While Everyone Was Sleeping

by Donald Collins

  “On Mondays I clean the two bathrooms,” the thin, olive-skinned woman told him. “I clean the two bedrooms and the living room on Thursdays and I concentrate on the kitchen on Fridays.”

  “Uh huh. Tell me about Monday, the week Jake disappeared.”

  “When I got there on Monday that week Jake’s bedroom door was closed. Susan told me I could skip his room. She said the little guy had a restless night and she was letting him sleep later than usual.”

  “The little guy? Her words or yours?”

  “Hers,” Francine answered. “That was her favorite nickname for him - the little guy.”

  “Did that seem odd?” Danski asked. “That she said to skip his room?”

  “Not really,” Francine answered. “I have children, so I understood.”

  “To your knowledge, did Jake have many restless nights where he needed to catch up on his sleep the next day?”

  Francine shook her head. “This was the first I was aware of.”

  When asked if Jake came out of his room while she was there that morning Francine said that he didn’t.

  “When did you get there and when did you leave?” Danski asked.

  “I arrived just after seven, like I normally do. As usual, Susan and I started the morning off with coffee and some small-talk. I left at eleven, or thereabouts.”

  “In that case, you didn’t see Jake at all that week?”

  “That’s correct, Detective. I actually hadn’t seen him since the previous Friday, and then only briefly.”

  ***

  Delores DeMarco had a telephone to her ear when she answered her door. Danski identified himself and said he only had a few questions and wouldn’t take up much of her time.

  “I’ve got to go,” the dark-haired, middle-age woman told whoever was on the other end of her phone call. “I’ll call you right back.”

  She opened her door fully. “Please come in, Detective.”

  As promised, Danski was brief. He verified that Delores had been working for Susan for six years and confirmed that she picked up samples at Susan’s apartment around noon time on Monday, three days before Jake disappeared, and brought them to a client’s residence.

  “What time did you get to Susan’s apartment and how long did you stay?” Danski asked.

  Delores stared out her living room window as she thought. “If I remember correctly, I got there at noon and stayed a very short period of time,” She twisted her mouth and then shrugged. “Susan had the samples ready for me when I got there. We chit-chatted for a very short period of time as we looked over the samples. I don’t think I was there for more than ten minutes, fifteen at the most.”

  “Did you see Jake at all while you were there that day?”

  Delores shook her head. “His bedroom door was closed. Susan told me he had a restless night and she wanted to let him sleep.”

  ***

  Litchfield found a parking space off Central Park West. He was pretty sure that Lydia Montgomery’s building had parking for residents and guests under the building, but street parking spots were like hen’s teeth in that part of town and when he saw an open space he couldn’t pass it up. He grabbed his notebook from the passenger seat and stuck it in his jacket pocket before getting out.

  ***

  “Miss Montgomery is in the penthouse,” a tall, imposing, dark-haired doorman answered when Litchfield identified himself and asked for Lydia Montgomery. His name badge said THOMAS. Litchfield wondered if that was his first or last name but didn’t ask.

  “This building’s massive.” Litchfield said as he stepped back and took in the twelve-story limestone structure.

  Thomas smiled. “Yes, I agree. We have over a hundred residents including the penthouse.”

  “It’s a shame the building doesn’t provide more shade for you.”

  Thomas shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me at all. I can always step inside when I need to.”

  Litchfield was fascinated by Thomas’ mustache, how it rose and fell as he talked. He seemed to enjoy gabbing and Litchfield wished he had more questions for him. He knew that guys like Thomas had a head full of information and observations, and you never know what they might divulge once they began talking.

  “Has Mrs. Montgomery lived in the building long?” Litchfield asked.

  “Fifteen years,” Thomas answered. “She moved in a month after I started here.”

  “She had her apartment redecorated about five years ago,” Litchfield said. “Do you remember the designer, Miss Whitlock?”

  “Yes, of course, Miss Whitlock,” Thomas answered quickly. “I have her card at my desk inside. She was here for more than a week directing the delivery people and the men who removed the old furniture.” Thomas smiled. “Out with the old, in with the new. She had an assistant, a shorter woman with dark hair that was in and out of the building constantly.”

  “That would have been Delores DeMarco, her right-hand woman, so to speak,” Litchfield said. “I’m impressed that you remember that far back.”

  “That’s what I do, Detective. And five years isn’t really that long ago.”

  “Is Ms. Montgomery home this morning?”

  “Yes, she is Detective. Please wait while I call and let her know you’re here to see her.”

  Litchfield followed Thomas to his desk located just inside the front door. Thomas pressed a few buttons on the phone and then held up his index finger when Litchfield attempted a question.

  “There’s a detective here to see you, Ms. Montgomery. He’s from the Cold Case Squad. He wants to ask you about the Whitlock boy.”

  After disconnecting, Thomas gestured to the elevators. “Ms. Montgomery is expecting you, Detective. She’s in the penthouse.”

  Litchfield had his gold shield and police identification ready when Montgomery opened her door holding a brown shih tzu with white paws. “Say good morning to the nice detective, Gracie,” Montgomery said after inspecting Litchfield’s credentials carefully. Gracie barked twice and was rewarded with a small biscuit.

