Captured (5 page)

I follow Zack’s lead and read through the list of offerings. “What looks good to you?” I ask, looking over the top of the menu.

“I’m going for the bacon and cheddar pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs,” says Zack.

As if on cue, our waitress approaches.

I close my menu and slide it across the table. “Make that two.”

The Nicolsons live in one of Charleston’s most desirable areas: The Village of Old Mount Pleasant. It’s a short fifteen minutes from downtown, over the Cooper River. While Zack drives, I peruse the file. Seeing the crime scene photos again strikes me like a cold dash of water. It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen them before. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t my case, that I was just consulting. What matters is that we failed. Mikey Nicolson had been a handsome, smiling four-year-old in his last preschool picture. When his body was found, all that was left was a lifeless shell. The drowning had been quick. He was found within twenty-four hours. White foam in his airway indicated he was alive when it happened. The fresh water in his lungs and stomach led the forensics specialists to determine he’d most likely been submerged in a bathtub. Bruises stood out on his shoulders where he was held and forced under.

My stomach churns. I put the reports down, try to focus on the scenery. I can’t. I always feel a sting when life is lost. But when the victim is so young, it cuts even deeper. “How could anyone do this to a child?”

“We’re going to get him, Emma.”

His expression is resolute. We’re both feeling the pressure. We’re both feeling the fear. I can’t help checking the time. Noting that there hasn’t been a ransom call or we would have heard from Taft and Biller. A shiver races up my spine, death’s cold fingers mocking me. Telling me there’s not going to be a ransom call. That Cooper’s fate, like the fates of Andy and Mikey are in the killer’s hands, not mine.

Zack pulls into a circular driveway. The arched entryway fronting the traditional two-story brick mini mansion is flanked by white pillars. By the time we get out of the car, the front door is already open. A rail-thin woman stands on the threshold. Dressed in a pale blue silk blouse and black capri pants, she watches our approach with an expression of anxiety and anticipation.

“Agent Armstrong.” She holds out a hand to Zack.

Zack shakes it briefly, then turns toward me. “This is Agent Monroe.”

“Mrs. Nicolson.” I take her offered hand. It’s ice cold.

Ann Nicolson is not wearing jewelry—no earrings, no wedding band. Her short, light-brown hair curves back from a face that before the tragedy would have been called elegantly sophisticated—high cheekbones, deep blue eyes, full lips. Now, the too-thin visage looks as if it’s been chiseled from granite. All vestiges of softness gone.

“Come in. Please.”

She leads us through a silent house to a parlor off the entryway. Everything is austere—from the cream walls to the understated beige sofas bracing a fireplace. Polished wood floors reflect sun through sparkling windowpanes. Like a stage set, the room is too perfect, too sterile.

I glance at Zack. There’s not a hint that a four-year-old boy once ran through the room, or that a child’s laughter disturbed the church-like quiet. It’s eerie and incredibly sad.

Mrs. Nicolson catches my eye. In the brief glance we exchange, her sorrow is palpable. She turns away, settling herself into one of the couches and motioning Zack and me into the other. “Have you found Mikey’s kidnapper?” she asked, her tone wooden.

Zack shakes his head. “I’m sorry, no. We’re here about—”

“The other missing child. Is that why you’re here? You think it’s the same person who took Mikey? You have fresh leads?”

“We think there’s a very good chance it’s the same individual.” Zack pauses a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “Mrs. Nicolson, I’m not going to lie to you. We’re at a standstill in our investigation of your son’s kidnapping. There haven’t been any new leads. But with this most recent event, well, Agent Monroe and I are starting at the beginning. Looking at everything with a fresh set of eyes.”

“What happened to Agent Lincoln?” she asks suddenly.

I’m reminded of something Zack mentioned earlier—that Mrs. Nicolson had seemed to connect with the senior and more experienced agent.

“Spending some time with his family,” Zack answers, vaguely.

I forge ahead. “I’m sure Agents Armstrong and Lincoln were very thorough. Sometimes it just helps to bring in someone new.”

Zack picks up. “The Bureau sent Agent Monroe here from California. She’s very experienced, she actually closed a case very similar to this one not too long ago. We’ve been consulting from the beginning.”

Mrs. Nicolson eyes me with undisguised skepticism. I don’t let her lack of faith deter me. I can’t.

