While Everyone Was Sleeping

by Donald Collins

  Susan had an embarrassed look. “I feel so stupid. I don’t know why I didn’t see the connection to Adam all along. I mean, I realized that Adam was Jakes’s father, but I never thought he was the one who took Jake.”

  “Sometimes we can’t see the trees for the forest,” Danski said.

  “Oh, I just remembered something else,” Susan said. “Adam used to work for the MTA, you know, the Metropolitan Transportation Association,” she said and then ran her tongue against her cheek. “I don’t know what he did there or what department he was in.”

  Danski pulled his notepad from his jacket pocket and wrote down the new information.

  “Very good, Susan. That might help us. We’ll check with the MTA when we get back to the office.”

  “I remembered that after he installed an electrical outlet in the den, Martin paid him by check. He tucked the check into a fancy gold money clip that had the initials MTA engraved on it. Adam seemed confused when Martin commented on it, but then he said he received the money clip after ten years’ service.”

  “After ten years’ service he went from being a career MTA worker with benefits and I’m sure a good salary, to being a roving apartment building handyman?” Litchfield said looking puzzled. “From what you’ve told us he would probably be about forty years old. It just seems odd he would change fields at that age.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’ll call the MTA, and then run the name through the DMV records,” Litchfield said when they got back to the office and Danski headed for the credenza.

  As Danski poured his fourth cup of coffee of the day Litchfield told him the MTA had no record of Adam Matthews working for them going back to the year two-thousand. “They asked if I wanted them to go back further and I said there was no point. Adams would have been twenty in two-thousand. He would have had to start working for them when he was ten years old to receive a ten-year award.”

  On his way back to his desk Danski passed Litchfield’s desk and glanced at the computer screen.

  “You’ve got it backwards,” he said as he watched Litchfield type Matthews’ name into the grid. “It’s Adam Matthews, not Matthew Adams.”

  “Yeah, well I’m getting a response here,” Litchfield chortled. “An Astoria address too - Crescent Street and 30th Avenue. I know the location. It’s over by Astoria Hospital. I must have gone there a thousand times with aided cases when I was in the Astoria precinct. They changed the name to Mount Sinai Queens Hospital a long time ago but people still call it Astoria Hospital.”

  Danski watched over Litchfield’s shoulder as the information appeared on the screen. Seconds later he clapped his hands. “Okay, now we’re getting someplace,” he said as he watched Litchfield take the DMV records search a step further.

  “He drives an eight-year-old Ford F150,” Litchfield said. “More than likely it’s a utility van.” He read out the plate number. “It has a passenger plate, not commercial, which is typical for a guy doing business on the quiet.”

  “That makes sense,” Danski said after jotting down the plate number in his notebook. “It also makes sense that the letters MTA on his fancy gold money clip don’t stand for the Metropolitan Transportation Association – they’re his initials – Matthew Thomas Adams.”

  “Susan told us he gets his customers word of mouth,” Litchfield said. “So, I doubt that he has a business name or phone number printed on the doors of his van.”

  “Yeah, but after eight years bouncing around the streets of Manhattan and hitting the potholes out there and then having cars back into it when it’s parked, his van shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”

  “Let’s go find out,” Danski said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Matthew spent the morning installing an audio system in the apartment of Marsha Banks, a real estate broker who had a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment in an exclusive building six blocks from Susan’s residence. She took the morning off so that she would be available when Matthew got there. She had offered to give Matthew her key in advance, but he refused it, saying it was a bad practice to get into. He advised her to never give out the key to her apartment and to always be there when a serviceman or contractor came to her apartment.

  When his work was competed, he collected his fee and left with a promise to return in the unlikely event that she experienced problems with the system. She told him there were other things she needed him to do in the future and would call when the time came.

  On his way to his van parked two blocks away, he stopped at a German deli on Second Avenue and picked up a roast beef sandwich and a Diet Coke. When he got to his van, he unbuckled his tool belt and tossed it on the passenger seat and unwrapped his sandwich. After taking his first bite, he reached across the center console and pulled a spiral notebook from his glove compartment and then pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and clicked it. As he chewed, he entered the information from the job he just completed. The notebook served as a ledger where he noted the bare bones of a repair or installation, including the cost of material, labor, and the price he charged. A fourth column showed the date a job was completed which he used as a reference point. To the undiscerning eye Matthew’s notebook was simply a record of past work – a diary in a sense. The IRS would think differently however in terms of unreported income and the police would view it as a chronical of burglaries committed in the Manhattan sector.

  An average craftsman, Matthew made a decent living making small renovations and repairs in apartment buildings throughout the Manhattan area. He made more money, however, coming back to those same apartments late at night when the customers were asleep. It was bold, daring, and exciting. He found the possibility of a customer waking up and catching him going through her jewelry box exhilarating. He wasn’t sure how he would react if that ever happened. Would he would run from the apartment or smash his sturdy six-cell flashlight across the customer’s head? He’d been breaking into customers’ apartments for nearly four years, and so far, had never been tested.

