CHAPTER 39
IT DIDN’T TAKE ME long to do my analysis on the possible paths out of the airport that were out of camera range and to finish up my report to Streeter. Hopefully, that would help Jack narrow the video search.
I was hoping not to call DIA’s Concourse B home for much longer and was happy to have a few moments alone, curling up on the floor to take a quick nap. Apparently, my nap wasn’t all that quick, because when I awoke, it was nearly eleven in the morning, which meant I had slept for almost an hour. Groggy, I heard Streeter and Gates talking with one another in front of the computer screen.
I yawned and stretched, hopped to my feet, and rubbed my eyes.
Gates heard me approaching and turned toward me. “Merry Chri—what in the hell are you wearing?”
I looked down at my clothes. “Oh, Phil Kelleher from LoDo. And the shoes are Louis L’Amour.”
The men gaped.
“You know, red carpet? Louis Vuitton? Fancy shoes? Louis L’Amour? Storyteller of the frontier? I’m wearing boots? On the red carpet, movie stars are asked, ‘What are you wearing?’ Never mind.” I puffed out my reddened cheeks. “Okay, I borrowed these clothes from Phil.”
“You’re wearing Agent Kelleher’s clothes?” Gates asked. “Do I want to know what happened while I was gone?”
“Mine were filthy.”
“I don’t want to know.” Gates said, shaking his head.
“What are you guys looking at?” I asked.
“The results of the work you did earlier,” Streeter said. “I’m just now reading the email you sent to Linwood at 9:45 a.m.”
“Good!” I replied enthusiastically. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s thorough and the best chance we have to narrow down video footage quickly,” Streeter answered. “Tell us how you came to your conclusions on the best six cameras for Linwood’s team to search.”
For the first time, I actually felt like an equal with the chief and Streeter. “I had help. Jon Tuygen and Kyle Mills went to airport security where the videos were playing and watched my movements as I went from the family bathroom out into the main terminal. They talked me through what they saw and how to improve my movements to avoid cameras. I tried to imagine what I would do if I knew the airport as well as someone like Kevin Benson.”
“Tuygen and Mills? Bureau guys?” Gates asked.
I nodded. “I’d start in the bathroom and move to the nearest doors. Trial and error. There are six cameras that are key to monitoring the exits closest to the bathroom by the Buckhorn Bar and Grill. If the abductor took little Max outside to a car or to a bus, we’re guessing there’s an 85 percent chance he’ll be on one of those six cameras.”
“But not more than one,” Streeter said.
“Right,” I said, noticing that Streeter was studying me as I paced, his eyes locked on mine. “The cameras are positioned above the exits and there’s no way he could avoid the cameras. At least one of them. Unless he went out the door a great distance from where the boy was last seen, which is entirely possible. That’s where Jon Tuygen came in.”
Streeter asked, “He ran a probability analysis?”
“Statistics based on the camera diagram Jack provided,” I said. “Not foolproof, but the six cameras will at least narrow Jack’s search.”
Gates moved near Streeter, who was reading the screen. “Based on an 85 percent probability that the perp used one of those exits.”
I said, “Yeah, and on a hunch, we might want to steer Jack to the fourth and fifth cameras listed on Tuygen’s six-camera list to start with, based on those doors being closest to where Beulah drew the scent in short-term parking.”
“Great idea,” Streeter said.
“Where’d you find the statistics guy?” Gates asked Streeter.
“Jon Tuygen? He was a new office agent last year. He’s feisty and a numbers whiz,” Streeter said. “I like him. He fits in well with the team.”
“Kyle Mills is no slouch, either,” I added. “He talked me through the main terminal as if I were on a major heist or something, stepping over, around, and through what felt like invisible sensor beams, monitoring my every movement and correcting me so I could truly avoid the cameras, while noting how difficult it was for me to do so. Don’t let his offish persona fool you. Mills is meticulous.”
Streeter clicked on the email and closed the screen. “Good job. Now all we can do is to wait.”
