by JP Ratto
Vigorously shaking her head, she said, “I’m sorry. It’s not my prerogative to divulge that information.”
My anger was rising, but I managed a semblance of calm. “You’re forcing me to bring in the authorities to investigate the illegal activities of your uncle’s law practice. And if there’s evidence that any laws were broken you, as his assistant, could be charged.”
She slammed the drawer shut. “I don’t like threats, Mr. Holt. I would never take part in anything as sordid as child trafficking—and that is what you’re accusing my uncle and me of doing. Even though I wasn’t working with him then, I can tell you that I find it highly unlikely that my uncle knew the child had been abducted when he placed her.”
“That remains to be seen.” I made no move to leave. “It’s your choice.”
Carol Hoffman gave me the stern look of an irritated schoolteacher and opened the drawer again. Raising a folder out halfway, she looked inside. “That’s strange.” She removed the manila file and leafed through its contents. “There are pages missing.”
“Missing? How can you tell? It’s an old file.”
“I can tell because during the time I worked for him, I occasionally had to refer to old cases. Adoption agreements and personal data sheets varied little over the years. Uncle Al liked to keep it simple.”
“So what’s missing?”
“I don’t see anything pertaining to the actual adoption. In other words, I couldn’t tell you the name of the adoptive parents even if I wanted to.”
This was alarming. Was it coincidence those particular records were missing? I didn’t think so. “Ms. Hoffman, can you tell if any other files are missing or out of order?”
“Hmm, I wouldn’t know for sure unless I went through all of them, but…” She laid the file in her hand on the old battered desk and began to open the drawers on all the file cabinets. I watched her scan and periodically pull out a folder that appeared askew. She closed the last drawer. “Everything else looks to be in order. As I said, my uncle hasn’t practiced in a while and it’s apparent no one has accessed these records in a long time—except for the Clarkson file.”
“Who found your uncle?”
“I did. He had a habit of calling after he ate his dinner. I insisted because of his age. When I didn’t hear from him, I came by to check if everything was okay. I have a key, of course. The door wasn’t locked, and I became concerned. He was on the floor when I entered the room and immediately called 911.”
“Did anything seem out of place?”
“Are you suggesting his death wasn’t natural, Mr. Holt?”
I let the question hang and she continued talking. “The only thing I found odd was the phone wasn’t on the base. It was on the floor on the other side of the room. It took me a moment to find it. My first thought was that he wasn’t able to call for help.”
I glanced around. “Where had he collapsed?”
“Actually he was right where you’re standing.”
“Here? In this part of the room—near his files?”
She nodded.
“So he was in the middle of eating his dinner when, for some reason, he left it and walked to this area. Do you know if he expected any visitors? A client, perhaps?”
“No, he would have told me. But you’re right. There must have been a reason he was over here when he died. He rarely used this space.”
I noticed the small trashcan on the side of the desk. “There are papers in the trash.”
She stooped over and was about to remove them when she stopped.
“I think I should clean up the food and dishes before it attracts bugs. It will only take a few minutes.” Ms. Hoffman walked past me to the living area, picked up a plate of half-eaten food, and went into the kitchen.
I peered into the trashcan at one of the full sheets of paper someone had tossed away, and smiled. Pulling them out of the can, I silently thanked Carol Hoffman. I folded the “missing” adoption papers, slipped them in my pocket, and left the house.
Chapter 16
Keeler spent ten minutes looking for a place to park before he found a spot two blocks away from his apartment. The drive down from Elmira was long, and a constant ticking sound reminded him to let Manny at the Exxon station check it out. The Buick had belonged to Ryan and had special meaning, but it was time to let go of the past.
Blackmail wasn’t his usual gig, but the money would buy him a new ride. He’d need to pay cash. No loans. No credit cards. Keeler paid his rent with a money order each month. The utilities and cable were still in his parents’ name. It was as off the grid as he could be. Yeah. A new car would be cool. If he got enough money out of Cain, he could dump his apartment and everything in it and take a road trip. I’d always wanted to go west.
