It Only Takes a Moment (24 page)

O
verflowing baskets and tall vases of flowers lined the dimly lit room and people with grim faces stood watching as she approached the small casket. The little coffin was covered with a spray of roses and lilies of the valley arranged in the shape of an angel.

With every bit of strength she had, Eliza forced herself to go forward. She knelt before the casket, her fists clenched, her eyes shut tight. She felt excruciating pressure. Everyone was looking at her, waiting for her reaction, relieved that they were watching
her
life and not theirs. Nothing would go forward without her doing what she had to do.

You have to look. You have to look. You have to see what’s inside.

Eliza bent her head down and opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was a cascading shower of white tulle spilling from the casket walls. Her hand shook violently as she reached out to pull back the bridal veil.

Eliza bolted upright, her nightgown clinging to her body with cold perspiration.

W
ill Jorgenson ate his cereal as he watched the exclusive interview with Eliza Blake air on
KEY to America.
His heart went out to the poor woman.

He sat up straighter when she mentioned that there was a new lead in Milford. His pharmacy was in the town. He’d heard all about the young woman who’d been found with her throat slit at the Urgentcare Center down the road. That was all anybody could talk about yesterday. A killer in their own quiet town.

Watching the video of Janie Blake, smiling with excitement and pleasure, Will’s mouth turned down at the corners and he felt his eyes begin to tear up.
What a lovely child she was. So innocent, so young.

“There is such a happy shot of Janie waiting to talk to Santa Claus last Christmas,” Eliza was saying, “and a little while later there’s video of her upset and hiccupping when the visit didn’t go so well.”

Pictures appeared on the screen of the child trying to catch her breath, her facial expression downcast.

“…that picture of Janie is the one that is far more likely to look like she does now. Whenever Janie is scared or really worried, she gets the hiccups.”

Hiccups.

That surly guy who came into the pharmacy the other day had been asking about hiccup medicine. That was a fairly rare request. Will tried to remember what the guy had actually purchased. He seemed to recall that children’s aspirin had been in the basket. He did remember that the guy paid cash.

Should he call the police?
he wondered.

He listened to the rest of the interview. Eliza implored anyone with any information at all to call the Find Janie hotline and announced that a psychic had told her Janie was near moving water and that the letter
M
was also involved in some way and that a bridal veil was part of the case.

Poppycock
, thought the druggist.
But the poor woman is so desperate she’s resorted to consulting a psychic
.

He made up his mind. It was better to call with his information even if it turned out to be nothing than to not call and have it turn out that the kidnapper had been in his store. He imagined that, after the interview, the hotline would get thousands of calls from the public and his call would get lost among all the tips. He figured he’d be better off just calling the Milford police.

T
he FBI agents laid the evidence envelope on the desk. The sheriff inspected the contents through the clear wrapping. The handwritten letter was decorated with colorful stickers.

“The postmark sent us here, but, as you see, it’s not signed. Got any ideas?”

The sheriff stroked his chin. “I’d bet my badge I know who sent that letter,” he said.

The agents waited expectantly.

“You don’t think that whoever wrote this has something to do with the Blake abduction, do you?” asked the sheriff.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Well, I think that letter was sent by Nell,” said the sheriff.

“Nell?”

“Yep. She’s had a tough life, that one.”

“How so?”

“Father deserted her, mother didn’t really want her. After her mother died, Nell got stuck living with her no-good uncle. He’s got a heck of a temper.”

“Any reason why Nell would write a letter like this to Eliza Blake?”

The sheriff shrugged. “I’m no expert, but I think that girl needs a mother figure to look up to. After all, she’s only nine years old.

T
he computers of the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System came up with a match to an index finger and thumbprint found on the construction paper headpiece discarded in the dry-cleaning plant parking lot. There were also prints from two other people. It was going to take a while longer to see if the smaller ones belonged to Janie Blake because her prints were not on file with IAFIS. The other print was also not in the system.

C
alling into the
KEY to America
office, Annabelle let Linus’s assistant know that she and B.J. were going to be delayed in getting back to the Broadcast Center. They waited at the bakery for Rhonda, but she didn’t show up for work.

“Let’s go over to her house,” said B.J. He turned to the baker. “Would you give us her address?” he asked.

“Might as well,” said the baker. “You could just go look it up in the phone book.”

They found the brick dwelling at the end of a road, several miles from the downtown area. There were no cars in the driveway. Several attempts at ringing the bell and knocking at the door brought no response.

“Now what do we do?” asked B.J.

“Let’s see what we can see,” said Annabelle. She cupped her hands over her brow to shield her eyes from the glare as she looked through the window. She could see a small pair of flip-flops on the living room floor.

“Either Rhonda has the tiniest feet of any woman in America,” said
Annabelle, “or those are a child’s shoes in the home of a woman who doesn’t have any children.”

B.J. took a look. “Maybe she babysits or has a niece or something.”

“Well, we can’t hang around any longer; we have to head back,” said Annabelle. “But at least we should tell somebody what we found out about Rhonda’s history of losing her child.”

“Maybe we should let Joe Connelly know,” said B.J. as they climbed back into the car. “He’s the head of security, and Rhonda’s package came in on his watch.”

“Yeah, but if we tell him, he’s going to wonder how I found out about the cookies and the letter to begin with. That could get my source in trouble.”

“Who’s your source? Paige?” asked B.J.

“You know I’m not going to tell you,” said Annabelle.

“Yeah, yeah,” said B.J. “All right, if not Joe, then who?”

