by S. J. Harper
A knock on the door interrupts my chain of thought.
It’s room service. They make short order of clearing away our dinner trays.
After they’re gone, I lock the door then head for the bathroom to draw a bath. Maybe a long hot soak and a good nights sleep is what I need.
I reach for the jar of bath salts that I brought with me; it’s a special blend I make myself—vanilla and lavender. I toss a handful under the spray of the water and sit on the edge of the tub. I close my eyes and breathe in the familiar aroma. I can feel the knots in my shoulders start to unwind. Yes, I need sleep. But what I need even more is a lead, a clue.
What I need is to find Cooper and see him safely back home.
CHAPTER 7
Day Four: Thursday, March 24
Zack is at my door a little before seven. I’ve been dressed for an hour, fruitlessly reviewing surveillance footage and combing over police reports. Irritation must show on my face because his first words to me are, “Nothing, huh?”
I shake my head. “Worse than nothing. I can’t find a single common thread to link these cases except the obvious—the physical descriptions of the boys and the way the first two were killed.”
“Well, let’s get to the Andersons’. I told Taft and Biller we’d be there around seven thirty.”
He doesn’t mention stopping for breakfast first which I take as an indication that he’s as exasperated as I am at our lack of progress. Once more, the cloud of guilt descends. Maybe if I have a chance to get one of the Andersons alone today I can conduct my special brand of questioning. It’s risky, but we’ve exhausted every other channel.
Abigail, the Andersons’ housekeeper, pulls the side door open before the last echo of the bell fades. Her face seems to have aged in the short time since we’ve last been here. Dark circles ring sad eyes. Her hands twist the dishtowel she’s holding, telegraphing the level of stress that’s pervaded the Anderson’s household.
“Agent Monroe, Armstrong—do you have any news?”
Zack steps inside. “We’re still investigating, Abigail. I wish I could say more.”
“So do I.” Abigail bows her head. Her steps are slow, her posture weary as she leads us into the living room. The Andersons are waiting for us, seated side by side on the same blue couch as before, hands clasped. They rise when we enter, expressions hopeful. It takes just a fraction of a second for them to realize we have no additional news. The color drains from Sophie’s face. She sinks back into the cushions.
“We’d been hoping for some good news,” Brett says.
I let Zack talk to them while I go into the library to check in with Taft and Biller.
The two agents look none the worse for wear. Biller is sipping a cup of coffee and munching on one of Abigail’s pecan rolls. Taft appears to have come fresh from the shower. I can smell the soap and aftershave. The demeanor of both is alert and professional when they greet me.
“Our reports are on the desk,” the mammoth Taft says, shouldering into a suit coat that looks like it could double as a tent. “Wish I could say we had something for you, but it’s been a bust. The lists you had the Andersons prepare yesterday have a few names in common, but no one we haven’t already run background on.”
I pick up the stack of reports. “Zack and I have fared no better, I’m afraid.”
Biller sighs. “Time isn’t on our side.”
The monumental understatement is met with silence.
I flip through their reports. There are scores of profiles—neighbors, co-workers, family members, and friends. There are two registered sex offenders within a one-mile radius. They were both at work when Cooper was taken.
“We’ll be coming up on seventy-two hours soon.” This comes from Taft.
The chances of a ransom call coming in diminish with each passing minute. “If we don’t get a break soon, we’ll re-evaluate keeping the two of you here. For now, let’s stay put. I’m going to sit in while Zack questions the Andersons again.”
I tuck the reports into my bag, then head out to the living room. Zack is listening intently as Sophie Anderson recounts the morning of Cooper’s disappearance once again. I slip quietly into a nearby chair.
Her voice is heavy with resignation as she repeats the details of her routine—getting Cooper ready to go with her to the gym, traveling to the gym, working out, coming home, picking a movie for Cooper to watch while she went upstairs to shower.
