As we made our way to the basement, Giorgio Brahms’s sour expression popped into my head once again. Exhaustion does funny things to a man’s brain. I needed to get to sleep before I started fantasizing about Anna Carey and me drinking pitchers of margaritas on the veranda of our Cabo vacation villa.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Bang! I woke up like I had a full body cramp. I had an idea. It wasn’t much of one, I admit, but my good ideas didn’t seem to be worth a damn either. I rolled over and saw Nancy was still asleep. I was long past the age where I found it thrilling or romantic to watch a woman sleeping, yet I found I couldn’t stop watching her. She had been an object of fascination for me for so many years, and yet I hadn’t paused to really think through what was going on between us. Maybe that was a good thing. Nothing beats the life out of something like overthinking it. I wanted to let her sleep, seeing as how she had gotten as little of it as I had. Neither what I wanted nor Nancy’s sleep mattered. For my idea to work, I needed Nancy. It would turn on Nancy’s performance. I just hoped we hadn’t missed our window of opportunity. I kissed her on the neck and told her she needed to wake up.
“Sleep,” she muttered, groggy. “Sleep.”
“No sleep,” I answered. “Sloane.”
That did the trick.
* * *
Sloane’s messages were the key, I explained to Nancy as we drove the short distance from Crocus Valley to her house in Old Brookville. Something about those messages—always so chipper, so full of vague promises—had bugged me from the start and now even Nancy had come to see them as a ploy. Still, she didn’t understand how they were worth anything to us if they were phony or had been prerecorded. She wondered if I wasn’t getting a bit desperate like her, clutching at straws.
“Do you think there’s some code embedded in her messages? Are you going to have your friend Devo run them through a computer or something?”
“It’s not the messages themselves, Nancy. It’s not about what Siob—Sloane says in the messages or how she says it.”
“Then what?”
“It’s when they come. Have you noticed that they are always timed so that you’re never at home to receive them? If they’re prerecorded, like we’re both fairly sure they are, what would happen if you were there to pick up the phone when one was coming in? If it’s Sloane playing the hoax, it would make her look silly. She’d just hang up, or stop the recording and get on the phone with you. But if what we fear is true, that someone is holding Sloane against her will and has somehow gotten her to make these messages, he can’t afford to have you pick up the phone when those messages come in. If you were home and picked up mid-message, the very means he was using to keep you from being alarmed would instead have the opposite effect.”
“So what? I already know the messages are—”
“But he doesn’t know that you know. And that’s not the point, anyway.”
She was exasperated. “Then what is the fucking point, Moe?”
“How does he know when to call? That’s the point.”
“Oh, my God.”
“That’s right, Nancy. He’s watching your house, or he has someone watching your house. He waits for you to leave and then he calls.”
“But wait. Hold on,” she said. “I’ve checked caller ID and the messages come from Sloane’s cell.”
“Of course they do. He has her cell. When you leave the house, he uses her phone to call and he plays a digital recording into the phone.”
She buried her head in her hands. The reality that her daughter might actually be someone’s captive or worse was hitting home. “If her messages are prerecorded, then the video posts might be prerecorded, too. Sloane might be—”
“Don’t even go there,” I shouted at her. “Don’t go there. If she was dead, he wouldn’t be working so hard to delay you. He’s buying time for something. He has a plan that requires the world seeing these posts. Otherwise he would be gone or covering his tracks, not risking capture by calling more attention to himself. She’s alive, Nancy. She’s alive. I’m sure of it. There’s a reason he’s doing this, presenting her to the world this way. It has to have something to do with the old Hollow Girl posts. It has to. I feel it in my belly.”
“Remember what you told me, Moe, they cut half of that belly out.”
“But not the half where I know things. Okay, we’re almost at your place. Sit up tall in your seat. I need the press and anyone who might be watching to know for sure you’re entering the house. Wave to them if you want to, blow them a kiss. Do anything to get their attention. I’m gonna drive in real slow. I need whoever is watching to get a good look at my car, too.”
“Do you think this will work?”
“We won’t know until we try it.”
