by S. J. Harper
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.
All look happy. All look filled with promise.
None aware of how tenuous life can be.
I look back. Zack is standing next to the SUV. The dial on the pump is spinning. I squeeze my eyes shut. Come on, come on, come on…
I jump when Zack’s phone rings.
I pick it up from the seat. According to the display it’s Taft.
“Monroe here.”
“Doesn’t Armstrong answer his phone anymore?” I can hear the smile in his voice.
“You got the court order,” I say.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m texting the address. The district manager is expecting you.”
The car door opens. Zack slides in. “We got it?”
I memorize the address then toss his phone onto the dashboard. “We got it.”
He cranks the engine over. “Here we go.”
The address we’re directed to is on Broad Street in the heart of Charleston. It’s the main post office and courthouse building, a great block of granite Renaissance Revival architecture that takes up an entire city block. The Post Office is on the first floor and once we leave the lobby with its red marble and mahogany walls, we weave our way through a maze of dark halls. Under different circumstances I’d be impressed with the building’s magnificence, but today I have only one thing on my mind.
It’s cool after the heat and humidity outside and I find myself shivering, whether from the temperature change or anticipation, I can’t tell. We’ve been instructed to speak with one of the District Managers, a Dean Wallace, and we find his office at the end of a long corridor. When we open the door, we’re see a receptionist sitting behind a desk of burled walnut. Mid-fifties and full figured, she rises when we enter and comes around the desk to greet us.
“Are you the agents from the FBI?”
Zack nods and holds out his hand. “Agent Armstrong, Agent Monroe.”
I shake hands with the woman. She’s a shade taller than me, dressed in a gray-silver suit that matches the color of her close-cropped hair. She has the look of a kindly grandmother, a face etched with laugh lines around the eyes and mouth.
“I’m Eva Long, Mr. Wallace’s assistant. He’s been expecting you. Can I get you anything before you go in? Coffee? Water?”
Zack and I both decline. I don’t want to waste a single moment on amenities. “We’re anxious to talk with Mr. Wallace,” I say.
The woman nods and leads us through an archway toward the end of a short hall. She pauses about halfway down in front of a door on the left. After a brisk knock, she opens it and introduces us to Dean Wallace. I barely register the clack of her heels on the marble floor as she takes her leave.
Dean Wallace is obviously expecting us. He rises from behind a desk that’s bigger and more ornate than his secretary’s and extends his hand.
“Agents Monroe and Armstrong I presume?”
“I’m Monroe,” I say noticing his workspace, unlike his secretary’s, is cluttered with papers.
“Please, have a seat.” He waves us into chairs facing him. “This is Bill Fortner, Stuart Mason’s supervisor. I thought he should be here, too.”
It’s at that moment that we realize there is someone else in the room.
He’s was standing in the corner, partially hidden behind the door. Fortner shakes our hands then moves forward to perch on the side of Wallace’s desk.
“We’ve got a last name? That was quick,” I say.
Wallace shrugs. “As soon as Agent Taft called, we pulled up all the guys named Stuart who have routes. He sent over your drawing. Mason’s a ringer for the guy. It’s him. Once more, the dates and locals match up.”
Fortner shakes his head. “I have to tell you, I can’t believe you suspect Stuart of anything, let alone kidnapping. It just doesn’t make sense. No sense at all.”
Fortner is a balding mid-lifer and his khaki pants and open-necked polo shirt stretch tightly over a bulging midriff. His appearance is quite the opposite of his boss, a strikingly handsome African-American of athletic build.
After we’ve all taken seats, Zack wastes no time in outlining just what we believe Mason has done and emphasizing the importance of getting an address and finding him as quickly as possible.
“If you want to pick him up, you don’t have to drive out to Summerville. He should still be on his route,” offers Wallace.
Zack pulls out his notebook. “We think there’s a good chance the child could be somewhere in Mason’s home.”
Again, Fortner jumps to Mason’s defense. “You’re making a mistake. Neither Stuart nor his wife would ever harm a child. Especially after what they’ve been through.”
I lean forward in my chair. “What do you mean?”
Fortner frowns. “His son drowned in a swimming accident at their home not seven months ago. His wife w
as pregnant with their second child and when it happened, she miscarried. He lost two children and almost lost his wife. She went off the deep end. Blamed herself because she’d forgotten to lock the gate to the backyard. He only came back to work a few months ago and even then, only part time because he doesn’t want to leave his wife alone too long. Working as a substitute has been perfect for him.”
