Leaning against the wall, I caught my breath and surveyed the entryway and the apartment’s living room. No more techs. The victim’s body had been removed from the scene. I looked around, and taking a moment to absorb the mood, I felt the hopelessness of these two brothers. Then I remembered Dorset. The link with her and the men who lived here was strong, thanks to the collages Cookie, Jane, and I had found. Or was I just blinded by hope into creating a false connection?
I wanted to check out the front closet and had the area to myself, so for a second I remained still, listening to the late night street traffic somewhere outside. I thought I heard a voice saying something indistinct from somewhere deep inside, probably in a back room. Maybe the uniform talking on his radio. Figuring I had time, I opened the front closet door and, fishing for my flashlight, shone it on a rack of coats and began examining each one, checking the size and cut and condition of each garment, searching in the pockets to see if I could find any information. Most of the coats were two different sizes, either medium or large, but all of them were worn in spots and in need of cleaning. Some were lightweight, others were sport coats, three or four were heavy winter jackets. Stepping deeper into the closet I found a heap of clothes on the floor—pants, single gloves, shirts, coats and a few pair of shoes. Not the neatest housekeepers in the world. I sat on the floor in the dark except for a single beam from my flashlight, and went through the pockets of the floor items, coming up with nothing except for tissues and handkerchiefs stiff with something I tried not to think about. In one pocket I found a single key. Getting up, I tried it in the front door lock and it fit, so realizing that whatever Jane didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, I slipped the key into my jacket and, one more time, shone my flashlight around the perimeter of the floor, hoping against hope I’d find some small items, maybe a shoe or a sweater belonging to a small child. But all I saw was dust.
Suddenly the closet door swung open and a powerful beam of light blinded me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Jane asked.
“I thought you’d left.”
“We did, but then I saw your car in the neighborhood, so we doubled back. No matter, get up off the floor. We’re leaving. How’s your father?”
As usual, she asked too many questions, all of them the wrong ones.
“Did you find anything?” I asked Cookie, who stood next to Jane.
“A wonderful artist’s room. Filled with the work of a genius. Found objects everywhere, the smell of paint and paper, varnish. It was magnificent.”
“She means no, we found nothing,” Willoughby said.
“So who is the artist, the dead man or his brother?”
“My guess he was the one the landlords call Jerry, the dead man.”
“I’d like to see the room for myself. New pair of eyes, and you never know, we might discover a major lead.” I used “we” by design.
Jane shook her head, and remembering the key in my pocket, I gave up the fight.
“Crew will be back in the morning,” she said. “They might find something, but I doubt it.”
“What about the brother?”
“I’m having my team check him out now.”
So we’d come up with zip? I wasn’t about to accept that. I’d have to do some digging on Kenny Koznicki myself. An unusual name, I thought I might find something, but just then Jane’s phone rang. I watched as she listened. Nodding several times, she looked straight at me, giving me an evil grin. She asked the person on the other end to text her the details. Gloating, she punched her screen. “Kenny Koznicki, our prime suspect in this murder.”
“How do you know it was murder?” Clancy asked. “After all, he’s the brother. Jerry Koznicki could have fallen backwards, hit his head, and bought the farm.”
“Where were you when the MLI told me what happened?” I asked.
Jane rolled her eyes and read her text. “Suspect is—”
“Suspect?” I asked. “Don’t you mean person of interest? He’s the victim’s brother, don’t forget.”
“Can you suggest a more likely suspect?” She paused for effect. “Suspect, Kenny Koznicki, is tall and thin. According to his driver’s license, he is six five with brown hair and green eyes. He has a mole on his left cheek. Narrow long face, wears round glasses and has a broken nose. Clean shaven. Honorable discharge from the Navy.” I watched as her phone vibrated. “And here’s his picture.” She held up the screen and passed it around then messaged the likeness to all of us. I was sure I’d seen him somewhere, one of the blurred faces in the good monsignor’s manilla folder? I’d have to go back to the rectory and take another look.
“And Cassandra Thatchley’s home?” Cookie asked.