  “She’s a beautiful dog,” Litchfield said. “A Shih tzu, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Montgomery said, and then scratched the fur under Gracie’s neck. “Shih tzu’s are known as the Chrysanthemum Dogs.”

  “Interesting,” Litchfield said. He followed Montgomery through a short hallway to her spacious living room. He was surprised by her grace and fluid movement. Unusual for a woman her age, he thought. He assumed she was in her mid to late eighties.

  “Please sit, Detective. Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured to a brown chair that didn’t look too comfortable. “Now, tell me how I can help you. You said you’re with the Cold Case Squad. That sounds like very exciting work.”

  “It can be,” Litchfield replied. “I’m investigating the disappearance of Jacob Whitlock. I’m sure you remember that.”

  “Yes, of course. It was such a terrible time for Susan. She and I have grown quite close since that time. She was here renovating my apartment that week. I remember it well. She battled through her emotions from the moment she walked in the door until the minute she left. Look around you, Detective. Susan has elegant taste, hasn’t she?”

  “Exceptional,” Litchfield said. He took in the faux wood blinds and pleated red drapes with a polite smile.

  “That’s an Edward Wormley lounge chair you’re sitting in,” Montgomery said smugly. “It’s an extremely rare piece of furniture. Susan picked it out especially for me. Isn’t it lovely?”

  “Very,” Litchfield said.

  She directed Litchfield’s attention to an unlit lamp on a side table. “And that’s an alabaster and patinated bronze lamp. And those are Boch Freres Kerams vases,” she said pointing to a mahogany side table. “They’re part of an overall design Susan brought to the penthouse. She never ceases to amaze me with her marvelous work.” Montgomery sighed heavily. “It’s like having my own personal Martha Stewart at my disposal. I love how she introduced colors and hues that bring everything tog
ether.”

  “Yes, I agree, Susan puts wonderful schemes and combinations together. It’s all very impressive.” Litchfield said. “Of course, that’s coming from a guy who shops at IKEA.”

  Montgomery waved her hand in the air. “There’s nothing wrong with IKEA,” she said with a condescending smile.

  “What days was Susan here during the week her son disappeared?”

  “She was here briefly on Monday to drop off a few samples and again on Tuesday to confirm colors and patterns.”

  “Do you recall her demeanor on those days?”

  “Her demeanor?” Montgomery repeated.

  “Yes, did she seem alert and focused, on the ball and anxious to get started on the project?”

  “No, not really now that I think about it. She didn’t seem herself. Her mind seemed to be somewhere else.”

  “Did she explain herself?”

  Montgomery shook her head. “Susan is always so professional, always so serious and demanding of herself. I asked her to sit down and relax but she said she didn’t have time to relax. She had a million things to do before she’d be able to start on my apartment. She walked through my apartment sketching on one of those over-sized pads designers use, making notes about colors and such. She was here for about forty minutes or thereabout making preparations to begin the project the following week.”

  “And did she start on schedule?”

  “No,” Montgomery answered. “She called me the morning she was to start and told me about Jacob’s disappearance. I told her to tend to whatever business she had to take care of before she started her work here. My penthouse can wait, I told her. It will always be here. I’m so glad we waited. As you can see, she did a magnificent job for me.”

  “Did Susan talk much about Jacob when she came back and got started on the project?” Litchfield asked.

  Montgomery shook her head. “She didn’t mention him, and of course I never asked.”

  “You said you and Susan have grown very close since that time.”

  “Yes, we’re both women who have suffered greatly in our lives.”

  It was obvious Montgomery had nothing worthwhile to contribute. Litchfield needed to get out of there before she began talking about the heartache and sorrow she’d endured in her lifetime.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Montgomery. I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me.” Litchfield extended his hand to meet hers.

  “Good luck, Detective. I hope you find Jacob or at least get to the bottom of this terrible crime.”

  “We intend to,” Litchfield assured her.

  “Say goodbye to the nice detective, Gracie.”

  “Someone who knows too much finds it hard not to lie.”

  - Ludwig Wittgenstein -

  Philosopher

  Chapter Six

  Danski and Litchfield compared notes when they met back at the office at three-fifteen. Litchfield described Montgomery as a pompous socialite who enjoyed bragging about her furnishings and bric-a-brac, but didn’t want him to go near any of it.

  “I think she was afraid I’d knock something over. I guess I don’t look like the graceful type.”

  Danski grinned. “What’d she say about Susan?”

  “She said Susan was at her apartment on Monday and Tuesday the week before the disappearance, but only briefly. She said Susan brought over paint samples and catalogs of furniture and art she wanted to introduce in her scheme of things.”

  “Susan told us Delores also brought samples and catalogs over there.”

  “Yes, the doorman confirmed that. Montgomery said they delayed the project another week following Jake’s disappearance.”

  “I’m surprised that’s all the time she needed to clear her mind and get back on her feet,” Danski said.

