by A W Hartoin
“So,” I said, “you don’t like her at all. How come?”
“Like I said, super stuck up. I’m not good enough for her, you know?”
Good enough for what? Oh!
I took a leap and asked, “Why did she say no?”
“To what?”
“When you asked her out?”
He blushed furiously and asked, “How did you know?”
“She kinda seems like the type to say no to everyone,” I said to soothe his pride.
“Not everyone,” said Gareth with hurt plain in his voice.
“Who got in there?”
“Some old guy.”
Score!
“But she’s only twenty,” I said aghast.
Gareth warmed up to the subject and said, “I know. I asked her out and she acted like I shit on her shoe. But she’ll go out with some old dude just ’cause he’s got money. I’m not some loser. I’m going to school full-time. Pre-law.”
“I get it,” I said. “Tell me. Who’s this old guy? Does her mom know?”
“She didn’t tell her mom. That’s for sure. I only know because I heard her talking to MacKenzie.”
Gareth described a conversation with no particulars to my great disappointment. The girls referred to whoever Madison was with as Mr. Big and there was talk of a trip to Paris and Prague. Dinners and some clothes Mr. Big bought Madison.
“How do you know he was old?” I asked.
“Nobody in college is going to be taking a girl to Paris for the weekend and staying in some swanky hotel.”
“Isn’t travel pretty normal over here?”
“Sure, but it’s like this. I went to Amsterdam last weekend with a bunch of people. We stayed in a hostel. Madison wasn’t going to hostels or cheap hotels.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “Did she name the hotel?”
Gareth sneered. “No, but it was in St. Germain. That’s not super cheap. I stayed in a hostel last year and it only cost eighty-five bucks for three nights, but you’re not in the tourist area. Madison was bragging about how the hotel had a Nespresso in the room. Total tourist thing.”
I laughed. “I know, right. Europeans don’t care about coffee in the room.”
“It’s weird. Sometimes you get a kettle and tea though.
“That doesn’t do it for me,” I said. “It sounds like MacKenzie was impressed with the trips.”
“It’s not hard to impress MacKenzie,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s sweet but doesn’t get out much, ya know?”
“Is she around today?”
“No, she took some days off. I think her family went to Copenhagen.”
“Nice.”
“Copenhagen rocks. The pastry is rad.”
We yakked about pastry for a minute and then I asked for MacKenzie’s info. He had her phone number because sometimes he had to call her for work stuff. She lived in Dettenhausen, but he didn’t have an address, not that I needed him for that.
“She has another friend, Olivia Jones,” I said. “Do you know her?”
“Not really. She works at Burger King, but I’ve never talked to her.” He gave me a sly look and I knew what was coming. “Can I take a picture with you? Nobody’s going to believe that you interviewed me if I don’t have evidence.”
“I totally get it, but I want a favor in return.”
He shuffled his feet and said, “What?”
“Hold off on posting anything with me in it.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather stay on the downlow as much as possible.” I took some selfies with my phone and promised to send them to him if he stayed quiet about our interview for a couple days.
“You’ll know if I don’t?” Gareth asked.
“I will.”
He grinned at me. “That’s kinda cool.”
“A few more questions?”
“Sure. My Instagram is going to blow up.”
“Has Madison’s mood changed recently?” I asked.
Gareth thought about it and said, “I don’t know. She’s pretty fake. Always smiling no matter what.”
“What about after my attack and Mr. Thooft’s death?”
“Oh, yeah, but everybody was upset. A flipping teacher turns out to be a freak. It was crazy.”
“But Madison, in particular, was she upset when it happened?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. She was off that weekend. Pissed me off, too. She was already off on Sunday and then she called in sick on Saturday. I had to cover.”
“Do you think it was because she was upset about Mr. Thooft?” I asked. “She was in his class.”
Gareth shivered as a wind kicked up and blew snow in our faces. “I’ve gotta go. I told my mom I’d go to the commissary and it’s going to be packed.”
“Just a second. I swear,” I said. “Do you think it was about Mr. Thooft?”
He got in his Jeep and the old engine rumbled to life. I stepped in the way of the door closing and Gareth’s shoulder’s slumped. “No. She was probably at her other job.”
That’s new.
“What’s her other job?”
“She does inspections for housing,” said Gareth, cranking the heat.
“Two jobs and going to school,” I said. “That’s ambitious.”
“It’s greedy.”
“You wanted that job?”
“No way. But for months, she was begging for shifts and I was getting shorted on hours.” He reached for the door handle. “I gotta go.”
“I’ll give you a hundred euro if you tell me everything you know about Madison’s shifts,” I said.
“Dude. Really?”
I took out a hundred euro and held it up. “Really.”
Gareth told me every detail he could think of and he had a good memory when properly motivated. He didn’t know when Madison started dating the old guy, but Paris was in July. He remembered because it was boiling hot and she bragged how the hotel had air conditioning. Gareth thought it was idiotic to go to Paris in July. He was pretty sure there was a trip to Prague in August, also stupid in his opinion, but he didn’t remember what weekend she asked off for.
“When did she start asking for extra shifts?” I asked.
