Tony stared at me like I was crazy. “Remind me to warn the poor bastard you decide to marry not to cross you.”
Streeter chuckled.
“Am I missing something?”
Streeter wrapped an arm around my shoulder, still laughing. “Not a thing, Liv. What Tony’s trying to tell you is that you have a fertile mind.”
“Fertile as in bullshit?”
I might have enjoyed the feel of Streeter’s arm around me if it weren’t for the fact that I’d just noticed Jack was in the room. He must have come in while we had our backs to the door mopping up the mess.
He wasn’t smiling and I suppose my smile appeared a bit guilty.
I slid out from under Streeter’s arm. “Jack, did you get the beret?” Awkward. Noticing what he was holding, I said, “You brought food? For us? Thanks!”
I took the bags of burgers from him and set them on the table.
Gates said, “I’m famished.”
Jack took a step toward the table, eyeing Streeter. “You were talking about the boy’s father?”
Streeter nodded, taking a bite from one of the sandwiches Jack had brought. “Thanks, Linwood.”
I said, “We were talking about the interviews of him and the mother. We were speculating about either the father or mother’s involvement in little Max’s abduction.”
“I heard your speculation about the creative way he might hide money in a divorce.”
“He already has more money than he knows what to do with, so I’ll start getting suspicious if there’s a call for an inordinate amount of ransom,” I said, glad Jack had picked up a sandwich and joined the conversation.
“Kidnappers tend to keep demands reasonable to improve the odds of getting paid,” Jack said.
“Exactly. Which is why I said I’ll really start wondering if the amount is super high.”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Streeter said. “No ransom call.”
“Yet,” I said. “Like Max said, maybe the kidnapper wants them to go through Christmas morning without their son, to make them more apt to pay the ransom.”
Jack said, “Statistics support what Liv’s saying. Eight hundred thousand kids under the age of eighteen are reported missing every year and a quarter of them are abducted by family members. A fraction of those who end up missing, like only a hundred or a hundred twenty, are abducted by the stereotypical kidnapper asking for ransom or intending to keep the child for themselves. Or to kill.”
“How do you remember all this? The statistics?” I asked, chomping another bite from the burger.
“He’s a walking encyclopedia,” Tony added.
Jack shook his head, grabbed his sandwich, and walked over to the windows.
I grabbed mine and followed him. “And the shoe polish? How does that fit in?”
“I think it means whoever has the child doesn’t intend to kill him. Right away, at least.”
“I agree,” Streeter added. “Did you find any prints?”
“Dodson and Michelle are working on it. Our top priorities are to test the bottle of shoe polish, the smudge print on the beret, and the paper towels with the black dye and hair.”
I leaned into Jack and whispered, “You okay with all this?”
He nodded once.
“I didn’t say anything. About earlier,” I whispered, hoping that would make up for the compromising position I’d found myself in with Streeter when Jack found us.
“Thanks,” he said, kissing me on top of my head.
His kiss made me feel warm and I knew he held no grudge.
“What about Melissa? What motive would she have for little Max to be taken?” Gates asked, unwrapping a second burger.
“Publicity? Freedom?” I asked. “Or more likely, to torture Max.”
“You told them we advised that they both sit tight and wait for some information, any information, before they started talking with the press,” Tony said to Streeter. “You made yourself perfectly clear what the Bureau recommended. So publicity is out of the question.”
“And wouldn’t freedom for Melissa require that the child disappear forever?” Streeter asked.
I noticed the pain in Jack’s face and wanted to say something comforting, knowing I should wait until later. In private. His authentic expression of torture made my mind’s eye flash to the strange woman riding the underground trains earlier. The woman—riding the trains back and forth, back and forth, who avoided my eyes when I recognized her—seemed to have the same expression on her face. Haunted. Tortured.
Streeter answered his own question, “That just doesn’t sound right for some reason. No mother thinks like that, unless she’s psychologically twisted. I didn’t sense that about Melissa.”
