Picture Perfect

by Fern Michaels

  “Lorrie?”

  “Duffy came back without Davey.”

  “Christ,” Sanders swore beneath his breath. “How long has he been gone?”

  “Duffy never leaves Davey’s side,” Lorrie said, not answering his question. “This is all my fault. I should have been more careful. I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight, not even for a minute. If anything’s happened to him, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Let’s not borrow trouble, Lorrie. You don’t know that anything has happened to him. How long has he been gone?” he asked again.

  “Since about nine thirty this morning.”

  “For God’s sake, Lorrie. It’s almost four. What took you so long to call me?”

  “What? I . . . we . . . the managers and I—we’ve been searching the campground and—”

  “Who else knows he’s missing?”

  “The police. I called them when we couldn’t find him.”

  “I wish you’d called me first, Lorrie.” Sanders glanced at his watch. Three fifty. Another five minutes and the court would adjourn for the day.

  “Called you first? But I thought it was more important to call the police and get them started looking for him. I called you because . . . because I need you to tell Sara and Andrew.”

  Sanders’s sharp gray eyes traveled the length of the corridor, coming to rest on the nattily dressed young lawyer who was assistant to the defense. In the old days, he would have been called a mouthpiece. Not for the first time Sanders wondered why a promising young attorney would align himself with known syndicate bosses. It occurred to him that Davey might have been kidnapped by a branch of the syndicate and was being used as a pawn to discourage Andrew Taylor from testifying.

  “I’ll tell them.” He pulled a notepad out of his pocket. “Tell me exactly where you are, Lorrie.”

  Lorrie quietly gave Sanders the name and location of the campground. “Stuart . . . this couldn’t have anything to do with . . . What I mean is—you don’t think Davey’s disappearance has anything to do with Andrew’s testifying in this case, do you?”

  Sanders hesitated before answering. “Anything’s possible, and the thought has occurred to me.” He was instantly sorry he’d admitted his suspicions. “I want you to sit tight. Leave your cell phone on so I can get back to you.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Lorrie?” He wished he could reach out and touch her, comfort her.

  “What?”

  “Everything’s going to turn out all right. I promise. You’ll get Davey back unharmed.”

  “I pray to God you’re right, Stuart. I can’t tell you how much I love that little boy.”

  “You don’t have to. I already know.” He paused. “I’ll be back in touch with you in a couple of hours.” He pushed the “end” button and stood there, staring into space.

  Davey had been kidnapped. It was exactly what the FBI had been guarding against; the reason he’d been moved into the Taylors’ house. What kind of scum would snatch a kid? The kind of scum Andrew Taylor was testifying against, he answered himself. They were everywhere. And kidnapping was only the tip of the iceberg.

  His steps were heavy as he made his way down the hall. In a husky whisper he repeated the phone conversation to his associate, Jake Matthews, giving him orders to report to headquarters. “I’ll be waiting here, so make it snappy. I don’t want to tell the Taylors until I get an okay from upstairs. There’s a good possibility the boy is just lost.”

  Matthews nodded and took off at a run. He was back ten minutes later. “Something is brewing around here, Sanders,” the younger man told him. “I get the feeling that everybody is watching and waiting. What’s your hunch? Do you think that friends of the syndicate have snatched the Taylor kid?”

  Before he replied, Stuart Sanders took a last drag on his cigarette, watching the conversation outside the courtroom door between Lester Weinberg, counsel for the defense, and his young assistant. “Matthews, it’s enough to know that the bad guys probably already know the kid is gone. Our aim, right now, is to keep the Taylors from knowing until we get the go-ahead. You’d better get word to Roman DeLuca. As state prosecutor, he’s got to know that his case might fly out the window if Taylor refuses to jeopardize his son by testifying.”