While we’re talking, Abigail comes to the door. She knocks and peeks in. “Looks like Mr. Parsons is back from vacation. We’re getting the mail first thing in the morning again instead of noontime. Would you like it now or shall I leave it on Mr. Anderson’s desk?”
Mrs. Anderson rises to take a clutch of envelopes from Abigail’s hands. “I’ll take it.”
I glance at Zack, wondering if he is picking up on the same thing I am. Substitute mailman. Didn’t the day care workers at Andy’s school say there had been a substitute mailman the week he disappeared, too?
“Mrs. Anderson, when did the mail arrive on Monday?” I ask.
She tilts her head as if trying to remember. “Well, it wasn’t here in the morning. I know that much. It might have come in the afternoon. I don’t remember ever checking.”
She probably wouldn’t have, not with her child missing.
“Abigail?” I ask.
“I checked the box like I usually do on Tuesday. The week before it wasn’t coming until lunchtime. Monday’s my day off. Come Tuesday, I couldn’t remember if Mr. Parsons had told me he was going to be in Jamaica for one week or two. He still has family down there.” She looks from me to Zack. “This is important?”
“It could be,” answers Zack.
It’s a long shot. The school is in a different neighborhood and on any given day, there must be dozens of substitute mailmen working in a city the size of Charleston. But this could be the break we’ve been waiting for, hoping for—a thread that will connect our cases. I hold my breath and wait for Abigail to continue.
“There wasn’t anything in the box. Nothing left over from Monday and nothing from the morning. It came later, just like it did yesterday.”
Zack pulls out his notebook. “Do either of you remember what this substitute mailman looked like?” Mrs. Anderson shakes her head. “I never saw him. The mail always seemed to come while Coop and I were having lunch or while—” Her eyes widen and fill with tears. Her hand clutches at her heart. “While I was in the shower. Do you think—?”
I turn to Abigail. “Did you ever see him? Could you describe him?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replies without hesitation. “He was memorable. Handsomest man I’ve ever seen.” Abigail’s face lights up. “Tall, blond, filled out that uniform like nobody’s business. And he was so nice! Always had a smile and a ‘good day, ma’am’. It’s hard to believe that nice young man would have taken Cooper on Monday then come back the very next day and the one after that.”
“It’s a lead worth following.” Zack rises and pulls out his cell. “Do you suppose you could describe him to a forensics artist? See if we could come up with a sketch?”
“I believe I could,” answers Abigail.
Mr. Anderson rises. “Why not just bring this guy in for questioning right now?”
Zack doesn’t answer, he’s too busy dialing. “Have them send an artist over to Bee Happy to work with Natalie,” I tell him. He nods, then leaves the room, cell phone to his ear. The low murmur of his conversation drifts back, the details indiscernible.
The Andersons are both anxious, eager. “It would be best if the artist can work alone with Abigail uninterrupted. Someplace quiet.”
Brett nods. “You can use my office.”
“Agent Monroe?” It’s Sophie this time. “Can’t you just go get him?”
“What we’ve got so far is circumstantial at best. We need a warrant. If we can place the same guy both here and then either at the location of the Boroson boy’s kidnapping or at their home, we’ll be o
n our way to getting one.”
“You feel good about this?” asks Sophie. She reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.
I look at their faces. The idea that we might finally have a lead in their child’s disappearance is giving them something they’d almost lost—hope.
CHAPTER 8
Zack and I leave Taft and Biller with the Andersons and head over to Bee Happy Day care. I call ahead. Meredith Lawrence is reportedly at an off-site meeting that should be wrapping up momentarily. I confirm with someone in the office that Natalie Schofield is on duty, and let them know we’re on our way over with a sketch artist.
When we pull into the parking lot, Meredith Lawrence is right behind us.
“Do you have news?” she asks.
We walk together to the entrance.
Zack, ever the gentleman, opens the door for us. “We’re here to follow up with Natalie Schofield. A sketch artist should be arriving shortly, if she isn’t already here.”
