Noah's Rainy Day Page 8

  Frances shook her head. “I worry about Emma. She’s always making up imaginary friends. I thought she’d grown out of that by now. Maybe I expect too much of her around here.”

  I clearly noticed her eyes move toward Noah and knew what she meant.

  “Did you see anything move in the backseat?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see anything. No one was in the front. I wasn’t about to make the guy prove he was alone, just because Emma thought she saw something. You haven’t seen anyone, have you Noah?” Frances turned to Noah, who remained still. “Didn’t think so. And believe me, if I had seen something, I’d probably call the cops. Fletcher gives me the creeps. What guy pulls up and just sits in his car, staring at little girls?”

  “Creepy guys, just like you said,” Elizabeth confirmed.

  A cold chill skipped along my spine because I know very well where a creepy stare leads. I didn’t want to go there. “What’s his story?”

  “Don’t know. Gabriel and I tried to properly welcome the man to the neighborhood when he moved in last year. Baked him a cake.”

  “That’s right neighborly of you,” I mocked. “And?”

  “The first week he moved in, I waited until he arrived home from work, but he wouldn’t answer the door. I know he was in there.”

  We all froze when we heard the kitchen door open and close.

  “Emma?” Frances called.

  My redheaded niece poked her head around the wall and said, “That was Daddy, not me. He’s going into the garage to get something.”

  All three of us drew in a breath of relief.

  “Well, that’s just weird that he wouldn’t answer the door,” I said, getting us back on topic.

  “We’d heard he’s a native Coloradoan, used to live in an apartment until he bought the house next door. Anyway, I finally gave up trying to get him to come to the door. So one night I left him a plate of homemade cinnamon rolls with a note of welcome attached.”

  “Did you get your plate back?”

  Frances shook her head.

  “Does he live alone?” I asked, popping a piece of chocolate in my mouth from the candy dish.

  “No dog. No cat. No family. No visitors.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever. Gabriel said he’s talked with him a couple of times. Says he’s simpleminded but an okay guy.”

  “Gabriel would tell you if he thought you were in any danger, Frances. This Fletcher guy, he didn’t have anyone stop by today? I mean, after all, it’s Christmas Eve.” I ate a second piece of chocolate, earning a look from Frances.

  “No visitors. Not for Thanksgiving, either. But he was gone for several hours earlier and again just now. He comes and goes often. Maybe he has relatives in town.”

  “Weird,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yep,” Frances said, holding out her hand like mothers do with kids to retrieve the wrappers I was about to stuff in my pocket.

  “No, I meant you knowing so much about the creepy guy’s comings and goings. You’re turning into Mrs. Kravitz.” Elizabeth and I laughed.

  “Who?”

  “Bewitched. Nosey neighbor. Remember? ‘Abner, come quick. You’ve got to see this.’” Elizabeth had the impersonation down to a science.

  “Thanks. You’re both such big help,” Frances said and frowned. “Mind hanging out with Noah while we finish making dinner?” she asked me.

  “My pleasure,” I said, flopping down on the blanket again and pretending to use Noah as my pillow, mimicking the patting and punching motions of fluffing him. “What’s for dessert, Noah? Did your mom say?”

  Noah rolled his eyes upward.

  “Yeah? Is it done?”

  Another upward eye roll.

  “Where? In the fridge?”

  Noah concentrated on doing nothing.

  “Oven?”

  Nothing.

  “Freezer?”

  Noah smiled and rolled his eyes again. I jumped up and headed to the kitchen. After checking in the freezer, I came back into the living room and lay next to Noah on the floor. “Custard? Really? What kind of holiday dessert is custard? And knowing Frances, it’s probably lemon. Yuck.”

  Noah giggled.

  I leaned into him. “And it’s okay for you to use your secret pin to record your mom the next time she makes her famous cheesecake. She won’t share her recipe with me.”

