by Sylvia Sarno
“What do you know about her personal life, Nora?” Ann asked.
“It’s funny,” Nora said. “Kika said that she came to the orphanage to meet me. She claimed to be the daughter of an old friend of mine. The strange thing is I never knew her mother. Antonia Garcia was her name. She said her mother kept a whole album of newspaper clippings of Peter and me and our philanthropy work.”
Richard’s eyebrows went up. “Maybe her mother admired you from a distance for the good the work you and your husband did.” He thought for a moment. “Wasn’t Kika born in Mexico?”
“It’s possible her mother learned about me through my foundation,” Nora said, shrugging. “Yes, Kika was born and raised in Mexico. Apparently she was adopted. After the University of Arizona—I think that’s where she went—she worked on the East Coast for a number of years. When her mother, this Antonia died, Kika moved west to be closer to her boyfriend. He’s a businessman in Tijuana. Ruiz is his name. I guess Kika didn’t get along with her mother. Said she felt like an orphan her whole life. She—”
“Her boyfriend’s name is Ruiz?” Ann said.
Nora nodded. “Max Ruiz. Why?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Why?”
Ann looked from her husband to Nora. “A Max Ruiz came into the gallery this afternoon. He seemed unusually interested in Travis.”
How did you know his name?” Richard asked.
“Eloise likes everyone to sign the guest log so she can get their contact info to follow up,” Ann said. “When Ruiz left, she commented that his name sounded familiar. She Googled him and discovered that he’s a Mexican businessman. Apparently he was arrested once in San Diego on a drug trafficking charge. Which was later dropped.”
Nora looked skeptical. “Drugs? Kika said he owns factories and funds orphanages.”
“She probably sent him in to spy on me and check up on Travis.” Ann grabbed a notebook from the coffee table. “Quick, Nora! Write down Kika’s address. I’m going over there to see for myself what she’s up to.”
Richard placed his hand on her shoulder. “The police are there now. Think of Travis, Annie. You might get in the way.”
Ann imagined her son pleading for her to come for him. Breathing deeply trying to quell her rising fear, she nodded. Her husband was right. She would let the police take the lead. For now.
CHAPTER 4
Wednesday, October 3
7:00 A.M.
Early the next morning, Detectives Tom Long and Will Pruitt came to the Olsons’ house. From their solemn expressions, before they had even said a word, Ann knew they had not located her son.
Seated in the family room, Tom Long explained that Kika Garcia quit her job and she spent the night away from home.
“Why else would she leave her job and disappear?” Ann asked the detectives and her surprised husband.
“You mentioned she left her boss a resignation letter,” Richard said. “Could you tell us what was in it?”
Will Pruitt was seated on the leather sofa downrange from his young partner. He indicated with his hand that his partner would do the talking.
Tom leaned forward, his eyes moving from Ann to Richard. “We’re willing to share information with you as long as you agree not to disclose any of this to the media.”
“Why would we talk to the media about this?” Ann asked.
“As you know, the press conference is scheduled to begin in three hours time, here at the house,” Tom said. “We can’t have journalists and news outlets broadcasting sensitive information. It could compromise the investigation. With everything you’re going through, it’d be easy to forget. That’s why it’s important we come to an understanding beforehand.”
“First off,” the detective said after Ann and Richard agreed to keep the information private, “there was nothing specifically in the letter about either of you or your son. Having said that, Ms. Garcia seems to harbor a lot of anger toward parents. Abusive ones, as she put it.”
“I could have told you that,” Ann said. “She made up all that stuff about us to make herself feel important, or something. The woman’s out of touch with reality.”
“Actually, much of the letter was directed at CPS,” Tom said.
Richard looked surprised. “How so?”
“Apparently she believes CPS is not up to the task of protecting children. That’s the reason she gave for quitting.”
“It’s like she’s on a crusade to save our son from us,” Richard said, shaking his head. “It’s crazy.”
