by S. J. Harper
Laura picks up the thread. “Sabrina managed to lose a shoe on the way. I picked it up and ran it to the door. My back was turned to the yard less than a minute, I swear.” She clutches her hands together. “When I returned I didn’t realize Andy was missing. It wasn’t until recess was over—maybe five minutes later—that I noticed he was gone. The kids line up on the playground before filing back to the their classrooms. Andy wasn’t in his usual spot. I went to the boy’s restroom, thinking maybe he’d be there.” She pauses and shakes her head. “But he wasn’t. That’s when we notified Ms. Lawrence. She organized an immediate search of the grounds and classrooms. Within minutes we realized—”
Natalie reaches over and pats her friend’s hands. “It’s not your fault.” She straightens and looks at us. “We went into lockdown. Ms. Lawrence alerted the police.”
Zack nods. Their story confirms all that was in the original police report. “Did you see any strangers around the school that day? Or in the days before? Someone who was unknown to you? Anyone. A delivery person perhaps?” He consults the notes from Andy’s case. “I understand you have a milk delivery in the morning and sometimes Ms. Lawrence orders groceries that the supermarket sends out by van.”
Both girls shake their heads. Laura says, “We provide lunch for the children. Milk and groceries are delivered twice a week. But like we told the policeman, we didn’t have any deliveries that day. Supplies came the day before, brought by the same people who always come.”
Natalie frowns. “We aren’t much help, are we?”
Zack gives her a reassuring smile. “You are helping just by answering our questions. Do you think we could talk to the kids Andy was playing with?”
At that, the girls smile.
“Sure. But you know kids,” Laura says. “They have very short memories.”
They lead us outside. Natalie points to the sandbox. “Those four kids play there everyday. We call them The Sand Pipers. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Two of the boys seem to be arguing over a truck.
“You can’t play with this one. It’s Andy’s truck!”
“Can too! Miss Natalie said Andy’s not coming back.”
Natalie skillfully ends the argument by scooping up the mini bulldozer. “I think I’ll just hold onto this myself for a while.” She kneels down in the sand. “I want to introduce you all to Agents Armstrong and Monroe. They have some questions about Andy.”
Unfortunately, the four now-smiling cherubs, three boys and a girl, have nothing of value to tell us. Two of the boys only remember they were playing with Andy in the sand the last day he was here. Kevin, the boy who wanted to claim the truck recalled they were building a castle that day and that the lone girl in their crew, Lorelei, kicked it over. Another brief argument ensues, this time between Lorelei and Kevin. They stop when Ms. Lawrence joins us on the playground. We leave Natalie and Laura to their charges and accompany Ms. Laurence back to the office.
“Were they able to help?” she asks.
“Everything helps,” Zack says, jotting something down in his notebook. He looks up. “There’s one more thing I wanted to double check with you. The girls said there were no deliveries that morning. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Wait! The mail. Would you call that a delivery? The postman came mid-morning, like always. And we did have a substitute mailman that week.” The words come out slowly, as if she’s turning them over in her mind for the very first time. “Actually, it might have been a little longer than a week. I remember because Natalie took an instant liking to him. He was in his early thirties, I think, handsome, very personable. She was crushed when our regular carrier returned from his vacation.”
We follow Ms. Lawrence back into the welcome air conditioning of the office.
“Do you recall whether he showed interest in any of the children? In Andy in particular?” I ask, feeling a spark of hope.
She shakes her head. “By mid-morning the children have all arrived and are in class. As you can see, our office is in the front. The classrooms are in the back. During the course of a normal delivery, the postal worker wouldn’t even see the children. They would park, walk in the front door, and drop the mail off here, at the reception desk.”
From this vantage point, she’s right. The classrooms are out of sight.
I thank her for her cooperation, leave my card for her in case she thinks of anything else. “Before we leave, we’ll walk the perimeter, if you don’t mind.”
She says, “Of course not. Anything to help.”
Zack and I exit through the front door and turn right to walk the fence line. Next to the school, about fifty yards away, is another residence—the owners were questioned at the time of the kidnapping, but both worked downtown and were gone all day, so they had nothing to offer.
We reach the back, where another fence surrounds the playground. I can’t see over it but Zack can. Even with his height, though, he wouldn’t be able to reach over and snatch a kid from the sandbox. The other side fence borders an open lot.
Another dead end.
Zack and I return to the car.
“What now?” I ask sharply, frustrated because we’ve talked to everyone and run out of leads. “Three children taken during broad daylight and no one saw anything.”
Zack looks up at the brand new security camera by the edge of the driveway. “There’s one more thing we can do,” Zack says. “There were security cameras in the grocery store Mikey Nicolson was taken from and more in the parking lot.”
“But you must have already looked at it.”
“Fresh eyes, remember? Unfortunately, the back where the body was found isn’t covered and the space that Mrs. Nicolson parked in was in a blind spot. I don’t know, maybe there’s something you’ll see that we didn’t.”
He slides in behind the wheel.
I open the passenger door. A gust of hot air rushes out. “Do you think the kidnapper could have known that? Maybe we should look more closely at some of the employees.”
