Stronger men had been swayed by his brother. The entire world fell at his feet. Why should a little Latina from the Bronx be any different?
“If I could go away,” she was saying in a rush, “somewhere he couldn’t find us. All I’d need is a little money. We’d never bother you again. I promise. Just help me this once.” She broke down completely now. Great gulping sobs came over the phone.
He swallowed. “All right, all right!” It took her a while to hear him, but when she calmed down enough, he said, “Where are you?”
She told him, and he looked over at Carlo. Still straight-backed and blank-faced.
“What car did you bring?” he asked the driver.
“The Bentley.”
He debated. Too showy for the Heights?
“Can you meet me at the Cloisters?” he asked her.
Her breath hitched, but she spoke eagerly. “Sure. Yes. Anywhere.”
The Cloisters was a museum on the northern tip of Manhattan, above Washington Heights. Dedicated to the art and architecture of Europe in the Middle Ages, it was composed of covered galleries that were once part of five different French churches.
Its calm, peaceful atmosphere usually eased Mitch’s tension, but when he arrived, he barely noticed the arched and columned walkways or the sun glinting off the stained glass.
No one was waiting for him when he got to the West Terrace. He perched on the low stone wall circling the space and stared out at the Hudson. John D. Rockefeller had donated a couple hundred acres on the opposite shore to make sure the views would be spectacular, and they were, especially in spring and summer. Today, the trees were bare and the river looked as gray as the stone. Mitch waited half an hour, then spent another half hour combing the gardens, the chapel, and the art-filled interior.
He was furious by the time he got back to Carlo and the Bentley. The chauffeur opened the door, and Mitch slammed it shut without getting in.
“She wasn’t there,” he bellowed. “That fucking bitch wasn’t there.”
“I’m sorry,” Carlo said, infuriatingly calm. “Would you like to go home now?”
“I’m going to kill her,” Mitch fumed.
“Before or after I take you home?”
He looked at the chauffeur. He’d been working for the family as long as Mitch could remember, yet he didn’t seem that old. Maybe it was the way his face never reflected his thoughts, so it remained relatively unlined.
“I’m not going home,” Mitch said.
“Where would you like me to take you?”
“I don’t know.” Mitch paced a little circle beside the car. The thought of getting in made him even more angry. “I’m going to walk,” he said suddenly.
“It’s a long way back,” Carlo said dubiously.
“I’ll take a cab if I have to.”
Carlo left, and Mitch shoved his hands in his pockets and marched off. Why was he always the fall guy for his brother’s sick games? When he warned Dutch not to go onto the ice pond behind their winter estate, and Dutch went out, anyway, Mitch was the one punished for not watching him. When Dutch stole things—an emerald ring or a silver dessert spoon—they always managed to be found in Mitch’s drawer. When Mitch told his mother about the room with Dutch’s weird drawings, she accused Mitch of jealousy and selfishness.
Mitch may have been the eldest, but it was the baby she doted on. Maybe it was because he’d been born after their father died, making Dutch the last living link between Iona and her dead husband. Maybe it was because Dutch was too beautiful to be anything but perfect in her eyes. Appearance was everything to her, and heads literally turned when Dutch walked into a room, even as a child. To admit there was something deeply wrong with her baby was something Iona couldn’t do. So she denied and hid and kept up the fiction that Dutch was as beautiful inside as he was out. And if that meant paying off the occasional witness to the contrary, or donating an extra-large gift to the school he attended, so be it. By the time Mitch was fifteen, he’d learned not to fight with his brother; Dutch always won.
So why was it that years later he was still caught in his brother’s mess?
He almost turned around and called Carlo back. Almost. Then he reminded himself of the panic in Alicia’s voice. The way she whispered Dutch’s name, as though saying it aloud would call an evil spirit closer. The anger at her duplicity turned to concern, and when he went over their conversation, it turned to worry. He began to walk faster. Harder. He knew where he was going now.
