by Hal Ross
Felicia nodded. “Yes. Once Ann confided in me, I hired a private detective to find the man responsible, but he was long gone and presumed dead. It was all a matter of Ann being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The poor child. She was pretty and young and this man … this man simply took her on the basis of that alone. I’m sure she somehow believes that she invited it.”
The sex, he thought. Of course, it now all made sense. She’d been terrified of the sex. But in the end, she’d come to him, had allowed herself to open up.
The thought of her as that fourteen year-old made him hurt inside. He had to find her. Jonathan rose from the couch unsteadily.
“I tell you this because I want you to know what Ann is made of,” Felicia said. “That is, if you haven’t already figured it out for yourself. She fled Newark and came to New York. She hid in the church at night instead of going to any of the usual homeless places. She couldn’t take the risk of being somewhere where someone else might find her pretty.”
I was too pretty for him, she had said. For Matthew. By being pretty as a child, Ann had thought she had provoked a stranger to attack her. She’d consider herself soiled, unworthy of Matthew.
“Handle this gently, Jonathan.”
“I will.” His voice was hoarse.
Felicia sat forward. “I know that. That’s why I told you. Now—I want you to visit your brother. He’s just been released from the rehab clinic. Despite your differences, he is still family. Patrick, more than anyone else, might have some ideas for you.”
Jonathan hesitated.
“Consult with him,” his mother insisted. “You have nothing to lose.”
CHAPTER 62
Without hesitating, and despite the late hour, Jonathan took his car out of the parking garage he rented on a yearly basis and raced to his brother’s house. He thought he was wasting his time. Having a discussion with Patrick was not uppermost on his mind. But his mother had better instincts for this sort of thing and he was not one to second guess her.
They stood inside the vestibule, not saying anything for a moment or two, sizing each other up. Jonathan was surprised at how good Patrick looked. His eyes were clearer; a lot of the tension was gone from his face. “Welcome back,” he said, meaning it.
Patrick almost smiled. “Thanks. What the heck brings you out here this time of night?”
Jonathan paused. How much to divulge was the real question facing him. His brother may have survived the rehab clinic, but how trustworthy was he?
He began cautiously, taking Patrick through the events of the past twenty-four hours. The old Patrick would have turned a deaf ear, Jonathan knew, especially where Ann was concerned. Now, his brother absorbed the news of Ann’s disappearance with what appeared to be genuine sympathy.
They sat down in the den—Jonathan on the couch, Patrick on one of the high-back upholstered chairs. And they weighed every possible motive. In the end, however, they both concluded that it was highly unlikely that someone in the toy industry would want to do Ann harm.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Patrick said.
Jonathan agreed with him; it made no sense at all. But not finding a toy industry connection only made matters worse. He didn’t know where else he could look.
He was about to leave when Verna stepped into view. “Hello, Jonathan,” she said. A little shyly, he thought.
Seeing her here surprised him. “Glad to see you back on your feet,” he told her. Then he turned for the door, was about to say good night, when he paused.
Verna had contact with a man they knew was behind her beating as well as Patrick being arrested. If he could get her to describe Vincent, he could get the man’s likeness down on paper. Then maybe, just maybe, someone might recognize him.
Jonathan asked Verna to take a seat beside him in the den. A pen and a pad of paper were provided by Patrick and he began to draw. At first he had the nose wrong, then the eyes. It took several drafts until finally, some two hours later, the sketch was apparently life-like enough to cause Verna to shrink back in alarm.
“That’s him,” she muttered breathlessly. “He’s the one … he’s the bastard who hurt me!”
Jonathan sensed he was on to something. Vincent had an agenda involving both Verna and Patrick. He aimed to find out why.
On his way out, Patrick handed him a list of of Hart Toy’s key competitors and contacts. “This would be a good place to start,” his brother told him.
He got into his car, pulled out of the driveway and headed back to Manhattan. He knew he had to keep his wits about him. There were certain things that had to get done. Nothing could be left to chance.
He hit the city limits almost thirty minutes before he had any right to do so and went right to his loft. Sleep was out of the question. After making a pot of coffee he sat down in the kitchen and tried to think. Ann didn’t bring much of her work home from the office but maybe there was something he could find in a closet or one of the bedroom drawers.
He climbed the stairs and started going through her things. There was nothing there. It was clothing, for the most part. He began to pace the loft. By the time dawn broke, his patience was wearing thin. He had a likeness of Vincent on paper and he wanted to show it to as many people as possible, as quickly as possible.
Now, getting into his car, Jonathan was grateful for the convenience of having many of Hart Toy’s competitors relocated in one office tower close to the Javits Center.
He arrived just before nine o’clock. Taking out the list that Patrick had prepared for him, he rode the elevator to the top floor and began with Alvin Pelletier, the owner of Single-Brite, Inc. He handed Alvin the sketch and asked if he recognized the man. Alvin handed the sketch back and told him he’d never seen him before in his life.
His second stop was at a preschool company. His third, fourth and fifth included a plush manufacturer, a die-cast maker and a manufacturer of radio control cars. No one recognized the artist’s rendition of Vincent.
