Myron spread his arms. “So?”
“So this is ugly. We kind of buried this ten years ago because it was ugly.”
“When you say ‘kind of buried—’”
“We looked into it. It came to nothing. I was told to back off. I did so but with some reluctance. In the end, I still don’t think it’s relevant. So I’m going to need a second or two to ponder the repercussions of telling you.”
“If it helps,” Myron said, “I promise to be discreet.”
“It doesn’t.”
Neil stood and walked over to the window. He turned the wand controlling the blinds, closing them for a moment, then opening them again. He stared down at a construction site.
“There were text messages,” Neil said, “between Chick Baldwin and Nancy Moore.”
Myron waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, Myron asked, “What kind of text messages?”
“Lots of them.”
“Do you know what they said?”
“No. They were deleted off both their phones. The phone company doesn’t keep a record of the content.”
“I assume you asked Chick and Nancy about them?”
“We did.”
“And?”
“They both claimed it was just normal stuff. Some of it was
about their boys. Some of it was about the Moores maybe investing with Chick.”
“Did the Moores invest with Chick?”
“They did not. And the texts were at all hours of the day. And night.”
“I see,” Myron said. “Did you talk to their spouses about it?”
“We did not. The FBI was involved by now. You have to remember what it was like. The pressure, the fear, the not knowing. The families were already hanging on by a thread. We investigated this angle hard and came up with nothing. We didn’t see a reason to cause anyone any more pain.”
“And now?”
Neil turned away and looked down at Myron in the chair. “And now I still don’t see a reason to cause anyone any more pain. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”
There was a knock on the door. Neil told the knocker to come in. A young man stuck his head in the doorway. “You have that meeting with the governor in ten minutes.”
“Thank you. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
The young man closed the door. Neil Huber moved back to his desk. He scooped up his mobile phone and wallet and jammed them into his pockets. “It’s an old saw, but a case like this never leaves you. I blame myself in part. I know, I know, but I do. I wonder maybe, just maybe, if I were a better cop . . .”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Myron rose.
“Do what you have to,” Neil said, starting for the door. “But keep me in the loop.”
I
s it noon yet?” Chick asked.
Myron checked his watch. “Five minutes away.”
“I better set up the laptop, then.”
They were sitting at the enormous marble bar at La Sirena, an Italian restaurant in Chelsea’s famed Maritime Hotel. The place was somehow sleek and warm, modern yet with a definitive sixties vibe. The border between dining inside and dining alfresco was almost nonexistent. Myron made a mental note to take Terese here pronto.
There was no television on the wall—it wasn’t that kind of place—so Chick brought a laptop so they could live-stream the CNN interview.
“I couldn’t stay home today,” Chick said. His skin always
glistened, so that he looked as though he’d undergone some kind of hot-wax treatment. Maybe he had. “Brooke and I just stare at each other and wait. It brings it all back, you know?”
Myron nodded.
“It’s hard on so many levels, but it’s like we’ve been living in purgatory for ten years. You have to keep yourself busy or you lose your mind. So I came into my office this morning. Then I met with my lawyers to see what we could do.”
“Do about what?” Myron asked.
“About Patrick not talking. I was looking for some legal recourse. You know, to make him cooperate.” Chick looked up from the laptop. “What did you want to see me about anyway?”
Myron wasn’t sure how to raise the subject of the texts with Nancy Moore yet. Should he go the direct route or ease into it?
“Hold up,” Chick said. “It’s about to air.”
The modern era. La Sirena had a good blend of the art world, Village hipsters, and Wall Street masters of the universe. The place was lively with the arriving lunch crowd, and here, at the bar, two men were huddled over a laptop watching a news program. No one looked twice.
“Wait, where are they?” Chick asked.
Myron recognized the room. “That’s the Moores’ living room.”
“They’re not doing it in a studio?”
“Guess not.”
On the screen, Anderson Cooper sat in a plush leather chair. Nancy and Hunter sat on a couch across from him. Hunter wore a dark suit and dark tie. Nancy wore a light-blue dress that was stylish yet conservative.
“Where’s Patrick?” Chick asked. “Myron?”
“I don’t know. Let’s watch, okay?”
