“Mr. Benson?” Streeter asked.
“I want a lawyer,” he mumbled, making no more comments about being called “Mr. Benson.”
“And I want to be home with my family,” Gates said. “But I’m stuck with you and you’re not under arrest, so can we get on with the interview, please?”
Benson dropped his hands on the table. The heavy slap of skin against plastic echoed in the metal and tile room. “Great, just great. I’m not under arrest, but I am in trouble, aren’t I?”
“Not as much trouble as you’re going to be in if you don’t start talking,” Gates barked.
After working with his best friend for years, Streeter knew that Tony Gates had a cloudy perspective when dealing with cases involving children. He had a tendency to lose his temper, bully witnesses, and become agitated and impatient ever since the murder of the pageant girl about Max’s age had gone cold—remained unsolved—a couple of years ago. Streeter had learned Tony’s second oldest son, his godson, had gone to school with the murdered girl. Too close to home for the father of six, Streeter supposed.
“Where’s the boy?” Gates asked.
“I don’t know.”
Gates shot a glance Streeter’s way as Benson’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“What happened to him?” Streeter asked.
Kevin Benson lifted his eyes, first toward Liv, then between Gates and Streeter. He drew in a long, ragged breath before blowing it out again.
“I took my eyes off him for a split second and the kid was gone. That’s it. That’s my story. That’s when my world went to shit.”
CHAPTER 13
“WHERE DID YOU LAST have the child in your care?” Streeter pressed.
“Between gates. On Concourse B.”
“Here in Denver, then?”
Benson nodded. “We got off the plane at gate B31 and went to B51. We had some extra time so we came back to get ice cream. I stopped to use the restroom and he disappeared.”
“You left him in the concourse alone?” Gates asked.
“No, I took him into the bathroom with me. Put him in the stall next to me.”
“Which bathroom?” Streeter asked.
“The … I don’t know, I don’t know.” Benson cradled his head, shaking it from side to side like he might rattle the truth loose or something.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Gates asked. “You’re a Denver-based flight attendant. You probably know every square inch of this airport.”
“I know, I know. I mean, I can’t think,” Benson said. Lifting his face from his hands and narrowing his eyes at Chief Gates, his gaze slid occasionally over to where Liv was standing. “You’re freaking me out.”
“Freaking you out? I’ll show you freaking—” Gates started.
Streeter interrupted, “Where’ve you been? You must know we’ve been looking for you.”
Benson’s horsey face looked even more ridiculous with his mouth hanging open as he gawked at the two men interviewing him. “I was looking for the kid.”
Streeter glanced at his watch, saying nothing but implying it had been hours since the boy went missing.
“At first, I mean. I looked all over. Walked this entire airport. Twice. Which accounted for the first two hours. Then, I headed out to the taxi stand, the bus lines, asking if anyone had seen a little blond boy wandering around. I asked everyone. So by 4:20 p.m., about the time when the kid was supposed to be landing in LA, I panicked and took off.”
“To the bar,” Streeter said.
“No. Well, yes. See?” He buried his fingers in his mop of hair. “You’re getting me all confused.”
“Take your time,” Streeter offered, his inflection even, his tone rough.
“Yes, I ended up at the bar. Eventually. First, I went to my apartment. My girlfriend kicked me out. Then, I went to the bar. Been there ever since.”
“You lose a kid, drink yourself stupid, and at no time did you ever think to mention to anyone at BlueSky or to the police that you’d lost a five-year-old boy?” Gates pressed.
“I told you. I got scared.”
The perspiration that beaded on his forehead appeared to be genuine to Streeter.
“Benson, I know you’ve had a long day. You’re probably getting tired and you just want to go home,” Streeter noted.
Benson didn’t let him finish. “Home? I don’t have a home anymore. And I’ll be fired before I ever leave this room. Freytag’s probably already cutting my final checks to hand to me the second that scary chick over there opens the door.”
“She’s not a chick.” Streeter glared at Benson. “That’s Special Agent Liv Bergen.”