He says all this as if what happened to Mason was proof he could never have committed a crime. I see it as possible motive. “What did his son look like?” I ask quietly.
“A cute little thing,” Fortner replies. “Blond, blue eyes. Funny as all get out. He’d come with his parents to watch our softball games. He’d sit in the stands with his mom and cheer the loudest whenever his dad came to bat.”
“Have you seen his wife lately?” Zack asks.
“No.” Fortner releases a breath. “Stuart doesn’t play on the team anymore. Like I said, it’s a tricky situation with his wife. Stephanie had this terrific job at Charles Town Landing. She tried going back to work, but couldn’t manage it. I think she was seeing a shrink for a while.”
My blood runs cold. She’s got to be aware. Involved. Unstable and unpredictable, a dangerous combination.
“We need that address,” says Zack, pen poised and paper ready.
Wallace rattles it off.
Zack scribbles it down then he turns to me. “We’ll go to the house. Let the cops pick up Mason.”
“Agreed.” I’m already on my feet. “Is there a way to narrow down where he might be?”
Wallace nods. “We can tell you where he is right now. We’re using GPS tracking technology as a way to improve the efficiency of deliveries. Carriers are given smart phones that we track remotely. Bill?”
Wallace rises and offers his chair to Fortner who, remarkably, still looks reluctant.
“We only want to talk to Mason,” Zack says. But there is steel in his voice.
Fortner sighs. He and Wallace switch places. He types furiously for a minute, punching in a series of numbers. He turns the screen so we all can see it.
A map of Charleston comes up, then a magnified section of the city jumps into focus.
“He’s working in the Longborough area,” says Fortner. “This program will continue to monitor his progress.”
“May I?” Zack gestures to the phone on Wallace’s desk.
“Of course. Nine will get you an outside line.”
He glances at me. “I’m calling Taft. He can coordinate with the Charleston PD—” He breaks off to dial. Within seconds he’s got both Taft and Biller on the line and I can tell from the conversation that he’s filling them in and asking them to have the police find Mason and keep him in sight. He puts them on speaker. “Agent Monroe and I are going straight to the address I gave you. We’d like backup. Have the uniforms meet us with the warrant.”
Taft’s voice responds. “Biller’s already on the phone with CPD. We’ll call you when we have Mason. Good luck.”
Zack turns to Fortner. “I’m putting you on with Agent Taft. I expect you to cooperate fully. There’s to be no contact with Mason. We don’t want him spooked.”
Mason’s boss looks over at the clock on the wall. “It’s close to four. He’d normally be back in about an hour.”
“He won’t make it back,” Zack tells him.
“But—”
Wallace places a hand on Fortner’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll hang tight and cooperate fully with Agents Taft and Biller.”
We turn to leave.
Suddenly, the voice of Brett Anderson booms out over the speaker, stopping Zack and me in our tracks.
“What the fuck is going on? You swear us to secrecy, then leak the police sketch to the press? I have to hear about this from some reporter for CNN? I swear to God—”
“Whoa! What are you talking about?” asks Biller.
“Live5 has the sketch. I tuned in and just saw it on the fucking news! It’s all over—television, radio, Internet.”
His panic is escalating, and rightly so. We don’t need help from the public looking for Mason. We know exactly where he is. The problem is, if either Mason or his wife see the sketch, they’ll run. And, unfortunately, a four-year-old boy would likely just slow them down.
CHAPTER 9
“Armstrong, Monroe, you getting this?” asks Biller.
“We’re still here,” I say.
Zack’s already commandeered Wallace’s computer and is pulling up the website for Live5News. There’s a video on the home page under a bright red “Breaking News”. The associated headline says “Suspect Identified in the Cooper Anderson Abduction Case”.
“Give us a minute to see what they have.” He cranks up the volume and clicks on the play button.
