“You can imagine,” she says.
And I can.
“Suddenly, every client is claiming they had expensive Rolex watches in their boxes or rare stamps worth half a million dollars. Clients never read the fine print, of course, but the bank’s liability for any loss for any reason shall not exceed ten times the cost of the annual rent for the box.”
“How much do you charge to rent?”
“It’s rarely more than a few hundred dollars a year.”
Not very much, I think. “So now you’re reaching out to clients,” I continue. “Many are claiming that they lost way in excess of what you are legally obligated to pay out, correct?”
“Correct.”
But alas, I think I may be putting this together. Yes, people store valuables, as she’s described. But they store more than that.
They store secrets.
“What’s your largest-size box?”
“In this branch? Eight by eight inches, with a two-foot depth.”
No way to hide the Picasso here, then, though I didn’t think Strauss would. That wasn’t the point of the box. That wasn’t the reason for his panic.
I take out a photo still frame from the Beresford surveillance video—the clearest shot I have of pre-murdered Ry Strauss. “Do you recognize this man?”
She studies the photograph. “I don’t think so. I mean, it’s hard to make out much.”
“The clients you notified about the safe deposit boxes,” I begin.
“What about them?”
“How did you reach them?”
“By certified mail.”
“Did you call any on the phone?”
“I don’t think so. That wouldn’t be us anyway. We have an insurance branch in Delaware that handles that.”
“So there is no chance someone from this branch would have called a client and invited them to come down here to discuss the theft?”
“None whatsoever.”
I ask a few more questions, but for the first time since this mess began, I feel as though I have some clarity. As I exit, my phone rings. I’m rather surprised to see that it’s Jessica.
“You busy?” she asks.
“Shouldn’t we work our next rendezvous through the app?”
“You blew your chance.”
“You wouldn’t have gone through with it,” I say.
“Guess we’ll never know. But I’m not calling about that. Do you know they just announced Ry Strauss’s identity?”
“I knew they were going to, yes.”
“Well, I was ready for it. I pitched the New Yorker a follow-up story on the whole Jane Street Six. Update my previous ‘Where Are They Now’ piece.”
“I assume they bought the pitch?”
“I can be charming when I want to be.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“So anyway, I’m going right now to interview Vanessa Hogan, the victim’s mother who was the last person to see Billy Rowan. Want to come?”
* * *
Jessica says, “I can’t believe Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third is taking the subway.”
I hold on to the bar overhead. We are on the A train heading south. “I’m a man of the people,” I tell her.
“You are anything but a man of the people.”
“I’ll have you know that I recently flew commercial.”
Jessica frowns. “No, you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t. But I thought about it.”
The reason for the subway ride is simpler. I don’t want whoever is following me to know where we are going. I had Magda make a quick turn so that the car was out of sight for a few seconds. I used those seconds to get out and vanish into the Davenport Theatre lobby on Forty-Fifth Street, exit out the side, head into the back entrance of the Comfort Inn Times Square West, and then I reappeared on Forty-Fourth Street. I headed east toward Eighth Avenue and met up with Jessica by the subway entrance on Forty-Second Street.
You can figure out the rest of my plan, methinks.
Most likely, the black Lincoln Town Car—could you choose a more obvious vehicle?—is tailing Magda through the Lincoln Tunnel into New Jersey whilst Jessica and I take the A train to Queens where another car driver will whisk us to the home of Vanessa Hogan.
Vanessa Hogan had remarried and moved out of the modest two-family Colonial where she’d raised Frederick into a sprawling contemporary in the somewhat ritzier Kings Point village. Her son Stuart, Frederick’s half brother born eight years after the Jane Street Six, opens the door and grimaces at us.
“We’re here to see Vanessa,” Jessica says.
“I know about you,” Stuart says, giving me the fisheye. “But who’s he?”
“Ms. Culver’s personal assistant,” I tell him. “I take wonderful dictation.”
“You don’t look like you take dictation.”
“Flatterer.”
Stuart steps onto the stoop with us and lowers his voice. “I don’t know why Mom agreed to see you.”
He waits for one of us to reply. We don’t.
“She’s not well, you know. My dad died last year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jessica says.
“They were married more than forty years.”
Jessica tilts her head and nods and gives off waves and waves of sympathy, which when mixed with her beauty, makes Stuart go weak at the knees. I try to move out of view; this is clearly a time to let her work alone.
“That must have been hard on both of you,” Jessica says with just the right amount of empathy.
“It was. And now, well, you know I never met Frederick, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“My dad met my mom after, you know, Frederick was killed in that crash. But I’ve heard about him my whole life. It’s not like Mom just got married and moved on.” He looks off and lets out a long breath. “Point is, Frederick’s been dead a long time, but it still causes her tremendous pain.”
Jessica says, “That must have been very hard on you, Stuart.”
I try not to roll my eyes.
“Just don’t upset her any more than you have to, okay?”
