In no mood to face the Monroes after the Watkins debacle, Streeter was about to duck into an empty office when he saw them walking straight toward him.
“We need to talk to you,” Katie said, “about Norman Watkins.”
“In here.” Streeter led them toward an empty conference room down the hall.
“What was his wife screaming about?” Scott asked.
As Streeter updated them on Norman’s status, he could see them struggling to process what had gone down. He waited for an outburst of frustration or anger. It didn’t come. Instead, Scott said, “I’m going to wait outside with Jackie. Katie wants to go over something with you.”
On the way out, Jackie gave the tiniest of waves and Streeter’s heart went out to the child and for a moment all he saw were images of his own three daughters.
“I’m struggling to be logical, less hysterical,” Katie began. “First, I want to apologize for my inappropriate outbursts. Out there with Connie Watkins and earlier with you. I know that you personally are doing everything you can to find Sammie and Alex and the entire law enforcement team is supporting you. I promise you that I will try harder to help. I was just telling Scott that I’ve been more of a hindrance, getting in the way. Not acting like a trained professional.”
“Katie, I understand, your daughters are missing, you have a right — oh, I’m sorry,” Streeter stammered. “Dr. Monroe.”
“I like Katie better,” she said. “And it’s driving Scott crazy that you keep calling him mister. He keeps looking around to see if there’s a mister in the room. You are the closest ally we have right now. And we want you to know that we appreciate all you’re doing. How long has it been since you’ve had any sleep?”
Streeter’s eyes misted. “A long time,” he admitted. “And do me a favor, too. It’s Tony. Okay?”
Katie gave up a minuscule grin, the first he’d ever seen cross her face.
“But,” she said, “I do want to talk about Adam Kaninsky. I’m trying to be logical here. I’ve been thinking a lot about Adam. When he first told me what Maxwell was doing to his sons, I was under doctor-patient confidentiality — which as you know, I have broken. Adam was adamant that Maxwell would do anything to keep from going to jail. And I believe that to be true. As a narcissistic personality, he knows he couldn’t survive in jail. So he fixes it. He takes my kids to get me off his case. What might Adam know? They were very close, Maxwell and Adam.”
“We have Cutty under surveillance,” Streeter said. “But we’ve been unable to locate Kaninsky, and that bothers me.”
“Adam was abused as a kid,” Katie explained, “by an older brother. Child Protective Services referred him to me eleven years ago. My testimony put his brother in juvenile rehab, and I tried to guide Adam back to a normal childhood. Now he’s dedicated to doing whatever he can to prevent other kids going through what he did. That’s why he came to me in the beginning of this sexual abuse thing. I don’t see Adam hurting my daughters, but he well might know what Maxwell did with them. If you can find Adam —”
“I’m going to Tampa myself, tonight. I’ll do what I can,” Streeter said.
“If you can find Adam —” Katie repeated.
“I’d better be on my way.” Streeter headed into the hall, heard the click of heels in the hallway, and looked up. His secretary was approaching with a dark green shopping bag and a navy blue overnight case. “You’re packed for Tampa,” she told to him. “And Dr. Monroe, I have a few things for Jackie, puzzles and games. That’s what I get for Agent Streeter’s daughters to keep them occupied when they visit him here.”
Katie accepted the bag with a sheepish expression and peeked inside. Jackie would love the Harry Potter maze
“But, frankly, Dr. Monroe,” the secretary continued, “do you think it is such a good idea to bring her in here with you?”
“I’m so afraid,” Katie said. “I’m afraid to lose Jackie, too.”
“I understand, Dr. Monroe. God bless you.”
Scott noticed a change in Katie when she returned from her private talk with Streeter. He’d known that she’d intended to apologize and he surmised that it had gone well. She seemed more together, less panicky. He wondered how he could be supportive to her when every fiber within him was unraveling. Leaning over, he said to her, “Babe, I love you.”
He was rewarded with a sweet smile.
“Katie, let’s take a break. Take Jackie to your mom’s. Just hang out there.”
“Okay.” Katie grabbed for Scott’s free hand.
“Mom? Are you going to be okay now?”