  Lorrie’s white-knuckled fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arms. In spite of Stuart’s words, she couldn’t find the comfort she so desperately needed. All she could do was wait. She kept going over her phone conversation with Stuart. Was it possible that Davey had been kidnapped by someone affiliated with the syndicate? If Davey had been kidnapped, then it was reasonable to assume that he was safe somewhere. But if he’d just wandered off—what had happened to him? Where was he? More often than not, kidnapped children were found dead. It was easier to think that Davey was lost and that, before too long, he’d come wandering out of the woods, safe and sound.

  Lorrie watched the police prowl the woods, their dogs sniffing and straining at their leashes. The local police had called in the state troopers for extra manpower. It was late in the day, and Lorrie had been told that if the boy wasn’t found by morning, the police would alert the media and widen the search. The blood had rushed to Lorrie’s head at the thought of Sara seeing her son’s picture on national news.

  Where was Davey? What could have happened to him?

  Davey Taylor was as close to a flesh-and-blood son as she was ever going to get. He was part of her, no matter what Sara or Andrew said to the contrary. She loved him as much as Sara did—maybe more. A sob rose in her throat and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Leaning against the door frame, looking out, Lorrie thought about Stuart Sanders. She wondered what difference it would have made to call him first. He was in Florida. How could he help find Davey from there?

  It was nearing dusk when Lorrie saw a tall, lanky police officer come into the clearing. Suddenly uniformed figures were everywhere. “What? What is it?” Lorrie yelled.

  The lanky officer backed off a step when he saw Dr. Ryan running toward him. “Stay here, ma’am. This isn’t for you to see. No,” he answered her unasked question, “we didn’t find the boy. This is something else. Stay here,” he repeated firmly.

  “No,” Lorrie said just as firmly. “I want to see what it is. Whatever it is, will it help you find Davey?”

  “I don’t know,” the officer replied.

  In spite of his orders, Lorrie followed him through a stand of trees to what looked like a hole . . . or a grave.

  “Put some muscle into it, Delaney. If there was a six-pack in that hole you’d have it out by now!” a local policeman with a noticeable beer paunch bellowed.

  “Whatever’s down here isn’t going to come up any faster with you yelling, Jackowsky. And who the hell appointed you my superior? You want speed, grab a shovel and do it yourself. If not, shut up and let me do it my way.” Delaney hefted his shovel and gently prodded into the soft dirt.

  Standing at the edge of the hole, Lorrie saw the outline of a body. An adult’s body, not a child’s. She breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  “Simpson, get in there with Delaney and help him,” Jackowsky ordered. “We don’t want any marks on the body made by our department.”

  Simpson sneezed. “Jesus! What’s that smell?”

  “It’s mothballs!” Delaney lifted up a shovelful of dirt containing several of the white balls. “Suppose this is somebody’s idea of how to preserve a body.”

  Jackowsky didn’t laugh.

  “Okay, so it’s not funny. What we got here is a white male, twenty-five to twenty-eight years old. Hey, his eyes are open!”

  “Cover his face,” Jackowsky said, offering a used handkerchief. “This ain’t no funeral parlor, you know,” he grumbled. “Lift him out while I call this in.”

  Minutes later, Jackowsky returned. “The chief is on the way with the coroner, and if you’re one of those guys that’s gonna puke, do it somewhere else. What’s that you got, Simpson?”

  “Looks like the guy’s
wallet. Hell, I picked it up and now my prints are on it.”

  “Then throw it back in.” Jackowsky sighed as if to say how tired he was of dealing with rookies like Simpson and Delaney.

  Lorrie whispered a prayer of thanks. It wasn’t Davey. Thank God, it wasn’t Davey.

  “Now, ma’am,” Jackowsky said. “You’d best be getting back to your RV and taking a pill or something. Or you won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

  “Officer, I appreciate your concern, but I’m a doctor. I’ve seen dead bodies before. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know, but we intend to find out. Ma’am, why don’t you go back to the camp and we’ll get back to you as soon as we clear this up.”

