Levitt nearly saluted before bounding into the ship. He was former military, too. “Okay, kids, I need everybody out!” Levitt boomed, loudly enough to be heard over the playing children.
I liked the efficiency displayed by Roman and his staff, but Zukisa looked ready to faint in the flurry. I put my hands on Zukisa’s shoulders and tried to calm her wide, frightened eyes. She wouldn’t be any help if she was panicking.
“I’m sure we’ll find her,” I said, so convincing that her face visibly softened. “Call to her. Tell her she’s not in trouble. You know Nandi: Try to think of where she might go.”
Zukisa nodded, inspired. “Nandi!” she called, wandering away, eyes low to the ground.
I glanced at my watch: 4:17.
My day had not yet begun.
ELEVEN
4:30 P.M.
The magic show was over. No one ever tasted Nandi’s three-tiered birthday cake. The gifts on the table were never unwrapped. No one sang “Happy Birthday.” Roman radioed me to say that Maitlin and the housekeepers were searching the house. Outside, I had every tablecloth lifted, every hot dog cart opened and examined, every bush and tree searched.
Levitt and I scoured the pirate ships for Nandi: inside, outside, underneath. I had the bearded vendor who’d brought them escorted from his truck, where he was waiting. He reminded me of a nineteenth-century carny, with thick eyebrows and a bulbous nose from too much alcohol—although I didn’t smell any on his breath. He looked scared to death of a lawsuit when I told him to help us deflate his bouncy houses. “I’ve been doin’ this twelve years,” he said, shutting off his generators. “Kids don’t get lost in here. She’s gotta be somewhere else.”
The bouncy houses were slow to deflate, the progress almost imperceptible.
By four thirty, my stomach felt as if someone had dropped it into a freezer. Time to call the police. If the party was a crime scene, it was being trampled beyond recognition. I cursed myself for touching Nandi’s ribbon with my bare hands and giving it to Roman.
The ribbon was evidence.
I was about to tell Roman I was dialing 911 when the commotion came: Another one of Roman’s men was driving Maitlin and her husband back past the pool, and Maitlin waved with a luminous smile. Relieved murmurs lightened the guests.
“Told you she just probably ate too much ice cream,” I overheard someone say behind me, maybe Tom Cruise. I didn’t look to see.
Maitlin and her husband climbed out of the cart hand in hand. Alec’s dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but Maitlin’s smile never faltered. Guests matched Maitlin’s smile as they gathered near her, expecting good news. Maitlin made a glass sing with raps of a knife handle. Even the children were quiet.
“Please forgive us for the commotion, everyone!” Maitlin called. “We feel like such fools. Nandi felt sick, and one of my staff took her back into the house!”
There was a round of Awwwwwwws. Maitlin quickly went on, her smile wider. “But she’s fine now! And she wanted me to come out and thank you for making her birthday so special—and especially for all of the presents, which she can’t wait to open.” Rounds of easy, relieved laughter, Maitlin loudest of all, almost manic. “Thanks so much for coming today, and we hope to see you all again soon!”
The block of ice in my chest was melting when my handi-talkie beeped.
“We need you up front—now!” Roman’s voice crackled.
Roman wasn’t laughing.
5:49 P.M.
It took more than an hour to clear the guests and service vehicles out of the driveway, until nearly six o’clock. Tom Hanks’s limo was missing, and he ended up catching a ride with Angela and Courtney. Later, when it was much too late, we heard that his car was found a couple of miles down the road, the driver asleep behind the wheel.
I was sweating through my clothes, and not from the dying sun. Roman and I barely made eye contact as the line of service vehicles passed. Smiling politely was a Herculean effort. I was a better actor than I thought.
But I had learned from Maitlin, who was one of the best.
A search of the grounds turned up a hole in the backyard fence concealed by a nest of sago palms, at ground level, just big enough for an adult to move through for clear access to the driveway. Wire cutters. Since it was an internal fence, it wasn’t electrified or attached to the alarm system. That hole answered a lot of questions, but it wasn’t the answer we wanted.
After we found the hole in the fence, Roman took me to see Maitlin.
