Noah's Rainy Day (16 page)

“Searching for the boy?” I asked.

“Not yet. Just got here. Headed to see what Streeter needs me to do.”

So he was not searching the plane for the missing boy. He really had just deplaned this arriving flight as I first thought. I walked over to gate B30 and asked the BlueSky gate attendant, “Where did this flight just come from?”

The woman said, “Kansas City.”

I’d never heard Jack mention Kansas City before. And I’d been to his apartment. He lived in downtown Denver. His bed was amazingly comfortable and I knew what he meant by the sleep of the dead. His bedroom was cool and dark and smelled of lavender and spice. In Denver. Not in Kansas City. I went back to prepare Beulah for the final verification of the little boy’s scent trail, to prove to Streeter that Kevin Benson had lied to him, not admitting to myself that Jack Linwood had just lied to me.

“IT’S LIKE HE JUST
disappeared into thin air,” Gates said as he threw himself back into a chair behind a makeshift desk, rubbing his tired eyes.

“That child could be anywhere,” Streeter said, echoing his frustration.

I had missed all the excitement in the past hour. Streeter and Gates had interviewed Danica Bradsky, the airport security guard who worked the escalators for departing travelers leaving the secure area. Before they let her go home, she had said she didn’t recall seeing anyone resembling the boy. Photos had been plastered all over the airport employee lunchrooms and the case headquarters in Concourse B, and broadcast to the TSA, the police, and the press.

What had been accomplished while I had been tracking the scent trail was nothing short of amazing. The interrogation center Kelleher had pulled together in addition to keeping watch on Kevin Benson showed his adeptness at multitasking. Even Benson hadn’t noticed how much Phil Kelleher had altered the room, probably because Benson had spent the time pouting about not having a job, not having a home to go to, but yet complaining that he wanted to be released to enjoy Christmas.

Along this second-floor corridor above Concourse B, directly above where the boy had supposedly last been seen—although now I had my
doubts—was case headquarters. It was bare but not empty. Several agents and support techs were working among the buzzing, beeping laptops, phones, printers, and a plethora of peripherals only an IT geek could appreciate that lined the walls of the room on plastic folding tables that were similar to the ones Gates and Streeter claimed as desks.

For the moment, Streeter, Gates, Jack, Beulah, and I had HQ to ourselves. Phil Kelleher was in the room next door, babysitting Kevin Benson. I had trouble making eye contact with Jack. I needed him to explain why he had lied to me.

“I just can’t understand why we haven’t heard anything from the kidnapper by now,” Jack said.

“If that’s really why the boy was abducted,” Streeter corrected.

“I have a sick feeling about this one, Streeter,” Gates said.

With hands planted on my athletic hips, I paced in front of the glass windows, lights from the tarmac traffic slicing the walls and ceiling of the large empty room. Tugging on the baseball cap that made me look more like a teenager than my actual age of almost thirty, I wondered what Jack saw in me. I should have taken the time to do more than simply tuck my oversized gray T-shirt into my faded blue jeans when Streeter called. I could have changed at Frances’s house, but I didn’t even think about it. I’m surprised they let me through security. Luckily, I had my credentials with me. I was certainly going to have to step up my game a bit, now that I was an agent. I had learned to wear dark suits, but I hadn’t really worn them during my field training with Beulah and it was a holiday.

I noticed Streeter studying Gates, then me. I wondered if he was waiting for me to weigh in or if he sensed my unease about Jack.

As I was about to explain what I had learned with Beulah, Streeter asked, “What happened to your hands? And your face?”

I had long forgotten about the mountain lion thing. That seemed like eons ago. It took me forever to explain to Emma earlier in the day that Auntie Liv fell down and went boom but wasn’t really hurt. I doubted if Gates would buy that explanation. I knew Streeter wouldn’t. And Jack already knew.

“Uh, I fell when I was hiking with my brother-in-law.”

Their skeptical expressions were like the one Emma had displayed
that screamed “liar.” Jack lowered his head, amused. I rubbed my palms on my worn blue jeans as if I could wipe away the scabby remains of Christmas Eve morning. I adjusted the ball cap’s bill lower on my forehead to hide the bruises and scratches, which of course were superficial in comparison to what could have happened. That was something Streeter didn’t need to know.

