House of Secrets - v4

by Richard Hawke

  Five minutes later she was testing the mattress with her hands. The springs made a little bit of noise, but this didn’t matter. It was a bed. She was not going to be sleeping on the ground. This was her current definition of heaven.

  There was a shower down at the end of the hall. Even though she had no clean clothes to change into, Irena took a shower. She also had no towel, and since the man at the front desk had said to her that none were provided, she used the bed’s thin bedcover. There was a slender chip of soap on the floor of the shower, and Irena ran it over her body until it disappeared altogether. The water pressure was not very strong. But the water was hot. As hot as she could stand. And this was good. The hotter the better. She closed her eyes and pretended that the searing water was dissolving her skin all the way down to her bones. This was also good. The old skin was the old Irena. It was all that remained, and now it, too, could be made to vanish. At the end of the shower, she could step out and begin to let the new Irena blossom. Maybe this one would have better luck. Maybe this one could have real children. Maybe this one could marry a man who devoured her with love, could be less nervous, could be more happy.

  Back in her small room, Irena dabbed herself dry with the bedcover, then got naked into the bed. She had the tabloid newspaper with her. She also had the blue stick from Dimitri’s computer in her hand. She scrunched up against the thin pillow and set the newspaper and the blue stick on her lap. She was ready.

  The last thing Christine wanted to do was cry in front of her mother, but once she had gotten it out of the way she felt somewhat better.

  The two women were seated together in the squeaking wooden love seat out in Jenny’s garden. Far above them, the three-quarter moon was playing hide-and-seek with an endless stream of curling clouds; the way its dim light wobbled off and on reminded Christine of an errant bulb loose in its socket.

  The two were each wrapped in thin shawls against the brisk bite of the late evening. Each also cradled a wineglass in her lap. As the others had headed off to bed, Lillian had snared a bottle of Sancerre from her ex-husband’s wine cellar and cajoled her daughter into staying up with her for a nightcap. The decision to move it outdoors had been Christine’s. To whatever degree the semidarkness might ameliorate Lillian’s hawklike scrutiny, all the better.

  “The hair is cute, by the way,” Lillian said to Christine after a few minutes of uncustomary silence.

  Christine wiped away the last of her tears. “Thank you.” She poked at her hair. “It feels like a thousand years ago.”

  Lillian’s wineglass floated near her chin. “Listen, darling. I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I have to say it. Andrew seemed awfully dead tonight.”

  The words that rose to Christine’s tongue were precisely the ones she knew better than to use in response to her mother. She forced herself to take a beat. But even then, she couldn’t keep from at least nibbling at the bait. “That’s a hell of a thing to say. You know, you might want to remember that Andy’s under a lot of pressure right now.”

  Lillian dismissed the remark. “Oh, the pressure. Yes, I remember that one. You seem to forget I was married to one of those men myself for over thirty years. I always thought it must be nice to have a big important wall like that to hide behind.”

  “Andy is not hiding behind any wall. His daughter has just been kidnapped.”

  Lillian was unimpressed. The shifting moonlight slid across her face as she sipped her wine. Even in the dimness, the terrible beauty of her eyes prevailed. She trained them on her daughter.

  “I believe your daughter is missing, too. But I don’t see you all cloaked in your own thoughts.”

  “I’m plenty cloaked, Mother. It’s just that you can’t see it.”

  Lillian dipped a finger into her glass, then brought it to her lips. “All I can say is that something’s up with the two of you. I know it is, Chrissie. My radar’s too good.”

  “There’s nothing ‘up’ with us,” Christine said, more tersely than she’d intended. “I know it disappoints you to see that one of these marriages can actually work, but I guess you’re just going to have to live with that.”

  Lillian was unmoved. “Oh, please. I cut my teeth on men like your husband. All I’m trying to do is protect you from being hurt.”

  “I’m not you.”