“Sketch artist? But none of us saw Andy being taken. Did Natalie remember something?” she asks.
“We’re hoping she can help us produce a likeness of the postman you mentioned,” I volunteer.
“The one Natalie had such a crush on?”
Once inside the office it becomes clear that the sketch artist has already arrived. The door to Lawrence’s office is standing open. Natalie and a mid-thirties woman with dark, wavy hair and light brown skin are sitting side by side. The artist has a blank pad of paper in her lap. Lawrence lowers her voice. “You think he might be the one who—?”
“It’s a possibility,” I say.
She glances at her watch. “It’s snack time. How long do you think this will take? Not that I want to rush you. I just want to make sure everything is properly covered.”
Zack glances back over his shoulder. “I’m guessing an hour, give or take. You okay with us taking using your office for that long?”
The director waves a hand. “Not a problem. I’ll take over Natalie’s duties until she’s through. Unless you need me for something?”
Zack shakes his head. “No. Go ahead.”
Meredith Lawrence nods, but doesn’t take her leave. Something seems to be holding her back.
“What is it?” I ask her.
Her expression is hesitant. “It’s just hard for me to believe that pleasant young man would have had anything to do with all this. Kidnapping. Murder. I think about that nice smile and it just seems…inconceivable.” Finally, she leaves us with a shrug and a skeptical backward glance.
I look at Zack, eyebrows raised. “This guy has a lot of fans. Think we’re wrong to suspect him?”
Zack shrugs. “We’ll know soon enough. If the bad guys walked around like Dastardly Dan twisting his handlebar mustache, we’d be out of a job. Remember Ted Bundy? Smooth as the day is long, handsome face, disarming smile.” Zack’s phone buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket and checks it. “Taft just sent a text. The sketch artist is at the Andersons.”
My gaze drifts past him to what’s going on in the office. After so many dead ends, are we finally, finally, going to have something to work with?
“How close are they?”
Zack takes the seat next to me in the waiting room. He’s carrying a box with two cups of coffee and a couple muffins, one blueberry, the other banana nut. “The coffee shop down the street didn’t have many options. I figured this would tide us over. If we get a break in the case, we may end up skipping lunch.” He takes a sip of coffee, makes a face. “Sorry, this one’s yours.”
“Thanks.” I take the cup from him.
“They’ve been at it for a full forty minutes.”
I pull the top off the blueberry and set it aside, then start nibbling on the bottom half. “Forty-seven, but who’s counting?”
Zack smiles before diving into the banana nut. Just as he bites down, his phone rings. It’s thrust in my direction.
I can see it’s Taft calling. “Monroe here.”
“What happened to Armstrong?”
“He’s here. We don’t have anything yet. You?”
“The sketch is finished,” he says. “I’ll send it to your phone. Want me to fax it, too, so you have a hard copy?”
“Absolutely. Let me get the fax number here.”
I hand the phone back to Zack and get the fax number from the gal behind the desk. She jots it down and I shove it at Zack who passes it on to Taft.
“It’s on the way. Call once you’ve got something.” Taft rings off.
Zack holds up his cell. “He’s sending me the Anderson sketch.”
I set my coffee down and edge closer to the office.
“The eyes still aren’t quite right,” I hear Natalie say. “His were more…I don’t know. Sparkly.” She looks up and sees me standing in the doorway. “Agent Monroe, we’re almost done.”
The artist puts her pad down on the desk and stands up. “I think we’re done. I need to use the restroom.”
I take her seat, pick up the sketch and study it. “This is the postman?”
Natalie nods. “Yeah. That artist is really good. Do you think he saw something when Andy was taken?”
Zack joins us. Another sketch fills the screen on his phone. It’s almost identical to the one in my lap. Natalie points to it. “That one’s better. It captures Stuart’s eyes.”
Zack looks up. “You know his name? What else do you know about him?”
