Captured (9 page)

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 on 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.

By the time the doors open, word of our presence has apparently reached Mr. Nicolson. He’s waiting for us.

“Agent Armstrong, you have news?” he asks.

Zack nods. “We think we just might. This is Agent Monroe. She’s on loan to us from California. We’re working together on the Anderson case. Is there someplace we can talk?”

He crosses the hallway into an impressive conference room with a view of Wentworth. Mr. Nicolson is a few years older than his wife. He’s tall, good looking, with an athletic build and strong jaw. His hair, which is graying at the temples, is neatly trimmed and precisely parted. The navy blue suit he’s wearing is impeccably tailored. But it’s the circles under his eyes, the strain on his face that I notice first.

“We’d like to ask you to study a couple sketches,” I tell him.

Nicolson visibly pales. “Of Mikey’s killer? You found him?”

Zack pulls out one of the chairs for Nicolson, then takes the one next to it. “Take your time.”

Nicolson starts with Abigail’s, then looks at Natalie’s. He studies the images intently. “These look like the same man.”

I take the seat at the head of the table. “Have you seen him before?”

“Maybe.” He pulls out a pair of reading glasses and gives both drawings another look.

“Well?” I ask Nicolson.

He looks first at Zack, then at me. “This is going to sound crazy, but… I think that’s our mailman.”

Zack scoops up the sketches. “I’m calling Taft.”

Nicolson looks a bit lost. “Is this good?”

I smile. “It’s very good.”

He removes his glasses. Rubs his eyes. “I want the bastard dead. It’s all I can think about. Least now I know who to hate.”

I’ve been on the receiving end of wrath and revenge for more centuries than I care to count. I’ve seen how it can turn a person, even a goddess.

“He’ll pay,” I assure him. “Agent Armstrong and I will make sure of that. But that won’t bring your son back. I’m sorry for your loss. Mrs. Nicolson’s, too.”

Zack hangs up. “Taft’s back on with the judge. I’m sure we’ll get the order.” He checks his watch. “We’re right around the corner from the hotel. This is going to be a long night. I vote we take five minutes to change clothes.”

“Agreed.”

Mr. Nicolson follows us to the elevator. “You’re going to pick him up?”

The doors open. We step inside, turn around.

“You betcha,” says Zack as he punches the button.

Before the doors closed I hear the man who just a few short weeks ago thought he’d had everything call out, “Get my wife on the line.”

I rest my head back against the seat. Cars come and go into the lot to fill up with gas. A minivan pulls up and I watch as a woman in her early thirties unloads precious cargo—children. There’s a minimart and they head inside. The youngest holds her mother’s hand all the way in. The older child doesn’t need the handholding; he heads for the store with confidence on his own. They pass a group of teenagers who are sitting along a nearby wall. Smoking cigarettes, drinking soda, and cutting up—just being kids.