And here’s a shocker for you. When I switch to the local twenty-four-hour news channel, I see myself.
“I knew it,” I whisper aloud. “Speaking of the devil.”
In all disclosure, my lawyer warned me immediately upon my parole that I would make the news. Perhaps even national news. So while I’m somewhat shocked at seeing my face broadcast on my hotel room flat screen, I’m not blown away by any means.
The woman reading the teleprompter informs her audience that Sidney O’Keefe, arrested back in 2007 on multiple counts of murder in the tragic deaths of four undocumented Chinese aliens down in Albany, has been granted parole after a court reduced his initial sentence of homicide in the first degree to manslaughter.
The shot shifts to my lawyer, Joel, standing at a podium, a microphone before his face.
“Justice has been served in the case of my client, Mr. O’Keefe. While the courts knew all along he never shot anyone in that house, and in fact, never left the vehicle which was parked outside the murder scene, they still pinned the murders on him. And that’s just plain wrong in both the eyes of God and the law. I consider this a great victory for all men and women serving out sentences in maximum security prisons on behalf of Class A felonies they did not commit.”
Back to the live studio and my mug shot, which is broadcast above the news anchor’s shoulder. My sad, tired-looking, stubble-covered face.
“O’Keefe is said to be residing with his wife of twelve years and their eleven-year-old daughter in an apartment in North Albany. He has refused comment with News Channel 9 despite repeated attempts to contact him. In other news …”
“What attempted contact?” I find myself saying out loud.
“Did you say something, Doc?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “Just something I saw on the news that caught my eye.”
“We need to head back outside before the cops come,” Penny says, not without a chuckle. “Yikes. We’re such evil parents, you and me.”
I aim the clicker at the TV to kill the broadcast. But then comes yet a second, far more electric shock when I see a face I haven’t seen up close and personal in over ten years.
It’s Rabuffo.
Mickey Rabuffo standing in the center of a clothing store. He’s got a tape measure in his hands and he’s taking the measurements on a man who is standing on a small pedestal in front of a tall mirror. There’s a song playing in the background. “Rabuffo’s Custom Clothiers … That’s as good as it gets.” The style of the music is old big band, the tune lifted from an old Sinatra tune, “Day and Night,” the voice belting out the lyrics in imitation of Old Blue Eyes himself. Or is it a Cole Porter song?
Rabuffo’s Custom Clothiers … Just one of the many legal cover operations for his massive illegal drug and human trafficking operations.
I look into Rabuffo’s blue eyes and I feel like he’s looking right at me through the flat-screened TV. In my imagination, I see him taking a couple of steps toward the camera.
“You fucking threw me under the bus, didn’t you, Sid?” he says in his raspy smoker’s voice. “You sold me and my operations out in exchange for your freedom. It took you a while, I’ll give you that. But in the end, you sold me out. You were like a son to me. I trusted you with my life, my money, my home. Now you’re going to pay the price, my friend.”
“Rabuffo’s Custom Clothier,” Penny sings, mimicking the tune precisely. “That’s as good as it gets.” She follows up with a hearty laugh. “I just love that commercial. Catchy little tune for a crook like Mickey.”
Rabuffo’s put on weight. His face is rounder than I remember it, the hair line more receded. But he’s still the same guy. No doubt he’s being hounded by the FBI as this commercial airs. No doubt he’s feeling the heat for his smuggling operations from ICE and even Homeland Security. He’s a target now, thanks to me.
It’s only a matter of time until he pays me a visit. Or one of his goons anyway. Someone like Wemps or Singh. Two men genetically predisposed to violent murder. In other words, natural born killers.
I turn the TV off, toss the clicker back onto the bed.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Penny comments. The way her eyes bore holes into me tells me she knows precisely how much Rabuffo can still shake me up. Shake us up.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie. “Come on. Chloe will be worried.”
Penny goes to the curtain, pulls it open. She slides open the glass door, steps out.