At Sidney Greenspan’s office, Jonathan was told Sidney was out, so he showed the picture to Sidney’s secretary, Andrea, a brunette of average looks, with striking green eyes. At first she wore a blank expression, but this soon changed. “A few months ago,” she said, pulling the picture closer. “Yes. I saw Mr. Greenspan talking to this guy outside our building. I never found out who he was, however.”
Blood began to pound in Jonathan’s temples. He now had confirmation that Sidney knew Vincent, a man who had nearly killed Verna. “When will Sidney be back?” he asked.
The girl shrugged. “He called me from his car two days ago to say he was on his way to our warehouse. I haven’t heard from him since. I was going to contact his wife this afternoon.”
Jonathan paused. Something told him this was not a coincidence: both Ann and Sidney had disappeared around the same time. He asked for the exact warehouse address, thanked the girl and left.
Sidney wouldn’t disappear on his own. There had to be a connection here. And his warehouse would be a logical place to start. At the very least, someone on the warehouse staff might have overheard something.
As soon as he was out of the building, he contacted Detective Rondgrun and filled him in on what he’d learned.
The man was skeptical. “There are too many variables,” he said.
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” Jonathan asked.
“You’re flying by the seat of your pants. This is strictly a hunch.”
“So? A hunch can pay off.”
“Not in this case.”
“Why not?”
“Look—Mr. Morhardt. If you’ve been around as long as I have, you get a feeling for these things.”
“Oh? Like the feeling you had that Ann was stuck in a traffic jam?”
The pause was deafening.
Jonathan quickly realized he better drop the attitude. “Please,” he said. “I’m asking you for a favor. I know it’s unusual, but it’s not like Ann to go off on her own like this.”
The det
ective hesitated, then agreed to call in the New Jersey police and meet him at the warehouse in Newark at 11:00 o’clock.
Jonathan couldn’t remember how he got to his mother’s condo, or parking in the underground garage. When he told Felicia that he wanted his father’s old gun, she looked at him as if he might have two heads, warning him that he wouldn’t be much help to Ann dead or incarcerated.
It took him less than five minutes to locate the ammunition and the gun, in a strongbox on the top shelf of his mother’s bedroom closet. He could only guess at how old it was. His father had died twenty-some-odd years ago.
Jonathan loaded the .38 revolver, recalling enough of his father’s instructions to make sure the safety was on. He shoved it into his jacket pocket and left to meet Rondgrun at the warehouse.
When he arrived, the detective was already there, along with five policemen from the New Jersey force. Rondgrun quietly informed him that their custom’s broker, Michael Scott, was also missing. Coincidence or an omen? No one knew.
The cops were getting into position. There was nothing special about the building, each warehouse in this neighborhood looking like all the others: one storey, red-bricked, stretching for twenty-five or thirty thousand square feet.
Detective Rondgrun warned Jonathan to stay in his car, to let the men do their job. “You don’t make a move until I come and get you,” the Detective said. “Understood?”
Jonathan nodded his head.
Half the team had circled around to the back of the building. Detective Rondgrun and two of the other men entered by the only door at the front.
Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty.
Jonathan felt he’d waited long enough. He got out of his car, approached the door, opened it and stepped inside.
The police had rounded up the employees, three women and six men. Everyone was wearing a perplexed expression.
“I thought I told you to wait,” Detective Rondgrun barked at him.
“Is Ann—”
“We found nothing,” the detective told him angrily, escorting him back out the way he came. “No one knows a thing.”
A feeling of dread crept up on Jonathan. He had been convinced he would find her, that she would be here, that this nightmare would be over. But he was no further ahead now than he was before.
CHAPTER 63
Sweat was pouring off Ann as she worked at the screen in the bathroom, trying to pry it loose from the window with her fingernails. She paused every minute or so to wipe her brow.
She was astonished to find her strength so depleted. She hurt in places she didn’t know could hurt. Her right arm felt broken as did one of her ribs. The burn marks and bruises on her stomach and back ached. Her face throbbed, especially the swelling around her nose and mouth where she had been punched. She had trouble breathing.
The dampness in the warehouse didn’t help. At least twenty thousand square feet, she guessed, with row upon row of pallets. It wasn’t overtly dirty, but a fine layer of dust permeated the air and stuck in her nostrils.
In her weakened state, Ann found little relief in having learned the truth. That the attack on her in Hong Kong was meant to scare her off her search for the inventor of Baby Talk N Glow, Charles Ling. That Sidney Greenspan’s involvement was as she suspected: the rights to the doll were to be his if he cooperated. Now he was being held against his will, able to move about the warehouse as he pleased, but not permitted to leave. Sidney found a way to get a message to her saying he would try to help, but she couldn’t see how this would be possible. The last time she’d seen him—she didn’t remember if it was yesterday or the day before—the man’s blood pressure appeared out of control and near the danger zone.
Ann went back at the window, trying to speed up her progress. It was not easy. Her nails had splintered and her fingertips were rubbed raw. She was so weak she could not fully concentrate.
