by JP Ratto
“No, I don’t. That’s not why I’m here. I’m not investigating a murder.”
“No? Then what?”
“First tell me about Clarkson’s visitors. You said there was more than one.”
Webber narrowed his eyes. “I came out here to find out why you were snooping around my neighbor’s house and now I’m being interrogated.”
I remained silent and Webber began talking again.
“The second guy came today, a few hours before you showed up. Again, Clarkson came out on his porch to talk to him. If Joe was wary about your murder victim there,” he said, pointing to the phone in my hand, “he was downright scared of this other guy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“For one thing, he was a tall, solid son-of-bitch. Had a mean look on his face. He was younger than Joe or you for that matter. Blond buzzed hair and dressed all in black.”
“Had he shown any aggression toward Clarkson?”
“Not that I could see. If he had, I might have come out and confronted him—not that I’m looking to engage with criminals these days, but I like to do my part to keep my neighborhood safe. I mean, it is safe—at least it was until these characters started showing up on Joe’s doorstep.”
“You said Giaconne drove an old car. What about the man you saw today?”
“Yeah, I had a good look at it because he was parked right outside here and waited until Joe came home. He always left work early enough to be here when his kids came home from school. It was a Buick Skylark—I recognized it because I used to own one. Midnight blue. Must’ve been a custom paint job. Looked in pretty good condition—except for a constant rattling when idling.”
I smiled at how fortunate it was that Joe Clarkson’s neighbor was an observant retired cop.
“Impressive details, Mr. Webber. This guy was here just the one time?”
“Yeah, call me Jim. He didn’t come back. I’ve been home all day. He was out here in his car for a while before Joe came home and then he had to wait for the school bus to pass when the kids came home.”
“You didn’t get the license plate number by any chance?”
Webber tightened his lips and shrugged. “Sorry. The angle wasn’t right. It was a New York plate, though.”
“That’s okay, you’ve given me a lot to work with. I appreciate you speaking freely about what you saw.”
“That’s what it said.” Webber’s eyes widened with recollection.
“What said?”
“The bumper sticker. I could see it because it was on the far right. ‘Freedom isn’t free’ or something like that.”
I grinned and patted Webber’s shoulder. “Thanks.”
Webber nodded. “Clarkson is a strange bird, but I hope he and his family aren’t in any trouble.”
After what Clarkson did with Marnie, I wasn’t so concerned for his wellbeing. But I didn’t wish his family ill.
“I’m sure they’re all right,” I said, knowing in my gut they were safe.
“Hope you’re right. By the way, you haven’t told me why you came to see Joe.”
I hesitated only because I didn’t want to take the time to explain all, but I owed the former cop something.
“That baby the Clarksons had in their care was my daughter.”
Webber’s face twisted in confusion.
“And they weren’t babysitting. She was kidnapped.”
Chapter 18
A fifteen-year-old kidnapping.
Keeler slouched back against the sofa’s cushion and began to process all the information he acquired off the internet.
Starting with Cain, Keeler had traced the lawyer’s career as long-time legal advisor and personal counsel to Senator Todd Grayson. There wasn’t much in the way of Grayson’s scandals, which told Keeler that Douglas Cain was good at his job. A few short blurbs described accusations of sexual harassment against Grayson while studying at Yale. All allegations by the women were swiftly deemed unsubstantiated and false.
One story popped up and, by all accounts, could have ended the senator’s career. Over fifteen years before, an NYPD investigation named Grayson as a person of interest in the murder of a call girl. Only one or two news outlets carried the story within three days of each other—then nothing.
What caught Keeler’s attention were the names of the detectives on the case, Lucas Holt and Ray Scully. The same Ray Scully he had tailed to Moravia Correctional Facility and took a shot at a few days before. Not one to believe in coincidences, Keeler searched for anything related to either detective. What came up astounded him.
NYPD Detective’s Daughter Missing
The news article detailed the abduction of six-month-old Marnie Holt, daughter of Detective Lucas Holt, from Eastside Daycare in Manhattan. The investigation lasted the better part of a year, yielding no leads as to who took the child and why.