  Lorrie looked around and counted a total of seven policemen and troopers. “I know this is going to sound ungrateful, but there are seven of you here. Why do you need seven people to dig up one body? Why aren’t at least four or five of these men out looking for my nephew? I’m sorry that the man is dead, but nothing can be done for him. Davey is just a little boy, and he needs all the help he can get, and you aren’t doing anything.”

  Lorrie felt herself bordering on hysteria. She decided to leave the gravesite before she said something she was sure to regret. Behind her, the seven men were silent.

  Lorrie shivered. As soon as she got back to camp, she would make herself a cup of coffee—no, a pot of coffee—and build a campfire. A big campfire, one that could be seen from a long distance. It would warm the searchers as they came back with their reports, and it would serve as a beacon for Davey, a way for him to find his way back through the dark of night.

  Today had been the kind of day you prayed would never happen, the kind of day that always seemed to happen to other people. Tomorrow had to be better. But, unless Davey was found, tomorrow would be worse, and every day after that would be worse than the one before. And then there was Sara. Oh, God, Sara. Sara would arrive and . . . She didn’t want to think about it.

  Lorrie imagined her sister receiving the news. Of course, she would take the next plane out of Miami. Lorrie shivered again, not with cold but with fear of Sara and how she would react—or rather, retaliate. Because that’s what Sara would do. Lorrie felt guilty thinking that of her sister, but she knew her well enough after all these years. It would be Sara against Lorrie and the police; Sara would stay on the sidelines, yet somehow she would manage to control everything and everyone. There would be no closeness, no weeping together, no hoping together. Sara never shared her emotions with anyone but Andrew. She would be the judge and the jury, and Lorrie would never get an acquittal. Sara would find her guilty and judge her accordingly.

  Lorrie turned her thoughts to building the fire. She piled up the kindling and set more rocks around the firepit. When everything was ready, she set a match to the construction and watched the flames spread through it.

  She wished Stuart Sanders would call again and reassure her, like he had earlier. This was one of those times when she really needed a good man to lean on. Someone she could share her fears with. Someone who would hold her while she cried her eyes out. When this was all over, and Davey was safe and sound, she was going to think seriously about pursuing a relationship with the man.

  Lorrie looked up to see three patrol cars coming her way. Their lights were flashing but their sirens were silent. Must be the coroner and his entourage, she thought. A short while later, Officer Delaney came over to speak to her. “We still have men combing the woods.”

  Lorrie nodded.

  “The coroner says that the man we found in the grave died of massive head injuries. Either he hit something or something hit him. We’re pretty certain it was the latter. As you know, there was a wallet in the grave. The description on his driver’s license seems to indicate that the deceased is Leonard Lombardi of Newark, New Jersey. Do you know him?”

  “No, I don’t. It was murder, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s looking that way. Right now, there’s an all-points bulletin out for the two other campers who were here last night. According to the manager here, one was an older, retired couple. The other couple, they were a lot younger, real lowlifes from what the manager’s wife says. Seems they were camped in the vicinity of the grave. Both couples left early this morning. We’re checking it all out.”

  “What about Davey?” Lorrie asked anxiously. It seemed to her that the excitement of finding the body was taking precedence over the search for her nephew.

  Delaney became defensive. “We’re working on that, Dr. Ryan. There’s always the possibility that your nephew’s disappearance is linked with the dead man. I’m not saying that’s the case, ma’am, only that it’s a possibility.”

  Lorrie’s voice was low and controlled when she questioned the young officer. “Did the manager say if he knew where the other couples were heading? Campers, as a rule, usually make inquiries about where their next stop is going to be.”

  “The older couple, the Kovals, said they were going to Virginia Beach. They should be setting up camp there around about now. We have a call in to the local police and we’re waiting for them to get back to us. The young couple is another story. They paid in advance and didn’t stop on their way out. The guy didn’t even have a hookup, so we don’t know when he left or where he was heading.” Delaney looked up as someone boomed his name. “Hold it, looks like something just came in. Stay here and I’ll be right back, ma’am.”

