by John Case
I shake my head.
Shoffler stabs his cigarette into the mess of crumpled butts. “Is it because Montgomery County happens to be involved in a lawsuit about racial profiling?”
“You’re kidding.”
Shoffler wags his head. “Now, in the Sandling case – we got a lawsuit there, too, more than one. Jones and I – we did see the parallels, you know. Jones gets on the horn to Corvallis. And what happened? Were they helpful, did they extend every courtesy? No. They more or less told us to get lost.”
“She’s the FBI and they blow her off?”
“They’re polite, they want to accommodate us, but yes they blow her off. Like a fucking hurricane.”
“Why.”
“Li-ti-ga-tion. Here’s the deal: Emma Sandling has some issues with the way her boys’ case was handled. She’s suing the police out there – about the length of time she was detained, about the conduct of the investigation, about the follow-up, about every damn thing. There are suits about misconduct and another one over lifestyle profiling.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re saying that the equal protection clause in the Constitution should cover class and lifestyle issues, the same way it covers race, religion, gender, and ethnicity.”
“It’s a constitutional issue?”
“Yeah. Think-a-that, hunh? Now, the cops out there – they don’t trust Sandling. They still think it’s about covering her ass; they still think she was involved. So why – ask yourself – would Sandling be anxious to talk to anybody connected to law enforcement? The cops thought she did it. Her kids were taken away from her – and it took her months to get them back. The only reason she succeeded was because a sympathetic judge figured that leaving the boys in the library and living in a tent was not really neglect. Given welfare reform and the unemployment rate and the lack of child-care alternatives for Sandling, what’s she supposed to do? Anyway, when Jones called, trying to get Sandling’s phone number, she got nowhere.”
“Sandling wouldn’t talk.”
“Right. Sandling won’t talk, the cops won’t talk, the lawyers won’t talk. We asked.”
“Did she know about Kevin and Sean?”
Shoffler swings his big head in my direction and just looks at me. “What do you think? You think she coulda missed that story? Maybe if she lived on Mars. No, the thing is your boys’ kidnapping brought the whole thing back. It terrified her.”
“How do you know?”
“We had a conference call: me, Jones, Sandling, and her lawyers. The lawyers are a big help, as you can imagine – keep telling her she doesn’t have to talk to us, doesn’t have to answer this question or that. But we really whacked away at this woman; I mean, we laid on the guilt as thick as we could. Here were two boys in peril, her boys might have information helpful in the investigation, how could she as a mother… blah, blah, blah.”
“And?”
“Nothing. We did not get to first base. Wherever she’s living now, no one knows who she is. And she wants to keep it that way… which is understandable. She’s worried about some kind of leak, that her boys’ case will end up all over the news again, they’ll be outed in their new place. Maybe the perp will come back for another round – to which Jones says, ‘not if we catch him.’ But Sandling is not interested; she won’t say boo. The lawyer follows up by warning us not to mention the Sandling case to the media.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He called Jones’s supervisor at the Bureau and my chief in Arundel… just to reinforce the warning.”
I just sit there, in a funk of anger and impotence. I’m pissed at Sandling, her lawyers, the cops, everybody. And what’s worse, I’m sick at heart. I take a few deep breaths, fighting off a sort of interior collapse.
“You okay?” Shoffler says.
I shrug.
“I can do two things for you,” Shoffler says. “First – and I doubt this will do you a hell of a lot of good – I can get you a copy of the sketch. The one they did working with the Sandling kids. Jones got that out of them. I wasn’t supposed to make a copy, but I did. Anyway, it was published in the papers at the time. Anyone asks, that’s where you got it.”
“Does it look like The Piper?”
He shrugs, holds up one hand. “Who knows? Not really. More facial hair than our guy. Kind of fogs up the features.” He sighs. “Second thing – and you could get this on your own, so I’m just saving you some time here – Sandling’s maiden name is Whalen.”
