“Of 1990?”
“That’s correct. She was so young that our family physician flew down with his nurse to be there with her for the last few weeks. And he made certain that our home was as well equipped as any hospital—just in case there were any complications.”
“And were there any?”
“No, there were not. He took every precaution.”
“And his name is?…”
“John Sykes. John was a fine fellow. Passed away, let’s see, nine years ago.” That made two doctors who were dead so far. “He always wanted to open a free clinic down there. We made it financially possible for him to do so. I miss John. Don’t care for this current fellow at all. He treats me like a dotty old featherhead. Which I assure you I am not, Lieutenant.”
“I believe you, ma’am. So Kathleen’s child was born in Nevis?”
“Not officially,” Peter Seymour answered. “It was a home delivery. The birth was never recorded there. Dr. Sykes and the nurse brought the baby to New York when it was medically safe to do so and proceeded with the adoption.”
“Sorry, I don’t understand,” I said. “Was the baby a citizen of the US or of Nevis?”
Seymour stared at me from behind his rimless spectacles. “He was born overseas to an American mother but there was no recorded birth certificate. Got it?”
“Not really, but I’m not super bright.”
“Kathleen remained behind with me in Nevis for a few more weeks,” Mrs. Kidd continued.
“How did she feel about the baby being taken from her?” Legs asked.
“She wept for days,” Mrs. Kidd recalled sadly. “And remained deeply, deeply depressed. We sent her abroad to a school in Geneva that was noted for its work with emotionally challenged young people. They placed her on an assortment of prescription medications, which she continued to take for the remainder of her life. Kathleen was … incapable of experiencing the emotion of joy, Lieutenant. This made her extremely angry. Her art was the only thing that gave her some solace. She moved to Paris after she got out of school so as to pursue it further. She had a generous income from her trust fund and was able to live quite comfortably. Paris remained her home for a number of years.”
“Was there a man in her life?”
“When she was nineteen she got married to some awful hunk of eurotrash,” the old lady sniffed. “He was strictly after her money. Tommy paid him to go away and he went away. It lasted less than a month.” She gazed out the tall windows at her panoramic view of Central Park. “Last year she decided to give up Paris and buy the apartment on Riverside Drive. She didn’t tell us why she came home. Kathleen never explained herself. She simply did what she did.”
“Did you see a lot of her after she came back?”
“I tried to. I haven’t many friends left. They’re either dead or they’ve moved to Florida, which is as good as being dead in my opinion. I’m always looking for someone to go with me to the ballet or the opera. I asked her to join me dozens of times, but she always declined—if she bothered to return my phone call. I’m well aware that the media thinks Kathleen moved back to New York so as to be with me in my declining years. But the truth is, she wanted nothing to do with me.”
“Or me,” Bobby spoke up. “I called her a million times. So did Meg. But all Kathleen ever wanted to do was stay in her apartment and paint.”
Legs said, “Her doorman told us she seldom went out and almost never had visitors. When was the last time you folks saw her?”
“It w-was Christmas…” Mrs. Kidd replied, choking back a sob. “She … showed up here an hour late looking like something the cat dragged in. Unkempt and filthy. She had nothing to say to us. Just got roaring drunk on eggnog and left without so much as opening her presents. I-I still have them.”
“She was seeing a psychiatrist named Joseph Schwartz. Are you familiar with him?”
“I’ve never heard of him.” Mrs. Kidd glanced at Bobby. “Have you?”
Bobby shook his head. “She didn’t get his name from me. She never asked me for anything, Lieutenant. Never wanted anything. We weren’t close,” he said regretfully. “Hardly spent any time together when we were kids—except for when we summered on Nantucket. Even then I hardly ever saw her. I was too busy having fun with my friends. And then she was off in France for most of her adult life, like mother just said. I wish I’d made more time for her after she moved back to town. I should have but…” He lowered his bright blue eyes, swallowing. “I’ve just been so busy with my campaign.”
“Don’t blame yourself for what she did,” Meg said to him sternly. “It’s not your fault.”