That wasn’t the answer she was hoping for.
* * *
I realized this was a long shot at best. So far all of my gut feelings and machinations had added up to very little in the way of results. I’d been sure Mike Dillman was holding onto Siobhan Bracken, and it turned out the only thing he was holding onto was an overwhelming amount of pain. Even more than Giorgio Brahms’s disgusted expression over his stupid walls, I could not get the vision of Dillman out of my head. He looked so unhappy even in death, it made me wonder if there ever really was rest for the weary. At my age, as sick as I had been, you think about shit like that. You think about it a lot.
That there was no message from Sloane on the house line’s voicemail system seemed to bolster my theory. Rushing to the phone was the first thing Nancy had done after we’d finally waded through the phalanx of paparazzi and reporters. She had escaped from the media the previous day by hiding away in Maggie’s trunk, so anyone watching the house would have assumed she had never left. If my theory was right, the watcher wouldn’t have dared risk leaving a message had there been any chance Nancy was there to pick up. Of course there were hundreds of other more reasonable explanations for there being no phone message. The real test would come soon enough.
* * *
As I checked my watch there in the front seat of my rented Chevy Impala, I felt a fool. In the four and a half hours since driving away from Nancy’s house—making sure everyone got a good look at me and my car—I’d done a lot of maneuvering, hoop jumping, and arm twisting. Now I was about to find out if it would amount to anything more than me looking like an idiot. Only once before had I ever tried to pull off something as elaborate as this. And that one time, thirty years ago, it blew up in my face. I’d come this close from getting murdered in an abandoned hotel in Miami Beach. But it was too late now to worry about looking stupid. There. Nancy’s gate opened—1:45 P.M., right on schedule. Time for her to head into Glen Cove for her regular two o’clock tennis game. Her red Porsche Cayman came rolling slowly out of her driveway. Nothing screams “Hey look at me” like a pretty woman in a red Porsche. She turned right and headed north up 107, passing me as she went. The countdown had begun. If I was right, Nancy’s house phone would be ringing within the next hour, give or take.
Exactly thirty minutes later, at 2:15, my phone rang. It was Brian Doyle’s cell.
“Her phone just started ringin’,” he said. “I hope all this cloak and dagger bullshit is worth it to you. I nearly broke my freakin’ ankle climbing over the back wall.”
“Not now. How many rings?”
“Three. You’re gonna look awful stupid if—”
“Forget that. How many—”
“Four.”
“It’ll pick up on the fifth,” I said.
“Okay, here we—ah, fuck. False alarm. It’s her pool guy. You might wanna tell the lady of the house that her pool guy is gonna be late on Thursday.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
“So, Boss, you really think this guy is gonna call?”
“He better. Now get the fuck off the phone and keep your head down.”
Click.
Ten minutes later, Doyle was back on the phone. “Second ring,” he whispered.
“What the fuck are you whispering for? Nevermind. Keep counting.”
“Three … four … five. Her voicemail message is playing. This Nancy Lustig got a sexy voice.”
“I’ll let her know.”
“Fuck me, you were right, Boss. There’s a message comin’ in. She’s saying what you said she would, almost word for word.”
“Good, now get upstairs and stay on the line.”
I listened to him chugging up the steps and running into the guest bathroom on the second floor where he’d set up his camera. In a house with so much open space and so many glass walls, there weren’t many places for Doyle to see out without being seen.
“I’m here. I’m here,” he shouted breathlessly into the phone. “Fuck, I’m gettin’ old.”
“Tell me about it. Any cars pulling away on either side of the street?”
“No, nothin’ yet.”
A minute passed. A bead of sweat snaked its way down my side. “Anything?” I shouted into the phone.
“Jesus, Boss. I’m gettin’ old, not deaf. Still nothin’ … wait, yeah, yeah. Here we go. A black Chrysler 300C, about a hundred yards ahead of you. He’s pulling out from between the two satellite vans. Do you see him?”
“No.”
“He’s facing the same direction as you.”
“I see him. I see him. Tag number?”