She nods. He looks to me. I mimic her nod. Stuart then leads us into a living room with high ceilings and skylights and blond hardwood floors. Vanessa Hogan, who is now over eighty, is a shriveled thing propped up by pillows on an armchair. Her skin is sallow. The top of her head is wrapped in a kerchief, the tell-tale sign of chemotherapy or radiation or something in that eroding vineyard. Her eyes seem huge in her shrunken skull, wide and bright and denim blue. Jessica starts toward her, hand extended, but Vanessa waves us both toward the couch across from her.
She has not taken her eyes off me.
“Who is this?” she asks.
Her voice is youthful, not so different from the one in her “I forgive them” press conference from back in the day.
“This is my friend Win,” Jessica says.
Vanessa Hogan gives me a quizzical look. I expect a follow-up in my direction, but she instead shifts her attention back to Jessica. “Why did you want to see me, Ms. Culver?”
“You know about the discovery of Ry Strauss.”
“Yes.”
“I would like your thoughts.”
“I have no thoughts.”
“It must have been hard,” Jessica says. “Having it all brought back.”
“Having what brought back?”
“The death of your son.”
Vanessa smiles. “Do you think a day goes by that I don’t think about Frederick?”
That, I think, is a pretty good reply. I glance at Jessica. She tries again.
“When you heard that Ry Strauss had been found—”
“I forgave him,” Vanessa Hogan interjects. “A long time ago. I forgave them all.”
“I see,” Jessica says. “So where do you think he is now?”
“Ry Strauss?”
“Yes.”
“Burning in hell,” Vanessa replies, and a mischievous smil
e comes to her face. “I may have forgiven him, but I don’t think the Lord has.” She slowly turns her eyes back to me. “What’s your last name?”
“Lockwood.”
“Win Lockwood?”
“Yes.”
“He stole your painting.”
I don’t reply.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“In part.”
“You lost a painting to Ry Strauss. I lost a son.”
“I’m not comparing,” I say.
“Neither am I. Why are you here, Mr. Lockwood?”
“I’m trying to find some answers.”
The skin on her hands looks like parchment paper. I can see the bruises from the intravenous needles. “There’s another painting that’s still missing,” she says. “I saw that on the news.”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you’re looking for?”
“In part.”
“But only a small part. Am I right?”
Our eyes meet and something akin to understanding passes between us.
“Tell me what you’re really after, Mr. Lockwood.”
I glance at Jessica. She leaves it up to me.
“Have you ever heard of Patricia Lockwood?” I ask.
“I assume she’s related to you.”
“My cousin.”
She sits up and gestures for me to say more. So I do.
“During the nineties, approximately ten teenage girls were kidnapped and held against their will in a storage shed in the woods outside of Philadelphia. They were brutalized for months, perhaps years, raped repeatedly, and then murdered. Many were never found.”
Her eyes stay on mine. “You’re talking about the Hut of Horrors.”
I say nothing.
“I watch a lot of true crime on cable,” Vanessa Hogan tells us. “The case was never solved, if I remember.”
“That’s correct.”
She tries to sit up. “So you think Ry Strauss…?”
“There’s evidence he was at least involved,” I say. “He may not have acted alone though.”
“And one girl escaped. Would that be…?”
“My cousin, yes.”
“Oh my.” Her hand flutters and settles down on her chest. “And that’s why you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“But why come to me?”
“You may forgive,” I say.
“But you don’t?” she finishes for me.
I shrug. “Someone murdered my uncle. Someone abducted my cousin.”
“You should leave it in God’s hands.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t think I will.”
“Romans 12:19.”
“‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’”
“I’m impressed, Mr. Lockwood. Do you know what it means?”
“I don’t care what it means,” I say. “What I do know is that men who do things like that don’t stop. They kill again. Always. They don’t get cured or rehabilitated or, apologies, find God. They just keep killing. So tonight, when you hear on the news a young girl has gone missing? Perhaps it’s those same killers.”
“Unless Ry Strauss acted on his own,” she says.
“That could be, but it’s unlikely. My cousin said two men grabbed her.”
She gives me a small smile. “You seem determined, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Your son was murdered. An FBI agent named Patrick O’Malley, a father of six, was murdered. My uncle Aldrich was murdered.” I pause, more for effect than anything else. “Now add in the brutality and murder of those young girls in the insufficiently dubbed ‘Hut of Horrors.’”
I lean toward her, aiming for dramatic effect. “Yes, Ms. Hogan, I’m determined.”
“And if you find the truth?” she asks.
I say nothing.
“What if you find the truth but you can’t prove it?” Vanessa Hogan’s face is animated, her tone more enthused. “Let’s say you find the guilty party, but there is no way you can prove it in a court of law. What would you do then?”
I look over at Jessica. She’s waiting for the answer too. I don’t like lying, so I quasi divert with a question. “Are you asking me if I would let a mass murderer and rapist go free?”
Vanessa Hogan holds my gaze. I try to move us back to the subject at hand.
“Billy Rowan visited you,” I say.