“I should have tried harder,” he insisted. “If I had maybe she wouldn’t have felt so desperate and alone.”
Legs said, “Mrs. Kidd, are you aware that Kathleen had been reaching out to a Canterbury College student named Bruce Weiner? She confronted him publicly on two occasions that we know of in the past three months. Apparently, she was under the impression that he was her birth son.”
The old lady shook her head. “Why, no. I’ve never heard the name Bruce Weiner before in my life.”
Legs stared across the coffee table at her. “So you’re not aware that this same Bruce Weiner was shot to death the night before last at a vacation home on Candlewood Lake?”
Mrs. Kidd’s eyes widened a bit but she had nothing to say.
Peter Seymour had nothing to say either. He wasn’t going anywhere near it. Just sat there like a six-hundred-dollar-an-hour mute. Bobby the K was likewise mute. The library fell into guarded silence.
Until Meg said, “Lieutenant, are you attempting to link his death with Kathleen’s?”
“It does raise questions, don’t you think?”
“I honestly have no idea what to think,” Meg answered brusquely.
Mrs. Kidd cleared her throat. “All I know is that Kathleen gave birth to a baby boy when she was terribly young and vulnerable. She never saw that baby boy again. The experience was traumatic for her. Her whole life was filled with trauma. She was a tortured soul. We could never make her happy. We let her down. Everyone let her down. And now…” She halted, her eyes brimming with tears. “And now my beautiful little girl is gone,” she sobbed.
Bobby rushed to the old lady’s side to console her.
Seymour said, “This interview is over, Lieutenant Diamond.”
Legs nodded grimly. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Kidd. I’m sorry for your loss.”
She didn’t hear him. Just sat there and cried.
Meg shook my hand again, although this time her gaze was chillier. She’d sized us up and decided we represented a potential threat to her.
“I’ll show you guys out,” offered Bobby, wiping his own eyes.
Meg stayed there in the library with Mrs. Kidd. So did Peter Seymour, who was avoiding us so we wouldn’t pepper him with more questions.
Bobby led us across the marble entry hall toward the elevator. Again, I was struck by how much shorter he was than I’d thought. “I want to thank you guys for your courtesy. You both seem real decent. Watch your backs, okay?”
Legs said, “Meaning?…”
“You’re dealing with a situation here that’s gotten out of control.”
Legs’s dark eyes narrowed. “You think your sister’s suicide might have been something other than a suicide?”
Bobby pushed the button for the elevator. “I’m with my wife on this one. I honestly don’t know what to think.”
“You must have an inkling,” I said. “What’s really going on here?”
“I wish I knew,” he sighed. “But if I were you guys I’d steer clear of it. If you don’t, you’re liable to get pulled in so deep you’ll never get out.”
“Is that some kind of a threat?”
Bobby showed me his best campaign smile. Well, almost his best. His eyes weren’t totally into it. “Just the opposite, Ben. I’m trying to look out for you. Understand?”
“Not really, but I’m not super brigh
t.”
The elevator arrived. We got in and started back down to the lobby.
“That rich old lady just chumped us,” Legs grumbled at me. “All she gave up were cherry-picked morsels. And she was spinning them all of the way.”
“Damned good acting job,” I said admiringly. “I guess she’s had plenty of practice over the years. More than Bobby. What was that just about?”
“Dude’s scared shitless.”
“Of what?”
“His political future, what else?”
“Legs, why were Bruce and Kathleen murdered?”
“Because they knew too much.”
“About what?”
“That’s what we have to find out.” He glanced at his watch. “Millbrook’s a two-hour drive, tops. I’m going to drop that nine-mil slug of yours off at the lab and then take a quick run up to the Barrow School. Maybe somebody still works there who was around back in eighty-nine and remembers the real deal. I’m guessing the Kidds paid everybody off—but a pissed-off janitor might have slipped through the cracks.” He glanced over at me. “Any idea what you’re going to do?”
