“Sit down, sit down,” he said, indicating one of the two small sofas at right angles in the corner of the room. I took a seat, and Renfrew wheeled over his desk chair, all the while shooting concerned looks as Conklin directed the cops. They dropped file folders into boxes.
“Queensbury isn’t a secret,” Renfrew said. “I surely would have told you, but we closed that business because it failed.”
He showed me his palms as if to say there was nothing up his sleeves.
“I’m just a terrible businessman in a lot of ways,” Renfrew said.
“We need to talk to your wife,” I said.
“Of course, of course, and she wants to talk to you. She’s flying out from Zurich this evening.”
Renfrew’s open manner was so winning, I let him think he’d won. I smiled, then asked, “Do you know this child?”
Renfrew took the photo of the blond-haired, blue-green-eyed boy and scrutinized it.
“I don’t recognize him. Should I?”
Conklin came over with a cop in tow and several blue-covered ledgers under his arm.
“Mr. Renfrew, you’re prohibited from doing business for seventy-two hours, and that includes using your business phone. This is Officer Pat Noonan. His job is to make sure your business is closed until the warrant expires.”
“He’s staying here?”
“Until his relief comes in about eight hours. You know anything about football? Pat is a big fan of the Fighting Irish. Can talk your ear off if you let him.”
Noonan smiled, but Renfrew’s face went blank.
“And, Mr. Renfrew, don’t try to leave town. That would look really bad.”
Chapter 110
THE TENSION IN TRACCHIO’S OFFICE was almost unbearable. The insatiable media beast had been roaring at us nonstop for more than a week — on air, in the legit papers, and in supermarket tabloids. And we had no rebuttal.
A nineteen-year-old girl had been murdered. The child of a prominent family was missing and presumed dead.
It was a horrible feeling, and everyone in Tracchio’s office took it personally.
“Boxer, lay it out for the chief,” Jacobi instructed.
I gave Jacobi a look that said, I know what to do, Lieutenant.
I described what I had as I slapped each of our exhibits down on the desk. First, the copies of the kidnappers’ notes. Next, the photos of three children — Erica Whitten, Madison Tyler, and the unknown boy with the blue-green eyes.
I said, “We don’t know the identity of this little boy. Renfrew says he doesn’t know him, but the child’s picture was inside this ledger of his.”
Rich placed the Queensbury Register on the desk next to two of the Westwood Registers.
I said, “We know the Renfrews ran three consecutive nanny businesses — one in Boston, the one they’re running here, and an earlier service, the Queensbury Registry in Montreal.
“The Montreal police have a cold case,” I continued. “A little boy named André Devereaux was taken from a playground near his home two years ago. He had a nanny.”
“She came from the Queensbury Registry?”
“Yes, sir,” said Conklin. “I went over these ledgers. Between the rent, the cost of recruiting and importing girls from overseas, and the office and legal expenses — even with hefty place-ment fees — the Renfrews are hemorrhaging money.”
“And yet they keep working at it,” I said. “And you have to wonder why. Where’s the payoff?”
Lieutenant Macklin slid a photo printout over to Tracchio.