Captured (3 page)

“Day before yesterday your family wasn’t the hottest story east of the Mississippi. Give me the exclusive. I’ll guarantee you a three-year contract.”

“Christ, you’re a cold-hearted bitch.”

The woman’s voice softens and becomes almost mockingly suppliant. “That’s not what you used to say when we made love.”

“Don’t delude yourself. We fucked. Love never had anything to do with it. I love my wife. I love my son. Truth be told, Beverly, I don’t even like you.”

The sound of a loud slap rings through the air.

“You don’t have to like me,” she snaps back. “You think I’m interested in you? All I’m interested in are ratings.”

“That, I believe.”

A door opens, then closes. Heels clack against the polished wood lining the hallway. Zack’s expression is stoic. I wonder what else he might have overheard.

“Who was that woman?” I ask.

“Besides the proverbial woman scorned?” Zack asks dryly.

“That was Beverly Hamilton,” says Biller. “She’s the station manager at WCSC, where Anderson works.”

Taft sits down at one of the terminals and pulls up a file. “She’s his boss. We ran a routine background check on her last night. After that,” he jabs a thumb toward the wall, “I think I’ll dig a little deeper.”

Zack nods. “While we’re here, Emma and I will interview the Andersons again. Emma, you take the lead.”

“Will do.”

He turns to Biller. “As soon as you have an update on Hamilton—”

“We’ll send it,” Biller says.

Sophie Anderson sits on the pale blue sofa in the living room, her husband by her side. I can’t help but wonder if she’s aware of her husband’s infidelity. If I hadn’t heard the admission from his very own lips, I wouldn’t have suspected. There was nothing in any of the reports to indicate the Andersons were experiencing marital strife. But then, Brett Anderson is more than a meteorologist. He’s a television personality, a showman, and actor. And he looks just as you’d imagine a television personality would. He’s tall, lean, chisel-faced, and well-coifed.

Mrs. Anderson is also thin, physically fit. Her blonde hair is pulled back from a tear-stained face by a plain rubber band. She hasn’t bothered with makeup or jewelry. Her simple white cotton blouse and jeans are a stark contrast to her husband’s buttoned-up suit and tie. In general she seems more down to earth. Pretty but plain in a wholesome, homespun way.

Abigail enters with tray containing a tea service. Wordlessly, she sets it on the coffee table.

“Let me pour you some tea,” Mr. Anderson says to his wife.

Mrs. Anderson shakes her head. Her bright blue eyes are brimming with tears. She uses the wadded-up tissue she’s been holding to once again wipe her nose. “This is all my fault.”

“It’s not.” Brett reaches for his wife’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “We’re going to get Coop back.” The determination in his voice almost makes
me
a believer. Then he turns his gaze on me, and I see the need for reassurance in his eyes.

I wish I had some to give him.

Instead, I plunge ahead. “I know it’s been less than twenty-four hours since you were interviewed,” I tell them. “And I’m sorry to make you go through these details again, Mrs. Anderson, but we need to cover every base.”

She nods.

“When did you notice Cooper was missing?”

She sits up a little straighter, squares her shoulders. “It was a few minutes before noon. I’d just left him alone to shower. We do it every day. He wasn’t out of my sight for more than fifteen minutes.” Sophie turns to face her husband. “Not more than fifteen minutes.”

“You said you do it every day,” I say. “What do you do every day?”

“Every Monday through Friday, I go to a gym over on Wentworth. When we come home Coop has movie time while I shower and prepare lunch.”

I remember passing a gym on Wentworth this morning—Modern Fitness. “While you’re at the gym, where is Cooper?”

“They have a day care center. Members sign their kids in and out. They have toys, art supplies, a playground.” The tears start to flow again. “He loves it there.”

“Do you routinely stop anywhere on the way to the gym? Maybe on the way home?” I ask.

“No. Not normally. Not yesterday.”

“What time did you sign Cooper out?”

“I work with a personal trainer from ten thirty to eleven twenty. I signed him out right after that. We drove home, he picked out a movie.”

Her breath catches. “When I came down from showering, he was gone.”

I ask her to tell us what the rest of a normal day would entail.

It quickly becomes clear as Mrs. Anderson outlines her routine that she is a creature of habit. Her afternoons are as predictable as her mornings. She and Cooper walk to the park. When they return, Cooper naps and Sophie spends time reading or going through the mail. At four the boy has a swimming class. By five thirty they’re in for the night. Anyone on one of those walks through the park or at swimming class could have noticed Cooper and followed them home.

“You were alone with Cooper yesterday. Where was Abigail?” I ask.

“She’s off every Sunday and Monday. Stays with her daughter. They have a condo in The Arbor.”

I glance at Zack. He isn’t writing this down so I assume he’s already cleared Abigail. “Anyone else with routine access to the house?”

“Just Jose. He takes care of the yard and the pool. He’s here on Mondays and Fridays.”

“And how long has Jose worked for you?”

“Six or seven years. You don’t suspect Jose, do you?”

Zack pulls a small notebook from his breast pocket. “We’re just being thorough. Can we get a last name and address?”

Brett finds the information on his cell and shows it to Zack.

While Zack notes the address, I say, “I’d like each of you to make a list of everyone you can think of who has been in the house in the last six months. Names, contact information. Business or personal—it doesn’t matter. Be thorough and work separately.”

“Agent Armstrong asked us yesterday if there had been threats. There haven’t been. I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt us, hurt Cooper,” says Sophie. “It couldn’t possibly be anyone we know.”

Approximately seventy-five percent of child kidnappings are committed by parents or acquaintances. Especially a child taken from their home. Brett has a solid alibi. He was live on air. The bottom line is that it’s very likely Cooper was taken by someone the Andersons know.

I glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. It’s almost eleven. If we leave now we might catch the day care staff who normally take care of Cooper. But to Mrs. Anderson I say, “We can’t rule anyone out. It’s possibly someone who’s familiar with your routine. That’s why we need the lists.” I stand up. “As soon as you finish, give them to Taft and Biller.”

“We’ll start on them right away,” she says.

Brett rises. “I’ll see you out.”

He follows us out the side entrance and closes the door.

“I have to ask. Do you think this is related to the Nicolson case? I’m doing my best to keep Sophie away from the television. The media’s—”

Zack gives the man a look of genuine sympathy. “You know better than most. News media today runs the gambit from responsible journalists to sensationalistic hacks and everything in between. I can’t answer your question, Brett. At this stage, we just don’t know. I will tell you this. We’ll follow every lead.”

We turn to take our leave. Something is holding me back, the conversation we overheard between Brett and his station manager. “One more question, Mr. Anderson. Your wife said she couldn’t think of anyone who would want to hurt your family. What about you? Now that you’ve had a bit more time to think it through, anyone come to mind?”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “No. No one.”

I wait a beat, hoping he’ll find the courage to mention Beverly. He doesn’t.

We leave him on the stoop and head for the car, dodging the press every step of the way. “Where are we heading?” asks Zack once we’re safely inside the car.

I counter with a question of my own. “Has the update on Hamilton come through?”

He checks his cell. “No. They would have called or sent a text.”

“Let’s ask them to track down the gardener, too. Meanwhile, we can start with the day care workers at Modern Fitness,” I reply. “No one there’s been interviewed yet. Right?”

“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.