by James Tucker
Ward went with them, but turned at the doorway. “Sawyer can return with us. I’ll have someone drive his car down to the city.”
Buddy said, “Give me twenty minutes.”
Ward nodded.
Buddy waited a moment, then began his search of the lodge. Without a search warrant, he couldn’t enter the three nearby houses owned by Bruno, Carl, and Dietrich Brook.
In the lodge and in Alton Brook’s house, he found nothing.
This told him he was dealing with someone very lucky or very good. Or maybe with a professional.
Chapter Thirteen
The crime scene at Ray Sawyer’s apartment.
Buddy sensed an electric current in the air, as if a powerful thunderstorm were coming right at him.
His muscles tightened. He held out his hand, half expecting a shock from static electricity, but found only air.
The murder, the scene—they were fresh.
That morning he’d seen gore but no body. The killer had been long gone. But that wasn’t true here.
The killer was nearby.
The killer had known Ben was staying at the apartment.
The Manhattan location gave Buddy jurisdiction. Mike Malone, chief of detectives, installed him as lead detective on the case, even if Nan Sawyer’s murder occurred on the West Side in a different precinct. He’d joined the roving Special Crimes Unit that, with Malone’s approval, could work anywhere in the five boroughs and reported only to Malone. It dealt with high-profile homicide cases, especially serial murder. This status brought with it the pressure of responsibility but also a grim satisfaction. Now he would make the decisions. He was going to grab this case and not let go. He believed he had only one extraordinary quality: relentlessness. He wasn’t the smartest or the nicest, the most handsome or the richest. Except for the piano, he had no hobbies. But to solve a case, he’d work all day and all night. He’d never give up, never yield.
He stood in the building’s lobby. It was cramped and had a dim, tired décor. Nothing like the Carlyle Residences, adjacent to the famous Carlyle Hotel, where he lived with Mei. Mei’s wealthy parents had given her the family apartment when they moved to Palm Springs and bought a small pied-à-terre a few blocks away. He’d lived in places much worse than this one, and he felt comfortable here.
He saw the doorman’s desk with the scratched brass surround. He saw the scuffed terrazzo floor. Behind the desk, staring at his hands and refusing to look up at the commotion made by the police, the residents, and the detectives from CSU—the Crime Scene Unit—sat the middle-aged doorman. His face was pale and his shoulders slumped. Buddy assumed it was the first time he’d seen the victim of a murder.
By the lobby windows was a low bench upholstered in brown fabric. On the bench sat a young boy. He was handsome, in need of a haircut, and slender. His navy-blue peacoat was unbuttoned and his striped scarf spilled out messily over his chest. His hands were in the coat’s side pockets. His large, expressive brown eyes watched the activity in the lobby. His black hair, falling over the right side of his face, looked a lot like Buddy’s, though Buddy’s was cut short.
Buddy walked over to him and said, “You’re Ben Brook?”
The boy looked up. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m Detective Lock,” Buddy said, not offering his hand. And though he didn’t want to be overly familiar, he squatted down and added, “You can call me Buddy.”
The boy’s nervous dark eyes fastened on his.
Buddy said, “I’m in charge of this case. So when you talk about what happened today and what happened on New Year’s Eve, who will you talk to?”
Ben watched him.
Realizing the boy was stunned or in shock, Buddy said, “I’m your guy. Do you understand?”
Ben nodded as his eyes filled with tears.
Buddy said, “We need to get you out of here. Did anyone talk to you about where you might go?”
“No,” Ben said, his voice wobbly with uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do.”
Buddy thought quickly. “Would you like to stay with any of your aunts and uncles?”
“Please, no!” Ben pleaded, his voice rising. His eyes showed real fear as he reached out and put a hand on Buddy’s forearm. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “They’re going to be killed.”
Buddy leaned in. “Who’s going to be killed?”
“Everyone. Everyone in my family will be killed.”