  Being familiar with the layout of an apartment made it easy for him to move around in the dark efficiently while people slept. The Ullman-brand four-piece pick/lock set he bought three years ago turned out to be the best twenty-five bucks he ever spent. He wasn’t really interested in a customer’s money. He felt cash was something most people kept a close eye on and would notice right away if it was missing. Their jewelry, however, was a different story. Most people have bracelets, necklaces and rings they wear every day and keep readily available. The more valuable items were usually stashed away in jewelry boxes that were only visited on special occasions. Those were the items Matthew was after – ones that wouldn’t be missed for months, sometimes years and often never. He always waited at least a month after completing a handyman job before breaking into a customer’s apartment to search for their valuables. He felt that if he went back sooner and the customer discovered the theft, he or she might be inclined to mention Matthew’s name when the police investigated the burglary and asked who had been to their apartment recently. His name would naturally go on their short list of suspects. If his name came up more than once the police would likely see a pattern. After glancing over his calendar, he went to a fifth column in his book where he scheduled his midnight visit. He put Marsha Banks down for September twenty-third.

  Chapter Twenty

  Astoria, Queens

  Danski stopped to pick up coffee at a deli on Ditmars Boulevard on their way to Crescent Street. After a futile half-hour search of the immediate area with no sign of the white van, he pulled into an open parking spot in front of the address shown on the DMV printout. He compared the photo on the DMV printout to the faces that were entering and leaving the building. He couldn’t be certain, but the physical description on the driver’s license seemed to fit the shadowy figure on the security tape.

  “It’s going on four o’clock. If Adams is still doing handyman work in Manhattan he should be getting home right around now,” Danski said as they sat
back and pulled the lids from their Styrofoam containers.

  Twenty minutes later Danski ran out of patience. He went inside the building and looked for a tenant directory. Finding none, he checked the names on the mailboxes located on the left side of the vestibule. He returned ten minutes later shaking his head.

  “There’s no Matthews or Adams on the boxes,” he told Litchfield. “But I found the super, a guy named Frazier. He knew right away who I was talking about. He said Adams moved out four or five years ago. He said they got to be pretty good friends when he lived here and he still hears from Matthew every once in a while, when he needs to borrow a tool. He said they’re both in the same field, doing basically the same kind of work so there’s no point for either of them to go out and buy an expensive tool or piece of equipment if the other guy has one.”

  Litchfield nodded. “Did he know if Matthew was a diabetic?”

  Danski shook his head. “I asked, but he didn’t know one way or another. He said Matthew’s wife’s name is Audrey. They have a son named Jason who would be about ten years old now.”

  Litchfield nodded. “That fits into the age-bracket we’re talking about. If he was born while Adams and his wife lived in this building then more than likely the kid was born at Astoria Hospital.”

  “Mount Sinai, you mean.”

  “Yeah, Mount Sinai,” Litchfield said and laughed. “Sorry, force of habit.” He pointed over his shoulder. “It’s only a couple of blocks from here. We should check it out.”

  Litchfield opened his door and poured what was left of his coffee into the gutter before Danski put the car in gear and made a U-turn. After driving four blocks he pulled into a tight parking space in front of the hospital. Inside, a records clerk verified that Jason Adams was born at Mount Sinai on June 28, 2008 and that his pediatrician was Doctor Robert Richter, who has an office nearby. Danski left the hospital and drove to Richter’s office next. After much coaxing, Beverly Willis, the doctor’s receptionist revealed that Richter had treated Jason for diabetes until the family moved from the area. She had no new address for the Adams family.

  “Jason’s last appointment was in May of 2012 when the boy was four years old,” Willis said.

  Danski did the math and determined that would have been shortly before Adams’ so-called ‘chance meeting’ with Susan on Lexington Avenue when she and Jake were on their way to Central Park.

  Willis’ body language was suspicious. She avoided Danski’s eyes when she gave him the information. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” Danski said.

  “I really shouldn’t talk about it.”

  “About what?” Danski insisted.

  Willis glanced over her shoulder before answering. “This information is not in our records because it occurred after Doctor Richter treated Jason.”

  “What information is that?” Danski said impatiently.

  “Doctor Richter received word from an associate at one of the hospitals in Flushing that Jason died of complications from diabetes.”

  Danski and Litchfield exchanged stunned glances. “And you don’t know the details about his death?” Danski asked.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. The information hasn’t been verified. It’s only what Doctor Richter heard from an associate,” she said and then became flustered. “Please don’t make me regret telling you that much.”

  “Don’t worry. You did the right thing telling us,” Danski assured her. “We appreciate your help.”

  ***

  “That was a stunning development,” Danski said when they got to the car and headed back to Manhattan. “I never saw that one coming.”

  “That’s for sure,” Litchfield said. “Apparently Jake became a replacement when Jason died.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Danski and Litchfield discussed the new information on the return trip to Manhattan. They were pleased that things were finally starting to fall into place for them.

  “Adams had an affair with Susan, and within a month of his wife giving birth to a son who was a Type-1 diabetic, Susan gave birth to a son with the same condition,” Danski said.

