Captured Read online

  “All of it.” I raise my voice to ensure he can hear me through the closed door. “I finished around one, which seemed perfectly reasonable until I realized one in San Diego was four here in Charleston.”

  I make short order of getting ready for the day. Before Zack knocked on the door, I’d managed to take a quick bath, pull my hair back, and apply sunscreen. Since my morning routine is fairly Spartan all that’s left to do is get dressed. I pull a black pants suit from the closet, a lightweight wool with a belted jacket. An earlier weather check revealed temperatures are expected to once again be in the eighties. So I decide to pair it with a white, short-sleeved linen top. “I’ll be ready in five.”

  I take a moment to smooth down my hair and check my reflection in the mirror. I slip on the jacket, feeling assured the glamour I rely on is firmly in place. The lock on my powers under control. Zack won’t be able to see through my wholesome “plain Jane” façade to discover what’s underneath, what’s real. Thanks to my friend Liz, no one should.

  As if on cue, my cell phone rings. I hear the first few bars of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon”.

  I emerge from the bathroom and make a beeline for the phone.

  “I met someone!” she announces as soon as I pick up.

  Warning bells go off. I’m acutely aware that with Zack’s enhanced hearing, he’s undoubtedly going to catch whatever Liz says next. You name it, Liz has dated it. Being a witch with serious magical talent puts her in contact with a wide variety of supernaturals. Her last beau, Walter, was Were. I decide to head her off at the pass.

  “Can’t talk right now. Agent Armstrong and I are running late. I’ll call you later?”

  She doesn’t hesitate. Liz knows me better than anyone. She might not understand the subtext, but she realizes something’s up. “Sure thing. Shall I text you that information you’ve been waiting for?”

  The “information” she’s referring to is the name, address, and phone number of a local mage. Liz is my best friend, but that moniker doesn’t begin to cover it. She’s my touchstone. The latest in a line that for centuries has served as confidant and savior, sharing my secrets and providing protection. Liz works two spells for me—a reverse glamour to hide my true appearance and a dampening spell that diminishes both my innate powers of seduction and the nifty little side effect that makes me the most reliable lie detector ever.

  “Yeah, thanks! Although I don’t anticipate I’m going to have time to get my hair done.” I roll my eyes for Zack’s benefit as I quickly slip into a pair of stylish but sensible flats.

  I can almost hear the smile in Liz’s voice. “Well, best to be prepared. Just in case there’s some sort of hair emergency. Bye!”

  Hair emergency?

  This time I roll my eyes for real.

  “Later!”

  I slip my cell into the outside pocket of my purse, then sling the bag over my shoulder.

  Zack already has the door open. “The car should be waiting for us out front. The Andersons live in the French Quarter. It’s about a five-minute drive from here, ten tops.” He presses the call button for the elevator. “There’s a bakery on the way. They make the best apple turnover I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

  We arrive at the Andersons just before nine, fueled by a combination of dark-roasted coffee and sugary pastry. There are a half-dozen news vans out front. We park across the street. An anchor from Live5News spots us and rushes over.

  “Agent Armstrong, isn’t it? Garrett Grayson with Live5News. Can you give us an update on the investigation? Has there been a demand for ransom?”

  Zack doesn’t break stride. “We’re not here to make a statement, Mr. Grayson.”

  “Can we expect one later this morning? Can you tell us why you are here?”

  Others are approaching, in search of a sound bite.

  “No,” he says.

  We reach the line of police tape, where the media can’t follow. Zack lifts it so I can duck underneath.

  We follow the driveway around to a side entrance, away from the prying eyes of the press. A housekeeper lets us in. She’s full-figured and close to sixty. The expression on her kindly face is worn. The light gray uniform dress, double-breasted with white lapels, emphasizes her already sallow coloring. It’s obvious by the dark circles under her eyes that she’s been deeply affected by what’s happened.

  “Morning, Abigail!” He gestures to me. “This is the agent I told you about. Agent Monroe.”

