by Nancy Holder
She wondered how Vincent was faring. Ten years ago, he had served his country in a war zone. Now he was serving his city—and he was just as hated and feared now as then.
“What I mean is that you will have our full attention and we will do everything we can to bring Angelo home,” Cat said.
“Whatever it takes?” He raised his chin as if daring her to say otherwise.
“Of course. Within the law, of course.” It was a relief to apply her skills and training to a complex case that didn’t throw beasts in the mix, too. But that relief was tempered by the fact that she was dealing with a powerful man who believed that laws were meant to be shattered if they stood in his way.
He smiled slowly. “Well, aren’t you a spunky lady. I like you.”
Cat didn’t smile back. She wasn’t here to be liked. She needed him to be cooperative so she could find his son, but that was all.
Gonzales cleared his throat. “I’ll debrief you. Mr. DeMarco is far too upset. At approximately one-ten p.m. the power went out in the DeMarco building. The backup generator system did not turn on, as it was designed to do, until one of Mr. DeMarco’s people physically went down into the basement to reset it.”
“We’d like to talk to that person,” Tess said.
“The next thing that failed was the backup for the security system.”
“Wow,” Tess said.
“You don’t need to be broadcasting that,” Mr. DeMarco snapped. “There’s still a blackout, right? I don’t need my business rivals thinking I can’t protect what’s mine. It’s been fixed. All of it. We don’t have any problems.”
“Who’s in charge of that system?” Cat asked Gonzales.
“We’ve already debriefed him,” Robertson insisted.
Tess stayed cool. “Maybe he’ll remember a few new details by restating their story to a new interviewer.” Allowing other departments who were working on a case to interview key subjects was Investigation 101, no matter who you worked for. Robertson was just being a jerk.
“All you need to do is look for Angelo,” Mr. DeMarco said. “You’re NYPD. You know the city.”
The FBI had twelve hundred agents in New York City. They knew the lay of the land as well as the police department.
“The more we know about how he was taken, the closer we get to who may have taken him, and where,” Cat said. Surely he knew this. “I respect your need for privacy, and I’m sorry you have to permit strangers into your home.”
“Strangers who can take what they learn and use it later,” he said. He pointed a finger at them. “You can bet it’ll be changed up, so don’t bothering taking a lot of notes.”
“If it’s going to be changed up,” Tess ventured, “then it won’t matter if we talk to the people who put the current system together.”
DeMarco blinked at her. Then he actually smiled. “You’ve got moxie. Both you ladies.” He looked at Robertson. “They can talk to Bailey.”
“Okay.”
Cat could tell by Tess’s carefully neutral expression that she was finding this conversation just as odd as she was. DeMarco was dictating the terms of the investigation to an FBI agent. It spoke volumes about how powerful he was—and suggested that Robertson, at least, was content to let him take the lead.
“Okay, I see that your ERU is keeping busy. What do you have so far?” Cat asked briskly. FBI might have jurisdiction, but that didn’t mean that the NYPD was somehow a lesser entity or a junior partner. If they were going to assist, they needed facts, information.
An evidence tech approached carrying a dark-blue plastic bin. “Here’s the ransom note,” said Special Agent Gonzales, reaching inside the bin. The tech set the box down on DeMarco’s desk. Gonzales held up a clear plastic evidence bag for Tess and Cat to see. It would have been nice if they could have examined the note before it had been bagged. They had their own gloves; they wouldn’t have contaminated the evidence.
“We bagged it a bit prematurely, perhaps,” Gonzales added.
Cat wondered if his apology was genuine. Some FBI agents were remote and intimidating, like Robertson, but the FBI was in the business of intelligence gathering—extracting information, making connections, figuring things out. Her dad—her real dad, not her biological father—loved to say that you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. Ergo, it made sense for agents to cultivate trust in the individuals they dealt with, on all levels, from criminals to colleagues from other agencies. To be a “people person,” in other words… or to be able to act like one. All that “just the facts, ma’am” you saw on TV? More often, agents were friendly and encouraged chatter.