I saw the two men glance at one another and sensed some bad news. “What did you guys find out about the nanny?”
Streeter pursed his lips. “We found her.”
“She was at a nearby airport hotel,” Gates said. “She was staying under your sister’s name, just like you suspected, Liv.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Streeter indicated a chair at the table, which I took. Gates and Streeter did the same. Streeter reached over and clicked the mouse. The photo I’d seen earlier of Judy Manning in Max’s file appeared. A woman in her early thirties, I’d guess. Mousy hair pulled back into a tight knot, an even tighter smile, white skin, and pretty eyes. Next was a photo captured from the video at Concourse B. And finally there was a live video stream from next door. Of what appeared to be Judy Manning’s mother.
“Wow, what happened to her?”
“Ask her yourself,” Gates said, folding his arms. “She’s next door waiting for us to interview her.”
“She doesn’t even look like the same person I saw on the trains last night. Looks like she’s aged twenty years,” I said, observing the dark circles under her eyes, the sallow skin, and the crop of wrinkles that had seemed to sprout overnight. “She looks like hell.”
“That’s not even what I wanted to show you.” Streeter said, clicking to the next image, to something on the screen that I didn’t quite understand. “These are photos sent from Jerome Schuffler of Judy Manning’s living room.”
“A bookshelf?” I asked. “But what is all this? These aren’t books.”
“They’re DVDs.”
“She’s a movie buff?”
Streeter’s gaze slid from mine to Tony’s. “Sort of. They’re videos of little Max. She took videos of everything he did. All the time. Since he was born.”
“There must be six dozen DVDs there,” Chief Gates said.
“Obsessed? That’s crazy.” I marveled at not only the sheer number of DVDs but also at the organization of them.
“Quite possibly,” Streeter agreed. “We’ll know more after we talk with her. I just wanted you to see this first. Agent Schuffler’s people recorded a walk-through of Manning’s apartment. The judge allowed the search warrant, believing time was of the essence, since Maximillian Bennett Williams II said Manning was the one who took the child to the airport yesterday morning.”
Tony speculated, “Maybe she never did. Maybe she did a bait and switch on us?”
“The Williamses have positively identified the boy Kevin Benson was carrying as little Max,” Streeter explained. “And we have confirmed Judy Manning was on the same plane as little Max, flying under an assumed name.”
“As Ida. My sister. Maybe she intended to snatch little Max and pretend it was a kidnapping. Or had someone kidnap him so she could have him all to herself. No more parents?” I mused, realizing if she had, my sister’s name would be all over the paper trail.
“That’s what I’m wondering,” Gates said.
“We’ll have to be delicate,” Streeter cautioned. “She’s the person who knows little Max the best and could help us the most if she’s not behind the abduction. We can’t risk alienating her if she’s not the perp.”
“Wait, Streeter!” I said, staring at the screen and pointing to the shelf beneath the two with DVDs. “There’s one missing. See?”
“Good catch,” Streeter said after zooming in on the shelf with the missing DVD. “Maybe I can work that into my line of questioning, see what comes of it.”
I studied the monitor that was trained on Judy Manning in
the other room, the aged woman clutching her purse. “See if she’ll show you what’s in her purse.” The two men turned on their heels and eyed me as they reached the door. To their questioning stares, I shrugged and said, “Call it woman’s intuition.”
“But you don’t even carry a purse.”
CHAPTER 40
Noah
BECAUSE OF MY TWISTING and turning, my winter hat had slid down my forehead and over my eyes. I kept trying to get Emma’s attention so she would lift it away from my face, but it wasn’t happening. What little vision I had in my right eye, I really needed. The soft contact lens Mom sometimes put in that eye helped me see a lot better. But each time she bought a new one I managed to lose it. I liked to think I lost my contacts from messing around at school, being so active, so rough and tumble and on the go. Mom teases me about the foreshadowing of me being an irresponsible teen.