My entire focus since returning from Quantico was to impress Streeter, prove to him that I was worthy of his belief in me. I didn’t want him to think for one minute I couldn’t physically handle Beulah when she was intent on marking her target. I was getting stronger, better at reading her unique signals in her communication with me.

“We were in the mountains taking Beulah for a walk.”

I would have given him more. His gaze volleyed between mine and Jack’s. I was about to explain the whole story but I didn’t need to.

“What about Beulah, Liv?” Streeter asked. “What’d she find?”

“That Kevin Benson is a liar.” I sighed, staring out at the Boeing 747 pushing away from the skywalk. For some reason, the large planes reminded me of whales. “I didn’t think she’d ever be able to pick up the scent here. Hundreds, thousands of people have walked through this place since noon today.” I glanced at my watch. “Anyway, we tracked the same trail three times with no variance.”

“Not to gate 51?”

I shook my head. “Benson was lying. Beulah tracked from gate B31, where the boy arrived, down the escalator to the underground trams. I took her on the train three times and each time she took me up the elevator, to—”

“Out of the secure area?” Streeter interrupted.

I nodded. “Up the elevator out of the secure area—right past Danica Bradsky at the top of the escalator—to the Buckhorn Bar and Grill in the main concourse, and over to a family bathroom nearby.”

“To a bathroom?”

I nodded. “Inside, near the sink.”

“On the elevator. Off the train,” Streeter repeated, walking next to me and staring at the same blackness beyond the windows. “Out of the secure area.”

Gates said, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Did you happen to see a TSA employee at the bottom of the escalator when you got off the trains?”

I shook my head. “No, but the crowds always push their way to the escalators, closer to where the TSA employees sit. I don’t know if any of them even knew about the elevators. I didn’t. Beulah cut across traffic all three times to get there.”

“Danica was at the base of the escalator for part of her shift, at the top for the other part,” Gates said.

“From below, she wouldn’t have been in a position to see little Max from where Beulah indicated he’d walked.”

“Right,” Streeter said. “If someone took the boy from the gate to the main terminal and was intentionally trying to avoid being seen, the elevator would be a good choice.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“But Benson said he took the boy directly to B51, the departure gate,” Gates said.

“He lied,” I said.

“Let’s get him in here and see if he changes his story.”

“Streeter, I was thinking,” I said, turning toward him and nearly forgetting Jack was in the room. “Maybe there’s video? There are cameras all over this airport. They must have something.”

Gates cleared his throat.

“First thing we did when we arrived on the scene was to ask airport security for video footage. There are hundreds of cameras throughout this place, so for every hour, we have to look through hundreds of hours. They gathered it up and started on footage from the cameras between gates, focusing first on where the boy was last seen deplaning his flight from New York City at gate B31.”

“According to Benson,” Gates said.

“He lied,” I repeated.

They offered me a smile.

“Seriously, I believe in Beulah. The boy was taken directly from the arriving gate to the main concourse. Out of security. Easily out the door in no time.”

‘“Like casting a stone into the ocean,” Streeter mumbled.

“But at least Beulah narrowed down the target area and the time. I doubt if much time passed from when they disembarked from the NYC flight to when little Max was hustled into the main terminal,” I offered, eager for acknowledgment from Streeter, which he paid me with the hint of a smile as his eyes locked with mine.

“Who’s reviewing the video footage?” Jack asked, leaning against the doorframe, his long arms crossed over his chest.

“Dodson, at the moment, back at your office.” Streeter was curt with Jack. “I was hoping you would do it. Where’ve you been?”

“Sorry. I was at home, but I had forgotten to turn on my cell after charging.”

Jack avoided Streeter’s eyes. And mine.

“I tried your home number, too,” Streeter said, folding his arms across his chest and eyeing Jack.

“Must have had the TV on too loud,” Jack said with a shrug.

Jack had told me he fell asleep, the sleep of the dead. And I knew for a fact he never slept with his television on because he told me he needed absolute quiet and even then was often robbed of sleep.

