by S. J. Harper
“Right.” Zack nods and places the call. After a few moments, he clicks off. “Done. With luck, by the time we’re finished at the gym, they’ll be ready with the rest.”
“And Abigail?”
Zack reaches to start the car. “Checked her out first thing. As soon as she heard what happened, she came back to be with the Andersons. Before that, she and her daughter and grandkids were at a birthday party. A dozen witnesses.”
I stare out the window. “Anderson didn’t come clean with us about his fight with the station manager. Was it because he doesn’t think her capable of doing something like this or because he’s afraid his wife will find out about the affair?”
“Something we’ll have to find out.” He turns the key.
Our stop at Modern Fitness turned out to be as unsatisfying as the lunch we just finished. The childcare center was closed for the day. According to the gym manager, the woman who normally works there Monday through Friday was at her doctor’s office, getting the leg cast removed she’d been wearing for the past two months. The manager did volunteer she’d be back to work at seven the following morning. The one silver lining was the confirmation we got that neither the Borosons nor Nicolsons were members of the gym.
I looked down at the remains of my chicken molé. My expression must say it all.
Zack balls up his napkin and tosses it on the table. “Told you you’d probably be disappointed in the Mexican out here.”
I lay my napkin across my plate, shielding my eyes from the offending black goo the restaurant was trying to pass off as molé. “You were right.” I snatch up a chip and dip it into what I’m certain is salsa from a jar. “What’s your feeling about the gym?”
“Unlikely a young woman in a full leg cast would be involved in a kidnapping. Plus, Taft confirmed no one from the gym had ever been to the Andersons’ home, and odds are the suspect has.” Zack takes a long pull from his iced tea.
“How confident are you that the Anderson case is linked to the other two?” I ask.
He sets down his cup. “You think it’s possible it isn’t?”
“As far as we know, Cooper’s the only victim taken from home. Normally that would point to a personal connection with the victim. My first instinct, like yours, is to search for someone who has a connection to all three boys. But what if there is no connection?”
Zack’s cell phone chimes. He reads the message then begins to tap his hands against the table top. “Taft and Biller haven’t come up with anything new on Hamilton but… Drum roll! Guess where Jose Perez is working today?”
I can’t help but smile. His enthusiasm is infectious. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
The drumming stops. He leans forward, “One block from the Nicolsons’ home.”
“No!”
“Yup.”
Jose Perez is unloading his lawn mower from a truck parked in front of an impressive home with a well-manicured lawn—the same lawn that he mowed on the sixteenth of February, the day that Mikey Nicolson was abducted from a shopping center a few blocks away. According to Taft, the gardener has no priors, nothing on his record at all except a parking ticket issued seven years ago.
“Mr. Perez?”
The swarthy man rolls the lawnmower down the truck ramp and turns toward us. “Yes?”
Zack flashes his badge and quickly dispenses with introductions.
Mr. Perez pulls a bandana from the pocket of his work pants and wipes his hands with it. He’s slight of build but lean-muscled. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and worn blue jeans. Under a battered baseball cap, his tanned face reflects curiosity and surprise at our sudden appearance, but no apprehension. “What can I do for you?” he asks.
Zack pulls a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “We have a few questions for you about Cooper Anderson’s kidnapping.”
“What?” His eyes widen in shock. Feigned or genuine, I can’t quite decide.
“Were you not aware? It’s been all over the news,” I say.
Mr. Perez sits on the edge of the truck’s bed and removes his hat. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday,” Zack answers.
The gardener rises abruptly. “I was there yesterday. I saw Mrs. Anderson and Cooper leave for the gym like they always do. I was gone before they got back.” He passes the bandana over his face before meeting Zack’s eyes. “That poor boy. You’ll get him back, yes?”
“We’re working on it,” Zack assures him, throwing a sideways glance my way.
I take his cue and pick up the questioning. “Did you notice anything out of place yesterday morning? Anyone in the neighborhood that didn’t seem to belong? A strange car?”
Mr. Perez shakes his head. “No, nothing.”
