I wouldn’t have recognized Benson if Jack hadn’t pointed him out. Or little Max. The video’s vantage point was from above and the images were of low quality. With the enhanced, highlighted version, it was clear that Benson was carrying little Max, but I marveled at how keen their eyes were to pinpoint them in the first place amid all the distracting images.
Jack continued, “This is tedious. And we haven’t gone through each video as thoroughly as I’d like. But we don’t have time for thorough. We need a break. We’re keying in on the exits closest to the Buckhorn Bar and Grill and watching those videos first. If we exhaust all our options with those videos but find nothing, then it becomes a bit more problematic.”
“Disguise is the most successful technique used in abductions. You’ve been watching for black-haired boys, but make sure you watch for other changes,” Streeter suggested.
“So much time between when it happened and when we found out makes the Amber Alert nearly impossible to be effective. Especially given that witnesses have traveled to other places and maybe don’t even know about the missing boy. No wonder we’ve gotten nothing.” I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose. I was tired.
“You need some kind of physical description of the abductor or you can’t narrow down the car and the license plate identifying him on the videos above the tolls,” Streeter said.
“Right,” Jack said.
“Or we need a witness,” I said. “Beyond the man at the bar who saw Benson with little Max.”
“Which is unlikely, given the first twenty-four hours in any abduction are critical,” Streeter said, looking at the clock. “And we’re at twenty hours since the alleged abduction now. We haven’t had any credible information coming through our tip lines yet.”
Jack said, “Our guys are documenting every car that went through the tolls for future reference. They’re designing a special database to link with the National Automotive Altered Numbers File so we can refer to it if we need to. The information will help if we can narrow down the perp’s license plate.”
“Good plan,” Streeter said.
“Although I think it’s a waste of time, they’ll also be looking at the video glimpses the cameras catch of the people in the front seat of the car as they drive through the gates.”
Streeter said, “Whoever did this would more likely have thrown the child in the trunk or backseat. Probably bound and gagged him to be safe. Maybe even drugged him at some point.”
“An airport camera image of who had the boy last would make it quicker for us to correlate to a license plate.”
I asked, “What about public transportation? What do we have there?”
“Nothing.” Jack frowned. “Except on the service vehicle end of things. The exit system for the taxicabs, hotel shuttles, and buses is totally independent from the tollgates. The public transportation goes through special automated departure lanes requiring a specially issued identification card. They do not monitor those lanes of traffic.”
“And if the abductor was organized enough to have shoe polish, it is unlikely he’d risk taking public transportation. And somebody or several people would have seen the boy with his abductor. We should be able to rely on the Amber Alert to flush that out,” Streeter said.
“I agree,” Jack said. “And ironically, with Melissa being an international supermodel from LA and Max being the highest-profile tycoon and developer in Manhattan, they will undoubtedly grab headlines for days. The boy’s picture will be all over the news. We might get lucky if someone saw something and lets us know about it, or if the kidnapper makes a ransom call soon. It’s a waiting game from here on those developments. And it may be all luck.”
I stared at the screen, watching different videos from airport cameras streaming on several monitors. “But we’re not going to wait, are we?” I said, frustrated by the thought of doing nothing. “We can’t just sit around. We have to do something.”
“We have plenty to do,” Streeter said. “I agree with Linwood. If we can help him narrow the search on videos, we can get a description so he can get something useful on the toll videos. If we have that, we have a name and an address.”
“Unless he stole a car,” I said, an image on one camera catching my eye. The image was of a woman, her head turning right and left and peering over the heads of travelers as if she’d lost something. Or someone.
“Not likely,” Streeter said. “Let’s work on eliminating the most likely scenarios first and work our way out to those unlikely scenarios.”
I leaned forward and watched as the woman pushed her way through the crowd, disappearing off camera, and then coming back on.
Jack added, “Our immediate goal is to get a description of the abductor or abductors.”
