Danski pulled into a narrow driveway alongside a run-down clapboard house in northern Queens. As he got out, his gaze drifted to an overgrown privet hedge on the right side of the property and a lively red maple that needed pruning. He realized the place was no palace, but it was where he laid his head at night. He’d made a list of things that needed to be repaired or replaced, but none were considered a priority. He would get to all of them sooner or later. He had planned to paint the rooms on the ground floor this year and the bedrooms upstairs next year. He was also thinking of replacing the kitchen flooring with a durable ceramic wood grain tile, preferably a light gray driftwood, and then update the second-floor bathroom with a glazed ceramic tile on the floor and subway tiles on the shower walls. But he had cases to work on that demanded his full attention, and he never got around to any of those projects.
A year ago, his six-year-old daughter Brittany would be standing on the porch of their Middle Village home eight miles away on the edge of Queens, eagerly waiting for him to pull into their wide driveway. She would run to him with her arms stretched out when he got out of the car and headed up the walk. Christina would be in the kitchen getting dinner ready and she would stop, wipe her hands on a dish towel and then smile as she turned her cheek. He would kiss her and ask what was for dinner, and she would always say she’d made his favorite dish. “That doesn’t smell like meatloaf,” he’d respond and they would both laugh. But those days were gone now. He had to get used to no one greeting him when he climbed the front steps and opened the door of the run-down two-bedroom handyman special he bought right after his divorce was final.
He checked the mailbox on his way inside and shuffled the envelopes as he walked through a short hallway. When he reached the kitchen, he tossed the envelopes on the table and loosened his tie. He snatched six cold beers from the bottom shelf of his refrigerator and put them in a cooler that he filled with ice and carried out back to a small fishing dock that he built a week after he moved in. He went back to the house for his Shakespeare reel and rod and a tin of bait he picked up on the way home. After casting his line thirty feet out into the calm waters of Flushing Bay he dropped his tired two-hundred-pound frame into a folding beach-chair and then pulled a Heinekens from the cooler. The first beer of the day went down smoothly as he let his mind wander and waited for some action on his line. Fishing had always been a relaxing and rewarding diversion when something weighed heavily on his mind, and this time it was the Whitlock case.
He had been an avid fisherman all his life. In his early-teen years he and his cousin Joe often took his uncle’s small boat to the southeastern area of Queens and fished under the landing path of JFK Airport where the dumps and marshlands of Hook Creek met the head of Jamaica Bay. When they couldn’t get the boat, he and Joe fished for striped bass, fluke and porgies off the docks at Marina 59 on Beach 3rd Street or the Seaway Marina in the Arverne section of Far Rockaway, a mile from the bungalow community where he grew up. It was a middle-class neighborhood, where everyone’s father was a civil servant or a union worker like his own father who was with the Steamfitters. All the bungalows were the same size: twenty feet wide by thirty feet deep with a six-foot space between them and for the most part they were well maintained. Steve and Christina both attended Far Rockaway High and began dating in their junior year. Most of their friends joined the military or went off to college after graduation, never to return to the rapidly declining beach town. Steve was one of the exceptions. Following his army discharge he came back to the Rockaway peninsula and was shocked to find how badly the family bungalow had fallen into disrepair. His father’s health at the time was so bad that he was unable to take on any of the repairs. Steve took it upon himself to completely gut the structure and restore his childhood home to a rock-solid structure that’s been strong enough to withstand hurricanes and brutal winters ever since. His father passed away before the two-year renovation was completed, but his mother survived him and enjoys her senior years there today.
High and low points of his two tours in Iraq as an Army Ranger came to him as he threw back his second Heinekens. Battlefield memories blended with recollections of his heroics while a patrol officer in Queens and Manhattan that landed him in the detective division. He was assigned to a Jamaica squad before being transferred to the Queens Robbery Unit where he was later partnered with Gregory. The Weinstein case came to the forefront as it did most nights when he sat drinking beer and reminiscing. He had investigated several tough cases in his time, but none had left its mark like the Weinstein case. Christina said the Weinstein case changed him. She said she saw a different side of him then, and she didn’t like what she saw. “Nothing mattered to you except finding Barbara Weinstein eight years after she was abducted from her Douglaston home,” Christina told him. She claimed he shut her and the rest of the world out of his head until the case was closed and Barbara Weinstein was reunited with her heart-broken parents.
“You were married to the Weinstein case,” Christina complained. “I was just your mistress.”
“It was just one case,” he argued when she threatened divorce. “The Weinstein investigation is over now.”
But there would be other cases just as compelling she told him, and she refused to go through the nightmare again. Raymond Chandler was right, Danski thought. A really good detective never gets married.
He knew the police department wasn’t what made him so intense and passionate about his work. It was just the way he was wired. He thought of his partner as he tossed an empty can in the trash and pulled another cold one from the cooler. He wondered how Gregory was able to channel his passion and fervor, how he could flip the switch when the shift was over. He envied that.
