I took the hint, and set the table for breakfast, pouring juice and coffee for both of us. We sat down across from each other, a plate of eggs and a stack of whole-wheat toast between us. After spooning a helping of eggs onto each of our plates, Susan reached across and touched me lightly on the arm. “About last night.” I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped me. “Please, hear me out. I want to apologize for my behavior last night. I was out of line from the moment you arrived.”
“Forget about it.” I waved my hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You were under a lot of stress.”
“I behaved abominably.” She shook her head.
I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I decided to keep my mouth shut, to avoid stuffing my foot into it. Millie would know how to handle this, I thought. Then, with a flash of anger, I reminded myself that Millie’s abrupt departure was part of the problem.
The silence loomed between us like something physical until Susan broke into it, choosing her words with care. “I’m not making excuses, but I lead a very solitary life. I told you the truth last night. I don’t have many friends.”
“But you have a busy social life. Millie is always pointing out your picture in the society column of The Press, and you’re usually with some big shot.”
“Charity events and business associates,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “Command performances. Most of the men I meet are interested only in my money, a merger, or a one-night stand. A conquest. Decent men, caring men, who are neither spongers nor gold-diggers, tend to keep their distance. Why do you think I was so eager to have Artie spend weekends with me? He eases the loneliness.”
I was beginning to understand her struggles, and to appreciate the reasons behind the hard outer shell Susan had grown in the years since her sister’s death. “At least you have your work to keep you occupied.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how inadequate my comment sounded.
“Right,” she said with a snort.
“Don’t you like what you’re doing?”
“The only thing keeping me going is my promise to Celine. I vowed I would do my best to protect her son and to keep the family business alive and healthy until he could take over. The thing is, I’m not even sure he’s all that interested in the business world.”
“He’s just a boy. Not even a teenager. He can’t be expected to know his own mind yet.”
“That’s what I try to tell myself.”
Much to my relief, the phone rang, and Susan rose to answer it.
“Yes, he’s here,” I heard her say, her voice cool and distant. She carried the cordless receiver back to the table and handed it to me. “It’s Millie.”
I took the receiver from her and walked into the Great Room to gain a bit of privacy. “Millie? Where are you? Is everything okay?”
There was a burst of static on the line, and I repeated my question.
“Didn’t Susan tell you? I’m in Las Vegas. I caught a red-eye from Philadelphia, and landed a couple of hours ago.”
“What are you doing there? What’s going on?”
“Just a second, Dick.” I could hear muffled voices as though she had placed her hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece. “Sorry. What were you asking?”
I could feel my temper rising, and I chose my words with care, enunciating each one with exaggerated precision. “I want to know what you are doing in Las Vegas, when we have a missing boy to track down here in Stowe. And I’d like you to explain why you didn’t call me before flying off on your own. You were supposed to travel with the ski group back to Lawrenceville, catch a ride home, and call me with a report.”
There was a long silence, which I finally broke. “I’m waiting, Millie.”
“It’s Colin.”
“Colin? Your brother? What has he done this time?”
Another long pause, then, “He’s in trouble.”
My temper snapped. “Damn it, Millie! Colin is always in trouble. He’s been in trouble ever since he graduated from diapers. How can you go gallivanting all the way to Las-bloody-Vegas at a time like this? Where’s your logic? Where’s your sense of responsibility? Where’s…”
“That’s enough.” Millie’s voice cut through my rant like a samurai sword. “If you’ll just shut up and listen, I’ll tell you what happened.”
“Very well.” I clenched my jaws to keep an unrestrained torrent of words from escaping my mouth. “Tell me.”
“I rode with the ski group back to the school. The bus driver offered me a ride to Atlantic City, if I was willing to leave right away. He was in a hurry to get home. When I walked into the apartment, there was a message on the answering machine. It was from Colin’s wife.”
“Wife? I didn’t know he was married.”
