by JP Ratto
There was no evidence of sexual assault or consensual sex. Her clothes, removed in a haphazard way, were probably ripped off in the struggle. In addition to the stab wounds, an earring had been ripped from her lobe and clumps of her hair pulled out.
The most damning piece of evidence was her diary in which she recorded an appointment with TG on Saturday at 10:00 p.m. That and the corroboration of an eyewitness, who said he saw the senator enter the apartment building, led us to Todd Grayson.
I reread the eyewitness statement from Henry Williams, the resident of a nearby building, who was later discredited as being unreliable due to his addiction to heroin. Grayson’s lawyers insisted someone paid Williams to give false evidence. He had an expensive habit to support. As I pulled out photos of the crime scene, my phone rang. It was Scully.
“That was fast,” I said.
“Yeah, fast and uninformative. Both Daniel and Karen Martin have Vermont driver’s licenses that don’t expire for years.”
“I was afraid of that. I didn’t ask this before because I didn’t have a name, but what about his tax returns? If he was working the last year or two, he would have filed a return.”
“Lucas, checking the DMV is one thing, but I have to have a good reason to pull tax records. Remember, you don’t work for law enforcement, and I’m not working this case.”
I thought about mentioning Janet Maxwell’s admission. But that would have opened a whole new can of worms, and I needed to stay focused on finding her daughter. I knew I’d find the Martins—it would just take longer without Scully’s help.
“Okay, Ray, thanks again.”
“Anytime. Hey, I look forward to that beer.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon calling ski resorts in Pennsylvania without any success. Maybe Martin no longer worked as a ski instructor. If that was the case and I had nowhere to go, I would have to tell Scully about Maxwell and Sheila Rand. Even then, there was no connection to Maxwell’s daughter. But it might be incentive for Scully to check into Martin’s tax returns.
Around six o’clock I walked down to McAllister’s for a burger and brew. I didn’t stay long. For some reason, since my meeting with Janet Maxwell, the place was not the same haven it had been. I returned home angry and frustrated and had worked up a sweat from the brisk walk through the humid streets of the city.
My bedroom and bath are on the third floor. I poured two fingers of Johnny Walker and headed for the shower. Naked, I glanced at myself in the full-length mirror, noticing old scars from my days in the Army and a fading bruise from a recent encounter in the Catskills. Superficial wounds. They fade. They’re forgotten. I downed my scotch, fortification for the wounds that never heal. I was about to hit the steam when my phone rang.
“This is Holt.”
“Mr. Holt, this is Bob Ingram, manager at the Snow Drift Lodge.”
“Yes, Mr. Ingram, how are you?”
“I’m fine. I received a strange message, and I thought you’d be interested. I have to tell you the coincidence is quite disturbing.”
“Something to do with the case I’m working on?”
“Yes.”
“Who left you a message?”
“Daniel Martin.”
Chapter 12
I don’t believe in coincidence or fate.
The telephone message from Daniel Martin given to a reception desk clerk at the Snow Drift Lodge was suspect. I had my suspicions about who was behind it. Not having any other leads, I told Ingram I would talk to Mr. Martin.
Eager to call the number Bob Ingram provided, I cut short the long, soothing steam shower I had planned. I toweled off, slipped on some shorts and a tee, and picked up my cell.
I liked the good old days when a phone number told you something. You could match an exchange with a particular location. With cellphones, especially the prepaid variety, it’s almost impossible to trace a call. Traditional cellphone carriers lease or sell blocks of numbers to distributors. The user has usually tossed the phone by the time you find out there is no information on file anyway.
It was late, but I tried the number. No answer and no voice mail. After ten rings, the call disconnected.
***
The next morning after downing a cup of strong Kona coffee and a couple of fried eggs, I retreated to my office. My workspace and haven—the pride and joy of a meticulous renovation—encompasses the rear half of the second and third floors of the brownstone. The centerpiece of the lower-floor office is a custom-made, African ribbon mahogany desk with brass handles. Bookcases and panels made from a blend of rich woods line two opposite walls. Floor to ceiling windows on both sides of a Tudor-style stone fireplace allow enough light to keep the space from feeling like a dungeon. Drapes on wooden rods and a few club chairs upholstered in a Tartan plaid provide a subdued tone.
Original art pieces, acquired over the years, cover all available wall space. I love the cornucopia of New York artists and prefer to choose my art from the unfiltered array of works found at the city’s street fairs.
Ten feet above and around the perimeter of the room is a five-foot-wide gallery, edged by a wood and iron railing. A spiral staircase leads to more book-filled shelves and access to the master bedroom. You might not associate an office with a retreat, but work is what I live for and what has kept me sane for the past fifteen years.
Before I delved into the pile on the desk, I again tried the number Ingram gave me. Three rings and someone answered, “Hello?”
“Hello. I’m looking for Daniel Martin.”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Is this Daniel Martin?”
“That depends. Who are you?”
I hate telephone games.
“I’m Lucas Holt, Mr. Martin. Bob Ingram gave me your number. You left him a message.”
“I did. I need a reference.”