By the time he got to the edge of Washington Heights, he was running. And by the time he reached the address she’d given over the phone, he was breathless and sweaty. He pushed the button to the apartment, and while he waited for the buzz to let him in, he bent over his knees to catch his breath. Just then, someone came out and he slipped in while the door was still open, then ran up the stairs to the sixth floor.
He knocked on the door and got no answer. But it gave way under his fist, so he walked in.
The mewing sound of a cat hit him immediately. He called out, and again, no answer. But the cat kept on, an aching, endless squall.
Jesus, someone should let him out, Mitch thought.
He walked in farther, looking for the animal, and that’s when he saw Alicia. There was blood everywhere. Her eyes were gone, her body cut down the center like she’d been dissected. Her initial was carved into her forehead, a jagged, bloody brand.
He sank to his knees. Jesus, sweet Jesus.
Mitch recognized Dutch’s handiwork. He’d seen it before. On rabbits and birds and the neighbor’s dog. Mitch had thought—had hoped—Dutch had outgrown it. Their mother had not only been sure of it, she’d refused to discuss any other option.
And, of course, there was never proof. Just as Mitch was sure there wouldn’t be any now.
He should have taken Alicia’s safety seriously. But the minute she’d looked at Dutch, Mitch had left her to live or die at his brother’s whim.
Sorry. So sorry.
He staggered into the bathroom, nausea throttling him in such violent spasms that he almost didn’t get there in time. He emptied his stomach and everything else he had. After, his throat was raw and his head pounded. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ran the water in the sink, and rinsed out his mouth. Then he sat on the edge of the tub, shaking in the silence.
Except it wasn’t silent. The mewling was all of a sudden on top of him. It increased and turned into screams, and he realized it wasn’t a cat making that noise.
He looked around. Ripped open the shower curtain. The tub was empty. Then he noticed the hamper in the corner behind the door. He flipped up the top, and there, lying on a pile of white underwear, was a dark-haired child.
26
When he finished speaking, Mitch was appalled. He’d never told that story to anyone. It was like the secret heart in the center of the hidden temple, and here he was pulling back the curtain and showing it to the world.
No, not the world. Only Neesy.
They were sitting side by side at the edge of the bed. She reached over and squeezed his hand. There were tears in her eyes. The empathy pushed him forward again.
“If Julia hadn’t been crying, I would never have found her. It was a sign—or at least I took it as one. She hadn’t cried for Dutch or he would have got her. Maybe she’d been asleep when Alicia hid her there. Maybe she’d slept through… through everything Dutch did to her mother. All I know is that she was crying—for me. So I picked her up. The minute I did, she stopped and looked at me. Like she was desperate for help and there I was.”
What he didn’t say, what he could hardly articulate even in his own mind, was the way that moment had coalesced into a tiny, diamond-hard pinprick of light. And that small radiance had flickered over his detached and aimless life and given it meaning and purpose. This was what he was meant to do. Shield and protect this life at all costs.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” Neesy asked. Her hand was still in his, and it felt w
arm there.
He shook his head. The question made sense, but only if you lived outside his deformed world where the appearance of things won out over truth. “Would anyone believe me? How could I take that chance? If I lost, I’d be handing her over to Dutch and that would have been obscene.”
“So you just walked away with her?”
“I didn’t exactly walk. I called Carlo and took the Bentley from him. Traded it for my truck and some cash to get me started.”
“Do you really think Dutch will hurt her? She’s his daughter.”
“Do you want me to wait and find out?”
She didn’t reply. What was she thinking? That he’d been a selfish son of a bitch to abandon Alicia? That he’d been stupid and impulsive to take Julia and run? That despite what he knew his whole life, he should have trusted the truth more?
There was a long silence. Why did he even care what she thought?
But he did.
He sat like a prisoner in the dock waiting for some kind of judgment, but all he got was a thank-you.
