“There you go. And that’s on top of a basic struggle, I mean — three kids, one salary? Okay, maybe they have some savings. Maybe they’re secretly loaded. That Getty place they bought is okay; decent little plot of land, nice views of the mountains, but it’s no castle. They picked that up relatively cheap — it had been sitting on the market for three years. So, if they have money, their home doesn’t show it.”
“Or their vehicles,” Swift added, picturing the rusted Ford pick-up in the driveway and the small, ten-year-old Honda. “Not even an SUV to tote the kids around in.”
“Exactly.”
Swift put his silverware down for a moment, his appetite momentarily sated, his attention on Cohen. “Where are we going with this?”
Cohen shrugged. “Just that money is so often a factor. In just about everything.”
“In just about everything,” Swift agreed.
* * *
The bell chimed as a trio of patrons walked into the diner, gaped at the two cops for a moment, then made their way to an open table.
“Now let’s talk suspects and possible motives,” Swift said, picking his teeth with a nail. Their plates were cleared away and Swift had requested the check. He fixed Cohen with a studied glare.
“We’ve got the three in the box now. We can’t hold onto them for much longer unless we charge them.”
“Fleeing the scene of an accident?”
“Could be. If we can show the car has damage, and that the victim suffered from an impact. But as things are now, that doesn’t look too likely. Appearances are that the vehicle and body never made contact. Brittney Silas will let us know.”
“The online game . . .”
“Right. If Kim Yom can find something on the victim’s laptop. She indicated that it could take a long time — longer than we have to keep them on suspicion. But I’m thinking about motive. Possible it was bullying, and it went too far. Happens all the time. We need a clear indication of that, though, and I’m either going to get it from the kids in the box or Yom will get it off the computer. Now, did you do a search on Robert Matthew Darring?”
“I did,” said Cohen eagerly. “No record, which you already knew. I did a standard search after that. White pages address in Queens. Okay. I did combinations, too. There was a hit for ‘Matthew Darring’ on a website called ‘zKillboard.’ Some crazy shit over my head. I made notes. But I saw one thing under this guy’s profile that said ‘I whip my slaves back and forth.’ Other than that, Matthew just gets you to the Bible. Robert Darring, just the physical address. The name Darring alone, clothing manufacturer. Specializes in camouflage.”
“Great,” said Swift. “I’ll take a look at the notes. In the meantime, though, we’ve got something else. Another person of interest is the victim’s biological father.”
Cohen’s eyes widened as he listened to Swift relay the conversation about Tori McAfferty. “So we’ve got this unbidden return of the biological father, and a threat issued by Mike Simpkins, the stepfather. This is something I really want to look at right away. McAfferty is in the county, in South Plattsburgh.” Cohen was leaning forward, those grey-blue eyes stormy. He was waiting, Swift could tell he was longing for some action.
“If you want another assignment, I’d like you to pay him a visit, just get an idea.” Swift said.
“Absolutely.” He was nodding vigorously. “Absolutely.”
“Bring someone with you. Who’s on shift this evening?”
“Deputy Trainer.”
“I’m sure the Sheriff will dispatch him to you. Your department has been very cooperative. Is this something you could do?”
“Yes,” he said. “Absolutely,” he repeated.
“Okay. And I’ll make the inquiries about the financial situation. I’ll use a soft touch.”
Cohen smiled, revealing a block of unstained white teeth. Guy didn’t drink or smoke or anything. “You? A soft touch?”
“Got to. I’ve already spoken with Mike Simpkins twice. He’s going to form a love-hate relationship with me, if he hasn’t already made up his mind one way or the other.”
Cohen nodded, took out his wallet and started pulling out bills to pay the tab.
Swift held up a hand. “It’s on me. Take a look at McAfferty for me. Just a little one; don’t get him worried.”
“I’ll use the soft touch, too,” Cohen said.
Swift grunted. “We’ll be just like mothers with newborn babies.”
Deputy Cohen laughed.
Swift went to the register to pay the bill. He stood at the counter, leaning against it, feeling sluggish but a bit better after eating and talking things through with Cohen. He really liked the deputy. He’d only seen him in passing over the years, but Alan Cohen seemed like a good man, with much more going for him than the rumor mill had to offer. Swift hadn’t been a hundred percent sure Cohen was the man to check out McAfferty; the cursory web search on Darring’s name was partly a test. Now he felt better. Cohen would handle it.
“I’m sorry John,” said the woman at the register. She was the owner of Altos, a woman in her sixties, with a beehive hairdo circa 1958. Swift was a regular. He frowned at her as she held up his card. “This got declined,” she said. The other patrons were by now positively falling out of their seats to hear and see what was going on.
Swift took the card and looked at it. It was a debit card from his personal checking account. The last he’d checked, there was a little over twenty-five hundred dollars in there. He remembered the email he’d gotten that morning about fraud detection. He’d forgotten about that.
“Sorry,” he said, and stuck the card back in his wallet.
The woman waved her hand in the air. “Come take care of it another time.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
He turned and saw Cohen watching. “Everything alright?”