“You have the diagram Linwood’s team mapped out of the airport cameras,” Streeter said to me. “Work on how the boy could have been taken out of the airport undetected from that bathroom to the short-term parking where Beulah hesitated. Linwood, continue to review the airport videos and building the tollbooth license plate database. We’ll get you Liv’s ideas as soon as she comes up with them to help you narrow your search. Highest priority is if you can verify little Max’s hair was dyed black and if your team can match that smeared thumbprint.”
Something about the woman in the video struck a chord with me. I felt a gut instinct telling me the mother had lost her child. Her desperation was palpable, relevant.
“Taylor’s on it,” Jack said, tapping the file Noreen had just brought him. “Nothing yet. Too smudged. Slow process trying to isolate line by line of a print. What we have is not enough to get a match. We’ll keep working on it.”
“Keep trying,” Streeter said. “The rest of your team can look for anything or anyone even remotely suspicious in those tollbooth videos, for a mistake. As a lower priority, work on the public transit angle.”
“Maybe if we try a different direction—the potential that the abduction was arranged by someone who knew little Max or the parents—we can determine the motivation and find the guy from that angle. I’ll work on the possibility that this might have something to do with the nanny.”
“The nanny,” I repeated, wondering what she looked like, while staring at the image of the woman pushing her way past people on the escalator to the underground trains. I recognized her. It was the same woman who had been watching me and Beulah trail, the one on the trains.
“I sent Gates home for a few hours. He had six bright, smiling faces who needed him by the tree for Christmas morning,” Streeter explained. “He fought me on it, but he knew it was the right thing to do. Plus I wasn’t about to disappoint Lenora again.”
“Streeter. Jack,” I called, realizing what I was looking at. Their eyes followed mine to the monitor I was studying. My mind was trying to compare the image of the woman I remembered on the train to the photos in the file from Max’s pile. “Jack, rewind. More. Look.”
The men stared at the screen, watching people mill about the down escalator to the trains at Concourse B, and saw the dark-haired woman searching the airport.
Streeter whistled.
“Right,” I said. “I noticed her on the trains because she kept showing up on each of my searches with Beulah. I tried to get her attention, but she pretended not to notice and turned away. Do we know who she is?”
“That’s why Jerome Schuffler couldn’t find her,” Streeter said.
“Find who? Who’s Jerome Schuffler?” Jack asked.
“NYC Bureau. They’ve been looking for the nanny,” Streeter said.
“That’s the boy’s nanny?” I yelped. “Why is she in Denver?”
“Can you improve the feed, zoom in, add pixels, or whatever it is you guys do? So I can tell for sure?” Streeter asked.
Jack’s fingers flew across the keyboard. The images slowed, offering a frame-by-frame view of the desperate woman. Jack zoomed in on the frame, the nanny’s face looking up to the second floor of Concourse B, offering the best image of her
face. The focus sharpened.
“I’ll be darned,” Streeter said. “Judy Manning. We’ve been looking for you. Good catch, Liv.”
“Streeter, look,” I sat down at a computer terminal outside of Jack’s office, logged on to my Bureau account. I went into my personal email account and pulled up a family photo that my oldest sister had sent. I zoomed in on one of my siblings. “Look. Long dark hair. Like Judy Manning. Similar features.”
“Ida?” Streeter asked.
I nodded. “Judy’s not as tall or as thin, but she could pass as Ida.”
Streeter barked orders. “Check hotel reservations under Ingrid Bergen.”
“And Ida lived in NYC, lived with Max. Maybe she left an old driver’s license or passport behind,” I speculated.
“Well, this changes everything.”
CHAPTER 35
Noah
OH MY WORD!
First, I’ve never seen anyone in that bedroom before and now I not only saw a child in the window late last night, but this morning, too. Creepy man is lying in bed with the kid. And why is he wearing pants and a shirt instead of pajamas? Why wouldn’t Mr. Fletcher sleep in his own bed? Maybe creepy man wet his bed and didn’t want to change the sheets in the middle of the night. Or maybe the kid was scared, being in a new place, and creepy man crawled into bed with him so he wouldn’t have nightmares. And fell asleep. Sometimes Dad does that.