“Where did you go after you left the Andersons’? Say, between eleven thirty and two?” I ask.
“At eleven thirty, I was at Waterfront Park. After I leave the Andersons’, I go there to eat my lunch. Then I take a nap in the truck. My wife and I have twin boys. They still require feedings every four hours. Lucy has them all day. I take over at night so I sleep when I can.”
“Can anyone verify that?” Zack asks.
He frowns. “I don’t know. I park in the same place everyday. Maybe somebody will remember seeing my truck.”
“And after your nap?” I prompt.
“I was at the Colberts’ by two. I do their yard every Monday afternoon, then the Gagliardos’ right after that.”
“What about the afternoon of February sixteenth?” I ask him.
Concern clouds his face. “Why? What happened that day?”
I sidestep the question. “We’re trying to cover all of our bases. That would have been a Tuesday.”
He shrugs. “Then I was here.”
“All day?”
Perez waves toward the house. “It’s a big yard. And there’s a pool in the back that I take care of, too. I get here around one and leave around five.”
Zack tilts his head toward the house on the hill. “And your client can vouch for that?”
“Sure.” There’s not a moment’s hesitation.
As if on cue, the door to the mini mansion opens. A tall, lanky blonde emerges and gives us the hairy eyeball.
“Let’s find out.” I turn to walk up the drive.
“Wait! The sixteenth? That would have been the week they were on vacation.”
I freeze mid-step. My spine tingles. Could it be this simple? Is Perez our kidnapper?
“What about the morning of November fifteenth?” Zack asks.
Perez smiles broadly. “I know exactly where I was that day. Medical University of South Carolina. That was the day the twins were born.”
Zack writes one last thing in his notebook before stowing it away. “Thank you, Mr. Perez. We’ll check out your alibi with the obstetrics department at the hospital.”
“Alibi?” The smile vanishes. “I was there all day.” Then, “Agent Armstrong? Should I find a lawyer?”
“Only if you feel you need one, Mr. Perez.”
We leave him leaning against his truck, his expression tight with strain.
CHAPTER 3
It takes close to half an hour for us to get to the offices of station WCSC on Charlie Hall Boulevard. The red brick building is unassuming, unless you’re looking at the half dozen white satellite dishes or the ginormous steel tower on the far end of the parking lot. We flash our badges at reception and ask to speak with Beverly Hamilton. The twenty-something redhead sitting behind the glass and chrome desk makes a call to announce us. She turns her body away and speaks softly. Then anxiously twisting the phone cord around one hand, she listens. Whatever she’s told makes her swallow hard. After carefully replacing the receiver in its cradle she looks up at us. “I’m sorry, Ms. Hamilton is busy.”
“Let me guess, she wants you to get rid of us.” Zack pulls a card from his wallet and hands it to her.
The receptionist blushes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “You’re here about Brett’s boy?”
>
“We’re doing our best to find him,” I say.
She lowers her voice another notch. “So you know about Brett and Beverly? Is she a…suspect?”
Zack smiles. “You don’t like her.”
“Are you kidding? Beverly’s like my arch nemesis. Between you and me, I don’t know what Brett saw in her.”
I latch on to the past tense. “So it’s over?”
“Which explains the off-the-charts elevation in this month’s Beverly Bitchiness Ratings.”
My partner turns up the wattage of his smile. “If you let us in, I promise to ruin her day.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t. I’ll lose my job.” She glances at the clock on the wall behind her. “Why don’t you take a seat and wait? In five minutes I have a break. I’ll be going through that door and turning to the left, where the restroom is. I won’t look back. To get to Beverly’s office you’ll take a right. At the end of that hall, a left. Then another left. Hers is the last office. The name is on the door. Will that work?”
“Like a charm.”
“Need the directions again?” She glances down at the card and adds, “Agent Armstrong.”
He winks. “Nah, I’ve got it.”
“Very smooth,” I tell Zack when we take our seats in the lobby. “But I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
He shoots me a sideways glance. “Trust me. I want to size her up. Let her know we’re aware there was something between she and Anderson. See if she sweats.”