Gates added, “But you’re right about her being scary, so watch your mouth or we’ll let her show you just how scary she can get.”
Streeter noticed a slight arch to Liv’s eyebrow. He could tell she’d liked that. “And I have no sympathy for whether you have a home or a job, so get back to the story about the child.”
Benson held up his hands and shrugged. “What do you want me to say? This is the story. I took my eye off of him for one bloody second so I could take a leak, and the kid bolts. By the time you’re done grilling me about it, I’m without a job. I’m already without my apartment. Do you know how much an apartment costs these days? A fortune.”
“Where’s the boy?” Streeter asked.
“I told you. I have no clue.” Benson looked at Streeter, then at Gates. “I misplaced him. Okay?”
“Not okay!” Gates shifted as if he were winding up a punch for the guy and barked, “He’s a child. Not a set of keys, you piece of—”
Streeter interrupted, “When’s the last time you saw him?”
Benson didn’t seem to notice the danger he was in by inflaming Gates, the father of six kids, two about the age of the missing child. Streeter could see how inattentive the man could be, unaware of dangers around him. It would have been easy for someone to lure a child from his not-so-watchful care.
“I told you already. Just after we arrived. We were in the bathroom. Between B31 and B51. He went in one stall and I went in another. He was gone when I came out.”
Streeter believed Benson was lying, about something. But he didn’t think Benson had the ability to actually plan an abduction or was capable of any other menace, besides neglect. He simply wasn’t aware enough for such a broad undertaking. He wasn’t present enough to have carried off an abduction without someone noticing or without losing his composure during this interview. Streeter’s focus shifted quickly to Benson as a witness.
Streeter decided to turn up the heat to confirm his speculation and to find out what Kevin Benson actually knew. “Which bathroom, exactly? And what time, exactly?”
Benson answered, “Around 1:00, 1:30.”
“That’s the best you can do? Are you kidding me?” Gates asked.
Benson plowed his long, thin fingers through his mop of dark hair and blew out his cheeks. “Okay, the plane landed at 12:40 p.m. We were off the plane and away from the gate within ten minutes. The boy and I took off for the gate of our next flight, which was only a few gates away. At B51. We landed at B31. So we were there before 1:00.”
“And then?” Streeter asked, noticing Liv shift near the door, her expression as agitated as he felt.
“I took him back to the shops above the underground trains so he could get an ice cream. He whined about passing it the first time. Said he had to have it. So I took him back, went to the bathroom nearby, and the kid took off before I could finish my business in the stall next to him. I looked for him for hours.”
“Before you gave up and headed for the bar,” Gates sniped.
Streeter had noticed the alcohol on Benson’s breath when he first shook his hand, but wouldn’t have thought Benson was drunk. “Go back. Tell us from the beginning what happened,” Streeter coaxed. “Where exactly in the airport were you? Which bathroom? Who else was in the bathroom with you? What did you hear? What did you see? Give us every detail.”
>
Benson sighed and slumped, his elongated frame folding like a misshapen jackknife, as if Streeter had asked him the impossible.
“Do you have a problem recalling what happened?” Streeter asked.
“No,” Benson said. “I have a problem recalling the details. Maybe it’s because I drank too much. Maybe it’s because you’re freaking me out. It’s all just too upsetting to me.”
“Upsetting to you?” Gates asked.
“Give me a break, will you?” Benson whined. “That kid ditched me. He’s the one to blame for all this. I’m the victim here.”
Gates stood up so suddenly that his chair toppled backward. Within four quick steps with his long legs, Gates had rounded the table where Benson sat, too fast for Streeter to react in time. Gates had already grabbed the shirtfront of Benson’s BlueSky uniform under the sniveling man’s chin and was pulling him out of his chair.
CHAPTER 14
I WAS CURIOUS ABOUT why Kevin Benson wasn’t seeing what I was seeing. I mean, I could chalk it up to it being his first time meeting the chief, but this was my first time seeing DPD Chief Tony Gates in action, too, and it seemed overly obvious to me that Benson was about to get his teeth knocked out if he wasn’t careful.