“Like September. She was kinda acting weird. MacKenzie said something about how she needed money, like it was a family thing or something. She got all the extra shifts. We were going to hire another person, but then she begged our boss just to let her do the shifts.”
“And she’s still doing that?”
“Hell, no. She quit that in like November and Eric, that’s our boss, had to hire somebody quick. All the sudden she didn’t need money anymore,” said Gareth.
There was a windfall named me.
“How did that go over?” I asked.
“I got a bunch of shifts until the new guy started. Now she’s at it again.”
“At what?”
“Asking for shifts. It’s not so bad because everyone wants to travel, but after Christmas it’s gonna suck. I’m so sick of her crap. I told her if you need money that bad you shouldn’t be buying purses and shit.”
She was rolling in Anton’s cash.
“Expensive purses?” I asked.
“Yeah. They sell them in the PX. She got one of the big ones. MacKenzie was all about it and then Madison tried to sell it to her for like three hundred bucks. It was freaking used.”
“Did MacKenzie buy it?” I asked.
“She doesn’t have money for that. She took a gap year to work so she can pay for college. She’s going to Notre Dame on a big scholarship, but her dad’s a master sergeant so they’re not exactly rolling in it.”
“Did Madison ever talk about Mr. Thooft? Ever?”
Gareth frowned and then said, “You know, I don’t think she did. Mackenzie was so upset. She really liked Mr. Thooft. She’s still upset, but I don’t think Madison said much.” Gareth’s phone buzzed and he took a look. “Shit. That’s my mom. I gotta go.”
I gave him th
e euro and my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
Gareth started to close the door and then stopped. “You think Madison had something to do with Mr. Thooft doing that to you, don’t you?”
“I think she’s in trouble, but I don’t know what kind yet,” I said.
“You’d think that old guy could’ve given her the money if she was having a problem. She said he was loaded. I wonder if she asked him.”
“That is a very good question.”
Gareth smiled and closed the door. He drove off in the increasing snowstorm and I made my way back up to Moe.
“Got yourself a good one, eh?” he asked.
“I did, but I’m freezing my feet off.”
“Starbucks?”
“Absolutely.”
We hurried inside and found a table in a secluded corner. Moe got me a hot chocolate that was nothing like Aaron’s, but it was hot and that was the most important thing. I told Moe what Gareth had to say and he got dark. It was unexpected.
“What?” I asked as I sipped the hot chocolate.
“It was money.”
“Looks like it.”
“You’re not upset?” Moe asked.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” I said. “Money seems reasonable. I mean, other than sex that’s the main motive for kidnappings. What did you think it was?”
“Something to do with The Bled Collection. You know things.”
“That’s what Chuck thinks, but there was a ton of activity after I was in St. Sebastian the first time. The Klinefeld Group was trying to get through my firewalls, my mom’s, The Girls’.”
“So?”
“So they could’ve made a play then. They were convinced I found something out,” I said.
“Did you?”
I thought about my great-grandparents’ effects from their plane crash that lead us to the liquor cabinet that ended up leading us nowhere.
“Sort of. But I don’t have what they want,” I said.
“Did you have it?” he asked.
“Nope, and I still don’t know exactly what they’re after.”
“Round and round.”
“It keeps going, but whatever they want is important enough to keep after since WWII. Going out on a limb here, but I’m guessing that if I found it, it would be big news. Nothing happened so…”
“So they don’t think you have it…yet.”
“That’s my take.”
Moe nodded. “I hate the money angle.”
“Why particularly?” I asked.
“We don’t do that kind of business. We never have. It offends Calpurnia, so it offends me,” said the aging mobster.
“Your world fascinates me.”
“You and everyone else,” he said with a small smile. “But it’s a lot more corporate than you think.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“That’s best.” He finished his latest espresso and asked, “What now?”
“Call Novak and then Hobbes,” I said.
“How about I call Novak and you call Hobbes,” said Moe.
“Deal.”
We left the PX while still on our phones. Madison was behind the counter at Pizza Hut and I took a second to look at her face. Gareth said she was all smiles no matter what and he was right. She was all smiles. You’d never know her life had gone to shit and I was pretty sure it had in a huge way.
Chapter Nineteen
Moe pulled into a small parking lot and we lucked into a parking space that was both angled and inconvenient to get into and out of.
“This better be the place because the parking is the pits,” grumbled Moe.
I pointed at a plain grey building that I admit didn’t look like it housed a restaurant. “There’s the sign.”
“It says motor sports or something.”
“Under that sign. Hello. Indian restaurant.”
Moe shut off the car and said, “Why did it have to be Indian? We could’ve found some good Italian.”
“Because Hobbes wanted Indian and he’s helping us out.” I got out and practically dragged my elderly bodyguard toward the stairs.
“We’re helping him out,” said Moe. “He had no clue that one of his kids is a criminal.”
“I don’t know that Jake is, but we’re buying lunch.”
“Indian gives me issues.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“Yes, you will,” said Moe, and he opened the door to what looked a bit like the inside of a small mall. “Wrong place. Just the sports place. Dagnabbit.”
