Page 27 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

"Whoa, I never said that."

Neil Huber loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. The red in his face seemed to drain away. Now Myron did have a sense of deja vu. He could see the younger man, the coach for the other team, or maybe it was just a fake memory he was concocting for the occasion.

"I had doubts," he said, his voice a little quieter now. "We all did, I guess. But at the end of the day, the two boys were gone. We followed every angle we could find. Stranger abductions like this--breaking into a house, asking for a ransom--are extremely rare. So we looked hard at the parents. We looked hard at the families, the neighbors, the teachers."

"How about the nanny?"

"Au pair," he said.

"Pardon?"

"She wasn't a nanny. She was an au pair. Big difference."

"In what way?"

"An au pair is like an exchange program. They're always from a foreign country. In this case, Vada Linna--yep, I remember the name--was from Finland. They are usually young. Vada was eighteen. Her English was fair at best. They are supposedly there in part on something of a cultural education, but most people go with them because they're cheap labor."

"You think that was the case here?"

He thought about it. "Nah, I don't. Not really. The Baldwins have a lot of money. I think they bought into the whole international experience stuff and loved the idea of having their kids in the company of a foreigner. From what I understood, Brooke and Chick treated Vada well. That whole angle--it's one of the reasons I hate the press so much."

"What is?"

"When the crap hit the fan, the media had a field day with all of that slave labor-au pair talk. You know--privileged rich girl Brooke Baldwin hires poor, cheap worker so she can get her hair done or lunch with the ladies or whatever. Like she wasn't already victimized enough. Like losing her son was somehow her fault."

Myron remembered reading a bit about the controversy at the time. "Vada's story about the breakin," he said. "Did you believe it?"

Huber took his time on this one. His hand rubbed his face. "I don't know. I mean, the girl was clearly traumatized. She may have been fudging some of the details, trying to make herself look better or something. Like we've both noted, there were parts that didn't add up. But that could have been the language barrier too. Or the cultural barrier, whatever. I wish we'd had more time with her."

"Why didn't you?"

"Vada's father showed up within twenty-four hours. Flew in from Helsinki and hired a shark lawyer. The father demanded to take her home. The ordeal was too much for her, he said. He wanted her to get care in Finland. We tried to stall, but we had no reason to hold her. So he flew her home." Neil looked up. "Truth? I would have liked another crack at Vada."

"Do you think she was involved?"

Again he took his time. Myron liked that Neil Huber was trying to give him thoughtful answers. "We looked at her hard. We went through her computer history. There was nothing. We checked her text messages. There was nothing there that stood out. Vada was just a teen alone in a foreign country. She had one friend, another au pair, and that was about it. We tried to work out various theories where she'd been in on the kidnapping in some way. You know. Maybe she gave the kids to an accomplice. Then the accomplice tied her up. They make up a story about a kitchen breakin. That kind of thing. But nothing added up. We even explored the possibility that maybe Vada was a psycho. Maybe she snapped and killed them and hid the bodies. But nothing came of that either."

Their eyes met.

"So what do you think happened, Neil?"

There was a pen on his desk. He picked it up and started twirling it between his fingers. "Well, that's why recent developments are interesting."

"How so?"

"They blow away my theory."

"Which was?"

He shrugged. "I always figured that Patrick and Rhys were dead. I figured that whatever happened--abduction, breakin, whatever--that the two boys were killed right away. The killers then pretended to be kidnappers and did that whole ransom-drop thing to distract us. Or maybe they hoped that it would be easy money but they realized that they'd get caught. I don't know."

"But why would someone kill two boys?"

"Yeah, motive. That's a tougher nut to crack. But I think the crime scene is the key."

"Meaning?"

"The Baldwin home."

"You think Rhys was the target?"

"Had to be. It was his house. The playdate was planned two days before, so you couldn't know Patrick Moore would be there. So maybe these guys are told to grab a six-year-old boy. But when they break in, there are two of them. So they don't know which is which or their instructions aren't so clear, so they figure, let's grab both. Just to be sure."

"And again: Motive?"

"Nothing concrete. Hell, not even wet cement. Just wild conjecture on my part."

"Like?"

"The only parent who we had anything on was Chick Baldwin. The guy's a crook, plain and simple, and right about then, when his Ponzi scheme collapsed, he pissed off a lot of people. Some of his money came from questionable Russians, if you know what I mean. Chick skated too. No jail time, small fine. Good lawyers. That upset a lot of folks. All his assets were in his kids' names, so no one could touch him. Do you know the guy at all?"

"Chick? Just a little."

"He's not a good guy, Myron."

Almost word for word what Win had said.

"Anyway," Neil said, "that's what I thought. They were dead. But now that Patrick is alive . . ."

He just let it hang there. The two men looked at each other for a long moment.

Myron said, "Why do I have a feeling you're holding back on me, Senator?"

"Because I am."

"And why would you do that?"

"Because I'm not sure if the next part is any of your goddamn business."

"You can trust me," Myron said.

"If I didn't trust you, I would have thrown you out of my office a long time ago."

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."

Chapter 19

Is 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.

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