“No,” she said. “I asked him, a hundred times. He said it was a Power Ranger, but Power Rangers are on TV. They’re not real. He doesn’t get that.”
“Do you think he’d have left again, if the Power Ranger asked?”
Her eyes got glossy with tears. “Yes,” she whispered.
“What about babysitters? Who watches you when your parents are out?”
“Aunt Jess mostly, and Cara.” She smacked her palm to her mouth, eyes wide.
“Who’s Cara?” I asked.
Her cheeks were red, and she shook her head. “I’m not supposed to say.”
“I’m a policeman, Anna. You have to tell me the truth.”
“Cara lives on our street. She’s in high school. She’s watched us if Aunt Jess couldn’t, but Mom told us not to tell Dad, because he thinks Cara is flighty.” Interesting.
“It’s go time,” Finnegan said, peering around the doorframe.
I looked up. “Be there in a second.” I stood and said, “Thanks, Anna. Now you stay here until your parents finish talking to some reporters. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Okay.” She opened her giant book and leafed through the pages. As if I’d disappeared already. Or like she was used to stepping out of the spotlight and into the shadows. With a brother like Cody, she probably was.
Bright lights were trained on the middle of the stairs leading to the police station entrance. Wright stood beside Jane Forrand, who was flanked on the other side by her husband. A microphone stood, its mesh black stump angled toward them. Reporters bitched about the falling temperatures while checking their teeth in small mirrors.
“Are we ready yet?” one reporter asked. Her voice filled the parking lot. Everyone turned. Mrs. Forrand squinted into the crowd. A woman in a tan coat took a step backward. “Jake, is this mic live?” It most certainly was. The reporter swore while holding the mic well away from her.
Wright put a cough drop in his mouth. He cleared his throat. “We’re ready,” he called. He gave the press one last chance to jockey for position. Then he stepped to the microphone and began. “At approximately two thirty this afternoon, Cody Forrand went missing from his house on Spring Street. Cody is six years old. He was wearing jeans, a blue-and-white striped shirt, and green socks. He is forty-four inches tall and fifty-two pounds, with brown eyes and hair. A week ago, an unidentified driver took him from his home in a silver Toyota Camry. If anyone has seen Cody today, please call the Idyll Police. Cody has a medical condition that makes him vulnerable to the cold. It’s not clear that his abductor knows this.” In all likelihood, his abductor knew just that, but we hoped this bit would appeal to viewers.
Wright said, “When Cody was taken on the 12th, the kidnapper may have worn a mask. It was of a red Mighty Morphin Power Ranger. If you saw anyone wearing this mask and driving a silver car, please call.” Cue the nut jobs. Finny was right. That request would generate a lot of nonsense, but what could we do? Withholding it wasn’t an option. “We’re also interested in anyone who may have sold a stuffed animal like this one, in the area recently.” He held up Sammy. Photo flashes went off, creating a strobe effect. “Cody’s parents, Jane and Peter, would now like to make a statement.”
Wright stepped back, and Jane moved to the microphone. Her face, spot-lit by TV cameras, looked ghostly pale. “Cody is our baby boy. He’s sick, and needs care. Please, if you’ve taken him, return him to us. He needs us. We just want him home.” She clutched the scarf at her throat, her voice raspy with tears. “Please.” Her husband wrapped his arm around her and angled toward the mic to say, “We’re offering a $10,000 reward for anyone who can help us bring Cody home.” He squeezed his wife’s shoulder and kissed her hair.
Ten thousand dollars? How would they get $10,000?
The reporters shuffled their boots, excited by this news.
Wright said, “We’ll now take questions.”
Pale hands shot into the sky like human fireworks, glowing in the darkness.
Wright pointed. “You.”
“Cody has been abducted twice within two weeks. Why has he been targeted?”
Wright’s exhale was loud. “We don’t know. We’re hoping everyone can help us bring him home safely, soon.”
“Was there a ransom note found, either time?”
“No comment,” Wright said. He could’ve said no, but then we might be flooded with fake ransom notes. “Yes, you.” He pointed to a reporter from the local paper.
“The Mighty Morphin Power Ranger mask. Was that seen today, or during the first attempt?”