Katie gave Jackie no response, neither a “yes” nor a “no.”
CHAPTER 21
Person of Interest in Sammie and Alex Monroe Kidnapping
Critically Injured in FBI Custody.
— Evening News, Wednesday, June 17
Streeter prided himself on his ability to go long periods without sleep, but after nearly seventy-five hours, sleep deprivation was taking its toll. Katie Monroe was right. He needed sleep, he was losing his edge without it. He’d never been so physically exhausted. After calling his ex-wife to say that he’d be going to Tampa, he’d been relieved when she advised against the girls visiting him in Detroit until the Monroe case was closed, one way or another. Marianne knew his limits better than he himself. As much as he missed his daughters, he would be no good to them in his condition. Marianne had put the girls on the phone, and he could detect disappointment in their sweet voices, reminding him of life with Marianne, a life for her full of disappointment.
But Streeter knew he could not dwell on Marianne, and he pushed his own family to the back of his list of priorities. Every hour that passed without finding Sammie and Alex escalated the chances that they would not be found alive. To stay awake, he’d been taking Provigil, a drug used to treat narcolepsy and people with sleep apnea. Shift workers used it to stay awake and Streeter had been on it for three days now. As he climbed into the FBI aircraft at eight thirty p.m., he hoped for an uninterrupted three hours.
Prudence prevailed and Manny had waited until dark to commence his vigil. In his business he was loath to compromise on any details. His job was all about precision. You get the minutiae laid out right and then back it all up with contingencies. Manny prided himself on his professionalism and he very much appreciated the simple, isolated life that his career had afforded. Every once in a while, he was amused when he overheard a conversation or saw a movie about “terminators.” People assumed it was a dangerous job, but if the details were carefully worked out, assassinations weren’t that tough to pull off.
He felt confident with the cover of night, not much of a moon, and his prey lived in a neighborhood with large lots, plenty of foliage for cover, and, of course, Manny had the best of the best when it came to equipment. He’d had to fight down the urge to move earlier in the day, realizing that his customer was under FBI surveillance and that the feds could pull him in at will. But his police mole had assured him that the bureau had no plans to move on Cutty until the morning arrival of the lead agent working the Monroe kidnapping in Detroit. So it was mandatory that he do the deed tonight.
Lucky for him that he spent the last night — executing his contingency plan — with night goggles, scoping out concentric perimeters around the Cutty Mediterranean-style estate. An ostentatious pad, but no wonder, the guy was an architect. And his unfortunate late wife, an interior decorator. Must be just glorious inside, but Manny had no plans to go in there. He had, however, been disappointed in the landscape. When he had settled into position, just before dusk, Manny realized that the property needed more color. In his head he laid out the beds of flowers and the arrangements of palms that he’d have added.
But more important than the less than acceptable landscape was the surrounding terrain. He was most pleased to find a wooded knoll overlooking the precise spot where his target would emerge to reach his Lexus, conveniently not parked in the garage. From his perch, lying flat on his stomach, Mann
y kept in his line of sight the FBI players as they executed their own brand of surveillance of his client.
Unless Cutty went out for the evening, he’d live until morning. Then pop. Didn’t matter how many feds were in the swarm.
As it turned out, Cutty did not live until morning. Right after ten thirty p.m., Manny saw his target exit his side door. He also saw a head pop up in the unmarked cop car parked on the street. With no hesitation, his powerful laser scope found Cutty’s left temple. With a steady gloved finger, Manny pulled the trigger. As the shot reverberated, Manny paused only long enough to see Cutty’s body jolt.
Before the victim’s body dropped to the cement apron outside his door, two agents in dark suits leapt from their vehicle, talking into radios.
Calm, efficient and practiced, Manny zipped his weapon into its leather case, swung it over his shoulder, and headed for the Honda cycle waiting across the sparsely wooded lots of two neighbors. Two blocks from the Cutty mansion, he bounced the bike over the curb, slowing at the strip mall two blocks ahead to deposit the rifle into a Dumpster. He hated to part with it, but he’d learned the hard way. Ever since a screw-up with a deaf girl many years ago, he vowed never to use a weapon twice. Another two blocks and he turned into an alley, dumped the cycle, and jumped into the waiting Toyota Camry.
