I nodded my solemn agreement, thanked Murray, and returned to the Mercedes. I made the short trip up Main Street until I came to the Rockfield Historical Society, which was located within a manicured campus made up of the library, police station, and town hall.
I found my mother in the main room, dusting old books. “Are we alone?” I asked.
“Just a couple of helpers going through some boxes in the back room.”
“And everything is okay … with these helpers?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?”
“Dad wanted me to drop by and let you know I’m going to live.”
“Are you … going to live? If not, I see you’ve selected a suit for your funeral.”
I attempted a smile. “All these years you bug me for grandchildren, I finally deliver, and this is the thanks I get?”
“Hiding out children, arson, shootings—it’s time you came clean with me, JP.”
“People who have gotten those answers have ended up hurt … or worse. It’s better that you don’t know.”
“I assume you’re referring to the parents of these children. You know, Gwen said something interesting when she came by to check on them this morning … she told them she was going to get their mother back.”
“You saw Gwen? Did she say where she was going?”
“I wouldn’t know—nobody tells me anything. I presume she went to get the mother of these children back, like she said, from wherever that might be.”
“Just please keep them hidden until we return. And don’t hand them over to anyone, except Rich Tolland, under any circumstances. Especially if a couple FBI agents named Nunez and Lillibridge come looking for them.”
She looked away. “I was foolish to think you’d left your reckless ways behind.”
“It’s not the same, I swear. They’re coming after me this time.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to return fire.”
She pointed to a painting on the wall—it was of George Washington mounted upon a horse. It was painted by Charles Zycko back in the late 1700s, when General Washington and his ragtag army was passing through Rockfield, then known as Ancient Woodbury.
“Do you know who that is?”
“I think he was a carpet cleaner or something like that. May or may not have lied about chopping a cherry tree down,” I said and braced for a history lesson I didn’t have time for.
“The Revolutionary War didn’t begin in Boston, as most believe—that was a siege, which led to the declaration of war. The first true battle took place in New York, with the Continental Army being led by General George Washington.”
I nodded—too late.
“His British counterpart, General William Howe, showed up with a fleet of four hundred ships, and over thirty-thousand troops, taking control of the entrance of New York Harbor. And New Yorkers, as they’re known to do, went into a panic. The temptation for Washington was to build on the momentum of the Boston siege, show no fear, and march forward without wavering. But facing an overwhelming force, he swallowed his pride, and chose to retreat. So to make a long story short, General Washington has his face on currency, while General Howe does not.”
I’d bet if the British had tried to burn Washington’s true love—Sally Fairfax—at the stake … or in a tree house … the General might have had a different response.
I told her that I understood her point—discretion over valor—but we both knew that history said I wasn’t going to retreat.
Chapter 52
I began walking to the Rockfield police station, seeking an update from Rich Tolland. I had a feeling he might be my best shot to get a beat on Gwen’s location.
But I saw something that made me stop in my tracks. Walking into the police station were agents Scott Hawkins and Clarisse Johnson of the FBI. I started having an Officer Jones flashback, so I did a slow turn and began walking in the opposite direction. I didn’t think being interrogated by Hawkins for the next couple hours was going to get me to Gwen any faster.
By mid-afternoon there was still no sign of her, and my stomach was demanding food. So to avoid another blackout, this one from lack of nourishment, I drove to Dello’s.
I always thought better while consuming grilled meat and salty side dishes, so I ordered a “triple decker” burger and curly fries. I took a seat at one of the outdoor picnic tables, and began plotting my new course on a ketchup-stained napkin.
I needed to re-calibrate my search, re-focus, re-strategize, and any other ‘re’ I could come up with. But my strategy session didn’t last long, as I was joined by Herbie and Cervino, who were on their lunch break. They smelled of freshly cut grass, and their clothing was stained with white chalk. They worked for the Rockfield Parks Department, and had been getting the Little League fields at Lefebvre Park prepared for tonight’s first game.
“Look at Mr. Hollywood in his sunglasses,” Cervino said.
“For your information, I’m suffering from light sensitivity,” I responded.
“That’s what they all say,” Herbie added with a smile.
“And what’s with the slicked-back hair? For a moment I thought you were Maloney,” Cervino said.
“Warner coaches one season of basketball, and he thinks he’s Pat Riley,” Herbie said. They got a laugh out of that, and began devouring their lunch. Cervino washed it down with a beer, which might explain why the lines are always so crooked on the Little League fields.
Then Herbie turned serious. “Sorry about the fire, man … a lot of good memories in those woods.”
“Rumor on the street is that it was arson—who the hell would want to burn down that forest?” Cervino added.
“My father’s been in power for decades, I’m sure he’s made some enemies. We’re just glad nobody got hurt.” Especially Gwen. Speaking of which, “Hey, have you guys seen Gwen around town today? I haven’t been able to get hold of her,” I said as casually as possible, not wanting to set off any alarms.
“Ran into her like an hour ago,” Cervino surprised me.
“Really? Where?”
