Captured (8 page)

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.

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.”