  Lillian floated her glass up near her daughter’s face. “What I’m talking about is you keeping your eyes clear, young lady. You’re telling me that Andrew is different from your father. That’s fine. I’d like to see him show it, that’s all. My whiskers are twitching, Chrissie. Your little girl is out there somewhere, and none of us knows where she is or why she has been taken away, and I’m sorry, but that handsome husband of yours should have you tight in his arms, end of story. I don’t know where that man is, but I’m telling you where he’s not. He is not altogether here, he’s off somewhere by himself. A tragedy of this proportion should be drawing people so close together they can barely breathe. And that’s just not happening.”

  Christine’s chest tightened. “Is that what happened between you and Daddy when Peter died? You drew close? I’m sorry, but you’ll have to refresh my memory. I seem to recall the two of you acting like complete and utter jerks.”

  Even in the semidarkness, Christine could tell that she had scored.

  “That was different,” Lillian said curtly. “That marriage was already on fumes by the time your father and I got back from overseas. Of course, that’s easy for you to forget. You weren’t around to see just how much things had degenerated between Whitney and me. You were over here busy helping your man get to the Senate. What Peter’s death did to my marriage was hasten the inevitable. So don’t go lumping all tragedies together like that, Chrissie. Besides which, there was a lot more going on. You don’t even know the half of it.”

  “The half I saw was more than enough, thank you.”

  Christine knew she was pressing her mother unfairly, but she was feeling too helpless in her own fear to back off. Lillian was correct. The months surrounding Peter’s anguishing death had been an uncommonly volatile time for everyone. Chris Wyeth’s decision to leave the Senate in order to run for Whitney’s old job in Albany had been the precise opening that Andy had been waiting for, and so he had launched full throttle into what proved to be a contentious campaign to capture Wyeth’s vacated seat. Nearly simultaneous to this, Christine’s father had resigned his ambassadorial post and returned stateside — a move that was largely, and correctly, regarded as evidence of the former governor’s intention to make his much-delayed run for the presidency. In the middle of all these raging political hormones, Peter Hoyt had expired on a thin mattress in his joyless Hell’s Kitchen apartment, and his mother had subsequently fallen completely apart. The buildup to Hoyt’s announcement of his presidential candidacy began to veer off course. Intimations of the long-standing estrangement that had existed between Whitney Hoyt and his son started to surface, along with a whispering campaign concerning Hoyt’s insensitivity toward his grieving spouse. Hoyt’s ambitions to mount a national campaign to capture the White House in the face of his family’s tragedies began to appear distasteful to a growing number of people. In the end he had been forced to pull the plug for a second — and final — time on his presidential aspirations. The divorce came through five months later. Lillian had contested nothing. She fled.

  Christine could sense her mother’s eyes resting heavily on her. She regretted snapping at her. She knew this must be especially difficult for Lillian, returning as a visitor to the house where she once ruled.

  “I don’t know what the problem is,” Christine said quietly. “You’re not completely wrong. About Andy.” She looked down at her wineglass. The tiny reflection of the moon skittered in the dark liquid like a spark.

  “They want Andy to be the new vice president.”

  Christine couldn’t believe she had just said this. She raised her eyes to see if by some miracle maybe she hadn’t actually said it out lou
d. Lillian appeared unimpressed with the news.

  “Surely you don’t want that,” she said blithely.

  “It’s complicated,” Christine muttered. Complicated: one of her mother’s favorite words.

  “What’s so complicated about it? I think it’s pretty simple. Can you imagine what your life would have been like if your father had gone ahead and actually run for that damn office? If he’d won? Don’t kid yourself. I know that a lot of people feel sorry for your father. But as far as I’m concerned, the best thing in the world for all involved was that man’s dreams being thwarted.”

  “Andy is not Daddy.”

  “No, he’s not. I’ve already conceded that point. But he is of the same species. You can’t just dismiss that fact. Type is important. We’ve all got our own tribal rhythms, darling, and you can predict quite a lot based on types. If Andy—”

  Christine cut her off. “Stop! Don’t do this. I’m serious. Please do not sit there and dissect and dehumanize my husband. It is such a bullshit thing to do.”