The house looked too peaceful to be home to so much turmoil, all arched windows, aglow with late-dusk light. Roman took me past an endless array of rooms including a yoga room with a hardwood floor, strap attachments on the wall, and a shrine complete with a portrait of a saintly Indian woman whose eyes were rolled up to Heaven. Two blue yoga mats lay side by side, a false portrait of serenity.
Roman led me upstairs on the winding marble staircase. I heard a woman sobbing from a hidden corridor. Not Maitlin—maybe Zukisa? Her sobs were of miserable, hopeless grief.
The sitting area at the top of the stairs was cluttered with dolls and toys, the first sign that Nandi lived in the house. Roman led me to a closed door painted light pink. He knocked.
“Come in!” Maitlin said. Her voice was tear stripped.
It was Nandi’s room. Maitlin sat on the edge of a four-poster toddler bed with a pink canopy to match the door and carpet, her lap buried in a pile of crumpled tissues. Her nose was beet red. She was nearly unrecognizable.
“Here,” Maitlin said, and handed me her cell phone.
The display showed her text field. Roman had briefed me, but the words seared my eyes:
WE HAVE NANDI. SEND THE GUESTS HOME, BUT MAKE NO FUSS. YOU WILL SPEAK TO HER SOON AT THIS NUMBER. IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW THESE INSTRUCTIONS—AND IF YOU CALL THE POLICE—WE WILL CUT HER SWEET LITTLE THROAT.
There was a video attachment, and I clicked on it. A video, shot on a narrow road I didn’t recognize until the camera tilted up to show a Mulholland Drive street sign. A bit of background, enough to ensure we’d know it was real. And a man whose face was turned away from the camera, wearing a dark windbreaker. Over his shoulder slumped a small child. A girl. Nandi. For a horrible instant I thought she was dead, then the cameraman’s gloved hand moved in and tickled her nose. She leaned up and batted at his hand sleepily, then relaxed again, but not before I saw the little smile curling her lips.
Nandi was alive.
The message’s time stamp was 4:20. The note made me dizzy from the mistakes already. I gave Roman a withering look; he’d known about the kidnap note since soon after he found me in the bouncy house.
“You’ve talked to her?” I asked Maitlin.
Maitlin forced back a sob. “Yes. They called, just like they promised. She sounded like . . . she was in a car. She was . . . crying.” Her last word was an agonized sob.
Ice froze out my feelings. I didn’t have time to feel. “What did she say?”
“She said . . .” Maitlin sobbed again, wiping her nose. “Oh, God!”
“Ms. Maitlin, what did she say?” I said, more gently.
“She said . . . ‘Mommy, I want to come home!’” Maitlin wailed. Her fingers shook so badly that she had to clasp her hands together to still them.
“Did you hear any other voices?” I said.
“After Nandi, there was a man’s voice. He said, ‘Stay by the phone for ransom instructions. If you call the police, FBI, anyone, Nandi is dead.’ His voice was . . . muffled. Distorted.”
It might have been a handkerchief, or even a voice-changing device. Ninety minutes had passed since Maitlin received the note. A lifetime! They could be anywhere.
“Is there anything you can tell me about the voice?” I said. “Anything at all?”
“Maybe . . . an English accent,” she said. “I’m not sure.”
Roman spoke up. “She said the voice sounded robotic. Voice changer, I’d say.”
Maitlin’s knuckles were white from
clutching her cell phone. The kidnappers had called her private number. Did they know her?
Maitlin had shut down, staring with dead eyes into the heart of her worst fears, so I turned to Roman. “When did they call?”
“About thirty minutes after she broke up the party,” he said.
Thirty minutes! I was amazed by how Maitlin had laughed while she assured the guests that Nandi was fine, all the while knowing she had been kidnapped. The Academy had missed Maitlin’s greatest performance.
“Who was the last person with Nandi?” I said.
Roman made a chuffing sound. “The nanny, and her story’s full of holes. If she was watching her, how did Nandi vanish in thin air, in a yard full of people?”
I saw exactly how Zukisa might have lost sight of Nandi on the massive ship. And a yard full of excited children might be the perfect cover for a kidnapping.
“Where’s Zukisa now?” I said.
“In her room,” Roman said. “She’s not going anywhere until Nandi gets home. That Paki guy either. It’s not good enough she got him into the country? I always said—” But Maitlin’s pained grimace cut him short.