Daycare Owner Killed in Fire
Keeler read with interest that Rose Bardinari, who owned the daycare center where Marnie Holt was abducted, died in an electrical fire a few weeks after the child went missing. The fire was not ruled to be arson. Ms. Bardinari had been cleared of any suspicion in the kidnapping. Cleared of suspicion?
Adding Rose Bardinari to his search, Keeler found an article in a Staten Island newspaper.
Local Electrician Incarcerated for DUI and Vehicular Manslaughter
The article gave the account of Staten Island resident Frank Giaconne’s guilt in the death of Hilda Springsteen, when he plowed his car into her one evening, as she crossed Victory Boulevard with the traffic light in her favor. The story also mentioned Bardinari’s death as a reason for his drunk driving and the reduced charge from vehicular homicide to manslaughter. He was sentenced to fifteen years at Moravia.
Keeler grinned. Things were falling into place. He grabbed the paper he took from Abrams’s files. The baby’s age is about right.
Convinced that Giaconne knew something about the kidnapping that no one else did—except the kidnappers—and possibly Douglas Cain—he sprang from the couch and paced. What did Cain have to do with the kidnapping? Why kidnap Holt’s kid?
Keeler sat down and, after printing and arranging the data by date, he reread all the articles one-by-one, developing a timeline of events. Keeler had dealt with enough criminals, and there was only one conclusion he could reach. This all goes back to Cain and what he does best. The kidnapping was perpetrated to keep the detective’s focus off Grayson. Giaconne’s death was necessary to keep the focus off the kidnapping.
Protect Presidential Candidate Todd Grayson at all costs.
***
Commissioner Sheppard’s secretary poked her head inside her boss’s office. The large room, with an ample seating area for meetings with top government and local officials, had undergone minor refurbishment before Sheppard became commissioner. The fresh coat of paint and replacement of the worn maroon carpet with one in a deep gray waffle pattern underscored the age of the leather-upholstered furniture.
However, the oldest piece of furniture in the room outshone any new additions: the more-than-one-hundred-twenty-year-old desk that President Teddy Roosevelt used when he was president of the board of New York City Police Commissioners.
Sheppard proudly sat behind the desk he’d adopted as his own but had done little to personalize it other than a couple of framed photos of his wife and children. They were the only indication he had a life outside the NYPD.
“Sir, your security detail will be waiting downstairs when you’re ready. Have a good night.”
“Thanks, Lynne.” Sheppard glanced up from the reports he tried to focus on to acknowledge his secretary. “See you tomorrow.”
He had been unable to concentrate since his meetings with Cain and Kerrigan. Douglas Cain had blown off any concerns Sheppard had regarding the lawyer’s hiring a hitman to target Ray Scully. Meanwhile, Emmett Kerrigan blamed him for Cain’s actions and treated him like one of his office lackeys.
Who do they think they are?
The two men’s treatment of him, and Kerrigan’s not-so-veiled threat, infuriated Sheppard. He knew if things turned bad for Grayson and the committee, they had set it up so he would take the fall. As precinct captain, at the time, he was the only one with a direct connection to Marnie Holt’s kidnapping.
Sheppard had made it clear to Kerrigan that he would not be a scapegoat; that put him in a dangerous position.
The commissioner called his wife to let her know he’d be on his way home. Greta Sheppard was not the sort to sit home and wait for her husband with a hot meal. She told him friends had invited her out for dinner and drinks. He‘d have to fend for himself. She would see him later that evening. Sheppard didn’t care—he wasn’t that hungry anyway.
He called down to the lobby to inform whoever was at the security desk that he would be leaving. I’m not taking any chances.
The six-man security detail was normal for his position as the city’s top cop. Still, he’d been known to sneak off in a cab from time to time.
Not tonight.