I didn’t like the way the man glared at me this morning, like I’d done something wrong. Or how he slammed the blinds shut. WHAM! How rude!
It’s Christmas and everyone should be happy.
I’m happy because I kept my soul and didn’t die before I woke up. Little victories. I’ve been awake for hours. I decided to roll off my bed to my window. Dangerous, since it’s a long drop to the floor and my skinny bones could break so easily. But I had to. Not because I was still looking for Santa and his reindeer. I gave up hours ago. I rolled off and got closer to the window so I could search for mountain lions creeping around my backyard at dawn. I didn’t see any, but maybe they’re home with their families, too.
It’s Christmas!
When I rolled off the bed, my toes hooked the stocking and it tumbled to the ground along with me. I had to muffle my laugh every time I inched closer to the window, since I could feel chocolates and hard candies poking my back and my ribs. They smelled good when I squished the soft ones.
I can smell the cinnamon rolls baking, which means Mom is awake. She must not have heard me thump on the ground at dawn or she would have come in to see if I was okay and changed my utility britches. I bet Auntie Liv forgot to turn on my bedside monitor again. Mom’s going to be mad at her.
Even though my britches are foul, I can smell the breezy outdoors. That’s what it smells like. A breeze. At first, I couldn’t figure out what carpet deodorizer my mom was using lately. I appreciate Mom’s efforts to make the carpet smell the best possible. She was doing it for me, since I spend so much time lying here. But I’d grown tired of the floral scent she had used for weeks since Halloween. Too … too flowery. Yuck. The breezy scent was better.
The smell of fresh oatmeal makes me ache for breakfast. I know Mom made that special for me, since I’m the only one who likes it. Everyone else will eat the cinnamon rolls. I’ll have one of those, too, I hope.
I’m tired of staring out the window because I think the mountain lions are all home by now. And I can’t see through the blinds anymore, so no chance of spotting the child. Or the creepy man again. My fanny was starting to get a little sore, since I dirtied my utility britches hours ago. I decided to take my mind off my empty stomach and my sore bottom by playing with the rubber snake that Santa Claus had brought me last year.
Maybe Mom had forgotten about it and I could scare her again. Mom hates snakes. The snake is lying between me and the window, maybe six inches from my side. It might as well be a mile.
Concentrate. If I focus on the muscles in my right arm and try real hard to reach for the snake, sometimes I can make it happen. It just takes a lot of focus. And time. All I have to do to touch the foot-long, green rubber reptile is extend my arm until my elbow, wrist, and fingers uncurl. Doesn’t seem like much, but for me, it’s a huge ordeal.
I grunted, focusing intently on the snake.
After several attempts of accomplishing nothing but some wild jerks with my arm, I have decided to roll over toward the snake instead. I twisted my long, skinny legs, turned my head in the same direction, and pulled my bony shoulders until I’m almost overturned from my back to my stomach. The strong muscles in my neck allow me to eventually overcome the opposing force of my bunched-up arm and leg muscles. Flipping my forty-five pound, four-foot frame onto my stomach and bent arms, I rest my head on the carpet face down to give my tired neck a break and give a moan because I’m proud of my accomplishment. I rest before continuing with my next task, snake retrieval.
Scaring my mom is almost as much fun as spying.
My mom called from the doorway. “Noah? Where’d you sneak off to?”
I raised my head to show my mom the smile, so she wouldn’t worry. I was right here.
“Well, good morning, Beulah. I didn’t hear Liv come home last night. And we had one little monkey jumping on the bed again. Or was this a prison break? Let’s change those britches, Noah.”
I moaned approvingly and said thanks, but what I heard myself say was nothing more than jabber. If only I could say and do what my mind was thinking.
“You’ll have to be patient until your dad gets some pictures of you and Emma under the Christmas tree. Santa came and he brought lots of presents.”
