Picture Perfect

by Fern Michaels

  Sanders nodded. “I let this one get under my skin as far back as house duty in Montclair. I feel responsible, somehow. Did Dr. Ryan tell you Davey is a hemophiliac? He has to have a shot every day, regular as clockwork, to keep it under control.”

  “Yes. I know that if he misses his shots there’s no telling if the drug will work for him anymore.”

  “Right. It’s sort of an internal sabotage, his own body rejecting the drug that would keep him from bleeding to death. How many has he missed so far?”

  “According to Dr. Ryan, only one—at twelve noon today. It’s been over thirty hours since his last injection. Dr. Ryan has been on the phone with a specialist. No one knows how fast those antibodies in the kid’s body will develop. Their best guess is that at forty-eight hours it starts getting critical. By the way, we have a code name for radio contact. Transmissions relating to this case are called in to Panda Bear.”

  Sanders laughed and shook his head. “That’s the handle Davey uses in the CB club he belongs to.”

  “Yeah, we know. Dr. Ryan told us.” Feeley bit down hard on his cigar. Everyone knew Sanders’s feelings about kids, especially his sister’s. Kids were okay, in their place, Feeley thought, but he didn’t want any of his own. Not now, anyway. As if he had a choice, he laughed wryly to himself. His first and only marriage had come and gone before he’d realized what was happening. He hadn’t been a bad husband, but he hadn’t been a good one either.

  “I thought you said you were going to get us there in thirty minutes.”

  Feeley looked at his watch. “You want to quibble about one minute and ten seconds, go right ahead.”

  As soon as the car stopped, Sanders grunted and climbed out. Why spoil Feeley’s day, or night? “Who’s in charge?”

  “You are, now that you’re here. You’re senior officer. The local police will bow and kiss your hand, if you play your cards right. We’ve a temporary office set up behind the manager’s office.”

  Sanders grunted again as he made his way to the camp store’s grimy office. The fresh pungent scent of pine was everywhere. The smell reminded him of the air freshener the cleaning crew used in his own office. The autumn leaves heralded a new season that would soon give way to sharp, cold winds and, he hoped, snow. He liked snow, didn’t even mind driving in it. Hell, he liked life and everything it had to offer. He felt a chill and stopped mid stride. “What do you think the chances are for a frost tonight?”

  Feeley worked at the cigar in his mouth. He remembered Dr. Ryan saying that Davey was wearing a light windbreaker. A little kid could freeze, especially one in his condition. And the forecasts were predicting rain for tonight, possibly thunderstorms. “Jesus, I’m no goddamn weatherman. Fifty–fifty would be my guess.”

  Inside the storeroom, Feeley lounged against stacked cartons of cereal. He looked around at the boxes of merchandise that would eventually fill the camp-store shelves. Beans, Spam, instant coffee; he grimaced. His tastes ran to prime rib, baked potato, garden salad, fresh vegetables. Key lime or pecan pie for dessert. He looked around again to see what the storeroom held in the way of dessert. A meal wasn’t a meal without dessert. He snorted as he removed the mangled cigar from his mouth. He should have known—canned fruit cocktail. He trampled the ruined cigar underfoot and put a fresh one in his mouth. Sanders was shaking hands with the local police. Feeley dexterously bit off the end of the cigar. A butane lighter snapped to life, almost singeing his thick eyebrows. He paid it no mind. Black, evil-smelling smoke circled and spiraled around his head. If nothing else, it would stop the locals getting in his face and expounding their theories, which, in his eyes, weren’t theories at all, but assumptions that any first-week rookie cop could make.

  “You’ve got a dead body with positive identification,” Sanders said. “That’s good. I have a missing kid who’s a hemophiliac. It seems to me you’ve been doing a hell of a lot of work on a case that should be cut and dried by now. It beats the hell out of me how you haven’t managed to pick up that psychedelic truck and pop-up.”

  Eyebrows raised, jaws clenched and lips thinned as Sanders drove home his point to the group of policemen. “Good police instinct should have told you that the boy is mixed up in this somehow. Your all-points bulletin is worthless. And sitting around waiting is pointless. We have to get moving. Now!” He looked at each in turn and wondered if he’d ever been so naive. “Okay, listen up. I’m the chief and you’re the Indians. You got it? If not, I have a badge saying that’s the way it goes.”