“We’re hoping you might have remembered something that might help us,” I tell her. “Maybe something you thought too unimportant to mention at the time of Mikey’s abduction. It happens. Time passes, a new memory—”

“Not to me.” Mrs. Nicolson jumps to her feet, her face contorted in a combination of lingering pain and intolerable frustration. “Don’t you think we spent enough time going over and over each and every detail?”

“I know this must be difficult—”

“Do you? I’ve replayed that day in my mind hundreds of thousands of times, questioning every decision, every choice.
Being
questioned. Nothing will bring him back.”

“No,” I agree. “But there’s another boy missing, a boy the same age as Mikey. We need to find him, Mrs. Nicolson. And we need to make sure that the person who took your son, who killed your son, never has the chance to hurt another child ever again.”

She takes a ragged breath before turning her gaze on Zack. “I told you everything. Everything. From the moment we woke up that day until…until—” Her voice breaks off, a sob makes her chest heave. “It was such an
ordinary
day. A trip to the mall, a stop at the grocery store. God, if only I’d unloaded the groceries before putting Mikey in the car. If only I hadn’t stepped away to talk to Grace. If only…”

My heart goes out to her. The choices she made have been eating away at her, the dire consequences taking a toll. I sneak a glance at Zack. I could help her. Use my powers to suggest she feel soothed by memories of her son. Give her some peace. But I can’t risk it. Demeter is always watching, waiting. She is capable of turning all my good intentions against me. She’s done it before so instead I try to get Mrs. Nicolson to refocus.

“Take me through what happened, please,” I say gently. “In the report you mentioned Mikey had fallen asleep in the shopping cart.”

She nods. “He was getting over a cold. I put him in his car seat and buckled him in. But it was a warm day. I didn’t close the door. Then I went to the back of the car. My eyes were only off him for a minute while the bags were loaded into the trunk.”

Predictably, tears start to flow.

“Then Grace Richardson approached,” prompts Zack.

“Yes. I hadn’t seen her in months. Not since her divorce. We chatted for a few minutes. Five, maybe ten. Promised to do lunch soon. Then I closed the trunk. Went to close the car door. That’s when I saw Mikey’s car seat was empty. Oh, God!”

Suddenly, she’s struggling to breathe. Zack goes to her. He is gentle and careful as he takes her hand. “Look at me.”

She does

“It’s not your fault,” he tells her. “I’m sorry we’ve upset you. But I promise you, Agent Monroe and I are working night and day. We’ll find the person responsible and we’ll bring him to justice.”

“You said that once before. It’s been what? Five weeks?” It’s said with disdain. Over a month’s worth of unbearable self-loathing is suddenly directed at Zack. “And now another child has gone missing? Your reassurances ring hollow, Agent Armstrong.”

I let a moment go by before saying, “I have a few questions for your husband. If he hasn’t left for the office yet, perhaps we could speak briefly with him? As a criminal defense attorney, he’s come in contact with some rough characters. Perhaps he’s thought of one or two others who—”

Mrs. Nicolson picks up a nearby pack of cigarettes and lights one with a shaky hand. “Left for the office yet? I can’t remember the last time he was home. I’m not even sure he’s living here anymore. He can’t look at me. We haven’t spoken in… According to the credit card bill, he’s taken a room at the Wentworth Mansion. Perhaps he can find the time to squeeze you in between appointments at the office. I’m sure you have the address.” She whirls and pushes past Zack to head for the stairs at the opposite end of the room. “Show yourselves out, will you?”

Zack and I walk back to the car, the mood dark. When we’re inside the vehicle, I turn to him. “I hope she’s getting professional help.”

Zack is making a note on one of the pages of the report. “I wish I could say I’m surprised, they’ve separated but you and I know it happens all too often, marriages collapsing under the strain. It doesn’t matter that they’re living with the one person in all the world who understands exactly what they’re going through. They can’t bring themselves to talk to one another, lean on one another, get through it together.”

He tilts his head toward my hand. “No ring. Ever been married?”

The personal question catches me off guard. “Not in this lifetime.”

“Me neither, so what the hell do I know?” He hands the report over to me. “Mr. Nicolson’s office is downtown, closer to the hotel. We can make one more stop while we’re here. The cashier who checked Mrs. Nicolson out at the grocery store and the bagger who helped her to the car.”

I shrug. “May as well. Mrs. Nicolson didn’t mention the bagger at the car while she was talking to her friend. Maybe she saw something Mrs. Nicolson missed.”

