Noah's Rainy Day Read online

  Benson smoothed his forehead with the pads of his fingers, his eyes darting upward to the right. “She’d sent me a text. I saw it when we landed at DIA. She wanted to meet me in between flights.”

  He looked down at his hands, his fingers working a crease in his uniform pants.

  “I returned a text telling her that I was escorting a child and couldn’t meet her. So we talked on the phone.”

  I noticed Streeter’s attempt to hold his gaze, but Benson kept looking down at his hands. I could tell he was lying and that Streeter and Gates knew it, too. I wondered why they didn’t just tell him that we could subpoena the cell phone records, see what calls had been made, what texts were exchanged, so we could get to the bottom of this quickly. I figured they must have a plan that included seeing how far he spun the story, letting him trap himself in his own web of lies.

  “She … she broke up with me and told me she dumped all my stuff on the lawn. She said she changed the locks and that I better not call her or she’d file for a restraining order.”

  He blew out a long breath and stared at the ceiling.

  “Get to the part about the child.”

  “I don’t know exactly when the Bra—” Benson’s gaze slid toward Gates. “The boy. I don’t know when the boy slipped away from me. I was only on the phone for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

  “You were never in the bathroom. Never went back for ice cream.” Streeter speculated.

  Benson slowly shook his head.

  “So where were you? When you were on the phone? And don’t lie this time.”

  “At gate 51 on Concourse B. Right below where we are right now.” Again, his eyes shot skyward to his right. He bit his lip. He was still lying.

  “And this was when?” Streeter asked.

  He shrugged and unfolded his arms. “I told you, we landed around 12:40 p.m. at B31 and we were only minutes from walking down to B51. Probably around 1:00 p.m. or so? I don’t know precisely to the minute because time wasn’t exactly the most important thing on my mind at the moment.”

  “And you never took the boy anywhere else. To the bathroom? To a store, a restaurant, the bar, out of security to the main terminal or out of the airport?” Streeter leaned forward in his chair and I knew he was studying every single twitching muscle in Benson’s eyes and on his face.

  Benson shook his head and lowered his eyes.

  “Nowhere except straight from B31 to B51?”

  He shook his head again. “That’s it.”

  “Did you see anyone suspicious following you? Anything at all out of the ordinary?” Gates asked.

  “Just a lot of holiday travelers. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  “What’s your girlfriend’s name and what’s the address of the apartment?” Gates asked.

  “I told you, I don’t live there anymore.” Benson cradled his head, clearly frustrated by Gates.

  Streeter said, “We need to talk with your girlfriend to corroborate your story so—”

  “She’ll lie!” Benson shouted. To Streeter, he said, “He’s not listening to me. She’ll tell some wild story that I took the boy and dumped his body somewhere, that she saw me do it. She’s just that way. The bitch just kicked me out of my home, dumped my sorry ass, and threw all my belongings into a snow bank over a couple of text messages. You don’t need to talk to her. She’ll just lie about everything. She’ll try to get me in more trouble. That’s what she told me she’d do if I ever called her again. She said she’d say anything, do anything, to get a restraining order. Don’t you get it?”

  “Oh we get it,” Streeter said, leaning back in his chair. “And we’ll keep that in mind when we talk with her. I think we’re done for now, but we don’t want you leaving the airport for a bit. Are you okay with that?”

  “Why not?” Benson threw his hands in the air and let them drop to his sides.

  “We might have some more questions.”

  “Mind if I ask him a question?” I asked Streeter.

  He nodded. “Go ahead, Agent Bergen.”

  “What did he say?” I asked Benson.

  “Who?” Benson asked.

  “The boy. When he grabbed the mic on the plane.”

  Benson paused and sat staring at me, as if the air had gone out of his balloon. Resigned he answered, “He … he didn’t say anything. He just … started singing.” And his eyes did not flick up and to the right this time.

  “Singing what?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Does it matter? Everybody was laughing.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because he was … cute. Singing Merry Christmas in Spanish.”