“You think that’s the name she’s using?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Shoffler says, flashing me a grin. “I was constrained from pursuing the matter.”
He drops me off near the White House. “Take the MARC Train from Union Station,” he advises. “New Carrollton stop. A cab’ll take you the rest of the way. Cost you ten bucks, max.”
When I open the door the next morning to go out for the paper, there’s a manilla interoffice envelope inside the screen door. I’m not expecting much, but I’m still disappointed when I see the sketch.
The face is expressionless, as real faces never are. The lack of expression somehow robs the features of coherence and makes the image ambiguous. Even mug shots have some animation – that supplied by life itself, I guess. I take the sketch to my study and line it up with the sketches Marijke made, one from my glimpse of The Piper, the others produced by sessions with other eyewitnesses. There’s something about the eyes, maybe, that looks the same from sketch to sketch. Apart from that, it’s different men with facial hair. The faces gaze down on me, inscrutable, almost mocking: you don’t know who I am.
Mary McCafferty taps one pink fingernail on her desk and looks at me with her large brown eyes. “Finding her shouldn’t be a problem,” she says. “She may not have had an address, living in a park – but she had a car, which means a driver’s license, insurance. She apparently had a library card, and I’ll bet she had a doctor for those kids. There will be school records, maybe traffic and parking tickets, grocery shopper cards. Believe me, unless you really work at it, you’re in a thousand databases these days. And what are the chances she severed every connection to her past?” McCafferty shakes her head.
“Really.”
“She may be using a different name – but you say it’s her maiden name, so chances are she kept her social, and then… well, then it’s a piece of cake. I might have something by tomorrow. E-mail okay? Or should I fax you?”
“E-mail’s fine.”
“We’re all set,” she says, getting to her feet. She hesitates, shakes her head. “But mine’s the easy part. You still have to get her to talk to you.”
“I know.”
“My guess is this woman’s pretty quick to call the cavalry,” she says. “Don’t get arrested.”
CHAPTER 17
McCafferty comes through. Emma Sandling, neé Whalen, lives in Florida. The next morning, at seven A.M., I’m on a Delta flight to Daytona Beach.
The drive into town from the airport takes me past the enormous Daytona International Speedway. Then I’m coasting along Highway A-1-A, a sun-bleached strip flanked on both sides by an unending succession of fast-food outlets, motels, miniature golf courses, and bowling alleys. Everything’s paved. The only flora, apart from the landscaped oases in the elaborate mini-golf parks, is the occasional wind-lashed palm. Every once in a while, between the giant hotels and condos on the oceanside, I catch a glimpse of why all this exists: white sand and the hard glitter of the Atlantic.
After several miles, I spot the landmark I’ve been looking for, the huge sprawl of the Adam’s Mark Hotel. My room at the Drop Anchor Inn is a block away on the other, less desirable, side of the road. Its giant anchor-shaped sign advertises VACANCY SPECIAL WKLY RATES AARP AAA STUDENTS SENIORS.
According to the Weather Channel, the difference in temperature and humidity between Washington and Daytona Beach is incremental, but that’s not the way it feels when I step out of my rented Hyundai Sonata. Heat radiates from
the pavement, so dense and humid and hot, it’s like an assault. A stiff offshore breeze is no cooling zephyr, either. It’s like a blast from a giant hair dryer.
The room is what you’d expect for thirty-two bucks a day: the dark stripes of cigarette burns mar several surfaces, television and lamps are bolted to their tables, and I had to put down a twenty-dollar deposit for the remote. Stale cigarette smoke suffuses every fabric behind an olfactory haze of air freshener. But the room is big, with an air-conditioning unit that seems to be up to the task. And it has a telephone, so I can plug in my laptop.
