by Andy Straka
I thought back to the eyes of the young girl with the owl and Sammy Yel Bak’s hand on the trigger of the Kalashnikov.
“That could be it.”
“Yes,” Watisi said. “That most definitely could be it.”
“Do you know who’s running the ring?”
“What I’m told is that it’s an Hispanic street gang.”
“Los Miembrios, I said.
“Exactly. But something happened a few months ago.”
“What’s that?”
“Some of them managed to escape,” he said.
“Jibes with what my contact told me,” Toronto interjected. “But you’ve got some kind of Sudanese connection here too.”
“Yes,” the developer said. “Someone’s funneling these girls in, but I haven’t been able to establish who.”
“I’ve got a feeling he may be right under your nose,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“In Grayland Tower, one of your apartment owners, Mitch Collins, travels back and forth to Sudan all the time.”
“But he is a manufacturing consultant.”
“I’ve got a feeling he knows something about this.” I thought back to the computer equipment I’d seen in Collins’ apartment. “Did you also know the video from your Grayland Tower security cameras was being tampered with?”
“What? No.”
“We can get you the proof, if you need it.”
“How’s all this gonna help get Nicole back?” Toronto said. “I want to hear more about this book you all were talking about.”
Watisi abruptly stood and walked past us toward the far end of the room. On the wall hung an inconspicuous plastic box, rectangular in shape and painted to match the background. I had assumed it was a thermostat, but Watisi produced a key from his pocket, pushed it into the side of the box and turned it to reveal a drop-down touchpad. I was half expecting a James Bond type rotating bookcase or some such, but when he punched in a code, a nearly inaudible click sounded through the room. Watisi looked at the corner of the wall where a crack had suddenly appeared, revealing a door that wasn’t visible earlier.
“Nice,” Toronto said.
He and I followed Watisi through the doorway, trailed by the still dour-looking attorney.
On the far side of the wall was a small room, the walls of which were lined by lavishly built bookcases made of mahogany with glass front doors. The cases were filled with numerous leather bound volumes and other books with elaborate bindings. A dehumidifier, coupled with temperature and humidity gauges kept the place climate controlled.
“A decent collection,” I said.
“Of course.”
I’d had some dealings with book collectors in a university town like Charlottesville. Most, unless they were dealing in museum quality first editions worth tens of thousands of dollars, declined to go to such great lengths to protect and preserve their collections. I’d even met one suspendered coot in a brick farm house who kept piles of old and rare books, some of which were quite valuable, stacked up like plates in his kitchen.
“You said you’re missing The Book Of The Mews. Does that mean it was stolen?”
“That’s right. And it’s the only copy in existence.”
“It was taken from this room?”
He nodded. “Six months ago.”
I was trying to imagine the setup. No windows or other visible entrances, unless Watisi had another magical trap door to spring on us.
“Someone had to know about this room and have a key and the code,” I said.
“Precisely.”
“Time out,” Toronto said. “Time out. Would someone please catch me up on what’s so important about this missing book?”
I did. That took about two or three minutes while Watisi and Smith cooled their heels, examining some of the other titles on display.
“You filed a police report?” I asked Watisi when we were through.
“Naturally.” He placed the volume at which he’d been looking back on the shelf and closed the glass door.
“But it didn’t get you very far.”
“Naturally. It was the only book taken. If it had been the whole collection or more titles then… They probably suspect I misplaced it or something.”
“No sign of forced entry?”
“None whatsoever.”
“When did you first notice the book was missing?”
“I have the date written down. I check on the books in here nearly every day.”
“How do you know you had the only copy of this title?”
“Because the dealer I bought it from bought it from the author’s great granddaughter, now deceased. Excerpts have appeared in various places from time to time. She let a newspaper reporter photocopy some of the pages about twenty years ago, but I had the only complete original. A one of a kind. And although the printer used a cheap binding, I even managed to keep that preserved.”
“Who else has a key to this room?”
“No one. I keep a copy in a safety deposit box and the only other one on my person.”
Toronto had already been looking over the doorframe, examining the lock and electronic trigger mechanism as well.
“What do you think?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Too easy. Just about any pro on the street could get in here with the right setup.”
Watisi, apparently a little insulted, puffed up his shoulders and chest. “That’s what the police said too, but why would they take only this one book? It isn’t even that well written. There are any number of other titles in here worth much more than Book Of The Mews.”
“Whoever took it either wanted the information it contained or wanted to pass it on somehow.”
Watisi’s eyes began to dance. “Exactly what I’ve been thinking. And when this story about a falconer with an owl started surfacing and the lies about me began to be spread by these apartment owners who lost their pets, I began wondering if there might be a connection.”
“You’ve told the NYPD all this.”