“The first attempt.” He looked to his left. “Yes?”
A younger reporter, minus a camera crew, asked, “Mrs. Forrand, where were you when Cody was taken?”
Wright put up a blocking arm, but she leaned past it, toward the mic, and said, “Shopping for Christmas presents.”
“And you, Mr. Forrand?”
Wright said, “We’re not here to interrogate Cody’s parents. It’s cold and getting late. Do you have any questions for me?” He’d let annoyance color his tone. Not great, but at least he’d shut down the questioning of the Forrands.
A movement behind him caused reporters to look up. Klein came through the station. He stopped, a deer in headlights. “Go back inside!” Mrs. Dunsmore told him.
“I’ve got a car accident,” he said, his voice carrying.
“Use the rear exit!”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Wright’s jaw moved. Grinding his teeth, no doubt. “You have a question?” He pointed to a male reporter bundled in a Patriots scarf, repping Channel Four. The man asked, “Has the FBI been involved?”
“They’ve been contacted. I can’t say more about their involvement. Next?” He selected a woman from Channel Five.
“What about the pedophile who lives near Cody Forrand’s house? Has he been questioned in relation to this case?”
“We’ve questioned several people, including a neighbor with past criminal charges of sexual misconduct,” Wright said.
“What about the arson of that man’s home? Are the Forrands suspects in that case?”
“No,” Wright said, with force and venom.
“Please,” Mrs. Forrand said. Her voice shook slightly. Everyone’s eyes went to her. “Help us find our son. We want Cody home.” She inhaled, hiccupped, and then turned, sobbing, into her husband’s arms.
“We’re done,” Wright said. “Thank you for your time.” He ushered the Forrands inside while a few reporters tossed out last questions. Wright ignored them.
Mrs. Dunsmore said to me, “I hope you didn’t say we’d pay out $10,000.”
“Hardly. They’ll have to sell their house for that money.”
We walked up the steps. Someone called, “Chief Lynch!” I pivoted. The Channel Five woman stood two steps below. Her made-up face was clownish off camera. “Is it true your police car was vandalized recently with a gay slur?” she asked.
I said, “No comment,” and half pushed Mrs. Dunsmore into the station before anyone could get us on film.
Inside, I told Finnegan I wanted him and Wright to split up the parents and question each separately.
“Anything you want me to ask?” he said.
“You might ask where the 10k reward is coming from. Also, see if the missus has anything to say about Uncle Greg.”
He said, “Speak of the devil—Chaplin cops did a drive-by for us, and he’s not home. No lights on. Neighbors haven’t seen him since he left for work this morning.”
“You got an APB on his vehicle?” The very new Impala he purchased. We’d discovered that he had bought it three weeks ago, and that Cody hadn’t seen it before his abduction. Of course, now we had the Camry. None of this made sense.
My stomach rumbled. It was well past dinnertime. “I’m gonna send out for pizza. You want any?”
“Sure. I’ll have a pineapple and pepperoni with olives.”
“Like hell,” I said. Finnegan liked to order disgusting combos
that assured he’d have a whole pie to himself. Not today.
Officers came through the front door. More than were on shift. “What are you doing here?” I asked Dix. He’d been on duty earlier. Had gone home in the afternoon.
He said, “I want to help. Some of the other guys do too.”
“I’m not sure the selectmen are gonna be happy about paying overtime,” I said.
“I’ve got a boy, Charlie, in Cody’s class.” He rubbed his mustache. “Charlie asked if I could find Cody. I told him I’d try. I don’t really give a damn about the overtime.”
“Great.”
“That only applies to this instance,” he said, holding up his finger.
“Got it.”
More officers came in as I checked on the tips. When the Forrands emerged from their interviews with Wright and Finnegan, I made a point of introducing Dix. Dix told them about his boy, Charlie.
“Oh yes, Charlie,” Jane Forrand said. “He came to Cody’s party last year, didn’t he? He has red hair?”
Dix nodded. “He’s our red devil.”
Jane looked about the space, full of men, and asked, “Where’s Anna? Anna?” Her voice was pitched high. “Anna!”