Thoughts of a new start gave Keeler a burst of energy. Once in his apartment, he stripped naked and jumped in the shower. The hot water soothed his stiff muscles as he mentally made plans for the rest of the evening.
He walked to a local bar for a drink and a change of scenery. Claiming an empty stool, he ordered a beer and removed the black jacket he wore over a black graphic tee and jeans. He always dressed in black, whatever the season. It was a sort of uniform. A wardrobe of one color was easy to maintain—and you couldn’t see any stains.
The lack of sleep had Keeler nodding in class like a perpetual bobble head doll. His notes revealed the number of times his pencil skidded off the page. Two classes and two hours later, he sprinted back to the barracks to stand inspection. He was confident he had put his time last night to good use.
He reached his bunk and popped to attention just as Ramirez spoke.
“Are you ready for inspection?”
In unison, the unit responded. “Sir. Yes. Sir.”
Ramirez inspected the first two applicants and skipped Keeler. He continued on to the others and returned to him. Ramirez stood two feet away and locked eyes with Keeler.
“Do you know why I left you for last, Candidate Keeler?”
A warm feeling of angst ran through Keeler. “Sir. I don’t. Sir.”
“It’s because I dreaded you ruining this glorious morning.” Ramirez gritted his teeth; his brow furrowed. “Are you going to ruin my morning, Candidate Keeler?”
“Sir. I will not. Sir.” Keeler didn’t know what could go wrong, but his sense was it already had.
“Good.” Ramirez let out a sigh. “Let’s take a look.” He checked the drawer, Keeler’s shoes, and folded camouflage outfit. He turned to the dress shirts on the hanger. The back of one shirt had a dark brown stain near the bottom.
“What the hell, Keeler? I mean—What. The. Hell? Did you shit your pants, boy?”
Shock ran through him like a high-powered current. “Sir. I swear; I did NOT do that. Sir.” Against protocol, Keeler looked around. No one offered a hint of what happened.
Ramirez huffed, looking at each person. Keeler saw a glimmer of understanding in the sergeant’s eyes. He knows. He knows I wouldn’t have stood inspection with a stained shirt.
“Candidate Keeler, on your lunch hour tomorrow, either buy a new shirt or get the stain out of this one.”
“Sir. I will. Sir.”
“Sir?”
Jarred from his reverie, he turned and realized he was one of two patrons left. Keeler raised his head to make eye contact with the idle bartender. “Yeah?”
“Another beer?”
Keeler looked at the empty glass he held in a death grip with both hands. He shoved it away. “Yeah. Sure.” The bartender turned away, when Keeler said, “Wait. Nix that beer and give me a shot of Jagermeister.”
The bartender cocked an eyebrow. “Been a while since anyone’s asked for that one.” He grabbed the bottle of whiskey off a high shelf, poured it into a glass, and set it down on the bar. “Neighborhood’s changed.”
Keeler nodded and raised the glass. “Prost.”
***
“Anything you want to tell me, Douglas?” Sitting on one side of the desk i
n Senator Todd Grayson’s plush home office, Cain tried not to show his anger. He’d been on his way home when Grayson called him for another meeting. “I know we’ve agreed that I should have deniability on events that are adverse to a clean presidential run, but Emmett has come to me with some disturbing news.”
Damn Kerrigan. Damn the committee. Cain smiled. “I have everything under control, Todd. There wasn’t any need for Emmett to come to you.”
“He came to me because he thinks you’re out of control. I don’t know all the details of what happened a couple of months ago with Janet. Luckily, my relationship with her, among other things, never surfaced. That could have been a disaster.”
It astonished Cain how easy it was for Grayson to avoid mentioning the daughter he’d fathered with Janet Maxwell. It had been seventeen years since the senator’s affair and the birth of their child. “Yes, Janet is gone and Karen Martin is happily ignorant of who her real father is.” He saw Grayson flinch at hearing his daughter’s name. “I managed that little crisis, and I can manage this.”