He hadn’t expected that. “For what?”
“Telling me.” She looked down where their hands were touching on the bed. Her finger traced a pattern over the back of his where the veins stood up. It sent a shiver of feeling through him. “You have strong hands,” she said. “It takes a strong man to do what you did. Abandon everything for someone else.” She looked up. “But it takes an even stronger one to talk about it. So… thank you.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. She was looking at him with those marvelous green eyes, and for once there was no teasing in them. There was no judgment, either. Only warmth. And kindness.
And he wanted more of it. He wanted to sink into that warmth and surround himself with it. He touched her face, where the glow seemed to shimmer. “Thank you for listening,” he said softly. And by listening he meant so much more. For understanding. And believing. “Thank you,” he said. And again, and once more, leaning in and meeting her lips.
She accepted him without objection, without murmur, without rebuff. There was only consent as she put her arms around him and drew him down.
She had a lush body, round and full and all soft curves. Her nightgown was gone in an instant, and he luxuriated in the opulent swathe of her skin. Next to her, he was ashamed of his own clothes, still smelling of incarceration and escape. But they, too, were soon gone, and this act, this coming together of two beings that he’d kept only in memory, was suddenly real, the heat and the wet and the welcome he’d almost forgotten.
But his body remembered. And even if he wanted to stop, or if he could have heard the voices in his head telling him to stop, he wouldn’t have been able to. The long, luscious pulls that made him shiver and her groan, the pleasure of watching her face tighten in an agony that was bliss, the frenzy, the need, the animal want, until the awful, final explosion of rapture.
And the slow, soft fall. His breath easing. The floating down onto a pillow of after.
And even then, when the blurred edges of the world were gone and all the lines were straight again, and he knew where he was and what lay ahead, even then everything was different.
He opened his arm and drew her to him. “Do you think we’re crazy?”
“Yes.” Catlike, she settled against him.
“How much time before the next house check?”
“Time enough to do it again.”
He laughed. And he hadn’t thought he would ever laugh again. “Give me ten.”
She reached down and stroked him. “Bet you’ll only need five.”
27
The arrest of Mitchell Hanover by the Crossroads police gave Roger Carrick the necessary leverage to finally talk Omaha into letting him work the case. Then the second murder introduced the jurisdictional fight, which mucked things up again. It took Roger a week before Omaha, New York, and Tennessee came to an agreement that gave him time and money to take charge.
He left Moline on a cold, gray morning and arrived in Crossroads ten hours later in the middle of a freak snowstorm. Looked like he’d brought the weather with him.
The long drive had given him plenty of time to review the case. There had never been much doubt that Mitchell Hanover was guilty. He’d left hand- and footprints in the blood around the victim’s body that matched prints they took from his home. They also matched samples of his vomit to DNA they took from a used tissue. He’d been careless about being seen, and they found witnesses to his entry into the apartment building and his exit with the bloodstained baby. And from what Roger had learned from friends of the family, the rivalry between the two brothers was legendary, so there was clear motive. They never found the murder weapon, but they had enough for an arrest. Especially since both Mitchell and the child were gone.
But Mitchell had a good twelve-hour head start before police discovered the body, and if he had been stupid about the murder, he was clever about the getaway.
He never showed in any of the places he used to frequent. There was no trace of him in Martinique or South Beach, the Hamptons or Aspen. He made no ransom demands and never contacted anyone from the family. He’d taken the Bentley from the family chauffeur and traded it for a pickup and a boatload of cash and… vanished.
Walking to the small Crossroads police station in what looked like a new municipal building, Roger tried to picture the man he’d come to know through his investigations. Mitchell Hanover was a man who had been born into wealth and who had never appeared to resent it, and who now lived a poor, cramped life away from the haunts of the rich and pampered. The murdered newswoman had told Roger that Hanover had been working as a short-order cook in a local diner. Roger had to hand it to him—it was a smart way to disappear. Into the ordinary. Away from the loud and into the quiet.
