And Then There Was One (6 page)

Streeter resolved to dig deeper into the investigation of her death. A death ruled accidental by Hillsbourgh County authorities, a death entirely too convenient for Mr. Maxwell Cutty, surviving partner, single father, out-of-the-closet gay man.

What had caused the Cutty marriage to break up? According to the file: When Olivia Cutty found out her husband was homosexual, she insisted on a divorce. Judgment of divorce gave her the house and typical joint child custody with Mrs. Cutty named custodial parent.

Seemed straightforward, Streeter thought. Just like Marianne and him. He had every other weekend with his girls — unless the job got in the way. He had every other holiday, too.

Then Olivia Cutty drowns, falls off a yacht cruising Tampa Bay. The boat belonged to Olivia’s date, who was also her sister’s boss and editor of the
Tampa Tribune
. Streeter rubbed his eyes, forcing them to scour the accident report one more time. There was a fire on board, a faulty fuel pump. While her host and the two couples on board hustled to find the fire extinguisher, call for help, scurry about, and do whatever had to be done to put out the fire, Olivia, a weak swimmer at best, simply disappeared. Once the fire was contained, the remaining five people started to look for her. Several days later, her body washed up on shore. Cause of death: drowning, confirmed on autopsy. Boys’ custody reverts to Maxwell, and they all moved back into the big house. This time with Adam. Case closed.

Had Olivia suspected or even known that her ex-husband was molesting her sons?

Streeter put the case file down. His heart went out to the Cutty kids. Hillsborough County Child Protective Services had placed them temporarily with Olivia’s sister, Roberta. What would happen to them if their father went to jail? But that was not his immediate problem.
He couldn’t let anything distract him from finding the Monroe twins. He corrected himself, they were not twins. Exhausted, Streeter slipped off his jacket, laid down on the floor, and was asleep before his head hit the carpet.

Former Yankee Catcher, Scott Monroe, in Detroit
Following Abduction of Two of His Triplet Daughters.
— Sports News Networks, Monday, June 15

Cliff Hunter crushed another sheet of lined yellow paper in his big hands. The thin tablet was almost used up. He had to get this right. At first he’d made an outline. First, tell Scott Monroe that he had his daughters; second, decide on the amount of money; third, warn the parents not to call in the law; fourth, set a timetable; fifth, threaten to take the third girl. He wanted to get the language just right. He didn’t want to sound too smart, as if he could even if he wanted to; he didn’t want to sound too dumb. He wanted respect and he wanted money and he wanted payback.

Cliff’s biggest problem was how to make the demand. He’d considered his options, but hadn’t yet decided. The FBI would naturally be monitoring Monroe’s house, his wife’s office, probably both of their parents’ places, but maybe not Scott’s employer, the Yankee’s central office in New York.

Next, he had to decide how to deliver the demand. His first choice would have been to do it by e-mail. Quick. Convenient since he had access to the e-mail addresses of both parents, work and home. But Cliff knew his limitations. He was not technology savvy, but he knew that the feds could track e-mails, so he ruled out cyberspace. That left the post office, or a delivery service like FedEx or UPS, or the phone. He was leaning toward the phone, but he wasn’t sure which number to use. He could disguise his voice on a phone message, either in person or if it went to voice mail. Voice message would be preferable,
and he knew how to use the Yankee organization’s voice messaging system.

There was the matter of where to set up the exchange — money for kids — and since he’d already scouted out potential sites, he could finalize that in a hurry. The precious little girls for the big bag of money. But of course, he would not disclose that until the last possible moment.

His last problem was what would happen next. He’d have to leave the country. He was no fool. With the FBI swarming all over this case, they’d find him one way or the other. By then he’d be in Portugal. He had relatives there, and he’d stay as long as he pleased. He wondered if he’d take up Portuguese. Probably not, he’d never been good at languages, not clever enough. Not even English, he’d been told. Fuck them all. They’d find out how fucking smart Cliff turned out to be. Or maybe not. If all went perfectly, maybe no one would find out at all.

His cell phone rang just as he was about to pen another draft.

“Yup.”

A buddy reminding him that there’d be pick-up baseball at the park at five that night.

“Be there,” he said.
Once I get this fucking message the way I want it.