The air conditioning is now going full blast. All of the windows are rolled down.
“I don’t think anyone knew,” says Zack. “Footage is recorded and stored. It’s not actively monitored. When I pointed out the blind spot to the manager, he was surprised. Surveillance was originally set up to cover the entire lot. A few months prior to the kidnapping a motor home backed into a light pole one of the cameras was mounted on. The camera had been knocked off line and he assumed it had been fixed.”
I sigh. “Well, right now we don’t have anything else. May as well give the footage another look. How long will it take to get access?”
Zack answers. “No time at all. I’ve got the files loaded on my laptop. I have to warn you, there’s several days’ worth of footage. Even on fast forward, it’s going to take a long time to get through.”
I check my watch. “I’m game if you are. We can order in for dinner.”
“You know, you’re a woman after my own heart. You think about food as much as I do.”
He checks the rearview mirror then rolls up the windows and puts the car in gear. “Your place or mine?” He turns to face me head on. His tone is completely professional. But the question does something to me. Something it shouldn’t. Something dangerous.
Can he sense the quickening of my pulse? Smell the hint of arousal?
I’ve waited too long to answer.
One corner of Zack’s mouth turns up. A slow smile forms. “You’re thinking about that question awfully hard, Agent Monroe.”
I meet his eyes. “Mine,” I answer.
He nods. “A lady who likes to be in control, call the shots.”
I grin. “A lady who is a good shot. You best remember that, Agent Armstrong.”
CHAPTER 6
We get back to the hotel about five. We stop at the bar intending to have a quick drink. While we’re there, we catch a news story about the Andersons. We’d forgotten about their scheduled interview and now, watching the faces of the c
ouple as they appeal to the public for information, my sense of frustration rushes back. Zack called me about this case because he has faith in me. In truth, I feel like I’ve been no use to him whatsoever.
I order another glass of wine and listen intently while the talking heads pick apart every aspect of the investigation. A former FBI agent spews depressing facts and everyone jumps on the bandwagon speculating it’s likely just a matter of time before Cooper’s body turns up. Frustration shifts to aggravation.
I take a swallow of my chardonnay. “You could take that guy.” I tilt my head toward the screen where the former FBI agent, current contender for the best impersonation of the Pillsbury Doughboy is yammering away.
He catches the bartender’s eye and points to his empty glass. “If your tone’s any indication, I’d say you could take him all by yourself.”
We watch a moment in silence, waiting for the waiter to bring Zack’s bourbon. The coverage has circled back once again to a sound bite from the press conference. Brett Anderson might be comfortable in front of the camera, but the pain on his face as he watches his wife beg the public for information is no act.
The server delivers Zack’s drink along with the check. “What do you say we take these upstairs and get to work?” he says after taking a sip.
Before I have a chance to answer, his phone rings. It’s his partner, Lincoln. I grab my glass, slide off the stool, and tell him to come on up when he’s through. This way he gets a bit of privacy and I get a chance to catch my breath, shake this mood. I step into the elevator, listen to the hum of the motor as it makes its ascent, close my eyes. A sigh escapes. I’m alone. Though, it occurs to me I’m never really alone. They are always with me, the missing whom I’ve failed to find over the years, sometimes begging, pleading, sometimes bitter and disappointed. Now I see the face of a little boy, a photograph held up by two frantic parents. The face of a goddess turned vengeful when her own daughter had been taken from her. Demeter’s presence is as palpable as the cold breath on my neck.
I shudder. Try to shake her image away.
I need to stay focused. Eye on the ball.
Determination steels my spine.
I’m not going to fail Cooper Anderson.
It takes Zack about twenty minutes to wrap up his call with his partner. The good news is that Lincoln’s wife is stabilizing. With luck, they will be able to move her out of intensive care in a couple days. The not-so-good news? The elusive Mr. Nicolson called him back right after and that ended in another dead end. Zack said Mikey’s father sounded hopeful, anxious to talk. Until he realized we didn’t have anything new. Then he shut down.
We order dinner from a ubiquitous room service menu whose only concessions to the hotel’s southern locale are side orders of grits, hushpuppies, and collard greens. I pick the fried chicken with a large order of fries. Zack nods his appreciation of my order and orders the same, but with a side order of the greens.
The mere mention of collard greens gets a grimace from me.
Zack laughs. “I figure I’ll share your fries.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Presumptuous.”
“What? I’ll share my greens.”
I don’t have to respond to that, I’m sure my expression says it all.
My room is what’s called a “Junior Suite”. The living room area with a couch, desk, and television opens onto the bedroom. Zack sets his laptop on the coffee table, opens it, and powers it on. We decide to go over the most critical of the footage while waiting for dinner, so we can digest whatever we might glean from the security cameras along with our food. It takes five minutes of fast forwarding to get to what we want.
Mrs. Nicolson in line, Mikey slumped over the handles of the cart fast asleep. It’s just as the clerk described it—the cashier and bagger laughing with Mrs. Nicolson as they watch an oblivious Mikey. But the camera also shows no one behind Mrs. Nicolson in line and no one on either side paying her notice.