Soon, she heard Mad Dog approach. When he asked what was taking so long, she told him she wasn’t feeling well, that this could take a while.
“Well, hurry it up,” he said.
Just the sound of his voice made her cringe and filled her with revulsion.
It took a few more minutes before she finally pulled a portion of the screen apart. With another tug, mercifully, it came free.
She tried to push the window open.
It wouldn’t budge.
She pounded with the palm of her hand, fearful of the noise she was making, but feeling powerless to prevent it.
Again, with what little strength she possessed, she banged the window frame.
Finally, it gave. She raised the window and felt the outside air brush against her face. She stood for a moment, breathing it in.
Slowly, carefully, she propped herself on top of the closed toilet seat, prepared to maneuver herself through the window. It appeared to be a daunting task. Her loss of stamina was causing her to sway from side to side.
Suddenly, the bathroom door caved in and Mad Dog confronted her.
She told herself to reach up, to make at least one effort to escape. But before she could act, he was upon her, his hands taking hold of her waist. Pulling hard.
“No!” she hollered. Tears of frustration burst from her eyes as she began to lose her balance.
Mad Dog yanked, knocking her off the toilet. She hit the tiled floor with a thud and blacked out.
When she regained her senses she was back in the warehouse, chained and immobile. She was hot, almost feverish. She looked up, noticed Mad Dog hovering above her. Her heart started to hammer in her chest.
He took a cell phone out of his pocket and tried handing it to her. “I want you to call Jonathan and instruct him to meet you here. He is to bring Verna Sallinger with him.”
Just the mention of Jonathan’s name filled her with regret. She doubted whether she’d see him again. Or Felicia.
“Call him,” Mad Dog said, pushing the phone towards her.
Ann refused to take the phone in hand.
He came at her, aiming a punch at her mouth. She turned at the last possible moment and it caught her cheek, opening a cut. Blood trickled down her chin.
Ann remembered the advice she had given to that girl they had hired to do their television commercial—Lisette Smile. To go inside herself, where no one could do her harm. And she tried following her own advice now, forcing her thoughts inward, as she squeezed her eyes shut.
CHAPTER 64
Once he returned to Manhattan, Jonathan didn’t know what he should do. He wanted to keep active, to continue to look for Ann. But where?
Finally, he ended up back in Ann’s office. Taking a seat at her desk, he started to rummage through the drawers.
The photo caught his eye and stopped him cold. In it, he was posed in front of his easel. Ann must have taken it when he was unaware, engrossed as he was in his work. He looked content, serene.
Jonathan went to lift the photo when it dawned on him that it was a typical Ann move, to want to preserve an image of him but not display her affection publicly.
Goddamnit, Ann, where are you? Give me a clue. Any clue. Please…
In the file cabinet next to her desk, he came across a report on the trip they had both taken to introduce Baby Talk N Glow to the major retailers across the United States. Did the answer lie there, he wondered. With one of the retailers?
He didn’t know what to think. He had to go with what was familiar, he guessed. Removing files from the cabinet was like following a paper trail of everything he and Ann had been involved with, from the time she had first committed to Baby Talk N Glow.
Jonathan’s search took him to the proposed shipping schedule of the doll out of China, showing how the million pieces would be broken down month by month, and how the inventory would be split between the company’s warehouse and an outside facility to handle the excess quantity.
Everything seemed straight forward. Jonathan was about to go on, when something stirred in his subconscious, bringing him up short.
Excess quantity. Outside facility …
Wait a minute!
His move for the door was so abrupt, vertigo took over and he almost lost his balance. Slowing down, he made his way out of Ann’s office, through the reception area and out into the corridor.
The office for SG Dolls was located a short distance away and Jonathan made a beeline for it. Breathlessly he asked for Sidney’s secretary, then started to pace the entranceway until the girl showed up.
“Andrea,” he began without wasting time on preamble, “did you hear from Sidney?”
“No. I spoke to his wife. She’s thinking of calling the police.”
“Then tell me this, do you ever use an outside warehouse when your own warehouse is full?”
The girl looked at him strangely, as if his question was odd. “No,” she said, sending disappointment shooting through his veins.
“Huh?”
“We have no need to. We have our own storage facility that we use for slower moving goods. It’s located a few blocks from our warehouse. There are no employees. Whenever product is required we send our warehouse people over to get it.
An imaginary light bulb went off in Jonathan’s head. “No employees,” he said as if talking to himself. “Your warehouse staff just get what they need, when they need it?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“How often would that be?”
“Maybe once a month. If that.”
“Once a month …” Jonathan’s mind was churning. “Andrea,” he said, “do you happen to have a key I could borrow? I’ll bring it back to you before the day is out.”
“A key? I don’t know, Mr. Morhardt.”
“I’ll take full responsibility.”
“I’m not sure I have the authority.”
“Sidney’s been a friend of our family for years,” Jonathan argued. “You know that, don’t you? And I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important. It could be tied in to his disappearance.”
To Jonathan’s relief, the girl’s hesitation dissolved. When she returned with the key, he took it in hand but couldn’t remember thanking her. Out of the building on the run, he hurried towards the parking lot.