“Can I use that?”
Stein always said no.
“Why not? My boss isn’t going to say it. Quote from an official in the criminal justice system.”
At 2 p.m., power in the office came on.
Templeton turned to Cramly. “I want to compare the 1965 blackout with this one.”
Cramly’s eyebrows rose and his mouth half opened. Incredulous Templeton had a story idea.
“You can remember ’65?”
“I was on the Journal-American. Just after five on Tuesday, November Ninth. Lasted thirteen hours in eight states, plus Ontario. This one’s totally different. Everyone’s saying it. Not only the weather. People helped each other then. If they needed a light. Whatever they needed. People laughed, smiled, dealt with it, got through. No looting. No fires. New Yorkers believed they could cope with anything back then. They did. Now they don’t.”
Cramly, pausing presumably to take in the facts Templeton had somehow dredged up from his half-pickled brain, said, “It’s all yours.” He picked up Templeton’s coffee, which was usually laced with bourbon. “It’s a good story. You get your coffee when you’re done. Call around to find some people who lived through both. Get them to say what was different and why.”
The butler answered Taylor’s call, sounding sad and formal at the same time.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. DeVries.”
“Sir, this is a house crushed by tragedy.”
“It will be crushed by more if she doesn’t talk to me.”
“She’s gone to bed. I will try.” A pause, though not all that long. “She is not taking any calls. She asked me to make sure I told you she blames you for what happened to Charlie. You and your accusations.”
“Let me speak with Audrey. She’s in danger. Charlie’s last words to me.”
“Audrey left this morning.”
“Left? Where?”
“We don’t know. She was afraid from the time you departed. When the news came … she took off.”
“She needs protection. The police. Or private. The family can afford private, can’t it?”
“You should have thought of those things before saying what you said.”
Saying what I said? I didn’t murder him. I’m just too many steps behind the killer.
Chapter 31
Friday was another day of collecting more on the blackout and sending stories out. The only change was working air-conditioning and the facsimile machine. The toughest part was finding something new. Taylor counted 17 different stories in the Times about the disaster, including the top four on the front page.
He knocked off at five with the excuse he wanted to get up to Harlem to view the destroyed blocks in daylight. He really needed to visit Carol Wheelwright to talk about Audrey. Every one of his non-blackout calls today had been an attempt to find Audrey. James the butler had even hung up on him once. He wondered if that was a first.
Worry wove itself like cords through his body, then went piano-wire tight.
He checked the looted blocks. Boarded-up shops, glass everywhere, kids searching through shards for some bit of dropped merchandise. The storeowners talked anger or fear.
There was too much loss to take in; he wanted to leave and pursue one murderer and help one young woman stay alive.
He realized this was the real reason he’d never make it at the Times. Vast panoramas of destruction weren’t for him. You couldn’t tell those stories like you could tell one human being’s. They were grocery lists of numbers and quotes from the good and the great. There was a story, an important story, in one murder, one mugging, one swindle. The Times was Panavision; Taylor was the close-up.
“These three blocks are done,” said a man from the community association. “The businesses barely held on in the good days. They can’t rebuild, and they all employed local people. It wasn’t just Jewish and Italian businesses. Shops owned by Blacks were torn apart. The neighborhood attacked itself.”
A good quote, and it went into the notebook, his hand on autopilot.
Ten minutes later, Carol let Taylor in. “My brother’s checking the neighborhood. He’s been doing it every few hours for two days. No one’s interested in his baseball bat.”
“Did you have any trouble during the blackout?”
“The block was quiet. Even the merchants out on our part of the avenue were spared. My brother and some other vets, they all had their bats.”
“How are things at the DeVries place?”
“Haunted by grief. It’s thick in the air. You can almost taste it. No one’s talking about the blackout at all. You wouldn’t know there was one.” The pitch of her voice rose to anger. “No, it’s the night Charlie died. No one else got hurt. No one else lost out.”
“Mrs. DeVries blames me.”
“She’s scared of the truth.”
“What truth is that?”
“I don’t know. Something bad. I feel it. It’s all coming down on that family. Charlie ran from it. He knew something. Or he did something. He ended up dead.”
“Do you think Mr. DeVries did something that got him killed?”
A sad smile. “That’s hard to imagine. He was a good man. Kind. Charlie was not his father’s son, though. Whatever happened to him, he brought it on himself.”
“I need to find Audrey. She’s in danger. Where would she go?”
“Had to guess, one of her good friend’s.”
“Who?”
“I’m not supposed to give out that information.”
“This is about saving her life. Her mother’s in bed doing nothing, from what I can tell. Audrey needs protection. She might know something about the man who killed Charlie … even if she’s not involved in any of it.”
“You know who did it?”
“Man who goes by the name of the Concierge.”
Her mouth flattened to a thin line, and her eyebrows drew together in a frown.
“You know who that is, don’t you?”
“Heard the name. People need something, that’s who they call. Any time of day. We’re staff. We’re invisible. We see. We hear.”
She took a pad from the side table, wrote on it, and tore the sheet off. “Those are the five women in Audrey’s group. They’ve been friends since they were little, somehow stayed together in that world they live in, which is as cutthroat as you can imagine.”