He drifted off to sleep but woke up just after midnight. It was the third night in a row he had fallen asleep on the dock. He went inside, showered, and then put a Marie Calendar Chicken Parmigiana dinner in his microwave. He laid the open file on his kitchen table and went over it as he ate. The more he read the more it seemed impossible for Jake to have disappeared the way Susan had told them it happened. Gregory’s suspicions might be right on target, he thought. Susan might be the one they should concentrate on. She might be the one responsible for Jake’s disappearance and it was only her feeling of guilt that forced her to come to him. Nothing else made sense.
Chapter Eight
“The release forms you asked me to type up are on your desk,” Washington told Danski when he got off the elevator and passed her desk the following morning.
“Excellent, Shameka. Thank you.”
Danski went directly to the credenza. He filled a mug and carried it to his desk. Litchfield was already at his desk reviewing the Whitlock file while he sipped his coffee. Before sitting, Danski glanced at Quinn’s glass-enclosed office and saw Quinn finish a phone conversation and stand. He pulled his door open and headed in their direction carrying his own mug of coffee. He rested it on an empty desk near Danski’s desk and then sat.
“The clock is ticking on the Whitlock case,” Quinn said. “It’s become a hot topic at the Comstat meetings lately. I just got off the phone with Darius Gibson, the Chief of Detectives. He wanted an update on your investigation. He asked if there were any new developments.”
Danski supplied their feelings and suspicions and recited the list of people they’d questioned so far.
“In other words, you’ve got nothing,” Quinn said.
“We haven’t got anything yet,” Danski admitted. “But we’ve only been on the case a few days and we’re optimistic.”
“I don’t think I need to remind you that this case puts all of us in the spotlight,” Quinn said. “Reopening it is as much a reflection on me as it is on you two.”
Danski and Litchfield nodded grimly. “Yes, we realize that,” Danski said.
Quinn shook his head and grimaced. “I’m beginning to question the wisdom of taking on this case. I have to warn you that if I don’t see sufficient progress as we go forward, I’ll ask yo
u to close the case and move on. Remember, you can’t work this one case exclusively for the rest of your careers.”
“We just initiated an investigation two days ago, and already you’re talking about closing it,” Danski said.
“I’m just thinking ahead,” Quinn said. “This is an extremely difficult case. I want you to know that you have my support. I’ll back you guys to the hilt as long as I know the investigation is going in the right direction. But if that’s not happening, I’ll order you to close the case and move on to another one.”
“In that case we’d better get over to Susan Whitlock’s place right away,” Danski said. He and Litchfield gulped down their coffee and stood.
***
“Please come in,” Susan said forcing a smile when she opened the door and took in the detectives’ grim faces. She lifted a large catalog of swatches from the couch and placed it on an oblong coffee-table that was already filled with leather and cloth samples, narrow rolls of wallpaper and mock-up drawings and sketches.
“I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time,” she said and held out her hand, gesturing for them to sit. “Would you like coffee?”
The detectives shook their heads.
“Please pardon the mess, I got a rush order from a new client to redo her entire penthouse and I’m excited to get started on it. Deborah Young, you might be familiar with the name from the society pages.”
The detectives shook their heads.
“Miss Young originally wanted the ‘farmhouse’ look for the bedroom. You know, plantation shutters, a four-pointer bed with a thick floral comforter and red pillows – yadda, yadda. Fortunately I was able to talk her out of it. It’s my job to suggest furniture that matches a client’s personality. And, of course people don’t see themselves the same way others see them, so it’s often a daunting task. Deborah’s a very vibrant woman, full of warmth and vitality. I told her the plantation look wasn’t her. I recommended new lighting, accessories and colors that would pull everything together. We agreed on this,” Susan said holding a catalog of lamps and ceiling lights open to a page with the ones she selected circled. “She has relatives visiting from Europe and she wants the project completed in two weeks. That doesn’t give me much time. Are you sure you wouldn’t care for some coffee?”
Danski studied her eyes. “I’m wondering how much coffee you’ve already consumed this morning. You’re rambling and talking a hundred miles an hour.”
Susan let out a heavy sigh. “I apologize, Detective. I get very anxious and up-tight when I design for a new client. I guess I’ve always been that way.”
“We need you to clear your mind of furniture and designs for a few minutes,” Danski said. “We have questions we need to ask. Your housekeeper and your assistant both told us that when they arrived here on the Monday preceding Jake’s disappearance, his bedroom door was closed and you told them that Jake had a frightful night. I believe that’s the term they both used. You told them you wanted to give him a chance to catch up on his sleep.”
Susan nodded. “Yes, that’s correct. He woke up in the middle of the night and had trouble going back to sleep.”
“You were under the impression his sleep was interrupted by a bad dream.”
Again, Susan nodded.
Danski eyed her intently. “In a world as small as Jake’s it’s hard to imagine what his dream might have been about. Did he reveal what it was to you? Did he say anyone’s name?”
“Did he have bad dreams often?” Litchfield asked when Susan shook her head.
“Now and then,” Susan replied. “I always thought they had something to do with the cartoons he watched. I’d limited the number of cartoons he was allowed to watch. They can be quite violent, you know – people always getting hit over the head with hammers or run over by trucks and steamrollers.”
