Captured (7 page)

I find myself smiling. When the woman—who introduces herself as Meredith Lawrence—notices, she smiles, too. But the lightness of our moods quickly dissipates. We all know why we’re here.

Her expression morphs into a weary frown. “
This
is the way our children are supposed to spend their day,” she says, motioning Zack and I to sit. “What happened with Andy Boroson is beyond horrible.”

“It doesn’t seem to have affected your enrollment,” I say. “It looks like you have a full house.”

Ms. Lawrence nods. “We were lucky. We did have a few parents pull their children, but Bee Happy has a reputation for quality day care and we were able to fill the spots from a waiting list. Thankfully, everyone assumes that what happened was an isolated, tragic event.”

Zack has been watching the activity outside, too. “And yet, I see a man standing near the fence. Security?”

She follows his gaze. “Yes. What’s the old saying? ‘Hope for the best but prepare for the worst?’ We aren’t taking any chances. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that we’d have to employ full-time security. Or install cameras. I suppose it’s a sad reflection on today’s world.” She turns from the window to face us. “I saw on the news that another boy has gone missing. I assume that’s why you’re here?”

“We’d like to interview the day care workers who were on duty when Andy disappeared. Would that be possible?” I ask.

“Of course.” Ms. Lawrence gestures to a closed door to the right with her name on it. “You can use my office. I’ll call them in and take their place on the playground. That way you can have some privacy.”

Zack thanks her and we watch as she crosses the yard to call to the two young preschool teachers who were the last to see Andy Boroson alive.

“Should we interview them separately or together?” I ask Zack as we wait for the girls to join us.

“The police interviewed them separately the day Andy disappeared,” he answers. “Let’s see if their accounts differ now that they’ve had time to think about it.”

Laura Smith and Natalie Schofield greet us in the office with somber expressions. Obviously, Ms. Lawrence told them why we were here. Both girls are dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and T-shirts. Each wears an apron over their clothes with the smiling bumblebee logo from the sign embroidered on the front. Laura, who looks to be the older of the two, mid-twenties to Natalie’s late teens, speaks first.

“We still miss Andy,” she says. “His friends do, too. Most are too young to understand and keep asking when he’ll be back. It breaks our hearts.”

I nod. “We appreciate your taking the time to see us. Agent Armstrong and I were not on Andy’s case, but we are working the most recent abduction. We think they may be connected. We’d appreciate hearing whatever you can tell us about the day Andy went missing. The smallest detail might just end up being the key to finding the Anderson boy.”

Laura fiddles with the strings to her apron. “I’m not sure where to start.”

Zack leans toward the girls, making eye contact first with Laura, then Natalie. “For instance, what was happening on the playground that day?”

This time it’s Natalie who speaks first. She’s blue-eyed and waif-thin with long blonde curls—a stark contract to Laura’s full-figure, short dark hair and brown eyes.

“Laura and I were on playground duty—like today.” Natalie closes her eyes for a moment, as if accessing the memory of that day “Andy was playing with his friends in the sand box. It’s over by the fence—there—”

She motions at the window, and Zack and I look. The sandbox is about two feet away from the fence line. It’s an enclosed rectangle about six feet by twelve, rimmed in smooth wood. There are five children playing in it, scooping white sand into plastic buckets and gleefully dumping it out again.

I return my gaze to Natalie. “What happened next?”

“One of the children fell off the swings.” She sighs. “Sabrina is one of our more dramatic kids. She started screaming at the top of her lungs. Laura and I both rushed over to see if she was
really
hurt. There was a little blood. She’d skinned her knees, but she refused to get up. I carried her kicking and screaming to the nurse’s office inside.”

Laura picks up the thread. “Sabrina managed to lose a shoe on the way. I picked it up and ran it to the door. My back was turned to the yard less than a minute, I swear.” She clutches her hands together. “When I returned I didn’t realize Andy was missing. It wasn’t until recess was over—maybe five minutes later—that I noticed he was gone. The kids line up on the playground before filing back to the their classrooms. Andy wasn’t in his usual spot. I went to the boy’s restroom, thinking maybe he’d be there.” She pauses and shakes her head. “But he wasn’t. That’s when we notified Ms. Lawrence. She organized an immediate search of the grounds and classrooms. Within minutes we realized—”

Natalie reaches over and pats her friend’s hands. “It’s not your fault.” She straightens and looks at us. “We went into lockdown. Ms. Lawrence alerted the police.”

