Noah's Rainy Day (24 page)

“Told her what?” I asked.

“That she would no longer be needed full time,” Melissa answered. “That Aldo and I would be hiring our own nanny and that she would only be needed by Max for half the year. Or maybe not at all. He hadn’t decided.”

“And when was he planning to tell her?” I asked.

“The last I knew, he was planning on suggesting she take a week’s vacation to England to decide if she wanted to continue with her employment seasonally, part time, whatever you’d call it, while little Max was with us in Papeete.”

“Did he ever tell her?”

“I assume he told her yesterday. On Christmas Eve morning, before she took little Max to the airport.” She fished for her cell phone, her long fingernails scratching across the screen. I assumed she was looking for something.

“Here,” she said as she handed her cell to me. I read the text aloud: “A text from J. Manning 12/24 at 4:45 a.m. PST. ‘Five years. Every day of his life. And now this? Unbelievable, you heartless bitch. You won’t get away with this.’”

EVERYONE ELSE IN THE
Williams party was scattered among the rooms at mezzanine level above gate B51 where little Max was supposed to leave for LA. Melissa was led down to the third door on the left where we’d sent Sinclair, leaving the interview room next door to our makeshift headquarters empty. Her attorney, Sinclair, was probably grilling her about what she had told us, likely still fuming about her dismissing him. The interview room on the opposite side was much smaller by comparison and I noticed the sliding dividers had been pulled tight. When I opened the door, I noticed Max and his attorney sitting at the far table by the windows. They had their backs to me and must not have heard me slip into the room. They thought they were alone. They were wrong.

The gorilla-sized attorney was saying to Max, “Agents Elmer and Fudd suggested that you two just don’t seem sincerely concerned about the fact that your only son is missing.”

“Agent Pierce and Chief Gates,” Max corrected. “And FYI, the one you want to watch out for is the scary-looking brick of a man who acts like he’s in charge—Agent Streeter Pierce. He’s the one who can cut us a deal if we need it.”

“Max, I thought you said you knew that bitch Bergen? Had this all sewn up? She looked as if she’d been in a bar brawl or something.”

I couldn’t disagree there. Max smiled, probably thinking the same about me. Scratches and bruises on my face, walking tenderly, and dressed like a vagabond. “I know her well. And I advise you not to underestimate her.”

He was probably referring to the time Ida and I were in NYC at her opera debut and a pickpocket took Max’s wallet and tried to take Ida’s clutch. I had kneed the guy in the groin just long enough to retrieve both Ida and her purse and hustle everyone off the subway, grabbing the suit coattails of a stunned Max just to get him to move. He had warned me all through Ida’s performance that we weren’t in the Wild West and the guy could have stabbed or shot me—although he actually mentioned himself, not me or Ida—and told me to refrain from brawling in the future. My response at the time was simply, “I think what you meant to say is thank you,” and I swore I’d never go back to the Big Apple as long as I lived. I thanked God that this asshole was not my brother-in-law and then asked for forgiveness for using the word “asshole” in my prayer, promising a renewed effort in this coming year’s resolution.

“I recognize Pierce from the news. He gets a lot of coverage. One of the FBI’s hotshots,” the attorney explained. “The point is you and Melissa had better convince everyone that you are terribly upset.”

I saw Max turn toward his attorney, his expression wounded, which surprised me. His words surprised me even more. “I
am
upset, Gil. My son is missing. Or did you miss that?”

The gorilla, otherwise known as Gilbert Alderman, didn’t seem to hear. “If you are convincing, these agents will start looking for the real kidnapper, abductor, or murderer. Capeesh?”

“I understand, Gil,” Max answered confidently. “Wait, what? Murderer?”

From the horrified expression on his face, I’d say it might very well have been the first time he’d even considered this outcome. I was starting to wonder if maybe my overwhelming dislike of Max might warrant a little reconsideration, given that he seemed to have softened over the years. After all, no one had ever accused Max of not loving Ida, just that he’d seemed hell-bent on changing her to match his ideal version of Mrs. Williams. It was something he and I had exchanged words over at one point
with Ida begging us to get along. Which we pretended to do after that since Max wasn’t the only one who loved Ida.