“What do we do now?” Ann asked.
From across the room, Will Pruitt cleared his throat. “Unfortunately Ms. Garcia’s cell phone’s turned off so we can’t locate her via GPS. We put a bulletin out on her as a person of interest.”
“Can’t you put out a warrant for her arrest?” Ann asked.
“Ms. Garcia quitting her job is not a reason to arrest her,” Tom Long said. “Not yet, anyways. Remember, Mrs. Olson. Three other children are missing. It’s by no means a sure thing she took your son.”
Though Ann understood the police were trained to consider all the facts before arriving at a conclusion, the social worker had threatened to take Travis and she essentially announced her motive in the letter to her boss. Kika seemed to sincerely believe she was saving Travis from his parents.
“What about the video you got from the neighbors?” Richard asked the detectives. “Anything there?”
Tom Long shook his head. “One of the cameras was broken. The other, from down the street, didn’t capture anything useful.”
Ann let out a determined breath. “There’s something we should tell you about. After you left last night, my friend Nora March came over. She knows Kika from when Kika volunteered at San Diego County Orphanage. Nora’s trustee there.”
Tom Long looked interested. “March?” he said. “Any relation to Pastor March at New Way Evangelical?”
“Nora’s Chet’s mother,” Ann replied. “How do you know Chet?”
“His church organized a search for Sabeal Villarreal and for the other missing children. Nice group of people. Very dedicated.”
Detective Pruitt cleared his throat. “You were saying Nora March is a friend of yours?”
“My closest friend,” Ann said. “Last night Nora mentioned Kika has this boyfriend, Max Ruiz. He’s a businessman in Tijuana.” She proceeded to tell the detectives how Ruiz came into her gallery yesterday; how he had seemed to take an interest in Travis.
Detective Pruitt was jotting notes into a small booklet.
“Ruiz would know Kika’s whereabouts,” Richard added.
“Interesting information,” Tom Long said. “We’ll talk to the FBI. See if their liaison in Tijuana can make a connection.” His expression was reassuring as he stood up. “We’ll be back for the press conference in a few hours. See if we can’t get the public to help us out.”
Richard urged Ann to rest before they faced the media. She entered her son’s room and closed the door. She lowered herself onto his twin bed and reached for his beloved stuffed rabbit. Her eyes shut she hugged the toy to her chest. Travis’s sweet, childish scent was in his rabbit, his quilt. Turning, she pulled his pillow from underneath the blanket. Her face to the cool cotton, her breath came in fitful starts. Her son was unharmed—she refused to believe otherwise. After a while, she opened her eyes. Memories of her little boy and their happy times together were imprinted on every object in the room. On the Lego table where Travis spent countless hours building his whimsical creations. His bookcase full of the books he had handpicked himself. The corner where his crib used to be. On the far wall where his changing table used to sit. On the sunlight streaming through the windows. On the very air itself.
The rabbit to her chest, Ann’s thoughts strayed to the days of her childhood before her parents divorced. A new pain welled within her as she remembered her flowered bedroom in the rambling country house she had shared with her parents. The humid mornings and th
e long, snapping sounds of the cicadas. The lazy summer days on the Hudson River. The warmth of the sun on her body as she lay on a rock after a swim. Wandering through sun-dappled woods looking for wildflowers. And then, the evenings on the back porch with her mother and father as the sun slowly sank to the earth. Afterwards, lying in her bed while her mother stroked her hair, softly singing her to sleep.
Please Travis. Come home.
10:00 A.M.
Ann stepped into the house and dropped to the floor. She and her husband had just given the press conference on their front lawn. Strangers and television crews alike had gasped when Richard announced a five hundred thousand-dollar cash reward for Travis’s safe return. Ann was grateful Richard had answered the reporters’ questions. She could barely keep the weight in her heart from buckling her knees, as it was.
