by Lee Harris
“That news didn’t break early in the morning.”
That was exactly what I had told Carlotta. “Maybe he’d had a tough night, and he decided to sleep in. He didn’t report to anyone at work; he was a principal. His wife wasn’t home; he didn’t have to get up for breakfast. By the time he got up, the news may have broken.”
“What about the two other wives? They told me they called Mr. Krassky’s home to see if he’d come in.”
“Were there messages on the answering machine?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Mrs. Thayer left a message. Mrs. Franklin said she hung up before the machine picked up. Said she knew it would kick in after the fourth ring.”
“He may have been home and wasn’t answering the phone. Lots of people do that.”
“With his wife away? Would he chance missing a call from her?”
“If he heard her voice, he could always pick up.”
He smiled again. “OK, you got me. Keep going.”
“Here’s the second possibility. He followed his two friends across the lake. Maybe he was the laggard. From a distance he could have seen the argument between the other two men, or heard the shot, and retreated to save his own life.”
“I’ll give you points for that. He gets tired, he thinks maybe he shouldn’t have come this far, and then the argument happens and he runs for his life.”
“If that’s what happened,” I said, “he probably saw and heard them go down. And he had a long way to go back to the beach, from where I’ve heard the break in the ice was.”
“Seven or eight miles,” he agreed. “Couple hours at a good pace. Now you’re going to tell me he was distraught and confused and could think of nothing else but getting the hell out of town, hiding from reality, all that good stuff.”
“I think it could have happened.”
“What could also have happened is that he was the man with the gun, he pulled the trigger, one man went down, the other went to help, both went through the ice, and Valentine Krassky is a fugitive from justice.”
“But if he carried the gun, Detective Murdock, with the intention of shooting Matty Franklin, why would he leave his watch in the car?” Watching his face, I felt rather triumphant.
“Good point,” the detective said, picking up a pen and making a note for the first time.
“And even if what you suggested is true, he could be alive. And that would be a good reason why he didn’t let anyone know where he was.”
“We’re working on that angle. He’s on our wanted list. Just in case his body doesn’t turn up hooked to the branch of an underwater tree.”
“Did you check the taxi companies?” I asked.
“You have to understand, when this tragedy happened, we assumed all three men were together—we had no reason to assume otherwise—so we didn’t look elsewhere for any of them. That left us kinda behind when only two bodies surfaced and we realized there’d been a shoot-out. But yes, I’ve checked the taxi companies in the area, and no one remembers picking anyone up that night that could have been Mr. Krassky. And this tragedy has been in the news, Ms. Bennett. If a driver had picked up one of those missing men, you can bet he would have come forward on his own.”
“Unless he’d been paid to keep quiet.”
“But then we’ve got a fugitive, and that’s not what Mrs. Krassky is hoping for.”
“What about buses?” I asked, not wanting to get off on a tangent.
“I talked to the bus company myself. If anyone fitting Mr. Krassky’s description took a bus that night, none of the drivers remembers it.”
“Which doesn’t mean he didn’t.”
“Doesn’t mean a damn thing.”
“Could he have walked home from the beach?”
“Sure. Take awhile, but it’s easier going than on ice.”
We had driven it in fifteen minutes and clocked it at five miles. I can walk three miles in an hour without pushing myself. “The question really is, where would he go? He didn’t leave the country because we found his passport this morning.”
The detective smiled. “And he didn’t take any money out of the bank. At least not that we know of. Don’t forget, he may have had an account somewhere else, like in another state, that we don’t know about. And for all we know, he hopped on a bus to that place, where he’s stashed a bundle and started a new life right there. Or anywhere else you can think of.”
“If that’s true, he might have gone to a place where he has friends his wife doesn’t know about.”
Murdock gave me a sly smile. “Now you’re thinking the way cops think.”
“I’ll have to look at Carlotta’s phone bills and see who he called.”
“That’s a start.” The way he spoke, it was clear he didn’t think there was a chance in a million that Val was alive. He was just gone, and everything I was doing was a waste of time.
“There were no sightings that you’ve heard about?” I said.
“Not a one. Of course, as I said before, we didn’t start looking till last week because we thought they all died together in February. It leaves us with a pretty cold trail.”
No sightings, no taxis, no buses, no wife at home. “Neighbors?” I asked.
“The neighbors said they were a nice couple. Some of them were very friendly with the Krasskys, had dinner with them, visited each others’ homes. If he came home the morning of the fifteenth or left his home that day, no one saw him.”
“Which doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, but there’s been nothing, Ms. Bennett. You’re trying to convince me that this man is alive, that he left his watch behind but didn’t walk across the lake, that he’s living somewhere without benefit of his life savings, that he’s never called the wife he loves, and even that he had no hand in the shooting. Do you see where I’m going?”
“Pretty low probability,” I said, feeling the weight of all that negative evidence.