Although I could not control my muscles well enough to pronounce words clearly except for an occasional “I go,” I have mastered the art of communicating, at least with a few people who cared to notice. My lips tighten into a small circle if I’m disgusted or don’t like something. I stick my tongue out over and over when I’m thirsty. And when I poke my tongue out and leave it there, I’m full. I’m done eating. I have a lot of friends at school, at church, and in the neighborhood who all know when I like something, because I laugh or smile.
Emma says I’m popular.
I have so many friends, I can’t even remember all their names or where I met them. But they all know my name. It makes me happy when people say “hi” to me, even if I don’t know their name. Especially when they tell me at first they were scared of my wheelchair. Some kids are. Mostly little kids. But once they tell me that, I know they’re not scared of the chair anymore. Emma said she’s jealous of me at school. That bothers me, because I don’t want her to feel that way.
Mom was still doing something in my bathroom when I heard Emma coming around the bed. “Mom, come quick! It looks like an elf puked in here!”
I laughed, remembering all the candy I’d spilled from my stocking when I rolled off the bed. Mom and Emma laughed with me.
Emma flung herself on the carpet beside me. “Merry Christmas, Noah!”
I lifted my eyes. Merry Christmas to you, too, Emma, I tried to say, but all I could hear was gurgling coming from my throat.
“Couldn’t wait to see what Santa brought you, huh?”
I grinned. I made my face go serious, my eyes searched for Emma.
“What?”
I flicked my eyes upward. Her fingers flew. I smiled when she lifted her pinky.
“A question?” I smiled. “Who?” I smiled. “First letter.”
I quickly got her to my question about a boy named Clint at school.
“Nope, no one.” That’s what I thought. “Oh, wait a minute. Remember the kid from last year? When we were in third grade? It was after Thanksgiving, I think. We came back to school and everyone was talking about some kid who stuffed his food in his milk carton, now they say he’s the ghost who haunts the lunchroom. Isn’t his name Clint? I think he was lost in the woods, got chased by a bear or something. The grownups wouldn’t talk about it. The kid was embarrassed and the parents moved him to
a different school. Casey said something bad happened to him. Like the bear ate his leg or something and that the parents lied and the kid died. It’s Clint, right?”
Emma was right. Not about the bear eating his leg. That was just a tall tale, gossip spread by us kids. But now I remember the kid’s name was Clint and he was a fifth grader. It was all hush-hush and none of us kids ever knew the real story. I’ll have to tell Auntie Liv.
“Anyway, why are you asking?”
I stayed still for a second, not wanting to share my spy secrets, then decided to distract Emma. I was lying on my stomach and decided to lift my chest and shoulders from the floor by tightening my arms while holding my head high. Tough to do, but at least I’d get Emma on a different line of thought.
“Where are you going?” Emma asked.
I heard Mom approach, but wanted to finish what I’d started. Mouth wide with determination, I worked my long, thin, crooked fingers along the carpet toward the rubber snake, inches from my curled hand.
“Oh, good one,” Emma whispered.
Just as I touched the cool, rubbery skin of my toy, Mom said, “Look at you, Noah. You are just moving all over the place. Pretty soon I’ll find you heading out the door on your own to visit the neighbors. Mrs. Parrent better get her house prepared, because Noah is stepping out!”
I laughed at the thought of it, a deep belly laugh. Wouldn’t she be surprised! I had to lower my head to the floor to rest my tired muscles. Especially in my neck. Mom bent beside me and rolled me over on my back, exposing the rubber snake I’d gripped between two fingers in my left hand.
Mom screamed, “Noah, you scared me with that awful thing. I thought I told Santa, no snakes this year! Wait a minute. This is last year’s snake.”
She tickled me and then Emma. We both squealed until she was distracted.
“Honey?” Dad called. “Better come down here. Quickly.”
Mom said, “Be right back.”
Skipping toward her bedroom, Emma said, “Me, too.”
I listened through the vent. Dad turned up the volume on the TV. I heard the headline story blaring. I could almost hear my smile shrink, like a balloon with all its air seeping out.
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