“Will you just let me explain? The message said she was trying to find Colin. She wondered whether he was with me. When I spoke to her, she told me he had left for work about ten days before, and had never returned home. Worse yet, she’d received a visit from the Las Vegas police. They’re looking for him, too.”
“So you just high-tailed it right out there.” I sighed. “Millie, when will you let go of the apron strings and force your brother to fend for himself?”
“You don’t know the whole story, Dick. Sonya is all of nineteen years old.” She hesitated, then finished in a rush. “And there’s a baby. Sonya was frantic. She didn’t know where else to turn.”
I bit back another angry retort. “What are your plans?”
“I’m staying with Sonya for now. She needs someone with her. And I want to speak to the police, to find out why they’re looking for Colin. I need to see if there’s anything I can do to sort out whatever trouble he may be in.” She paused. “Dick, I know you’re angry, and you have a right to be. I’ll take the next flight back east if you insist, but I would really like to see this through.”
“Let me think about it,” I said, switching to a less explosive topic. “Tell me what you learned from the school kids.”
“According to Mr. Blomqvist, the gym teacher, a senior boy named Greg Hastings told him Artie would be spending Sunday night with Mary and Zeb. Greg claimed he and Artie had taken the gondola to the top of the hill together after lunch on Sunday. During the ride, Artie asked him to pass along the message to Blomqvist.” Millie’s voice was calm and crisp, now that she was focused on the business at hand. “The thing is, Blomqvist’s story doesn’t square with what I learned from a couple of the other boys. They rode the gondola with Artie after lunch, and Greg Hastings wasn’t with them.”
“What did the Hastings kid have to say?”
“I never got to speak to him. He found excuses to avoid me, both on the bus and during our pit stops. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a chance to investigate his file at the school, either. We arrived late in the evening, and the school’s offices were closed. I was planning to drive back in the morning and meet with the headmaster, but…”
“But you had to go to Vegas instead,” I interrupted, sarcasm and anger creeping back into my voice despite my best intentions.
“Dick…”
“Never mind.” I struggled to keep my voice neutral and my anger in check. “I’ll check out this Hastings boy myself. You stay there and do whatever it is you feel you have to do.” Not trusting myself to say anything more, I pressed the ‘End’ button on the handset and walked back into the kitchen, shaking my head.
Chapter Eleven
The phone rang as I was setting the handset back in its receptacle. I answered automatically, “Dickens.”
“This is Laporte. The surgeon called. His patient is coming around. I’m leaving the station now, heading over to the hospital. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks.” I said. “I’d like to be there when you question him, if possible.”
Laporte offered to pick me up, but I told him I’d borrow Susan’s car and meet him at the hospital. “I hope you don’t mind,” I told her after I replaced the handset on the charger. “I don’t want to be d
ependent on the Stowe police for transportation.”
“Take the car, by all means. I have to stay put until the FBI agent shows up. I feel like a fifth wheel, but I guess it can’t be helped.”
“There is something you can do. Is there a travel agent you can call on for a favor?”
“What do you need?”
I walked to the hall closet and retrieved the bedraggled boarding pass stub from my jacket pocket. “I’d like you to check into this for me.” I laid the piece of wrinkled cardboard on the kitchen counter. “I found it in the parking lot at Smuggler’s Notch, where we think the getaway car was parked. It might be absolutely nothing, but it’s worth checking out.”
“What, specifically, do you want me to do?”
“I want you to find out, if you can, what airline the flight number belongs to, and where the flight originated. As you can see,” I said, pointing to the faded printing, “the flight number is visible, as is the destination airport code and the date of the flight. But the airline abbreviation is washed out. Illegible.”
Susan picked it up and squinted at it. “What do you hope to learn?”
“If we can identify the airline and point of origin, we might be able to wangle a copy of the passenger list. Maybe there will be a familiar name on it. Perhaps even Tyler Wilkins, the guy we rescued. It could give us a starting point to trace the movements of the perps.”
She nodded her understanding. “We have our own travel desk. I’ll put our senior agent on it.”