  The shared seat was trembling with Christine’s agitation. She didn’t dare look at her mother. A moment later, Lillian slipped off the swing.

  “My train wreck is behind me, Chrissie. It’s been dragged out of the tunnel and cleared away.” She paused, pulling her shawl tighter around her. “I love you, whether you like it or not. I don’t want to see you hurt. I’m only suggesting you keep an eye out for that tunnel. You make sure you’ve got your lights on nice and bright before you go plunging in.”

  She adjusted the shawl again.

  “Good night, darling. You should go get some sleep. You really aren’t looking your best.”

  The rookie cop was stationed behind the industrial-size trash bin, with a clear view of the fire escape of the five-story apartment building. The smell coming off the metal container was sweet and rank. A low-volume burst of static sounded from the officer’s shoulder radio.

  “Unit One. In place?”

  The cop peeked his head around the side of the trash bin. As he locked his eyes on the third-floor window, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and watched a hunchbacked rat galloping across the alley. It practically collided with the officer’s shoes on its way to squiggling beneath the trash bin.

  The cop twisted his chin and muttered into his shoulder. “One. Roger.”

  Atop the building, the rookie’s partner waved his arm overhead. “Back off, dude,” he muttered to himself, the sentiment aimed at the rookie down below whose head was clearly visible behind the metal trash container.

  “Unit Two?”

  The cop twisted the shoulder radio as close to his face as he could. “All set.”

  Some half a mile to the west, a police chopper hung suspended over the East River, the glass cockpit pitched slightly forward. The cop’s radio crackled again.

  “Big Bird, you read?”

  The words were followed by a barely discernible voice competing with the roar of the helicopter’s engine.

  Megan Lamb glanced sideways at FBI agent Armstrong. The man’s features were set on “grim.” Megan didn’t like his vibe one bit.

  The two were standing in the stairwell of the five-story building, between floors two and three. The dimly lit wall was the color of a grocery bag, spackled in spots with blotches of green paint.

  “We’re knocking,” Megan said in a low voice, her tone halfway between an instruction and a reminder.

  Armstrong’s response was terse. “Fuck that.”

  “No. Fuck that.”

  Armstrong snapped, “You want to give this ape the heads-up? Fine. That’s two more men dropped at the door.”

  Megan ignored the gender point. “I told you. We flank. I kneel, and you’re at five off the door, head shot ready. If he comes out with a weapon, he’s neutralized.”

  “Goddamned Taylor didn’t neutralize him.”

  “We’re not goddamned Taylor,” Megan said. “We’re ready.”

  Megan knew that the agent was sick at heart and furious. When word had come in from the Shelter Island police about the two bodies found just inside the door of the house where Joy Resnick had been murdered, Armstrong had destroyed a gooseneck lamp in the 6th Precinct headquarters. Several hours later, with confirmation of Joy Resnick’s cousin, Robert Smallwood, having arrived on the island Thursday evening and exited again on the late night ferry on Friday, Armstrong would have gladly jammed a shrapnel grenade down Smallwood’s throat, he’d been so enraged. For her part, Megan was not at all happy having a rabid federal pit bull for a partner on the operation to bring Robert Smallwood into custody for questioning. But her power to sideline the seething agent had proved nonexistent.

  Megan had a key to apartment 3B. The landlord of the building lived off-site, and he had been rousted from his bed just after four in the morning to cough it up. Megan had no illusions that Armstrong was going to stand by quietly while she fiddled with a key, assuming that their knocking brought no result.

  “We need to talk to this guy,” Megan reminded the agent as the two prepared to mount the remaining steps. “That means he remains alive. The girl might not be in there. We need him to tell us where she is. Let’s not make a mess of this, okay?”

  Armstrong’s grunt did little to communicate agreement.