I didn’t know what part of the country Daniel Martin was from, but I noticed a soft twang when he spoke. Southern, I determined—like Carolina southern. I couldn’t be sure and had to be careful not to scare the man, if he was Martin. I gave him the story that was starting to feel more and more like the truth.
“I’d like to talk to you about your daughter. I’m a private investigator and have been hired to find Karen Martin regarding some money that has been left to her. ”
“An inheritance? Really?”
I detected slight amusement in the voice, where there should have been curiosity. That made me wary.
“Yes. I’d like to discuss the details with you, as her guardian.”
“Sure, Mr. Holt. Perhaps you’d like to do that in person.”
“Yes. I’d also like to meet your daughter, if possible.”
“I’m not able to travel to you,” he said, ignoring my request to meet Karen. “Where did you say you were calling from?”
“I’m on the road. I can come to you.”
“Okay, but I’d prefer to meet you outside my home. I don’t know you and feel more comfortable in a public place. Is a neighborhood bar and grill okay with you?”
“Sure. When and where?”
“Well, how about tomorrow evening at 8:00 p.m. at the Gunslinger’s Saloon in Smoulder, Pennsylvania?”
It sounded like a joke, and I almost laughed out loud at the name of the bar.
“Sounds great. See you then, Mr. Martin.”
We disconnected, and I sat a few minutes to rerun the conversation in my mind. There was no way to verify whom I spoke with since Ingram hadn’t spoken to Martin first to confirm it was him. I had to admit that was a mistake. But after mulling it over, if someone were posing as Martin, he most likely wouldn’t have answered Ingram’s return call. Convinced the call was meant for me, I’d prepare accordingly.
Gunslinger’s Saloon. I’d definitely pack some heat—maybe a white hat wouldn’t hurt.
***
Later that day I took some time to organize the files and loose papers strewn all over my desk. I never liked to leave my office untidy. First, becau
se I am a bit of a neat freak, and second, the nature of my work is confidential. I scan most case information to my computer, which I back up on a separate hard drive and memory stick and shred the hard copy.
The Rand files were an exception. I always had a tactile need when it came to that case. It represented a turning point in my life—I needed to engage all the senses. The folder of crime scene photos and written reports protruded out of the box. I removed it to take with me and closed the carton. Climbing the staircase to the gallery with the Rand files, I entered my bedroom and locked them in a large safe in the back of my closet.
As I stuffed a suitcase with a week’s worth of clothes and necessities, my cellphone rang.
“Lucas Holt.”
“Mr. Holt, this is Janet Maxwell. I know it’s only been a couple of days, but do you have anything to tell me?”
“So far, my search is leading me to Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania? Nothing more specific?”
Since I was sure Karen Martin wasn’t in Smoulder, and I like my clients to feel I’m making progress, I decided to be more specific. “I’m heading to a town called Smoulder to meet someone who may be able to tell me where your daughter is. By the way, it appears there’s a tail on me. Do you happen to know who would do that?”
“Someone is following you? Please make sure no harm comes to my daughter.”
“I don’t plan to let anyone be harmed. The guy is more of a nuisance than anything else. But it might be wise not to lead him to your daughter’s door, just in case.”
“I’ll see what I can do on my end. I can be persuasive when I have to be.”
I wondered what Janet Maxwell meant to do. I hoped she would be discreet and not do anything that would get us all killed.
“Perhaps you should wait ‘til you hear from me, Mrs. Maxwell. As soon as I know more, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay, but you understand my impatience. Since my husband and son died, I’ve had nothing to keep me going. Now I do and look forward to hearing from you.”
The conversation with Janet Maxwell made me uneasy. I don’t like it when clients want to participate in my investigation. I should have insisted she not interfere. Although knowing what little I did about her, I doubted she’d heed my advice. Whom would she try to persuade, and what leverage did she have?
I packed a duffel with a few gadgets of my trade and a cooler with water and ice packs. After doing an internet search for Smoulder, Pennsylvania, I decided to take Janet Maxwell’s advice and watch my back. A five-hour drive from New York City, Smoulder appeared to be a one-horse town with few viable businesses and a seedy-looking hotel.
The perfect place to disappear.
Chapter 13
Janet Maxwell leaned against Douglas Cain’s desk, looking fresh and feminine in a fitted shantung suit, the color of pink grapefruit. The intimidating stare she leveled at the lawyer as he stood at the door to his office belied her soft image.
“Janet? When did you get here?” He’d only been gone fifteen minutes.
Cain turned to glance at the area outside his office. The waiting room was empty. Past six o’clock, the two clerks who worked for him would be gone for the day. He had no late appointments. The outer glass doors were not locked until the last person left.
He entered his office and scanned the files he’d left scattered on his desk. Shit. Does anything look out of place? How would I know? His face tightened with anger at the thought of her rummaging through his papers.
He rounded his desk and sat back. Crossing one leg over the other, he made an attempt to appear nonchalant about Maxwell’s unannounced visit. However, the sight of her set every nerve in his body on edge.
“What are you doing here, Janet?”