“At Dr. MacDougal’s. I had a physical … did you guys know that the higher your cholesterol number is, the worse it is? I always thought higher meant better.”
When he mentioned that his total cholesterol level was over three hundred, I suggested he remove the bacon from his bacon cheeseburger. What did these guys do without me?
I was already on my feet. “Sorry that I have to run, but I really need to catch her.”
“Somebody’s whipped,” Cervino said, and made a whipping motion with his hand, sound effects included. Mistress Kate would be proud.
I drove to Rockfield Square, which housed Dr. MacDougal’s medical practice, amongst numerous small businesses. As I was walking in, I came across Mary Rothschild, and her daughter, Emmy, who was the key three-point shooter on our basketball team.
“JP—thank God you’re alright,” Mary greeted me. “We could see the flames all the way up on Blueberry Bush.”
“Hey, Coach,” Emmy said, not sounding her cheerful self.
“I’m bringing her in for tests … they think she has mono,” her mother explained.
“The kissing disease,” I said with a smile, and Emmy’s face reddened.
“Well, hopefully we’re a few years removed from that. But on the subject of someone who’s going to get kissed tonight, I just saw Gwen … and you are one lucky guy.”
“You’re not going to get an argument from me … I’m just heading in to see her myself,” I pointed at the door to Dr. MacDougal’s office. “Do you think she’s done with her exam?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I meant I saw her at Bardella’s. She bought this little black dress for your date tonight that is going to knock your socks off … among other things.”
“Our date?”
She looked confused. “She said you’re going into the city tonight. I hope I didn’t ruin a surprise.”
“No—not at all. My head is just s
till a little cloudy from last night.”
What are you up to, Gwen?
“Chin up,” I told Emmy as her mother led her into Dr. MacDougal’s office—‘chin up’ was our rallying call every time we got down in a game this past season, and at last check, we always came back to prevail. Right now I needed to take my own coaching advice.
I strolled into Bardella’s Dress Shop, and was met by Vivian Bardella. She had owned the shop seemingly since the Truman Administration, and fashioned herself as the town’s resident glamour expert. Sort of the Joan Rivers of Rockfield.
“JP Warner, what a welcome surprise,” she greeted me, and kissed both my cheeks, European style.
“I love the new hairstyle,” she said. “And what a sharp suit.”
“It’s a Maloney original.”
“Haven’t heard of a designer named Maloney—I will have to look into him.”
“He does custom work for me. I was told Gwen was in here earlier, do you know where she might have gone?”
“Can’t get anything past a reporter like you, JP. And what a fabulous choice she made on that dress … she is like a vampire that never ages. What’s her secret?”
Perhaps that she always pulls through unscathed, while her boyfriend gets clobbered over the head, or almost dies trying to save her.
“There’s a lot of preservatives in wine, I guess.”
“If that were the case, then I’d look like a teenager.”
“You’re not, Vivian?”
She let out a flirtatious laugh. “You do know what to say to a girl, JP Warner.”
“I’m a journalist—I just state the truth,” I said with a smile. “Do you happen to know where Gwen went to?”
“I believe she was going to Francine’s to get her hair done.”
“For our big night out in the city, of course.”
Francine’s was also in Rockfield Square, so Gwen didn’t have to travel far to prepare for our imaginary date. And like my previous stops, I’d missed her.
When I inquired as to Gwen’s next stop—women tell their hairdresser everything, right?—Francine said she was under the impression that Gwen was on her way to meet up with me. I didn’t recall any such meeting, but I made up something about getting our signals crossed.
When I asked her if Gwen had done anything different with the hair today, grasping at straws at this point, she told me that she’d brought in a photo of Elizabeth Hurley, and wanted it done to look like that.
“The actress?”
“Loved her in Austin Powers. Never understood why they didn’t bring her back for the remakes.”
I was starting to think Gwen was the one who had the head injury. I thanked Francine, and then retraced my steps without any luck.
I decided my best bet might be to return home and wait for her to come to me. Not my style, but I was out of options, and my head and lung issues were wearing me thin. As I drove along Skyview, nearing home, I saw the flash of police lights behind me. Things just kept getting better.
I pulled over, and watched as Rich Tolland approached the vehicle.
“I didn’t steal Maloney’s car,” I beat him to the punch. “He loaned it to me … sort of.”
“That’s not why I pulled you over. I thought you should know that I just got out of a meeting with the FBI, and I told them everything I know. That Allison Cooper came to me yesterday, worried for her life, along with her children’s. I provided them safety, but I believed the fire last night was related to this issue, as is the fact that she’s now missing. I almost lost my job the last time I lied to them, and I wasn’t going to risk it. The children are now in their custody—your mother’s name was never brought up.
“I also told them that Allison met with the staff of the Rockfield Gazette yesterday, I was not included, and don’t know what was discussed. Agent Hawkins is currently on his way to the hospital to find out what you know on that subject.”
I almost smiled, thinking of him finding Maloney in that bed. “You did the right thing, Rich. But at the moment, my biggest concern is finding Gwen, and I have no clue where she is.”