Once in the car, Manny changed into a grandfatherly disguise, complete with the bulging belly he aesthetically disliked, but found quite effective. Calmly he drove to the Courtney-Campbell Causeway and when he found the turnoff, he maneuvered the car into a tiny space surrounded by clumps of palmettos. Then he walked across the street to the dock. Carrying two duffel bags, he headed for the marina’s men’s room. There he changed into shorts and a golf shirt and a shaggy dark brown wig. He’d now stuffed one duffel bag inside the other, the one weighted down with a large rock containing the changes of clothes he’d used. He smiled pleasantly as he boarded the modest cabin cruiser that would take him to Fort Myers. From there, he’d drive to Fort Lauderdale, then board the flight that would get him to Nevis. All Manny had to do then was find Adam Kaninsky, exterminate him, and move on to St. Bart’s and Monique. What happened to the Monroe girls would no longer be his problem. Business was business. Collateral damage, an accepted component of the business model.
CHAPTER 22
Photos of the Monroe Triplets Dominate the Media:
Are Children Being Exploited in America?
— Online Public Opinion Poll, Wednesday, June 17
When Katie and Scott arrived with Jackie, Lucy promptly, but politely, dismissed the well-wisher visitors except for her daughters, Sharon and Rachael. Scott headed upstairs to take a shower, leaving Katie with her sisters around the kitchen table while Lucy warmed a casserole of macaroni and cheese, Jackie’s favorite. The rest of the kitchen was loaded with salads, sandwiches, fried chicken, chips, and snacks of every description. “They all keep bringing food,” Lucy explained, “and Monica’s caterers have dropped off huge spreads every day.”
“Stacy’s on her way home,” Sharon told Katie. “She didn’t know anything about the girls until she finished the Milford track and got to her hotel in Queenstown. Well, you can imagine her reaction.”
“How long will it take Aunt Stacy to get here?” Jackie asked.
“New Zealand is far away,” Lucy responded. “But she’ll get here just as fast as she can.”
“We’ll all be together. Oh, God, will we ever be all together? Will we get Alex and Sammie back? Ever?” Katie slumped forward, elbows on the table, head in her hands. She couldn’t prevent the sudden gulping sobs, so she just let go. Sharon and Rachel rushed to her side, but when Katie looked up she saw her mother, standing over her with that faraway look in her eyes. Katie knew that look. Mom, thinking of Anthony and Johnny. No, was the answer to her question. The Jones family would never be together, not in this life.
Jackie had taken only two bites of mac and cheese before pushing her plate away. How could she eat with Mom crying so hard? She thought about her sisters in some horrible place with nothing to eat. Were they being tortured? Could they even be dead? She didn’t think that they were, but she had so many questions. There was so much she didn’t understand, but no one wanted to talk to her. She knew they all must hate her, even Grandma, because she had such a funny look on her face. Jackie wished she was with her sisters, even if they were in a terrible place. Sammie would make her laugh, and she’d be there for Alex. If all three were together, they’d be okay, but with her alone, without her sisters, nobody would love her.
Mom was crying even harder now, and Jackie couldn’t stand it so she accidently-on-purpose knocked over her glass of milk. Mom might be angry, but it might make her stop crying.
A hefty black man in a dark, crisp suit met Streeter when the FBI aircraft landed at Tampa International Airport. It was eleven thirty, and Streeter rubbed his raw, red eyes as he walked toward his Tampa counterpart. He’d never seen Special Agent Emmitt Rusk, but they’d developed a decent relationship working the Monroe case on the phone and in cyberspace. When Rusk introduced himself, Streeter recognized the polished voice.
But as Rusk approached, he seemed to be motioning for Streeter to go back on the plane. “Best to talk in there,” he called out. “Don’t know whether you’ll be staying or what.”
“I just want to get some shut eye,” Streeter said, continuing in Rusk’s direction, eyeing the waiting Suburban that would take him to his hotel.