“We got nothing from either of them during the first interview. But this time, who knows?”

The grocery store is no more than five minutes from the Nicolson home. Zack finds a parking spot close to the front. Once inside, we head straight for the customer service desk. Our request to speak to a manager is quickly met. When we show him our badges and tell him who we’re here to speak with, he ushers us back to his office. After a call over the intercom, two smocked employees join us.

The manager makes the introductions and leaves us.

“It’s so awful about Mikey Nicolson,” the woman introduced as Elizabeth Groden, the checker, tells us.

She’s middle-aged, heavy set, but she has an air of open friendliness about her that makes her statement ring true.

“We haven’t seen Mrs. Nicolson since it happened,” the other, younger girl says. She’s in her late teens, pretty. The report Zack filed said her name is Betsy Durbin and that she’s a sophomore at the local college, bagging groceries for rent money.

I nod in sympathy. “It is awful,” I agree. “Agent Armstrong and I are still working on the case. We’re here to ask you to go over your recollection of what happened the day Mikey was abducted. Let’s all have a seat. Elizabeth, why don’t you start?”

Elizabeth shrugs. “She came through my line about eleven in the morning. Mikey was nodding off in the cart. I remember her saying he was just getting over a cold and evidently shopping turned out to be too much for him. She paid for her groceries the way she always does—with a credit card. Then Betsy helped her out to the car.”

I turn to Betsy. “Your turn.”

Betsy squares her shoulders. “I pushed the cart while Mrs. Nicolson carried Mikey. She opened the back of the SUV and I loaded the groceries while she put Mikey into his car seat. She came around to the back of the car, gave me a tip, and started to pull the hatch down when another car pulled up.” She sighed. “I left them when Mrs. Nicolson walked over to the other car and started to talk to the driver. I recognized her, because she shops at our store, too. Grace Richardson. I said hello and went back inside. The next thing I knew, police cars were swarming the parking lot and Mrs. Nicolson was screaming that Mikey was gone.”

“Betsy, did you or Elizabeth notice anyone paying special attention to Mrs. Nicolson while she was in the store?” Zack asked.

They shake their heads in unison and then Betsy says, “Mrs. Nicolson was alone in line when she checked out. And I didn’t see anyone watching them in the parking lot. ’Course, Mrs. Nicolson and I were chatting, so I probably wouldn’t have noticed someone watching.”

Zack and I exchange glances and we both rise. “Thank you,” I say to the women.

Elizabeth frowns. “I wish we could be of more help.”

Betsy’s expression mirrors the sentiment. “The Nicolsons’ housekeeper came in the other day to pick up some cleaning supplies and coffee. She mentioned Mr. Nicolson had moved out. Is Mrs. Nicolson doing all right?” Then she shakes her head. “That’s a dumb thing to say. Of course she’s not doing all right.”

Zack speaks before I can. “I really wouldn’t know,” he says. “But I imagine it’s been a trying time for both of them.”

We take our leave and head back to the parking lot. “Who spoke with Grace Richardson?” I ask when we’re in the car.

“I did,” Zack answers. “By ship-to-shore telephone. She left for Europe the day after Mikey was taken. A month-long cruise paid for by her ex. The ship’s captain confirmed she was alone.”

“Well,” I say. “That leaves Mr. Nicolson.”

“I’ll see if we can catch him in his office.” Zack checks the file, enters a telephone number in his cell. The call lasts only a few seconds. “He’s in Columbia.”

“South America?”

Zack grins. “Columbia, South Carolina. He’ll be back tomorrow evening. He’s in the middle of a deposition right now. His secretary will have him call us when he gets back.” Zack glances at his watch. “Want to grab lunch nearby before we tackle the Borosons?”

His tone suggests he’d like a break before meeting with the first family to have a their child abducted and murdered. I agree. I’m weighed down with feelings of disappointment and growing despair. “I don’t have much of an appetite, but I could use a breather.” And a bathroom.

I don’t ask Zack where he wants to go. He obviously has a place in mind. I know only that the Borosons live in an area called North Charleston, in much more modest circumstances than either the Andersons or Nicolsons. I use the time on the road to go over the case files yet again. Andy Boroson was kept longer than either of the other two boys—almost a month. But his death was the same—drowning. No ransom demand. Andy’s parents are both hard-working blue-collar workers in their early twenties—just starting out in life—and hardly in the position to pay ransom. What had Zack said yesterday, they had less than two thousand in savings?