“Alright, Yosemite Sam. See the rickshaw,” I said. “I think we’re on to something.”
We turned to the restaurant entrance and Moe said, “It was Elmer Fudd.”
“Are you sure?”
He muttered under his breath ala Yosemite Sam until we found Hobbes sitting at a table with drinks and a plate with the biggest slab of naan bread I’d ever seen. The counselor jumped up and shook our hands. “Glad you could come. I’m really a face-to-face kind of guy. You just can’t get a read on the phone.”
We sat down and Moe asked, “A read on what?”
“How serious it is? We take the mental health of our students very seriously,” said Hobbes. “I ordered mango lassis for you and you can’t come here and not order naan. It’s practically a law.”
“No complaints here.” I tore off a piece and it should be a law. Best naan ever.
Moe took a sip of the mango lassi. “I hope this doesn’t put me on the toilet for a day and a half.”
“You’re safe,” said Hobbes. “So, Mercy, you said you had more information.”
“I do. Are you ready?” I asked because the counselor was so tense I could see the corded muscles on his forearms through his long sleeve tee. Fats would’ve been impressed.
“You don’t have a name?”
“I have two names.” I told him that Madison and Jake Purcell were our targets and, leaving out exactly how I got the information, I told him why we were completely sure that it was them.
The waiter came with menus and Moe grumbled until I ordered mild butter chicken for him and vowed to find some German Pepto-Bismol if required. The waiter gave me a look and I returned an apologetic smile.
Please don’t spit in my food.
I ordered dal and more naan and then Hobbes ordered something that sounded like it might blow off the top of his head, but he said he liked his food serious. The waiter nodded, unconvinced, and left us alone.
“I think you’re wrong,” said Hobbes.
“Then you’d be wrong,” said Moe. “This cupcake knows her business.”
“What did I say about the cupcake thing?” I asked.
“What did I say about Indian food and my intestines? It seems we both don’t listen.”
I groaned and looked at Hobbes. “Why do you think I’m wrong?”
“Madison and Jake are both mine. I have the Ps. They’re good kids. No problems at all. Good grades. Teachers like them.”
“Did Anton like them?” I asked.
Hobbes twitched and there it was. He knew something. He didn’t want to, but he did.
“Well?”
“I don’t know about Madison. She was in his AP class and did well.”
“She got a 4. I know,” I said. “What about tutoring? Did she do that?”
He frowned. “Probably. The ones that are serious do, but that doesn’t make her special.”
Her.
“So why was Jake special?” I asked and Moe made an approving noise in the back of his throat that sounded a lot like Pickpocket about to get a treat.
“I didn’t say he was,” said Hobbes, avoiding my eyes.
“The kid is suicidal over this, so it stands to reason,” I said.
“I read that stuff you were talking about. It doesn’t mean anything necessarily.”
I sat back and picked up my lassi. Hobbes had sweat on his brow, just a light sheen, but it was definitely there. “Nobody’s
blaming you.”
“Me? How could I have known about any of this?”
“You couldn’t, but you did notice something was going on, didn’t you?”
Hobbes beat around about sixteen bushes, but he finally came out with it. Jake Purcell was a good kid, but perhaps not a typical one. He had few friends and rarely spoke. Several teachers had tried reaching out, and his mother had been in several times seeking guidance, but Jake wasn’t interested in help. Hobbes thought that he was probably on the autism spectrum, but Jake had never been tested. Anton had him in his government class and the two had clicked. Jake ate lunch in his room every day, whether he was leading a tutoring session for the AP students or not. They often took walks after school and Anton got him involved with the yearbook staff since he had an eye for design and graphics.
“Do you think…” Hobbes choked up and I got it.
“No, nothing like that,” I said quickly.
“Oh, you think Thooft was a sicko,” said Moe.
Hobbes took a deep breath and asked, “Was he?”
“I’ve seen zero evidence that Anton was anything but a stellar teacher. Put your mind at rest on that score.”
“Can I ask you something?” The wide marine looked oddly uncomfortable.
“Sure,” I said.
“Why do you call Thooft Anton? I mean, after what he did…it seems familiar and almost kind.”
“He was a person and he wasn’t the instigator of this nightmare. I suspect he would’ve avoided it if he thought he could,” I said.
Hobbes nodded. “Remarkably understanding.”
“Oh, I don’t understand,” I said, “and I’m still pretty upset.”
“Sympathy for the devil.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way, but I guess so.”
The waiter brought our food and through the steam, I saw Hobbes relax a little but not completely.
“What else?” I asked.
He scooped up a fiery curry with some naan and said, “Nothing else.”
“Oh, come on. I saw your face when I said Jake’s name. What else?”
Through bites of curry, Hobbes revealed that he’d seen a change in Jake in the time since Anton’s death. He stopped going to yearbook and once he found him standing in the bathroom during lunch. Just standing there. Waiting. He couldn’t be persuaded to come out and as far as Hobbes could tell, he didn’t eat. He was waiting for lunch to be over so he could go back to class. When Hobbes tried to talk to him, Jake flat out refused to say a word.