The Night Monster (19 page)

“Beats me.”

I kept hitting the bat against my palm and walked around the room. I had a bad feeling in my gut, and needed one more piece of evidence to confirm that feeling.

I stopped at the door. It was being held open by a doorstop. Thirteen-year-old girls didn’t use doorstops, and I kicked the doorstop away, and pulled the door back. My eyes fell upon the deadbolt directly above the doorknob. The wood around it was badly chipped. Suzie had installed it herself.

I quickly checked the other bedrooms on the second floor. There were four, all occupied by adults. None had deadbolts on their doors. I returned to Suzie’s room.

“Someone’s been trying to molest Suzie Knockman,” I said.

ive me that thing before you hurt yourself,” Burrell said. I handed Burrell the baseball bat I’d found in Suzie’s toy chest. Holding up my hand, I extended all of my fingers.

“We have five suspects,” I said.

“Five? I only count four,” Burrell said. “Suzie’s father, her uncle, and two male cousins, who are sixteen and eighteen years of age. Who am I leaving out?”

“The grandfather.”

“Oh, come on. He’s eighty-five years old.”

“Viva Viagra.”

“That’s sick, Jack.”

“You can’t rule him out.”

“He uses a walker.”

“And he has a penis.”

“That’s
really
sick.”

“Is it any sicker than her father, or uncle, or a cousin coming on to her?”

“All right. We have
five
suspects in the house, one of whom is trying to molest Suzie, if the deadbolt on the door and baseball bat mean what you think they do. So which one of them is it?”

“I’m leaning toward the father. The line about his daughter being a tomboy is lame. But I need to look around the bedrooms before I start accusing anyone.”

Burrell glanced at her watch and shook her head. “Snook isn’t going to stand on the front lawn forever. If he comes inside and sees you, there will be hell to pay.”

“So stall him.”

“How can I do that? I can’t control the length of his press conference.”

“There are a dozen reporters questioning Snook. How many do you know?”

“Five or six. Why?”

“Which of the reporters do you know best?”

“Deborah Bodden with Fox News. She covers the crime beat.”

Bodden had been a reporter for as long as I’d been finding kids, and I’d never had a bad experience with her. I said, “Call Bodden on your cell phone, and ask her to keep questioning Snook. Promise to give her an exclusive when you bust the case open.”

“That’s not ethical, Jack. I could get in trouble.”

“If you don’t want to do it, I’ll call her.”

Burrell shot me a cold stare. When it came to finding missing kids, ethics were situational. I was willing to do whatever was necessary to find a child and get him or her home safely. Sometimes that meant skirting the law or breaking it. It was one of the reasons I wasn’t a cop anymore.

Burrell took out her cell phone. “You don’t back down, do you?”

“Never,” I said.

I left her standing in Suzie’s bedroom, and started my search.

Suzie’s parents’ bedroom was at the opposite end of the hall. Buster had joined me, and put his paw against the door.

“Let’s find out what Dad’s been up to,” I said.

I pushed the door open with my foot and stood in the doorway. The bedroom was the width of the house and looked like it had been decorated by Laura Ashley. A private bathroom was off to my left.
The door was open, and I spied glistening marble countertops and a bathtub fit for a Roman emperor.

I went to the window beside the bed, and looked down at the lawn. Snook was still talking up a storm, and I saw Fox reporter Deborah Bodden ask him a question, and stick a mike in his face. Snook was not the kind of guy to walk away from free publicity, and he answered Bodden while dramatically waving his arms.

“Beautiful,” I said.

I went around the bedroom pulling open drawers. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. Just another piece of evidence that said Dad was a creep.

The drawers turned up nothing. Nor did I find anything inside the walk-in closet—which was bigger than my old apartment—or beneath the bed. I was beginning to doubt myself when I came to a dresser and felt the hair rise on my arms.

A framed wedding photo sat on the dresser. It had been taken on the dock of the Rusty Pelican restaurant in Key Biscayne, the restaurant’s colorful sign visible in the background. Mom wore a floor-length wedding dress, Dad a tux and red bow tie. They were holding champagne flutes, their arms interlocked as they drank from the other’s glass. Both stared lovingly into each other’s eyes.

Suddenly the situation became clearer. I did another search of the bedroom. The closet was divided into His and Hers, and I focused on Dad’s side. Two dozen expensive suits hung from the racks, and I searched the pockets. In one jacket, I found an envelope inside the inner pocket, and pulled it out. It was filled with photos of Suzie lying asleep on a bed in her underwear clutching a teddy bear. The photos could have been touching, only they were focused on Suzie’s breasts and her crotch.

I grabbed the wedding photo off the dresser and snapped my fingers for my dog. Buster emerged from the closet with a smelly running shoe in his mouth.

“Drop it,” I told him.

I headed down the hallway to Suzie’s bedroom with my dog hugging my leg. Burrell was inside the room, taking photos of the deadbolt on the door.

“Who interviewed Dad?” I asked.

Burrell lowered her camera. “I did. Why? What did you find?”

I showed her the photos of Suzie I’d found in the closet. Then I showed her the wedding photo, and pointed at the sign. “The Rusty Pelican burned down ten years ago. It took the owners several years to rebuild the place. It didn’t open again until six years ago. I know this because Rose and I celebrate our anniversary there every year. The sign in this photograph was installed after the restaurant was rebuilt.”

