Picture Perfect (20 page)

“What's the matter with you?” Cudge asked. “You always get jumpy when it's time to hit the sack?” His voice was almost genial and Candy thought it must be a trick of the light making his pig eyes glitter and emphasizing the grim lines around his mouth.

Forcing herself to relax, she leaned over to undo the tiny straps on her shoes.

“No, leave them on. They make your legs look nice and long.”

Now this was the kind of talk she was used to hearing from her customers. So what if he was a little kinky? She had a steady who liked to cross-dress. And even if he didn't take her to Vegas, there was still the thirty bucks.

 

Stuart Sanders lost no time once the plane touched down. He ran the length of the seemingly endless concourse; having no patience for the escalator, he bounded down the steps two at a time and elbowed his way through the milling travelers in search of the car that would be waiting for him.

Mac Feeley was waiting behind the wheel, cigar clamped in his mouth. He reached over to open the door for Sanders. “How goes it, big guy?”

“You don't want to know,” Sanders replied in way of greeting. “Let's move it. Take the turnpike. Is this one of those souped-up jobs the motor pool hands out to speed demons like you?”

Feeley grinned. “This little number is slick—it starts out at ninety and works up to one eighty. You think you're flying. Five bucks says I get you there in thirty minutes.”

“Is that with or without the siren?” Sanders asked irritably.

“Either or, you name it.”

“I'd hate like hell to get pulled over and lose time.”

“No way. This car has official government plates with the right code numbers, and I guess you didn't see the State seal on the door. You look done in. You hear anything? How did things go?”

“Nothing on my end. Mrs. Taylor elected to stay behind with her husband. She said she trusts me and the others to find her son.”

Feeley switched the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “There's a lot to be said for motherly love.” His voice was sour.

“What's new here? Any leads? How's the aunt handling things? What's the latest on the guy with the painted truck? How did the old couple check out?”

“Dr. Ryan is worried but she's holding on. We tracked the older couple down in Virginia and asked a few questions, but it was a dead end. The local police think they have a few leads, but they aren't ones for sharing—they think this is their baby all the way down. Our guys had to pull badges to remind them who's in charge—what can I tell you? From here on out it's going to be legwork.”

“What's your hunch, Feeley?”

“I'd like to know more about the body they found. Coroner's making his report in the morning, but it's pretty certain the stiff was beaten to death. Nasty head wounds. Leonard Lombardi, twenty-eight or so, lived in Newark. Putting the pieces together, we believe he was already dead when he was brought to the campground. Best lead we've got is a guy named Edmund Balog, aka Cudge Balog. Everything is pointing in his direction, right down to a report from a trooper who stopped him on the road. Said he was real nervous about opening the pop-up rig he was dragging. Emergency called the trooper away so he never got a look inside.”

“Any connection with the syndicate, you think?”

“Haven't found any so far. And there's been no ransom demand. My thought is that the kid saw something he wasn't supposed to. Other than that . . .” Feeley shrugged “. . . your guess is as good as mine.”

Sanders nodded. “I let this one get under my skin as far back as house duty in Montclair. I feel responsible, somehow. Did Dr. Ryan tell you Davey is a hemophiliac? He has to have a shot every day, regular as clockwork, to keep it under control.”

“Yes. I know that if he misses his shots there's no telling if the drug will work for him anymore.”

“Right. It's sort of an internal sabotage, his own body rejecting the drug that would keep him from bleeding to death. How many has he missed so far?”

“According to Dr. Ryan, only one—at twelve noon today. It's been over thirty hours since his last injection. Dr. Ryan has been on the phone with a specialist. No one knows how fast those antibodies in the kid's body will develop. Their best guess is that at forty-eight hours it starts getting critical. By the way, we have a code name for radio contact. Transmissions relating to this case are called in to Panda Bear.”

Sanders laughed and shook his head. “That's the handle Davey uses in the CB club he belongs to.”