  “‘Feliz Navidad’?” I asked, wondering why that song mattered enough to little Max to make him want to sing it to a plane full of people.

  CHAPTER 15

  “WHAT’S HE LYING ABOUT?” Gates asked as they replayed the video of Benson’s interview.

  The headquarters that Kelleher had constructed above B56 had cleared, leaving only me, Chief Gates, and Streeter. I was still totally in the dark as to my role in all of this and had no clue what the chief or Streeter expected me to do. So I simply did my best, staying fairly quiet and out from under foot.

  Unless I thought something had to be said.

  “He’s clearly lying here when he was talking about going to the bathroom. Look at how his eyes kept darting up and to the right,” I said, pointing twice at the footage where Benson’s expression clearly showed what I had seen earlier. “Classic tell, according to the behavioral psychologist at Quantico.”

  “It’s certainly an indication that he’s lying,” Streeter agreed. “But we can’t really jump to conclusions.”

  I arched an eyebrow, definitely detecting the chill in Streeter’s fire-swallowing voice.

  “Thanks for providing Mr. Benson with a personal escort, Chief,” Streeter said to Gates.

  “My deputy’s still tied up with Freytag, so I put Officer Michaels on Benson and he won’t let him out of his sight until I say so,” Chief Gates explained.

  “We’ll need to interview him again. After we talk with the girlfriend. Let him sweat for an hour or so before we do,” Streeter said.

  I was still bothered by some of the things Kevin Benson said and did. “He went into great detail about the gates, the flight numbers, the times, everything leading up to the child being missing, but then breezed through the actual disappearance, the search, and everything leading to now. Did you notice that?”

  Both men nodded.

  “And he used descriptions like ‘the boy’ and not the child’s name. As if to distance himself from being familiar. That concerns me,” I added. “What if Benson kidnapped the boy and stashed him somewhere? He would have had the time. He’s from Denver. He could have left the airport.”

  “Right,” Streeter said. “We’ll bring the girlfriend in to corroborate his story.”

  “Even though he insisted she’d lie to get him in trouble?” I asked.

  “It’s what we would do as a natural next step and we’ll do it because of his urgency that we not talk to her. I have a sneaking suspicion that her story will more accurately reflect the truth about what happened than Kevin Benson’s. But I won’t know that until I am face-to-face with her. I think it’s worth flushing out the untruths, don’t you?”

  Gates nodded and punched some buttons on his cell phone. “Officers are on their way to the address BlueSky gave us for Benson. His emergency contact on file was listed as Bonita Smith, at the same address. They’ll confirm whether the girlfriend and Bonita are one and the same.”

  “In the meanwhile, let’s find Danica,” Streeter said, rising from the computer.

  “Who’s Danica?” I asked, feeling a flush of envy.

  Her name conjured up the dark-haired, car-racing beauty with the same name. And imagining Streeter alone with a woman like that irked me for some reason.

  Streeter was of average height, maybe five-eleven or six foot, with a bo
xy build, and broad shouldered. I considered him sturdy looking. Not the least bit fat. Just fit. Streeter’s hair was cropped short and stark white, too white for his age. And his blue eyes were alive with a fire that made people believe in him, especially when they seemed to turn green. To me, he would always be Agent Adonis.

  “Danica Bradsky was the airport security employee assigned to the escalator from the underground trains to the main terminal, where passengers exit the concourses.”

  The stubble that grew on Streeter’s tanned cheeks looked as rough as his voice sounded. Although he was not a smoker, Streeter’s voice reminded me of hearing the lawn mower on Saturday mornings as a child. It had sounded rough and effective, cutting across the chirping of early birds. His voice was to the point, not to be ignored. He was driven to accomplish the task before him.

  “Can I come along?” I asked.

  “I don’t think I have a choice,” Streeter said, his tone cranky.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, feeling the bite in his comment and realizing I hadn’t imagined his irritation with me on the phone earlier.