  She turns and motions us inside. “All the way from San Diego,” she says.

  “Yes ma’am,” I say. We follow her through a mudroom and front entryway, into a formal living room decorated in soft blues and creamy yellows. The tall windows in front of us offer a panoramic view of the bay. “The Andersons have a lovely home.”

  She pauses briefly. “Been in the family for over a century. Ms. Sophie grew up in this house.”

  “And how is Mrs. Anderson this morning?” Zack asks.

  “About as good as can be expected, Agent Armstrong. God’s honest truth, we’re all just hanging on by a thread.” We go through a set of double doors and into a long, paneled hallway. “Mr. Anderson should be right with you.” Abigail opens a door on the left. “You can wait here with the others. I can bring more coffee if you need it.”

  I offer a reassuring smile. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. Thank you, Abigail.”

  She leaves us in the library-turned-command center. It’s a cozy room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes and a hint of cigar smoke. The furniture that normally fills the space—two leather sofas covered with pillows and throws, a large antique globe, a coffee table, and a freestanding mahogany bar—has been moved to the perimeter of the room. Boxes and cases filled with equipment litter the floor. There are two men seated behind a long folding table laden with computers and electrical gear. Cables snake from the several telephones all placed within hands-reach of the men.

  “Agent Taft, Biller,” Zack says, “This is Agent Monroe.”

  Taft and Biller rise the moment we enter and there are handshakes all around.

  A coffee urn and a tray filled with pastries sits on a nearby coffee table. Despite having consumed two apple turnovers fifteen minutes ago, Zack helps himself to a pecan roll and a fresh mug of coffee with two sugars and an unhealthy dose of cream. Damn werewolf metabolism.

  “I’m guessing it’s too much to hope for that there’s anything new to report?” Zack asks between bites.

  Taft answers. The six-foot-plus gargantuan with a shaved head looks like he’d be more at home in an mixed martial arts cage than sitting behind a bank of computer monitors. “Nothing promising, or we would have let you know right away.”

  “The two of you have been here all night?” I ask.

  “Did you see the circus out there? Fortunately, we made it in with all of the equipment before they showed up. We figured we’d be better off keeping a low profile. Abigail’s taken it upon herself to make sure we’re properly fed and watered. We traded off and were able to catch a little shut-eye in the wee hours of the morning,” answers Taft. “We can hold up here if we can get our luggage from the hotel.”

  Zack extends his hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll have your luggage sent over later today.”

  The two men simultaneously reach for their keys and hand them to Zack.

  “Tell him about the tip line,” Biller prompts Taft. He’s at least ten years younger and a foot shorter than his partner. The dark-haired featherweight oozes nervous energy. To Zack, “You’re not going to be happy.”

  “Don’t tell me it went down.”

  Biller pulls a cloth from the pocket of his trousers, removes his glasses and vigorously polishes the lenses. “The problem isn’t with our tip line. As of eleven last night, Live5News has been advertising their own.”

  I’d just picked up a coffee mug, but place it back on the table and turn to Biller. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I expect Zack to make some comm
ent. Instead, his attention seems oddly divided. I shoot him a quizzical look, but he ignores it.

  Biller continues. “The line is being monitored. The tweets and retweets are posing more of a challenge. They’re using a hashtag—#findcoop.”

  “And they set up a Facebook page,” adds Taft.

  Biller replaces his glasses. “Did we mention there’s talk CNN might actually fly Anderson Cooper out here to cover this personally? The kid was named after him, you know.”

  Again, nothing from Zack. Then he holds up his hand, tilting his head toward the adjoining wall.

  “What is it?” I ask, moving toward him. Then I hear it, raised voices coming from the other room. A man’s and a woman’s. I can’t make out what they’re saying. Zack, I’m sure, can hear each and every word. While my powers are more cerebral, Zack has the advantage of enhanced physical abilities. Superman, able to hear through walls.

  “Brett Anderson is arguing with someone,” he replies.

  “Don’t know how you heard that,” Biller says, rummaging through one of the boxes. “But I, for one, want to hear what’s going on.”