“Aldo?” I asked.
“Maybe, but even Max said although he’d like to believe Aldo was behind this, he didn’t really think him capable of it.”
“Odd that Melissa didn’t bring Aldo Giottani,” I commented. “Do we have the list of passengers on the plane from New York? Aldo wasn’t on that same plane, was he?”
I was thinking of the distraught woman on the underground train, the one I first thought of as a bag lady until I realized she must have a plane ticket since she was on the secure side of the airport. Had she turned away from me embarrassed because I’d caught her following me watching Beulah work?
Streeter moved to his computer and hit a key, the printer whirring to life. He handed me a single sheet. “I haven’t looked at it yet, but the team didn’t see his name or any other they recognized, but knock yourself out. Maybe a name will jump out at you because you knew Max in the past.”
I scanned the list.
“What do you make of their request to hold a press conference?” Tony asked.
Streeter explained, “It may not make sense to us. But it does to them. Maybe the cameras are their comfort zone, the only way for them to regain control over this situation. During the interviews with us, they had no control.”
“Speculating isn’t getting us anywhere,” Tony said. “Who’s on our short list of suspects right now—Kevin Benson, his girlfriend, Max Williams, Melissa Williams, Aldo Giottani, and Nanny Judy. Who else might have had either motive or opportunity?”
My eyes went to the bottom of the list, to little Max’s name, and worked backward from W for Williams. “You’ve ruled out Benson and I’d bet it’s not the mother. Or Max, if I was being truthful.”
“And you forgot it could be a stranger,” Streeter said. “The nanny seems the most likely, which is why I initiated a search for her hours ago. She seems to have the most to lose by not being in the boy’s life. The question I want answered is if one of these people is responsible for the child’s abduction, then where is he? Who has little Max? What are they covering up? And who’s lying?”
My eyes flicked toward Jack, then back to the list of passengers on the same plane as little Max from NYC, when my eyes landed on a name near the top of the list. A name I knew well. My fingers fished for my cell phone and with shaky fingers I punched in numbers.
“What is it? Liv, are you okay?”
I ignored Streeter, listening as the phone rang. She’d been sleeping. “Where are you?”
“Boots? What’s wrong?”
“Just tell me, where are you?” I asked.
“In bed. At Mom and Dad’s. Why? Is this about Max’s son?”
“Yes. Max is here in Denver now. We’re working on it. We’ll find the little guy,” I said, relieved to know she was nowhere near Denver. “Since when have you been home?”
“Uh … since last Friday. It’s like four in the morning, right? What’s going on?”
“Have you traveled anywhere since last Friday?”
“No, why?”
“I just wanted to know if you had heard about Max’s son. And to tell you I was working the case. That’s all,” I lied.
“We’ll keep praying for that little guy. No one deserves that worry, not even Max.”
“Good. Go ba
ck to sleep. Merry Christmas.” I hung up and stared at Streeter, shoving the list toward him, pointing near the top of the list.
“Ingrid Bergen,” Streeter’s voice rumbled.
“The famous actress? The one in Murder on the Orient Express?” Gates asked.
“Not Bergman. Bergen. My sister Ida. Ida Ingrid Bergen. She uses Ingrid as her stage name. She’s an actress, model, and opera singer. I just called her and she’s been in Rapid City, South Dakota, all week. Someone rode on the same plane using my sister’s name. Or it’s one helluva coincidence that someone has the same name.”
Streeter said, “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
CHAPTER 32
I SNUCK BEULAH INTO Noah’s room, hoping he’d be sound asleep. But I found Noah in bed staring out the window. Wide awake. I reached over to his bedside monitor and flicked it off. I felt his forehead to see if he had a fever and checked his diaper to see if he needed changing. His eyes were tracking, not listless, so I didn’t think he’d had a seizure, but he seemed wiped.
I was exhausted, my mind racing with everything that had happened and with the idea that someone had posed as my little sister on a flight with her ex-fiancé’s son. Again, it was too close to home, too close to my family. I climbed into Noah’s bed under the covers with him and held him as we faced the window.
