Child Not Found

by Ray Daniel

  Graxton had sent me several texts. The last one said, Meet me at Cafe Vittoria on Hanover. Now!

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  Cafe Vittoria was Sal’s office.

  Fourteen

  With his blue button-down shirt, gray sports jacket, and crisp jeans, Hugh Graxton belonged in the bowels of Starbucks in Chestnut Hill. Unfortunately, he was sitting in the window of Cafe Vittoria in the North End. His MacBook Air, instead of resting on a nice wooden desk, teetered on a little granite table. His ever-present paper Starbucks cup with a paper sleeve had been replaced by a tiny china demitasse with a little handle. When I arrived, Hugh was rooting around under the table with a power cord. He looked like a cat at a dog show.

  “This place doesn’t have any outlets,” he said.

  “This isn’t Starbucks,” I said.

  “You’re telling me. How am I supposed to get any work done?”

  I pulled out a chair and sat next to Hugh. Nick, the barista, glanced over. I nodded. He started work on my cappuccino. Hugh noted the interaction.

  “You’re a regular, huh?”

  “Sal’s a regular. I visit Sal. What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you out in Chestnut Hill?”

  Hugh ignored me. Oscar lumbered in, moved to a seat a couple of tables from us, slumped in a chair, and opened his coat and jacket. The butt end of a gun showed itself. I glared at the gun. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “All I know is Maria’s missing.”

  “That’s not all you know, Tucker. Not by a damned sight. Sophia’s dead. Joey’s dead. Sal’s locked up. What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  Hugh looked at Oscar and back at me. “Can you believe this guy?”

  Oscar sniggered.

  Hugh said, “You were on the Common with his kid when he gets snagged and she gets taken. Meanwhile someone’s strangling Sophia. You were right in the middle of it all.”

  “The newspaper didn’t say she was strangled. How did you know that?”

  “You think I get my news from the newspapers? They always get it wrong. Admit it, you know the whole story.”

  “I don’t. I’m just trying to find Maria.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? What do you mean, why? Because I don’t want to see her face on a milk carton, that’s why.”

  “It seems that grabbing Maria would give you some nice leverage over Sal.”

  “Why would I need leverage over Sal?”

  “You tell me.”

  “This is—”

  Nicky brought my cappuccino. A plate of biscotti sat on the table in front of Hugh. I grabbed a biscotti, crunched into it, let the almond flavor fill my mouth.

  Hugh said, “Help yourself.”

  “Fuck you,” I said. Biscotti crumbs aerosoled out of my mouth on the F, landing on Hugh’s jacket.

  Hugh brushed at the crumbs. “For Christ’s sake, just tell me what you know.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “How unusual. Did you and Sal have a falling out?”

  “No, we didn’t have a falling out. I was just there for Christmas dinner.”

  “Doesn’t mean you didn’t have a falling out. Christmas dinner is the best time for a good falling out.”

  “Well, we didn’t have one. How about you? You and Sal have a falling out?”

  “Sal and I are as thick as thieves—so to speak.”

  “Are you going to help me find Maria or not?”

  Hugh said, “Good question.”

  “Because if you’re not, then I have places to be.”

  “Yeah? Where would those be? Do you have any idea what to do next?”

  I visualized my next steps, got a blank screen. “No.”

  “No surprise there.”

  I took a drink. Ate more of Hugh’s biscotti. A couple of guys in Bruins jackets walked past the window and looked in, saw Hugh, and did a double take. Hugh gave them a nod. The guys conferred, pointing at Hugh, then walked on.

  Hugh said, “This is going to be ugly.”

  “What’s going to be ugly?”

  Hugh turned to Oscar. “Oscar, you know why I trust this guy?”

  Oscar said, “No, boss. He’s a sneaky bastard, you ask me.”

  “No, Oscar, that’s where you’re wrong. He’s not sneaky. He’s clueless.”

  “Could you talk about me behind my back?” I said. “It’s more polite.”

  Hugh continued, “He truly has no idea what’s going on.”

  I asked, “What’s going on?”

  “See? There it is. I love this guy!”

  Oscar crossed his arms. I guess he wasn’t feeling the love.

  I said, “I’m serious, Hugh. Why aren’t you in Chestnut Hill? Why are you sitting here?”

  Hugh said, “Despite your MIT education, I think you’re a pretty bright guy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How do you think succession works in this business?”

  “What business?”

  “Cut the shit. You know what business. Sal’s business. My business. This thing, whatever it is. What happens when the king is dead?”

  “Sal’s not dead.”

  Hugh’s gaze softened. “His blood’s in the water, Tucker.”

  “But that doesn’t explain—”

  The door to the cafe opened. Oscar’s hand moved toward his gun. A woman entered, wearing a fur coat. “Jesus, I had to come see for myself,” she said.

  Hugh said, “Angie, you’re looking lovely.”

  Angie let her coat fall open, revealing a white sweater stretched tight over large breasts and blue jeans with strategically placed tears at the thighs. “Hugh, what are you doing here?”