  “I’ll wait, officer,” Lorrie said quietly. “I won’t get in your way.”

  She dug a trail in the powdery dirt at her feet, fighting to keep her emotions in check. Delaney returned shortly.

  “What did you find out?” Lorrie asked, hoping, praying.

  “The young couple I was telling you about—well, the pickup is registered to an Edmund Balog of Newark. Yesterday he was stopped on the turnpike by a state police officer. Seems there was some uneasiness on the part of the trooper. He was checking Balog’s license when an emergency call came in. There was an accident further down on the pike and he had to cover it. We have a call in to the officer now. He’ll be going off duty soon and will call in. I’m afraid that’s all I have to report for now. Why don’t you go back to your RV? I give you my word that as soon as I hear something, I’ll report to you. The other teams will be checking in, and the new crew will be coming on duty. We may need you later. What do you say?” he asked hopefully.

  “Did you get an address for the couple in Newark?” Lorrie asked.

  Officer Delaney looked pained. “Yes, ma’am, and right now there’s a team of officers on the way. I don’t know if you know anything about Newark, but the address is in the Ironbound section. Tough neighborhood, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know the area. I worked at a free clinic there for six months.” Lorrie assumed the officer suspected Edmund Balog of kidnapping Davey or he wouldn’t have brought him up. “Officer, if this goes out to the media, you need to let them know about Davey’s medical condition.”

  “When was he supposed to have his shot?”

  “Noon.”

  Delaney looked at his watch. “It’s five-thirty now.”

  “I guess all I can do is pray that nothing happens to Davey to cause him to bleed. I don’t have to tell you that, without the proper medical care, he could bleed to death in a very short time.”

  “We’re doing everything we can, ma’am. I wish we could do more, but we can’t. Things like this take time.”

  “Thank you, Officer Delaney. I appreciate you keeping me posted.” Lorrie began to go back inside the motor home, then turned to the officer. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  Delaney nodded. “Make it hot and strong. The manager’s wife thinks coffee is colored water.” He gave Lorrie a conspiratorial wink, then excused himself a moment and hurried back to the police car where Jackowsky was gesturing to him.

  “She okay?” Jackowsky nodded toward the motor home.

  “As good as can be expected,” Delaney replied. “Shoul
dn’t we have something on the kid by now? Too many hours have gone by for him to have simply wandered off.”

  Lorrie fixed herself and Officer Delaney a cup of coffee. She stood in the doorway of the van, waiting for him to return with whatever news he had just been given. Over and over she pleated the hem of her cotton shirt, her long, tapered fingers creasing the material, smoothing it out, and pleating it again.

  “I used to love this time of year,” she said when Delaney returned. “Now I hate it. It’s starting to get chilly. It was downright cold last night. Davey had only that windbreaker on; it just has a thin flannel lining. I wonder if he’s hungry.”

  “Nothing much new to report,” Delaney said as he took the cup of coffee from her hands.

  “Whatever it is, please tell me.”

  “That older couple that was going to Virginia Beach—they turned out to be duds. Zero. They didn’t see your nephew. They had some thoughts about the young couple, but that’s all they were. Mrs. Koval says she heard a lot of yelling and screaming, sounded like they were having a verbal altercation. Mr. Koval said he was sleeping, and his wife always hears yelling and screaming. He blames it on all the soap operas she used to watch and something about a fish tank. Sometimes this happens. People don’t want to get involved and they mind their own business. The Kovals are a mind-your-own-business couple—and those are the words of Detective First-Grade Harry Thatcher. They checked out fine. Sorry.”

  “Thanks for coming back to tell me, Officer Delaney. You’ll let me know about any further developments, right?”

  “I’m going off duty shortly. One of the other men will check in with you. We’ve set up temporary offices next to the manager’s quarters. If you need us, or if the boy comes back on his own, you’ll know where to find us. Try not to worry.”