by Ty Patterson
He took her to a Dairy Queen to stem her questions. That distracted her and while she was licking a Royal Blizzard, he pulled out another burner phone and called to get a new rental vehicle, a pickup truck.
They will be looking for sedans, family cars, or SUVs.
The rental agency was fifteen minutes away; it posed a problem. He wanted to minimize their street time.
He told the girl to stay put, he would be back soon.
He told the teenager behind the counter to keep an eye on her. The teenager nodded and pocketed the five that the man slipped to him.
The girl was on her second Royal Blizzard when he returned in the white truck.
‘Mike gave it to me,’ she smiled at him.
Mike, behind the counter, shrugged. ‘She asked, man. What was I supposed to do?’
The man paid for it, grabbed the girl, thanked Mike, and hustled her to the truck.
Two hours later they were in Atlanta.
Four hours later, when it was well past the girl’s bed time, they were back in New York
The ball is in the NYPD’s court.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chuck Keyser parked his pickup truck in the garage of his house in Highland Park in Birmingham, stepped out and stretched.
He had spent the last couple of weeks camping and hiking in the Sipsey Wilderness Area. Twenty-five thousand acres of forests, woodland, and waterfalls, just a few hours away from Birmingham, made it the ideal getaway place for Keyser.
He wiped his boots on the doormat and entered his home through the door in the garage that opened into a storeroom off the kitchen.
The house was silent. It would be; Keyser was single.
His wife had died eight years back, his kids, a son and a daughter, were both married and lived in California.
He turned on the lights, brushed his sparse gray hair and went upstairs to shower.
A light dinner, some mindless TV, and he was ready for bed.
He was on the stairs when the blinking red light on his phone in the living room caught his attention.
Messages.
He pressed the button and listened.
The first one was from a cold caller. He erased it. So was the next. He erased that one too.
The next three messages were from other cold callers or local stores offering the latest and greatest deal in the land.
There was a message from Chuck, his neighbor, checking if he was back.
The last two messages gave him pause.
He listened to the first one and erased it. No other action was needed.
The second message was from some lady in New York, asking about someone from his past.
Keyser had a past that very few knew of. He had served in the Army, had done stuff that not even his wife had known about.
He noted the woman’s number, thought for a few minutes, and then punched the numbers.
The phone in Meghan’s hand rang.
They were still in the SUV. Zeb was still driving.
They had dropped Pizaka and Chang at One PP and were heading to the twins’ apartments on Columbus Avenue.
The phone connected to the SUV’s bluetooth system and its ringing sounded loudly in the interior.
She didn’t recognize the number; however, they were expecting several calls.
She punched a button and accepted the call.
‘Meghan Petersen.’
A pause. ‘Ma’am, my name is Chuck Keyser. You left a message for me some time back.’
Keyser’s voice was deep, quiet, and without inflection.
Keyser, Kittrell’s boss in Baybush.
‘Thank you for calling back, Mr. Keyser. This is about Josh Kittrell. I believe he worked with you.’
‘A long time back, ma’am. He died in an accident. What’s your interest in him?’
Meghan hesitated, looked at Zeb and Beth.
They both shrugged. Go ahead. Tell him.
She told Keyser about mystery man and Maddie.
The line fell silent while Keyser digested her story.
‘Are you there, Mr. Keyser?’
‘Yes, sorry. That’s a whammy. I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am. Josh died. I saw his body. I attended his funeral. Whoever that man is, he isn’t Josh Kittrell.’
Keyser hung up after the call had finished and went to his bedroom.
He opened his wardrobe, moved clothes on a hanger and pressed a hinge.
The small door clicked open to reveal a safe.
Keyser extracted a box from the safe and removed a handgun, a Glock 22. It had one round in the chamber, its magazine had fifteen rounds.
It was ready to go. It always was.
Three days passed with no major developments.
The twins investigated any connection Amy Kittrell had with Toccoa. There was none. There was no record of her spending any time there or ever visiting it.
Mayo and Kane had no presence there. The town was too small for Amy Kittrell’s real estate firm to have an office in.
Werner came back with addresses for the two hundred Josh Kittrell look-alikes and the twins were tracking them, calling them when contact was made, verifying them and then striking them off the list.
They were not even halfway through. It increasingly looked like none of those on the list could have been John Doe.
Still, they had to try, and go through all the names.
Chang and Pizaka had tried interviewing Amy Kittrell again. They said they had news on Maddie’s disappearance.
The mother wasn’t interested, whatever the news was.
‘You can meet her, when her daughter is along with you,’ the hospital’s receptionist made no attempt to conceal her glee when relaying the snub.
The hotline had no Maddie sightings. The cameras at Penn Station didn’t show any more images of John Doe or Maddie. No staff on the station or the train recollected them.
Pickett from Toccoa called. A man resembling John Doe had rented a pickup truck the day of their visit to the town.
‘He fooled us. He and the girl were right there in the town. You won’t believe where they were hiding.’
Beth gritted her teeth and willed the police chief to continue.
‘He was in the elementary school. He said he was moving to the town and wanted to check out the school.’
‘Where’s the truck now?’
‘It was found in Birmingham. In a carwash’s parking lot. Vacuumed, washed, and cleaned. No DNA evidence.’