He grinned. “Maybe I can help you with that. They never asked me about Allison Cooper’s car, so I didn’t tell them that I had put a GPS tracker on it, in case it was stolen, or she was carjacked by those who were after her. And since the Gazette van has been parked at the office all day, and Gwen has been spotted all over town, I have a pretty good idea who is driving Allison’s car.”
He handed me the tracker data. I saw that Gwen was serious about that night out in the city, because the Audi was parked directly across the street from my brownstone.
Chapter 53
I needed to get to the city. The problem was that dusk would be descending soon, and driving at night was an impossibility in my current state. I had to find a ride, but I was low on options.
Rich Tolland was on duty the rest of the night. My father was performing his first selectman duties, throwing out the ceremonial first pitch at Lefebvre Park. And since this wouldn’t fit my mother’s “retreat” strategy, I didn’t even ask her. Ethan and Pam were at a banquet, honoring local athletes. I tried Herbie and Cervino, but I got no answer. I remembered them mentioning their plans to hit Main Street Tavern after work, which meant they were probably half-sloshed by now, anyway.
That left one person. He was a long-shot, but I preyed on his weakness, which was also my weakness—Gwen.
“Dolly and I had dinner plans, but I’ll call her and let her know I’m working late on a story. It won’t be the first time I’ve been in the doghouse, and I doubt that it will be the last,” Murray said, and we headed to the Rockfield Gazette van.
We picked up I-84 in Danbury, and made the hour-long trip I’d made so many times, but rarely from the co-pilot seat. I worried about the elderly Murray handling the rush hour traffic, especially on the winding Saw Mill Parkway, but truth was, he was in complete control, and my concern only seemed to annoy him.
“So what do you think she’s up to?” I asked.
“I always like to start with the most obvious scenario, John Pierpont, and in this case, it would be that she is meeting a boyfriend.”
Strangely, I would sign for that at this point. “But if she were having an affair, Gwen would never leave such a trail. She’s too savvy for that.”
“That is true—you’d be the last one to know.”
“Do you have another theory?”
“It could be a number of things, or a combination of them. Perhaps Allison provided her a clue during their time spent together, prior to the fire. Gwen and Allison always had a strong bond, so it’s possible she wasn’t comfortable saying certain things within our group session, and would only confide in Gwen.”
“And this item she told confided in her, would require Gwen to hit the town dressed to the nines?”
“Please don’t take my thoughts as fact. I’m just brainstorming at this point, and as I get older, the storms are usually milder, and often blow out to sea.”
I got the feeling that the storm was being tempered for my benefit. “Remember how you drilled into our heads that a journalist’s first responsibility is to the truth? I’m a big boy, Murray—I can take it.”
“I’m not here as a journalist tonight, but as a friend.”
“Then all the more reason to give it to me straight.”
He took a deep breath and slowly blew it out. “I’m very worried about our girl. While I don’t have any inkling as to what her plan is, I do know she has a history of running right into the eye of the storm. And in the case of Officer Jones, she did so literally.”
“Which almost got her killed.”
“And is why it’s important that we get to her as soon as possible.”
“When we do, could you tell her what you just told me? I’m not sure I have any credibility on the subject of running toward danger.”
“Despite your reputation to the contrary, you seem to prefer to use deception and misdirection to achi
eve results, such as your fake Grady Benson persona and breaking into his home. It’s not always effective, but in this case, I think that might be the more sensible approach.”
As we got off the exit for 125th Street, nearing our destination, I put on my sunglasses—darkness had arrived, and the city lights were starting to make my head spin. We idled the van, just down the street from my place. The Audi was still there, parked across the street, and the lights were on inside the brownstone. While I might not run into storms with the same voraciousness as Gwen, I did plan on running inside the building to get to the bottom of this.
Murray held up the stop sign. “Patience isn’t only a virtue, it can be a key to understanding. Observation is a journalist’s most effective tool.”
I detected an enthusiasm in his voice. “You miss this, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Chasing the big story … the anticipation of the moment. You miss it.”
He stared out the windshield as he spoke, “Do you know who my boyhood hero was, John Pierpont?”
“I would guess a famed journalist like Ernie Pyle.”
“While my grownup life has been dedicated to journalism, my childhood was all about baseball. My hero was Willie Mays. And if I were to ask Willie if he would like to play one more big game, chase down another fly ball like a gazelle, or hit another home run deep into the bleachers at the Polo Grounds, his answer would be yes, yes, yes, a thousand times over. You always miss what you love, and hope for one more chance to show it how much you care.”
“Then come with me tonight. Help us write this story. One more big game … and get our girl back in the process.”
He shook his head. “I also remember when Willie came to the Mets at the end of his career, forty-one years old, ancient for a ballplayer. His mind was as sharp as ever, but the legs were heavy, and the instincts no longer trustworthy. In the 1973 World Series, I watched as my hero stumbled and fell in the outfield, while chasing a fly ball the younger Willie would have made easy work of. After the game, he responded, “Growing old is just a helpless hurt.”
Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2) Page 20