  “Work-therapy, apparently,” Litchfield said. “Susan told Montgomery she couldn’t remain idle. She had to keep working in order to get through the ordeal. She said her reputation is on the line every time she undertakes a new assignment. According to Montgomery she and Susan became very close in the weeks that followed.”

  “Francine and Delores were both at Susan’s apartment the days before Susan reported her son missing, but neither of them saw Jake,” Danski said. “Susan told both of them that Jake needed to catch-up on his sleep. She said he woke up during the night after a bad dream.”

  “We’ve been told many things about the night Jake disappeared that don’t add up,” Litchfield said. “The door to the apartment was double locked. There was no way in and no way out, yet somehow Jake disappeared. And now we learn that two people who came to Susan’s apartment on a regular basis didn’t see Jake at all that week.”

  Danski ran the palm of his hand across his mouth. “It’s apparent that Susan hasn’t been completely forthcoming with us. That story about Jake being in his room for a nap when Francine and Delores were there, and then being kidnapped during the night sound contrived.”

  “But why would she lie?” Litchfield asked.

  “Francine and Delores both told me there was no question that Susan loved and adored Jake. Neither of them ever saw her mistreat Jake or chastise him.”

  “Life can become overwhelming for a middle-age single mother running a business and raising a four-year-old son sixteen months after her husband was killed in a hunting accident,” Litchfield said. “The burden might have become too much for her to deal with.”

  “I hope we don’t have another Casey Anthony on our hands,” Danski said.

  Litchfield nodded grimly. “Casey Anthony was some piece of work, wasn’t she? She drove those poor detectives in Florida nuts with her lies. The investigation into her daughter Caylee’s disappearance went on for so long because everything Casey said was a lie. It didn’t matter whether she was talking with the police, the press, her parents or one of her friends. She lied to anyone that would listen to her.”

  “She’s not alone in that regard,” Danski said. “There are many people out there who aren’t capable of telling the truth. They’ve been lying for so long it’s second nature.”

  “Florida detectives had everything they needed for an arrest, and when Anthony continued to lie, they just kept building their case,” Litchfield said.

  “Or so they thought. Anthony got herself a half-way decent lawyer and a sympathetic jury that bought into the reasonable doubt theory and she got away with it.”

  “Like everyone else, I thought she was guilty as hell, but the jury said the prosecution didn’t prove their case.”

  “I hope we’re wrong here,” Danski said.

  “I do too,” Litchfield said. “But we can’t rule out the possibility that Susan killed the boy and disposed of his body the week before she reported him missing.”

  “There are other possibilities, of course,” Danski said. “Central Park is a short walk from Susan’s apartment building - only a couple of blocks actually. There are a million creeps and degenerates hanging around the park, lurking in the background day in and day out. Susan might have taken Jake there or to another public place just to get out in the sunshine and fresh air and some sick son of a bitch might have seen Jake and followed them home and then waited for a chance to take him.”

  “I’m more inclined to believe that Susan killed Jake and did away with his body,” Litchfield said. “If Susan was as overwhelmed as we’ve been led to believe with the loss of her husband and keeping her business going, Jake might have gotten in the way.”

  “But would she kill him? Danski asked. “I don’t know about that. I’m more inclined to think that if she became overwhelmed with everything that was going on in her life and needed her freedom, she would have found an unscrupulous lawyer and arranged an adoption.”

  “There’s enough of them out there,” Litchfield said. “And a lot of couples that would love to have a four-year-old son. Susan might have agreed to be part of an illegal adoption as long as she felt the couple was going to provide a good, loving home for Jake.”

  “But if tha
t’s true why did she come to us when she knew the case was put on a shelf and would likely never be investigated again?”

  “Never underestimate the power of a guilty conscience,” Litchfield answered. “Did you notice she sought you out four days before the fifth anniversary of Jake’s disappearance? Her guilt might have become too overwhelming to deal with any longer. Her conscience might have nagged her so much that she needed to talk about it with someone. She might have been able to live with the guilt and remorse for just so long before it all caught up with her.”

  “So far she’s been very willing to talk with us about Jake’s disappearance,” Danski said.

  “Yes, she talked with us,” Litchfield said. “But she never said anything substantial. She hasn’t given us anything to work with, nothing we can use to figure out what really went on in her apartment that night. She’s told us only what she told Latimer, no more, no less. She might not have been able to admit what she did, but she still needed to talk with someone about it again, so she came to you. She just had to be careful not to divulge anything that would arouse your suspicion that she might have been involved. She might have told the same story so many times that she eventually believed it herself.”

  “I played the 911 tape several times and she definitely sounded frantic,” Danski said. “Her voice sounded very sincere and convincing.”

  “The worst case scenario is that Jake is dead,” Litchfield said. “The best is that someone adopted him and Jake is now part of a loving family. We can’t wait around hoping Susan will suddenly open up and tell us what really went on that night and what actually happened to Jake.”

  “We were pretty easy on her today,” Danski said. “It’s time to take the kid gloves off. When we go back there tomorrow, we have to pressure her until we’re sure she’s told us everything she knows about Jake’s disappearance.”

  Chapter Seven

  Flushing, Queens

  Late That Afternoon