Chapter Twenty

A gust of cold air rocked the jetway as Evan, Brett, and HSI Special Agent Andrea Nunez waited for the Boeing 757's door to open. Through the control booth windows, he glimpsed the darkening gray sky. Twinkling white lights indicated other aircraft inbound to Denver International Airport.

This wasn't how he'd planned on spending the evening. Shooting pool with Marlie and Noah or teaching Noah to play piano had been on the agenda. Weird how things had changed in such a short time.

Aside from Blue, his nights were typically spent alone, working on his laptop. Now all he could think of was getting home to Marlie and Noah, which was exactly why he'd opted to relay his message through Deck. If he'd spoken with Marlie, he'd risk getting distracted. They weren't even dating, and just thinking about her could twist his brain into knots.

The jetway operator waited for the flight attendant to unlock the door from the inside before pulling the exterior handle and swinging the door open. According to flight records, the Constantinos had first class tickets.

Courtesy of DMV and Homeland Security passport photos, Evan knew what his target looked like. That and he would probably remember the guy from when he'd cleaned his family's pool. As passengers deplaned, he scanned their faces for the sixty-nine-year-old man with graying hair and brown eyes. Barely a minute passed before he spotted him. He looked the same, just older.

"Mr. Constantino?" He discreetly held up his badge. "I'm with the FBI. We'd like to speak with you."

"The FBI ?" Constantino's brows drew together, looking like thick gray caterpillars. "What's this about?"

Behind him, passengers continued lining up. This wasn't a conversation he had any intention of having with a planeload of people eavesdropping.

"Artie." Constantino's wife grabbed at his arm. "I told you not to hide that ouzo in your bag. Now we're going to have pay taxes and a fine for not declaring it."

Brett snorted. Agent Nunez grinned.

Evan couldn't care less if the man's entire carry-on was packed with smuggled booze, but if that's what it took to expedite getting him into an interview room, he'd go with it. "Let's talk someplace privately."

Five minutes later, Agent Nunez led them into a small room with a metal table and four chairs. Attached to the wall by the table was a heavy ring embedded in a stud behind the sheet rock. Hooked to the ring was a short chain for securing a suspect with handcuffs.

"Text me when you're done here," Nunez said as she closed the door.

Evan indicated Constantino and his wife should sit. He and Brett took chairs on the opposite side of the table.

"I'd like to see your passports." He waited for the couple to produce the documents, then inspected them, verifying their IDs. He handed them to Brett.

Marianne Constantino leaned her forearms on the table. "Is this really about the bottles of ouzo?"

"No, ma'am. It's not." He searched their faces, watching their body language for signs of nervousness. "We're investigating the disappearance of children all over Colorado."

Mrs. Constantino's brows shot to her hairline. "That's terrible."

"What does that have to do with us?" Like his wife, Constantino leaned forward.

"You used to own a pool cleaning company. Blue Waters. Correct?"

"Yes." He sat back, his frown deepening. "What does that have to do with missing children?"

Ignoring the man's question, Evan pressed on. "How long ago did you close your company?"

"About five years ago."

He took the folder Brett handed him. Inside were color copies of all the children who went missing while Blue Waters was still in business—including Gracie—and spread them on the table. "During the time you owned Blue Waters, did you talk to any of these children?"

Constantino and his wife looked at all the photos. Finally, he shook his head. "I don't know. In thirty years of cleaning pools, I'm sure I met a lot of kids. Maybe even one of these. But I can't remember."

Nothing about the man's responses or his demeanor pinged Evan's radar, but with at least eight missing kids' families using Blue Waters to clean their pools, there had to be a connection. "Did you ever spend time talking to kids while you were working?"

"Probably some, sure." He held out his arms. "But mainly I just wanted to get the job done and move on to the next customer."

"Did you ever convince a child to meet you somewhere?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Constantino shouted. "I would never do such a thing, and I resent the implication."

Mrs. Constantino shot Evan a dirty look. "That's disgusting."

Yeah, it was. By no means was he done with his questioning, but so far nothing the man said seemed untruthful.

"Did you have any other employees besides yourself?" He already knew Constantino occasionally sent a helper to clean his family's pool—a younger guy but not Frank Manello.

"No." Constantino swallowed, avoiding eye contact with Evan for the first time since the interview began. "I worked alone."

There it was. The bullshit . Manello had never been on the Blue Waters payroll, but something was off here. He pulled out the folded DMV picture of Frank Manello, unfolded it, and set it in front of Constantino. "Do you recognize this man?"