The stocking cap was really starting to bug me. The temperature had finally clawed above freezing. Mom had let me out of the house for the first time in over a week. I loved being outdoors, but she said it had been too cold. The crisp, cold air on my cheeks and in my small lungs felt wonderful. If it weren’t for the stupid stocking cap covering my eyes, I’d say it was starting to look like the best Christmas ever.
I groaned to get my sister’s attention. Emma ignored me. Like always. My frustration quickly steamed into anger. But it didn’t last long. It never did. In fact, anger was not one of my strong suits. I tended to lose it too fast. It was a wasted emotion, in my opinion. It never accomplished much.
Strapped in my chair, clad heavily in winter clothes, I hung my head, chin against my chest, in defeat. I could hear Emma laughing and talking to her snowman, Howie. And I knew all I could do was to wait for Mom to notice, if she noticed, because I’d like to see again and take a look around a bit, before having to go back inside. What a bummer.
Emma introduced herself to her newly built snowman. She mimicked a low, grownup voice, “How do you do, Howie? Nice to meet you, sir. Howie you doing?”
Amused by her own wit, she giggled.
Her giggling made it difficult for me to stay mad at her. I joined in, laughing slowly at first but eventually as energetically as Emma. She bounced through the snow toward my parked wheelchair and adjusted my hat so I could see again. After adjusting my cloudy vision to the bright sun reflecting off the crusted snow, my first image was of the angelic, freckled face of my sister framed in curly, red hair. I could see that much. She had pushed her face within an inch of my nose so I could see and smell her.
I couldn’t help but laugh at Emma when she demanded in her low, grownup voice, “Give me your hat. Howie needs your hat.”
She smelled like peppermint candy canes.
Snatching the winter hat from my head, Emma bounced back through the snow to see if it would fit on her friend Howie’s large, round head. When it didn’t, she stretched the hat in every direction to make it big enough to fit. I listened to my sister arguing with the hat and complaining to Howie.
Until something by the fence caught my attention.
I turned my head toward the fence and listened. The noise was muffled and I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it at first, but I definitely heard something. I heard the soft crunching of the crisp snow beneath cautious footsteps. Someone was there. I strained to hear more noises coming from the neighbor’s fence.
“Aren’t your ears cold?” a small voice asked from behind the fence.
I startled. My arms tightened against my body like the underdeveloped wings of a newborn chick and my knees jerked skyward with a spasm. The child’s voice was so strong and small that it had completely surprised me.
I turned my face toward the voice and furrowed my brow with determination. Although my left eye was useless, I strained to make out a shape or figure with my bionic eye. Focusing, I could make out a small silhouette behind the spaced slats of the neighbor’s fence. Given the size of the image and the sound of the voice, I’d guess it was a child younger than Emma. A lot younger. The gaps between the wooden slats were not quite wide enough for the toddler to pass through, but wide enough for me to see where the child was standing.
Pink coat. Black hair. No cap or mittens.
“Didn’t you hear me?” The small voice sounded again. “I said, aren’t your ears cold?”
I smiled at the child and exhaled a noise that was not quite a laugh, but sounded more like being on the verge of one.
The child replied, “Why’d that girl take your hat?”
This made me laugh. Even this kid couldn’t understand my strange little sister. I could hear Emma’s engrossed conversation with her frigid friend, Howie, which made me laugh even harder. I laughed so hard that I sucked air to catch my breath and instead made a squealing noise. The small child from behind the fence giggled. The giggling was intense, playful, and as contagious as the chicken pox. I couldn’t stop laughing. He kept giggling.
Then, something in my gut told me to be still. To listen. Alarms sounded in my head. CLANG! CLANG! I heard the bells at Six Flags near the kiddie park roller coaster in my head. Something was wrong about that funny laugh. I forced myself to stop laughing, stop moving, stop breathing … and to just listen.
In a single moment, an extreme wave of anxiety flooded my chest, which made my heart beat faster, my breathing quicken, and my brow and forehead break out in nervous sweat. I had heard that giggle before just an hour ago, not last summer. It sounded like the giggle from the news program we had been watching this morning that I’d heard float up from the vent. It was on an Amber Alert about the boy who was kidnapped from the Denver Airport, the boy who kept telling his nanny to watch him. It was the same boy. I was sure of it.