“Actually, I have a very good idea.”
* * *
THE WINDSOR HOTEL ON LEXINGTON caters mostly to out-of-town business travelers who want a midtown location, a bed and not much else. It’s not a tourist hotel. And for sure not a luxury hotel. The lobby’s barely a lobby at all. There’s no fancy seating area with plump armchairs. No piano bar. No coffee shop or gift shop. Just a front desk, a bell captain’s station and a whole bunch of busy people bustling in and out. One of those busy people was a tall guy with receding black hair who stood just inside of the front door, glaring impatiently out at the street. He appeared to be waiting for somebody who was late. He was pretty good at it, too, but I made him anyway. My dad taught me well.
No one answered when I knocked on the door to room 613. I stood there in the hall and listened to the moaning and groaning that was going on inside. I knocked again, harder this time.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice finally demanded.
“Room service.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“Compliments of the concierge, sir.”
He undid the chain and dead bolt and opened the door. Paul Weiner was naked except for the towel he’d wrapped around his plump middle. His face was flushed. His thinning hair was mussed. He blinked out at me in horror. “What are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to talk to you.”
“B-But how did you find me?” he sputtered.
“This is how I make my living, remember?” I replied. There was no need for him to know that when I’d called his house, Sara told me he’d come into the city to catch up on work. Or that when I’d called his office, they told me he was home in Willoughby due to a death in the family. Or that I knew he was a dues-paying member of the Gladiator Club. Or that I’d shmeared the bell captain fifty bucks and slipped past the plainclothesman who was staked out downstairs. There was no need for Bruce’s father to know any of that. “May I come in?”
He hesitated, swallowing uncomfortably.
“We can have this conversation right out here in the hallway if you want.”
He let me in. It was a tiny room, barely big enough for a double bed, dresser and TV. There was a bath. There was a closet. He padded over to the bed and sat on the edge of it, shifting uneasily in his towel.
The Asian girl who was naked in the bed didn’t do a thing. She didn’t even bother to pull the sheet over her bare breasts. Didn’t care if I looked at them or not. Just lay there calm as can be, her gaze more than a bit unfocussed. My guess? She popped something heavy duty to get herself through the unpleasantness of her work day. Unless, that is, a nooner with a pudgy, balding forty-eight-year-old toe sucker was her idea of a good time. She wore a lot of makeup but it didn’t hide the sprinkling of pimples on her forehead. Or the fact that she appeared to be about fifteen years old.
Paul Weiner cleared his throat. “Would you mind excusing us for a moment?” he asked her, gesturing to the bathroom.
She shrugged her narrow shoulders and got up out of the bed, making no effort whatsoever to cover herself. She was so thin I could see her ribs, front and back. Her breasts were a child’s breasts. Clearly, this was a kid with serious troubles. But right now they weren’t my troubles. She went into the bathroom and closed the door softly behind her.
“She’s eighteen,” Paul pointed out defensively.
“If you say so. That would make her just about Sara’s age, wouldn’t it?”
He heaved a pained sigh, his soft white shoulders slumping. “Look, I had to get out of the house, okay? Away from Laurie. Away from our friends and relatives and th-that creep who keeps calling from the funeral home. You have no idea how much he’s charging me to bury Bruce. I don’t even know how I’m going to pay for it. I’m drowning in debt.”
And yet he’d come up with fifteen hundred dollars to spend on an Asian cupcake for the afternoon. Priorities. Sound financial planning is all about priorities.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I said sympathetically. “You’ve suffered a real blow. You’re just trying to cope. I understand that.”
I heard the toilet flush. Then the shower came on.
“She’s really a very sweet girl,” he said helplessly. “Laurie … hired you to follow me, is that it?”
“I haven’t been in contact with Laurie at all. And she doesn’t have to know about this. You have my word. Assuming, that is, I get something in return.”
Paul pondered this slowly. “Sure, I understand. Just give me two minutes to throw my clothes on and I’m gone. She’s very capable and she’ll do anything. Her name is—”
“I don’t want to know her name. And you don’t understand.”