“Based on what we heard, I don’t think this woman is the kind who sweats,” I tell him.
The minutes tick by slowly. When the time finally comes, I’m the first through the door. Zack’s right behind me. We follow the directions, walking past several employees, none of whom stop to question us.
“Crack security,” Zack mutters before raising his hand to knock on Beverly Hamilton’s door. He waits a beat then opens it.
I hold my breath.
“Did I hear you say come in?” The badge is out. He introduces us.
She rises from behind her desk. “How did you get in here?”
“The door was open,” he says smoothly. “Someone was kind enough to point out the way to your office. I can appreciate how busy you are, but we need your help.”
The approach takes her aback. I see her soften ever so slightly. She smoothes down the front of her black pencil skirt and sits down again. Beverly’s dark shoulder length hair is cut in a stylish bob. She’s not beautiful in the classic sense. But with her full lips, almond-shaped eyes and, most importantly, the confidence she exudes, I can understand why Brett Anderson found her attractive.
“The FBI wants my help?” she asks, crossing her well-toned legs. “This is about Coop’s kidnapping, isn’t it?” She doesn’t wait for a reply but adds, “I want to help in any way I can. The resources of WCSC are at your disposal.”
Beverly’s desk, like the one in the reception area, is chrome and glass. The chairs in front of it, a completely impractical white leather. She hasn’t asked us to sit down, but we do.
I start with something predictable, benign. “Can you tell us if there have been any recent threats against Mr. Anderson? Hate mail? Phone calls that might stand out as being particularly negative?”
She takes a moment to think before responding. “That kind of thing isn’t unusual in this business. It’s impossible to please everyone. But with Brett? He’s a meteorologist. No. Our viewers love him.”
“Yet his ratings haven’t been strong,” Zack interjects. “In fact, you were thinking about letting him go. Isn’t that right?”
Her eyes narrow slightly. Her lips press into a straight line. “Is that what Brett told you?”
“We overheard the conversation you and Mr. Anderson had this morning in his office, I say.”
Her expression gives away nothing. “So you already know we considered letting him go.”
“And that you had an affair,” I add.
She leans back in her chair giving the appearance that she’s relaxed, indifferent.
Is she?
There’s a slight tightness in her lips, a bit of tension around the eyes. “It was brief. It ended. It didn’t mean anything.”
Zack doesn’t let up. “It means you had motive in addition to access.”
“You can’t be serious. You think I snatched his kid because he ended something that had barely started? Why wouldn’t I just tell his wife? Or fire him?”
“Those scenarios might get you revenge, but they don’t get you ratings,” he says. “Since Live5News began coverage of this issue, your ratings have been through the roof. You seem to be scooping your competitors at every turn. You get the exclusive, this becomes a case of national interest, that’s a real winning proposition for the station. Where were you yesterday afternoon when Cooper Anderson was taken?”
Her expression hardens. “You know what I love about this country, Agent Armstrong?”
“Our National Park System? My personal favorite is Zion.”
“I was thinking about the fact that I don’t have to tell you squat. You want to come back here again? You come with a warrant. You want to ask me any more questions, you’ll be asking them in front of my lawyer. I get that you’re just doing your job, but this conversation is over.”
I’m floating. The water is warm. My arms move gently back and forth. I no longer feel the sun on my face. As much as I try to focus on the moment, to loosen the knots in my neck and shoulders, I can’t. Bits and pieces from interviews we conducted today keep rolling round and round in my head. I give up, turn over, swim laps until I can’t do it anymore. When I finally stop and come up for air, I’m breathless. My arms tired, heavy. The tightness in my shoulders relaxed. I squeeze the water from my hair. As I make my way toward the stairs I twist it up and tie it into a knot.
Zack is sitting poolside at one of the tables, jacket and tie off, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. He has a beer in his hand. His eyes are on me. The intensity of his gaze as I rise up out of the water brings heat to my cheeks. The glamour affects my physical beauty in that my true face is hidden. But my body is untouched. Breasts, hips, legs are of a level of perfection only a Siren can possess. The conservative one-piece black suit was chosen to play down my assets. If Zack’s reaction is an accurate measure, the suit isn’t doing its job.