  Feeley blew another cloud of smoke in Sanders’s direction. He grinned to himself. Old war horses could take charge quickly when they wanted to.

  “Feeley,” Sanders called over his shoulder, “see that this picture is in every morning paper in the area. Start with the Asbury Park Press. Don’t let them give you any crap about it being a color Polaroid shot either. If they even think about giving you trouble with the deadline, tell them you know the paper isn’t put to bed till ten, and then there’s a two-hour grace period. Call ahead if you want. Just get it done.”

  Sanders issued his remaining orders grimly. He believed that Davey was somewhere near the park. The moment the others cleared out, he spoke to Feeley across the makeshift table.

  “If you’re asking me what I think professionally, I have to say that I go along with the department. If you’re asking me what I think off the record, I think the kid saw something and was picked up. He could be anywhere; he could be dead.”

  “What’s he like—the kid, I mean?” Feeley asked curiously.

  “He’s got a lot of savvy, if you know what I mean. He’s been through a rough time, and he’s just now coming into his own. I know some adults who couldn’t take the medical treatment this kid has been through. Do you think you could stand being transfused through your jugular vein? No? That kid has, many times. I’ll tell you who he looks like. You ever see that airline commercial where the kid gets a pair of wings from the flight captain and then says, ‘Oooh, thank you, Captain’? Well, he looks just like him. I’m sure there are thousands of kids who look like that, but Davey Taylor is special. Very special. I’m going over to the aunt’s campsite now. Which way is it?” Talking about Davey made Sanders’s stomach churn.

  “Take the main road and follow it to the fork, then bear left. It’s the only RV in sight.”

  Just as Sanders stepped outside, Lorrie Ryan walked up. Sanders saw a woman who was stripped-down, naked with hurt. Nobody deserved to go through what she was going through.

  “Stuart—I mean, Mr. Sanders—when did you get here? Where’s Sara? Do you have word of Davey, is that why you’re here?” Lorrie clasped her hands together and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Hey!” he said, taking her firmly by the shoulder. “Slow down.” He tried to quiet her with his own calmness. “There’s no word yet. And your sister—well, she elected to stay behind with Mr. Taylor.” How bitter the words sounded.

  “She what?” Lorrie looked incredulous.

  Sanders tried to make his voice sound neutral, feeling that his own judgment would only serve to aggravate the situation. Christ, maybe he was getting too old for fieldwork. A desk job, that was what he needed. He repeated his carefully chosen words. “Mrs. Taylor elected to stay behind.”

  “Just what the hell does that mean?” Lorrie burst out.

  Sanders kept control of his voice. “Mr. Taylor took the stand for thirty minutes today.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with Sara and Davey? She’s the kid’s mother! You did tell her what happened, didn’t you?”

  Sanders looked straight into her eyes. “Of course, I did, but . . .”

  Lorrie clutched at Sanders’s forearm and spoke softly. “I can’t believe she would stay there. She has to be worried sick—how could she stay behind? Is there something you aren’t telling me, something I should know?”

  Sanders shook his head. He was truly at a loss for words to explain Sara’s behavior. “Your sister, Mrs. Taylor,
she said she trusted me to handle the matter.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Both Mr. and Mrs. Taylor believed that Davey . . . that he’s simply wandered off and will find his way back.” Should he volunteer the rest or be quiet? If he was going by the book, he’d keep his mouth shut, but he hadn’t worked by the book in a long time. “Mr. Taylor was a very convincing witness today. It was unfortunate that the court adjourned at such an early hour or it could have been wrapped up and they both could have come.”

  Lorrie’s eyes flashed with anger. “So, Sara’s little Andrew made a good showing for himself under Mommy’s watchful eye, did he?” She laughed with disgust. “Of course, you know she didn’t come back to Jersey with you because she’s afraid he’ll screw up without her there to protect him. And if he screws up—well, let’s just say she would feel that he had disgraced her. And God forbid that should happen. She’s disgusting!”