“Yeah, we know. Dr. Ryan told us.” Feeley bit down hard on his cigar. Everyone knew Sanders's feelings about kids, especially his sister's. Kids were okay, in their place, Feeley thought, but he didn't want any of his own. Not now, anyway. As if he had a choice, he laughed wryly to himself. His first and only marriage had come and gone before he'd realized what was happening. He hadn't been a bad husband, but he hadn't been a good one either.

“I thought you said you were going to get us there in thirty minutes.”

Feeley looked at his watch. “You want to quibble about one minute and ten seconds, go right ahead.”

As soon as the car stopped, Sanders grunted and climbed out. Why spoil Feeley's day, or night? “Who's in charge?”

“You are, now that you're here. You're senior officer. The local police will bow and kiss your hand, if you play your cards right. We've a temporary office set up behind the manager's office.”

Sanders grunted again as he made his way to the camp store's grimy office. The fresh pungent scent of pine was everywhere. The smell reminded him of the air freshener the cleaning crew used in his own office. The autumn leaves heralded a new season that would soon give way to sharp, cold winds and, he hoped, snow. He liked snow, didn't even mind driving in it. Hell, he liked life and everything it had to offer. He felt a chill and stopped mid stride. “What do you think the chances are for a frost tonight?”

Feeley worked at the cigar in his mouth. He remembered Dr. Ryan saying that Davey was wearing a light windbreaker. A little kid could freeze, especially one in his condition. And the forecasts were predicting rain for tonight, possibly thunderstorms. “Jesus, I'm no goddamn weatherman. Fifty–fifty would be my guess.”

Inside the storeroom, Feeley lounged against stacked cartons of cereal. He looked around at the boxes of merchandise that would eventually fill the camp-store shelves. Beans, Spam, instant coffee; he grimaced. His tastes ran to prime rib, baked potato, garden salad, fresh vegetables. Key lime or pecan pie for dessert. He looked around again to see what the storeroom held in the way of dessert. A meal wasn't a meal without dessert. He snorted as he removed the mangled cigar from his mouth. He should have known—canned fruit cocktail. He trampled the ruined cigar underfoot and put a fresh one in his mouth. Sanders was shaking hands with the local police. Feeley dexterously bit off the end of the cigar. A butane lighter snapped to life, almost singeing his thick eyebrows. He paid it no mind. Black, evil-smelling smoke circled and spiraled around his head. If nothing else, it would stop the locals getting in his face and expounding their theories, which, in his eyes, weren't theories at all, but assumptions that any first-week rookie cop could make.

“You've got a dead body with positive identification,” Sanders said. “That's good. I have a missing kid who's a hemophiliac. It seems to me you've been doing a hell of a lot of work on a case that should be cut and dried by now. It beats the hell out of me how you haven't managed to pick up that psychedelic truck and pop-up.”

Eyebrows raised, jaws clenched and lips thinned as Sanders drove home his point to the group of policemen. “Good police instinct should have told you that the boy is mixed up in this somehow. Your all-points bulletin is worthless. And sitting around waiting is pointless. We have to get moving. Now!” He looked at each in turn and wondered if he'd ever been so naive. “Okay, listen up. I'm the chief and you're the Indians. You got it? If not, I have a badge saying that's the way it goes.”

Feeley blew another cloud of smoke in Sanders's direction. He grinned to himself. Old war horses could take charge quickly when they wanted to.

“Feeley,” Sanders called over his shoulder, “see that this picture is in every morning paper in the area. Start with the
Asbury Park Press
. Don't let them give you any crap about it being a color Polaroid shot either. If they even think about giving you trouble with the deadline, tell them you know the paper isn't put to bed till ten, and then there's a two-hour grace period. Call ahead if you want. Just get it done.”

Sanders issued his remaining orders grimly. He believed that Davey was somewhere near the park. The moment the others cleared out, he spoke to Feeley across the makeshift table.

“If you're asking me what I think professionally, I have to say that I go along with the department. If you're asking me what I think off the record, I think the kid saw something and was picked up. He could be anywhere; he could be dead.”

“What's he like—the kid, I mean?” Feeley asked curiously.