“I don’t like the word crisis, Douglas. Why does everything have to be a catastrophe? We’re in the home stretch, and we can’t afford any scandals.”
Cain was tired of the deft way Grayson turned scandals of his own making into everyone else’s dilemma and responsibility. “Sheila Rand’s murder was the catalyst for what happened to Lucas Holt’s daughter, and he’s come across information that pertains to her kidnapping.”
Grayson leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of stone where the only movement was his narrowing eyelids as he glared at Cain. “Holt again?” He lurched forward and slammed his folded hands on his desk. “What have you done to rouse the detective’s search for his daughter?”
Incredulous at Grayson’s accusation, Cain rose from his seat. “I’ve done nothing to rouse Holt. I—” Cain shook his head to indicate he would say nothing further. He would have to explain Giaconne’s blackmail scheme, the committee’s role in Marnie Holt’s kidnapping, and his attempt to stop Ray Scully from digging too deep. “As you said, it’s better for you to have deniability. You’ll have to trust me.”
Cain watched Grayson relax again. He’d known the senator a long time. Todd Grayson had no interest in details when it came to protecting his political career. “Okay, Douglas. I trust you’ll do whatever is necessary to keep this campaign on track. It’s all on you.”
Chapter 17
I’d been traveling for hours. My adrenaline had spiked at the prospect of finding Marnie after so many years, and I was tireless. However, once I left Abrams’s house without definitive information on her location, my excitement waned and my stomach gnawed.
Instead of taking the interstate, I drove south on local roads, stopping at an Arby’s. I ate a fire-roasted Philly sandwich and read the pages I retrieved from Abrams’s wastebasket. Beyond the missing cover sheet was a boilerplate adoption agreement. The parties concerned were simply referred to as the child sponsor and the adopters. I’d seen more detailed and official papers for a pet adoption than what I held in my hands. I’m no lawyer, but I doubted the legality of the transaction between Clarkson and Abrams, or Marnie’s sponsor and adopters.
From what I could tell, Clarkson was not the legal sponsor. Ministry of Hope for Orphaned Children was the designated sponsor. A quick internet search yielded little information. Ministry of Hope had existed for about five years but closed its doors due to a scandal a few years after Marnie’s adoption. Coincidentally, it was the same time Abrams ceased that part of his law practice and his niece began to work as his secretary. Had Abrams used this charity organization to avoid questions of Clarkson’s paternity? I pictured my baby alone and afraid, lying in a basket on the front steps of the orphanage. My throat caught and tears burned in the back of my eyes.
I tended to believe Carol Hoffman’s claim that she had nothing to do with her uncle’s adoption business. I wouldn’t add to her grief, but as far as I could tell, this transaction was illegal.
On the last page were three signatures. The handwriting was borderline illegible—as if intended to disguise the parties involved. The sponsor’s signature looked feminine, and from what I could discern, the word “sister” preceded the name. Sister Louise Crawley. The other two I presumed were the adopters—one tight scrawl and the other a neater, more flowing script. I couldn’t read the first, but the parochial-school precision of the second was clear.
Loretta Turner.
Discarding my half-eaten meal, I left Arby’s and continued driving toward Wellsburg. I had a few questions for Clarkson and hoped I could contain my anger long enough to get answers. He’d said nothing about the orphanage. Abrams’s death and breached files meant someone else was also looking for information on Marnie’s adoption. Had someone besides Giaconne approached Clarkson?
On the short drive, I let my mind drift to Susan and her deathbed request that I find our daughter. It was more of a command, and I vowed not to let her down as I had when I failed to protect Marnie from her abductors. A rush of guilt overwhelmed me. The sound of my phone broke the spell. It was Maddie. It’d been hours since I left her at my brownstone, which added to my guilt.
I accessed the car’s Bluetooth. “Hey.”
Maddie’s soft smoky voice wafted through the speakers. “How’s it going? Thought I might hear from you by now.”