  He snatches a couple of pieces of equipment from the box. Taft scrambles to plug the booster into a receiver while Biller points the wand at the north wall.

  The conversation comes across clear as day. We gather round and listen intently.

  “You’ve got balls, Beverly, I’ll give you that.” Anderson’s voice is shrill, agitated.

  “So, we’ve got a deal?” A female voice.

  “Day before yesterday you so much as told me outright to start looking for a new job.”

  “Day before yesterday your family wasn’t the hottest story east of the Mississippi. Give me the exclusive. I’ll guarantee you a three-year contract.”

  “Christ, you’re a cold-hearted bitch.”

  The woman’s voice softens and becomes almost mockingly suppliant. “That’s not what you used to say when we made love.”

  “Don’t delude yourself. We fucked. Love never had anything to do with it. I love my wife. I love my son. Truth be told, Beverly, I don’t even like you.”

  The sound of a loud slap rings through the air.

  “You don’t have to like me,” she snaps back. “You think I’m interested in you? All I’m interested in are ratings.”

  “That, I believe.”

  A door opens, then closes. Heels clack against the polished wood lining the hallway. Zack’s expression is stoic. I wonder what else he might have overheard.

  “Who was that woman?” I ask.

  “Besides the proverbial woman scorned?” Zack asks dryly.

  “That was Beverly Hamilton,” says Biller. “She’s the station manager at WCSC, where Anderson works.”

  Taft sits down at one of the terminals and pulls up a file. “She’s his boss. We ran a routine background check on her last night. After that,” he jabs a thumb toward the wall, “I think I’ll dig a little deeper.”

  Zack nods. “While we’re here, Emma and I will interview the Andersons again. Emma, you take the lead.”

  “Will do.”

  He turns to Biller. “As soon as you have an update on Hamilton—”

  “We’ll send it,” Biller says.

  Sophie Anderson sits on the pale blue sofa in the living room, her husband by her side. I can’t help but wonder if she’s aware of her husband’s infidelity. If I hadn’t heard the admission from his very own lips, I wouldn’t have suspected. There was nothing in any of the reports to indicate the Andersons were experiencing marital strife. But then, Brett Anderson is more than a meteorologist. He’s a television personality, a showman, and actor. And he looks just as you’d imagine a television personality would. He’s tall, lean, chisel-faced, and well-coifed.

  Mrs. Anderson is also thin, physically fit. Her blonde hair is pulled back from a tear-stained face by a plain rubber band. She hasn’t bothered with makeup or jewelry. Her simple white cotton blouse and jeans are a stark contrast to her husband’s buttoned-up suit and tie. In general she seems more down to earth. Pretty but plain in a wholesome, homespun way.

  Abigail enters with tray containing a tea service. Wordlessly, she sets it on the coffee table.

  “Let me pour you some tea,” Mr. Anderson says to his wife.

  Mrs. Anderson shakes her head. Her bright blue eyes are brimming with tears. She uses the wadded-up tissue she’s been holding to once again wipe her nose. “This is all my fault.”

  “It’s not.” Brett reaches for his wife’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “We’re going to get Coop back.” The determination in his voice almost makes me a believer. Then he turns his gaze on me, and I see the need for reassurance in his eyes.

  I wish I had some to give him.

  Instead, I plunge ahead. “I know it’s been less than twenty-four hours since you were interviewed,” I tell them. “And I’m sorry to make you go through these details again, Mrs. Anderson, but we need to cover every base.”

  She nods.

  “When did you notice Cooper was missing?”

  She sits up a little straighter, squares her shoulders. “It was a few minutes before noon. I’d just left him alone to shower. We do it every day. He wasn’t out of my sight for more than fifteen minutes.” Sophie turns to face her husband. “Not more than fifteen minutes.”

  “You said you do it every day,” I say. “What do you do every day?”

  “Every Monday through Friday, I go to a gym over on Wentworth. When we come home Coop has movie time while I shower and prepare lunch.”