Emma Sandling, now Susie Whalen, works near here, right on the famous beach itself. She operates a concession stand called the Beach Bunny, a couple hundred yards from the Adam’s Mark. She’s also a part-time student at the Daytona Beach Community College, halfway through a program in “respiratory therapy.” Her boys currently attend the fifth in a string of free vacation Bible schools, this one sponsored by the Word of God church in Ormond Beach. Whalen drives a red ’84 Subaru wagon with Save-the-Manatee plates. She and the boys live in a tiny rental apartment in Port Orange, where she gets a break on the rent in return for janitorial work, which includes mopping down the halls and stairs and keeping the laundry room and storage area clean. All per an e-mail from McCafferty, who billed me for just two hours. “Glories of the information age,” she noted.
I sit on the bed and after a minute, stretch out and stare up at the textured ceiling. Ever since I received McCafferty’s e-mail, I’ve been trying to figure out how I’m going to get close to Emma Sandling.
My plan is to go to the Beach Bunny, rent a chair and umbrella, buy a tube of sunscreen, and chat her up. I’m good at this kind of thing; most reporters are.
I pay for a day ticket, put the receipt on the dash, and turn my car onto the beach, falling in line behind a black Explorer. We roll along the sand at the posted ten-miles-per-hour pace. To my right, an endless parade of buildings and parked cars, the sparkle of hotel and condo swimming pools. To my left the white beach, the forest of umbrellas, towels and beach blankets and people, the expanse of ocean and sky.
I spot the van where Emma Sandling works, which is easy enough. It’s under a huge inflated rabbit – dressed in a bikini. The thing bobs and snaps against its guy wires in the stiff breeze. A short line of customers stretches out from the service window, skinny teenaged boys in board shorts, bulky retirees. A deeply tanned girl peels away from the window with a paper basket of fries.
And then I’m past the van, my first glimpse of Emma Sandling that of a figure inside the service window, counting out change. I exit next to the Adam’s Mark and make my way up A-1-A to the entrance ramp for a second pass. This time, Sandling is outside the van, clipboard in hand, talking to a couple of boys holding lime green boogie boards. She’s a small woman with coppery hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She wears pink shorts and a white halter top and flip-flops. A flash of a smile, an impression of freckles, and I’ve cruised past again.
The guy at the entry point recognizes me this time and waves me through. About a hundred yards from the Beach Bunny, I nose the Sonata into a space between a white pickup and a rusting Blazer.
“Help you?” She has an engaging smile. Dimples.
“Just a bottle of water.”
“Sure thing. The small one or the one-liter size?”
“I’ll take the liter.”
“That’s good,” she says, pulling a bottle of Dasani from the cooler behind her. “It’s hot out here. You want to stay hydrated.”
She puts the change on the counter, looking past me to the woman next in line, but I hesitate, immobilized by her nonchalance and vulnerability. “Somethin’ else, sir?” she asks with a little frown.
“No, I’m all set,” I tell her, and move out of the way.
I find an open spot on the uncrowded beach, stretch out my towel on the hard sand, and watch the waves roll in, the endless ebb and flow. Little kids play tag with the leading edge of the water, build sand castles, present shells to their mothers. Gulls cry, planes cruise by overhead, hauling advertisements. Women intent on tanning lie inert on their towels, like basking sea lions. Teenagers in bikinis squeal as they tiptoe into the water. Behind me, a parade of cars crawls by at the subdued pace of a funeral cortege.
I sit there with the sun beating down on my back and the image of Emma Sandling in my mind. My skin feels too hot, and when I close my eyes, there’s a sort of thudding in my head, like a heavy door slamming shut over and over. By the time I get back to the car, the thudding sensation is gone and in its place is this single depressing thought: It won’t work.
I must have been kidding myself – because how could I ever have thought it would work? Sure I can get close to Emma Sandling, maybe even make friends with her. But what about when I get around to the subject at hand? When her new friend starts talking about the abduction of her sons – an incident she’s gone to such lengths to bury in the past?
The interior of the car is so hot I have to put my sandy towel on the seat. The steering wheel burns my hands. Back in the motel, I take a look at my notebook, reviewing the information McCafferty sent about Emma Sandling’s schedule. I jot down a few questions I want to ask. Then I stare at the ceiling for a long time thinking about how I can get Emma Sandling to talk to me.