“Sure,” said Swift. They left the diner together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mike’s hand shook as he held the phone and listened to the ringing at the other end. Callie’s friend Sarah was with the girls, Callie herself was sedated and sleeping at CVPH, so Mike stepped outside the hospital to have a cigarette and call his father. The sun was barely visible, smothered behind thick grey clouds. He hadn’t had a cigarette in years. Callie didn’t even know he used to smoke. No one did.
Jack Simpkins answered.
“Dad,” said Mike, his voice cracking. “Braxton is dead.”
“What?”
“He went outside in the middle of the night. They found him in the road.”
Jack Simpkins was silent.
“Callie is in the hospital. I’m with her. She’s a total wreck — they had to sedate her. The girls are okay; they’re with a friend. The State Police are investigating.”
After a long moment, Jack finally spoke.
“Where were you?”
“Where was I? I was in bed. With Callie. We were sleeping.”
Mike felt his heart start to pound in his chest. Had his father just accused him of something? That Mike should have been there for Braxton, or something like that?
“It was just a normal night,” Mike went on, hearing his voice sounding as if it was coming from someone else. “The girls went to bed, Braxton stayed up for a while, reading. Callie and I sometimes go to sleep before he does.” A spasm clutched at Mike’s chest as he felt the emotion well up in him. “He’s gone, Pop. Braxton is just gone. There last night, gone this morning. I . . .”
Mike couldn’t finish. He didn’t know why he had called his father. Jack Simpkins had never been reassuring. When Mike had been facing the loss of his job, Jack had been unsympathetic. “Make yourself indispensable,” he had said. “Make your case to the new firm, cut your rate, do what you have to do.”
Jack had worked for New York Transit all those years and had never joined a union. He stood by the adage that hard work and sacrifice were the only things that paid off. Yet two years ago he had started dumping thousands of dollars into
a 529 college fund for Braxton. It was as if he was incapable of showing sympathy for Mike, his own son, but someone an extra generation apart — and a grandchild not of his own line — was somehow deserving of a helping hand.
Mike wept silently, not wanting his father to hear. He could hear Jack breathing at the other end of the line. At last he pulled himself together and took a deep drag from the cigarette. “So, I just wanted to let you know. I’ll keep you posted on the funeral arrangements, if you want to come. I’m going to have to see someone tomorrow about that.”
“Do you have a person there?”
“No, Dad, I don’t have an established relationship with a funeral home. It didn’t cross my mind, what with looking for work, moving into a new house, taking care of the kids while Callie gets up to speed at the college.”
Mike heard the ice in his voice, chill as the cold air outside the hospital. He dropped the cigarette to the ground and mashed it out with his boot. He found himself thinking about the old days again, smoking cigarettes with Bull Camoine on the Staten Island Ferry. Telling Bull things he didn’t tell anyone else.
“Let me know,” said Jack quietly. “I’ll be there. Braxton was a good boy.”
“Yeah,” said Mike. “He was.” Not like me, he thought, and then felt ashamed of being selfish and childish and jealous of his father’s affection for his step grandson at a time like this. Still, it sat there, a bilious pit in the center of Mike’s chest.
“Alright, Dad. Take care.”
Mike ended the call without waiting for a response — or lack of. He turned and walked back into the hospital feeling worse than when he’d come out. As the doors slid open, he wondered why he’d even bothered to call. What had he expected? Some warmth and compassion at long last? A break in the freeze-out that had lasted for twenty-five years or more? Mike could smell the fug of his own cigarette on him as he walked into the hospital lobby, and it made him feel dirty. This whole thing made him feel dirty.
A moment after he stepped through the door, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and saw a vaguely familiar number on the display.
“Hello?”
“Mike, it’s Sarah.”
His throat constricted. “Is everything alright? Are the girls okay?”
“The girls are fine. There’s just — there are people outside. Reporters, a van parked at the foot of the driveway.”
“Has anyone come up to the door?”
There was a pause, and then Sarah said, “On their way right now.”
Mike realized that in the midst of all his shock and emotion, he’d forgotten about the press. And, given that Braxton’s death had occurred in the wee hours of the morning, it had taken time to catch on. Probably someone on their way to work a few hours later had gotten rerouted, and they mentioned it to a friend, and it went on from there. The thought of reporters encamped in his front yard with his girls inside — girls who didn’t even yet know what had happened to their brother — it was very troubling.
“Are there police there, too?”
“Yes there’s been the same state trooper down at the end of the driveway since this morning. I don’t see him, though, just the car. Mike, I’d like maybe to take the girls to my place. It’s up Wolf Mountain and there’s a gate at the bottom. I’m just worried these people will surround us as soon as I step outside with the girls. What should I do?”
“I’m going to call the detective in charge of the investigation. Hang tight.”
“Okay.”
“Call you right back.”
Mike hung up. His whole body pulsed with anger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Assistant District Attorney surprised Swift as he approached his car outside the diner. Mathis was crossing the street, his black coat collar turned up, his movie-star hair blowing about in the wind. Mathis had come up from New York, and no one bothered to hide the fact they thought he was a hotshot. He was young, yet a reputation for efficient, precise convictions had preceded him.