“Which means that this photo was taken within the past six years,” Burrell said.

“That’s right. I’m guessing this guy isn’t Suzie’s actual father.”

“He never told me that.”

“What’s his name, anyway?”

“Richard Knockman.”

Burrell’s face went blank, but I felt her rage bubbling below the surface, the deception making her want to explode. Men who carried on sexual relationships with underage girls came in a variety of forms. Some were teachers, some were coaches, and some even pretended to be men of faith. Each of these men had one thing in common: They used their positions of authority to get close to their victims, who were young and vulnerable They were predators.

Richard Knockman was a special breed of predator. He had married Suzie’s mother to get at Suzie. Suzie was the prize. More than likely, he had dated other women with young daughters, and settled on Suzie’s mother because she desperately wanted a man in her life. That was how it usually worked.

Richard Knockman had worked on Suzie slowly, lavishing her with gifts and attention and whatever she’d desired. He’d made her feel like a princess, and worked his way into her heart. Then one night, Richard had paid an unexpected visit to his stepdaughter’s bedroom. Suzie had awoken to find him rubbing her back, or even lying next to her. He made physical contact with her to see how she reacted. When she didn’t scream or try to scratch his eyeballs out, he told her how special she was. Then he left, with a promise to return.

Only the next time Richard Knockman had visited Suzie’s bedroom, he was in for a surprise. The door had a deadbolt. When
Richard knocked and asked to be let in, Suzie told him he couldn’t enter. Maybe she even told him that she had a baseball bat. That was how little girls dealt with men like Richard Knockman.

But Richard didn’t stop. He kept coming on to Suzie when no one was around. She tried to stop his advances, only it got worse. So she ran away.

“I want to talk to Suzie’s mother in private,” I said.

Burrell had taken the wedding photo out of my hand, and was still studying it.

“Do you think the mother knows what’s going on?” she asked.

“I won’t know until I talk to her.”

Burrell placed the wedding photo on the dresser next to Suzie’s photo. It was ironic to look at them sitting side by side, knowing what we knew.

“All right. You can talk to the mother,” Burrell said.

I walked outside to the barn with Buster. There were six stalls, one of which contained a chestnut pony that a brass sign identified as
Suzie’s Girl
. I grabbed some carrots out of the feed room, and fed them to the pony until Suzie’s mother came outside.

“I’m Rebecca Knockman,” the woman introduced herself.

She was a petite woman with red hair and a pale Irish complexion. As she attempted to pet
Suzie’s Girl
, the pony retreated into the stall. Rebecca Knockman withdrew her hand, which I noticed was trembling.

“She’s never done that to me before,” Rebecca Knockman said.

“How long have you had her?”

“A little over a year. Richard bought her for our daughter.”

My grandfather had raised horses, and I knew something about them. A horse’s sense of smell was their primary source of protection, and I wondered if
Suzie’s Girl
had picked up on Rebecca Knockman’s fear, and decided to back away.

“Did Detective Burrell tell you what I do for a living?” I asked.

Rebecca Knockman crossed her arms and gave me a distrustful stare. “No, she didn’t.”

“I help the police find missing kids. When Detective Burrell told me your family had hired Leonard Snook, I knew that I wouldn’t have a problem finding your daughter.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Leonard Snook represents criminals. Innocent people don’t hire him, but bad people do. Once I find out which member of your family hired Snook, I’d know what was going on. Make sense?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Your husband hired Snook, didn’t he?”

Rebecca Knockman’s eyes turned into slits. She didn’t answer my question.

“Let me tell you what I think, Mrs. Knockman. I think you know where Suzie is hiding. I also think your daughter told you what your husband has been up to. Deep down, you’re hoping to somehow fix this mess, and keep your family intact.”

Rebecca Knockman lowered her gaze to the concrete floor and hugged herself. I felt bad for her, but not as bad as I felt for her daughter.

“Only you can’t,” I went on. “Your husband is a bad man. If the police haul him in, and he gets the opportunity to give his story first, he’ll drag you and Suzie down with him. He’ll say it was
your
idea for him to sleep with Suzie, and that you’re into kinky sex, or some other kind of nonsense. He’ll make you into the villain.”

“Richard would never do that,” she said, still looking at the floor. “He didn’t have sex with Suzie.”

“But he tried,” I said emphatically. “Your husband is a sexual predator. Once he’s been exposed, he’ll do everything in his power to protect himself. That’s why he hired Leonard Snook. For damage control. I’ve dealt with hundreds of men just like your husband. I know exactly what they’re capable of.”

Rebecca Knockman shivered from an imaginary chill. She had come to that terrifying brink called reality, and it was ripping her apart.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispered.

“Go inside and tell Detective Burrell the truth, no matter how
painful that might be. Lay it all out. You have to protect yourself and Suzie before it’s too late.”

“But I love my husband.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Knockman. I really am. Do it for Suzie.”

Rebecca Knockman said something under her breath that I didn’t understand. She went to
Suzie’s Girl’s
stall door, and made a clucking sound with her tongue. The pony refused to come to her, and remained in the corner of the stall. Rebecca Knockman brought her hand to her mouth.

She walked away without another word.

fed the pony carrots while the situation played itself out inside the house. I would have given anything to be a fly on the wall, and see Leonard Snook’s reaction as Rebecca Knockman turned the tables on her husband. If Snook was smart, he’d run like hell.