I remembered the crying I’d heard. “Is she locked in a room?”
“No,” Maitlin said. “I told you no, Roman.”
“The door’s not locked, but she’s not going anywhere,” Roman said. “Neither one.”
“It’s easy to paint suspects,” I said. “I was watching Nandi play on the ship, too.” Until you sent me to the kitchen, I thought, but I kept that to myself. “Let’s focus on the facts.”
Roman bristled, counting off a list on his fingers. “One, the nanny was the last person with Nandi. Two, she has Sophie’s private number. Three, she knew the party was today.”
“Phone numbers are easy to get,” I said. “All of Hollywood knew about the party.”
“And so did you,” Roman said, standing closer, as if my scent would be telling.
“Stop it, Roman,” a voice said behind me, surprising me. For the first time, I noticed that Rachel Wentz was in the room with us, sitting on the floor in a large nook by the window, beside a child-size tea table and two chairs.
“We’re not going through this again,” Wentz went on. “This man is a private detective. He solved the Afrodite and T. D. Jackson cases. A friend I trust implicitly assured me that Sophie’s life was safe in his hands, or he never would have come to the orphanage with us.”
“I’m not licensed,” I said, for the sake of candor.
“Who the fuck cares?” Rachel Wentz said. “We want results, not your goddamn paperwork. It’s better if you’re not on anyone’s radar. If they find out we’ve told you . . .”
She didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to. Maitlin buried a sob in Nandi’s pillow.
A sudden, authoritative rap on the door made Maitlin gasp and jump. I took a step back, poised to face an intruder. The door opened, and Alec was there with the man I’d assumed was his son. The younger man looked skittish and heartsick, but I couldn’t read Alec’s expression, empty except for shellshock. He only glanced at me before addressing his wife. “Well?” he said.
Maitlin shook her head. “Not yet.”
Alec muttered to himself in Greek, then to Maitlin, “You’re being a fool, Sofia! If you care about that child, we’re calling the police right now.”
Rachel Wentz couldn’t speak for Maitlin to her own husband, so Maitlin leaped to her feet, facing off against Alec with her chin thrust high. He was more than a foot taller. “We are not calling the police. They said they would kill her!”
“And when someone takes her again next week—then what?”
A rapid-fire exchange began between them in Greek. Until then, I’d had no idea that Maitlin spoke the language. Then I remembered that one of her parents had been Greek.
“He’s right,” I said, raising my voice to be heard.
Maitlin and her husband both looked at me. Tears shimmered in Maitlin’s eyes.
“Yes, yes, tell her!” Alec said. “Tell her she’s being a fool.”
“Ms. Maitlin, I don’t think you’re being a fool—far from it. You want to protect your child. But all kidnappers say, ‘Don’t call the police.’ They want to keep all of the power, because they know that the FBI will get in their way. That’s how you protect your child. To be honest, we’ve already lost too much time.”
“There’s your detective,” Roman said to Rachel Wentz, an I-told-you-so. “Didn’t I say the exact same thing?”
“All of you shut up!” Maitlin shrieked. “I’m not calling the police!”
The cell phone in her hand rang. I hoped the police were calling us.
Maitlin sank back down to the mattress and stared at her ringing phone. Roman and I both ran to try to see the caller ID: UNKNOWN CALLER, the lighted display said. Rachel Wentz joined us at the bed, leaning over, too.
“It’s them!” Maitlin said, sounding helpless. “That’s what it said before!”
“For Christ’s sake, answer!” Alec said. “If you can’t, let me.”
“Ask Nandi where she is,” I whispered as Maitlin opened her phone with trembling hands.
“Hel . . . Hello?” she said, her voice unsteady.
Loud static. Maitlin had pressed her speakerphone button. Good girl! I held my finger to my mouth: Shhhhhh. But I didn’t have to. No one in the room drew a breath.
A raspy, metallic voice growled from the phone: “Take me off the goddamn speaker.” An English accent? It was hard to tell with the distortion, but it was possible.
“I’m sorry!” Maitlin cried out, fumbling to find the right button to push. Instead, the phone flew out of her hands, to the foot of the bed. With another cry, Maitlin lunged to grab it.