The interview began without Patrick. Anderson started with some background—the kidnapping, the ransom drop, the strain of no answers, the long wait for this day. He raised the fact that Nancy and Hunter were now divorced, clearly implying that the breakup was a direct result of what had happened. Neither Nancy nor Hunter bit, though.
“We share custody of our beautiful daughter,” Nancy said by way of explanation.
“We raised her together,” Hunter added.
After a few more minutes, Chick shook his head and said, “Unbelievable. They’re giving him nothing.”
It was somewhat true. Anderson wasn’t pushing them, which was understandable under the circumstances. These weren’t politicians running for office. These were parents who had suffered greatly and were now trying to comprehend their sudden . . . Would you call it luck?
Nancy did most of the talking. She explained to Anderson how grateful they were to have Patrick home again. “Our son has been through a terrible ordeal,” she said, biting her lower lip. When Anderson tried to get some details, they deflected by talking about Patrick’s need for privacy and “space for recovery and transition.”
This was the message, repeated in various forms: Please give Patrick and the Moore family privacy to recover from this terrible ordeal. They used the phrase “terrible ordeal” to the point that Myron wondered whether they’d been coached to say it.
Anderson pressed on. He asked about the kidnapping, if they were any closer to catching the perpetrators. The Moores offered no real answer, deferring questions “about possible apprehensions” to the “authorities.”
When Anderson raised that “horrible day,” Nancy said, “It was a long time ago. You need to remember he was only six years old.”
“How much does he remember?”
“Very little. Patrick was moved around a lot over the years.”
“What do you mean, ‘moved around’?”
Tears flooded her eyes. Myron waited for Hunter to take her hand. He didn’t. “Our son nearly died from a stabbing.”
“That was during his rescue in London, correct?”
“Yes.”
“How long had he been in London?”
“We don’t know. But he went through”—Myron mouthed the words with her this time—“a terrible ordeal.”
Myron watched Nancy and Hunter on the screen, looking for any clues or body language that might suggest . . . What exactly? Deception? Did he think that they might be lying here? Why? What would they be hiding, if anything? He also sneaked glances at Chick, as though that might tell him something too. How was Chick reacting to Nancy? Did Myron sense a wisp of—again, what?—longing, regret, guilt?
Conclusion: Studying body language was tremendously overrated.
Myron had so often heard of people wrongly convicted (or wrongly exonerated) because jurors felt that they could “read” the perpetrators, that they didn’t show enough (or showed too much) remorse, that their reactions were not in what the jurors considered the range of normal. As though humans came in one size and shape. As though we all react the same way to a horrible or stressful situation.
We all think we can spot the tell in everyone else, but ironically, no one can spot it in us.
Finally, Anderson got to it: “What about the other boy who was taken that day?”
Chick sat up.
“What has your son been able to tell you about Rhys Baldwin, who is still missing?”
“Finding Rhys is our number one priority right now,” Nancy said.
Chick muttered something under his breath.
“This will never be over,” she continued, “until we know the truth about Rhys.”
Hunter nodded his vigorous agreement. “We are cooperating as much as possible with law enforcement . . .”
Chick sat back. “Do you believe this crap?”
“. . . but unfortunately there is little that Patrick knows that can help.”
“They’re cooperating? That’s what they’re claiming?” Chick was nearly apoplectic. “I should hold my own press conference.”
Like that would do any good.
Toward the end of the segment, Nancy and Hunter rose from their seats and turned to the right. Chick quieted down as the camera pulled out. A woman of about twenty years old appeared.
“This is our daughter, Francesca,” Nancy said.
Francesca gave the viewers an awkward nod. Then she looked off camera and mouthed the words “It’s okay.” Three seconds passed.
When Patrick stepped into view, he was holding his sister’s hand.
“And our son, Patrick,” Nancy said.
It was the same boy Myron had rescued, the same boy he had seen huddled in the corner of his bedroom. He wore a Yankees
baseball cap, a blue hoodie, jeans. The camera zoomed in tight on his face. He kept his eyes down. Nancy and Hunter moved to either side of their children. For a moment it looked as though they were posing, albeit clumsily, for a holiday photo. Hunter and Nancy tried to look strong and defiant. Francesca looked overcome with emotion, her eyes brimming with tears. Patrick kept his eyes down toward the ground.
Then Anderson thanked them for “opening up their home” before going to commercial.
Chick stared at the blank screen for a few seconds.
“What the hell was that?”