  Sanders sighed deeply.

  “Poor Davey. He always comes last.” Lorrie flung herself against the agent’s chest and clung to him.

  Sanders wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. He’d wanted to hold her like this since the first time he’d seen her, but he would have preferred their first embrace to be under more pleasant circumstances. “Some people just have their priorities screwed up,” he said, brushing her temple with his lips.

  “Don’t make up excuses for her. There is no excuse for her not coming here. None, and you know it, don’t you?” She leaned back in his arms and looked up at him, waiting for him to answer.

  If he hadn’t known before, Sanders knew now that he was too close to this case. His emotions were involved. For an FBI agent, that was a cardinal sin.

  “Lorrie,” he began, not sure what he was going to say. “I . . .”

  Lorrie glared at him, challenging him to answer, to be truthful with her. “Tell me I’m wrong, Stuart. Tell me there’s a better reason for her to stay with Andrew than for her to come here.”

  “It’s not for me to say, Lorrie.”

  With a pained expression, Lorrie glanced away. “You’re right. It isn’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to involve you in our family’s matters.”

  He smiled down at her. “I understand. You’re upset.”

  Regretfully, Lorrie eased herself out of his arms. “Yes, I’m upset. But I’m sick and tired of Davey taking a backseat. He should be in the front seat all the time. Especially with his medical problems and—” She broke off, shaking her head.

  “Why don’t we walk back to your campsite? I could use a cup of coffee.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” A young officer was heading towards Sanders.

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “Phone call for Dr. Ryan.” The cop held up Lorrie’s cell phone. “You left it on the table outside your motor home. I thought you’d probably want someone to answer it,” he said, handing it to her.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Taylor. From Miami.”

  Sanders watched as Lorrie seemed to shrink into herself. His voice was protective when he spoke. “Why don’t you let me take the call? I can tell her you’re trying to take a nap or . . .”

  She smiled up at him. “Thanks, but that’s the easy way. I’ll talk to her.”

  Sanders watched her walk away. “I don’t envy her that conversation,” he said to Feeley, who had walked up behind him. “Sara Taylor is like a barracuda and Lorrie’s a guppy in comparison.”

  “I don’t know about Mrs. Taylor,” Feeley said, “but I think you’re wrong about Dr. Ryan. She’ll handle the call.”

  Sanders nodded morosely.

  Lorrie walked slowly in the direction of the motor home. “Is that you, Sara?” she asked calmly. She refused to permit Sara to rattle her.

  “Yes, this is Sara, Lorrie. How could you have allowed my son to wander off? I trusted you. Andrew and I just can’t believe you allowed this to happen. It’s unforgivable. Well, has he returned yet?”

  “No, Sara, he hasn’t come back to camp yet. The police are still searching for him. Mr. Sanders arrived a short while ago. I don’t think he’s ‘wandered off’ as you put it. We all think it’s more serious than a little boy lost in the woods. I’m not sure if you know it or not, but the police found a dead body near where Davey was playing. We’re not sure if Davey saw or overheard something. We’re doing everything we can. I’m sorry, Sara. I take full responsibility.” Lorrie kept her voice firm and controlled.

  “That’s absurd. What could Davey possibly have to do with a dead body? You’re grasping at straws, Lorrie, to cover your own ineffectiveness. There won’t be a next time, I assure you. Andrew and I both feel Davey’s wandered off. Andrew admitted that he used to do the same thing when he was a child. Like father, like son. I want you to call me the minute Davey gets back, no matter what time of the day or night it is.” Her voice was frigid, bordering on open hostility. “I suppose if there’s anything we can be grateful for in this . . . this outing you insisted on, it’s that Davey’s had his shot.”

  Lorrie swallowed hard. Evidently Sara didn’t know Davey had been missing since early morning. “Davey missed his shot. He wandered off shortly after breakfast. I thought you knew,” Lorrie said, gripping the phone tighter.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Lorrie. What have you done?” Lorrie’s control snapped. “Why aren’t you here, Sara? Why didn’t you come with Mr. Sanders? Your place is here where Davey—”

  “How dare you tell me where my place is! I’m here seeing to something very important and I trusted my son to you. The only reason you want me there is so I can make everything right for you, the way I did when we were children. You never did anything right, Lorrie. I was always the one who had to pull your chestnuts out of the fire and get you out of one scrape after another. Not this time. You, and you alone, are responsible for my son. I don’t want to hear another word from you until you call me and tell me Davey is safe. Do you understand me, Lorrie?”

