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Madison opened her eyes, and I reached out my arms to her. She flung herself against me, and I held her tightly, putting my cheek to her hair.
I unclipped my cell phone and dialed a number I’d committed to memory. My hands were shaking so hard I had to try the number again.
My call was answered on the second ring.
“Mrs. Tyler, this is Lindsay Boxer. I’m with Inspector Conklin, and we have Madison.” I put the phone up to Madison’s face, and I whispered, “Say something to your mom.”
Chapter 115
EARLY THAT EVENING, Conklin and I were at FBI headquarters on Golden Gate Avenue, thirteenth floor. We sat in a room with fifteen other agents and cops, watching on video monitors as Dave Stanford and his partner, Heather Thomson, interviewed Renfrew.
I sat beside Conklin, watching Stanford and Thomson dissecting the acts of terror committed by Paul Renfrew, aka John Langer, aka David Cornwall, aka Josef Waller, the name he was given at birth.
“He’s lapping up the attention,” I said to Conklin.
“It’s a good thing I’m not in the box with him,” Conklin said. “I couldn’t handle this.”
“This” was Waller’s smugness and affability. Instead of smart-mouthing or showing defiance, Waller talked to Stanford and Thomson as if they were colleagues, as if he expected to have an ongoing relationship with them after he’d finished the clever telling of his story.
Macklin, Conklin, and I sat riveted to our chairs as Waller caressed their names: André Devereaux, Erica Whitten, Madison Tyler, and a little girl named Dorothea Alvarez from Mexico City.
A child we hadn’t known about.
A child who might still be alive.
While he sipped his coffee, Waller told Stanford and Thomson where the three missing children were living as sex toys in rich men’s homes around the globe.
Waller said, “It was my wife’s idea to import pretty European girls, place them as nannies with good families. Then find buyers for the children. I worked with the nannies. That was my job. My girls were proudest of the kids who were the most beautiful, intelligent, and gifted. And I encouraged the girls to tell me all about them.”
“So the nannies fingered the children, but they never knew what you planned to do with them,” Thomson said.
Renfrew smiled.
“How did you find your buyers?” Stanford asked.
“Word of mouth,” Renfrew said. “Our clients were all men of wealth and quality, and I always felt the children were in good hands.”
I wanted to throw up, but I gripped the arms of my chair, kept my eyes on the screen in front of me.
“You kept Madison for almost two weeks,” Thomson said. “Seems kind of risky.”
“We were waiting for a money transfer,” Waller said regretfully. “A million five had been pledged for Madison, but the deal stalled. We had another offer, not as good, and then the original buyer came back into play. Those few extra days cost us everything.”
“About the abduction of Madison and Paola,” Stanford said, “so many people were in the park that day. It was broad daylight. A very impressive snatch, I have to say. I’d really like to know how you pulled that off.”
“Ah, yes, but I have to tell you, it almost went all to hell,” Waller said, exhaling loudly at the memory, seeming to think through how he wanted to tell the story.
“We drove the van to the Alta Plaza playground,” said the psychopath in the gray herringbone suit.
“I asked Paola and Madison to come with us. See, the children trusted the nannies, and the nannies trusted us.”
“Brilliant,” said Stanford.
Renfrew nodded, and having received so much encouragement, he wanted to go on. “We told Paola and Madison that there had been an emergency at the Tyler house, that Elizabeth Tyler had taken a fall.
“I knocked out Madison with chloroform in the backseat, the precise plan we’d used with three other abductions. But Paola tried to grab the steering wheel. We could have all been killed. I had to take her down fast. What would you have done?” Renfrew asked Dave Stanford.
“I would have smothered you at birth,” Stanford said. “I wish to God I could have done that.”