“Rabuffo’s Custom Clothier,” she sings under her breath, “that’s as good as it gets.”
CHAPTER 3
THE BEACH IS crowded at midday. The bright sun is hot, but the cool Adirondack breeze more than compensates. I focus my gaze on the water’s edge, where Chloe was digging a deep trench in the sand with her new friend. Chloe is nowhere to be found, at least upon initial glance.
I feel a slight jolt in my heart.
I’m not good when it comes to lack of control. But it’s quickly becoming apparent that I’m especially not good when it comes to not knowing where my own kid is. What’s that? Another double negative? But then, there’s nothing very positive about this situation. Maybe I haven’t spent much time with my daughter, but that doesn’t mean my instincts aren’t finely tuned. And right now, my instinct is to call out for her.
“Chloe?!” I shout. So loud I startle Penny and cause just about every head on every man, woman, and child located within a fifty-foot radius to suddenly turn and stare at me.
“Take it easy, Doc,” Penny whispers forcefully.
I look at her. Her face has turned beet red, as if she’s embarrassed by what I’ve just done. By the attention we’re getting from my shout.
“What do you mean take it easy, Pen?” I say. “I don’t see Chloe anywhere.”
“Relax,” she presses. “You’re just not used to being a parent.” She takes hold of my hand. “Chloe is here. I’m sure she’s just taking a walk, or maybe she went around front to grab a snack or something.” Squeezing my hand. “Just take a breath, big fella.”
Breathing in and out, I feel myself calming down somewhat. Maybe Penny is right. Maybe I’m flying off the handle because I’m not used to all this. Being a parent and all. I’m more used to taking care of myself. Of making sure I don’t become a victim. That kind of thinking has to stop now. The world no longer revolves around me, nor the men who wish to silence me. It also includes my wife and my daughter.
Penny releases my hand.
“Let’s go talk to the parents of the girl Chloe was playing with before we went inside.”
“Proactive medicine,” I say. “By far the best approach.”
But what wasn’t a good approach, I now realize, was our decision to head back to our room to be alone in the first place. This is my fault.
We head back down the beach, the faces and eyes of the vacationers still staring, but quickly turning away when I stare back at them. I’m not sure if I look like I’ve just gotten out of prison, but they sure can feel it when I dig my eyes into them. Rather, they feel the desperation and rawness that oozes off of me. I can bench press almost twice my own weight. I can squat three times my weight, and I can do twenty-five bicep curls without breaking a sweat. You can leave the prison yard, but like a jagged purple scar, it takes one hell of a long time for it to leave you. Trust me on that.
When we come to the spot where Chloe and her new friend have dug a big hole in the sand, we stop. Penny assumes her best polite parent smile. Since the little girl is still busy digging, Penny doesn’t bother her, but instead, holds out her hand for the mother.
“Hello,” she says. “I’m Penny O’Keefe and this is my husband, Sidney. We’re Chloe’s parents … the little girl who was playing with your daughter just a few moments ago.”
“Oh, what a sweet girl,” the woman says, sitting up in her beach chair. She’s got short brunette hair and a pleasant face. A little on the heavier side, just like her husband, or the guy who I assume i
s her husband, who’s portly in the gut and bald. They’re both wearing sunglasses. They also have matching sterling silver crosses hanging from their necks by thin silver chains. Good Catholics maybe. Christians anyway. I can’t remember the last time I prayed.
“Thank you,” Penny says. “I can see you’re blessed, too.”
“Thanks,” the man interjects. “Susan is our pride and joy. We could only have one child, so we spoil her. Don’t we, dolly?”
“Daaaad,” Susan says, looking up and taking a breather from her digging. “You don’t spoil me. Or else I’d have an iPhone by now.” She giggles, her hair thick and wavy. There’s some sand in it. There’s something about her eyes. They’re glassy. Like she just woke up from a long nap in the hot sun.