“She’s there,” I said, pointing to Mrs. Dunsmore’s office.
She knelt by Anna’s chair and kissed her forehead. “I got worried when I couldn’t find you.” She hugged her daughter.
“Mom, you’re squeezing too hard!”
“Oh, sorry.” Jane stepped back. Swept a loose strand of hair behind her ear. I tried to see the high school beauty in the woman before me.
“Anna was telling me about her favorite story,” Mrs. Dunsmore said.
“Rapunzel,” Mrs. Forrand said, a smile on her lips. Anna didn’t correct her. Mrs. Dunsmore frowned. She’d caught the error.
“It’s time to go, Anna.” Mrs. Forrand struggled, her arm stuck in her coat sleeve.
“Allow me,” I said. I held the coat’s arm steady.
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Dunsmore watched as she slotted her arm into the sleeve.
Jane grabbed Anna’s hand and said, “Call us the moment you hear anything.”
She pulled Anna in her wake. Anna called, “Bye!” over her shoulder.
Mrs. Dunsmore said, “Poor thing probably doesn’t get much attention with her sick brother.” She rooted in a desk drawer. Withdrew an oval tin. “Mint?”
“No, thank you.”
She took one and considered the small round mint on her palm. “What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why none of you mentioned that Mrs. Forrand is pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” I said.
She smiled and popped the mint in her mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Pregnant?” Wright said. He chewed his pizza like it might make a run for it.
“You sure?” Finnegan asked. He eyed his plain cheese slice with mistrust. God, did he really like those gross combos he ordered?
Mrs. Dunsmore gave Finnegan a look that would wither stronger men. “You have three ex-wives and four children, and you can’t spot a pregnant woman?” she asked him.
“I guess not,” he said.
“What about you?” she asked Wright.
He said, “She’s not really showing.” He traced a bump before his belly.
“She is, a little. If you look closely,” she said.
“Why isn’t he getting a lecture?” Wright asked, looking at me. Then he dropped his gaze. Realizing.
“Gay,” I said. “Remember?” I turned to Mrs. Dunsmore. “Don’t suppose you know how pregnant she is?”
“I’m guessing first trimester,” she said.
“Does it mean anything?” Wright asked.
“It means they didn’t tell us,” I said.
“My wives waited until three months passed before they told anyone,” Finnegan said. “Just in case something happened.” He reached for another pizza slice. The detectives had commandeered two pies.
“Can they test for CIPA?” Wright asked. “Before the baby is born?”
“You think they’d abort if the baby had CIPA?” Mrs. Dunsmore asked.
“I can’t imagine them caring for two kids with that disease,” Finnegan said. “Think of the expense.”
“And the time,” Mrs. Dunsmore said.
I repeated what Anna had told me about her secret neighborhood babysitter, Cara. “Jane Forrand lied to us about that,” I said. “Now, with this pregnancy . . .”
“You think the mom grabbed Cody?” Finnegan asked. “How? She was out shopping. She came back with gifts. I saw them. Besides, you saw how freaked she got when she didn’t see Anna here. Naw. She feels guilty as hell for leaving him this afternoon.”
Dix came over, sheet in hand. “Tip just came through about the mask.”
I grabbed the memo before Wright could. “Thanks.”
“Hey, you guys got more pizza? We ran out.” Dix leaned forward, hand extended. Finnegan slapped his hand with a ruler and said, “That’s for detectives.”
“Dix, don’t listen to him.” Mrs. Dunsmore said. “Take the box.” Finny grabbed another slice before Dix could take it away. “You act like children,” she said.
“So what’s the scoop?” Wright couldn’t read over my shoulder. Not tall enough.
“Woman says she sold a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger mask back in November. Says she remembers because it was after Halloween,” I said.
“Where?” Finny asked.
“Treasure Chest,” I said.
Wright snatched the paper from my hand. “I want to go talk to,” he peered at the note, “Barbara McCabe. Maybe the kidnapper paid with a card.”
“See you,” I said, trying not to get excited. It was one tip. It might not be our guy. Could be that someone was just taking advantage of post-Halloween sales.