“Some of it, yes. They say they’re still investigating.” He gave a slight roll of the eyes.
“Why didn’t they mention it to me?”
“Because I asked them not to. I don’t like my affairs being aired in public. That’s how you end up with spectacles like that one outside the courtroom yesterday.”
Hard to argue with the man there.
“There is something else I didn’t tell the NYPD, however. Something that may help you find your daughter.” Watisi looked at his lawyer.
“What’s that?”
The developer’s gaze dropped toward the floor. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think I realize now who may have stolen the book.”
“Who would that be?”
“She’s a low level employee of mine with whom …” He shook his head in apparent disgust with himself. “With whom I’m ashamed to say I had a brief affair some time ago.”
“Okay.”
“She comes from a troubled past. After we broke things off, I found a job for her, but I’m afraid she may have taken up with one of the members of Los Miembros.”
“Damon Hicks,” I said.
“Yes. And worse, I may have instructed my people to not look too closely at certain other activities she might be involved in for fear of extortion.”
“Other activities such as people smuggling.”
“Quite possibly.” He folded his hands in front of his chin, as if praying for some form of penance.
“Who is it?”
“Who?” It was almost an afterthought and no real surprise to me. “Her name is Jayani Miller,” he said.
29
On the way down to Grayland Tower, I dialed the Central Park Precinct and spoke with Lt. Marbush, who agreed to put out an APB on Jayani Miller and Mitch Collins to bring them both in for questioning, and to have a talk with the DA about Dominic Watisi. I also called Darla, whom Carl was driving home from the hospital, and filled her in.
“Whate
ver you got to do to get your daughter back, Franco,” she said, her voice sounding a little less loopy than the day before. “I’m sorry for getting you into such a mess. If I had any idea it was going to turn out like this?”
“Forget it. If I was in your shoes, I’d have done the exact same thing.”
“You don’t think Miller’s going to be at work?”
“Not anymore. Everything’s started to hit the fan since Nicky’s kidnapping. Miller has to know the heat’s coming down on her.”
“So why are you heading back to Grayland?”
“To see if we can roust Collins before the cops get there. And something else that reporter I was talking to said about tunnels. I never got to check it out thoroughly.”
“It all seems to start and end with that building.”
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”
“So what, you think those two kids who took Nicky are running from Miller, Collins, Los Miembros, and the like?”
“Something like that.”
“And they can’t go to the cops because they’re illegal and they’re scared. That would be better for Nicole then.”
“Let’s hope so. Unless?”
“Unless Miller, Collins, or someone else from Los Miembros finds them before you do. You got Jake there with you?”
“Sure do.”
“You tell that man if I was there I’d give him a big kiss on his cheek. Tell him I said to get with the program and start kicking some butt if he has to.”
“I’ll pass on the message,” I said.
I had barely hung up and tucked the phone back in my pocket when it began buzzing. I plucked it out and checked the display. Dr. Lonigan. I answered on the third ring.
“He’s back,” she said.
“Who’s back?” I asked.
“Groucho,” she said. “I can hardly believe it.”
“What? What happened?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest idea. I came home from work for a little while a few minutes ago, and there he was in the doorway, standing waiting for me as if nothing had ever happened.”
“Have you checked him out? Is he okay?”
“He looks as healthy as ever.”
“Did you look around the apartment? Anything out of place or any of sign of a break-in?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Could he have been hiding somewhere there all along?”
“I don’t see how that’s possible. I … I really don’t know what to say.”
“What about the other pet owners?”
“I called everybody on the list before I called you. Of those I spoke to, no one else’s pet has returned.”
I said nothing, thinking things over.
“Frank, I know you must have a million other things on your mind at the moment.”
“To put it mildly.”
“I’m beginning to feel like such a fool over everything. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes,” I said. “Next time you hire a private investigator, be a little more honest with them up front.”
“I … Like I said, I don’t know what to say, I?”
“You knew Jayani Miller had had a relationship with Dominic Watisi, didn’t you?”
She said nothing.
“You knew that and Watisi knew you did, and that’s why he refused to talk to you about your lawsuit or your allegations regarding the pets.”
“Someone did steal our pets though.”
“Yeah, they did. But it wasn’t anyone working for Watisi to try to get back at you. And now two people are dead over part of it, and Nicole may be next.”
“But why?”
“Who knows why? If you had been straight with us from the beginning about everything, we might’ve had the answer to that by now.”
We were at Grayland Tower and braked to a stop in front.
“I am so, so sorry, Frank, I?”
“I’ve got to go,” I told her and clicked off.
Toronto, who’d been listening to it all from across the seat, said, “So we find Nicky, blow town, and forget the check from the client.”
“That sums it up.”
He pulled on the handle to open his door.