Richard shut the front door and knelt beside her. What kind of mother would leave her child alone in the dark when a stalker had threatened to take him? The answer—a negligent mother—brought more tears to Ann’s eyes.
Her husband helped her up. Together, they moved toward the family room. On the sofa, Richard held her close, stroking her hair gently like her mother used to do when she was very young. “We’ll get him back, Annie. We’ll get him back.”
Ever since she met him, nineteen years ago, Richard was Ann’s rock. When she stumbled, he was there to lift her up. She remembered their early days together in Cambridge, after she graduated from Smith College. The one-bedroom apartment they shared on the ground floor of a rickety house off Mass Avenue. Early morning walks along the Charles river. Cozy nights snuggled in bed. Summer weekends in Maine, lounging on the beach or on their friends’ boat. When Richard accepted a position at a start-up in San Diego, they packed their few belongings and moved west. The adventure of life continued as they settled into a beachfront condo on La Jolla Shores. They could barely afford the rent but they had high hopes of earning more. And they did. Richard’s biotechnology company went public, netting them a small fortune. Ann’s reputation as an expert in classical art was growing. They bought a house, a fixer in a prime neighborhood. Over the years, they turned it into their dream home filled with natural light, wood, and marble.
Before Travis arrived, Ann’s vision of motherhood was limited to the fun things. She had never babysat as a teenager. No younger siblings to help with—she was an only child. She imagined herself cuddling with her baby, nursing him, dressing him, and pampering him with toys. She planned to stay home with her son until he started school. She didn’t expect to want to return to work after a year.
Her days before Travis was born had been filled with the buying and selling of Renaissance paintings and sculptures for well-heeled customers of the San Diego auction house where she worked. She had tried to fill her time at home by making new friends, but the young mothers, from the playgroups she and Travis had joined, bored her. For the most part these women were glad to be done with the working world, happy to be at home with their babies. The one close friend she made during that time moved to London with her family when Travis was two, leaving Ann feeling lonelier than ever. Her parents deceased, and Richard’s living in France, Ann felt there was no one she could turn to for help with Travis. The thought of leaving him with strangers only made her more anxious. Overwhelmed at finding herself in a situation for which she was ill prepared, she became depressed.
Richard had encouraged her to try a nanny service. “There’s nothing to worry about. They do background checks on these women,” he had countered when Ann resisted. “You’re driving everyone crazy. And don’t think Travis can’t sense your stress.” Still, Ann refused.
When Travis was four, it was Ann’s new friend, Nora March, who convinced Ann that her unhappiness was hurting her family. For some reason hearing the same from Richard hadn’t done the trick. “Why don’t you open that art gallery you keep talking about?” Nora had said. “You can make your own hours, and get some help with Travis in between. Your old job didn’t sound very conducive to motherhood, especially with all that traveling you said you did.”
Encouraged by her friend, Ann hired a nanny to watch Travis. Alma’s first day on the job was rough. Travis kept banging on the closed door to Ann’s home office, crying for her. It was weeks before Travis accepted that Alma would be his daytime caregiver. If Alma had not returned to Mexico to enter a convent eighteen months later, Ann imagined that she would still be helping with her son today.
Ann was happy that the nanny loved Travis and that he loved her. Yet, she couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. Their closeness was an unsettling reminder that it was she, Travis’s mother, who had abdicated a share of her son’s precious life to another woman. It was around that time that she came to understand how her own mother had struggled to balance her own needs with her responsibilities to her daughter.
Ann’s feelings of guilt and inadequacy returned with a vengeance, the day CPS came into her life.
1:00 P.M.
In the living room, Ann pulled the floor-to-ceiling drapes shut. The heavy folds of silk made a gentle, rustling sound as she adjusted the material to block the daylight. Since Travis disappeared she couldn’t stand to have any sunlight coming into the house. Turning, she faced the room. The oversized chairs were covered in navy and cream-striped, brushed silk. The rest of the furniture, of hand-hewn walnut—child-sized tables, toy chests and a few chairs—was placed around a white shag rug in the far corner of the room. Four tall floor lamps shaped like blossoming cherry trees, with small pink and white bulbs, remained darkened. Open French doors led to the adjoining dining room. The smell of Clorox from the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom permeated the air.