But that meant nothing to the rest of the Hanovers—the ice-queen mother, Iona, and, of course, the distraught father of the missing child, her younger son, Dutch. They blamed Roger for bungling the case, and the Hanovers neither forgot nor forgave.
Every year, on the anniversary of Alicia Ruiz’s death, he received the same reminder. Every year he added one more to the collection in the manila folder. They were postmarked New York, and he suspected they were sent by Dutch Hanover. Which didn’t endear him to Roger.
Not that Dutch and his freeze-dried mother had done much to engender sympathy. They couldn’t have cared less about the dead woman, Alicia Ruiz. And to hear them talk, you would have thought the missing child was a valuable family heirloom. And they were eager, perhaps too eager, to believe in Mitchell’s guilt.
When Mitchell’s trail went cold, his brother’s fury turned vengeful. Dutch Hanover had the kind of connections that kings and princes have, and he used them. Within a week, Roger found himself in Iowa. And he’d been there ever since.
So he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Mitchell. To dump his ass at his brother’s feet and watch Dutch Hanover squirm with appreciation. More than that, though, more than seeing Dutch’s face when he delivered Mitch, he wanted justice for that poor girl who’d been caught between two sets of powerful jaws and devoured by them both.
A lone deputy whose name tag said MORRIS manned the intake desk inside the Crossroads Police Department. When Roger introduced himself, the deputy looked stricken.
“Oh, geez,” he muttered. “Thing is, Chief’s not here. Tell you the truth, forgot you were coming. We got us a… a situation.”
Roger didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of situation?”
Deputy Morris scratched the side of his face in what appeared to be an effort to stall his answer.
“Deputy?”
“Well, I’m sure the chief would rather tell you himself, but he’s not here and…”
Roger raised his brows, waiting.
“Prisoner escaped,” Morris finally admitted.
Roger wasn’t sure what he was hearing. “The prisoner? You don’t mean Mitchell Hanover?”
“Yup, that’s the one. Took off last
night on the way to county lockup.”
“Any sign of him?”
“We sent the dogs out, but none so far. Figured he hitched a ride somewhere. Chief’s about to wrap up the search.”
Roger stared. He thought of all the wheedling he’d had to do. The favors he’d called in and the plans he’d been making for transfer once he redeemed himself by finally bringing Mitchell Hanover to justice.
And the man had got away?
Again?
He slammed a hand on top of the intake desk. “I want every piece of paper you have on Mr. Hanover. Every file, every document, every note written on a napkin.”
“Yessir.”
“I want to speak to your chief. Now. And I want an office.”
Morris showed him to an empty cubicle and dumped a pile of folders and interview DVDs on the desk. Several things caught Roger’s attention. First, from beginning to end, everyone in town said Mitchell Hanover—Turner—was a great father. Second, Roger saw the proof for himself when he viewed the interview of the child, Julia Turner. Watching that interview brought his own kids back to him. It was Christmas, and he missed them. Did they miss him? Would his own children defend him as robustly as Julia Turner did the man who’d raised her? A smidgen of envy went through him. And, oddly, admiration. Roger had lost his family on the altar of his career. Mitch had lost everything but that child. No wonder he was suspected in the murder of the newswoman, Shelby Townsend. He not only had opportunity, but he also had a whopping big motive.
It was only when he got to cause of death in the ME report that Roger paused. The victim had been exsanguinated, a method that was beyond bizarre. And the one thing Mitch had never been in all this time was bizarre.
28
Julia woke in a giant bed in a tangle of pillows. She tried to sit up, but her head felt all woozy, so she plopped back down again. Where was she? How did she get here?
She’d never been in a bed like this. There were like twenty pillows, and everything crinkled when she moved. The sheets smelled like one of Neesy’s lotions, and she might have liked that, but right now, with her head all funny, it made her a little sick.
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