  I remember passing a gym on Wentworth this morning—Modern Fitness. “While you’re at the gym, where is Cooper?”

  “They have a day care center. Members sign their kids in and out. They have toys, art supplies, a playground.” The tears start to flow again. “He loves it there.”

  “Do you routinely stop anywhere on the way to the gym? Maybe on the way home?” I ask.

  “No. Not normally. Not yesterday.”

  “What time did you sign Cooper out?”

  “I work with a personal trainer from ten thirty to eleven twenty. I signed him out right after that. We drove home, he picked out a movie.”

  Her breath catches. “When I came down from showering, he was gone.”

  I ask her to tell us what the rest of a normal day would entail.

  It quickly becomes clear as Mrs. Anderson outlines her routine that she is a creature of habit. Her afternoons are as predictable as her mornings. She and Cooper walk to the park. When they return, Cooper naps and Sophie spends time reading or going through the mail. At four the boy has a swimming class. By five thirty they’re in for the night. Anyone on one of those walks through the park or at swimming class could have noticed Cooper and followed them home.

  “You were alone with Cooper yesterday. Where was Abigail?” I ask.

  “She’s off every Sunday and Monday. Stays with her daughter. They have a condo in The Arbor.”

  I glance at Zack. He isn’t writing this down so I assume he’s already cleared Abigail. “Anyone else with routine access to the house?”

  “Just Jose. He takes care of the yard and the pool. He’s here on Mondays and Fridays.”

  “And how long has Jose worked for you?”

  “Six or seven years. You don’t suspect Jose, do you?”

  Zack pulls a small notebook from his breast pocket. “We’re just being thorough. Can we get a last name and address?”

  Brett finds the information on his cell and shows it to Zack.

  While Zack notes the address, I say, “I’d like each of you to make a list of everyone you can think of who has been in the house in the last six months. Names, contact information. Business or personal—it doesn’t matter. Be thorough and work separately.”

  “Agent Armstrong asked us yesterday if there had been threats. There haven’t been. I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt us, hurt Cooper,” says Sophie. “It couldn’t possibly be anyone we know.”

 
Approximately seventy-five percent of child kidnappings are committed by parents or acquaintances. Especially a child taken from their home. Brett has a solid alibi. He was live on air. The bottom line is that it’s very likely Cooper was taken by someone the Andersons know.

  I glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. It’s almost eleven. If we leave now we might catch the day care staff who normally take care of Cooper. But to Mrs. Anderson I say, “We can’t rule anyone out. It’s possibly someone who’s familiar with your routine. That’s why we need the lists.” I stand up. “As soon as you finish, give them to Taft and Biller.”

  “We’ll start on them right away,” she says.

  Brett rises. “I’ll see you out.”

  He follows us out the side entrance and closes the door.

  “I have to ask. Do you think this is related to the Nicolson case? I’m doing my best to keep Sophie away from the television. The media’s—”

  Zack gives the man a look of genuine sympathy. “You know better than most. News media today runs the gambit from responsible journalists to sensationalistic hacks and everything in between. I can’t answer your question, Brett. At this stage, we just don’t know. I will tell you this. We’ll follow every lead.”

  We turn to take our leave. Something is holding me back, the conversation we overheard between Brett and his station manager. “One more question, Mr. Anderson. Your wife said she couldn’t think of anyone who would want to hurt your family. What about you? Now that you’ve had a bit more time to think it through, anyone come to mind?”

  He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “No. No one.”

  I wait a beat, hoping he’ll find the courage to mention Beverly. He doesn’t.

  We leave him on the stoop and head for the car, dodging the press every step of the way. “Where are we heading?” asks Zack once we’re safely inside the car.

  I counter with a question of my own. “Has the update on Hamilton come through?”

  He checks his cell. “No. They would have called or sent a text.”

  “Let’s ask them to track down the gardener, too. Meanwhile, we can start with the day care workers at Modern Fitness,” I reply. “No one there’s been interviewed yet. Right?”