The Truant Officer (7 page)

“You’re tougher than you look,” Darren quipped.

“Because I’m a pretty girl?”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have stereotyped you.”

“Don’t be—I’ve been profiling you since before we met, and sadly it looks like I’m going to be right.”

“What kind of person do you think I am?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think of you, it matters if the audience buys your story.”

Darren was already questioning their alliance. “So what now—when do we do the interview?”

“With most respectable news stations, there would be days of legal haggling, but Channel-6 is so desperate for ratings that they’ll risk getting sued. A high-profile lawsuit might actually help them become relevant. So to answer your question, as soon as we get to your house.”

A knot tightened in Darren’s stomach as Jessi pulled into the driveway of his home in Mendoza Ranch, one of the many master-planned communities in Chandler.

Darren was always comforted by the conformity of the neighborhood—all the homes were single-family-detached built in hacienda style, with similar exteriors. When they first came with a realtor, it reminded Darren of the pristine planned community in the movie
Poltergeist
where they moved the headstones but not the bodies. He sensed that Lilly saw it as monotonous torture. She wanted to paint their home hot pink or put up a neon sign to get some differentiation, which Darren explained was in violation of the neighborhood association ordinance.

They entered through the garage. Lilly’s Jetta was there, but the other spot in the garage was empty. It was too much for Darren to take—he needed to get into the safety of the house. He led Jessi through an entrance-way that featured a vaulted ceiling and the hum of a gently rotating fan.

On a typical Monday morning, he and Lilly would be sitting at the breakfast table with the warm rays of the morning sun shining off them. Lilly would go on and on about her lesson plans for the upcoming day. She loved teaching—especially helping the students with hardships and tough backgrounds—and he could listen to her for hours while sipping coffee. It seemed lonely and foreign without Lilly. He thought being back in the home they shared might give him clarity, but it just made the whole thing seem all too real.

Jessi looked around the orderly room with its plain furniture, and announced, “I see that boring has come back in style.” She chuckled to herself, before adding, “I guess you tried to bore her to death and when that didn’t work you hired someone to do your dirty work for you.”

Darren’s face scrunched in disbelief. “You really think I killed my wife?”

He couldn’t get past that.

“It wasn’t even that creative. It’s like you stole Scott Peterson’s playbook—the marriage to the girl with the perfect smile, giving the perception of an ideal marriage to the outside world. Then when she disappeared, Peterson went to the tearful public plea card. Sound familiar?”

“The plea was your idea—you said it would help find her.”

“I just led the horse to water. It was your choice whether you’d drink or not, and I sure didn’t have twist your arm very hard to get you to agree.”

Darren didn’t respond, his thoughts on Lilly. He stared blankly into the “boring” living room where he and his wife would spend “boring” nights watching TV. Even performing the most mundane tasks with Lilly was exciting for Darren—just being around her made his pulse rush like he was skydiving without a parachute—but sometimes he wondered if it was as exciting for her.

“Can I get you anything? A cold drink, or something to eat?” Darren played host, out of his ingrained obligation to please.

She thought for a second, and then said, “I need to use your bathroom to freshen up.”

He led her through the main bedroom and pointed out the master bath.

“No snarky comments about being in another murderer’s bedroom for a story?”

Darren had no idea what she was talking about, but was growing tired of the murderer insinuation. “Why would I say that?”

“Don’t tell me you never heard of the Jane Callahan murder in New York?” she asked with a skeptical tone.

Darren tried to think, but his mind was too cluttered. “No, should I have?”

Jessi shook her head as she went into the bathroom and closed the door. She shouted through the door, “You’re going to need to be a better liar than that, Darren McLaughlin.”

Darren waited for her in the living room, gathering his thoughts for the important interview. When she returned, she began casing the house to determine the best spot to set up the camera. She decided on the back deck by the swimming pool with the Superstition Mountains in the background.

She instructed Darren to round up a couple of pictures of Lilly that could be displayed during the interview. He again questioned if he was making the right decision to make her name public. But after his morning interrogation, he no longer trusted the police—not that he had the utmost confidence in Jessi Stafford—but at least he was doing something. He decided it was worth the risk.