I couldn’t believe Benson had actually implied—in so many words—that the missing boy deserved whatever he got. Clearly Chief Gates had the same thought, since he was rounding the table to clobber Benson. I decided to abandon my post at the door and ready myself to be wedged between the two tall men, given I was the scary chick, the badass agent. I wasn’t quite feeling that way, but I had to make Benson and others believe it. I’d been in a few near-brawls during emotional permit hearings, but nothing like this.
“You are not the victim here, you piece of shit. There is a little boy who’s the victim. Stop the bullshit and tell us where he is!” Gates spat at Benson.
I wasn’t sure if Chief Gates was going to punch Kevin Benson. But I sure hoped he would. I knew by the look in Streeter’s eye that he was irritated, but he hadn’t yet been pushed to the brink of punching anyone. I wasn’t so sure about Gates. All I knew is that Streeter adored the chief. Talked about him all the time.
“Whoa, whoa, now,” Benson was saying, “I told you the truth. I don’t know where the kid is.”
Streeter was at Gates’s side and I moved instantly behind Benson, ready to take him down just in case a full-out fight erupted. I kind of figured Gates didn’t get to be chief of police by being a hothead or a street fighter, but I was there just in case. Gates was rumored to have killed a Lucifer’s Lot member once when the motorcycle club had suggested that a young thug rape Gates’s elderly mother as an initiation, but I also heard no one could ever prove that Gates did anything wrong or that the kid was dead. But no one had ever heard from him again. Can’t say that I blamed Gates for stepping over that thin, blue line. In fact, I could see myself doing the same if anyone ever threatened my family. The easiest part of knowing whose side I’m on is when my family’s gathered, regardless of who’s standing on the other side.
All I know is that Chief Gates was notorious for getting information from the tightest-lipped witnesses and for using his street sense to extract it. Quickly. So I was looking forward to watching him work his magic tonight.
Gates pulled Benson’s face closer to his, still gripping the man’s collar in his fist, and said, “We’re not buying your poor-pitiful-me story. So what aren’t you telling us? Because sure as I’m standing here, you’re lying, you piece of crap.”
“This … this is police brutality,” Benson stuttered, leaning away from Gates’s snarl as far as humanly possible.
From my angle behind Benson, I could see the angry expression on the chief ’s face—a live and in-person image of someone “spitting nails”—and my knees almost started knocking.
Gates breathed out a long, low growl, pulling Benson’s face so close that I imagined he could tell what flavor toothpaste the chief used. “You’ve already wasted precious time in our recovery of the boy. His safety, not yours, is my primary concern. I really don’t give a rat’s ass if we toss you out on the tarmac this very second and let a 747 use your ass crack as a parking guide.”
I muffled my laughter and stepped back to my post at the door.
Up to this point, I’d been scared to death to utter a peep. I really had no clue what to do since this was my first official case. Given Streeter’s initial expression when I had slipped into the room, I could tell tensions were already over the top and if I didn’t know better, I would swear he was pissed at me for some reason. Especially from his clipped tone on the call I had received an hour ago. But this is my first time on a case with him, and I really can’t tell if this is just how he responds in interviews. Thanks to Chief Gates, I could speak vicariously through him to this nut job since he was saying what I was thinking. And I appreciated Gates’s unfiltered candor.
“And I promise you that if one hair on the boy’s head has been harmed, you’ll lose a helluva lot more than your job, Benson.” The man begged for Gates to let him go, openly and quite pitifully, if you ask me. Gates pushed Benson back down into his chair and pointed a finger at him. “If you so much as think about lying or whining again, I’ll have you removed from this room and thrown in a cell downtown until I’m good and ready to talk with you again. Hurry it up, nancy,” Gates said to Benson. “We don’t have time for blubbering. Talk. About the boy. Not about you.”