Then more surfing until we find what we need from the outside footage. The parking lot is covered by an array of cameras mounted atop various light poles. A wide-angle lens captures the front of the store and the first three lanes of the parking lot. We watch Mrs. Nicolson and Betsy emerge, Mrs. Nicolson cradling a sleeping Mikey in her arms. They walk down the farthest aisle, then just out of view. Less than a minute later Betsy can be seen retracing her steps along with the now empty shopping cart. She passes a black SUV on her way back to the entrance of the store and waves at the driver.
The SUV continues down the aisle, then comes to a stop just before driving out of frame. The driver’s window lowers. This must be the car that belongs to the neighbor, Grace Richardson. Mrs. Nicolson can be seen approaching the open window. The two exchange smiles and greetings, and after another moment, the neighbor pulls off. Mrs. Nicolson returns to her car. I imagine her closing the hatch, seeing the empty car seat, realizing her son missing. All that takes just seconds.
Then we see her again. Frantically running up and down the aisle, shouting, scanning the area. She zigs and zags between vehicles, sometimes leaving the screen, but never for long. Her cell phone is out, some bystanders approach, then a security guard. Within minutes the police are on scene.
Zack pauses the recording. “What do you think?”
“I think there’s no way the kidnapper could have predicted Mikey Nicolson was going to be in that spot at that moment. That opens up the possibility that Andy’s and Coop’s abductions weren’t meticulously planned or premeditated either. The boys are a specific type, yes. But this might be more emotional, less calculated than I originally thought.”
“A crime of opportunity,” Zack suggests.
“Which means the kidnapper knew Mikey. Or at least had seen him before and was following him. The abduction happened quickly, just a few feet away from the boy’s mother. Yet she heard nothing.”
“Neither did Mrs. Anderson, or the day care center employees. As far as we know, none of the children raised a fuss when they were taken.”
“So they either knew their captors or were drugged. Connections haven’t turned up, so at this point I’m inclined to go with the latter. That means the act was impulsive, but he or she was prepared.” I press my fingertips against my eyes. “Let’s run the parking lot footage again. I was watching Mrs. Nicolson the first time, let’s check for other vehicles coming in and out of that parking lot. See if anything else was going on around them when Mikey disappeared.”
Zack cues up the footage and we settle back to watch. From the time Mrs. Nicolson pulls into the parking lot, to the time the police arrive, several dozen cars enter and exit. There’s an array of luxury sedans, SUV’s, compacts, and hybrids.
“Think forensics could enhance any of those plates?” I ask.
Zack shakes his head. “We tried. The angle isn’t quite right.”
I continue to watch. There are two delivery trucks, semi’s, that pull into the lot and proceed around back to the loading dock. There is a white van delivering propane to the exchange site by the front door. One man loads empty tanks and replaces them with presumably full ones, then drives off. A mail truck pulls in front of the store. A uniformed mailman hops out, a bundle of mail in his hand, disappears inside, comes out with a fistful of envelopes. His truck pulls around to the public mailbox and is hidden from view by another large delivery truck that stops, blocking a lane, while its driver jumps from the cab and dashes into the store.
It’s about this time that the police start arriving.
Along with our food.
We clear the laptop off the coffee table and let the server replace it with our dinner trays. When he’s gone, Zack and I start in on the food. After a couple bites I set my fork down, pick up one of the fries, dunk it in ketchup, and pop it into my mouth.
I catch Zack watching me. “What?”
He grins. “You’ve got a little ketchup.” He points to one corner of my mouth.
I pick up my napkin and go after it.
“This side,” he says, leaning forward. He sweeps up the dollop with his thumb.
It’s done with ease. And it makes me realize how comfortable we’ve become with one another, how in sync we are. I’m beginning to like Zack Armstrong, more than like him. But I’m here for business. Not pleasure.
I pluck another French fry off the tray. “Are you as frustrated as I am?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize the double entendre.
Zack doesn’t miss a beat. He scoops up a forkful of collard greens. “We’re talking about the case, right?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Yes!”
He holds up a hand, chews and swallows. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He steals one of my fries, then asks, “This isn’t coming together for you either?”
I lean back in my chair, my heart heavy. “I wish it was. We’re not much further along than we were this morning.”
Zack’s cell phone rings. He takes the call, listens, disconnects. “That was Taft, still no ransom demand. No new leads from the tip line.”
My stomach knots. Two days and nothing.
Zack pushes his plate away and stands up. “I’ll be back to pick you up at seven,” he says.
“Do you mind forwarding the recordings to me? I’d like to go over them again.”
“You’ve worked all day on just a couple hours of sleep. Maybe a good night’s rest is what we both need to help clarify our thoughts.”
I look back at the still image on the screen. “I’ll knock off soon. Promise.”
Zack punches keys on his computer. “They’re on the way.”
I show him to the door then call room service to clear away the dinner things. While I’m waiting, I download the files and watch the surveillance tapes again. People are creatures of habit. They often shop at the same grocery stores on the same days. It’s possible we could set up surveillance, maybe locate the drivers of the cars that entered between the time Mrs. Nicolson arrived and the police came. I review the case notes. That, too, had already been done—with moderate success. They were able to track down and question many but not all vehicle owners.