He frowned at me. “What is it you want, Ben?”
“The truth about Bruce’s adoption. I want to know the details of how it went down.”
“Why do you care about that?”
“Because he’s dead, that’s why. Someone hired me to find him. That someone was Peter Seymour, who specifically told me not to mention the law firm of Bates, Winslow and Seymour to you. Tell me why and I’ll leave you and your little girlfriend in peace.”
“There’s really not much to tell,” he said. “Bruce’s adoption was a-a private arrangement. We didn’t go through an agency.”
“You bought yourself a baby, is that what you’re saying?”
“Other way around. We didn’t buy Bruce. We were paid to take him.”
“Paid how much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
“For what?”
“Our silence.”
“And who paid you?”
“Bates, Winslow and Seymour. Or the Aurora Group, to be more precise. Some shell company of theirs.”
“You’re a smart guy, Mr. Weiner. Didn’t this arrangement seem a bit strange to you?”
“Of course it did. But I didn’t care. We didn’t care. Laurie and I had been trying to have a baby for years. You have no idea how worthless she felt. Her friends, her cousins, they were all having babies. We were desperate. The adoption agency that our rabbi recommended had stuck us on a waiting list that was backed up for years. And the other adoption agencies scared us. You could end up with some kid who has brain damage or God knows what. Sure, it was a bit unusual. But Peter Seymour wasn’t exactly a scuzzball. He was a partner in a white-shoe law firm.”
“How did you hook up with him?”
“Through a client of mine named Frankie Donahue. I used to handle Frankie’s investment portfolio.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“No, he passed away three, four years ago.”
I sighed inwardly. Everyone was dead.
“Frankie was an old-school New York City permit expeditor. One of those fellows who you hire if you’re trying to get a construction permit or liquor license or what have you. He knew who to pay off and ho
w much it’d cost. Took a healthy percentage for himself, of course, but he worked like a dog and had put away close to a half-mil by the time he came to me. We were reviewing his investments over lunch one afternoon when I happened to mention our situation. Frankie said he might be able to help us out. That every once in a while he’d hear about an honest, reliable party that was on the lookout for an honest, reliable couple—no questions asked. He said it might not be right away but if he heard of anything he’d let me know.”
“And I’m guessing he did.”
Paul nodded. “About six months later. It was a bright blue Sunday morning in May. I remember the exact date—May the fifth, 1990. He called me at home and told us to meet him in one hour at an address on East 39th Street. We still lived in our apartment on York Avenue in those days. Laurie was more than a little skeptical. Hell, so was I. But we jumped in a cab and went to the address he’d given me. It was a brownstone apartment. Frankie was waiting there for us. And so was Peter Seymour, acting like he was real hot stuff.”
“Yeah, he still does that.”
“Also a doctor and nurse.”
“Do you remember their names?”
“We weren’t introduced. The doctor was in his fifties maybe. The nurse was younger, no more than thirty. They were both very tan, I remember. Not many New Yorkers are tan in early May. The baby was in a crib in the back bedroom. It was a newborn boy. Two weeks old, tops. He seemed healthy and well cared for.”
“What were you told about the circumstances of his birth?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Did the baby have a birth certificate?”
“He did. It said that he’d been born in Nevis on January the twenty-fourth. Which obviously was not the case. Like I said, he was two weeks old—not three-and-a-half months. Laurie had been around a million newborns and was quite positive. But that’s what his birth certificate said, and the arrangement we’d agreed to was strictly no questions asked. So when we applied for Bruce’s US citizenship we entered his date of birth as January the twenty-fourth.”
I mulled this over, my wheels turning. It jibed with what Eleanor Saltonstall Kidd had told Legs and me—that Kathleen gave birth in Nevis at the end of January. The old lady had been good and specific about that. How come? Why the discrepancy about the baby’s age? And why had Seymour insisted that no birth certificate had been filed? “Was the mother’s name listed on this Nevis birth certificate?”
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