Zack nods. Their story confirms all that was in the original police report. “Did you see any strangers around the school that day? Or in the days before? Someone who was unknown to you? Anyone. A delivery person perhaps?” He consults the notes from Andy’s case. “I understand you have a milk delivery in the morning and sometimes Ms. Lawrence orders groceries that the supermarket sends out by van.”

Both girls shake their heads. Laura says, “We provide lunch for the children. Milk and groceries are delivered twice a week. But like we told the policeman, we didn’t have any deliveries that day. Supplies came the day before, brought by the same people who always come.”

Natalie frowns. “We aren’t much help, are we?”

Zack gives her a reassuring smile. “You are helping just by answering our questions. Do you think we could talk to the kids Andy was playing with?”

At that, the girls smile.

“Sure. But you know kids,” Laura says. “They have very short memories.”

They lead us outside. Natalie points to the sandbox. “Those four kids play there everyday. We call them The Sand Pipers. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Two of the boys seem to be arguing over a truck.

“You can’t play with this one. It’s Andy’s truck!”

“Can too! Miss Natalie said Andy’s not coming back.”

Natalie skillfully ends the argument by scooping up the mini bulldozer. “I think I’ll just hold onto this myself for a while.” She kneels down in the sand. “I want to introduce you all to Agents Armstrong and Monroe. They have some questions about Andy.”

Unfortunately, the four now-smiling cherubs, three boys and a girl, have nothing of value to tell us. Two of the boys only remember they were playing with Andy in the sand the last day he was here. Kevin, the boy who wanted to claim the truck recalled they were building a castle that day and that the lone girl in their crew, Lorelei, kicked it over. Another brief argument ensues, this time between Lorelei and Kevin. They stop when Ms. Lawrence joins us on the playground. We leave Natalie and Laura to their charges and accompany Ms. Laurence back to the office.

“Were they able to help?” she asks.

“Everything helps,” Zack says, jotting something down in his notebook. He looks up. “There’s one more thing I wanted to double check with you. The girls said there were no deliveries that morning. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Wait! The mail. Would you call that a delivery? The postman came mid-morning, like always. And we did have a substitute mailman that week.” The words come out slowly, as if she’s turning them over in her mind for the very first time. “Actually, it might have been a little longer than a week. I remember because Natalie took an instant liking to him. He was in his early thirties, I think, handsome, very personable. She was crushed when our regular carrier returned from his vacation.”

We follow Ms. Lawrence back into the welcome air conditioning of the office.

“Do you recall whether he showed interest in any of the children? In Andy in particular?” I ask, feeling a spark of hope.

She shakes her head. “By mid-morning the children have all arrived and are in class. As you can see, our office is in the front. The classrooms are in the back. During the course of a normal delivery, the postal worker wouldn’t even see the children. They would park, walk in the front door, and drop the mail off here, at the reception desk.”

From this vantage point, she’s right. The classrooms are out of sight.

I thank her for her cooperation, leave my card for her in case she thinks of anything else. “Before we leave, we’ll walk the perimeter, if you don’t mind.”

She says, “Of course not. Anything to help.”

Zack and I exit through the front door and turn right to walk the fence line. Next to the school, about fifty yards away, is another residence—the owners were questioned at the time of the kidnapping, but both worked downtown and were gone all day, so they had nothing to offer.

We reach the back, where another fence surrounds the playground. I can’t see over it but Zack can. Even with his height, though, he wouldn’t be able to reach over and snatch a kid from the sandbox. The other side fence borders an open lot.

Another dead end.

Zack and I return to the car.

“What now?” I ask sharply, frustrated because we’ve talked to everyone and run out of leads. “Three children taken during broad daylight and no one saw anything.”