“He's got a lot of savvy, if you know what I mean. He's been through a rough time, and he's just now coming into his own. I know some adults who couldn't take the medical treatment this kid has been through. Do you think you could stand being transfused through your jugular vein? No? That kid has, many times. I'll tell you who he looks like. You ever see that airline commercial where the kid gets a pair of wings from the flight captain and then says, ‘Oooh, thank you, Captain'? Well, he looks just like him. I'm sure there are thousands of kids who look like that, but Davey Taylor is special. Very special. I'm going over to the aunt's campsite now. Which way is it?” Talking about Davey made Sanders's stomach churn.

“Take the main road and follow it to the fork, then bear left. It's the only RV in sight.”

Just as Sanders stepped outside, Lorrie Ryan walked up. Sanders saw a woman who was stripped-down, naked with hurt. Nobody deserved to go through what she was going through.

“Stuart—I mean, Mr. Sanders—when did you get here? Where's Sara? Do you have word of Davey, is that why you're here?” Lorrie clasped her hands together and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Hey!” he said, taking her firmly by the shoulder. “Slow down.” He tried to quiet her with his own calmness. “There's no word yet. And your sister—well, she elected to stay behind with Mr. Taylor.” How bitter the words sounded.

“She what?” Lorrie looked incredulous.

Sanders tried to make his voice sound neutral, feeling that his own judgment would only serve to aggravate the situation. Christ, maybe he was getting too old for fieldwork. A desk job, that was what he needed. He repeated his carefully chosen words. “Mrs. Taylor elected to stay behind.”

“Just what the hell does that mean?” Lorrie burst out.

Sanders kept control of his voice. “Mr. Taylor took the stand for thirty minutes today.”

“What the hell does that have to do with Sara and Davey? She's the kid's mother! You did tell her what happened, didn't you?”

Sanders looked straight into her eyes. “Of course, I did, but . . .”

Lorrie clutched at Sanders's forearm and spoke softly. “I can't believe she would stay there. She has to be worried sick—how could she stay behind? Is there something you aren't telling me, something I should know?”

Sanders shook his head. He was truly at a loss for words to explain Sara's behavior. “Your sister, Mrs. Taylor, she said she trusted me to handle the matter.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Both Mr. and Mrs. Taylor believed that Davey . . . that he's simply wandered off and will find his way back.” Should he volunteer the rest or be quiet? If he was going by the book, he'd keep his mouth shut, but he hadn't worked by the book in a long time. “Mr. Taylor was a very convincing witness today. It was unfortunate that the court adjourned at such an early hour or it could have been wrapped up and they both could have come.”

Lorrie's eyes flashed with anger. “So, Sara's little Andrew made a good showing for himself under Mommy's watchful eye, did he?” She laughed with disgust. “Of course, you know she didn't come back to Jersey with you because she's afraid he'll screw up without her there to protect him. And if he screws up—well, let's just say she would feel that he had disgraced her. And God forbid that should happen. She's disgusting!”

Sanders sighed deeply.

“Poor Davey. He always comes last.” Lorrie flung herself against the agent's chest and clung to him.

Sanders wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. He'd wanted to hold her like this since the first time he'd seen her, but he would have preferred their first embrace to be under more pleasant circumstances. “Some people just have their priorities screwed up,” he said, brushing her temple with his lips.

“Don't make up excuses for her. There is
no
excuse for her not coming here. None, and you know it, don't you?” She leaned back in his arms and looked up at him, waiting for him to answer.

If he hadn't known before, Sanders knew now that he was too close to this case. His emotions were involved. For an FBI agent, that was a cardinal sin.

“Lorrie,” he began, not sure what he was going to say. “I . . .”

Lorrie glared at him, challenging him to answer, to be truthful with her. “Tell me I'm wrong, Stuart. Tell me there's a better reason for her to stay with Andrew than for her to come here.”

“It's not for me to say, Lorrie.”

With a pained expression, Lorrie glanced away. “You're right. It isn't. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to involve you in our family's matters.”

He smiled down at her. “I understand. You're upset.”