  Litchfield nodded. “That should remove any doubt there might have been that Adams is Jake’s father.”

  “Four years later, Adams and his wife suffered a tragedy with the loss of their son and Matthew reacted by committing an unthinkable act,” Danski said grimly. “He kidnapped Susan’s boy.”

  “Being Jake’s father, I can understand how, in his grief and distorted mind, Adams felt justified in taking Jake.” Litchfield said.

  “Nothing could justify breaking into Susan’s apartment and taking her son,” Danski said,

  “I didn’t say it was right,” Litchfield said quickly. “I said I understood what he did. What I can’t understand is why he felt he had to kidnap the boy when all he had to do was apply for visitation or shared-custody rights.”

  “We can add that to the million and one questions we have to ask when we catch up with him,” Danski said.

  “If the only contact Adams had with Jake was their meeting on Lexington Avenue that afternoon, Jake didn’t know the man,” Litchfield said. “I’m sure Jake would have cried out for his mother when Adams lifted him from his bed that night.”

  Danski nodded, “Susan told us she didn’t leave a light on in Jake’s room at night, but she did keep a night-light plugged in near his bed in case he woke up and needed to go to the bathroom. More than likely, Jake woke up and Adams used chloroform to quiet him before he could cry out for his mother.”

  “Having the key to Susan’s apartment allowed Adams to get in and out of there and move around efficiently that night. He was familiar with the layout of the apartment from when he used to go up there for a quickie with Susan, so he knew where Susan’s bedroom was in relation to Jake’s bedroom.”

  “Susan said she didn’t recognize the duffle bag that was seen on the security tape so Adams must have brought it with him,” Danski said. “It might have belonged to his other son, and he brought it with him to carry some of Jake’s clothes and a few of his small toys.”

  “I’m wondering about the next day,” Litchfield said. “How did Matthew and Audrey explain why Susan wasn’t there?”

  “They might have said Susan got sick in the middle of the night and had to go to the hospital. In that case they would have told Jake he had to be a big boy until mommy came home. They probably began calling him Jason right away and if you call a four or five-year-old by the wrong name long enough, sooner or later he’ll start answering to it.”

  “I still say none of this makes good sense,” Litchfield said. “If Adams wanted to see his son regularly, all he had to do was petitioned the court for joint custody. It would have been a lot simpler than what he did.”

  “Apparently he doesn’t like to share,” Danski said and then shook his head “Yesterday we were looking for a man who had two diabetic sons; today, he only has one.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t make the job seem any easier.” Litchfield said. “It might be better if we keep this information to ourselves for the time-being, and not mention it to Susan yet.”

  “You still don’t trust her, do you?”

  “Not completely,” Litchfield answered.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Starbucks!” Litchfield said when Danski pulled two containers from a white paper bag the next morning. He put one on Gregory’s desk and the other one on his own desk before crushing the bag and tossing it in a waste-paper basket. “What’s the special occasion?”

  “I thought it would be nice to celebrate our progress in the case by having some of the upper-crust brand coffee for a change. Don’t get used to it, though. For the money I paid I think I should have gotten a free lap-dance to go with the order.”

  Danski’s desk phone rang as he draped his coat over his chair and sat.

  “Danski,” he said as he pulled the lid and took his first sip.

  “Detective Danski this is Lucy Santana. We spoke a few mo
nths ago when you took over my sister’s Mira’s murder investigation.”

  “Yes, Miss Santana. I remember our conversation well,” Danski said as he flipped his computer switch on and brought up the Santana case. When he and Litchfield got to the Cold Case Squad six months ago they were assigned fourteen cases to investigate as a team. They realized it would take time for them to become familiar with each case, but they wanted to at least touch-base with the victims or their relatives until that time came. The Santana case was a murder investigation they’d inherited from retired Homicide Detective Monte Walsh. Mira Santana was caught in the crossfire in a turf-war between two drug dealers in Hell’s Kitchen. Walsh’s investigation strongly pointed to Felix Guzman, a known drug dealer who plied his trade on Manhattan’s West Side catering to longshoremen, dock workers and local junkies. Walsh had gathered all the evidence he needed to make an arrest, but Guzman disappeared into the bowels of the New York City Housing Authority before Walsh was able to pick him up and charge him with Santana’s murder.

  “I’ve got to assume Guzman’s still dealing drugs somewhere in Manhattan, but Narcotics Squad detectives have told me that he fell off their radar screen right around the time Walsh was ready to arrest him,” Danski told Santana dejectedly after glancing over the computer notes. “Housing cops have kept an eye out for him, too, but they weren’t able to keep up with him. According to sources, Guzman’s got a lot of friends that take him in for a couple of days or a week and he just bounces from one project to another. One week he’s staying at the Carver house or the Clinton Project in East Harlem; the next week he’s in the Drew Hamilton Houses on the Upper West Side or the East River Houses in East Harlem. The last report we got said he was staying with a known associate at the Wilson Houses in Chelsea.”