Inside the bag was a handwritten note on a piece of plain copy paper. It said, We have your son. He will receive insulin when we receive money. Be ready.
“Insulin,” Cat said, and Special Agent Gonzales handed her another evidence bag from the bin, this one made of brown paper, like a lunch sack. Bags such as these were used for pieces of evidence that were moist, since being encased in plastic could promote molds or other bacterial growth that could compromise the item. Cat set down the bag and put on a pair of blue latex evidence gloves. Tess did the same. Then Cat reached in and carefully retrieved a small plastic box with a digital screen and a plastic tube attached to it.
“Angelo DeMarco has juvenile diabetes. It’s been difficult to manage because he doesn’t deal with it very well. Mrs. DeMarco has corroborated that this is most likely Angelo’s insulin pump,” Robertson said. “We’ve taken DNA samples off it. We’ll have them analyzed.”
“Is Angelo DeMarco’s DNA in the system?” Cat asked.
Robertson shrugged. “We can use his medical records. He’s been to the doctor about a thousand times.” Medical records were protected information, but looking at them would be easily accomplished with a subpoena.
“Here’s a good headshot of Angelo,” Gonzales said, handing each of them an eight-by-ten glossy of a young man who resembled Tony DeMarco, but whose features were less sharp. Big, dark eyes, heavy eyebrows, but a softer nose and plumper lips. He wasn’t smiling, and he looked as if something was weighing heavily on his mind. Haunted. “I’ll email it to your phones as well.”
“When was this picture taken?” Tess asked.
“About three months ago. It was for DeMarco Industries’ annual report,” DeMarco said. “Angelo is on the board.” He gave his head a shake. “Not that he ever makes the meetings. See, that’s the problem if you grow up rich.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Tess murmured, so softly that Cat, who standing the closest to her, barely heard her. Good thing, too. They didn’t want to antagonize DeMarco.
“We could help you question the security and housekeeping staff,” Cat said to Robertson.
“On it,” he said. “Agents are taking statements in some of the guest rooms as we speak.”
“Looks like you have everything well in hand,” Cat said with a trace of asperity.
“We do,” he responded.
It was evident that the two men resented her and Tess’s presence. It didn’t matter. A young man with a medical condition was missing. Finding him was their mandate.
“Maybe it’s time to speak to Bailey,” Cat said.
“I’ll arrange that,” Robertson said. He pulled out a radiophone and began speaking into it as he walked off.
“Take them to Hallie while Bailey gets ready,” Mr. DeMarco told Gonzales. “I’m not sure how much help she’ll be. You know how women are.” He inclined his head. “Except for beautiful lady cops, of course.”
Bleargh, Cat thought.
Gonzales gestured for them to follow him out. They left the office and followed the two agents back through the foyer to a cavernous space filled with suits of armor. A large shield with a yellow-and-black coat of arms hung on the wall. demarco, it read.
There was one woman in the crowd of security people. In her early fifties, she had short, feathered red hair and she was dressed in a black suit with a skirt, low black heels, and the mo
st foreboding “don’t screw with me” expression in the apartment thus far. She was on a radiophone and when she saw Cat and Tess, she walked into a room off the hall and shut the door as if for privacy. There were a few head nods in their direction as they walked the gauntlet of strangers, but for the most part they were pretty much ignored.
Then Gonzales opened a door on the right and Cat stepped through first. She found herself on a carved marble staircase that spiraled upward, and Gonzales indicated that she should go up.
Behind Cat, Tess murmured, “Oh, boy, more stairs,” and Gonzales smiled.
“We were running a pool on whether or not you two would actually climb sixty flights of stairs,” he said.
“Damn straight,” Tess replied, and his smile broke into a big grin.
“I had my money on you, Detective Vargas. You’re in shape.” His gaze strayed toward her butt.
“Can we cut the chatter?” Robertson snapped.
Tess flashed him a quick evil eye out of his range of vision and Cat stayed silent as they ascended the stairs. Their footsteps rang out.
“Would the kidnappers have used this route?” she asked.