Detroit Staggers Under the Recession and the Auto Industry Crisis
— Auto Suppliers Aid Request Refused.
—
National Financial News, Monday, June 14

Scott and Katie and Jackie had returned to Lucy’s townhouse in Auburn Hills. Throughout the day, relatives came and went. All trying to prop up Scott and Katie’s hopes, but with tears in their eyes signaling unfathomable grief. What could they do? Nothing but pray. Except for Scott’s sister, Monica, who could and would offer any amount of money for the safe return of her nieces. World renowned vocalist, Monica Monroe’s concert Saturday night at The Fox Theatre was the reason that Katie and the girls had been in Detroit. That, and the fact that Katie loved to spend as much time as possible with her mother, Lucy.

When Scott carried Jackie upstairs and laid her down on a pile of comforters on the floor next to their bed, he and Katie had tried to rest, but neither drifted off to sleep. For each other’s sake, they each kept quiet, but they were too terrified for sleep. Too terrified for Sammie and Alex.
Where were they? What was happening to them. Were they safe?

Finally Katie sat up, followed by Scott. “There must be
something
that we can do,” she said. “We can’t just lie here and do
nothing
.”

“It’s the helpless feeling,” Scott said. “I’m their father and I can’t protect them. All I can think is what might be happening.”

Katie propped herself up on two pillows and leaned in close to Scott, relaxing just a bit as he stroked her hair. “We’re so used to being in charge, being in control.”

“Mom? Dad? Did they find Alex and Sam yet?” Jackie stirred on the floor below them. Just hearing her voice tore at Katie’s heart. The
triplets each had their own special way of speaking, but their voices sounded so alike.

Both parents avoided Jackie’s question.

“Let’s go downstairs and get a snack, Jackie,” Katie suggested as she and Scott climbed out of bed.

Lucy turned up the volume of the television as the three of them came downstairs. “Here you are,” she said, “on TV. With all the commotion outside, I can hardly hear anything.” She pointed to the throngs of reporters staking out their ground, congesting access to the residential community. “I want to keep the door open for the spring air, but it’s so noisy out there.”

All the Jones and Monroe relatives gathered in the living room paused, silent, as Katie and Scott and Jackie joined them just in time to watch the televised appeal.

“Mommy, you did good on TV and, Daddy, your voice sounded so loud,” Jackie said after the reporter repeated the hotline phone number and Web site and the video cut to footage outside Lucy’s house. She walked over to the window. “Why don’t all those people just go away?”

Scott blinked away a tear. How long had it been since any of the girls had called Katie “mommy” and him “daddy”? For years it had been just “Mom” and “Dad.”

“They all want to find Alex and Sammie,” Lucy said, patting Jackie’s head. “They don’t seem to be stopping my neighbors from bringing over all that food. How are we ever going to eat all this?” Lucy drew Jackie over to a table laden with casseroles, cakes, pies, cookies, and pitchers of lemonade.

“Katie, I wish you’d let Jackie come home with us.” Sharon joined Jackie at the window, putting her arm around her niece. “She could practice piano, swim in the pool, play tennis, get her mind off —”

“Thanks,” Katie said. “but I think it’s best if we all stay here. We’re closer to the mall, should we get word —”

All the while the talking head on the TV kept going on and on about the Monroe triplets, Jackie, who was safe, Alex and Sammie who were missing.

“You want me to turn that off?” Lucy asked. “Or change channels?”

“It’s okay, Lucy,” Scott said, getting up to turn down the volume.

The story of the two missing triplets dominated the TV news, talk TV, sports TV, and the radio. At first Scott and Katie had tried to shield Jackie from the most dire of scenarios as channels out-hyped each other. Kidnapping “experts” filled the airwaves, titillated by the lack of a ransom note, the looming threat of racial prejudice, their Aunt Monica — an idol among music fans — Scott’s baseball notoriety, Katie’s work with the sleaze of society, the rarity of identical triplets, and the biology of such, and the fact that the three little girls were simply adorable. The fact that four-year-old Madeleine McCann had not yet been found. That the parents had been suspects, and that the mother’s name was Kate.

“All that talk mobilizes volunteers.” Scott nodded at the flickering screen.

“Lots of people are looking. Right, Dad?”