“What are you doing, Peanut? It’s six o’clock in the morning.”
He moaned softly and smiled in the fading moonlight.
“Waiting to see Santa?”
He didn’t smile. I noticed his full stocking at the foot of the bed. “Oh, he already came. Did you catch him with your secret spy recorder?” Noah didn’t smile. “Did you try?”
He smiled. Then I watched as his face grew still.
“Something’s up. Are you okay?”
He still didn’t smile. I noticed him staring out the window.
“You’re not. Is it something you saw?”
Noah’s smile flickered.
“What did you see out there? A mountain lion? Did I scare you with my story yesterday?”
Nothing.
“Of course not. You’re brave. Or is it what you didn’t see out there? Are you upset you didn’t see Santa Claus?”
Still nothing. I stared in the same direction. He was staring at the window across from his, the only room of the neighbor’s house with no window covering, the darkness within yawning.
“Did you see something at the neighbor’s house tonight? Santa putting a lump a coal in the creepy guy’s stocking?”
That made him smile, but it quickly faded.
“Seriously, did something happen over there last night? Something that’s bothering you?”
Noah smiled. I stared at the house. It was dark, the shades drawn on all windows except the one across from Noah’s room. No movement. “I wish I had night-vision goggles.” He smiled. “Then I could see what you saw.” He smiled again. “Did he scowl at you or something like he did last year when I gave you that flashlight? Asshole.”
Noah’s sigh was a mixture of elation and sadness, but the smile was there. Relief. I leaned my head against the headboard, my chin resting against his forehead. His skin felt warm. I was finally relaxed. Relieved. Noah always seemed to have a way of calming my nerves while reenergizing me. I loved being with him.
“Well, don’t let him bug you. He’s not the boss of you, kiddo.”
Noah’s laugh was weak, his bony shoulders jerking beneath the covers. I studied him and brushed the strands of brown hair from his forehead. Emma told me once that Noah hated when people touched his head, felt his hair, sometimes long and silky, sometimes cut short like Streeter’s. A military flat-top. Noah turned his face toward mine and studied me.
“Have you been lying here thinking about the case of the missing backpack?”
Noah smiled.
“I wish I was as good at the five-finger method as your sister. Seriously, do you have a question about the backpack?”
Noah smiled.
“Let’s see, have I figured anything out yet? No, because I’ve been working on that case at the airport. Did you?”
Noah didn’t smile.
“Oh, sweet pea, you’ve got to get some sleep. Today’s a big day. It’s Christmas.”
Noah’s eyes searched my face.
“No, I have to go back to work. We still haven’t found the boy yet. But we’re all trying. I just wanted to bring Beulah back home so she could get some sleep. She did great last night. Found a lot of answers for us.”
Noah rolled toward Beulah on the bed, poked her side with his stiff arms. She groaned and went right back to sleep.
“Oh, wait. I did learn something about the case of the missing backpack. Guess what? I found a name in the boy’s backpack on some old homework stuck in one of the books. Well, at least a first name. Clint. Does that ring a bell?”
Noah looked perplexed. His eyes flicked up and his mouth moved to an “o” shape. I wasn’t sure what that meant. “Thirsty?” No, that was when he poked his tongue out. He kicked his leg and his bony heel struck the top of my thigh. “Do you want me to get the stocking off the bed?” Nothing. His eyes found mine. “Something about the backpack I found?”
Noah smiled.
“Let’s see. I told you the contents of the backpack. I told you about the two cars that appeared to be well worn, played with a lot; the candy wrappers, Milky Way. You figured out he was in the fifth grade because of the December field trip to the Baugh House.”
Noah flung his arm toward me, smacking me in the arm. “What? You did, too. You figured that out. You told me the fifth graders went on field trips in December.”
Noah smiled.
“And I found the notice in his backpack that the field trip was to the Baugh House at Historical Park.”