* * * * *
As I suspected, Jayani Miller was not one of the guards working the security desk today. Two wide bodies were manning the desk instead.
“Where’s Miller?” I asked.
“She called in sick this morning,” the taller one of the two said.
“Must be something going around,” Toronto said.
“Hey, you know you can’t park in the front turnout like that.”
“So tow us,” I said.
“Or not,” Toronto said, giving him the eye as we hustled to catch the elevator doors before they closed.
“Who are you two looking for?”
“Collins,” I said. “12C.”
“You’re too late,” the guard said. “He left fifteen minutes ago for Kennedy. He’s headed overseas on another trip.”
My phone buzzed again.
“Busy man,” Toronto said.
Probably the doctor calling back. I was planning to ignore the call, but glancing at the display, I noticed it originated from a different local exchange.
“Is this the private investigator looking for the owl in Central Park?” a voice asked.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Pock. Remember me?”
“Raines.”
“Yeah, Raines.”
“What’s going on?”
“You said you wanted info about who was flying that owl and what was happening with it.”
“Yeah.”
“And now your daughter’s missing.”
“That’s right. You know something?”
“You come and meet me half an hour from now in the park, I’ll tell you exactly where you can find her,” he said.
* * * * *
I’m no sucker for symbolism. But Cato Raines’ choice of a meeting spot couldn’t have been more appropriate.
On the south side of Seventy-Second Street Drive in the Park sits a large bronze sculpture. The Falconer, dating back to 1875, is the work of British sculptor George Blackall Simonds and depicts an Elizabethan falconer, raising on his gloved hand a falcon poised for release. The original sculpture of The Falconer was created in Trieste, Italy. Apparently, a wealthy nineteenth century New York merchant named George Kemp saw it and admired it so much that he commissioned a full-scale replica for Central Park. It was a beautiful work of art, like much of the rest of the park—a romantic representation of the reality.
Raines was seated on the ground with his back leaning against the base of the statue in the shade, probably half asleep, most likely to get away from the heat and the noise from the road. Bushes were filling in the space where he sat opposite the traffic flowing by on the other side of the statue, so as to make him practically invisible to passersby. He was wearing the exact same outfit I’d seen him in a couple of days before, right down to the crazy suspenders he probably never changed.
It was Toronto who noticed we might have a problem as we approached from the woods away from the road.
“Something’s wrong here,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Look at the man’s head.”
Raines’ head was clearly tilted at an abnormal angle, leaning back against the stone. As we drew closer, the cause became evident. Raines’ eyes were still open, staring emptily into the middle distance. He had been shot through the right temple with a small caliber bullet at close range. A trail of blood ran out from the wound and had stained the ground and the base of the statue. His dead hands were dirty and two of his fingertips were caked with orange clay.
“What a waste.” Toronto sighed.
I shook my head, still looking over the body.
“There goes another hot lead.”
“Maybe not,” I said, pulling out my cellphone to dial 911. “I’m calling it in, but we can�
�t stay here.”
“Why not?” He was already scanning the immediate area, looking for any sign of the shooter.
“Because I’ve seen that color clay someplace before,” I said.
30
“Tunnels. Great. I hate tunnels,” Toronto said.
“Could be worse,” I said. Our flashlight beams spread down the tunnel like swollen fingers reaching into the dark.
“How far do you think this goes?” he whispered.
We were in the bowels of Grayland Tower. I’d been right in tracing the clay from Raines’ fingers to the construction around this utility tunnel.
“Hard to tell,” I said. “But unless I’ve lost all sense of direction, I think we’re headed straight toward the park.”
“Under the street?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the subway?”
“There are no subway tunnels running under Central Park.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Whoever built this building could have used this shaft to smuggle something inside the building that they didn’t want anybody to see coming in the front door.”
“Like maybe the liquor during prohibition the reporter told me about.”
“Mmmm.” Toronto’s light shone along the ceiling, illuminating a spidery network of brown piping and decayed wiring. “Or it might have just been used for service work. Old utility lines, that sort of thing.”
“If it does connect up with the park, there’s bound to be an exit somewhere. Possibly even a side room or foyer.”
“You mean like where someone could be hiding Nicole or a bunch of smuggled kids.”
“Exactly. My guess is either Jayani Miller or Los Miembros were using Raines as a go-between.”
“For what?”
“To try to set up a scenario that would help them figure out where the girls and Sammy are hiding.”
“You mean the falconry book.”
“Yeah. Who know what Raines’ relationship was to Miller or the gang? But Miller passes the book to Raines after she finds out he may know something about the kids, hoping to goad him into bringing the kids out into the open somewhere so she can trap them. Raines was a survivalist type. He might’ve helped the kids trap the owl, taught the girl how to hunt with it.”
“But I thought you said she looked like she was trained Arab style.”