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“Did Sergeant Boxer or Officer Conklin ask you to retrieve these materials?”
“No, of course not.”
“If you were asked by anyone to provide these materials,” Valoy said, “that makes you an agent of the police, and we have to exclude the book this came from as evidence if there’s a trial in the future.”
“I did this all on my own,” Jordan told the ADA. “So help me, God.”
Valoy smiled, said, “Lindsay, we have to have lunch sometime.” She waggled her fingers and left the lunchroom.
I asked Mary if I could see the paper, and she handed over a spreadsheet with headings across the top line — PLACEMENTS, CLIENTS, FEES — all entries dated this current calendar year.
The list of placements was made up of female names, most of them foreign. The clients’ names, for the most part, had a “Mr. and Mrs.” prefix, and the fees ran into the low five figures.
“All these girls were placed with these families this year?” I said.
Mary nodded, said, “Remember, I told you that a girl named Helga, one of the registry’s nannies, disappeared about eight months ago when the registry was in Boston?”
“I remember.”
“Well, I looked her up in the Register. Here she is,” she said, stabbing at the page with a forefinger. “Helga Schmidt. And the people she was working for are here, too. Penelope and William Whitten.”
“Go on,” Conklin said.
“The records show that the Whittens have a child named Erica. She’s a math prodigy, solving grade-school problems at only four. I looked up the Whittens on the Internet, and I found this interview in the Boston Globe.”
Another piece of paper came out of Mary Jordan’s handbag. She put a printout of a newspaper article on the table, turned it so we could read it, then summarized it for us as we read.
“This story appeared in the Lifestyle section last May. Mr. Whitten is a wine critic, and he and his wife were interviewed at home. Right here,” Jordan said, pointing out a paragraph toward the end of the article, “is where Mr. and Mrs. Whitten told the reporter that their daughter Erica had gone to live with Mrs. Whitten’s sister in England. That she was being privately schooled.
“And that seems sooooo weird to me,” Jordan told us. “Like, unbelievable. The Whittens hired a nanny. The nanny left suddenly, and the Whittens sent their daughter to Europe? Erica is only four! The Whittens can afford any kind of tutors and governesses right here. Why would they send their little girl away?”
Rich and I exchanged looks as Jordan continued.
“Maybe I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if it hadn’t been for Paola’s murder and Maddy having been kidnapped,” Jordan said. “I just don’t believe Erica Whitten is living in England. You think I’m crazy?”
“You know what I think, Mary?” I said. “You have the instincts of a good cop.”
Chapter 88
JACOBI COUGHED SPASMODICALLY BESIDE ME. The air was blue with smoke from Tracchio’s vile cigar, and the speakerphone crackled on his desk.
The line was open to the Whittens’ home in Boston, and FBI agent Dave Stanford came back on the line.
“The Whittens are clearly rattled,” he said, “but I got the story out of them. Their youngest daughter, Erica, was kidnapped along with her nanny, Helga Schmidt, eight months ago.”
Was this it? Finally, a string that connected to the Ricci/Tyler case?
But if Erica had been kidnapped eight months ago, why in hell hadn’t the Whittens reported it to the police?
“No one saw the kidnapping,” Stanford continued, “but the Whittens found a note under their door about an hour after the time Erica and Helga were expected home from Erica’s school. A half-dozen photos came along with the note.”
“It was a ransom note?” Macklin asked, his voice a muted explosion.
“Not exactly. You got a fax machine over there?”
Tracchio gave Stanford the fax number. Voices inside the Whitten house could be heard in the background — a man and a woman quarreling softly but urgently. The woman’s voice said, “Go on, Bill. Tell them.”