“Call me if you hear anything from her. James won’t listen. Try and convince him to get some security. Or to convince Mrs. DeVries.”
“That won’t be easy.”
Taylor worried about what Carol had said all the way back to the office. He decided to handle things himself. He called the One-Nine, got the lieutenant on the phone and explained the connection between Martha Gibson and Edmond DeVries and the warning Charlie had given.
“I’d tell your detective, but he doesn’t want to listen to me. I warned the detectives at the scene of Charlie DeVries’ murder. Audrey is in danger. Probably her mother. Anyone in that apartment. The stories won’t be so good if there’s another body at that address—and police had good notice to provide protection.”
“You threatening me?”
“No, explaining how news works.”
“How am I supposed to provide manpower with everything going on?”
He had to keep from laughing. “There hasn’t been any looting on the Upper Eastside. If I had to lay odds on your top location for crime right now, I’d say it’s the DeVries place. Having a uniform around regularly would be a good idea.”
The lieutenant hung up without thanking Taylor for the suggestion. Taylor spent an hour using the phone to chase after the first two women on the list of Audrey’s friends, calling their houses, the names of friends they were visiting, and a hair salon. Every time, he’d missed them.
He dialed the number for the doorman at the DeVries building.
“Seen any cops lately?”
“Funny you ask. Patrolman showed up a half hour ago, went upstairs to the DeVries, now is hanging around the f
ront.”
Serena Fowler, the third friend on the phone list, was at home. “A reporter?”
“Audrey will know me.”
“I’m sorry, she doesn’t—”
A bit of shuffling and Audrey came on the line.
“Are you all right?” Taylor said.
“No. Frightened to death.”
“Please meet me. Do not come alone.”
Taylor, Audrey, Serena, and Bobby Livingston, who’d also been at Serena’s, sat in the back booth of the Oddity. Grandpop brought over mugs, filled them without asking and put a stainless-steel creamer down next to the black wire-metal rack of sugar packets.
“Where’s Samantha?” Grandpop said.
“She’s working.” Taylor smiled, “like I am.”
Grandpop waved the coffee pot, the black liquid swishing inside. “My grandson has a wonderful girlfriend—Samantha.”
“She still is. We won’t need menus. Thank you, Grandpop.”
The old man moved off.
“Your grandfather’s a bit protective,” Bobby said.
“Of Samantha more than me.”
“This is his place?
“Yeah. Different sort of Upper Eastside.”
“Bobby didn’t mean anything,” Audrey said.
“Nothing to worry about. We’ve all got different beginnings. It’s the endings that worry me. First, you need to be somewhere safe.”
“She’s safe at my parent’s place,” Serena said. She was a blonde, with features too sharp to be pretty. The find of face he figured aristocrats would call aristocratic.
“How many people know she’s there?”
“Well, our friends.”
“These.” He slid the list across the table.
“Yes, and some others,” said Audrey.
“For everyone of those, multiply by three. I got the cops to put a uniform on Audrey’s building. That’s your safe bet.”
Bobby sipped black coffee. “How’d you do that?”
“Explained the concept of bad PR.”
“You would have thought they’d twigged to that already.”
“Our apartment is so grim,” Audrey said. “With mother in her room, yelling at everybody, blaming everybody.”
“Maybe Serena can join you. I can’t get an officer put on another building.”
“Certainly,” Serena said. “I’ll make the calls for some others. We want Audrey safe and comfortable.”
“No, only you. As far as everyone else knows, she’s still at your place.”
Taylor looked at the placid face of Serena Fowler and wondered if she was brave, stupid, or clueless—the life of the insulated. Two people who lived in that apartment and one who worked there had been murdered. Audrey, on other hand, looked grim and scared. That glowing smile from the dinner party might never have existed.
“Good. Second, the Concierge.”
No one spoke.
“Whoever he is, he was behind Charlie’s murder. The other killings, I can’t say until I find out more. What do you know about him?”
“We know,” said Serena, “you’re not supposed to talk about him unless someone provides the proper introduction.”
“This isn’t a cotillion. People are getting killed. Charlie pointed to this gangster—gangster to the rich, but gangster nonetheless. I need to track him down.”
“That would be dangerous,” Bobby said. “No one knows who he is. No one’s ever met him. He takes care of things, and he does it fast.”
“Has he killed anyone before?”
Audrey opened her small blue-leather purse and rummaged around in it.
Serena shook her head. “Never. He provides things, that’s all.” She was getting defensive. “Some of it’s illegal but it’s stuff you can get elsewhere in town. He probably makes it safer.”
“Safer? He’s the definition of a criminal enterprise. Guilty under the RICO Act.”
“What is that?
“Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. The law for mobsters. The killer’s club.”
Audrey finished digging and handed Taylor a card with a phone number on it. “Never used it. Don’t even know why I kept it. You call this and use the code word ‘Thomas.’ ”
“Does everyone have the same code?”
“No, it’s the name of who escorted you or you escorted to the debutante ball. Thomas Carlton had my arm.”
“What about older people?”
They all laughed.