I checked my watch. “I’d better get going.” Hesitating, I searched her face. “Are you okay dealing with the FBI on your own? Would you prefer I stay?”
To my relief, she shook her head. “Mary and Zeb are coming over. Special Agent Proxmire wants to talk with all three of us. And Captain Laporte promised to drop by.” She hesitated. “Should I mention the boarding pass to either Proxmire or Laporte?”
I thought about that for a moment. “Better not. At least, not yet. It might have nothing at all to do with the case. Besides, I was stretching the envelope by pocketing it at the scene. I haven’t told Laporte about it yet.”
She nodded her understanding as I shoved my arms into my jacket and zipped up the front. “I’ll call when I have something to report,” I promised as I walked out the door.
I turned into the parking lot of Copley Hospital just as a Stowe police cruiser pulled into a Reserved spot near the front entrance. Laporte emerged from behind the wheel and waited for me next to his car. We walked into the hospital lobby together, breezed past the volunteer at the Reception desk, and made for the elevators.
“Any further news?” I asked, as we rode up to the second floor.
“Nuh-uh,” he grunted with a shake of his head. “Doc said for us to meet him outside the ICU.”
As we emerged from the elevator, I spotted a cluster of medics at the end of the hallway. I’d been in and out of too many hospitals over the years, and I knew the routine. It was too late for morning rounds. The presence of so many medical personnel in one place at this time of morning could mean only one thing. I broke into a trot, and Laporte kept pace.
“What’s going on?” he asked, grabbing the nearest nurse by the arm.
“Code Blue.” She gestured toward the closed door of the ICU. “We almost lost the patient.”
“Can we go in?”
“Not without Dr. Pritchard’s authorization. He’s with the patient now. You can wait out here, if you like.”
“I don’t like,” Laporte growled, pushing past the nurse, through the swinging double doors, and into the ICU. Before anyone could stop me, I followed in his wake. We stopped in our tracks just beyond the doors. A gurney was being wheeled in our direction, an orderly on either side, a nurse running interference, and Dr. Pritchard bringing up the rear.
“Gangway,” the nurse shouted.
Laporte and I flattened ourselves against the wall to allow the gurney to roll past. My brain registered a body covered with a sheet, a head wrapped in bandages, and a well-worn face. A familiar face. I felt as if I had been punched in the gut. I must have gone pale, because Laporte asked whether I was feeling ill. I shook my head, and we followed the procession through the doors and back into the main hallway.
Laporte managed to claim Dr. Pritchard’s attention long enough to be told the patient had begun to bleed internally again; emergency surgery was his only chance to survive. The team wheeled the gurney into the elevator, and we stood by impotently as the doors slid shut. “Damn!” Laporte punched his fist against the wall. “There goes our best lead.”
“Not necessarily. Let’s grab a coffee. We need to talk.”
We took the stairs down to the ground floor, and I led the way to the coffee shop off the main lobby. Fortified with a pair of large, black coffees, a plate of doughnuts resting between us on the Formica-topped table, I dropped my bombshell.
“Your suspect’s name and ID are false.”
“You know the guy? Friend of yours?”
“Yes, I know him. He’s no friend of mine. Quite the contrary.” I paused to bite into a jelly doughnut, washing it down with a long swallow of coffee. “Decent coffee,” I commented.
“Quit stalling, Mr. Dickens. Spill it.”
“Okay, here’s what I know. The guy’s name is Duke Zyklos. He’s a PI of dubious reputation. I crossed swords with him a couple of years ago. At the time, he was working for Derek Turpin.”
“Derek Turpin, the hotel magnate?”
“That’s right. Derek J. Turpin, hotel magnate and SOB extraordinaire.”
“You don’t like him much,” Laporte observed, his voice dry.
“We have some history together. None of it good. And Zyklos is part of it.”