Myron didn’t reply.
“What’s going on, Myron? Why won’t they help us?”
“I don’t know that they can.”
“You too? You’re buying this?”
“I don’t even know what they’re selling, Chick.”
“I told you I went to my lawyers today, right?”
“Right.”
“So I asked them what we could do. You know. To make the kid talk.”
“What did they suggest?”
“Nothing! They say there’s nothing to be done. Can you believe that? Patrick doesn’t have to say a damn thing. You can’t compel him to tell you. Even if he knows something crucial. Hell, even if he knows where Rhys is right now. It’s nuts.”
Chick signaled to the bartender, who poured him some Johnnie Walker Black. The bartender looked over at Myron. Myron shook his head. Too early in the day.
When Chick got his drink, he huddled around it as though it were a fire providing warmth. “I appreciate your help here,” he
said, a little calmer now. “Win, well, I know Win doesn’t like me. No surprise really. We are from two different worlds. Plus he thinks Brooke walks on water. No one would be good enough for her, you know?”
Myron nodded, just because he wanted him to keep talking.
“But Brooke and me, we have a solid marriage. It’s had its problems, sure. Like any other. But we love each other.”
“Those problems,” Myron said, spotting the opening. There was no reason to wait any longer. “Was Nancy Moore one of them?”
Chick had been bringing the whiskey to his lips. He hesitated, debating whether he should reply first or take a sip. He chose the sip. He placed the drink back on the bar and turned to Myron.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Myron just stared at him. He tried to wait it out.
“Well?” Chick said.
“I know about the texts.”
“Ah.” Chick rose, took off his suit jacket, hung it neatly over the back of the barstool. He sat back down and fiddled with the gold cuff link on his left wrist. “And how do you know about the texts?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really,” Chick said, shrugging it away too casually. “They’re nothing.”
Myron tried to stare him down again.
Chick was trying to sound nonchalant, but it wasn’t holding. “Does Win know?”
“Not yet.”
“But you’ll tell him?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
“Even if I ask you not to?”
“Even if.”
Chick shook his head. “You don’t get my life.”
Myron said nothing.
“The rest of them, they got everything handed to them. I worked. I scraped. I got nothing easy. News flash, Myron”—he leaned and cupped his hand around his mouth—“the game is rigged for the rich. It ain’t a level playing field. I started with nothing. My father owned a barbershop in the Bronx. You want to get up there with them? You need to cheat a little.”
“Wait, let me write this down.” Myron mimed a pen and paper. “Cheat. A. Little.” He looked up. “Great tip. Are you also going to tell me that behind every great fortune there’s a great crime?”
“You mocking me?”
“Maybe a little, Chick.”
“You think, what, this country is a meritocracy? That we all start in the same place, all have the same chances? That’s crap. I played college football. I was a running back. Was pretty good too. One day I realize that every guy who is trying to tackle me is on steroids. And every guy who is trying to take my position? Steroids. So I have a choice. I can take steroids too. Or I can stop competing.”
“Chick?”
“What?”
“This is an odd argument for cheating on your wife,” Myron said.
“I didn’t cheat.” He leaned in close. “But my point is, either way, you’re leaving this alone.”
“Is that a threat, Chick?”
“Those texts have nothing to do with my kid. And I get your motive here.”
“My motive is finding your kid.”
“Right, sure. You want to hear something that still haunts me? Brooke wanted to call Win as soon as Rhys was taken. Day one. But I talked her out of it. I thought the cops could handle it. I wanted to—and this is funny after what I just told you—I wanted to play by the rules. Do things by the book. Funny, right? So I live with that.”
“You’re not making any sense, Chick.”
He leaned in close. Myron could smell the whiskey. “Whatever happened between me and Nancy,” he said through gritted teeth, “it has nothing to do with my son. You hear me? You need to step off before someone gets badly hurt.”
Myron’s cell phone sounded. He looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Brooke Baldwin calling. He showed it to Chick before bringing the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Chick told me you two were meeting,” Brooke said. “Is he with you now?”
Myron looked at Chick. Chick nodded and leaned into the phone. “I’m right here, hon.”
“Did you both see CNN?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
“I taped it,” Brooke said. “I’ve been watching it freeze-frame.”
Chick said, “So?”
“So I’m not convinced that boy is Patrick Moore.”