“I’m on my way back to Clarkson. It’s been an eventful night.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Depends. I’ve a lot to tell you, but as of right now I haven’t located Marnie.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. Let me talk to you later. I’m going to drive back to the city. Will you wait up for me?”
“Sure…” Maddie hesitated. “I’ve some things to tell you too.”
“Good or bad?” I asked.
“Depends. Safe driving. I’ll be here.”
I pushed aside the feeling that Maddie was going to tell me that her coming to New York was a mistake and focused on getting all I could out of Clarkson.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up to Clarkson’s house, which was completely dark inside and out. There were no cars in the driveway. Not a good sign.
It was obvious no one was home, but I exited the car to look around anyway. I had a small pocket flashlight and used it to peer through a window’s broken blind. Glad not to see any bodies on the floor or signs of trouble, I walked to the backyard. An unattached garage was open and contained more old furniture, a lawn mower, and garden tools. A deflated soccer ball, a broken hockey stick, and a bicycle pump lay on the floor. No bicycles or helmets. What would cause the family to leave their home for what appeared to be an indefinite amount of time?
Frustrated that I missed Clarkson, I stormed back to my car. About to get in, I heard someone yell, “Hey, mister.” I turned to see the next-door neighbor on his porch, leaning over the railing.
“Hello,” I said and walked toward the house. “I’m looking for Joe Clarkson.”
“I gathered that.” The man pushed off the rail and came down the steps to meet me. “You were here earlier.”
“Yeah. My name is Lucas Holt.” I extended my hand. “Joe said nothing about going on a vacation.”
“Jim Webber.”
In the glow of one of the dim street lamps, I could see that Mr. Webber was older than Clarkson or me. He had a keen look in his eyes, which gave me the once over. I took out my ID.
“I’m a private investigator and a former NYPD detective.”
Webber smiled. “Glad to meet you. I’m retired police myself. Lived and worked here all my life.”
“So you know the Clarksons well.”
“As well as they allowed. The old man was friendly, but the son liked to keep to himself. Wife and kids are a bit shy as well.”
“Does that make you suspicious?” I asked.
Webber laughed. “Well, being a cop does do that to you. Although until recently, I had no reason not to mind m
y own business.”
“What happened recently?”
“Clarkson has had more visitors in the last two months than he’s had in fifteen years. His father passed right before he got married the first time. His mother lived with them. Caused a bit of friction, I think. The old lady, Anna, used to complain that she wanted to be a grandmother and what was taking them so long. Well, after that she didn’t have long to wait.”
“What do you mean?”
“One day, I hear a baby crying and I think, jeesh, I didn’t even know Ellie was pregnant. I asked Anna about it and she tells me they are just babysitting. Longest babysitting job I ever knew. It was months before the baby was gone. I felt sorry for Joe. First Ellie dies, then Anna. After his mother died, he was by himself. I tried to give my condolences, but he wanted to be left alone. Within the year he was married again.”
“Tell me about his recent visitors.”
Webber wore a light jacket and stood with his hands shoved in the pockets. He removed them and folded his arms over his chest. He brought one hand up to massage his chin.
“Let’s see. It was two months ago, as I said, when a guy showed up for the first time. Middle-aged, stomach paunch, thinning dark hair and a large nose—looked Italian or Jewish. Drove an old car. Joe and him talked on the porch. Didn’t look like the meeting was too friendly. Then he showed up again. Joe seemed glad to see him, and when the guy left, Joe walked him to his car and shook his hand.”
Ray Scully had sent me a copy of Giaconne’s “morgue shot.” I displayed it on my phone and showed it to Webber. “This him? His name’s Giaconne.”
Webber recognized right away that Frank Giaconne was dead. He shook his head. “Yeah, that’s him. What happened to him?”
“He was murdered. Apparent fatal mugging in New York City.”
“Hmmm,” Webber murmured. “You don’t think Joe Clarkson had anything to do with it, do you?”