Buddy asked, “Why do you think so?”
“Nobody’s safe. If I have to be with my aunts and uncles, I’ll die.”
Buddy said, “How can you know that?”
“I know it, sir. I just know it!” Ben said, seemingly relieved that Buddy was taking him seriously.
“All right,” Buddy replied, silently conceding that the boy might have a point. And not only his aunts and uncles. It was clear Ben had seen something, or knew something, or was something the killer wanted extinguished. Buddy said, “If you don’t stay with your aunts or uncles, where would you go?”
Ben’s eyes left his and moved to the phalanx of policemen standing outside the lobby on West End Avenue and then back to the interior and the CSU team going in and out of the elevator. Strands of his hair hung down over his forehead.
“Where?” Buddy asked again. As he crouched down to be at eye level with the boy, his shoulder holster became visible.
Ben brought his attention back to Buddy. He stared at Buddy’s shoulder holster, which held a Glock 19. Then he raised his eyes to Buddy’s. “If you don’t let me stay with you, I’m going to die.”
Buddy wanted to argue with the boy but said nothing. He thought the boy was right.
Chapter Fourteen
“Is it possible for me to meet him before we decide?”
This was Mei, over the phone from her office at Porter Gallery on East Fifty-Eighth Street.
“There isn’t time,” Buddy explained. He was standing in the darkening street outside Ray Sawyer’s apartment building, never taking his eyes off Ben Brook, who hadn’t moved from his seat by the lobby window. Next to Ben stood Buddy’s partner, Detective Jonas Vidas, who was young and ambitious, tall and pale, with brown hair and angular features. Buddy thought he was still green but in time would be a great detective. Through the glass Buddy could see Vidas talking with the boy, trying to comfort him.
Ben looked vulnerable, tired, and afraid, on the verge of giving up whatever had enabled him to survive his family’s massacre. He’d swiveled around on the bench, away from Vidas, and was watching Buddy carefully, though he couldn’t hear Buddy’s conversation.
“Mei, I’d like him to stay with us,” Buddy continued, softening his voice so it didn’t sound commanding. “I realize Ben can’t stay longer. We’ll call it protective custody—I got the okay from Ray Sawyer, his guardian. But I’m asking you for three days.”
“Three days,” she echoed. “But what if we like him . . .”
Her change in position surprised Buddy, who said, “You want him to stay longer?”
There was a long silence on the line.
Buddy thought the connection had been lost. “Hello?” he said. “Mei?”
“I’m here.” Her voice, slower now. “Maybe having a boy . . .” Her voice trailed off. Then she said, “I . . . I think we should try for a child of our own.”
Buddy felt a lump form in his throat. He didn’t know how to respond. He’d never thought seriously of being a father. They hadn’t discussed having children, except in passing. At last he said, “I don’t know.”
“We should talk about it, another time.”
“Yeah,” he said, feeling the shock of her suggestion ease. “Another time.”
A moment later she said, “If Ben comes to live with us, would we be in danger?”
Buddy recalled the scene at Camp Kateri and Nan Sawyer’s body—what was left of it—in the building in front of him. He said, “We’d have to be careful, but we’d be all right.”
“You don’t think anyone w
ould try to get into our home?”
Buddy thought of Schmidt, the doorman for the Carlyle Residences. He thought of the card-key access to the elevator and the elevator lock on their floor. He said, “We’ll be safe.”
Mei hesitated a moment. And then she said, “Three days.”
Buddy put his phone in the breast pocket of his suit coat. He looked at the boy on the other side of the lobby glass and waved him out onto the sidewalk.
Chapter Fifteen
Jessica, Mei’s coworker who sat at the desk next to hers, stiffened. Mei sensed it. Something had happened. She looked over at Jess, who was tall, blonde, thin. Too thin, Mei thought. But a nice girl from Montana and, like her, unmarried, though currently dating a finance guy with a condo in the Village and a country house.