Alderman shot a look at Max. “I don’t need any surprises. Are either of you behind this?”

Max didn’t answer.

“Or aware of who might be?”

Good question, I thought. And exactly what we wanted to know, too.

Max drew in a ragged breath, the rawness in his reaction and words again a surprise to me. “I wish I did. I love that kid. And whoever’s behind this is going to pay for scaring him like this.”

Scaring him? Max was in serious denial here. A lot worse could be and is likely happening to the poor boy by now. I was thrilled to hear his concern for little Max was genuine, heartfelt. The look in his eye reminded me of the time he flew to Rapid City, begging me to convince Ida to reconsider her decision to leave him. His pain was real. His promises to change were not. And I didn’t. And neither did Ida. What he had never quite grasped was that she was stronger than both of us ever hoped to be and if he had only seen that in her, she probably would have stayed with him.

“I just need to find whoever it is before the FBI does. Before they screw it up and the guy goes scot-free.”

As heartfelt as his belief in our ineptness sounded, he was at it again. Not recognizing Streeter’s talent and conviction, or mine.

“Max, they may never even find these people. They didn’t even know your kid was missing for hours.”

“Any time now, I’m going to receive a phone call from some jackass demanding money from me. I’ll pay it. That’s it,” Max said. “How fast I pay depends on how much they want. Anyway, they’ll get their money and I’ll get little Max. Those imbecilic FBI agents are so busy investigating us that they’re going to miss the jackass who’s responsible for this crime. I hate incompetence.”

“They won’t find anything, will they?” Alderman pressed Max. “That you’re involved in this somehow?”

I wasn’t convinced that Alderman really wanted an answer from Max by his wishful tone.

“Of course I’m involved,” Max rumbled. “Some asshole kidnapped my
boy, my flesh and blood. And I intend to pay whatever they want to get him back unharmed.”

Alderman grabbed Max’s elbow. “How much money can you get your hands on?”

Something made Max glance toward the door. He saw me and I shut the door as if I’d just opened it and was coming in, unaware.

“Time to play musical rooms again,” I called in a voice too loud for the small room. Nerves. For a moment, all they could do was stare, until I said, “Chop chop.”

I observed his attorney gather his papers while Max walked straight to the windows.

At first, I wondered what he was doing until I figured out he was angling to get the best reflection of himself. Max stood before the windows and adjusted his blood-red, French silk tie and matching kerchief that protruded from the breast pocket of his Italian, custom-fitted, charcoal gray pinstriped suit. He smoothed his perfectly coifed, wavy black hair and leaned into the window, sneering. Flashing his porcelain veneers, he picked away any food remnants, real or imagined, which suggested any imperfection. Wiping the rheum from the corner of his eyes, he patted his cheeks. Giving them a rosy glow? For the interview cameras? Bizarre. Turning from side to side, he reviewed his appearance for a final time. And he liked what he saw.

“Are you about finished?” I said, crossing my arms and tapping my foot.

Both men said nothing and followed me to the interview room where Melissa had been only moments ago.

Max and his attorney Gil Alderman sat at one side of the table, Streeter, Gates, and I on the other.

“We know your time is precious,” Streeter began. “And we know you’re anxious to answer questions from the media, based on this written statement provided by your staff during the other interviews. But we ask that you refrain from holding a press conference. We have a case to solve and we’d prefer certain aspects not be leaked to the press. So we’d appreciate your cooperation on this.”

“Absolutely,” Max said. “Cut to the chase.”

“Did you put little Max on the plane yesterday morning?” Gates asked.

He shook his head. “I did not. I kissed little Max goodbye around 8:00 a.m. yesterday morning. The boy’s au pair, Judy Manning, took him to the airport and she safely transferred his custody to BlueSky Airlines around 9:00 a.m. The flight boarded sometime after 10:00 a.m. and the flight departed LaGuardia at 10:20 a.m. This is all Eastern time, mind you. And my lovely ex-wife phoned me at 3:45 p.m., which is the first I’d heard of my son’s disappearance.”

Precise, succinct, and practiced. Typical Max.

“And what did you pack?” Streeter asked.

“What?” His practiced, controlled smile faltered.

“For your son. What did you pack in his suitcase?”