I could tell from the slightest narrowing of Streeter’s eyes that he was as convinced as I was by Jack’s lame explanation. Jack’s eyes were locked on Streeter’s, as if daring him to challenge him. It looked like a modern day showdown, and I for one wanted to know the outcome.

In the end, Streeter’s reply suggested it was not the time. “Well, touch base with Dodson and then I’ll need you to work the garbage detail that Gates has set up.”

“Garbage?”

The DPD chief walked over to the table near Streeter, picked up a sheet of paper, and handed it to Jack. Gates said, “We gathered all the garbage receptacles and spread the contents in grids. We plowed the snow off of one of the outer parking lots and taped off the grids so we could keep track of where the receptacles came from in the airport.”

I suspected the sheet Jack was studying was a footprint of the parking lot grids where his team had spread the garbage.

“What are we looking for?”

Streeter answered, “Anything.”

“And you want me to work whatever I find? Out there?” Jack asked. “It’s only five degrees.”

“No, I want you to work whatever Gates’s team bags and tags in here. You’re just out there to check on them, make sure the procedures work for you. Not to help pick.” Streeter pointed toward one wall. “Kelleher set up your equipment over there. It’s crude, but it will help us get started. Time is of the essence and we’ve already lost a lot of it.”

“How long has it been?” Jack asked.

Streeter looked at his watch, as did the rest of us. “Nine hours. Give or take a half hour.”

Jack’s mouth puckered. I looked at my watch. It was 9:30 p.m. I glanced over at Beulah, glad she was sound asleep on her pallet in the corner.

“The videos are critical,” Jack said. “I’ll check on Dodson’s progress, but we’ll need to narrow down the footage, Streeter.”

“Like Liv says, narrow it to the arrival gate, to the main concourse near the Buckhorn Bar and Grill, and the family bathroom.”

“What about Benson’s story from arrival gate to departure gate?” Gates asked.

“I trust Liv’s findings,” Streeter repeated. I grinned, happy to know I had finally proved something, at least. I just hoped Jack would find little Max on that footage and further validate Streeter’s belief in me.

“We’ll study the cameras where the train unloads beneath the main concourse as a priority. Near the elevators. And the arrival gate, which is what?”

I answered, “Same concourse, gate B31. Directly across from B30.”

Jack’s eyes flicked over to mine and I held his gaze fast.

I PRETENDED NOT TO
notice Jack’s concern. “It’s at the end of the last moving walkway on this side of the escalators leading down to the trains.”

“The trail for the boy leads from B31, the gate where his flight from New York City arrived, straight down the escalators to the underground trams, up the elevator to the main concourse, over to the bar and bathroom, and then disappears,” Streeter summarized. “Which means the boy was taken from the secure area by Benson. That’s what you’re saying?”

“He was taken out of the secure area, yes. By someone. I didn’t trail Benson’s scent. What I’m saying is the trail of the boy’s scent conflicts with the story Kevin Benson gave us earlier,” I added. “He was emphatic that he and the boy went directly from B31 to B51 and that they were at the departing gate for Los Angeles by 1:00 p.m. or a few minutes before. Then he said they doubled back and went into the bathroom. Then he recanted that story and said he was on the phone with his girlfriend at gate B51. That’s not what Beulah is telling me. Neither story is true.”

“You think the boy went directly from gate B31 to the main terminal?” Jack studied my face, but only because I was looking at Beulah and not at him.

I nodded. “Benson definitely lied. I believe Beulah.”

“Could Benson have taken the boy from B31 to B51 and then someone
else snatched the boy from B51 and backtracked toward the escalators to the underground train? Could Beulah simply have taken the freshest trail from B31 down, rather than backtrack?” Gates asked.

I shook my head. “With some dogs, that may be true. But that’s not how Beulah trails a scent. She would track the scent for the entire path where the boy went, doubling back as many times as the boy did. It’s just how she works.”

“And you found no scent in the main terminal beyond the bathroom?” Streeter asked.

I shook my head.

“Did you try the other concourses?” Gates asked.

“I did. Concourse A—nothing. Concourse C is in the other direction. I could try that, if you want.”

“He has to be somewhere.” Gates was getting irritated.