Ann could hear her husband at the front door welcoming an unexpected visitor. The visitor’s voice was low and solicitous, but unmistakable. Why is Chet here?
Chet March was the last person Ann expected to see in her home, given his captious attitude toward her in the past. Since founding New Way Evangelical Church, four years ago, Chet had started a campaign to get his mother, Nora, to accept Jesus as her personal savior. He explained to Nora time and again that if she did not heed his warnings she would surely burn in everlasting hell when she died. He had even accused Ann of convincing Nora to stop donating money to his church. As if anyone had that kind of power over her strong-willed friend.
The door to the living room opened and Richard stepped in. “Chet March is here,” he said in a quiet voice. “His church is organizing a search for Travis. He wants to offer his condolences and tell us their plan. Do you want to talk to him?”
Ann dry washed her hands. The prospect of seeing Chet frightened her. Maybe because Chet’s presence implied that she needed people like him, whose ideas she had never agreed with, to help her through this nightmare that was now her life. But the pastor had come to offer his help. There was no way she would refuse him.
She nodded. “Bring him in.”
Chet was not exactly handsome. He was of medium height and build, with dark hair, noticeably balding above a prominent forehead. The roundish glasses he wore obscured his eyes somewhat, giving him a scholarly, detached look. A three-inch crudely-shaped wooden cross—Ann had never seen him without it—hung from a worn, leather thong around his neck.
All apologies for “barging in” Chet sat on the chair opposite Ann. “I’m sorry about what’s happened,” he said, his solemn eyes moving from her to Richard. “A difficult time. But,” he hastened to add, “not without hope. You may have heard of New Way’s efforts to find the Villarreal girl. We’re doing the same for your son. We’ve set up a search center at the church. Volunteers are posting thousands of flyers all over San Diego, as we speak.”
A lump so large had formed in Ann’s throat she couldn’t speak. They were non-believers, and Chet, a man of God, was offering to help them. Thankfully Richard expressed their shared gratitude.
Looking away so Chet couldn’t see the emotion in her face, Ann heard her husband telling the pastor tha
t the police were searching for Kika. Her thoughts turned to Travis, to the day of her screaming fit.
His head on her shoulder, Travis had stopped crying.
“Let’s forget about the dentist and school, and my meeting. Everything,” she said. “We’ll go to Legoland. Go on the rides and have pizza. And a great big ice cream. Sound like fun?”
Travis’s teary-eyed smile took the edge off her guilt.
“Let’s go now, Mom.”
She kissed his head, his eyes, his cheeks, and his little hands. Her client, Douglas Stark, would be angry, but she didn’t care. Her son was more important than her business and money.
The doorbell rang.
Ann helped her son up. “Gather your things, sweetie, and we’ll leave as soon as I see who’s at the door.”
She hurried down the stairs. “Coming!”
A police officer appeared at the window by the front door.
Frowning, Ann wondered why the police had come to her house. She unlocked the door. “What can I do for you, officer?”
“Are you Mrs. Olson?”
Her apprehension growing, Ann confirmed her identity. “What’s this about?”
“We received a call about someone screaming. Is everything all right?”
Ann wondered if the guilt she felt showed on her face. “I’m sorry, Officer...” She glanced at his nametag. “Officer Wilson. It was just me. I was...I was a little upset.”
Officer Wilson’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Was anybody hurting you?”
“It was nothing like that,” Ann said, trying to sound light-hearted. “I lost my temper, that’s all.”
She felt Travis’s head jostle her arm. She looked down. “Hi, sweetie.”
When Officer Wilson’s eyes lowered to Travis, his face softened. “And what might your name be, young man?”