Zack looks up at the brand new security camera by the edge of the driveway. “There’s one more thing we can do,” Zack says. “There were security cameras in the grocery store Mikey Nicolson was taken from and more in the parking lot.”

“But you must have already looked at it.”

“Fresh eyes, remember? Unfortunately, the back where the body was found isn’t covered and the space that Mrs. Nicolson parked in was in a blind spot. I don’t know, maybe there’s something you’ll see that we didn’t.”

He slides in behind the wheel.

I open the passenger door. A gust of hot air rushes out. “Do you think the kidnapper could have known that? Maybe we should look more closely at some of the employees.”

The air conditioning is now going full blast. All of the windows are rolled down.

“I don’t think anyone knew,” says Zack. “Footage is recorded and stored. It’s not actively monitored. When I pointed out the blind spot to the manager, he was surprised. Surveillance was originally set up to cover the entire lot. A few months prior to the kidnapping a motor home backed into a light pole one of the cameras was mounted on. The camera had been knocked off line and he assumed it had been fixed.”

I sigh. “Well, right now we don’t have anything else. May as well give the footage another look. How long will it take to get access?”

Zack answers. “No time at all. I’ve got the files loaded on my laptop. I have to warn you, there’s several days’ worth of footage. Even on fast forward, it’s going to take a long time to get through.”

I check my watch. “I’m game if you are. We can order in for dinner.”

“You know, you’re a woman after my own heart. You think about food as much as I do.”

He checks the rearview mirror then rolls up the windows and puts the car in gear. “Your place or mine?” He turns to face me head on. His tone is completely professional. But the question does something to me. Something it shouldn’t. Something dangerous.

Can he sense the quickening of my pulse? Smell the hint of arousal?

I’ve waited too long to answer.

One corner of Zack’s mouth turns up. A slow smile forms. “You’re thinking about that question awfully hard, Agent Monroe.”

I meet his eyes. “Mine,” I answer.

He nods. “A lady who likes to be in control, call the shots.”

I grin. “A lady who
is
a good shot. You best remember that, Agent Armstrong.”

CHAPTER 6

We get back to the hotel about five. We stop at the bar intending to have a quick drink. While we’re there, we catch a news story about the Andersons. We’d forgotten about their scheduled interview and now, watching the faces of the couple as they appeal to the public for information, my sense of frustration rushes back. Zack called me about this case because he has faith in me. In truth, I feel like I’ve been no use to him whatsoever.

I order another glass of wine and listen intently while the talking heads pick apart every aspect of the investigation. A former FBI agent spews depressing facts and everyone jumps on the bandwagon speculating it’s likely just a matter of time before Cooper’s body turns up. Frustration shifts to aggravation.

I take a swallow of my chardonnay. “You could take that guy.” I tilt my head toward the screen where the former FBI agent, current contender for the best impersonation of the Pillsbury Doughboy is yammering away.

He catches the bartender’s eye and points to his empty glass. “If your tone’s any indication, I’d say you could take him all by yourself.”

We watch a moment in silence, waiting for the waiter to bring Zack’s bourbon. The coverage has circled back once again to a sound bite from the press conference. Brett Anderson might be comfortable in front of the camera, but the pain on his face as he watches his wife beg the public for information is no act.

The server delivers Zack’s drink along with the check. “What do you say we take these upstairs and get to work?” he says after taking a sip.

Before I have a chance to answer, his phone rings. It’s his partner, Lincoln. I grab my glass, slide off the stool, and tell him to come on up when he’s through. This way he gets a bit of privacy and I get a chance to catch my breath, shake this mood. I step into the elevator, listen to the hum of the motor as it makes its ascent, close my eyes. A sigh escapes. I’m alone. Though, it occurs to me I’m never really alone. They are always with me, the missing whom I’ve failed to find over the years, sometimes begging, pleading, sometimes bitter and disappointed. Now I see the face of a little boy, a photograph held up by two frantic parents. The face of a goddess turned vengeful when her own daughter had been taken from her. Demeter’s presence is as palpable as the cold breath on my neck.