And Then There Was One (19 page)

“He did tell us something. He admitted to an affair. An affair with a white woman. Woman by the name of Jane Wise. Mean anything?”

“White woman?” Scott’s heart started to race. Had Franklin sent his girlfriend to take the girls out of the mall? “Could it be the woman that the witness saw in the mall?”

“Franklin had her picture in his wallet.” Streeter showed him a
photo of a middle-aged white woman, plump, pale in complexion, brown eyes with too much makeup, and what was probably bleached blonde hair in an old-fashioned pageboy cut.

“Recognize her?”

“I don’t know this woman.”

“We’re showing her picture around, but she has an airtight alibi for Sunday, at a family affair with her husband. She’s fifty years old. Works in the automotive industry, no criminal record, seems like a nice lady. Don’t know what she saw in Franklin. He even told her about Katie. Go figure what women put up with.”

Scott’s shoulders slumped. Another dead end.

“We do have Franklin under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

“Thanks for being so honest with me,” Scott said. “I guess I’m still having trouble coping. And about this morning — Katie and I were pretty rough on Agent Camry. We know how hard everyone is working.”

“Maybe you should go get Katie.” Streeter glanced at his watch. “I need you and your wife. This can’t wait.”

“She’s getting Jackie settled, but I’ll get her.”

During the flight from Tampa that morning, Streeter had secondguessed every decision he’d made on the missing girls. He had requested a meeting with his boss, the special agent in charge, as soon as he arrived at the field office, and on his arrival, the SAC and a roomful of FBI abduction specialists listened to Streeter’s summary report. They asked lots of questions, but no one had any useful ideas. The SAC was not happy. In the words of his boss, “Maybe not your fucking fault that Cutty took the hit in Tampa, but our own guys shooting the brains out of Watkins? Get your shit together and get those girls. The director’s on my ass. Obama himself is on his. And I’m on yours. No more screwups.”

While Streeter had been in flight, Agent Camry warned him that both the Monroe parents were bordering on hysteria. She’d also taken the initiative to have Monica Monroe tape a poignant reward offer, already all over the airwaves and into cyberspace. Monica as the spokesperson had not been his preference, but Katie and Scott were far too preoccupied with Jackie to focus on a script. Maybe Camry was right, Monica’s star power would grab worldwide attention and
maybe shake somebody into action. There had to be people out there who had seen the two Monroe girls. Unless. He didn’t want to think about the unless.

Reviewing Monica’s video reminded Streeter that he needed to intensify the investigation of Scott Monroe’s family, so he assigned one of his best agents, Juan Ortez, that task. On Katie’s side, he’d personally met all of her family except the sister who was now on her way back from a vacation in New Zealand. He’d detected no complicity with them, but Scott’s family might be a different matter.

Upon leaving the SAC and still licking his wounds, Streeter headed to his office, locked his door, and called Marianne. Yesterday, when he’d discussed the Monroe family dynamics with Marianne, she had predicted that Jackie would collapse, warning, “No nine-year-old should have to endure the stress that Doctor Monroe had put that child through, and she, herself a child shrink. Those two parents had better get their act together,” she’d said, “if they were going to survive as a couple after this was all over, one way or another.”

The thought of marriage and marriage counseling made Streeter grit his teeth. When Marianne had suggested they go to a therapist, he’d rejected it outright. Their problem was his job. He loved the job. And if she couldn’t handle it, so be it. But where had that gotten him? He was miserable, all the time, everyday. He missed his wife and he desperately missed his own three daughters, even more so with the missing Monroe girls consuming every iota of his energy and the question that would not go away: What if it had been his daughters?

When he was honest with himself, Streeter was forced to admit that he had lost his edge. There was a vacuum inside him and it was affecting his work. Sammie and Alex had been missing for four days, and he had nothing but one dead and one brain-dead suspect. He had a ransom note that sounded phony. He had the mom’s boyfriend from the past who’d produced nothing helpful. A reward scenario that he hoped was not too late. Career-wise, there’d be hell to pay if something didn’t break soon. He’d be kicked out of Michigan, gone the chance to reconcile with his wife and remain in the same state as his daughters.

At this low moment, Streeter took the call that he hoped would break this case wide open.