“Yes,” said Scott, taking Jackie’s hand as a collage of his daughters danced across the screen. He wondered where all those images had come from. The triplets as infants, the triplets in white First Communion dresses, the triplets in their parochial school uniform, the triplets playing baseball. Their little friends had been interviewed, playing into the reporters’ hands as they described the three distinct personalities. Alex: shy, sweet, always in the shadow of the other two. Sammie: aggressive, opinionated, outspoken. Jackie: friendly, helpful, energetic. And endless speculation as to how Jackie, the
safe
child would fare.

How could it be healthy for Jackie to see all this? Yet, how could they keep her away?

“Mom, could I go home with Aunt Sharon?” Jackie had turned her back to the TV and was munching on an oatmeal cookie. “Danielle and I could play Monopoly and do other stuff. We could take some of these cookies.”

Jackie’s innocent request made Scott cringe. He knew that Katie was not comfortable letting Jackie out of her sight. But was that fair to Jackie?

“I think we’re going to need you today,” Katie said, accepting one of the cookies Jackie offered.

“Katie, let’s not bring her to the bureau.” Scott gave Jackie an I’ll-take-care-of-your-mother
look. “If you don’t want her to go with your sister, let her stay with Grandma.”

Katie put down her half-eaten cookie and took both of Scott’s hands. “Baby, I’m so scared,” she said, her brown eyes brimming with tears. Can’t we keep Jackie close to us — just for now? Please?”

Scott’s resolve melted. He want to say, “You’re scaring her. Let the family distract her.” But he kept his mouth shut, understanding her reaction, fright was overriding compassion.

“We told Agent Streeter that we’d be back later tonight,” Katie said. “Can we get going?”

Scott struggled, his spirits sagging. What good could they do? Hadn’t they told the FBI everything? Checking his watch, he felt his heart sink. Twenty-four hours ago he’d been at Yankee Stadium. Twenty-four hours ago Lucy had called from the mall. Twenty-four hours without a clue. Where could Alex and Sammie be?

Then the cell phone that the FBI provided rang. The sound and vibration coming from his shirt pocket penetrated his skin and stopped his heart. For a moment he and Katie stood, paralyzed.

“Scott, answer it!” she said, dropping her purse and Jackie’s hand to go to him.

“Mr. Monroe, this is Agent Ellen Camry. I wanted to catch you, just to let you know. We don’t have anything specific for you here, and Special Agent Streeter asked me to call and ask that you come into the bureau tomorrow, not tonight. We’ll have a lot to go over once we finish tearing apart both yours and your wife’s hard drive and once we check out all the Florida leads.”

“Katie and I are on our way. There must be something —”

“You and your wife need some sleep, sir. She’s a doctor, so I’m assuming that you can get sleeping pills or sedatives if need be.”

“I see,” said Scott, torn between the agent’s sensible advice, and wanting to be there to personally keep up the pressure to find Sammie and Alex. “Please do everything you can to —” He couldn’t finish, his mind flooded with images of Sammie and Alex, his two little girls. Where could they be? The possibilities were endless, each more horrific than the next.

When Scott told Katie, she slumped against him. “Tomorrow,” she mumbled. “Another night. I don’t know if I can do this.”

Detroit Red Wings Lose in Stanley Cup Finals:
Pittsburgh Wins Two Major Pro-Sports Titles
Already This Year — Penguins and Steelers.
— Sports Radio, June 15, 2009

At nine o’clock on Tuesday morning, Scott and Katie, Jackie between them, were ushered into the conference room adjoining Special Agent Streeter’s office. Scott noticed dark shadows under his eyes. Gone was the ramrod posture, the jaunty gait. He and Katie had had no sleep and he guessed that Agent Streeter had not, either.

After an exchange of amenities, Streeter offered to have his secretary take Jackie for ice cream. Scott saw Jackie’s eyes light up.

“In a little while,” Katie said, settling Jackie in the seat next to her.

As other agents filed into the room, Streeter tried again. “Dr. Monroe, we need to focus on your contacts,” Streeter said, waving a sheaf of paper. “Hillsborough, Manatee, and Sarasota counties have put together a portfolio of people with motive to do something to — and something’s come up on your hard drive. Are you sure that you want your daughter to stay?”

“Jackie will be just fine,” Katie said, pulling a tablet and a pen out of her purse. “Here, sweetie, draw some pictures.”