She blinks, sits back. “He seemed so nice when he came to my kitchen, so full of remorse.” Then thinking about it more, she gives a little gasp. “Do you think Billy Rowan had something to do with that awful hut?”
“I don’t know. But I do know it’s all tied together somehow. The Jane Street Six. The murder of your son. The stolen paintings. The Hut of Horrors.”
“And that’s why you’re here.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not well, Mr. Lockwood.”
“What did Billy Rowan tell you when he came to see you?”
“He asked for my forgiveness. And I gave it to him.”
Vanessa Hogan does not blink. She keeps her gaze steady. Her mouth barely moves, but I am convinced that she is smiling.
Then I say, “You know where Billy Rowan is, don’t you?”
She doesn’t move.
“Of course not,” she says in a voice that’s not even trying. “It’s getting late. I’d like you both to leave now.”
CHAPTER 18
Vanessa Hogan shuts down after that.
“Kind of blew that one,” Jessica says, as we head out the door.
We hadn’t, but I don’t want to get into that now.
As we slip into the back of the car, my phone rings. I put it to my ear and say, “Articulate.”
Jessica rolls her eyes.
Kabir says, “You want the whole story, or should I cut to the chase?”
“Oh, please draw it out and be extra verbose. You know how I love that.”
“The black Lincoln tailing you belongs to Nero Staunch’s crew.”
I would ask him how he knows, but I’d encouraged him to cut to the chase and so he had. Kabir tells me anyway: “It was registered to a craft beer place the family uses as a front. By the way, do you know who runs the Staunch crew now?”
“I do not.”
“Leo Staunch.”
“Okay,” I say. “And that matters because…?”
“Leo Staunch is Nero’s nephew. More to the point, Leo is Sophia Staunch’s baby brother.”
“Ah,” I say. “Interesting.”
“Not to mention dangerous.”
“Where is this black Lincoln now?”
“Open up the map app on your iPhone. I’ve dropped a pin from the tracker device, so you can keep tabs on it.”
“Okay, good. Anything else?”
“Remember how yesterday tons of media outlets wanted interviews because your Vermeer had been found at a murder scene?”
“Yes.”
“Now imagine adding onto that the murder victim was Ry Strauss.”
It would indeed be a feeding frenzy. “What are you telling them?”
“I’ve learned how to say ‘No comment’ in twelve languages.”
“Thank you.”
“Ei kommenttia,” Kabir says. “That’s Finnish.”
“Anything else?”
“Tomorrow morning. You have Ema for breakfast.”
The one appointment I would never miss or forget.
I hang up. Jessica stares out the window.
“Would you like to go for an early dinner?” I ask her.
She considers it for a moment, and then says, “Why not?”
We arrive at the grill room at the Lotos Club, an elegant private social club whose early members include Mark Twain. It’s located in a French Renaissance town house on the Upper East Side. The grill room is in the basement. It is all dark woods and rich burgundy walls. The bar is front and center. Men must wear a jacket and a tie, something you rarely find in Manhattan anymore; some consider this dress code outdated, but I relish these
old-world touches.
Charles, the head waiter, recommends the sole meunière, and Jessica and I both choose it. I select a Château Haut Bailly, a Bordeaux wine from the Pessac-Léognan appellation. Their whites are underrated.
I feel my phone buzz and excuse myself. You never pull out your phone at the Lotos Club. You instead make your way into a private phone booth, the only place where you are allowed to use it. As expected, it’s PT. I answer.
“Articulate.”
“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” PT says. “As you can imagine, it’s been an insane day.”
“Anything new on your end?”
“Nothing worth reporting. You any closer to catching my killer?”
“Killers,” I say. “Plural.”
“You think there’s more than one?”
“You don’t?”
“I’m really only interested in the one.”
PT was talking about Arlo Sugarman, of course—the man he’d witnessed shoot his partner, Patrick O’Malley. “Here,” I say, “our interests may differ.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “What do you need from me?”
“There was a robbery at the Bank of Manhattan four months ago,” I say.
“Okay, so?”
“I need to know everything I can about it, especially suspected perpetrators.”
“Bank of Manhattan,” he repeats. “I think we caught one of them.”
That surprises me. “Where is he?”
“How do you know it’s not a she?”
“Where is she?”
“It’s a he. I just want you to be woke, Win.”
I wait.
“I’ll look into it.”
“Also, do you have anything on the shell company Strauss set up to buy his apartment and pay his bills?”
“It’s anonymous. You of all people know how hard it is to get information.”
Oh, I do. “You can still find out the setup date, the state, the attorney, perhaps even the bank used to pay the bills. Someone was paying for Ry Strauss to live in the Beresford.”
“On it.”
I rejoin Jessica. The wine is opened. Jessica is, no surprise, delightful company. We laugh a lot. We finish one bottle and open a second. The sole is superb.
“Odd,” she says.
“What’s that?”
“Have we ever been alone before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We always had Myron in the room.”
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