FBI Efforts in Monroe Kidnappings Intensify as
Reward Seekers Respond.
— National News, Thursday, June 18

Cliff Hunter flipped the tab off his Bud, turned on the TV, and scrolled though the channels to ESPN. His life may have turned to shit, but he still had cable service. Baseball had been his life, and baseball was still his life. A spectator now, not a hotshot star, thanks to Scott Monroe. The Yankees, the team he despised among all other professional baseball teams — and with good reason — were playing the Washington Nationals. He hoped they would lose as they had last night and sink to the bottom of the league.

On his way though the channels to find the game, he passed CNN, then flipped it back on. He recognized the voice first, before the familiar face, a beautiful one, even he had to admit it. The face of Scott Monroe’s sister, Monica. He’d once asked Scott if he could get him a couple of tickets for a show she was doing in Tampa. Scott had come through and he’d taken
her,
the seventeen-year-old bimbo that ended up ruining his life. That was when Scott had been his buddy, or his mentor, they now called it.

He needed to concentrate on what Monica Monroe was saying. Then he heard the words, “A reward of a hundred thousand dollars for the safe return of my nieces, Alex and Sammie.” There they were again, the faces of the Monroe girls, appearing almost nonstop in the news programs and the newspapers. Those angelic-looking faces. Cliff turned down the volume. He didn’t want the sound going down to the basement. They didn’t have air-conditioning, and his mother preferred the coolness down there.

As he listened to the talking heads that followed Monica’s brief and teary-eyed announcement, Cliff raked his curly hair, considering the impact. The famous, rich bitch was
offering
a hundred grand. He was
demanding
a million. Should he stick to his plan?

He thought about his mother down in the basement, depressed, he knew, because they were going to lose the house. He’d moved back in with her nine years ago, back when his baseball career had been ruined by Scott Monroe. Monroe had him kicked out of the Yankee minors and blackballed him in the American League. He’d tried the National League, had a run in the minors with the Pirates. When that ended, he had nowhere to go but back home to Dayton. In the meantime, his mother had taken out a second mortgage and later one of those home equity loans. Now she couldn’t make the payments and property values were at rock bottom. He’d tried to help out with a job at a sporting goods store, but that didn’t work out. So he had to come up with a plan. Ironic, how the bastard that had ruined his career, was now going to make him a wealthy man.

But with the Monroes ready to give a measly hundred thousand to just anybody, he’d have to make his move first. He couldn’t afford some kook coming up with information. To hell with the Yankee game. Cliff clicked off the TV, not bothering to check the basement. He was off to Auburn Hills to stake out the drop-off site. He’d call it in to Don Plese at the Yankees later that afternoon.

The Tampa Bay Rays Pause in Prayer for the Safe Return of
Sammie and Alex Monroe at Today’s Game in Colorado.
—
Sports Network News, Thursday, June 14

Special Agent Emmitt Rusk, FBI, Tampa field office, took the police artist’s sketch of the unidentified female subject from Michigan, dubbed “frumpy,” and headed for the palatial former home of Maxwell Cutty. At Streeter’s suggestion, the Tampa field office had hastily assembled a cast of characters with known relationships to Cutty. They’d identified neighbors, friends, acquaintances, contacts out of his address book and requested them to show up for a brief interview late that afternoon. Treating them as volunteers, not suspects, the FBI wanted their reactions. Did anyone know who this woman was?

Immediately afterward, they repeated the process at Cutty’s office. And when they did, they left with the same results. Fifty plus acquaintances of Maxwell Cutty denied ever seeing the woman. All Rusk got was snickers. The Cutty’s acquaintances found the idea of Maxwell associating with a woman totally lacking in style ludicrous.

Last on their list of contacts that afternoon was Olivia Cutty’s sister. Roberta Kendrick lived in nearby Plant City. She was the appointed, yet reluctant, temporary guardian of the orphaned Cutty children. From a prior interview with Roberta, Rusk had not considered her lifestyle preferences ideal mommy material. Once the estate was settled, the Cutty boys would be well off, but that didn’t make up for loving parents.

At the time of Cutty’s assassination, Rusk had gathered enough evidence for the Tampa police to hold Maxwell Cutty on charges of conspiracy
to commit murder. He’d held back turning it over to the locals as the Monroe kidnapping scenario played out. The FBI accountants following the Cutty financial trail identified a suspicious withdrawal at the time of his wife’s “accidental drowning,” and another the morning after the Monroe kidnapping. Any murder charges were moot now that Cutty was dead, but the life-and-death question remained: Had Cutty taken the location of the Monroe kids to his grave?