“That’s something we don’t know,” Gonzales said. “I mean, you can hear how noisy this stairwell is. It was built that way on purpose. It’s one way Mr. DeMarco kept tabs on his son. Or tried to. Somehow, Angelo still snuck in and out.”
“He’s twenty, right? I mean, can’t he come and go as he pleases?” Tess asked, and Robertson’s mouth set into a rigid line.
“Mr. DeMarco is correct to be so protective of his son. Angelo has trouble accepting that the wealth and privilege he was born into makes him a target for exactly this situation. If he was more cautious, his father would be less… watchful.”
Poor little rich boy, Cat thought. She was forming a profile of Angelo DeMarco: restricted and rebellious. A volatile combination. She could remember having spats with her mom over curfews and the company she kept.
But not when I was twenty. My mom was already dead.
“The security cameras must have backup batteries,” Cat said, combining two questions into one: that they had cameras, and that they’d been on.
“The cameras leading into Angelo’s quarters were disabled,” Gonzales reported. “That’s not unusual. Angelo hacked them himself on a regular basis. Said he didn’t want to be spied on.” He gave her a weary look as if to say, You begin to see the problem.
The stairs ended on a landing decorated with a signed guitar in a glass case. The case stood in the direct pathway of a security camera. None of the status lights at the base of the camera was on.
“This guitar belonged to Stevie Ray Vaughn,” Gonzales said offhandedly. “The kid collects.”
Collects what? Cat wondered, as he opened a door in front of her. Robertson was busy typing something into a cell phone.
They walked into a messy, shabby bedroom. Cat expected to see more milling security guards, but there was only one person: a tall, seriously athletic woman maybe as old as thirty-five, with curly blond hair cascading over her shoulders and a face completely free of lines and blemishes. She was wearing a black, floor-length raw silk nightgown that exposed plenty of cleavage, with a luxurious black robe—looked to be cashmere—over it. There was no puffiness from crying around her large blue eyes. Her makeup was perfectly applied, shiny lips pursed together in a scowl. She wasn’t worried. She was pissed off.
“Hey, Miguel, Jim,” she said as the FBI agents walked in. Her words were slurred and she was none too steady on her feet. She looked past the men, did an eye sweep of Cat, then raised her brows at Tess as if to say, Who the hell are you two?
“Mrs. DeMarco,” “Jim” replied, “these are the police detectives the Bureau has brought in.” He turned to Cat and Tess. “This is Mrs. DeMarco.” Then he walked out of the room, leaving Gonzales behind.
Hallie has to be Angelo’s stepmother, Cat thought, unless she had him when she was twelve. She said, “I’m Detective Chandler. This is Detective Vargas. We’ll do everything we can to retrieve your son.”
Mrs. DeMarco made a face. “My son,” she said. “Well…” She trailed off. “Thanks.”
She was surrounded by open dresser drawers and jumbles of jeans, running shoes, and hoodies. An acoustic guitar had been placed in a stand in a corner. The room was decorated in early thrift shop—a cheap bureau made of painted particle board, a drawing table, and a twin bed with a peeling wrought-iron headboard. Pencil sketches of young men playing guitars and skateboarding were tacked to the walls. Books and sketchpads were scattered on top of the bare mattress. The sheets were stretched out on the floor like the chalk drawing of a body.
“I’ve looked through everything,” Mrs. DeMarco told Gonzales. “Nothing.”
Cat wondered why there was no one from evidence recovery in here. Maybe there was some concern for Angelo’s privacy… or something the family didn’t want outsiders to see. Drugs. Porn. They wanted to cover that up. Conceal it. Not a good plan. Anything that could provide information about where Angelo was and who had him should be available.
Just then Robertson walked back in. He was carrying a glass of what smelled like straight bourbon.
“Mrs. DeMarco, Mr. DeMarco is asking for you,” Robertson said. He held out the glass. “He asked me to give this to you to help steady your nerves.”
So FBI agents double as cocktail waiters? These guys were way too familiar with the DeMarco family. It was clear to Cat that this wasn’t the first time they’d dealt with each other.