***
As Sheppard’s car pulled up to his apartment building on the Upper East Side, he noticed someone walking his dog. A man with a tight grip on the leash attached to his English Mastiff stopped and waved. Before any of his detail were able to open a door, Sheppard said, “It’s okay, you can drop me off and leave. I’ll go in with my neighbor.” Sheppard got out and returned the wave. He nodded for the driver to go.
“Evening, Harold. Late night?”
Sheppard checked his watch. “Didn’t realize it was this late.” Sheppard let the Mastiff sniff the back of his hand and then scratched the dog behind his ear. He glanced up at his neighbor. “How are you, Pete?”
Peter Cross had lived in the building for as long as Sheppard and his wife, which was before he became commissioner. Greta had wanted to move into a nicer building with more security, but Sheppard didn’t like change. Since a security detail came with the job, he didn’t think it was necessary. Besides, he didn’t like to be on constant watch in every aspect of his life, especially when he was called to unofficial meetings with Kerrigan and Cain.
“I’m doing okay. Nice night, and Bruno and I needed to stretch our legs a bit. Heard about the sniper shooting. Terrible. Have you got the guy that did it?”
Although he knew Cross well, he didn’t like to talk shop with friends and neighbors. But it wasn’t giving anything away to confirm what was all over the news anyway.
“No, he’s still at large. But we have a few leads.” Looking to change the subject, Sheppard asked, “Going in?” He nodded to the building’s front door.
Cross glanced at the dog, who was content to sit at his feet. “We’re not done with our walk. Bruno needs to finish his business before we turn in for the night. Want to go with us? He’s a great protector.”
For a moment, Sheppard reveled in a time when he had a dog and took late-night strolls to clear his head. He never worried about protection and missed the freedom that came with being an ordinary citizen. It was a tempting offer, but he was tired.
“No thanks, Pete. I’m bushed. Have a good night.”
Sheppard was glad Peter Cross waited until he entered the lobby through the clear glass doors, and then tugged the leash, signaling the dog to stand. They moved on and Sheppard walked to the set of three elevators.
The lobby in the post-war building was tastefully decorated with neutral wallpaper, carpet, and furniture. Duane Lewis sat, as usual, at the wooden concierge desk that stood on one side of the elevator bank. A tall man, with fair skin and hair, leaned over the desk as he talked with Duane. The concierge had his head tipped down and appeared to be studying the papers on a clipboard. Sheppard eyed them curiously when the stranger turned his head to peer at the commissioner. The man smiled, pushed off the desk, and moved toward Sheppard. Duane remained seated and did not acknowledge the interruption, appearing engrossed in his reading.
Blocking Sheppard’s view of Duane and the desk, the man strode closer, his hand outstretched. “Evening. I’m Steven Bennett. I just moved in. Duane was giving me the lay of the land. Nice building. Bigger than I originally wanted. Lots of people to get to know.”
Bennett prattled on, which annoyed Sheppard. He shook his hand. “I’m Harold Sheppard. Good to meet you, Steve,” he said, giving his new neighbor a stiff smile. “We do have a large number of residents here. It’s hard to get to know everyone. I wouldn’t even try.” It was the commissioner’s way of suggesting the new tenant not bombard everyone with introductions. Getting to know your neighbors could take months or years.
Sheppard turned, attempting to catch Duane’s attention when Steve Bennett moved closer and pointed to the elevators. “Going up? I’m on the twentieth floor.”
Sheppard cocked a brow in surprise. “Really? That’s my floor too. I didn’t know there were any empty apartments there.”
Bennett hit the elevator button. “Well, as you said, it’s hard to get to know everyone—and everyone’s comings and goings.”
Harold Sheppard could hear the smooth descent of the elevator that serviced floors fifteen to twenty-five. He started at the soft ding.
Glancing to the entrance, Sheppard wished Peter Cross and Bruno would come back. Perhaps he should wait. The elevator doors glided open.
Instead, Commissioner Harold Sheppard watched Steve Bennett hold a door with one hand and allowed the friendly man to gently guide him inside with the other. The doors closed.