Just the thought of Cutty made Rusk grimace. Molesting his children, killing his wife, kidnapping two little girls to prevent their mother from testifying against him. Had he merely taken the children or had he killed them? One thing now seemed clear. That he’d used a benign-looking, middle-aged woman to lure them out of the movie theatre into her car. The woman probably was from Tampa, where the girls lived. They must have known her from somewhere.

Plant City is less than an hour’s drive north of Tampa. Rusk found Roberta’s place in a neighborhood of small homes with sparse lawns, surrounded on two sides by a congested trailer park. Her place looked small, too small to accommodate Aiden and Jake Cutty, orphaned at age seven and five, respectively.

“Something’s wrong with this picture,” the agent driving muttered. “Kids going from riches to rags. How long have the boys been here?”

“Since the story came out that Daddy was abusing them,” Rusk said. “Child Protective Services tries to place kids with relatives. And Roberta’s it. She’s eleven years younger than Olivia. Makes her twenty-seven. And light years different.”

Rusk rang the bell, noting a couple of bikes on the scorched, skimpy lawn. One with training wheels. Both a shiny red.

The door opened and two little boys barged out. Both with brown floppy hair, plump, but not fat. They were poking each other and laughing. The smaller one tried to trip the older one. The older one faked a fall and grabbed the little one on his way down. Now they were tussling in the dirt.

“Quite a handful,” Rusk said as Roberta appeared at the door. He recalled the photos of Olivia, polished and professional, contrasting them with her sister’s unruly and wild appearance. Shoulder length
frizzy hair going in all directions, wearing an ankle length skirt with a blend of colors, a knit top that emphasized an inviting bosom, and sandals.

“Hey, you guys, there’s fire ants around here,” she yelled, slamming the screen door behind her. “Jake, remember last time, I had to take you to the hospital.”

“Agent Rusk,” she said, “think about it. I mean, I have a job. Now I have two rowdy boys. I love them, yes. But it’s not me. Hear what I’m saying.”

“How are you doing, Roberta?” Rusk asked. She looked frazzled, and he wondered how she could be the administrative assistant to the editor at the
Tampa Tribune.

She shrugged. “I know. I look like a disaster case. But those boys, I’m telling you — I had to take a leave of absence from the paper.”

She led Rusk inside to a cluttered living room. Rusk showed her the sketch of the frumpy woman and asked whether she’d ever seen her. Of all those they had interviewed, Roberta’s appearance was closest to that of the suspect, giving Rusk a flicker of hope. But Roberta was much younger than the woman in the police artist’s sketch.

“Maybe,” Roberta said, pushing hair out of her eyes. “Looks like a cleaning lady Olivia used to have. Babcock. Something like that.”

Rusk’s heart leapt in hope. Maybe they finally had something. A direct connection from Cutty to the woman the witness described in Detroit.

“Maybe the boys will recognize her,” Roberta yelled out the door. “Little J. Big A. Come in here.”

Rusk watched as the boys kept up their antics.

“Plug your ears,” she ordered and let out the shrillest whistle that Rusk had ever heard.

This time they came, not walking, but bolting.

“Boys, do you know this lady?” Rusk asked.

“Yup,” Jake said. “My kindergarten teacher. Mrs. Patches. All the kids thought she was ugly.”

“Naw,” Aiden said. “And, Jake, that’s not a nice thing to say. Mom wouldn’t like it.”

“Well, she’s dead and so is Dad. I can say anything I want,” Jake yelled before breaking into tears.

“I can’t take this,” Roberta said. She scooped Jake into her arms. “I don’t know shit about kids.” Her eyes teared up. “I just took them to the shrink. The one they go to now that Dr. Katie’s not here. The guy’s a shit. When Maxwell got shot, he just told the kids that their dad was dead. Just like that. Then he does play therapy. Then he says time’s up. And I don’t know shit about what to do. I mean, are they supposed to cry? Or not cry?” Roberta slumped against her decaying porch. “And with Dr. Katie out of the picture, I just don’t know. I even thought if her daughters are dead, maybe she would take my nephews. That’s how desperate I am.”