She had a point. I didn’t trust “We need to find the brother. With any luck, he’ll come back to his apartment tomorrow.”
Jane turned to Clancy. “Just as important, don’t forget the ransom handover tomorrow at noon. Remember, you’re undercover, changing a tire, corner of—”
“They know,” I said. It was getting late.
“I can count on you and Denny, then?”
Clancy flushed. He looked at Cookie. I felt sorry for him and for Denny, too. They had interviews with a police department somewhere in Dutchess County. Probably Poughkeepsie—I’d worked that much out. Not that I approved; not that I wanted to move. I gritted my teeth, saying nothing. They wouldn’t like the town, the atmosphere, the schools. They’d have to check out the schools. How could they even think of moving? Maybe their interview would go belly up. Maybe the chief or whatever he was didn’t really have an opening. A million things could happen. Denny had lived in Brooklyn all his life. How could he think of going? How could I not hope for what my husband desperately wanted?
“Like we told you, it’s our day off,” Clancy said. “Better get two other guys. You’ve got a whole undercover team at your disposal.”
Cookie looked at her shoes, her shoulders hunched. Like me, I figured she didn’t want to move, either. Maybe if we put our heads together, we’d find a way to stay in Brooklyn. Just not now. As soon as we found Dorset.
“But I’ll get no one as invested in the case as you and Denny.” With Willoughby by her side, the detective turned, her shoes biting into the cement as she strode away, her head down as if she were a bull lumbering back to its pen.
Cookie and I shared a moment before we said goodnight, Cookie promising to watch Cassandra Thatchley’s home, starting early tomorrow. Then she turned and walked away, arm in arm with Clancy. I stood there until they disappeared.
The Notebook
Back in my BMW, I watched the blurry streetlamps turn from bright to red-rimmed. Close to twenty hours had passed since Dorset was last seen. I tapped the steering wheel as a car looking suspiciously like Zizi Carmalucci’s drove slowly by mine and disappeared. Another five minutes slid by. As soon as I was sure Jane and Willoughby had left the scene, I locked the car and returned to Ellston Drugs, telling the patrolman outside that I’d left my purse in the dead man’s rooms and that it would be easier for me to fetch it myself than to explain to him where it was. “Besides, Jane gave me the key to the apartment,” I lied, holding it out for him to see.
I bolted up the stairs, and after unlocking the front door and donning another pair of booties and gloves, I headed for the back room like a horse galloping for the barn. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, just that I was certain Dorset had been somewhere in the apartment and that if so, most likely she’d been in the room described by Cookie as the artist’s studio. The collages we’d found, the girl’s love of art, all pointed in that direction. I didn’t know how, but I was sure the dead man’s brother was implicated in her disappearance. With Jane’s help, we’d catch him tomorrow when Cassandra Thatchley handed over part of the ransom. But I was getting ahead of myself. I had to focus. Maybe Dorset was still in the apartment, struggling to breathe. My spine tingled at the prospect of finding her in a closet, tied up, gagging, maybe even drugged.
&n
bsp; I hurried through the living room, passing the bathroom and kitchen. In the middle of the hall was a door. It opened into a small bedroom. Twin beds stood against the outer wall, a nightstand in the middle, a dresser on one end and another door facing it. I lifted the bedcovers. Nothing. I looked underneath each bed. Plenty of dust but no Dorset. I opened the closet door. Filled with clothes. Shining my flashlight all around, I riffled through the clothes hanging on the rod. No Dorset. My heart racing, I retraced my steps, looked through all the kitchen and bathroom cabinets, lifted the shower curtain and stared dumbly at an empty bathtub. Empty except for some scuff marks on the bottom of the tub. Made by the sole of a shoe. Despite lack of any evidence, I was sure Dorset had been here.