Chapter 19
Duane Lewis raised his head at the ding of one of the elevators. Through blurred vision, he could see the shapes of a man and dog as they entered. He shook his head to focus and rose out of his chair. His legs wobbled like jelly, and he sat back down again. His mind raced. He thought he might be having a stroke or heart attack.
What’s going on? He grabbed the canned soft drink on his desk, but realizing it was empty, threw it in a trashcan.
Lewis didn’t feel any pain he could associate with a heart attack. He thought that was a good sign. His head began to clear, and he attempted to stand again.
Another elevator signaled its return to the lobby. The doors opened and Lewis recognized the man who had been at his desk earlier to inquire about renting an apartment. He had referred him to the leasing office during business hours. The man shouldn’t be roaming the building without permission. The concierge struggled to remember the man’s name. “Sir,” he called. The man kept walking toward the exit. “Wait!” Lewis pushed away from his chair, and on unsteady legs, ran after the tall light-haired stranger. A sudden dizziness overtook him. He turned and staggered toward his desk. Lewis halted when a third elevator hummed to a stop and opened, revealing a man’s lifeless body.
***
It was two a.m. when I returned to my brownstone. Maddie had said she’d wait up, but I didn’t expect she would. As I walked through the door, a warmth and excitement lifted my spirits. Although disappointing not to know where Marnie was, it was comforting to know someone was home waiting for me. I removed my jacket and shoes and set down my bag in the foyer. After dimming the hall light, I padded toward the darkened living room.
Maddie slept, curled at one end of the sofa, her head on a soft throw pillow. An open bottle of wine and an unused wineglass stood on the coffee table along with a small dish of cheese and crackers. Another glass, with a few sips worth of white wine and the impression of Maddie’s rosy lipstick, teetered on the brink of tumbling from her hand.
I squatted in front of her, eased the glass away, and set it on the table. She stirred, letting out a contented sigh. I slipped one arm around her waist, nudging her close, and stroked her cheek and mouth with my thumb. She sighed again, this time opening her eyes. Her lips parted, and before she could speak, I kissed her.
Maddie shifted. I moved onto the sofa, and gathering her into my arms, I deepened the kiss. Her lips were salty, and I could taste the fruitiness of the wine. Lifting my mouth from hers, I said, “I’m glad you’re here
.”
“Me too.”
A few too many silent moments passed and Maddie slipped out of my embrace and reached for the bottle of wine. She poured some into her glass. “You want some?”
“Sure,” I said, but thought I want you.
As the spark of desire fizzled, I supposed it was just as well. Until I resolved Marnie’s disappearance, I couldn’t give Maddie the proper attention she deserved. I took the glass of wine she poured and related the details of my discussions with Clarkson, Abrams’s niece, and Clarkson’s neighbor.
“You’re sure the baby referred to in the document is Marnie?” Maddie asked.
I pulled the papers from Abrams’s files out of my pocket. “Attached is a physician’s report stating the baby’s physical attributes and blood type. It’s not proof, but matches Marnie’s description at the time. Besides, I feel it in my bones; it’s her.”
Maddie nodded. “What’s next?”
I drained my wineglass. “I think the most important step now is to find out who else is looking for Marnie. I’m getting a little déjà vu, and it’s making me more than a bit concerned.”
“You’re thinking of Karen Martin?”
“Yeah. And that means Douglas Cain is somehow involved.”
“I can’t imagine him hiring someone to harm Marnie and risking exposure this close to the election.”
I could, and thought that another John Crocker might be searching for Marnie and could be a threat to her safety.
Hundreds of worms crawled through the damp, loose dirt framing her body. Dread replaced shock when I removed the tape and couldn’t feel her breath. I lifted Karen to free her chest from the grave.
I shuddered at the memory.
Glancing around the comfortable room, part of a home and life I’d allowed myself, after years of self-recrimination and self-loathing, a sense of guilt reemerged. My right hand rested on the sofa in the small space between us. Maddie laid her palm on top, lacing her fingers through mine.