Finally, I get into my shorts and T-shirt and head out, running along the sidewalk flanking A-1-A in a trance of heat and motion. Maybe running will spring an idea loose. I go half an hour out and half an hour back, then drag myself back into my icy motel room. Take a shower.
I think about it. I do have some leverage over Emma Sandling. She’s in hiding. I know where she is. I could expose her. She’ll understand that. She’s got a life here; she won’t want to pick up stakes again.
But leverage doesn’t exactly amount to Plan B. Not really. There’s only one thing to do: throw myself on her mercy.
Thanks to McCafferty’s e-mail, I know Emma’s schedule. She’ll close the Beach Bunny at five, then drive to Ormond Beach to pick up the boys from vacation Bible school. Some fast food, I’d guess, and then she’ll drop the kids at the baby-sitter’s in Port Orange, leaving just enough time to get to her seven o’clock class at the Daytona Beach Community College. That goes until nine-thirty, after which she picks up the kids and heads home. A long day.
I could just show up at her apartment, but I sense that I’ll do better if I can talk to her without the kids being around. She won’t feel as threatened. If I had more patience, I might wait for the morning, wait at the Beach Bunny before she opens up. But I’m impatient. If I can find her car in the parking lot at the community college, I’ll wait for her there.
In the meantime, I check my e-mail. There’s one from Petrich, appending the police files about the dimes and the origami rabbit. I read these over, but the only new bit of information is a paragraph- long expert opinion from an origami scholar.
Without destroying the specimen, I cannot examine the folding techniques, but from exterior study, it is my opinion that the specimen is a modified Lang rabbit, a piece of moderate difficulty adapted from one of the many rabbits created by noted origamist Dr. Joseph Lang.
I try watching television, but that drives me crazy – ads and laugh tracks and news bites like fingernails on a blackboard. Turning it off is worse; I’m left with my own adrenalized dread and the glacial passage of time. After a while I head to the beach and walk, somewhat soothed by the crash of the surf. Still, I check my watch every few minutes.
At nine, I’m heading down Clyde Morris Boulevard, the sky a streaky pink above. I turn onto International Speedway Drive, then hang a right into the college’s huge parking area. The lot’s half empty now, but it must have been crowded when Emma got here, because I find her red Subaru way out on the periphery. I’m sure it’s hers because of the Save-the-Manatee plates, but I check the number against the one on McCafferty’s e-mail anyway. Yes.
It’s nine-fifteen. I park a few spaces away from
the Subaru. I listen to the radio for a while, but after a few minutes, I have to get out of the car. I’m edgy and restless. But then I feel conspicuous just standing there, so I gravitate toward a small strip of vegetation that separates the parking lot from a service road. This is where I wait, in the midst of palmettos and reedy bushes, muttering to myself as the leaves rustle and clatter in the breeze.
I realize what I’m doing: I’m rehearsing. It’s as if I’m practicing a stand-up before the camera rolls. I know it’s stupid, as if there’s any right way to say what I’m going to say – but I keep trying out different phrases anyway, because it fills my mind.
“Emma – my name is Alex Callahan. We have a tragedy in common…”
“Emma Sandling, I need your help.”
“Emma…”
It’s full dark now. Light fixtures stand at regular intervals in the lot, each creating a cone of light that’s alive with orbiting bugs. More cars depart. In this section, only a dozen or so remain.
A figure approaches, but soon I know it’s not her. It’s a kid, baggy pants and earphones. He shuffles toward his rusted-out Toyota and then drives away.
Five minutes later, I see her, hurrying in my direction. It occurs to me it might seem creepy, the way I’m standing in the bushes, so before she gets too close I walk toward my car. I have the vague idea of opening the trunk, to give me an excuse for standing outside the car. At the last moment I change my mind and open the hood instead. Instantly, this seems like a mistake.