Noah did not smile. What did that mean?
“You didn’t know that they went to the Baugh House? I hadn’t told you.”
His face stayed hard and blank.
“Something more? Something different? Didn’t the fifth graders go to the Baugh House?”
Again, no smile. No mistaking Noah’s growing frustration with me.
“Did they go somewhere else?”
Noah flashed a quick smile.
“Hmm. That’s strange. Better do some more homework.”
Noah smacked my arm again.
“What? Is there something I left out? Did you figure out who it is already?”
No smile.
“Um, let’s see. Everyday Mathematics. Fifth grade. Clint. Do you know him?”
No smile.
“Have you heard of a Clint at Pennington Elementary?”
No smile.
“That’s weird. Small school. Do you know that there’s not a Clint in the fifth grade?”
Noah smiled.
“There’s not?”
He smiled wider and his arms stiffened, his legs crossed.
“It’s a kid from Pennington named Clint, probably a fifth grader who likes playing with cars, who was planning to go on a field trip to Wheat Ridge Historical Park’s Baugh House. But you say the fifth graders didn’t go to Baugh House this month and that there is no one at your school named Clint. Is that where we are with this mystery?”
Noah smiled.
“Then whose cool camo backpack do I have in the back of my Explorer?”
Noah smiled and sucked in a loud, gleeful sound.
“Shh, you’ll wake up the whole house. I’ve got to go back to work. You think about it and let me know if you figure out whose backpack I have. You should come with me to return it, don’t you think?”
Noah smiled and then grew serious again, staring off at the neighbor’s house.
“And I’ll make sure to tell the creepy guy next door to quit scowling at you or whatever he’s been doing at all hours of the night that’s keeping you awake. Or maybe I’ll rustle up some night-vision goggles and we’ll spy on him tomorrow night. See what he’s up to.”
N
oah smiled and closed his eyes, his lids growing heavy. I stayed a few more minutes until he fell asleep, his face precious and innocent, his breathing as soft and sweet as a baby’s.
I stroked his soft cheek, wishing I could stay with him all morning. But I couldn’t. I kissed his cheek and smiled.
CHAPTER 33
THIS WAS THE FIRST time all night that the boy hadn’t trembled as he slept. The first three times he awoke, he tried to assure the child his parents would come for him. Someday. That didn’t seem to bring any comfort to the boy. He wasn’t sure the tot believed his story at all about how the boy’s father had asked him to collect him at the airport. But he seemed to believe his mother had gotten too busy to pick him up—good guess on his part that she might be self-absorbed, like so many mothers were these days—and would be here soon. He seemed to like the idea that in the meantime they’d play some fun games together until she arrived. But it was the endless supply of M&M’s that seemed to calm the boy the best. Parents underestimate the power of candy when they raise their kids totally deprived of having regular treats. Rewarding a well-behaved child with his favorite candies had always been the quickest way to allay a child’s fear, from his experience. Up to a point. Older children took a bit more convincing.
When they’d first arrived home last night, the child had cried for the first time when he first saw his reflection in the mirror, until he learned the shoe polish he’d put on the boy’s hair was only temporary, just pretend. He’d stopped crying once he saw how easily the color came off between rolled fingertips. He demonstrated this to the boy over and over, pinching the long locks of hair well after the boy had fallen asleep, the pads of his fingertips covered in bluish black stain, not unlike the ink at the one-hour photo shop where he worked. No one would even notice his smudged fingers, since he had stained fingers all the time. He lay beside the child in the dark, feeling him trembling for hours, sure the boy was too afraid to make so much as a whimper.
In dawn’s first light, the boy looked calm, relaxed, and rested in his effortless sleep. The morning rays stroked the boy’s flawless cheek. He looked angelic, innocent. Yummy. The flash of his bulb did not awaken the boy. He lay nestled against the pillow, his black locks of hair splayed this way and that, his bare shoulder in the well-heated room poking out from beneath the covers.
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