“What are the chances?” Finnegan said. He was running the same calculations I was. Possibility plus location plus hope minus probability.
“You think the parents are involved?” Mrs. Dunsmore asked. “I assume you interviewed them for a reason.”
“Given her pregnancy, we have to consider it,” I said.
“You insisted on the interviews before you knew that.” She didn’t miss a beat.
“We have to look at who stands to gain. There’s no ransom. They don’t seem to have enemies. So far, we’ve got Uncle Greg, and he could be our man, but if not . . .”
Finnegan said, “Mr. Forrand could’ve hired someone. He strikes me as a capable guy. He and his wife had a nice life in Chaplin. Cody comes along, and it falls to pieces. He was something of a hero in that Vicky Fitzgerald kidnapping, directing volunteers and resources. Why didn’t he do that in the search for his own son? And, if his wife is pregnant, he knows they can’t afford another child.”
Wright’s plate of pizza crusts was unattended. He didn’t eat the crusts. I loved them. Rick used to call them “pizza bones.” He’d ask, “You want my pizza bones, Tommy?” Offering me a greasy paper plate heaped with uneaten crusts. I grabbed Wright’s plate.
“He might have thought it was the best decision in the long run,” Finnegan said. “I looked into that job he lost, back when they lived in Chaplin. There were rumors he was skimming funds. Nothing proven, but lots of gossip. Maybe he thought slamming us on TV could throw us off our game.”
“If he had a hand in it, it explains the sheets, fake Sammy, and mask,” I said.
“If he paid someone,” Mrs. Dunsmore said, “there’d be evidence. Check his accounts.” It was a testament to Finny’s relationship with her that he didn’t blink at being told what to do by a secretary.
“Good idea,” Finnegan said. “I’ll put Klein on it. He used to work at a bank.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, back when he was a kid, he used to deposit my checks. Then one day the place gets hit. A man in a balaclava carrying a water pistol tries to hold the place up.”
Mrs. Dunsmore said, “The water pis
tol looked real, or so I heard.”
Finnegan snorted. “Klein saw it wasn’t a real gun, but he hit the panic button. Got the cops there. Decided he liked being a hero and applied to be a cop a week later.”
“Here?” I said. “Not a lot of opportunities for heroism.”
“If he helps find Cody, it would be something.”
True. If he helped find Cody, it would be something. The hours were ticking away. The chances of finding Cody alive decreased with each sweep of the clock’s hand. It was hard to be a hero when what you found was a dead child. Look at Victoria Fitzgerald’s case. There were no heroes there.
Mrs. Dunsmore reminded us to unplug the coffeepot when we left, because the cord was frayed and we were going to burn the place to the ground one of these days.
“When we leave,” Finnegan said. “When’s that again?”
“When you find Cody Forrand,” she said.
“Chief, call!” Darryl yelled.
Finnegan, Mrs. Dunsmore, and I exchanged glances. Did he mean a chief call or a call for me?
“Chief, line four! It’s Andrew Trabucco’s sister.” Someone booed, low and loud. “And she’s pissed.”
“Thanks, Darryl!” I snatched up the phone. “Chief Lynch.”
“Chief Lynch, this is Wanda Trabucco. I just saw the news report, about that missing boy, Cody Forrand. Is it true his parents burnt my brother’s house down?”
“No. I believe my detective was clear that the Forrands aren’t suspects.”
“Who then? Have you even looked into it? Four of his pets died, and he could’ve been killed. I know you don’t think he’s worth the air he breathes, but he’s not a monster. He was abused by our uncle, when we were little. He’s tried to get help, to get better. He hasn’t been in trouble once since he got out of jail, and now someone tried to kill him in his sleep. What are you doing about it?”
“We’re investigating the arson, Miss Trabucco. I can’t comment on an open case.”
“But you can have a press conference for that boy. Pull out all the stops there. Because he’s worth something and my brother, well, you’ve just written him off, haven’t you?”
I had nothing to say to that, because if we were comparing worth, than yes, I counted Cody Forrand, an innocent boy, worth more than a thirty-three-year-old pedophile who’d never be rehabilitated. “Good night, Miss Trabucco,” I said.
Idyll Fears Page 17