“The balls have been going on as long as there’s been a New York,” Serena said.
“So, somehow this person has all those lists.”
“They’re not hard to get. It’s what society’s about. Lists. Who’s on. Who’s not.”
“If I call in, Audrey, they’ll know it’s not you.”
“Say my name too and use Thomas’ full name. Some people have their help call. Different women answer the phone.”
“Who delivers?”
“Guys on bikes like they’re bringing Chinese food.”
Taylor closed his notebook. “Audrey and Serena, you go straight to the DeVries’ apartment. I’ll make double sure the patrolman stays on duty.”
Taylor watched the group leave, said goodnight to Grandpop, and rode the 6 Train downtown. At the apartment, he fed Mason and took him for a long walk. The air was still, warm, and wet, what Taylor imagined a jungle would be like, without the added benefit of pollution. He tried to get his head out of the story for a little while by focusing on what Mason was up to. They meandered, but thinking like a dog only worked so long. He turned for home.
After he and Samantha ate, he called the DeVries apartment. James spoke with him long enough to tell him Audrey had not showed up. Not at all. Taylor’s gut turned to a bag of ice. Bad news was coming at him. He called the doorman at 827 Park. Yes, the cop was there. No, Audrey hadn’t come through. He’d been at the podium the whole time.
At least doormen pay attention.
Serena was hysterical when he reached her at home. She’d arrived from the precinct and was about to leave a message at his office. The three of them had walked to Park Avenue when they were knocked down from behind. Audrey, screaming, was dragged into a white car—Bobby thought a Ford. The car took off south. She couldn’t identify the kidnappers.
He tried the precinct. They had nothing but Serena and Bobby’s report.
He dialed the number for the Concierge and gave the code word Thomas Carlton.
“How may we assist?” said a woman’s voice, deep and smooth.
“Audrey DeVries is having a little party. She’d like to get a couple bags of pot and two ounces of cocaine.” He gave his address.
“That’s a new one for us.”
“She’s at a friend’s. The gentleman has a small place where he likes to host parties outside the neighborhood.”
Samantha went to bed. She had an early meeting in the morning on the divorce case with an Army vet who had a surplus mine detector. He was willing to go up to the Adirondacks and sweep the two acres. He missed the excitement of the hunt.
Taylor sat on the couch, Mason at his feet, aching to open a beer, but if he opened one Rolling Rock, he’d open 12. People dead or disappearing, and he wasn’t any closer. He stared at the front door. Sometime around two, his eyelids closed and opened, closed and opened, closed. He woke up at five.
They hadn’t come.
They had Audrey.
Chapter 32
Storming in on people never worked. They threw you out. Or had you arrested. Or shot at you. Evangeline DeVries left Taylor no choice. Saturday morning, he rode the subway uptown to do some storming. He knew the butler was off. Didn’t matter. James would have been on his ass if he got in Taylor’s way this morning. The elevator door opened, and Carol stood there, surprised, worried.
“Why are you here?”
“Which way to Mrs. DeVries’ bedroom?”
“She’s not seeing—”
“To her room.”
Carol frowned, led the way down a hallway, stopped at a door and retreated as soon as Taylor put his hand on the crystal knob.
“Carol?” Mrs. DeVries rolled toward the door. “What in the name of God are you doing here? I’m not seeing anyone.”
“I’m not seeing the rest of your family. Two are dead. Audrey has been kidnapped. What’s the Concierge have against your family?”
“Which Concierge?”
“Right, you’re the only person on the Upper East Side who hasn’t heard of the villain. Did Charlie run up some kind of debt with him? Did your husband take a loan because of the missing money?”
“How do you know my family’s business?”
“It’s a story. Worse, it’s a tragedy. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. We are both running out of time now that they’ve grabbed Audrey.”
“I don’t know,” she cried. “I’m broken. I can’t handle any of this. You’re in here haranguing me. Haranguing.” She fell back onto her pillow, tears streaming down her face.
“The reporter again.” Detective Dick Moore walked in with his partner. “Were you invited?”
“No, he wasn’t.” Half a sob. “He’s harassing me.”
“So maybe I get to drag you in for harassment. That will be a pleasure.”
“I already told your lieutenant: the murders of Edmond DeVries and Martha Gibson are linked. A mobster calling himself ‘The Concierge’ did Charlie in. Same guy must have abducted Audrey.” The mother rolled over and moaned. “What have you got on the Concierge?” Taylor asked.
“What I got, I tell my lieutenant, and we tell the DA.”
“Means you have jack shit. This is not the time for the standard Dick Moore power trip. Do that when less is at stake. Three-quarters of her family is gone.” He pointed at the back of the sheer black nightgown, which he hadn’t noticed before because of the blankets. Odd dress for mourning and a daughter kidnapped. Probably totally out of her head with grief. “At this point, I’ve got more than you do.”
“Nothing about you worries me.”
Moore stepped in, swinging a mini Billy club that appeared from his trench coat. Taylor dodged to the right so the rod struck his shoulder instead of his skull. He avoided a concussion, but his shoulder lit up in the bright fire of pain.
Lights Out Summer Page 21