An attractive blonde with Barbie doll features stands in front of the Anderson home, microphone in hand. “This is Roberta Arnold reporting live with breaking news for WCSC. I’m currently outside the very home from which Cooper Anderson was taken just over seventy-two hours ago. Live5News has learned that the FBI now has a suspect in the abduction of the four-year-old son of our beloved WCSC Meterologist, Brett Anderson. It’s this man.” A copy of the sketch that had been faxed to us from Brett Anderson’s office an hour ago flashes on the screen. “A confidential source close to the case says the man, a United States Postal Worker, has been named a person of interest. If you know him or see him, we encourage you to call our tip line immediately.” The number for the Live5News, not the FBI official tip line flashes on screen.
“Son of a bitch,” growls Zack.
The reporter continues, “Stay tuned to Live5 for more breaking news on the Anderson case. We will update you as soon as more details become available.”
“Who had access to that sketch?” I ask.
Taft is ready with an answer. “No one. Biller and I have the original. Could someone at the school have intercepted the copy I faxed to Zack?”
“Negative,” he says. “I was standing at the machine and pulled it off myself.”
Anderson’s voice roars out again. “Goddam, Beverly! The fax and my laptop are both company property. Faxes that go out or come in are converted into electronic files and stored. She must have someone scouring my documents.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s more than that. The reporter knew the suspect works for the postal service. Beverly must have overheard our conversation in Anderson’s office. Could she have planted a listening device?”
“We’ll do a sweep,” promises Taft. “But I’m afraid the horse is out of the barn. Biller says there are two patrol cars in the immediate vicinity of the Mason’s home. I say we have them go in. The first mention of this was probably fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago now.”
“Send them in,” I say. “Tell them it’s likely a crime scene.”
Zack’s eyes meet mine and something passes between us. Shared emotions—fear, hope, relief, regret.
“Breathe,” tell him.
I’ve been at this a hell of a lot longer than him. Longer than anyone alive. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. It’s never easy.
“The police are at the residence,” says Taft.
I sit back down, lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees. Seconds tick by. They turn into minutes. Silence stretches out before us. My stomach roils with anticipation. The faces of Andy Boroson and Mikey Nicolson are indelible on my mind. Not the smiling, happy faces their parents undoubtedly remember. The crime scene photos of their lifeless bodies, eyes wide open, faces frozen in horror. I feel a hand on my shoulder, a light squeeze.
“Are they in?” asks Zack.
“Affirmative.” There’s a long pause then, “There is evidence of a child having been there, but the house is empty.”
I’m on my feet. “We’re on our way. Get a BOLO out on both Mason and the wife. When you find Mason, arrest him.”
By the time we get to the Mason’s eleven-hundred-square-foot house in Summerville the police have secured the scene. The single-sto
ry homes on Tabby Creek Circle are close together, fronted by long driveways and green lawns. It’s late enough that the Mason’s neighbors are home from work, early enough that the sun has yet to set. The street is lined with curious onlookers. I imagine the press won’t be far behind.
Zack and I duck under the crime scene tape. The officer who was first on scene greets us. “Agents Armstrong and Monroe?”
“You must be Torrance,” Zack says.
We follow him toward the house. “Yes, sir. My partner and I had just wrapped up a call when this one came in. We were only a couple blocks away. It’s a small house. We were able to clear it before back up even arrived. We’ve kept everyone else out, just like you asked.”
The porte cochere that extends from the entrance to the end of the drive looks out of place, an architectural touch more fit for a mansion than this modest middle-class structure. When we reach the edge, Torrance pauses for a beat, shoves his hands in his pockets, glances at the entrance with its cheery welcome wreath. “Looks like at least one kid was held captive in there.”
He pulls a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wipes his brow. He’s young, probably not long on the job. The strain of a major case shows on his face.
Despite the heat, I feel a chill run down my spine. I follow his line of sight. We’ve found the place. The place where three children were kept, where two were probably murdered.
Only there is nothing to distinguish it from millions of other homes in thousands of other cities. Nothing to mark the horror that went on inside such innocuous walls.
That’s what makes it so frightening.
We leave Torrance outside. Zack and I don gloves before entering. The living room is bright and sunny with polished wood floors and light yellow walls. It’s tastefully furnished, with an overstuffed sofa and a couple reclining chairs. The mantle over the fireplace is laden with framed family photos. There’s one of Stuart and Stephanie, dancing on their wedding day. Another of Stephanie holding an infant, shot outside so they are bathed in natural light. In both shots, the woman looks relaxed and carefree. She smiles into the camera, her expression calm, composed, as if every wish she dared make had come true.