In his unique gargled-with-a-chainsaw voice, Streeter added, “Try starting from the beginning and explaining step by step what happened.”
Through stutters and sputters, Benson told his story. “The first time I met the boy was at the gate at LaGuardia in New York City, after we’d prepared the plane for our return trip to Denver. He was sitting near the gate attendant, who had somehow managed to make the kid appear to be well behaved. Which he was not. But I didn’t know that at the time. My first impression was wrong. I thought he looked adorable. Once she turned him over to me, I situated the boy in the front row of the airplane near the galley so I could keep an eye on him during the flight.”
Benson drew in a deep breath and cleared his throat, swiping at his face in an effort to regain his composure, eyeing Gates each time he mentioned the boy’s bad behavior.
“Our plane left New York on time.”
I was trying to memorize the order and wording of every question Streeter asked. With over fifteen years of experience with the FBI, Streeter Pierce was one of the best field agents who hadn’t either taken a promotion or retired from the Denver-based branch. Streeter had been appointed as case agent on so many critical and high-profile cases that it was no surprise when he was named case agent of the Williams disappearance. And even though he might not be as thrilled to work with me, based on his curt call, I was thrilled by the honor and opportunity to work with him.
“And what did the boy look like?” Streeter asked, his words reminding me of brandy—smooth and warm but with a bite.
“He had thick, blond hair. Long, but cut in a pageboy style.”
I couldn’t help but notice Streeter brushing his hand over his buzz haircut at the mention of the boy’s hair, which made his white hair stand at attention. I wondered if Streeter had been blond as a boy.
Benson added, “He was dressed in green velvet knickers and a matching vest and beret.”
“Tell me about the boy during the flight. Anything out of the ordinary happen?” Streeter asked, settling back in his chair across the table from Benson.
I caught Streeter’s eye and I knew I needed to pay attention to what was being said because he wanted to talk about it later. Streeter was signaling me.
“I don’t remember.”
“Try,” Gates pressed.
Benson’s lips pursed. I could tell he did not like Chief Gates. Not one bit. The way he pursed his lips meant resentment. I had learned a lot about body language in Quantico.
“BlueSky hates it when our planes are late. Our jobs as
attendants are to do anything to keep the planes on schedule. I was in the galley talking to the girls, who were clearing up and preparing the passengers for landing. I had the mic and was going through my routine about leaving items stowed and seat belts fastened until the plane came to a complete stop when Brat Boy unbuckled his seat belt and walked right up to me, taking the mic away.”
“Brat Boy?” Gates asked, exchanging a glance with Streeter.
“The Williams boy,” Benson answered. As the men stared, Benson explained, “The other flight attendants and I nicknamed him Brat Boy before we ever took off from LaGuardia. I am sick that he’s missing, but that kid was a brat. Totally out of control. Didn’t listen to anyone. Spoiled rotten.”
“He’s a five-year-old, Mr. Benson,” Streeter said.
Gates added, “And if you call him Brat Boy one more time, I’m going to rip your lips off your face. Got it?”
Benson’s eyes widened. “You told me to tell you the details from the beginning. I was trying to explain the trip with this kid.”
Streeter asked, “Where do you live, Mr. Benson?”
“Excuse me?” I could see that Streeter’s line of questioning had taken Kevin Benson completely off guard, which is clearly what Streeter wanted.
“You said you lost your apartment. Where is it? The address?”
“Well, I … I don’t know where I live at the moment. Out of my car, I guess. It’s why I resorted to drinking at the bar. I don’t have a place to live after today.”
“And why is that?” Streeter pressed.
Benson actually curled his lip. “I told you that. That’s why I lost the boy. My girlfriend and I were arguing.” His eyes widened at his own mistake. Then he swallowed hard as the room went still. Streeter and the chief were waiting for his explanations.
When it didn’t come, Streeter said, “Actually, you never told us that. Mind filling us in on that little detail?”
“She … she said she had to talk with me about something.” He was fidgeting with his long fingers in his lap.
“This was after you landed? Did she call you or something?”
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