  I hadn’t paid much attention to what was on TV and was just enjoying being next to Noah. Something about a small ostrich farm west of Louisville, Colorado. That was where Elizabeth and Michael lived, although they frequently traveled back and forth to Rochford, South Dakota, these days, now that construction on the Lost Boys campus for at-risk youths had begun. Frances and Gabriel lived south of Louisville in Wheat Ridge and I had lived in Fort Collins, with intention of splitting my time between the quarry and the Denver Bureau. But now my house in Fort Collins was up for sale and I was looking for an apartment in Denver, staying with Frances and her family from time to time when I needed to crash for a few hours. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to find an apartment that took dogs, especially the size of a full-grown bloodhound. But Frances and Gabriel didn’t seem to mind. And Noah loved sleeping with Beulah. The best part about getting an apartment in Denver is that the three of us sisters would all live less than an hour apart from each other. At least three of the nine of us siblings were close.

  I’d zoned out for a minute and noticed how still Noah had gotten. He had his head turned toward the TV, his good eye fixed on the screen. I’d forgotten to mention to Frances that I’d noticed Noah had lost his contact lens again. He strained to see the screen, even though he was less than two feet from it. The beautiful Native American anchorwoman was reporting something about the Denver International Airport. As she spoke, images of the Denver airport terminal rolled on the screen behind her.

  “…but the authorities have not released any more information on this tragic story. Again, repeating Channel 9’s top story tonight, Maximillian Bennett Williams III, five-year-old son of New York property developer and multimillionaire Maximillian Bennett Williams II, has apparently disappeared.”

  My mouth dropped open. I knew Max well. He had almost married my youngest sister, Ida, seven or eight years ago. Over our dead bodies. Especially Mom’s, since Ida was only seventeen at the time.

  “Frances! Elizabeth! Come quick.” My shouting startled Noah. “Sorry, Noah.”

  “What?” Frances said, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

  “It’s Max.”

  “Max? As in Ida’s Max?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered, hushing her.

  The anchorwoman’s voice could still be heard as a picture of the blond-haired child flashed, spanning the entire screen, saying, “Mr. Williams could not be reached for comment at this time, but we have learned that the child was scheduled to make a connecting flight to Los Angeles, California, this afternoon, and instead disappeared from the airline escort’s care. Authorities have not confirmed whether they suspect foul play. However, they have released this photograph of the boy in an Amber Alert and are asking for anyone who has seen this child or may have any information on his whereabouts to please call them immediately. The number is …”

  The recently taken picture showed a grinning five-year-old Maximillian with his thick, blond hair parted to one side and slicked back with gel, a stylish purple silk bow tie under his chin, and a perfectly fitted custom-made three-piece suit covering his small frame. The boy’s face faded from the screen and the face of the anchorwoman reappeared on the Hogarty television just as Gabriel came in through the kitchen door holding a socket wrench and a set of sockets.

  He must have noticed the sullen expressions on our faces. “What’s up?”

  “A story about Ida’s old boyfriend was on the news,” I said. “His son was abducted from DIA earlier today. It’s breaking news.”

  “On Christmas Eve?” Gabriel said. “That’s horrible.”

  Frances lean
ed her head against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her in a comforting embrace. Elizabeth and I just stared at the TV in shock.

  Frances asked, “Do you think one of us should call Ida?”

  My mind was focused entirely on the story of the missing boy, wondering if Streeter had been called in to investigate and if he had, why he hadn’t called me.

  My cell phone rang.

  CHAPTER 12

  PHIL KELLEHER OFFERED STREETER a tight smile as they entered the nearly bare room. Along the walls were several chairs and a folding table with a coffee pot, stacks of cups, sugar, and creamer. In the center of the room were two pods of folding tables. One had been set up in a large square with two computers, two printers, a video camera and recording equipment, and partitions to separate four distinct working areas with separate phones. Office space. The second grouping, the interview area, consisted of two folding tables lined with chairs, and it also included more video and recording equipment.