“Did you think I’d just disappear, Douglas?”
His hands shook as he pushed the files into one pile. A rush of panic ran through him when he noticed one of the folders.
“Disappear?” If only. “Of course not, Janet.” He glanced outside his office to Mrs. Grimes’ empty desk. “Where is my secretary?” His sentinel was not at her post. “Perhaps you would like some coffee.”
“Spare me your cordialities. Why are you having Lucas Holt followed? Was it Todd’s idea?”
Cain relaxed. At least he knew why she was there.
“So, now you admit to hiring Holt. I told you to call him off. We had a deal, and it’s too late for regrets about a decision you made nearly two decades ago.”
“A decision would indicate choice. You gave me no choice.”
Cain grimaced. “Janet, do we have to rehash all of this over and over? In the past, you were barely interested in any of the reports I gave you about your daughter. Remember, I contacted you each time. You never once called me to ask for information.”
Janet moved away to face the office window. The lawyer took the opportunity to slide one of the files into his desk and lock the drawer. Maxwell spoke.
“Why should I call you when I knew we would routinely meet twice a year? Would it have done any good to ask about my child more often than that?”
“I rather think it was more a case of not wanting your husband to learn your secret. As long as you had your place in society and were taken care of, you had no use for the girl.”
Janet twisted back to Cain, her arms crossed under her breasts.
“That’s ridiculous, Douglas. I’ve always cared about my daughter.”
Sensing her feigned indignation, the lawyer leaned forward, a flash of fire in his eyes.
“The only thing you care about is having some kind of hold over Todd Grayson. You’ve never forgiven him for choosing his family over you. Let it go, Janet. If you love your daughter, don’t use her as a means for revenge against the senator. She would never forgive you if she knew the truth.”
Janet Maxwell’s eyes hardened. Cain noticed the white-knuckled grip on her purse and knew he’d struck a nerve. He changed tack, not wanting to push her too far. The election was around the corner, and he needed to protect Grayson from a scandal.
“Look, Janet. Tell Holt you don’t need his services. The girl is still a minor. Whether you find her or not, you have no legal access to her.”
“I still want to know where she is even if I can’t tell her who I am.”
“Please, wait a while longer. When she’s eighteen, I promise I’ll arrange for you two to meet.”
“Really? You lying son of a bitch! You’ve known where she is all along.”
Cain didn’t react fast enough, and when he opened his mouth to deny the accusation, Maxwell put her hand up to stop him from speaking.
“Save your lies, Douglas,” she said. “Holt has far more integrity than you and will tell me what I need to know.” She smiled. “There will be no secrets between him and me.”
Cain squirmed in his chair. She looks like the cat that ate the canary.
Janet Maxwell continued, “He’s arranged a meeting with someone in Smoulder, Pennsylvania who has information as to where she is. Soon he’ll know everything, and then so will I.”
“You don’t need to do this. I said I would help you. What can I do, Janet?”
“Nothing. I don’t want you or anyone connected with you to do anything to stop Lucas Holt from giving me what I want.”
Chapter 14
Douglas Cain cradled a glass of Martell Cordon Bleu in his hands to warm, as he gazed at the sweeping views of Central Park.
Senator Todd Grayson entered the room carrying the aroma of a Cohiba Behike, a mix of cedar and chocolate. He held out a cigar to Cain.
“Cuba’s best in my opinion, Douglas. Try one. I’ve already cut it.”
“Then you leave me no choice.” Cain took the cigar. He didn’t bother to inspect it; he was sure the quality was superb. Bringing the cigar to his lips, he leaned forward to let the senator light it. Grayson held the flame steady while the lawyer puffed and rotated the tightly rolled bundle of tobacco until it glowed. Velvet smoke rose between them.
<
br /> Cain looked at the tip of burning ash. “Well done, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. We make a good team. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve always been there for me, Douglas…still are, I hope.”
The lawyer shifted his stance. He turned back to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The russet sunset predicted a clear day ahead, if the old adage was right. But Cain sensed a storm brewing. He swirled the warm brandy and sipped it.
Grayson settled into a soft leather club chair, one of two in his study.
“My numbers are very good. I’ve waited a long time for this.”
Cain drained his glass and crossed the room to where Grayson sat. Summoned to the senator’s Central Park South apartment, just steps from the Plaza Hotel, Cain wondered what he had to say that couldn’t be said in their daily phone conversation. What pile of shit do I have to pull him out of now?
“Is there some delicate business we need to talk about, Senator?”
“Senator? Come on, Douglas. How long have we known each other?”
“A very long time. Is something on your mind?”
Grayson rose from his chair, leaving his drink and cigar on a side table. He walked to stand in front of Cain, who, intimidated by the senator’s closeness, allowed cigar ashes to fall onto the floor. He moved to clean them from the carpet but stopped when Grayson laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“Leave it. We have something more important to worry about.”
The pressure of Todd Grayson’s grip was paralyzing. Cain could do nothing but wait for Grayson to speak again.
“Douglas…can you tell me why Janet Maxwell’s goddamned name is on the list of donors attending my fundraiser?”