Swift had been avoiding his calls all morning since their run-in at the substation.
“John, hold up,” Mathis said, picking up his pace to a trot. Swift’s hand had rested on the car door, and now he withdrew it and tucked it into his pocket.
“How’s it going?” Mathis said as he approached.
“Good,” said Swift. He nodded towards the diner. “Great hash browns.”
Mathis’ look darted in the direction of the diner, but only for a second. His eyes were crisp and bright blue and fixed Swift with a glare.
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know.”
Mathis searched Swift’s face for signs of guile or disrespect. Swift felt the breakfast settling into his stomach, and realized he was soon going to have to pee out all that coffee.
“Some place we can talk?”
Swift nodded at the car. “Step into my office. It’s going to be a bit chilly though.”
Swift opened the driver’s door and slipped in. He started up the vehicle and turned on the heaters to full blast as Mathis got in the passenger side, an unconcealed look of disgust on his face.
“My dog, Kady, she sheds,” Swift said.
Mathis looked like he was trying to sit with no single part of his body actually touching anything. Swift thought about offering him a napkin to put under his delicate butt, and had to force himself not to smile. He watched as Mathis did his best to get comfortable among the dog hairs. It wasn’t quite working out for him.
“Look,” he said, seeming to stare at every single hair with venom, “I know I came on a little bit strong this morning, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot with you. I respect you, and I think you’ve handled things the right way so far.”
Swift wondered where this was going.
“So,” Mathis said, “we’re meeting with the press in a half an hour.”
Ah that was it. “Speaking of the press, I just got a call from Mike Simpkins. Very distraught. They’re sprawled out all over his front yard. News channels from Plattsburgh, Burlington, papers from Placid, Saranac, Westport, all of it. I told him we would get them off his back.”
“How?”
Drive them all to a burnt down warehouse; tell them it’s Disney World, thought Swift. “Hopefully our statement will slake their thirst. What are we going to say?”
“What do we know since three hours ago?”
“Mathis, you’ve got to let me work this case. We’re focused on the body, the three kids, processing the car, and on the laptop. If we can find any of the victim’s latent prints in the car, if we can find evidence of any correspondence that resembles a threat from one or all of our three boys in the box, then we can tie it all together.”
Mathis was blank-faced. “The car, any damage, the prints, I get. That’s our hope. But I’ve prosecuted cyber-crimes before. Searching for evidence by back-tracking is going to take too long. They’ll be back at home way before we uncover anything.”
“So, okay, we’ll pick them up and charge them then.” This was the last thing Swift wanted to do, deal with a sprawling, protracted investigation.
“Pick them up?” Mathis counted off on his fingers. “Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York. Then we’re talking about the FBI.”
Swift shrugged. “Maybe we should make some calls.”
Mathis seemed to be boiling beneath the surface. So much for making amends. Swift watched the young ADA’s face darken. He knew Mathis wanted this case, had convinced the DA he could handle it soup to nuts. And New Brighton was a one-horse town; something like this came along once in a very long time. It was the ADA’s chance to make a name. The last thing Mathis would want would be to relinquish it to federal authorities because it went over state lines.
“There’s got to be something else,” Mathis said.
“With the online thing?”
“Yes, with the online thing.”
Swift swiped a hand across his chin. He felt the stubble there. �
�We’ll work as fast as we can, that’s all I can do.”
Mathis’ eyebrows went up. “Was the victim gay?”
Swift shot Mathis a look. “What?”
“Was . . . he . . . gay. Homosexual.”
Swift scowled. “He wasn’t anything. He was barely thirteen.”
“Oh, come on, you know what I mean. But thirteen, you knew whether you liked boys or girls, didn’t you?”
Swift thought back. Sure, he could remember middle school, a girlfriend here, a girlfriend there . . . But he hadn’t lost his virginity until college. Partly due to his parents’ religious strictures, partly because he was awkward and shy.
“I guess,” he said. “But, no, I don’t know.”
“The parents didn’t say anything?”
“About his sexuality? No, it didn’t come up.”
“What did you talk to them about? What have you asked them?”
Swift considered the mother’s description of her son’s unique personality, the autism spectrum, but he said nothing. It wasn’t material yet. It would only cause Mathis to start hunting for ways to fly the Hate Crime banner. Maybe, Swift considered, something like that was involved. From the outset he’d suspected the gang of three to be complicit in some way, whether they’d harassed the poor kid to the point of breaking him, or whether they’d outright murdered him. In some way they had contributed. But there were no facts until the forensics on the car came back, until Kim Yom could find something substantial in her backtracking of internet correspondence, and until Janine Poehler finished her autopsy report and submitted it. He had no cause of death, no murder weapon, and no solid link to any suspects. Except, maybe, the biological father.
But then there was the money, too. The family seemed to be either in financial straits or fiscally backed in a way that they kept quiet about.
“John? I get the feeling there’s something . . .”
“What’s the situation with counsel?”
Mathis blinked, but answered quickly. “Two of them have lawyers now. Lawyers hired by their parents.”
“But Darring isn’t one of them.”
“How did you know?”
“A guess.”
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