One of the photos was the formal wedding picture that sat on the mantel above their fireplace. A ceremony that took place four years ago last October at a resort in Scottsdale. The other was a picture of Lilly and him on vacation. A trip to Acapulco where she actually convinced him to go cliff diving. Both photos portrayed the smiles of happier times.

As they moved out by the pool, Darren focused on the interview that he hoped would propel his wife back into his arms. But the sound of footsteps inside the house jarred him out of thought.

Jessi looked at her watch in a scolding manner. “Nice of you to show up, Byung. What part of ‘leading the morning rush show with exclusive interview’ did you not understand?”

Byung shook his head as he set up the camera for the interview. “Sorry, I didn’t believe you. I thought you were one of those vampires who only comes out at night.”

Jessi appeared too involved in her extensive primping to reply. Darren did have to admit she was quite a sight. But she quickly turned from beauty to the beast, barking orders and last minute instructions—she was much better on the eyes than the ears.

Sounding like Treadwell, she declared that people trust a man in uniform, and insisted that Darren keep on his pilot uniform. Jessi applied make-up to his face like a professional, then dashed into the kitchen and returned with an onion, which she advised he use to help him cry to evoke sympathy.

He didn’t want sympathy—he just wanted Lilly back.

Chapter 14

US Attorney Eicher walked to the window of his office and peered out. It was a peaceful morning outside, at least for Manhattan, featuring a pleasant spring sun. Part of him wanted to just jump out of his window onto the busy street below and get it over with. Career suicide was a much more torturous way to go.

Dava Lazinski barged into his office without a knock, carrying two Styrofoam cups. The aroma of coffee perked him up, at least temporarily.

Dava—short for Davnieska—was the Assistant US Attorney on this case that nobody wanted, and that was before last night’s debacle. But while Eicher had a bad habit of becoming too personally involved in his cases, Dava was a rock. It didn’t matter if it was just another Monday, or a day like today when Nick Zellen put them on Defcom-5.

“After last night’s news, I figured you didn’t sleep a wink, so I ordered you the ginormous,” she said pleasantly and handed him the oversized cup of coffee.

He took a long look at Dava, who was dressed in her usual power suit. She was only in her early thirties, but always seemed an old soul. There was something different about her today. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

“You have a good weekend?” he asked.

“Pretty boring. Check that—the Rangers lost both their playoff games, so it was boring
and
crappy.”

She was born in New York, but her formative years were spent in Lithuania, where to quote Dava, hockey gets in the blood. Eicher knew this because after spending the past year trapped under the Sarvydas case, they knew way too much about each other, including that neither, sadly, had much of a life.

“No hot date?” Eicher pushed on between sips of coffee. He was a prosecutor by trade.

“Just my usual—picked up a couple of strangers in a bar,” she kidded. “How ’bout yourself?”

“I’m married to my job and it wouldn’t be right to cheat on it. Although, my ex-wife’s lawyer did call me a couple times, does that count?

He continued to stare vacantly at her, trying to figure out what he was missing.

She let out a heavy sigh. “It’s the hair, Eicher! I had like six inches cut off—real observant, counselor.”

He pointed at her with a rare smile. “I knew it was something.”

Compared to his life, getting a few inches chopped off the locks and watching a hockey game was practically a bachelor party that got out of hand. But their lack of lives was no doubt factored in when it came to being assigned this case. Usually high profile trials were earmarked for the budding stars of the office—the ones with political aspirations—but nobody with long-term plans raised their hand when the US vs. Alexei Sarvydas hit the docket.

Prosecuting the Russians was a lot lower on the glamour-scale than taking on the Italian Mafia. The Sarvydas’ were a different animal. They had a reputation of being ruthless and crazy, and wouldn’t blink an eyelash at ordering a hit on a federal prosecutor in broad daylight. Every time Eicher had stepped onto the street this past year he had checked over his shoulder for the Moziafs.

