile. “I knew it was something.”

  Compared to his life, getting a few inches chopped off the locks and watching a hockey game was practically a bachelor party that got out of hand. But their lack of lives was no doubt factored in when it came to being assigned this case. Usually high profile trials were earmarked for the budding stars of the office—the ones with political aspirations—but nobody with long-term plans raised their hand when the US vs. Alexei Sarvydas hit the docket.

  Prosecuting the Russians was a lot lower on the glamour-scale than taking on the Italian Mafia. The Sarvydas’ were a different animal. They had a reputation of being ruthless and crazy, and wouldn’t blink an eyelash at ordering a hit on a federal prosecutor in broad daylight. Every time Eicher had stepped onto the street this past year he had checked over his shoulder for the Moziafs.

  They also lacked the ammo to make it a fair fight. While too busy chasing the more glamorous Michael Corleone wannabes, the FBI didn’t even notice the red tide sweeping ashore in the 1970s, circumventing numerous new US laws that had been created to promote Jewish refuge. Upon arrival, the Russians started stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down. But it was limited to low-level stuff like Medicare fraud, counterfeiting, and extortion. That changed when Viktor Sarvydas rose to power, and built a sophisticated, worldwide crime network. By the time they realized what was happening, it was too late.

  So they had to look for other advantages, which was
one reason why Dava was chosen for the case. The hope was that her background would provide some credibility with a jury that Sarvydas’ lawyers would surely try to fill with Russians—a group that sticks together and distrusts authority. It was a very sensitive topic with Dava. She was a good prosecutor, and any notion that she was chosen for any other reason than her abilities was the one thing that could ruffle her cool demeanor.

  So with all this working against them, Nick Zellen became their lifeline. He had accidentally stumbled upon Alexei Sarvydas, Viktor’s son, gunning down Nick’s father. And unlike those who witnessed the recent Moziaf shootings, he was willing and able to testify.

  The murder had the one trademark of most killings by the Russian Mafiya—brazenness. Although, it was unusual in its sloppiness and loose ends. Even without Nick’s eyewitness account, Alexei had incriminated himself, leaving fingerprints everywhere.

  Nick was still the key eyewitness to tie it together for a distrusting jury. But they needed to find him, and soon, to make sure he was in one piece for the trial.

  Eicher looked at Dava. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Come on, Dava, we’ve been doing this for a year. You only bring me coffee when you have bad news.”

  Dava took a deep breath. It was similar to the one Eicher’s wife gave him before she told him she was leaving.

  “Lilly McLaughlin’s husband just went on a local Phoenix news station and made a plea for his wife’s safe return.”

  “LaPoint said he didn’t know anything, what did he say?”

  She held up a disc. “It wasn’t so much what he said.”

  Chapter 15

  Eicher watched intently as Darren McLaughlin appeared on the screen. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night—join the club!—and he was still wearing his pilot uniform.

  He sat poolside with the reporter on a sunny Arizona morning, which reminded Eicher that he could really use a vacation. He glanced out the window, and as if a mood ring was controlling it, the Monday morning in New York had changed to typical April gloomy.