“I hear you, but that’s not in the cards,” Rusk said. “I’ve got some real bad news for you, Streeter. Best we go on the plane, sit down, and discuss.”
Rusk did not beat around the bush. He came right out with it. Maxwell Cutty had been assassinated one hour ago. Leaving his house. Long-range sniper. Bullet to the head dropped him dead.
Streeter was glad he had taken Rusk’s advice and sat down in one of the plush seats. He wasn’t sure his legs could have supported him through the rage that surged through his being. Rusk’s Tampa team had lost forever the last credible link to Katie and Scott’s little girls.
“What about the surveillance? You guys had Cutty surrounded.”
“Our guys were in place. Whoever did this was a pro. Highpowered rifle. Night vision. The works. The question is who had him taken out?”
“Shit.” Streeter pounded his fists on the table in front of him. “Where are those little girls?” All the suspects paraded through his mind. Watkins. Franklin. The ransom note. Cutty. And all the kooks that still kept calling in. And what the nondescript middle-aged white woman that their lone witness had seen. That woman was the link to whoever took the girls, but finding her, a needle in a haystack. Sammie and Alex had gone with her, voluntarily, not kicking and screaming.
“Sure you’ve eliminated the parents?”
Streeter’s grimace strained his facial muscles. “I ask myself that at least once every hour. Bottom line, I cannot believe anyone can fake their kind of grief.”
“Except it happens.”
“I can’t see a motive.”
“What kind of people are they, the parents?”
“According to everybody, they were a happy, well-adjusted family. Personally, I like them both. Scott’s a man’s man, an athlete with a winning smile, one of those big, booming voices, easy going personality.” Streeter paused before going on. “Katie’s more complex. More edgy, less warm and fuzzy, more controlling, won’t let the third daughter out of her sight. Funny, the psychiatrists I’ve known seem like that, more emotionally detached, sort of erratic. On the other hand I’ve only seen her under extreme stress. She could be totally different under normal circumstances.”
“So you’re not following the parent angle?”
“I can’t totally rule them out, but nothing leads in that direction.”
“Tough call,” said Rusk. “Hey, we’re going to work the hell out of the case here, but I wasn’t sure whether you would want to go back to Detroit, or stay here. For me, it’ll be an all-nighter, b
ut you look like hell.”
Streeter was too exhausted to be making critical decisions. What more could he be doing in Detroit?And Detroit meant facing the Monroe parents with this devastating news.
“Rusk, I’m going to a hotel. I can’t function without some sleep. Maybe things will come together for me in the morning.”
“Then let’s roll,” Rusk said. “I’ve got to get back to the field office, but I’ll drop you at a hotel. I just wanted to tell you face-to-face how we fucked up. Let you decide whether to go or stay.”
CHAPTER 23
Vendetta Against Mom? Can Law Enforcement Protect Key
Witnesses Who Protect the Most Vulnerable of Children.
— Tampa Daily News, June 18
Streeter awoke Thursday morning with the weight of the missing Monroe children preying so heavily on his mind that a pounding pressure began to squeeze his temples. He needed Tylenol and caffeine. He made coffee in his room, swallowed two geltabs, then took a hot shower. Feeling better, the pounding headache gone, he made the first of three calls. The easy one: arrangements for the jet to take him back to Detroit. He could leave at eight, putting him downtown before noon.
Next, he called Special Agent Rusk. Nothing new about the Cutty assassination. Sniper placement was confirmed as a clump of trees atop a knoll on neighboring property. Nothing left behind. A clear getaway. Nothing in the Cutty house or car or office relating to the whereabouts of the Monroe children. Rusk did not elaborate, but implied, based on scrutiny of Cutty’s financial records, that Cutty had played a role in his ex-wife’s death. He also confirmed that he’d pulled one hundred fifty thousand dollars out of his firm’s bank account on Monday. The money had not been found.
Streeter didn’t care about Cutty’s dead wife. “Was Maxwell Cutty responsible for the kidnapping of Sammy and Alex?”
“He’s a credible suspect, but without evidence —” Evidence that would now never surface. But what about that missing money? Did it relate to Katie’s theory of a professional hire?
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