Dead sure.
My body contracted like a coiled spring as I strained to listen, to confirm, to be sure. I memorized the giggling that was coming from behind the fence only two feet from me and realized I had made no mistake. This was the boy from the news. I pulled my arms into my chest, hoping to reach the football through all the layers of clothing, to activate the listening device so I would have proof.
The child said, “You’re funny.”
His voice. It was the same. This was the missing boy. I needed to get Emma. I yelled for Mom. A long, worried screech came from my lungs, which I thought would surely have Emma running over to me and my mom coming outside, but all I managed to do was make the boy laugh.
Giggling, he said, “I see you from my bedroom. I looked for you this morning when I woke up. You were lying on the floor by your window. Why do you lie next to that window so much?”
I smiled, pleased that the boy had noticed. I let out another high-pitched holler, nerves constricting my throat. I wanted to tell him I had noticed him, too. And that I saw him last night. Late. By the window. I wanted to tell him I lie by the window because I love the outdoors, the birds that sing in the trees, the wind that blows through the branches, and the rain that falls on the windowpane. I wanted to tell him I knew who he was and what was going on. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. All I could do was gurgle and shriek up and down the musical scale as I tried to call for help.
“Why do you keep making those funny noises? Can’t you talk?”
I knew the boy was too young to understand why I wasn’t answering—why I couldn’t answer—and it made me sad to think the little boy might think I’m rude or, worse, that I’m mean. I smiled and let out a quieter noise to encourage the boy to keep talking.
As I waited for the boy’s response, I heard my sister’s footsteps crunching in the snow behind me. The child’s giggling must have caught Emma’s attention and she came bounding toward the two of us to see what was happening. Perfect. Now Emma could explain to the little boy why I couldn’t answer his questions and I could explain who he was. Instead, my body stiffened from the sudden chill as Emma pushed the cold, wet hat that was too small for Howie back on my head.
“Hi! My name is Emma. What’s yours?”
The child
from behind the fence stammered in a very small voice that faded to a whisper, “Uh … well … I’m not supposed to tell you. It’s a secret.”
It’s Maximillian. Maximillian! the voice in my head shouted. But nothing more than a garbled mess tumbled from my stupid, lazy lips.
“Ooh,” Emma squealed. “I just love secrets.”
“I’m not even supposed to be out here. I snuck out while Papa was making me a sandwich.”
Papa? He calls Mr. Creepy, Papa? Emma, look at me. I have to tell you something. Emma!
Emma faced the fence. “Can I guess what it is? Your name? Since you can’t tell me?”
I could understand how Emma couldn’t see it at first. I barely recognized him with that black hair since it made his green eyes look so much bigger and more brilliant. But couldn’t Emma hear it in his voice?
“Sure, I guess so,” the child said, shrugging his small shoulders and stuffing his bare hands deep inside the pockets of the pink coat. “But make it quick. I’ve gotta go before he finds me out here.”
Emma tapped her temple with a gloved finger. The small figure shook his uncovered head at each name she guessed. “Megan? Patty? Ivy?”
It’s Maximillian, Emma! My inner voice screamed. Five fingers, Em. Let me explain. Nothing. I needed to get the boy to laugh. Then Emma would understand and tell Mom and Dad.
“Those are all girls’ names. I’m not a girl,” scoffed the little boy.
I arched my back and stomped my feet. They ignored me.
“Then why are you wearing a pink coat?” Emma argued.
The boy giggled at her silliness. I went still. This was definitely the missing boy named Maximillian. Emma, listen! Can’t you figure it out?
The little boy added happily, “You can call me Sammy.”
And he laughed. It was that laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Emma asked angrily. “How was I supposed to know? I’m not the funny one. You’re the funny one. Only girls wear pink.” She stomped her foot in the snow to show how angry she was.
Noah's Rainy Day Page 26