Hallie DeMarco took the drink and guzzled it down without pausing. Then she handed the empty glass back to Robertson and swayed out of the room. Gonzales sighed and shook his head.
“Let’s get to work.” Robertson moved to the pile of clothes on the bed. He said to Gonzales, “Did she take anything?”
Gonzales colored and turned to Cat and Tess. “As you may have surmised, there’s no love lost between Hallie DeMarco and Angelo. She’s his second stepmother, and she’s pretty new. Just two years into the marriage. He’s called her a gold digger to her face.”
“Is she?” Tess asked calmly.
“She’s not on trial here,” Robertson said icily.
Yet, Cat thought. “We’re not accusing her of anything.” She was irritated that she had to placate a fellow professional like this. “But if there is any reason to suspect that she had a hand in the abduction, we need to find that out.”
“There’s no reason,” Robertson replied, but Gonzales spoke over him.
“She doesn’t like Angelo. At all.” he interjected.
Cat followed up. “Why not?”
“Hallie Schneider was an LVN—a licensed vocational nurse—before she married Mr. DeMarco. An… employee of DeMarco’s had placed his mother in the assisted living facility Hallie was working in and she caught DeMarco’s eye when he came to pay his respects.”
That didn’t exactly answer Cat’s question. She assumed Hallie was insecure about her hold on DeMarco, and didn’t like having to deal with a resentful stepson who could influence his father against her. Angelo’s rebellion might be directed at her. Maybe he was worried that if his father had a child with his new wife, he would be supplanted, maybe even disinherited.
“Did she assist Angelo with his diabetic treatments?” Tess asked.
“That was his dad’s hope, but Angelo wouldn’t let her come near him.”
“Where’s his mom?”
“Undetermined,” Gonzales said. “She cut off contact when Angelo was a baby and we haven’t found her. Mr. DeMarco thinks she may be deceased.”
Okay, that’s weird, Cat thought. By her answering expression, Tess was thinking the same thing.
“Let’s get back to work,” Robertson said. He put on a pair of gloves and began to search methodically through the clothing on the bed. He dug his hands into pockets and turned socks inside out. Gonzales flicked on a flashlight, dropped to his knees, and peered under the bed.
He pu
lled out what appeared to be a sketchbook, but was actually a musical composition book. Robertson kept examining the clothing. Cat put on fresh gloves and Tess followed suit, even though it was odd to both of them that ERU wasn’t performing these tasks, and soon they were slowly paging through the book. There were no lyrics, just notes on musical staffs.
“You said he collected,” Cat said.
“Oh. Yeah.” Gonzales walked to what appeared to be a standard clothes closet. But when he opened it, a huge room was revealed, and in it, there were dozens of guitars in glass cases like the Stevie Ray Vaughn in the stair landing. On the walls hung large black-and-white photographs of guitarists. Cat recognized Elvis Presley and Jimi Hendrix. The others were unknown to her.
“Does he play as well as collect?” Cat asked. She looked down at the music book. “Are these his songs?”
“He’s terrible,” Mrs. DeMarco said behind them. She came up beside Cat and tapped the book. “He liked to go to clubs and write down what he heard. So he could steal it. Sometimes the musicians invited him to sit in but trust me, they were doing it because of who he is. He was so bad he didn’t even know he was bad.”
Okay, and at least some parts of sentences were in present tense, Cat thought. So maybe she doesn’t have special knowledge that our vic is dead. Speaking of missing persons in past tense could serve as an indicator of participation… and guilt.
Mrs. DeMarco ambled down a row of guitars. “You can’t believe how much money is in these things. Tony’s such a sucker when it comes to that kid.”
“But of course you’re worried sick about him,” Robertson coached her.
“Huh? Oh, right. Of course I am.”
And for one moment, something slipped on her face and she looked completely and utterly miserable. It was as if she forgot to be hard and instead revealed just how young and out of her depth she was. People under extreme stress did that, just dropped the act and showed their real faces. The best example of that was Vincent, whose classic stress reaction was to beast out.