  Lorrie felt goose bumps on her arms, not from the cold but from Sara’s icy voice. Hang up, her mind shrieked. Don’t pay attention to what Sara’s saying. Sara was changing everything around, just like she always had. It was always Sara who began the arguments, not her. Yet she, Lorrie, had always ended up paying the piper. Ignore her. She’s upset. Don’t say another word.

  “Lorrie, are you there? Answer me.”

  “I’m here, Sara. I was thinking about something.” It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to square her shoulders. “I always tried to like you because you were my sister, but I don’t like you, Sara. I didn’t like you when we were children, and I don’t like you now that we’re adults. I love Davey—you know that. I won’t bore you with what I’ve gone through today. There’s no way you could possibly understand. Just because you’re Davey’s biological parent doesn’t mean you love him more—or even as much—as I do. If you did, you’d be here. I don’t have anything else to say, so I’m going to hang up. If I hear anything I’ll let you know.” Lorrie pressed the button to end the call. Damn Sara to hell.

  “Are you all right?” Stuart Sanders moved around in front of Lorrie. He’d been right behind her while she was talking to her sister, not eavesdropping, just waiting. He’d wanted to be there for her if Sara Taylor said something to send her over the edge.

  When Lorrie turned around, he saw that her eyes were glistening with tears. “I’m okay,” she said, her words belying her expression.

  “Yeah, sure you are.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her toward the motor home.

  Chapter 10

  The phone was still in Sara’s hand when Andrew admitted Roman DeLuca into the hotel suite. Her conversation with Lorrie had not been satisfying, and it rankled that Lorrie had hung up on her. But Sara schooled her face to impassivity before facing the prosecuting attorney. Everything about him annoyed her. He was as bogus as a three-dollar bill, and he capitalized on his movie-star good looks, right from his meticulously clipped gray ha
ir to the tips of his manicured fingers. A snakeskin briefcase matched his shoes and belt, and his dove-gray suit and sparkling white shirt were custom-tailored to his slim body in an expensive salute to his vanity.

  Andrew had scoffed when she’d told him that she thought the impeccable attorney had his eye on the governor’s seat. But Sara knew she was right, and Roman DeLuca seemed to read her thoughts. It didn’t upset him, and somehow his reaction added to Sara’s dislike.

  “Mrs. Taylor,” DeLuca said quietly. Sara nodded slightly in response. The phone receiver was still clutched in her hand. Was he wrong, or was there a glimmer of self-righteousness in her eyes? “Were you about to make a phone call, Mrs. Taylor?” he asked.

  Sara glanced down at the phone. “Oh, no, as a matter of fact, I’ve just completed one. To my sister in New Jersey.” Damn, now why had she needed to explain?

  DeLuca noticed the stiffening of her shoulders; he had been right about the self-righteous glimmer. Sara Taylor must have just finished berating her sister, blaming her for the boy’s disappearance. He wished he had arrived just a moment earlier to hear Sara’s end of the conversation for himself. He would have liked to see her in action.

  “Andrew, we must talk.” DeLuca seated himself near the window, careful of the creases in his slacks. “Don’t be alarmed. I want to congratulate you on your fine performance on the stand this afternoon. There’s only one point that’s annoying me.” He looked up at Andrew from beneath his dark, bushy brows. “It’s the way you look for approval from your wife before you answer a question.” At Andrew’s confused look, DeLuca continued. “Obviously you didn’t realize that every time I asked you a question about what you’d witnessed, or your acquaintance with Jason Forbes, you looked to your wife before you answered. You almost never took your eyes off her. I even attempted to block your line of vision but, when I did, you started to get rattled and acted unsure of yourself and your statements. Rather than make you appear a fool, I allowed the visual contact between yourself and Mrs. Taylor.”