“Hello? Hello? . . . Please answer!” She looked at her telephone display, and her eyes widened with terror. “Oh, God—I hung up on him!”
“Let me see,” said Alec, and he took the phone. “Hello? Hello?”
The keening from Maitlin’s throat belonged at a child’s funeral.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Everyone stay calm. He’ll call back. They want your money.”
“Oh God oh God oh God . . . ,” Maitlin whispered, rocking like a lost child. Rachel Wentz sat beside her on the tiny bed with her arm around Maitlin’s shoulder, her lips pursed as she fought tears. Alec looked at us helplessly, a powerful man reduced to waiting.
“Hardwick’s right,” Roman said. “Panic doesn’t help us, sir. They’ll call back.”
We waited in a silence as thick as the walls. I readied the small note pad and pen on the bed beside Maitlin where she’d already scribbled her first conversation with Nandi’s kidnappers, writing only NANDI and NO POLICE. She took the pad, but barely noticed.
“Listen for anything,” Roman said. “Noises. Engines. Airplanes. Water.”
“Try to recognize the voice,” I said. “It may be someone who knows you.”
Maitlin sobbed, nodding.
Alec stood over Maitlin and rubbed the back of her neck, whispering tenderly, “It’s all right, love . . . It’s all right. Just breathe. It was an accident. It’s not your fault.” Good. Maitlin would need all of the support she could get.
After two excruciating minutes, the phone rang again. Same caller ID.
This time, Maitlin seemed calmer as she answered. “Hello?” Quickly, she picked up her pen. “Yes, I’m sorry. I dropped the phone . . .” Her face clouded. “No, I swear—we haven’t. It’s just me and m-my staff. I d-did exactly what you said.” While the caller spoke, she looked at us, shaken. “No . . . It’s me and my husband, and my m-manager. They were with me when I got the message. And the nanny . . . and Nandi’s birth father. And my private security men, but they’re not police. That’s all, I swear.”
From the doorway, Alec’s son raised his hand as if to remind her he was there, but Roman and I both waved to keep him quiet. Maitlin already had been way too specific.
Maitlin nodded wildly, writing on her pad.
I couldn’t make out everything upside down, but I saw the word MONDAY. Shit. They were planning to keep Nandi overnight!
“But can’t we do it now? Tonight?” Maitlin whined. A pause, and I heard the vestige of a voice snapping at her. “No, whatever you say. Just please . . .” The caller cut her off, and she began writing furiously again. I saw the number 5. Gazing at the pad, Alec winced.
The kidnappers wanted five million dollars. I felt grudging admiration for their logic: By asking for so much less than Maitlin and her husband could afford, Maitlin was less likely to seek police help. The bastards were more likely to get their money.
“Can I just . . . c-can I just please talk to her again?” Maitlin said.
We all forgot to breathe. The caller said something that lifted Maitlin’s mouth into a sickly smile. “Sweetie? Are you there?” The barest whisper.
“Mommy!”
Nandi’s voice on the mouthpiece was so clear that I wanted to look over my shoulder for her. Maitlin choked on a laugh. “Nandi—hello, my sweetheart! Are you okay?”
Nandi’s chipper voice said something about pizza.
They weren’t hurting her. She didn’t sound frightened, so maybe she hadn’t been traumatized yet. Thank you, Jesus. Prayers didn’t come to me often, but I was learning fast.
I took Maitlin’s pad and scribbled a note to feed her dialogue: Where are you?
A single word could help. Water. Boat. Truck. Anything.
Maitlin’s anguished eyes came to mine, but she shook her head defiantly. “Have a great time, sweetheart,” she said to the phone, as if Nandi were at her grandparents’ house. “Just be good, all right? Do what they say—no talking back. Mommy and Daddy will see you soon.”
“Okay, Mommy!” Nandi sounded like she was in the room with us again.
“Sweetheart, where are you?” Maitlin said quickly. She believed she had comforted Nandi and given her enough skills to survive the night, so she was ready to take a chance.
“It’s fun here—” I heard Nandi say, and then silence.
Maitlin’s skin suddenly looked like chalk. “Hello? Nandi?” she said. “Hello?”
From Cape Town with Love Page 13