Natalie’s face colors. “Not much, really. I chatted him up whenever he came that week. I was hoping he’d ask me out. I guess I wasn’t too subtle because he finally told me that he was married. After that, we exchanged pleasantries, but that’s it. He was a perfect gentleman.”
“Have you seen him since he stopped coming here?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No.”
We’ve got a first name, a face, a suspect.
Zack touches my elbow. “You’ve been very helpful, Miss Schofield. If we need anything more from you we’ll be in touch.”
Zack is on the phone as soon as we get to the car, informing Taft and Biller that the sketch from Natalie Schofield’s recollection is on the way and that we know the man’s first name—Stuart. What we want is the United States Postal Service to track him down. After listening for a few minutes, he clicks off and turns to me. “Taft and Biller are working on the warrant. They’ll call us back.”
I drum my fingertips restlessly against the dashboard. “Do you think we’re on the right track? It feels to me like we’re on the right track.”
“Well, if not, it’s one damned big coincidence that this guy delivered mail to two locations where boys were taken. And if we get verification that he was temporarily assigned to either the supermarket or the Nicolsons’ place, we’ve got a trifecta.”
Zack starts to dial. “You call Mrs. Nicolson. I’ll reach out to the guy at Quantico that tried to get something off the plates and see if he can match the face of the postman on the video to our sketches.”
I look up the number and make the call. Unfortunately, I get the answering machine. After identifying myself I leave a message, stating it’s urgent and requesting a call back right away. While leaving my number, someone picks up.
“Agent Monroe?”
It doesn’t sound like Mrs. Nicolson. This woman’s voice is lower, more gravely.
“Yes. Is Mrs. Nicolson available? It’s urgent.”
“I’m afraid not, she left last night for South Africa. Her sister lives there.”
“Do you have her flight information? Or might you know what time she left?”
There’s a moment of hesitation. “I think the message from her came in about five or six last night. It sounded like she was at the airport then. She didn’t leave any details. Just said she had to get out of town and was leaving to spend a few weeks with her sister. I should just continue to come on my regular days. She’s always good to me that way, knows I rely on the income.”
I check my watch and do a quick mental calculation
. There are quite a few variables. But even if she left at five pm, it’s unlikely she’s touched down yet in South Africa.
“You work for the Nicolsons every Thursday?”
“In the mornings, for three years now,” she replies.
“Could you tell me if you happened to notice a change in their mail schedule around the time Mikey was taken? Maybe a different postman?”
There’s a long pause. “Can’t say I remember anything like that, no. They asked me at the time if I’d noticed anything different, anyone suspicious. No. I don’t remember anything like that. The mail usually comes in the afternoon, though.”
I thank the woman and hang up.
“She’s in the air, on her way to South Africa. We can go down the path of checking manifests—”
“That’ll take time I’d rather not spend,” Zack says. “If we need to track Mrs. Nicolson down, we will. Meanwhile, I say we go with what we have and keep our fingers crossed the guy at Quantico comes through.”
My cell phone rings. It’s a call back from the number I just dialed.
“Agent Monroe.”
“It’s Anna, I hope you don’t mind me calling back. It’s just that I remembered something.”
I sit up straighter. Put the phone on speaker. “Yes?”
“I remembered that Mr. Nicolson was home some the week before Mikey was taken. He had the flu something awful. That man normally works from sun up to sun down. But not that week. I recall the Mrs. saying he was home three, maybe four days.”
I offer her an enthusiastic thank you, then disconnect. Before I even have a chance to slip my phone back into my purse, Zack has the car in gear.
Zack wasn’t kidding when he said the offices of Nicolson, Kent, and Wallace are close to the hotel. They’re just down the street and around the corner from where we’ve been staying, in a three-story Art Deco style building. Its brick façade and looming windows are grand, but not as grand as the black and white marble entryway. After flashing our badges we’re given temporary access cards by a security guard and directed to a private elevator that goes to the third floor.