  I stood, put out my hand. “Hi. I’m Tucker.”

  Angie took my hand. Her fingers were warm. “Angela Morielli. You look familiar.”

  Hugh said, “Tucker was just leaving. Maybe he could walk you somewhere, Angie.”

  “Don’t let the door hit me in the ass on the way out, huh?” said Angie.

  My body responded to Angie in embarrassing ways. I said, “I’d be happy to walk you somewhere.”

  Angie looked me up and down and said, “Sure. I’m just heading to church.” She pulled her coat closed and stepped out. I followed.

  Hugh called to me as I left, “Tucker!”

  I paused in the doorway.

  “Watch your ass, not hers.”

  Fifteen

  “So you’re Sal’s cousin,” said Angie as she started down Hanover Street past Mike’s Pastry toward the Prado and the Paul Revere statue.

  “Yup. His little cousin.”

  “You don’t look like Sal at all.”

  “I know, right? Thank God.”

  Angie laughed.

  I asked, “How do you know Sal?”

  “We went to first grade together.”

  “That’s impossible. You’re too young.”

  “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

  Snow piles constricted the sidewalk. Angie stepped closer, slipping her arm under mine. Her fur-covered breast nudged my triceps, making my stomach flip. The last time I’d had sex there were green leaves on the trees. I was feeling kind of … backed up.

  I started to talk. Coughed, then said, “Did you hear what happened yesterday?”

  “It’s terrible. The Herald called it MOBSTER MADNESS.” Angie shuddered.

  “Sal didn’t do that,” I said.

  “I know. One thing about Sal, he’s got that old-school honor. He’ll occasionally freak out and kill some goombah, but not Sophia.”

  “Did the Herald mention Maria?”

  “It said that police are looking for her.”r />
  “They say they’re looking for her, but I haven’t seen it.”

  “That poor kid.”

  I sighed.

  Angie stopped in front of Paul Revere’s statue. Revere looked down at us, his arm extended, welcoming us to the Old North Church rising behind him.

  Angie pointed across the street. “This is my stop.”

  “St. Stephen’s, huh.”

  “I sing here. I have to practice. We’re going to have a lot of funerals this week.”

  “My mother’s funeral was here.”

  Angie stepped back. Looked me over. “That’s where I know you.”

  “From the funeral?”

  “I sang at her funeral. You gave that crazy eulogy where you swore to kill someone.”

  “Ah, yes. That would be me.”

  “Did you kill anyone?”

  “Let’s talk about it another time.”

  Angie reached into her coat, pulled out her cell phone. “What’s your number?”

  I told her, she dialed it. My new phone said “Droid.” She hung up.

  “Call me.” She crossed the street and entered the church.

  Sixteen

  “Sal Rizzo is a murderous bastard,” said Jerry Rittenhauser. He bit into a Dunkin’ donut. Red jelly oozed from the little donut navel and dropped toward his lap, but Jerry was too quick for it, dodging out of the way. The roaches would be partying tonight.

  “Where I come from, we eat our lunch before we launch into accusatory diatribes,” I said.

  We sat in CityPlace, the food court in the State Transportation Building. The building connected Boylston Street to the theater district. It was a big brick building with an open food court in the center. The building had no central heating system, relying upon captured heat from restaurant stoves and mammalian warmth from office workers in its battle against the cold. At over thirty years old, the Transportation Building is the hipster of architecture—it was green before green was cool.

  Jerry, a thin guy like me, munched on donuts while I tackled a cheeseburger. I took a picture of our lunch and tweeted:

  Somewhere in the food court, a fat guy has to be hating on us.

  “Diatribe?” said Jerry. “Sal’s a mobster. He kills people.”

  “Look, if you’re just gonna shit on my family for the next half hour, I’ll ditch the Globe and take my story over to the Herald.”

  “No. No. I want to hear your story.”

  “Because, you know, I think MOBSTER MADNESS beats the hell out of GANGLAND MASSACRE.”

  “Yeah, yeah. The Herald is much better at writing in all caps.”

  “Neither one of you is any good at getting the real story.”

  Jerry finished his first donut, slurped his coffee. I winced. Dunkin’ Donuts coffee tastes like road tar filtered through a dish towel. Jerry started in on his next donut, a Boston Kreme.

  I said, “You realize there are 310 calories in that thing.”

  “Whatever. I like them.”

  “And it contains titanium dioxide.”

  “Builds strong bones and teeth.”

  I took a bite of my burger. It didn’t taste like a burger. It tasted like bread and mustard and lettuce and meat and cheese. I pushed it aside.

  Jerry said, “Did you call me here to criticize my food choices?”

  I said, “I called you because you called me five times yesterday. What did you want to know?”

  “I want to know what really happened yesterday.”

  “My little cousin, Maria, got abducted on the Common.”

  “From what I heard, she left willingly.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Rittenhauser bit into his Boston Kreme.

  “Fine,” I said, “don’t tell me. She might have left willingly, but she was abducted just the same.”