“Is he still working for Turpin?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Zyklos disappeared off my radar screen a few months ago. Rumor was he had run afoul of Turpin and left town. I never tried to find out the truth of it. I was just glad to have seen the last of him.” I paused for another swallow of coffee.
“Why would he be interested in the boy?”
“No idea. My guess is he’s working for someone. Maybe even Turpin. I never knew Zyklos to be a self-starter.” I stood, pushing my chair back with a squeal of plastic on the linoleum tile. “I have to call Susan. She needs to know about this.”
“Go ahead. While you’re making your call, I’ll check in with my headquarters. There’s a G-man supposed to show up later today. I want to be there when he interviews Ms. Sutherland and the Hegartys.”
We headed for the bank of phone booths in the lobby. Susan had spoken with her travel desk, but had no news for me yet. I told her about Duke Zyklos, and warned her Turpin might be involved somehow. I heard her gasp, and asked why.
“I just had a call from him,” she replied, “expressing his concern, and offering his assistance. He proposed lending me the ransom money if I would agree to sign over the 250 acres he’s been trying to acquire from us for his hotel/casino project.”
“Did he say how he found out Artie had been kidnapped?”
“No, he didn’t. And, idiot that I am, it didn’t occur to me to ask. He caught me totally off-guard. I simply told him I would keep his offer in mind and hung up.”
The conversation with Susan gave me a lot to think about. Was Zyklos doing Turpin’s dirty work again? If so, what was Turpin’s game? I knew he was unscrupulous, but would he stoop so low as to kidnap Artie just to get his hands on a piece of property for one of his development projects?
Laporte broke in on my thoughts. “We’ve caught a small break. A man calling himself Tyler Wilkins rented a car from Scottie MacTavish’s Drive-UR-Self near the Burlington airport about ten days ago. Paid cash in advance for a two-week rental. The vehicle hasn’t been returned yet.”
“Do you have the address? I’d like to check them out.”
Laporte squinted at his scribbled notes. “Yeah, the car rental office is located at 1877 Williston Road. Take Exit 12 off the
Interstate, then turn left at the first traffic light. After about 2 or 2 1/2 miles, you’ll see a red tartan billboard with ‘DRIVE-UR-SELF’ in large red letters, outlined in black. That’s the place.” He opened his notebook to a fresh page, and wrote out the address. At my request, he flipped over the page and sketched a rough map of the route on the back. “Let me know what you find out, Mr. Dickens,” he said, as he tore the sheet of paper out of his book and handed it to me. “We need to work together if we’re to get the kid back safely.”
Chapter Twelve
I picked up Route 100 on the edge of Morrisville, following it about 10 miles beyond Stowe until I reached the on-ramp for northbound I-89. The area had received a couple of inches of snow overnight, and I was worried about the driving conditions. But what would have caused traffic to grind to a halt in Atlantic City was a non-event for Vermont. The roads were bare and dry, although a fresh layer of snow lay on the berms piled against the guard rails along the Interstate. About an hour after leaving the hospital, I was stopped mid-block in the left-hand lane of Williston Road, turn signal flashing, as I waited for a break in the traffic.
I parked next to the MacTavish billboard, and picked my way along an icy path to a converted mobile home. Someone had once cared enough to maintain the structure’s exterior, but that was long ago, judging from the large flakes of faded green paint dangling precariously from the aluminum siding. A hand-drawn sign hanging above the door advised potential customers that this was the Entrance to the Scottie MacTavish Drive-UR-Self rental car agency. I pushed open the metal-framed glass door and walked up to the counter.
In keeping with the Highland theme, the young woman behind the counter was dressed in a tartan skirt and a white blouse, buttoned to the neck. A matching tartan scarf was tucked under the collar of the blouse, and secured in front with a gold brooch that pretended to be a coat-of-arms. She was flipping through a well-thumbed copy of Vogue, her head nodding rhythmically in time to the music spilling from her Walkman headset.
The Gold Dragon Caper: A Damien Dickens Mystery (Damien Dickens Mysteries Book 4) Page 6