  Streeter was amazed at how quickly Kelleher worked and how resourceful he could be at getting all of this equipment past security. He’d called Calvin, his boss and Denver Bureau SAC, the second he had closed the door to his truck at Gates’s house. Then Streeter called fellow agents Kelleher and Liv—in that order—despite Calvin’s unsettling news about assigning first office agent Bergen as lead on this case. On a follow-up call to Calvin, Streeter convinced Calvin to let him lead the case and, instead, to mentor Liv on her first assignment. The phone call nearly consumed the entire trip from Gates’s house to DIA. Once he arrived at the airport, Streeter spent only twenty minutes or so in the BlueSky office before heading straight over to the makeshift headquarters Kelleher had already set up for them.

  Streeter couldn’t help but notice that Liv Bergen hadn’t even arrived yet.

  Streeter said, “Thanks for coming, Kelleher, for leaving your family to help us.”

  Kelleher nodded imperceptibly and got down to business. “Here are two computer systems. This one is secure, the other, not so much. Not yet, anyway. We’re working on it. We have a video and still camera set up on both so we can capture all images from interviews, review airport security videos, whatever you need. So be careful until we can figure out how to secure this beast.”

  Every time he was around Phil Kelleher, Streeter thought of Felix from the Odd Couple, only Kelleher probably would have been offended by the comparison, considering the fictional Felix Unger was not quite as fastidious as Kelleher was.

  “Here is the information we’ve pulled on the boy and the escort.” Kelleher indicated the smaller of the two piles of files stacked on the bare interview tables.

  Streeter pointed at the other, thicker pile. “And these?”

  “The parents,” Kelleher said with a scowl, his thin face folding like a crumpled paper.

  Streeter whistled. The pile of documents was massive, indicating the parents were going to be trouble. He introduced Gates to Kelleher.

  “Heard about you,” Chief Tony Gates said. “If you ever want a real job, come see me.”

  Streeter noticed a rare smile on Special Agent Phil Kelleher’s face.

  Gates’s phone buzzed. He looked at the text. “They’re here. BlueSky. They’ll be bringing Benson up to us.”

  “When?” Streeter asked.

  “A minute, maybe two. They’re headed up the escalator to the mezzanine as we speak.”

  “While we’re waiting, tell me something, Kelleher,” Streeter said. “What’s up with the parents?”

  “Maximillian Bennett Williams II is a developer in Manhattan. A multimillionaire. Melissa Williams is a supermodel. Famous. They’re separated, waiting for the divorce to be finalized, and the child—Maximillian III or little Max—is the product of their brief marriage,” Kelleher explained.

  “Ransom?”

  “Possibly,” Kelleher answered. “It’s all speculation at this point.”

  “No calls to the parents reported yet?”

  Kelleher answered, “Not that I’ve heard. I left that up to you to decide.”

  “Get the New York Bureau up to speed and have them contact the father, same with the LA Bureau and the mother. We’ll need our people involved if there’s a ransom call.”

  “That won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re on their way here.”

  “Who’s on their way? Where?”

  Kelleher cleared his throat. “The mother and father. They’re both flying here to Denver in private jets as we speak.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Kelleher nodded over Streeter’s shoulder at the incoming entourage.

  Gates and Streeter turned in time to see two men come through the door. Streeter only recognized the older, heavier man in the suit and mumbled, “Toby Freytag.”

  Gates asked, “Freytag told you the parents were incoming?”

  Kelleher nodded.

  “Nice to know.”

  Streeter leaned in closer to Gates and grumbled, “Especially after we just spent a half hour grilling him and he never mentioned it to us.”

  “Chief Gates? This is Kevin Benson,” Toby Freytag announced as the door bumped closed.

  The man beside Freytag was morose looking. He was young, tall, and lean with a long face and horsey teeth. His bangs were too long and his shirttails were loose. He looked drunk or stoned, if Streeter had to guess.

  “So you’re the flight attendant who escorted the missing boy?” Gates asked.

  The lanky man nodded, his glance bouncing between Gates and Streeter.

  Benson looked at Freytag. “You said I shouldn’t say anything until the lawyers get here.”

