children. That’s the reason she gave for quitting.”
“It’s like she’s on a crusade to save our son from
us
,” Richard said, shaking his head. “It’s crazy.”
“What do we do now?” Ann asked.
From across the room, Will Pruitt cleared his throat. “Unfortunately Ms. Garcia’s cell phone’s turned off so we can’t locate her via GPS. We put a bulletin out on her as a
person of interest
.”
“Can’t you put out a warrant for her arrest?” Ann asked.
“Ms. Garcia quitting her job is not a reason to arrest her,” Tom Long said. “Not yet, anyways. Remember, Mrs. Olson. Three other children are missing. It’s by no means a sure thing she took your son.”
Though Ann understood the police were trained to consider all the facts before arriving at a conclusion, the social worker had threatened to take Travis
and
she essentially announced her motive in the letter to her boss. Kika seemed to sincerely believe she was saving Travis from his parents.
“What about the video you got from the neighbors?” Richard asked the detectives. “Anything there?”
Tom Long shook his head. “One of the cameras was broken. The other, from down the street, didn’t capture anything useful.”
Ann let out a determined breath. “There’s something we should tell you about. After you left last night, my friend Nora March came over. She knows Kika from when Kika volunteered at San Diego County Orphanage. Nora’s trustee there.”
Tom Long looked interested. “March?” he said. “Any relation to Pastor March at New Way Evangelical?”
“Nora’s Chet’s mother,” Ann replied. “How do you know Chet?”
“His church organized a search for Sabeal Villarreal and for the other missing children. Nice group of people. Very dedicated.”
Detective Pruitt cleared his throat. “You were saying Nora March is a friend of yours?”
“My closest friend,” Ann said. “Last night Nora mentioned Kika has this boyfriend, Max Ruiz. He’s a businessman in Tijuana.” She proceeded to tell the detectives how Ruiz came into her gallery yesterday; how he had seemed to take an interest in Travis.
Detective Pruitt was jotting notes into a small booklet.
“Ruiz would know Kika’s whereabouts,” Richard added.
“Interesting information,” Tom Long said. “We’ll talk to the FBI. See if their liaison in Tijuana can make a connection.” His expression was reassuring as he stood up. “We’ll be back for the press conference in a few hours. See if we can’t get the public to help us out.”
Richard urged Ann to rest before they faced the media. She entered her son’s room and closed the door. She lowered herself onto his twin bed and reached for his beloved stuffed rabbit. Her eyes shut she hugged the toy to her chest. Travis’s sweet, childish scent was in his rabbit, his quilt. Turning, she pulled his pillow from underneath the blanket. Her face to the cool cotton, her breath came in fitful starts. Her son was unharmed—she refused to believe otherwise. After a while, she opened her eyes. Memories of her little boy and their happy times together were imprinted on every object in the room. On the Lego table where Travis spent countless hours building his whimsical creations. His bookcase full of the books he had handpicked himself. The corner where his crib usedto be. On the far wall where his changing table used to sit. On the sunlight streaming through the windows. On the very air itself.
The rabbit to her chest, Ann’s thoughts strayed to the days of her childhood before her parents divorced. A new pain welled within her as she remembered her flowered bedroom in the rambling country house she had shared with her parents. The humid mornings and the long, snapping sounds of the cicadas. The lazy summer days on the Hudson River. The warmth of the sun on her body as she lay on a rock after a swim. Wandering through sun-dappled woods looking for wildflowers. And then, the evenings on the back porch with her
“It’s like she’s on a crusade to save our son from
us
,” Richard said, shaking his head. “It’s crazy.”
“What do we do now?” Ann asked.
From across the room, Will Pruitt cleared his throat. “Unfortunately Ms. Garcia’s cell phone’s turned off so we can’t locate her via GPS. We put a bulletin out on her as a
person of interest
.”
“Can’t you put out a warrant for her arrest?” Ann asked.
“Ms. Garcia quitting her job is not a reason to arrest her,” Tom Long said. “Not yet, anyways. Remember, Mrs. Olson. Three other children are missing. It’s by no means a sure thing she took your son.”
Though Ann understood the police were trained to consider all the facts before arriving at a conclusion, the social worker had threatened to take Travis
and
she essentially announced her motive in the letter to her boss. Kika seemed to sincerely believe she was saving Travis from his parents.
“What about the video you got from the neighbors?” Richard asked the detectives. “Anything there?”
Tom Long shook his head. “One of the cameras was broken. The other, from down the street, didn’t capture anything useful.”
Ann let out a determined breath. “There’s something we should tell you about. After you left last night, my friend Nora March came over. She knows Kika from when Kika volunteered at San Diego County Orphanage. Nora’s trustee there.”
Tom Long looked interested. “March?” he said. “Any relation to Pastor March at New Way Evangelical?”
“Nora’s Chet’s mother,” Ann replied. “How do you know Chet?”
“His church organized a search for Sabeal Villarreal and for the other missing children. Nice group of people. Very dedicated.”
Detective Pruitt cleared his throat. “You were saying Nora March is a friend of yours?”
“My closest friend,” Ann said. “Last night Nora mentioned Kika has this boyfriend, Max Ruiz. He’s a businessman in Tijuana.” She proceeded to tell the detectives how Ruiz came into her gallery yesterday; how he had seemed to take an interest in Travis.
Detective Pruitt was jotting notes into a small booklet.
“Ruiz would know Kika’s whereabouts,” Richard added.
“Interesting information,” Tom Long said. “We’ll talk to the FBI. See if their liaison in Tijuana can make a connection.” His expression was reassuring as he stood up. “We’ll be back for the press conference in a few hours. See if we can’t get the public to help us out.”
Richard urged Ann to rest before they faced the media. She entered her son’s room and closed the door. She lowered herself onto his twin bed and reached for his beloved stuffed rabbit. Her eyes shut she hugged the toy to her chest. Travis’s sweet, childish scent was in his rabbit, his quilt. Turning, she pulled his pillow from underneath the blanket. Her face to the cool cotton, her breath came in fitful starts. Her son was unharmed—she refused to believe otherwise. After a while, she opened her eyes. Memories of her little boy and their happy times together were imprinted on every object in the room. On the Lego table where Travis spent countless hours building his whimsical creations. His bookcase full of the books he had handpicked himself. The corner where his crib usedto be. On the far wall where his changing table used to sit. On the sunlight streaming through the windows. On the very air itself.
The rabbit to her chest, Ann’s thoughts strayed to the days of her childhood before her parents divorced. A new pain welled within her as she remembered her flowered bedroom in the rambling country house she had shared with her parents. The humid mornings and the long, snapping sounds of the cicadas. The lazy summer days on the Hudson River. The warmth of the sun on her body as she lay on a rock after a swim. Wandering through sun-dappled woods looking for wildflowers. And then, the evenings on the back porch with her
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