  “I’ll bet she’s with an aunt or something.”

  “You didn’t see the ransom note.”

  “What ransom note?”

  “I got a note yesterday. It had a picture of Maria tied to a chair and it demanded that Sal plead guilty today to get her back.”

  “It demanded? Who wrote it?”

  “Joey Pupo. It was a picture from his house.”

  “But Pupo’s dead.”

  I spread my hands. See?

  “Do you have the note?” asked Rittenhauser.

  “No. The FBI has it, but I have a picture.” I pulled out my phone. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “I had a picture, but my phone got smashed.”

  “A picture like that would be really useful if you’re looking for Maria. Can you get it?”

  “Give me a sec.”

  We assumed the clichéd pose of the modern meal. We ignored each other and fiddled with our phones. I called Bobby.

  I asked Bobby, “Can you text me back that picture of Maria’s note?”

  Bobby asked, “Why?”

  “I want to look at it, you know, for clues.”

  “You going to keep it between us?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

  “Awright, just a sec.” Bobby’s text came through my phone: Remember, your eyes only.

  “Thanks, Bobby.” I hung up.

  “Who was that?” asked Rittenhauser.

  “Bobby Miller at the FBI. He sent me this.” Brought up the picture. Handed my phone to Rittenhauser.

  Rittenhauser said, “Holy shit! Can I get a copy of this?”

  “For what?”

  “Front page, baby. This is front page.”

  “I promised to keep it to myself.”

  “To Miller, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you were looking to find Maria.”

  “I am.”

  “And you think that keeping pictures of Maria out of the papers will help you?”

  “Well—”

  “You know there are people desperate to get pictures of their lost kids out to as many people as possible.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “They plaster them on lampposts, send them out in email blasts, share them on Facebook, and try to get five seconds on the evening news.”

  “Right. But Bobby—”

  “And so I’m offering to try to get, no promises mind you, try to get your niece’s—”

  “Cousin’s.”

  “Yeah, whatever—cousin’s picture on the front page of the Boston frigging Globe, and you’re telling me that you don’t want that?”

  “You have a point.”

  “Of course I have a point.”

  I addressed the picture to Jerry. Poised my finger over the send button. “You think it will get Maria back?”

  “It won’t hurt.”

  “Because this isn’t a normal missing kid. Somebody killed Joey Pupo to get her.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking about that. It was Sal’s guys.”

  “Sal’s guys? Why would they kidnap Maria?”

  “Not kidnap. Rescue. These guys love Sal. They’d walk through fire for him. And they’d sure as hell kill anyone who threatened Sal or his family. They’re going to war right now and they’re probably keeping her hidden.”

  I held my finger over the send button, remembering Bobby. Your eyes only.

  “If she’s with Sal’s guys, how will a picture in the newspaper help?”

  “It will make it clear that Maria’s disappearance is considered a kidnapping and the FBI is on the job. They won’t want to deal with the FBI so they’ll want to send her home. They need to clear the decks for the upcoming war.”

  “War? What war?”

  “What war? The Great War of Succession. Someone has to replace Sal. People are choosing sides.”

  The situation clarified. I said, “Maria
is leverage.”

  “If she’s in the wrong hands. But that picture tells me that she was in the wrong hands and got rescued.”

  “By who?”

  “That’s why you put her picture on the front page. To find out.”

  I moved my finger over the send button, got distracted by somebody across the brick concourse. A willowy woman dressed in black entered the food court and removed her sunglasses. Looked me in the eye. Jael Navas. Uh oh.

  Jerry looked into his phone. “Did you send the picture?”

  Jael waved me over.

  “Do I want this on the front page?” I asked.

  “Of course you do,” Rittenhauser said. “If Sal’s guys have her, they’ll drop her someplace or at least get word to Sal. Happy ending.”

  I stood. Headed for Jael.

  Rittenhauser called, “Did you send it?”

  I turned, waved my phone at him, pressed send. “It’s yours.”

  The genie was out of the bottle.

  SEVENTEEN

  Jael Navas was tall enough to be a runway model, fit enough to be a volleyball star, and dangerous enough to be a Mossad assassin—which she had been, though I’m not sure you lose the title “assassin” once you give up the trade. She brings beauty, power, and brains to our partnership and I bring, well, I’m not sure, but it must be something good, because she chose to be my friend.

  Jael wore a black leather jacket and tight black winter pants and black gloves. With her black hair and sunglasses, the only color was a light winter pink on her cheeks. We shook. I’d learned not to pull her in for a hug. The one time I tried it was one of the only times I’d seen her be anything but dead calm. It was like hugging a fence post.

  “You are in danger,” she said.

  “And here I thought you just wanted a donut.”

  The corner of Jael’s mouth twitched. “No.”

  “What makes you say I’m in danger?”

  “Hugh told me.”

  “Hugh?”

  “Hugh Graxton.”

  “I know who Hugh is, I’ve just never heard you use his first name.”

  “Come with me.” Jael led the way back across Boylston Street and down Charles.