“No iPhones yet, young lady,” her mother insists. “High school will be time enough.”
The conversation resounds inside my brain. It’s nearly identical to the argument Chloe and Penny were having this morning inside our hotel room.
“It would be safer if I had one now, Mom,” Susan argues. “That way you’d know where I am at all times.”
“We know where you are at all times because we keep a constant eye on you, sweetie,” the father chimes in. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
“You never can be too careful, now can you?” the mother says looking into both Penny’s and my eyes.
The guilt washes over me like a bucket of tainted blood. Bad decisions … They will be the death of me, which, in some ways, is fine. So long as they aren’t the death of someone else. Someone I love very much.
“Oh, I know what you mean, Mrs….” Penny allows the Missus to dangle.
“Mrs. Stevens,” she says. “Claudia Stevens, and this is Burt.”
He reaches out with his meaty hand. I take it in mine, shake and release.
“Pleasure to meet you, Burt.”
“Jeeze, where’d you get that grip, pal?” he inquires.
“My husband spends a lot of time in the weight room,” Penny interrupts.
“He looks like quite the tough guy,” Burt says. “Every man on the beach is probably intimidated.” Patting his belly. “Guess I should get back to the gym one of these days.”
“Keep dreaming, Burt,” Claudia comments.
Now I’m not only worried about Chloe, I’m genuinely embarrassed. Has prison turned me into a physical monster?
Then, Penny, breaking in. “If you don’t mind my asking, Claudia and Burt, have you seen our daughter?”
As if taking a cue from a script, the two turn and gaze into one another’s eyes, then refocus their gaze on us.
“You mean you don’t know where she is?” Claudia asks.
Penny issues a nervous laugh.
“Oh, well, we know she’s around here somewhere,” she insists. “Just like you and your daughter, we’re always keeping our eye on her. But we had to go back to the room together for a minute. You’ll recall I spoke to Chloe before we went back to the room. I instructed her not to leave this spot for any reason.”
Burt turns to Claudia.
“That so,” he says. “I must have been taking a catnap because I don’t remember seeing you.” He laughs. “But that doesn’t mean anything. I enjoy my naps. I enjoy my daydreams.” He leans forward in his chair so that his beer gut presses against his white thighs. “If you don’t mind my saying,” he says a bit under his breath, “I bet you snuck in a little quality time alone.” He gives us both a wink. “Tough to get alone time on vacay.”
“Dad,” Susan says, from her sand trench, “don’t make me want to throw up.”
Claudia waves her hand at her husband like, don’t pay any attention to him.
“The girls were playing nicely,” she goes on. “I’m sure she didn’t go far.” She stands. “I can help you look for her if you want. Shall I call the hotel house detective? They have one, you know. I’ve seen her.”
I lock eyes with Penny, shake my head slowly. She knows what I’m thinking. I’m newly paroled. I’m a headline on the local hourly news reports. Last thing we need right now is getting any kind of organized law enforcement involved in something that could be a great big nothing burger.
“It’s okay,” Penny says. “Really, it’s fine. You’ve been very helpful.”
I’m looking over one shoulder then the other. Seeing nothing. Only beach on one side, scattered beachgoers, and behind that, the long four-story hotel. On the other side, nothing but open water, and beyond that, the wooded, residential area of Lake Placid.
I bite down on my lip again. Harder than normal. I taste the blood in my mouth.
… Go easy, Sid. Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t do anything stupid. Like Penny says, Chloe just drifted off like a lot of pre-teens will. She’s probably got her earbuds in and listening to some loud music and wandering around the downtown …
“Is something wrong with Chloe?”
The voice of the little girl playing in the sand. Susan.
“No,” I say, staring into her dreamy blue eyes. “We can’t find her right now, Susan. Do you know where she might be?”
Claudia steps in front of me, takes hold of Susan by the arm. Gently, but at the same time, a little forcefully.