  The two unholstered their weapons as they climbed the stairs and stepped soundlessly down the hallway, their muzzles next to their ears and trained at the flaking ceiling. Armstrong continued past the door and assumed a three-quarter shooting stance, bringing his weapon to an approximation of where he figured the head of a six-foot-four individual would be when the door opened. It was Megan who rapped on the door. “NYPD! Open up!”

  She fell to one knee, training her gun at the door. The two could make out the distant sound of the police chopper closing in fast from the river. The agreed-upon count was ten, but Megan was not surprised when Armstrong moved on eight.

  “Move back.” He stepped in front of the door, raising his left foot waist-high and crashing it forward against the door’s flimsy lock.

  “Go!”

  Megan hit the door low with her shoulder and tumbled into the apartment. Her weapon came up, swinging left, right, straight ahead.

  Nothing.

  Armstrong was charging in behind her.

  “Kitchen!” He ran down the short hallway and straight-armed the door at the end. Megan came out of her crouch and leaped into the small kitchen.

  “Clean!”

  She stepped back into the hallway and kicked open a closet door directly in front of her. Empty.

  “Bathroom clean!” Armstrong yelled, charging back up the hallway. “Bedroom! Bedroom! Bedroom!”

  As Megan angled for the room, Armstrong swung around the corner. The sound of the chopper was now ten times louder. Megan pushed open the door to the bedroom and stepped inside, weapon at the ready. She froze. Armstrong came racing in behind her.

  “Holy shit.”

  Lowering her weapon, Megan stepped over to the far wall of the small room. Her radio crackled, but she didn’t even hear who was saying what. She was too fixated on the sight of what looked like several hundred photocopies of Michelle Foster’s face. Armstrong appeared behind her, his eyes scanning the wall display.

  Finally, Megan twisted her chin toward her shoulder. “Stand down,” she said into her radio. She took a step closer to the wall, her eyes darting from image to image to image.

  In a voice no one heard but herself, she added, “But not too fucking far.”

  This time the news came in directly to Christine. She was up early, grinding fresh beans for coffee, and almost didn’t hear the sprightly notes of “Anything Goes” coming from her cell phone, which was sitting on the counter. In her haste to get the call she tipped the lid of the grinder. Freshly ground coffee carpeted the counter.

  The caller was Detective Lamb, and her information was, for the most part, not good. Christine tilted back against the counter as the polic
e detective explained how a link between the woman found dead in the van used to abduct Michelle and a recently unsolved murder on Shelter Island had led a pair of investigators out to Shelter Island the day before, and how the two had been brutally murdered as they had approached the scene. Christine had to ask the detective to repeat the last part. The words had failed to register as a reality.

  “Agent Taylor,” Megan said flatly. “And a detective from the Suffolk County Police. They were both shot at close range.”

  Christine’s free hand had landed in the loose coffee. “Michelle?”

  “No sign of your daughter.”

  The detective went on to explain that the identity of Michelle’s kidnapper had now been established. Minimizing the details, she informed Christine of the early morning raid on Robert Smallwood’s apartment in Queens and encouraged Christine not to lose hope.

  “Every law enforcement agent in the country has the man’s picture. His car is distinctive; it’s not going to be difficult to spot. He’s been flushed out not only from his home but from the house on Shelter Island, where he was most likely holding Michelle. This means he’s on the run. Whatever his plan was, it’s falling apart. Smart money says he’ll just drop Michelle off somewhere and try to make a run for it. I just want you and your husband to hang tough, okay? Things are falling our way, Mrs. Foster, not his.”

  Jenny had come into the kitchen as the detective delivered her assessments to Christine. She froze as she heard Christine say, “But he’s killing all these people.”

  Megan conceded. “The victim on Shelter Island. That is, the first victim. She’s been identified as Smallwood’s cousin.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “It’s fresh information for us. We’re trying to piece it all together. This man, Robert Smallwood. Does the name mean anything to you? He works as a security guard at the Metropolitan Museum. We don’t really have much else on him yet.”