“Did he walk in his sleep?” Litchfield asked. “Could he have gotten out of bed that night and gone to the front door and opened it?”
“No, no, no, absolutely not,” Susan responded and waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve already explained why that’s impossible.”
“The double-locks.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve gone over Detective Latimer’s file several times and I saw that he asked if you had a suspect and you said you didn’t,” Danski said. “You’ve had five years to think about what happened that night, so I’ll ask the question again. After all this time, do you have a suspect? Can you think of anyone who paid an inordinate amount of attention to Jake in the days or weeks before he was taken? Maybe someone said something inappropriate that caught your attention. Maybe someone commented that you were a career-woman and you really didn’t have enough time to tend to Jake and give him the attention he needed. Maybe that person asked about adopting Jake. It might have been said in a light-hearted manner to see if you would entertain the idea.”
“No,” Susan said firmly. “None of that ever happened.”
“Tell us about Jake’s father. His name was Martin, you said.”
Susan raised her shoulders and then let them fall back in place. “I told you Martin died sixteen months before Jake was kidnapped. What else do you want to know about him?”
“What line of work was he in?” Danski asked.
“Martin was a stock broker.” Susan gestured around the room. “As you can see, a very successful stock broker.”
“How did he die?” Danski asked.
Susan moistened her lips. “I’ve already told you how he died. It happened on a big-game hunting safari in Africa. I was told he tripped and fell on his rifle and a shot went off.” She bit down on her lip and turned away. “I’m sorry, Detectives. It’s very difficult for me to talk about Martin.”
“What did you do with his hunting rifles and gear?” Litchfield asked. “I didn’t see any of that here when we went through your apartment yesterday.”
“It’s all gone,” Susan replied. “I didn’t need any reminders of how he died staring me in the face every day. I never liked guns, and I had a young son to raise. I was afraid he might become curious about his father’s collection of hunting weapons as he got older. You never know what goes on in a child’s mind. I was afraid what Jake might do if he went poking around the apartment and came across the rifles.”
“So you got rid of everything?” Litchfield said.
“Yes, I put an ad in the classified on a Wednesday morning and it was all gone by Friday. I did everything according to the law. Everything was notarized.”
“I’m sure Martin had an insurance policy that provided well for you and Jake,” Litchfield said as he glanced around and took in the apartment furnishings and decor.
“Yes,” Susan replied. “But not as well as you might think.”
“Really?” Litchfield said. “You have a luxury apartment in a high-priced zip code.”
“And a successful interior design business to go with it,” Susan responded indignantly. “I do quite well for myself, Detective.” Her lips became taut as she folded her arms across her chest. “Your questions are becoming very personal, and frankly they’re making me feel uncomfortable.”
“It’s our job to ask tough questions,” Danski said. “The questions are all necessary. We wouldn’t ask them if they weren’t.”
“Did Martin have any enemies?” Litchfield asked.
“Absolutely not,” Susan answered quickly. “He was very well-liked and highly respected. He had several friends, both professionally and socially.”
“I saw no reference in Detective Latimer’s notes regarding your marriage,” Danski said. “Please tell us about your relationship with Martin before the hunting trip.”
“I will not,” Susan responded angrily. “You have absolutely no right invading my privacy and asking these very personal and intimate questions.”
But Danski persisted. “Nothing’s off-limits in a police investigation” he said sternly. “We’ve gone through your entire apartment, and I noticed several photos of Jake, but
not one single picture of Martin anywhere. There were no men’s shirts or suits in any of the closets, no men’s shoes, no ties, no personal effects. How do you explain that?”
“I told you I got rid of all of Martin’s things.”
“Yes, you mentioned that,” Danski said. “But wasn’t there anything of his that you kept as a memory?”
“Please stop,” Susan interrupted. “I admit our marriage had its ups and downs, but I don’t see how that has anything to do with finding Jake or do you just enjoy torturing and embarrassing me?”
Danski sat up quickly and edged forward when he realized he’d struck a nerve. “This isn’t about embarrassing you, Susan. Your response to our questions is very revealing. It makes us feel that you haven’t been totally up-front and honest with us.” He stared at her for several seconds. “What else have you been holding back on us?”
“Nothing,” Susan answered. “I swear. I just didn’t see any point in bringing up my failing marriage. I didn’t think it was warranted or relevant.”
“You called it a failing marriage,” Danski said. “Tell us about that.”
“At one time Martin and I were totally devoted to one another. We were a totally monogamous couple. He was the only man I was ever with and I’m sure he was faithful, too. But the spark had gone out of our relationship and we had to make certain adjustments in our lives. I started my interior design business just to keep busy and Martin concentrated more on business. He took to hunting when he needed a diversion.”
Danski broke his stare. “I believe we’ve made some progress this morning,” he said and then closed his pad and stood. “Detective Litchfield and I will go back to the office and analyze the new information. Hopefully it will help further our investigation. While we do that you can get back to your project.”
“Hopefully we’ll have some news when we meet again,” Litchfield said.
Susan looked at him quizzically. “We only talked about my personal life at the time Jake was taken. I don’t see how any of that can help.”
While Everyone Was Sleeping Page 5