I grab my towel from a nearby chair. “I thought you were going for a run.”
“I decided to call the hospital, check out Perez’s alibi.” He takes a swallow from his beer.
“And the hospital cooperated?”
“After I obtained and faxed over an order. Perez was at his wife’s side when the Boroson boy was being kidnapped. If the kidnappings are connected…”
“Then a solid alibi for one means he’s essentially got an alibi for all,” I finish. “Did you really think Perez was our guy?”
“Nope.” He takes another pull on the long neck.
A cocktail waitress comes over. I place an order for a vodka and tonic with extra lime. “What about Beverly Hamilton?”
“She’s a ball-busting bitch and I don’t like her. But I don’t think she’s a kidnapper.”
“Why is it that a woman who’s smart, sexy, and strong is automatically presumed to be a bitch?” My drink comes and I take a sip.
“It’s not automatic. You’re not a bitch. Don’t tell me you missed the fact that in addition to smart, sexy, and strong, Hamilton’s also mean.”
“Mean? What are we in junior high?”
“I’m a guy. We’re simple,” he says, doing his best to not look at the little bit of cleavage that’s showing.
I drape my towel around my neck before slipping on a hotel robe and cinching it up. “No comment. What we need is a common denominator.”
The sun has set. The waitress drops off menus.
“I’m open to ideas.”
I take a moment to examine the menu and settle on a burger. “I’d like to interview the parents of the other
victims. Look through those cases again.”
Zack nods. “First thing in the morning. That’s where we’ll start.”
CHAPTER 4
Day Three: Wednesday, March 23
I didn’t sleep well. All in all I’d say I dozed for three, four hours at the most. Whether it was from being overtired or frustrated, I don’t know. Spending time with a family whose child has been kidnapped is draining to say the least. When I finally drag myself out of bed, it takes a long, hot shower to clear away the fog and allow me to think about what Zack and I learned yesterday.
Which isn’t much. Brett Anderson was having an affair with his producer but has a solid alibi for the time his son went missing. Sophie Anderson is a creature of habit whose routine could have been noticed by any number of people. Beverly Hamilton might still be a suspect, but not for the first two kidnappings. She may be mean, as Zack said, but I doubt she’s a killer. Both the housekeeper, Abigail, and gardener, Perez, seem unlikely suspects who also have alibis for the time Cooper was taken.
Which leaves us with—nothing.
Zack is to meet me downstairs in the hotel restaurant at eight. I dress, finish drying and pinning up my hair, and head down fifteen minutes early. I need coffee. Not the brew-a-cup stuff alongside the coffee maker in the room, but real honest to God brain-stimulating coffee.
I approach the hostess station and start to ask for a table for two when Zack rises from one in the back of the restaurant and waves a hand.
“Emma. Over here.”
“Lucky lady,” says the hostess. “He’s been waiting patiently for you.”
By the time I reach the table he’s circled around it and pulled out my chair. “I was thinking we could start with the Nicolsons,” he says.
“This isn’t a date,” I gently point out. “You don’t have to hold my chair.”
Zack’s not deterred in the least. “Breakfast dates aren’t really part of my repertoire.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Unless they’re a continuation of dinner. So how about it?”
His tone is absent of innuendo. I know he’s circling back to his question about starting with the Nicolsons, yet the Siren stirs within me. Temptation rears up. I’ve gone too long without a lover and something tells me Zack would be a memorable one. But I’ve been at this game a long time. I’ve learned I can’t afford to be impulsive when it comes to sex. Choosing the right partner requires careful thought. Careful consideration. I know nothing about his private life. He could have a wife, or a significant other somewhere. On the other hand, there haven’t been signs of either. And our time together is limited. We could keep it short and sweet. Although in truth what I’m imagining is more along the lines of painfully long and smokin’ hot.