Jessica said quietly, urgently, “He’s here. And he has eyes for you.”
Mei looked up from her desk and saw that her last appointment of the day had arrived. She stood and straightened her black dress with sleeves to the middle of her forearms and orange half-moons running down one side.
She said, “He’s just a client.”
Jessica whispered, “He wants to be more. And when I get back from vacation, I expect details of your romance.”
Mei laughed at this idea, which she immediately discarded, saying, “You know I’m with Buddy.”
Jessica raised an eyebrow. “A girl should have options.”
Peter Armitage stood in the center of the large space, a handsome figure above the smoothly polished concrete floors. Peter had begun visiting the gallery when they’d hung several of Gentileschi’s paintings. He studied the Baroque master’s colorful canvases based on biblical scenes and Greek and Roman mythology, but glanced over at Mei and smiled at her as she rose from behind her desk.
As she approached Peter, she couldn’t help but admire the way he was put together. Just under six feet—shorter than Buddy—he was trim, and his carefully tailored suit made him appear trimmer yet. She noticed the Savile Row cut of his clothes, the rich-looking walnut-colored English shoes. He had an affable face with a square jaw, two days of stubble, blue eyes, and a tan even in the winter. She smiled and offered her hand. “Good afternoon, Peter. Thanks for your continuing interest in Gentileschi’s work.”
Peter Armitage returned her smile. His hand took hers and held it for longer than she expected. “Hello, Mei. Wonderful to see you. Glad you’re free to have a working happy hour.”
“Of course, Peter. Let me just get the—” She began to turn back to her desk to pick up the exhibition’s catalogue and price list.
Peter interrupted, “No need for all of that.”
“But—”
He laughed. “I’ve been here several times. I know the work and you’ve already given me the price list. Come on!”
“All right,” she said.
A few minutes later she and Peter were seated at one of the better tables at Le Cirque on East Fifty-Eighth Street. The top of a golden circus tent ostentatiously hung over the room. Peter smiled while ordering a bottle of Taittinger.
She began to feel miserable. For Peter was not only a potential client but single and the managing director of a private equity fund. She realized now this business happy hour was anything but. He didn’t want to buy a painting. No, today he wanted something else.
She sat up straighter. She began to wish she’d put on makeup this morning. She was reed-thin but perhaps she hadn’t worked out enough the past month. Was her stomach bulging, just a little? Did her face look too wide? She sensed her own discomfort. Recognized it for what it was: the idea she wasn’t good enough for Peter Armitage. She wished away this nonsense, and yet it wouldn’t go away.
“How great to see you outside of work,” Peter began.
“Yes.” She nodded politely. “You as well. Is there a particular piece in the new show that interests you?”
Smiling, he reached over and touched the back of her hand. “Work again,” he said, not unpleasantly. “Why don’t we discuss other things? I’d like to learn more about you. I hear you’re single and”—he almost winked—“so am I.”
Her spirits dropped to the floor. Jessica had been right and she hadn’t seen it coming. Hadn’t wanted to believe it. She shook her head. “I’m seeing someone, Peter.”
His expression showed disappointment. “Is it serious?”
She recalled her conversation with Buddy about children and how he hadn’t responded with the enthusiasm she’d expected. “Possibly. I’m not sure yet.”
She heard herself say these words, and yet to her it was as serious as any relationship could be. Sitting across from Peter Armitage as the waiter set out two champagne flutes and popped the cork from the bottle, she knew she loved Buddy. With him she didn’t need to prove anything. His respect and encouragement helped her to grow stronger rather than weaker. He was confident in his decency, and never arrogant. He’d never see her as a contestant in a beauty pageant or matchmaking game. He’d never abandon her.
And now he was bringing a young boy home with him. Whatever would happen with that boy? Whatever would happen with Buddy? She knew she wanted to marry him, but they’d been dating six months and living together for only two. It was still very soon to make that decision. Despite Peter’s money and good qualities, her heart pulled firmly in Buddy’s direction.