He shrugged, looking uncertain.

“Did you pack his suitcase?”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Max’s attorney asked.

“Mr. Williams told me to cut to the chase, so I am,” Streeter grumbled. “Who packed the boy’s suitcase?”

“The au pair, I suppose.”

“But you don’t know?” Gates asked.

“I work, Chief Gates. Do you know what it’s like to have a kid at home when you’re trying to work?”

“I think I might. Considering I have six of my own. And I’d know exactly who packs their suitcases and what’s in it every time they travel.”

“What’s your point?” Max asked.

“Why didn’t you bring the au pair tonight?” Streeter asked.

Max reached into his pocket, extracted a gold monogrammed box, and plucked out an expensive cigarette, flipping it between his lips. He was struggling to regain his composure from what I could see.

“I believe smoking isn’t allowed in the airport,” Gates said, leaning forward.

Without words and with only a slight nod, Max ignored Chief Gates and offered a cigarette to the rest of us, but there were no takers. He lifted a gold lighter to the stick between his lips. Cool, very cool, I thought. And practiced. I had seen Max do this a hundred times before in tense situations, mostly at family events. He used it as a stall tactic to give him time to collect his thoughts. Our family scared the shit out of him for some reason.
One time he told me if our family had been born in Italy, we’d be dangerous. I think it’s because one of my siblings had just taken Max aside and warned him about verbally abusing Ida. We do have a tendency to cover each other’s backs.

Max sucked the nicotine in long, hungry draws for many moments as he assessed us. His attorney seemed bored. Gates’s face was stony, scary, pissed.

In what could only be described as the most uncomfortably long silence I had experienced since third grade when the kid sitting next to me had passed gas so loudly that Sister Delilah lost her place in catechism, I noticed Streeter studying the man’s techniques, not the least bit tempted to shatter the silence and hand Max his first concession. I followed suit and kept my lip zipped.

Finally, Max asked, “So you think Nanny Judy had something to do with little Max’s disappearance?”

“I didn’t say that,” Streeter said, leaning toward Max and leveling a look at him that I could only categorize as menacing.

Max said, “I told her she could have the week off. I assume she went back to Manchester. Who knows?”

“So you haven’t contacted her about little Max’s disappearance?” I asked, appalled at his insensitivity.

Streeter shot me a sideways glance before asking, “Do you think she had something to do with the boy’s disappearance?”

“No. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter,” Max said, acting defeated from my perspective. Then in classic Max style, he morphed into a pitiful character intending to evoke sympathy. “I assume someone is squeezing us for money. Of course, Nanny Judy came to mind. However, others who are much more ruthless, vindictive, and greedy shoot to the top of my list ahead of Judy Manning. And whether it’s Judy or whoever, I have every intention of paying whatever it is they ask.”

“Anything?” I asked.

Max looked toward me. “Why? Are you the one blackmailing me, Agent Bergen?”

“I think you mean kidnap, Max,” I said, pointing out that he had just
shared an important detail he might not have intended to. “Or do you want to talk about who might be wanting to blackmail you?”

Alderman interrupted, saying, “Where’s this going? Is this an interview or an interrogation? Because I haven’t heard you read my client his rights or anything. And to remind all three of you, my client’s the victim here, not the suspect.”

Gates leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. His expression made me think of a young Morgan Freeman during his PBS
Electric Company
years—cool, collected, and nailing the scene no matter how silly the skit. “The interesting thing is that when a child is abducted, chances are overwhelming that it’s a parental abduction. Like eighty percent or something. And the balance is normally a nonfamily member abducting the child on behalf of a parent, one with money. Maybe one whose asset distribution case is bearing down on him like a freight train. Don’t you find that interesting, counselor?”

Alderman glared at Gates and said, “I find it biased and patently unfair to my client.”

“But you can see my point,” Gates said. “And you told us to cut to the chase. From where I’m sitting, if I had a freight train bearing down on me, I might be tempted to stage a kidnapping and throw ‘anything’ at a ransom demand so I could tell the judge I had a lot fewer assets to distribute to my ex-wife.”

Alderman pushed away from the table, his chair screeching against the tile. “Enough. Max, we’re leaving.”