  “I did, but—”

  “Mr. Benson?” Streeter asked, cutting off Freytag and noticing that Kelleher had expertly faded into the background to help observe.

  Kevin Benson fixed his blurry eyes on Streeter and said, “Call me Kevin. My dad’s Mr. Benson.”

  “Okay, Kevin,” Gates sniped. Streeter detected a note of agitation in his friend’s tone. “I’m Police Chief Tony Gates and this is Special Agent Streeter Pierce. Have a seat.”

  Streeter extended his hand and Benson gave him a limp handshake. Streeter wondered if this was his normal greeting or if his hands were sore from a recent activity, like restraining the boy or digging a shallow grave in the frozen ground.

  As Benson slumped into the chair, Streeter noticed Liv slip into the room, wearing an apologetic expression under her Rockies baseball cap. She looked beautiful and frightful; angry red scratches marked her cheeks and neck. Streeter offered her a flickering glance that he hoped she’d notice and no one else would. He made a mental note to ask her about the injuries later, as well as to remind her of the Bureau’s expectation that agents dress more professionally when on assignment or working a case. He tried to ignore how the tight blue jeans and white T-shirt she wore beneath her unzipped hoodie made her look like a college coed and made him feel ancient in comparison. At least the standard Bureau dark suit she should have worn would have made their ten-year age difference feel a bit less cavernous than her apparel did at this moment.

  From the corner of his eye, Streeter watched as Liv gave Kelleher a hug, noticing the big smile on Kelleher’s otherwise tight lips. Streeter resisted a sigh, imagining his discussion with her about not only dressing appropriately, but also how PDAs were not typically warranted or expressed by professional agents. Especially first office agents. Then again, Liv Bergen was anything but typical.

  As the BlueSky employees whispered to one another, Gates was settling into the chair beside Streeter across from the two men. Gates cleared his throat and leaned across the table toward Benson and Toby Freytag and said, “Half hour with you and you forget to mention the Williamses are on their way here?”

  Toby Freytag’s eyes grew wide as he stammered, “I … uh.”

  “When do they arrive?” Streeter asked.

  “I … how would I know that?”

  “Find o
ut. You get your hands on their flight plans, the ETA, the name of their pilots, the time they left, the mechanic’s shoe size, everything you can on those two private jets,” Gates demanded.

  “But I need to stay with Kevin or I’ll—”

  “Now!” Gates interrupted, seeing a smile touch Streeter’s lips. “And make sure the instant their wheels touch down, you escort them to the room right next door to us and make sure we have plenty of seats for everyone. Immediately.”

  “How can I do that? I don’t have the authority to—”

  Gates was punching numbers on his phone. “My deputy is on his way. Deputy Eddie Heisinger. You’ll have the authority to do whatever you need to accommodate my requests. Now do what I said.”

  Toby Freytag slunk out of the room with Kelleher, who Streeter knew would stick like glue to the BlueSky manager every minute until Deputy Heisinger was with him. Liv, still unnoticed by the distraught flight attendant at the table, closed the door. Streeter offered Liv a flicker of a once-over, not intended to mask the worry etched on his face. He made a mental note to personally throttle Linwood if he was responsible for her wounds.

  Streeter cleared his throat, pushing away any thoughts of Liv or Linwood for later. Streeter clicked a couple buttons on the keyboard and started the video recording, announcing the time, date, location, and all persons present for the official FBI interview. Benson glanced over his shoulder at Special Agent Liv Bergen as Streeter announced her presence. His eyes grew wide at the announcement that this was an official FBI interview. Streeter might have let his glance linger a bit too long on Liv, who appeared impressively formidable even though this was her first time in an interview and he hadn’t had time to instruct her. She stood in front of the door. Her stony-faced expression, wide stance, lowered chin, and crossed arms made her look like a seasoned guard in a maximum-security prison. And the cuts along her cheek highlighted with dried blood made the effect all the more convincing.

  “State your full name, date of birth, and today’s date, please.”

  “Oh crap. Oh no. Oh no, no, no.” Benson buried his head in his hands, propping his elbows on the folding table.