“Eliza,” said Annabelle. “And she can tell the FBI agents sitting right alongside her.”

E
liza went directly to Agent Gebhardt after Annabelle called with the information about Rhonda Billings.

“Do you have any idea how many leads we have?” asked the agent. “Thousands. It takes time to track them all.”

“Well, this one sounds promising,” said Eliza. “The disturbing package and letter from the woman, her horrible personal history, and honestly, the fact that she works at the Marzipan Bakery adds to my interest in her.”

Agent Gebhardt closed her eyes for a moment, fighting to keep her temper in check. “Not that psychic’s ‘letter
M
’ nonsense again.”

Eliza stood firm. “I’m telling you, somebody’s got to go up there to check on this woman. If it turns out she has my daughter, how will the FBI look if they had the information but didn’t follow through quickly enough?”

Agent Gebhardt said nothing, knowing that, if the child molester they were picking up led them to Janie, Eliza’s demand would be moot.

A
line of unmarked cars and police vehicles waited at the end of the street. When the command was given, the armed occupants got out and started toward the house, trying to stay out of sight, finding hiding spots as they drew progressively closer to their target.

When everyone was in place around the house, a cluster of FBI agents, guns drawn, crept up to the front stoop. One of them knocked on the door and yelled, “FBI. Open up!”

The agents were fully prepared to force the door down, but it opened almost immediately.

Isabelle stood in the doorway, taking in the scene in front of her. It didn’t upset her as much as it did the first time she had encountered a situation like this. But there were definitely more cops now than there had ever been.

“We have a warrant to search the premises and for the arrest of Hugh Pollock.”

She stood back and let them enter, knowing she had no other choice.

It didn’t take long to search the house and to ascertain that Janie Blake was not inside. But they did find Hugh. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the dollhouse in his bedroom. The agents informed him of his rights, handcuffed him, and led him out of the house.

“Don’t worry, Hughie,” his sister called after him. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Do you believe this crap?” said an agent, looking around the room.

“Sickening,” said his partner. “He’s got the room decorated like a little girl’s.”

The room was painted pink. Disney posters decorated the walls. The single bed in the corner was covered with a Hannah Montana comforter. A collection of American Girl dolls was arranged on top, their skirts fanned out artfully. On the floor beside the bed, a stuffed animal slept, carefully covered with a miniature blanket. But the closet contained men’s clothes.

“He actually sleeps in here?”

“I think I’m going to puke.” The agent shook his head as he walked over and opened a dresser drawer. With his latex-gloved hand, he reached in and pulled out a small white tube sock. He held it up.

“Think this fits our big pervert?” he asked.

M
ack had the morning papers spread out on the kitchen table.

“I’m not going to hide it from you, Eliza,” he said, handing her the
Daily News
and the
New York Post.

Eliza scanned the headlines.

ELIZA’S IN ANOTHER WORLD

ELIZA’S GONE PSYCHIC

She shrugged. “My credibility may be shot, which means I won’t have a job to go back to, but I don’t really care. Let them think I’m crazy. All that matters is finding Janie and Mrs. Garcia.”

Mack took the papers back and finished reading the articles. “They’ve got quotes from Stephanie Quick in these,” he said.

Eliza nodded. “I know. She told me she talked to reporters at the vigil last night.”

“Linus is going to be ripping that he didn’t have her on the show,” said Mack.

“Yeah,” agreed Eliza. “And that the papers had her name before he did. I should call him.”

Mack couldn’t resist. “But I thought you didn’t care about your job…”

“I guess I lied,” said Eliza.

As she took out her cell phone to soothe Linus, another call came in.

“Eliza? It’s Stephanie. I had another dream last night.” Eliza could feel the excitement in the psychic’s voice.

“A waterfall. The moving water I saw around Janie is a waterfall.”

“W
here is she, Hughie?”

“I’ve told you again and again, I don’t know where she is.”

“If you don’t tell us, Hughie, it’s only going to be harder on you when we do find her,” said the interrogator. “Where is Janie Blake?”

“How should I know where that little darling is? If she were my child, I’d never let her out of my sight. I’d keep her tied to me.”

“I bet you would.”

Hugh squirmed in his chair. “I’m hot,” he said. “Can I take off my jacket?”

The interrogator nodded. Hugh peeled off the nylon jacket.

“What’s with the tube sock, Hughie?” asked the interrogator, averting his eyes from the sight of Hugh’s soft white arms.

“What sock?”

“The child’s sock we found in your dresser drawer.”

“Oh, that,” said Hugh dismissively. “I like to make little hand puppets with those socks. That’s not a crime, is it?”

The questioning went on, the interrogator increasingly frustrated and repulsed. Just as he was going to ask for another agent to relieve him,
a call came in telling him to come out into the hallway. He left Hughie tapping his fingers on the table and singing nervously to himself.

“What’s up?” asked the interrogator.

“The fingerprint results are back on the construction paper found behind that dry-cleaning plant.”

“And?”

“The little ones are Janie Blake’s.”

“And the adult prints?”

“One still hasn’t been ID’d, but we think it might belong to a counselor at the camp who helped the kid with the headpiece.”

“And the other? Please, tell me it’s that slob in there.”

“No dice. It belongs to a guy named Carl Yates.”

“And what’s
his
story?”

“Dishonorably discharged from the navy twelve years ago.”

“For what?”

“Assaulting another officer and ‘conduct unbecoming.’”

“So we have to let Hughie in there go?” asked the interrogator.

“It looks that way. We have no real evidence at this point to hold him.”