“She wouldn’t know,” she insists. “Sue has had her head buried in the sand all day.” She giggles. “Buried in the sand, get it?”
“I remember she was asking where her parents were,” Susan volunteers.
“What was that?” Penny says. “What did you say?”
“Chloe,” little Susan says, as her mother releases her arm. “Before my mom took me back to the room for my shot, she looked worried because she didn’t know where you were.”
“What shot?” I ask.
Claudia smiles nervously.
“My daughter has type one diabetes,” she explains. “She requires two insulin shots per day.”
That strikes me as a bit funny, because Susan can’t weigh more than sixty pounds. But then, believe it or not, weight has nothing to do with how many injections a kid with type one diabetes might require in a single day. I’m a med school dropout, and even I know that. What’s important here is that, for the first time since we discovered Chloe isn’t where she’s supposed to be, Penny’s face loses all its color. And that, to me anyway, is worrisome.
“I told Chloe where we were going,” she says, more to herself than to anyone else. “Why would she ask where we were if I already told her where we were going?”
“Listen, Pen,” I interject. “Since she’s not on the beach, let’s go around the front of the hotel and look there.”
“Maybe she went to the indoor pool?” Claudia suggests.
Some of the color returns to Penny’s face.
“Of course,” she says. “That’s where she must be. My daughter can’t live without the indoor pool.”
“Thank you very much, folks,” I say, as I begin making my way back up the beach toward the rear hotel doors. Double time.
CHAPTER 4
“WAIT FOR ME, Doc!” Penny calls out. “Wait up already. We need to stick together.”
I stop, turn.
“Sorry, Pen,” I say, exhaling. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. Panic attacks.” Overwhelming stress. Fear.
“I get it,” she says, breathing hard. “No need to apologize. Chloe is your daughter and you’re not used to the emergencies that can go with fatherhood.”
“And I thought prison was stressful.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Doc. Believe me. Every day a pre-teen brings you a new surprise on a silver platter. Not all of them so nice.”
Approaching the hotel door, I pull it open for Penny.
“Kinda hope you’re wrong about that, babe.”
“Me too,” she says, passing on through. “Me … too.”
A small plastic sign that reads POOL is mounted to the wall at the opposite side of the vestibule. Below the sign is an arrow pointing in the direction of a long corridor. The vestibule houses a cou
ple of overpriced vending machines. One selling sodas and bottled water, another selling salted snacks and candy bars. For a second or two, I imagine finding my polka-dotted daughter standing here, stuffing spare change into the slots. How disappointing to find out that she isn’t.
Here’s what I’m learning real fast: when you’re in search of somebody, every door you pass through presents a new hope. Every corner you round offers a new opportunity. Every room you enter for the first time is a resolution. But these things also give you crushing frustration when they turn out to be dead ends. You want to think logically about where she ran off to. But it’s not easy thinking logically when your adrenal glands are working overtime.
“Fingers crossed,” Penny says, glancing at the sign.
“Let’s just hurry,” I insist, taking hold of her hand, racing her down the corridor.
We pass by a dozen or more ground-floor rooms, until we come to a glass door, which is located at the end of the corridor. The glass on the door is somewhat fogged up. I pull on the door, praying it won’t be locked. But then, why would it be during a hot summer’s day?
… Another door, another possibility …
The door opens. Penny and I step through.
Disappointment.
The pool is empty, other than a man who appears to be swimming laps. He’s wearing a rubber cap on his head and swimmers’ goggles over his eyes.
“This isn’t funny anymore, Sidney,” Penny mumbles under her breath. “Where did our little girl go?”
She’s back to referring to me by my real Christian name instead of Doc. It means the anxiety is settling in. If we don’t find my daughter soon, there will come confusion, and following that, anger. Then will come the outright terror if she’s absolutely nowhere to be found by nightfall.
… Stop thinking, Sid … Just do …
Chewing my bottom lip with my two front teeth. Tasting the blood.
Girl Who Wasn’t There Page 3