  Turning to Gates, Streeter added, “And I want this airport searched end to end, garbage gathered, secured, and examined as soon as possible. I want anything and everything suspicious bagged and tagged.”

  Gates cleared his throat. “Are you sure? The sheer magnitude of trash discarded in one hour here is overwhelming.”

  “Secure it all. Everything since this morning until noon tomorrow.”

  As he was leaving, fingers hovering above his cell phone, Gates paused as he passed me and asked, “What happened to your face? Are you okay?”

  At least Chief Gates noticed my scratched up cheeks. I opened my mouth to explain when Streeter interrupted, “Gates, how many men can you have searching this place? We’ll need an army to search every hiding place.”

  I simply nodded at the chief. He smiled, his eyes tenderly studying my injuries as he answered Streeter, “I can get the National Guard out here. Let me step out and get my team moving on the garbage retrieval and airport lockdown and get started on a more thorough search.”

  Streeter nodded. As Gates left the room, Streeter turned his back to me and started punching numbers on his phone. I waited.

  “This is Pierce again. I need your help. This is the third message I’ve left so I assume you’re in an area with no coverage or have your cell phone turned off. We have a situation. Call my cell as soon as you get these messages.” The thick fingers of one hand flipped the phone off and slid it into his pocket while his other hand brushed through his short crop of white hair. He stood in front of the window facing the tarmac, staring into the darkness beyond. I could see the worry etched in his face in the reflection of the glass.

  “Where is he?”

  “Little Max?” I asked.

  “Linwood.”

  I hesitated. “I … I have no clue. Is that why you’re angry?”

  “He wasn’t with you for the holidays? At your sister’s house?”

  “No. Not that it’s any of your business,” I said, walking up beside him and staring out the same window. “Is that what this is about?”

  Streeter ignored me. “And you have no idea where Linwood might be?”

  “I told you, no. Streeter, if you’re angry about me dating Jack I think we should—”

  He spun to face me, his blue eyes blazing. “I’m angry that you’re acting as if this is no big deal.”

  “What are you talking about? Little Max’s disappearance is a very big deal,” I said, folding my arms across my chest, my anger elevating to meet his.

  “We have a child, a young boy, who’s disappeared. But somehow, you know his name is little Max. And somehow you’re mixed up in all this.”

  “What? I’m mixed up in all this? I’ve never even met the boy,” I stammered.

  “Little Max? Where’d you learn that nickname?”

  “From Phil. During your interview earlier with—”

  “But you know who little Max is, don’t you?”

  Hesitating, I nodded.

  “And you know his father.”

  I nodded again, realizing where he was going now.

  “The billionaire.”

  “Millionaire,” I corrected, taking a few steps away from Streeter to give him room to cool off. I could actually feel the heat rising from his skin, could smell his scent blended with something clean and spicy. “I wouldn’t give him any more credit than he deserves. Which ain’t much.”

  He turned and stared at me as if he might explode. “This isn’t a joke.”

  His dark mood concerned me. I’d never seen Streeter like this. Serious yes, dark no. Normally he was so calm. This response confused me and I wasn’t sure why he was so worked up, other than that I was dressed like a vagabond, which I could see would be upsetting. I took a few steps toward him, holding his glare, and said, “I know that, Streeter. What’s gotten into you?”

  “I need to know you’ll take this seriously, no matter what your personal connection with this guy.” The darkness in his eyes faded to an expression of concern.

  He had it all wrong. Max was nothing personal to me. Not one bit. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Are you? Going to take this seriously and professionally?”

  What did he mean by that? Maybe he assumed I wasn’t taking it seriously enough because it took me so long to get to DIA. But I was staying at Frances’s house, clear over in Wheat Ridge, and I drove as fast as I could without breaking the law, not even taking time to change clothes. Based on how he was giving me the once-over, maybe it’s the clothes. Not very professional, I’ll admit. Maybe I’d embarrassed him in front of the chief.

  Contrite, I answered, “Yes, of course.”