At the end of the passage was another door. I opened it, found the light switch, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of a large room. The artist’s studio. After stumbling on a tarpaulin in the middle of the floor, I swept the area with my eyes. There were floor-to-ceiling cabinets on the inner wall to my left and right. Quickly I opened drawers and found what I considered to be scraps, the detritus of life, but organized into like with like. One drawer held paper, another contained screws and nails, a third, pieces of fabric folded into rectangles. There were brooms and dustpans stacked in a tall cabinet, some cleaning rags inside an industrial pail. All neat and orderly.
Except for the cleaning gear, canvas, stretchers, and furniture, most of the objects in the room were picked up off the street, most likely used to create the artist’s collages. The floor was covered in paper, stretched canvas, brushes, a pot of glue. At first it looked like children had been here, arbitrarily pulling out items and throwing them around, but with a start, I realized I was gazing at the inner workings of an artist’s mind. I saw blobs of paint, torn pieces of paper, leaves, some of them shriveled, newsprint, nails, screws, pieces of glass, all of them somehow fitting together, many of them arranged on large pieces of canvas. I stepped back: it all looked like works in various stages of completion. While all rooms spoke to me of their owners, this one told me about an artist’s compulsion to create, a longing for the clarity and peace that must come from achieving the perfect creation. Or at least searching for it, the actual work but a dim reflection of it in the mind’s eye. An illusion, maybe, but a quest at the heart of a person, much like my need to find Dorset.
No wonder Cookie liked this room. With a stab I realized that if she and Clancy moved to Poughkeepsie, she could have a studio like this. Large. Airy. An artist’s dream. Banishing the thought, I shook myself. It was late and the uniform would be coming in search of me any minute. I walked to the worktable and scanned all the objects on top, various tools, rolls of paper, more torn newspapers, ads, empty paint cans, sketches on cardboard. Next to a small tool chest was a postcard. I picked it up. On the front was a photograph of a collage and on the bottom in white letters, the name of a gallery in Brooklyn, the announcement of a one-man show for Jerry Koznicki. I turned the card over and in the upper left-hand corner was a black-and-white photo of a man, a professional headshot. I blinked, my eyes thick with sand. Closing them again, I ran my hands over the glossy advertisement and, opening my eyes, realized I was staring at a picture of the dead man. A confirmation that he was the artist. I took another look around and heard footsteps approaching. It was time to give up my search for traces of the missing girl.
“Did you find your purse?” A voice pierced the silence.
Startled, I turned and stared at the policeman. “It must be in here somewhere. Help me find it.”
“We shouldn’t be here. Super will have my head. If it’s here, they’ll find it eventually.”
I was about to give up. I wasn’t certain what I was looking for, but whatever it was, I hadn’t found it. Some vestige of Dorset was here, I was certain. I could feel her presence, a faint scent, almost indistinct, a brush of air against my cheek. Harder, you’ve got to try harder, I could hear someone whisper. If I left now, I’d never find her. I stood my ground, rooted to the spot.
“It’s time to lock up. This way.”
“I think I see it. Wait here a second.”
He shook his head. “We’ve got to go. Now. Second shift will be here any minute.”
As I was turning to leave, something caught my eye. A flash of brightness. On a chair near the wooden table, a red rectangle. I must not have seen it earlier. I stared at the object, frozen, my heart doing its rapid beating routine. Recovering a bit, I had the presence of mind to take out my phone and snap pictures as I walked toward it. It was a book with a red cover. I picked it up. An artist’s sketchbook. I’d seen a pile of them in Dorset’s room just like the one in my hand. I flashed back, seeing the image of Mrs. Hampton staring at me. “Always doodling, our Dorset.” I opened to a random page and saw a charcoal drawing of people seated in a row, done on the subway or maybe in a church. One man had his eyes closed; the woman next to him was staring out at the viewer. Two others reminded me of people I’d seen before, but who? The figures were detailed, lifelike, individual, yet all had similar haunted faces. I flipped through more pages, all of them filled with pencil drawings, a few done in color. I turned back to the cover and blinked rapidly. On the inside were the words Dorset Clauson printed in large letters, a child’s practiced hand. It was one of her notebooks, proof beyond doubt that she must have been here.
Someone was tugging at my sleeve. “Right now, miss, it’s time to leave.”