They also lacked the ammo to make it a fair fight. While too busy chasing the more glamorous Michael Corleone wannabes, the FBI didn’t even notice the red tide sweeping ashore in the 1970s, circumventing numerous new US laws that had been created to promote Jewish refuge. Upon arrival, the Russians started stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down. But it was limited to low-level stuff like Medicare fraud, counterfeiting, and extortion. That changed when Viktor Sarvydas rose to power, and built a sophisticated, worldwide crime network. By the time they realized what was happening, it was too late.

So they had to look for other advantages, which was one reason why Dava was chosen for the case. The hope was that her background would provide some credibility with a jury that Sarvydas’ lawyers would surely try to fill with Russians—a group that sticks together and distrusts authority. It was a very sensitive topic with Dava. She was a good prosecutor, and any notion that she was chosen for any other reason than her abilities was the one thing that could ruffle her cool demeanor.

So with all this working against them, Nick Zellen became their lifeline. He had accidentally stumbled upon Alexei Sarvydas, Viktor’s son, gunning down Nick’s father. And unlike those who witnessed the recent Moziaf shootings, he was willing and able to testify.

The murder had the one trademark of most killings by the Russian Mafiya—brazenness. Although, it was unusual in its sloppiness and loose ends. Even without Nick’s eyewitness account, Alexei had incriminated himself, leaving fingerprints everywhere.

Nick was still the key eyewitness to tie it together for a distrusting jury. But they needed to find him, and soon, to make sure he was in one piece for the trial.

Eicher looked at Dava. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Come on, Dava, we’ve been doing this for a year. You only bring me coffee when you have bad news.”

Dava took a deep breath. It was similar to the one Eicher’s wife gave him before she told him she was leaving.

“Lilly McLaughlin’s husband just went on a local Phoenix news station and made a plea for his wife’s safe return.”

“LaPoint said he didn’t know anything, what did he say?”

She held up a disc. “It wasn’t so much what he said.”

Chapter 15

Eicher watched intently as Darren McLaughlin appeared on the screen. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night—
join the club!—
and he was still wearing his pilot uniform.

He sat poolside with the reporter on a sunny Arizona morning, which reminded Eicher that he could really use a vacation. He glanced out the window, and as if a mood ring was controlling it, the Monday morning in New York had changed to typical April gloomy.

Eicher recognized the reporter. “Isn’t that the news anchor who got fired for inappropriate behavior in the Jane Callahan murder case?”

Dava nodded. “And by inappropriate, I think you mean was sleeping with the murder suspect in exchange for an exclusive interview.”

“That’s right—
Killer Sex
.”

“Maybe I should try that method to get some of these Russian thugs to talk,” Dava made a rare joke.

Eicher knew that a lifetime supply of sex and vodka couldn’t get the Russian mobsters they dealt with to talk. “I’m just worried that history is repeating itself—missing wife, interview by a pool, Jessi Stafford...”

“You think the husband could be involved?”

“When it comes to Viktor Sarvydas, I don’t rule anything or anyone out, especially the most unlikely scenario.”

Dava refocused on the screen. “It must be nice to go through life looking like a Barbie doll—no lack of second chances—I would have thought the Callahan thing would be a career killer.”

“Kind of like ours if we don’t find Nick real soon.”

Lilly McLaughlin’s husband, who according to LaPoint was either sadly naïve or the greatest actor of his generation, looked solemnly into the camera. “My name is Darren McLaughlin. Last night, my wife Lilly was abducted while pumping gas at a station here in Chandler.”

Jessi cued the video. And for maybe the thousandth time since last night, Eicher watched Nick roll out from under the SUV and force Lilly McLaughlin into the back at knifepoint. The only positive was that he had worn his bank-robber chic outfit—a black Under Armour body suit and stocking over his head—so he couldn’t be identified, even when Eicher used advanced FBI technology to zoom in close enough to see if he had a zit on his nose. But Eicher could spot Nick’s movements three-thousand-miles away. He had no doubts it was him. And worried that Sarvydas could do the same.