“Fuck. It’s a Utah tag. Probably a rental, Boss. I’ll have somebody run it.”
“Well, keep snapping until he gets out of range. I’m following.”
I hung up and pulled into traffic behind, of all things, a white, orange, and blue-striped Nassau County police car. I almost didn’t care about the cop because it felt so good to be right for a change.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The good feelings didn’t last as the three of us—the 300C, the cop’s Crown Vic, and my Impala—wound our way south along Route 107 at a comfortable twenty-nine miles per hour. There were lots of majestic old trees to behold, many ridiculously enormous houses to laugh at or envy, and the occasional country club golf course abutting the road. The thing is, I needed to get a look at the guy at the wheel of the Chrysler. My view of him was limited to fleeting, distorted glimpses around the Crown Vic and through its windshield and rear window. As we approached the State University of New York at Old Westbury, I got a bit more hopeful. The road widened here and as we got closer to Hicksville, there’d be something like six lanes to choose from. But as long as the cop was between us, I really couldn’t risk swinging out around him and speeding up. As much as I needed a better look at the guy driving the 300C, I didn’t want to get pulled over for speeding and risk losing the Chrysler completely.
Although the road kept widening and exit ramps for Jericho Turnpike, the LIE, and the Northern State Parkway presented themselves, both the Chrysler and the cop seemed perfectly content to stay in single file and to maintain the same speed. My patience ran out. Coming to a red light, I changed lanes in an attempt to scope out the guy at the wheel of the 300C. It worked out well. With a tiny Fiat directly in front of me, I was afforded a clear view of the driver’s left profile. The driver was a young man, maybe twenty-five, with a neatly trimmed brown beard and mustache. His hair was a little darker than his beard, longer, too, and not very carefully brushed. He wore heavy-framed black glasses à la Elvis Costello. His skin was pale and he didn’t appear physically imposing. I guessed he was about five-eight and weighed about what I had weighed as a high school freshman. He wore a blue sport jacket over an open-collared light blue shirt. Doyle must’ve been right; the car had to be a rental. I couldn’t see some skinny, twenty-five-year-old white boy choosing a 300C as his dream machine.
My cell buzzed in my pocket. I reached for it and was about to pull it up to my ear and answer when something told me not to do it. I looked to my right and saw the Nassau County cop eyeballing me. New York is a hands-free only state and if I had gotten the phone closer to my ear, I would have been screwed. As it was, the cop was sneering and shaking his head at me. I shrugged and waved sorry to him. He was unimpressed. When the light turned green, he was still shaking his head.
The three of us continued our little group dance as we passed the Broadway Mall. Finally, at the split between Routes 106 and 107, the cop veered off to the right for 106 and the black 300C stayed left with me on 107. Then, suddenly, the Chrysler jerked hard right to follow the cop. I yanked my rental’s wheel harder right and cut off an oil truck that locked up his brakes and blasted his air horn at me. Then, just as I made it over to 106 where I could follow the Chrysler, he jerked his wheel hard left and got back on 107. This guy was either very, very good, or very, very bad. He was certainly unconventional. I wasn’t sure if he had made me or if he had done the zigzag as a precaution.
I didn’t bother trying to match him. Instead, I continued southwest, keeping an eye on him as I went. At the next opportunity, I made a left, then a right, and fell in a hundred yards or so behind the 300C. He stayed in the right lane and began adding speed. He didn’t floor it, just accelerated at a steady rate until he hit fifty. I didn’t know what he was up to or where he was headed, so I maintained the distance between us, trying to hide myself in traffic. We were deep in the heart of Little India now, an area of Hicksville that was packed with Indian restaurants and grocery stores. We kept this up for about another half minute. Suddenly, he accelerated around a car to his left, swung into the turning lane, and made a sharp U-turn in the opposite direction. Fuck, I thought, he’d made me.