“You don’t understand.” I held up the notebook. “The girl we’ve been looking for?”
“The kid taken from the park this morning?”
I nodded. “This is her notebook. She’s been here.” I let the words sink in. “She might still be here.”
Together we searched the rest of the apartment. Even though I’d gone over it, I figured it wouldn’t hurt. We started with the bedroom, all the closets, the bathroom, the kitchen; scanned the living room, opened a dilapidated breakfront in the dining room and rummaged through all the drawers, peering in all the corners; and in the kitchen we opened cabinets, looked inside a small pantry, the laundry room, even the back porch. We found nothing else except in the corner of a small closet, some dust motes and a few small towels. I shut the door and stood still. Could Dorset have been kept in there, the towels on the floor used to tie hands and feet? Not likely, but I stepped back and took a picture of it anyway.
“Time to go,” my guard dog said. “Really. CSU will be here any minute. We’ve looked everywhere. The girl’s not here. She might have been here, but if she had been, that’s not our job to determine it, is it?”
“I know. I know.” My feet were cold. I was shaking. “But she’s been here, I absolutely know it.” And I did. For a second I hugged Dorset’s notebook, then bagged it and shoved it into my purse. I could give it to Jane tomorrow: tonight it was my trophy.
After I said goodnight to my friendly policeman, I left a message on Jane’s phone while I walked to the car. Feeling my stomach do high vaults, I sent her the pictures I’d taken of the notebook I’d found in Jerry Koznicki’s studio along with a description of the ones I’d seen earlier that day in Dorset’s bedroom. Proof beyond any doubt Dorset had been in the apartment of the dead man. I added that my intrusion into the crime scene was all Jane’s fault—she wouldn’t let me search it earlier. I parked in front of my house and locked the car.
To my surprise, it was a subdued detective who called me back a few minutes later. No anger, just an even, steady tone—the closest she’d ever gotten to an apology. She even thanked me and segued into the plans for tomorrow, saying she’d arranged for two agents to cover the ransom handover instead of Clancy and Denny. She’d have her team watch Ellston Drugs if I would watch Cassandra Thatchley’s home.
Cassandra Remembers
The fog of the earlier evening had disappeared, and in its place, a few stars winked down on earth from their heavenly vault. I stood on my stoop and called Cassandra Thatchley to see what she knew about her younger dau
ghter’s involvement with a middle-aged artist. Her answering machine picked up, so I decided, despite the hour, to go back to my car and pay her a visit. When I arrived on Columbia Heights, her house was dark. After several minutes of my ringing the bell and pounding on the door, the woman herself opened it.
“You found her!”
I shook my head.
Her shoulders slumped, and it took a moment before she spoke. “God help you if you’ve awakened Brunswick. He’s a madman when roused from a deep sleep.” She meant stupor.
“Do you want to talk on the stoop?”
Tying her robe, she stepped back from the door, and I followed her into the kitchen. Without looking at me, she motioned me to sit.
“I suppose you’d like coffee?” She ran fingers through her wiry hair, and as she turned away, I could see her profile lit by a small light over the sink. She looked like a distraught Madonna searching for the infant Jesus.
I shook my head. “What do you know about Jerry Koznicki?”
Her face was blank and I waited, listening to distant noises of traffic, a couple walking close by, probably on their way home, talking loudly, a bark of laughter. I was tired and could feel grit in my eyes as I watched Mrs. Thatchley run her hands over the surface of the table. Her eyes, staring beyond me, were out of focus.
“Jerry. Jerry?” She said the name over and over, and I gave her space.
“An artist,” I prompted. “He lived with his brother and made pictures out of torn paper and found objects.”
I could see truth beginning to invade her as she remembered the events of that morning. The suddenness of it as she brought a hand to her mouth. “Jerry and his brother!” She got up and held herself, ranging back and forth. “How could I have forgotten? He invited her to see his studio. This morning in the park. I shouldn’t have allowed it. I knew it then. I should have gone with her. Why didn’t I? I told her she had twenty minutes.”
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 23