“Probability zero. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I think you’re wasting your time. Even more so, because if he’s alive, he’s a killer. And that’s not what Mrs. Krassky wants.”
“No, it’s the last thing she wants.” I stood. There didn’t seem to be much else we could talk about.
Detective Murdock took a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “If you get a lead out of state or anywhere else, will you let me know?”
“Of course.”
“You look kinda down. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. It’s what I’ve thought all along, but I wanted to believe there was some hope.”
“There isn’t any. Believe me.”
I had to admit I believed him.
I walked outside the police station and stood in the bright sunlight, shading my eyes and looking up and down the street for Carlotta. She wasn’t around, and I walked tentatively down the street and looked in shop windows. There was a lovely store that sold cooking equipment. My friend Melanie Gross would have to restrain herself here. Gleaming stainless steel pots and pans were the least of it. There were gadgets that looked as though they would accomplish every drudgery-filled task of cooking and baking, barbecue utensils that would make my life—and Jack’s—a lot easier, spices and mustards, and serving platters that looked hand-painted. I decided this was not the place to wait for Carlotta, and I must not go inside under any conditions. Fortunately, I have refused firmly to carry a credit card, much to Jack’s displeasure. He is a man who always thinks of emergencies, and although I know he is right, I don’t ever want to succumb to temptation.
“Done already?”
I turned and there was Carlotta, a bakery bag in her hand. “Done, and resisting temptation with difficulty.”
“I suspect you’re a person who resists a lot more easily than most people.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. “Depends on the temptation,” I said.
“What did you learn?”
“Nothing about the case that we didn’t already know or a
ssume. Murdock himself checked the taxi companies and buses, and no one remembers seeing Val on the fourteenth and fifteenth.”
“Which doesn’t mean he didn’t take one.”
“He understands that, Carlotta. It’s just that everything is a negative, and to believe that Val is alive, you have to reject all these negative indications.”
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
“When I suggested that Val never made the lake crossing, he pointed out that the watch was found in Matty’s car. He also told me that Bambi left a message on your answering machine the morning of the fifteenth.”
“I didn’t remember that. I guess I was in a fog when I got back from my trip.” She looked troubled. We started walking down the block to where we had left the car. “But there wasn’t one from Annie, was there?”
“Murdock suggested Val might have had money stashed in another state where he might also have friends you didn’t know about. Do you have your phone bills from the last few months? I’d like to see what the long distance calls look like.”
“I have everything.” She unlocked the car door for me and went around to the other side. “I don’t see those bills very often, but if I make business calls from home, I keep a list of them for reimbursement,” she said, when we were both in the car. “Sometimes Val makes business calls from home, too, and I know he does business with out-of-state people. You can call all the numbers on the bills if you want.”
“I may do that.” We drove away from the main street and toward the residential part of town, which was a short walk from there. “Have you called Val’s partner yet?” I asked.
“I will when we get home.”
In Val’s study Carlotta pulled out a tax file with this year’s gas, electric, and telephone bills. Since Val had disappeared early in the year, she found the file for last year and gave it to me. I sat at his desk and started with February, working back. The phone bills were many pages long, with a lot of toll calls to the 716 area and others to places as far away as California. Before I started, Carlotta warned me that she called old friends who were now scattered around the country, and she also called her parents regularly. She jotted down several of those numbers so I wouldn’t have to ask about them later.
This was the kind of work that real police detectives often spend their time doing, while those on TV are out in the middle of the night with their guns blazing. It wasn’t any more interesting for me than it was for Jack and his fellow detectives, and I had to keep myself from nodding off once or twice.
I skipped over the known friends and relatives; I could come back to them later, but Carlotta didn’t seem to think Val would be hiding out with her parents or her high school chums. Her parents, in particular, would have a hard time keeping his presence a secret from their daughter, and Val hadn’t known most of her old friends, who lived out-of-state. One number that appeared repeatedly was Amy Grant’s in Oakwood, and if Val were there, Amy had done a masterful job of keeping him away from Carlotta while Carlotta was visiting.
I noticed that in the bills preceding February, certain telephone numbers were checked in red ink, and Carlotta told me that those were Val’s business calls made from home. Every out-of-state number that she didn’t recognize was checked.
I went back a full year, yawning by the time I decided to call it quits. Carlotta was sitting in the family room reading when I found her.
“Anything?” she said.
“All the out-of-state numbers that aren’t on your list were checked by Val.”
“Then they’re business. Call them if you want, Chris. But I don’t think they’ll lead anywhere.”
“Before I do that, there’s something else I’d like to try. I copied down the address of Val’s parents from his birth certificate. I know it’s a long time ago, but many people do stay in one place. I’d just like to see if there’s a number for them.”
“I can assure you they’re not in the country.”
“Humor me.”
She smiled. “You sound like me at work. OK, I’ll humor you. Give it a try.”
She followed me to the kitchen, where I called Connecticut information and asked for the number of Gregory Krassky at the Trumbull address.