I decided that I’d had enough of this cat-and-mouse shit, so I floored the Impala, weaving my way left as I went. A block past where the Chrysler had smoked his rear wheels making the U-turn, I made a similar turn. He must have thought he’d shaken me, because he had slowed to fifty again. Not me. Once I’d gotten the Impala oriented in the Chrysler’s direction, I nailed the gas. I caught up to the 300C at Rave Street, swung left around him at Townsend Lane, and cut him off in front of an Indian restaurant, nail salon, and pizzeria. He pulled close to the curb, slammed on his brakes, and barely missed T-boning the Impala that I wedged in front of him. I jumped out of the car, .38 in my hand, but showing it only to the guy behind the wheel of the black Chrysler and not to passing traffic. I guess I sort of showed him my old badge, too. I put the badge away, not the .38.
“Out of the car, motherfucker. Out of the car, now!”
He did as he was told. Almost as soon as he got out of the car, I knew something was wrong.
First thing I noticed was that his arms were shaking and his lips were trembling. He was trying to speak but fear had robbed him of his voice. Second thing I noticed was the white press credential with his photo on it that hung around his neck on an orange lanyard. His name was Ian Kern. I holstered my .38 before I made an even bigger ass of myself.
“Relax, Ian. Relax. Nobody’s getting in any trouble. Just take it easy. Deep breaths.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was that zigging and zagging all about, and that U-turn? You could’ve gotten somebody killed,” I said, as if I hadn’t just done far worse.
“I was lost. I don’t know my way around here. I’m from Michigan and I live in Williamsburg. My boss sent me to get Indian food for the crew from this place.” He pointed at the big red and white sign on the restaurant. “My boss says it’s the best Indian food on Long Island.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Bob Mark. He’s a producer at IENN, Independent Entertainment News Network. That’s his car,” Ian said, pointing at the Chrysler.
“What’s with the Utah plates?”
“He has a ski—Hey, I recognize you. You’re the guy who drove Nancy Lustig into her house this morning.”
“My name’s Moe Prager. I’m an old friend of Nancy’s. I’m also an ex-cop and a private investigator. So let’s keep each other’s secrets, okay? I won’t tell your boss you got lost and nearly caused a traffic accident trying to find a fucking restaurant, and you won’t tell anyo
ne I nearly shot you.”
“Hardly seems fair,” he said.
“How would you like an exclusive interview with the Hollow Girl’s mom?”
His eyes got big and he smiled as if he’d just won the lottery. In a way, I guess he had. It seemed a long time ago that he was shaking and unable to speak.
“Are you kidding me? Fuck, yeah.”
I handed him my card. “Listen, give me a few days. Things are still a little too crazy now and she won’t do it. But you give me some time and I guarantee it.” His brown eyes were understandably skeptical and I could see him weighing his options. I decided to help him make a choice. “Look, kid, it’s worth the gamble. You think the cops are gonna give a shit about me pulling my gun on you? I’ll just say you were driving erratically and dangerously and I felt compelled to stop you. Besides, I’m an ex-cop and I got friends. Trust me, and all you got is upside. C’mon, kid, think it—” I stopped myself. My phone was once again buzzing. When I saw it was Brian Doyle, I said, “Excuse me, Ian, I gotta take this.” I picked up. “Yeah ….”
“It’s not the black Chrysler,” he shouted in my ear. “That car is registered to Robert Mark. He’s a producer at Independent—”
“Entertainment Network News. I know. What else?”
“Just when I was finished snapping shots once you took off after the Chrysler, another car pulled out. A blue 2013 Toyota Camry with New York tags. I called you about it, but you didn’t pick up.”
“Long story. What about the Camry?”
“It’s a rental.”
“So?”
“You ain’t gonna like this, Boss.”
I lost it. “Just tell me what the fuck you gotta tell me.”
“The name on the rental agreement is Siobhan Bracken.”
That knot in my gut tightened again. I hung up the phone and slowly turned back to Ian Kern. As I did, I scanned for the blue Camry.
“Everything okay, Mr. Prager?” Kern asked, sensing something was up.
“Fine,” I lied. “Go get your food. I got work to do, but I give you my word about the interview. You have a card, Ian?”
The Hollow Girl (A Moe Prager Mystery) Page 21