  “And not take matters into your own hands because this is personal?”

  “If you think I’m compromised, why did you involve me at all? You called me, remember?” I said, the frustration beginning to build in my throat and gut, frustrated that in my excitement to prove to Streeter I could do this job, I’d missed the fact that for some reason, he didn’t want me doing my job.

  “Because I had to.”

  “Says who?” I shot back.

  “Chandler, that’s who,” he shot back.

  My eyes grew wide and my jaw went slack. I eventually managed, “John Chandler? The John Chandler? The Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation? From Washington DC? You got your orders from him?”

  Streeter scowled. “And I’m not too happy about it. Neither is Tony.”

  “I’m confused. Why is John Chandler telling you how to run this case?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  “Maximillian Bennett Williams II apparently has a lot of money and a lot of pull. But you already knew that. You say millionaire. Whatever he’s worth, apparently when he wants something, he gets it. And with his son’s disappearance, he did not want the locals on the case. He wanted the FBI.”

  “So Max asked for us?” I asked.

  “Actually, he didn’t ask anything. He told Chandler he wanted you,” Streeter corrected.

  With everything hanging on that final word, he eyed me. Not so pleasantly, I might add. I’d even say he was a wee bit pissed. I could understand that. I’m just out of Quantico and some guy with money has John Chandler’s ear and insists that I be assigned a high-profile case involving abduction. I would be pissed too if I were Streeter or Chief Gates. Or Calvin, for that matter; first chance I got, I’d call him and explain. But why the hell had Max asked for me?

  My response to Streeter’s questioning expression was lame. “Max and I knew each other some time ago. Seven or eight years ago.”

  His eyebrow rose.

  “And it was nothing personal. I mean, with me. He was dating my youngest sister, Ida.”

  The long pause preceding Streeter’s response told me he was weighing the validity of his anger with me. This was not my fault.

  “The sister you’re staying with in Denver?”<
br />
  “No, that’s my sister Frances. And she lives in Wheat Ridge, not Denver. Which is why it took me so long to get here. I made it as quickly as I could. And I’m sorry I didn’t change first. I didn’t think there was time.” There, maybe now he’d be a bit less surly with me.

  The tiny lines around his mouth softened a bit. “And Elizabeth’s the one I met in Rochford?”

  “Right. I have six sisters and two brothers. Remember the funeral for my brother Jens’s fiancée that you and the other FBI agents were casing in Rapid City? I don’t think you met Ida, but you probably saw her. She was the tallest, the model.” Although your eyes seemed to be glued to FBI Agent Jenna Tate that day, I wanted to say, but didn’t. I was apparently in enough trouble as it was.

  His scowl became more pronounced. “Ida was the one with long, dark hair and green eyes, wearing the expensive-looking pink dress? Looks like she stepped off a Victoria’s Secret runway?”

  “You did notice.” His attention to detail from months ago caused me a twinge of jealousy, and an acute awareness of how shabbily I was dressed. “She met Max in the Big Apple. As a teenager. She was a protégée at the Juilliard School of Music, an opera singer, before being discovered as a model. She has a fabulous voice, but Max seemed more interested in everything south of Ida’s vocal chords.”

  Streeter cleared his throat and turned back to the window. “Well, that’s how we ended up on the case. Maximillian Bennett Williams II requested you.”

  “How the hell does he even know I’m with the FBI?” I wondered aloud. “It’s not like any of us Bergens have stayed in touch with the asshole, and certainly Ida wouldn’t have talked with him. I doubt if she’s ever talked with him again after walking out on him seven years ago.” Then it dawned on me. “Which is why you’re so angry. Max requested me, which translates to, you have to work with me.”

  He turned back to me, standing inches from my nose, looking down at my intense expression, and whispered, “All I know is that Williams demanded you be on the case. And I convinced Calvin to ignore Chandler and to let me be in charge of the case instead. And Calvin backed my decision. At the risk of getting us both fired.”