“I have no Krassky at that address,” the operator said.
“Maybe they’ve moved,” I said. “It’s awhile since I’ve called them.”
“Let me check the name.”
There was a click and then a mechanical voice came on. “That number is—” and a telephone number followed. I could hear Carlotta gasp as she saw me write it down. I hung up and looked at her.
“There’s a number for that name?” she said.
“In the same town. At least in the same directory.”
Her hand pressed against her chest. “This isn’t possible.”
I picked up the phone and dialed, my own heart doing funny things.
“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Mrs. Krassky?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“My name is Christine Bennett, Mrs. Krassky. I’m a friend of your son, Val.”
“Who is this?” she said angrily.
“I’m a friend of Val’s,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “I wanted to ask—”
“What kind of joke is this?” the woman said with anguish. “My son is dead. Val is dead. Leave me alone.” And she hung up.
I hung up, too, and looked at Carlotta who was standing near me, transfixed. “I think I’ve found them,” I said. “I just spoke to Val’s mother.”
9
We sat in the breakfast room and talked about it, Carlotta sipping a cup of tea, which I would have loved to have. I drank a glass of skim milk instead, not enjoying it very much but knowing I was doing the right thing.
“How does she know he died? Do you think someone sent her the newspaper clippings?” Carlotta said. “I can’t believe a Connecticut paper would have run the story, and even if they had, they wouldn’t have mentioned the names of the three men. No one there would be likely to know them.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Something’s really bothering me about what that woman said. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
“Why wouldn’t Val tell me they were there? Even if something happened in their relationship, if they had a disagreement, why would he concoct a story about their returning to Europe?”
“Something’s wrong, Carlotta.” We seemed to be holding separate monologues, neither of us listening to the other. “Why can’t I put my finger on what it is?”
“Somebody here in western New York called the Krasskys and told them Val was dead. But they don’t know any more than the police do. It doesn’t mean he’s dead, Chris. It just means Mrs. Krassky thinks he is.”
“Everything she said was wrong.” I took a last gulp of milk, happy that I had downed my quarter-quart for the afternoon.
“It means he didn’t go there,” Carlotta said. “We can scratch Connecticut as a safe haven. He’s somewhere else.”
“Carlotta, listen to me. Have you ever called the family of someone who died to deliver your condolences?”
“Yes, a few times.”
“So have I. What was their reaction?”
“They were touched. They were often deeply moved that I had called.”
“Exactly. That’s been the reaction I got, too.”
“I see what you mean. You said she was angry.”
“She was spitting mad. She said, ‘What kind of joke is this?’ Who would ever say that if you were a friend of the deceased and had taken the time and trouble to call?”
“What does that mean?” She looked thoroughly confused.
“I’m not sure.”
“Maybe they’re not his parents.”
“There may be another explanation.” I looked at my watch. “Let’s wait till seven or eight tonight. Then you call, so if Mrs. Krassky picks up, she won’t recognize the voice. Ask to talk to her husband. Let’s work out a script before you call. Maybe
you can get something from the father.”
“Like what?”
“I wish I knew.”
* * *
“Let’s consider the possibilities,” I said. We had driven to a restaurant known for its seafood, and Carlotta had insisted I order lobster. I told her I had only eaten it once before in my life and I wasn’t very adept at cracking the shell and extracting the meat, but she promised to assist and I relented. Lobster was the kind of treat that might not come my way again very soon.
“One is it’s a mistake,” Carlotta said, starting out with the most optimistic point of view. “We called the wrong people.”
“Let’s look at the more realistic side. A number of years ago, before you met him, Val and his parents had a parting of the ways. Some kind of rift developed that couldn’t be patched up. They parted and each side told a different story; Val said his parents had returned to Europe, which is where they came from; his parents decided they had lost him so completely that he was as good as dead.”
“And they’re still pained by the memory of whatever happened between them. Maybe they’ve even come to believe it,” Carlotta said. “That their son died.”
“Maybe.” I was a lot less anxious to embrace one of my hypotheticals than she was. I was looking for truth; Carlotta was looking for a living husband.
“The woman you talked to, did she have an accent?”
“No, she didn’t, which is another thing that’s bothersome.”
“It means Val lied about their coming from Europe. But I can see that. He didn’t want me to think they were in the country, so he fabricated the whole story about where they came from.”
“Let’s leave that one and move on. Let’s say these people in Connecticut believe their son died, but he didn’t.”
“I don’t see that. You can believe someone you haven’t seen in a long time has died, someone who lives far away, but your own child?”
“I’m thinking wild thoughts. Maybe he was kidnapped as a child.”
She thought about it, but I could see she didn’t like it any more than I did. “It doesn’t make sense. If he knew his name, he would know where to find his parents. He had the birth certificate, Chris. He knew where he came from. If he’d been snatched as a baby, his name would have been changed. If you snatched a baby, you’d call it Something Brooks, wouldn’t you?”