Peter raised his glass. “To new beginnings.”
She did the same. “To new beginnings.”
They drank. She savored the champagne. And then she said, “I misspoke, Peter. My relationship is quite serious.”
He frowned. “So there’s no room for negotiation?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
Peter Armitage leaned forward. “But may I check in with you in three months? In case something has changed?”
She hesitated but in the end agreed. “Three months,” she said. “But not before.”
Chapter Sixteen
Buddy held the elevator door open for Ben, and they walked into Mei’s elegant apartment.
As Buddy watched him standing in the foyer, he knew something had changed. And it wasn’t his having to care for a child. He was completely unprepared for that endeavor but had confidence that he and Mei could make it work, for a few days. No, the biggest change was having to protect a boy whose life was in mortal danger. Only now did the responsibility hit him. Only now did he see the apartment differently. It wasn’t, he decided, all that safe.
He sensed Mei’s presence. The trace of her perfume. The faint sounds coming from the kitchen.
He turned to the now-closed elevator doors. After turning the wall switch to “Locked,” so that the elevator wouldn’t open into the apartment, he decided that electronic protection wasn’t enough.
“Ben?” he asked. “Would you help me?”
Ben turned around. His face was less drawn. His eyes were calmer. “What should I do?”
Buddy rested a hand on an antique Chinese medicine cabinet against the wall to his left. “Help me move this chest in front of the elevator doors.”
Ben slipped his backpack off his shoulders and set it on the herringbone oak floor. Then he went to the other end of the medicine cabinet and waited. The cabinet was about his height and four feet wide. He asked, “Won’t this be super heavy?”
“Yes, and that’s why we’re going to put it in front of the door.”
Understanding immediately, Ben put his hands on either side of the cabinet and tried to lift. The cabinet didn’t move.
“We can’t lift it using our arms alone,” Buddy told him. “We’ll have to put our shoulders into it.” The truth was that Buddy could probably move the cabinet by himself, but he wanted Ben to feel active rather than passive. “Watch how I do it,” he said. He bent at the knees, gripped the sides of the cabinet, put his right shoulder against the black lacquered wood, and looked over at Ben. “Try it this way, okay? On the count of three, we’ll lift it.”
Ben crouched and then leaned against the ca
binet. Buddy saw his small hands grip the cabinet edges, though the boy’s face was obscured.
“One, two, three,” Buddy said. He lifted and began to move backward, trying to carry at least eighty percent of the cabinet. Yet he was surprised by how much of its weight the boy had taken.
They moved the cabinet about five feet, setting it down where it would block anyone from entering via the elevator. It wouldn’t block anyone, exactly, Buddy admitted to himself, but it would give him time to react. He’d booby-trap the cabinet so that if anyone tried to move it, some glass or metal item would crash to the floor. By that time he’d be awake and alert, Glock at the ready.
The cabinet in place, Buddy faced the boy. He’d prefer to stop this conversation before it started, but he had every reason to believe the killer of Ben’s family would make a third try for the boy. He needed to push the conversation forward one more step, to prepare Ben for what he feared would happen. He said, “When your family was attacked at Camp Kateri, you hid and ran away, didn’t you?”
Ben’s expression changed to one of doubt. He seemed unsure if hiding and running away were good in Buddy’s eyes. “Yes,” he admitted.
Buddy said, “That was the right thing to do, okay?”
“Okay.”
“If anything happens ever again, hide. If you can’t hide, run. Because if you have to fight a large man, you’ll have a tough time, won’t you?”
Ben nodded.
Buddy knelt down, met Ben’s eyes. He said, “But what happens if someone gets to you, captures you? What will you do then?”
Ben shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You’d be in a tight spot,” Buddy said. “So here are a couple of ideas. First, you kick or punch the guy in the balls. Okay?”