Constantino's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. Mrs. Constantino twisted her lips, watching her husband intently.

"Do you know who this is?" At this point, Evan was positive they did.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Artie." Mrs. Constantino rolled her eyes. "It was so long ago. You can't get in trouble for that. Just tell them."

Constantino hung his head. "That's my wife's nephew, Frank."

"Frank Manello?" Evan asked, needing a full ID.

"Yeah." He nodded.

"Did he work for you at Blue Waters?" Evan asked, and again, Constantino nodded, clinching the link between Frank Manello and the other missing children. "You paid him under the table in cash." Hence, why there were no payroll records for Manello working for Blue Waters, and why Constantino had initially lied. "Didn't you?"

"Yeah. He needed the money. He didn't have a pot to piss in."

"It wasn't his fault." Mrs. Constantino rested a hand on her husband's shoulder. "It was mine. After Manny was arrested for burglary, he couldn't get any work. My sister begged me to talk to Artie about giving him a job."

An image—one so hazy and buried down deep in his subconscious—sharpened at light speed in Evan's memory. He whipped his head to stare at Mrs. Constantino. " What did you call him?" He pointed to the photo.

"Manny," she answered. "Everyone called him that. We still do. That's not a good picture of him. He hasn't aged well at all. He used to be such a good-looking kid. All the girls used to chase after him. He had the gift of gab, you know? He was always so good with people."

Fury threatened to cloud his vision to the point where he could barely see. The guy he and his sister knew twenty-five years ago who cleaned their pool called himself Manny . Not Frank. He remembered the guy being real chatty with Gracie.

Manny was probably a nickname for Manello, but he had to be sure.

"Mrs. Constantino, is there any chance you have old photos of Manny on your phone?" Say, from around twenty-five years ago?

"I don't know. I can check." She began scrolling through her phone. "If I don't have one on my phone, I'm sure I have some at home in an old album, and, of course, my sister has a lot of old photos of her kids."

Constantino scratched his chin. "I remember we used to set up one of the kids' phones on a timer, so we could take family photos at Christmas."

"Here we go!" Mrs. Constantino handed Evan her phone. "It's not a clear picture, but that's him, second from the left."

Evan took a deep breath to calm his bowstring-taut nerves from snapping in two. Using his thumb and forefinger, he expanded the image, gripping the phone so hard the tips of his fingers turned white.

Like Mrs. Constantino had said, the image wasn't particularly clear, but it was clear enough. Standing second from the left was the pool cleaner he'd known as Manny, aka Frank Manello.

He handed the phone back, then dug out one of his business cards and wrote his cell number on the back. "Would you forward that photo to me?"

Mrs. Constantino looked to her husband, who shrugged. "Do it, Marianne. Whatever trouble Manny's in is his own fault. You know that."

A moment later, Evan's phone buzzed with the photo Mrs. Constantino sent him.

Barely able to keep it together, he focused on the essentials. "When's the last time either of you saw or heard from Manny?"

Constantino shrugged as he looked at his wife. "What would you say? Close to five years ago?"

Mrs. Constantino nodded. "When Artie retired, he gave all his supplies and tools to Manny. After that, Manny started his own company. Artie helped him set everything up and convinced him he had to do it legally. I don't think we've seen him since, although my sister talks with him occasionally."

Brett took out a small pad from his pocket, along with a pen, and handed both to Mrs. Constantino. "Ma'am, could you write down your sister's name, address, and telephone number for us?"

"Well, I guess so." She looked at her husband, who nodded. A few moments later, she'd scribbled on the pad and pushed it back to Brett.

"Do either of you have Manny's number in your phones?" Evan asked.

"I do." Constantino tugged a phone from his pocket, then pulled up the number for Brett to copy down.

"Call him, please." If the guy answered, he'd try to get Constantino to find out where he was. "Don't say anything about us being here with you. Subtly, I need you to find out where is. If he won't say, invite him over for a beer, or a family reunion barbecue. Think you can do that?"

After a moment, Constantino nodded and placed the call, which went immediately to a computer-generated voicemail recording.

Knowing he was in water hot enough to boil his nuts off, Evan didn't think Manello would be so stupid as to walk around with his phone on, but they could keep trying to ping it later for a location.

He indicated for Brett to hand the Constantinos back their passports.

Mrs. Constantino's eyes filled with worry. "Is Manny really involved with these missing children?"

More than Evan could say. He resisted the urge to clench his hands into tight fists.

After nearly a quarter century, he finally knew who was responsible for Gracie's disappearance. Now he just had to find the sonofabitch.