‘The trail died there?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘He could be anywhere,’ Beth scowled at her sister when the call ended. ‘With Maddie.’
She stopped Meghan before the inevitable Why passed her sister’s lips.
‘Has Werner got anything more on TO/CCOA?’
‘No,’ Meghan replied.
Beth slapped the computer’s screen with the flat of her palm. ‘The world’s best supercomputer and it can’t find anything.’
Werner shrugged electronically.
Slapping it didn’t achieve anything. But humans didn’t get that, did they?
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Amy Kittrell is my best closer. You know that house on Madison Avenue, the one with the Grecian columns?’
Meghan and Beth shook their heads, struck dumb by the speaker’s forcefulness.
They were in the mid-town office of Carey Landsman, where Amy Kittrell worked, on the eleventh day since the kidnapping.
The firm was named after its founder who sat opposite the twins, dressed in a pale green outfit that shimmered as she moved.
Landsman was in her late fifties, but a strict dietary regime, the best beauticians money could buy, and artful plastic surgeons, made her look forty.
Her pale blonde hair kept falling over a brow. A practiced flick tossed the curl back to top of her head.
In an elegantly manicured hand she held an electronic cigarette and delicately puffed away at it.
Red nails painted the air. ‘You don
’t know where it is.’ There was no sneer in her voice, just a statement that Landsman moved in rarefied social circles.
‘Amy sold it. In one week. For the asking price. This girl comes out of some town, Lord knows where, and outsells my ace closers.’
The cigarette came to within an inch of Meghan’s face.
‘I want her back. You folks are harassing her. You need to back off. Stand down. Call off your dogs.’
Pizaka and Chang had interviewed Landsman the day after the kidnapping; they had come back with just one fact. That Amy Kittrell worked there.
Chang had rolled his eyes dramatically when describing her, ‘I would rather feed the lions than meet her again.’
Carey Landsman was a socialite who had turned to selling luxury homes in the city, a decade back. She knew everyone. More importantly, everyone who mattered, knew her.
She had lost a husband to cancer. A daughter to a traffic accident. She had never married again, and was frequently featured in celebrity shows and gossip columns.
Talking to Landsman had been way down on the twins’ to-do list; however a flunky had called them the day before.
A saccharine voice had whispered over the phone, ‘Ms. Landsman wants you to meet her.’
Meghan and Beth had chuckled at the exec’s choice of words.
Her assistant didn’t get the words wrong. I am surprised we didn’t have to bow and kiss her hand.
Meghan suppressed a smile and put a serious expression on her face.
‘It’s not in our hands, ma’am. The case is quite complicated.’
Landsman leaned forward in irritation, picked a tiny bell and rang it.
Wow, a real silver bell?
The exec rushed in on high heels and a short skirt.
‘Green tea,’ her boss commanded and the exec disappeared.
‘Honey,’ Landsman turned her attention back to Meghan, ‘Amy sold more houses for me in the last five years than all my other closers put together.’
She waited for Meghan or Beth to reply. Neither of them did.
‘You know what that means? My business, my reputation, is sinking, while you and the cops are playing detective.’
An angry puff of smoke forestalled Beth’s retort.
‘Carey Landsman sells to billionaires. Hollywood stars. A-listers. They want to deal with Amy Kittrell alone. What am I to tell them? That some little investigation is keeping her away?’
‘I.’ Puff. ‘Want.’ Puff. ‘Her.’ Puff. ‘Back.’
Green tea arrived and with it the torrent of words stopped. The exec poured for Meghan and Beth in delicate ceramic cups that the twins held gingerly in their hands, and sipped from.
No need to ask us what drink we want. What’s good for Carey Landsman is good enough for us.
‘Ma’am,’ Meghan placed her cup down.
Cool eyes flicked in her direction. A plume of smoke rose delicately from red lips. Sipping and smoking. The socialite turned luxury realtor could do both at the same time.
‘Was Amy Kittrell happy?’
A frown marred the smooth porcelain forehead. ‘What’s that got to do with selling homes?’
Meghan looked at her steadily. ‘Shall we drop this charade? We don’t give a damn about your business. None of this,’ she let her eyes roam around the exquisitely appointed office, ‘impresses us.’
‘Madison Kittrell is out there. We have to find her. That’s all that matters,’ Beth leaned forward, her eyes burning with a fierce intensity.
Carey Landsman didn’t move for several seconds. She didn’t speak. She watched the twins through narrow eyes, through a haze of smoke that lazily swirled toward the ceiling.
She moved when the silence became unbearable. She placed the electronic cigarette on a tray, her expression still unreadable.
‘You aren’t from New York, are you?’
‘Wyoming, ma’am. Jackson Hole,’ Meghan replied.
A smile broke out on the older woman’s face. This time it warmed her eyes. ‘I am a Cheyenne girl myself. Married well. That was my lucky break. The rest, I earned.’
She broke off and looked at them appraisingly. ‘Petersens. There was something about a shooting rampage in a college. One sister lost her memory. Their dad –’
‘That’s us, ma’am.’
I hope she doesn’t shower us with pity. We can do without that.
Carey Landsman didn’t do pity. She rose, went to a side table and poured coffees from a silver flask and served them herself.
‘I lost my daughter, my husband. They were my life. I know something about loss.’
The façade, the larger than life persona, disappeared.
The real Cary Landsman was an intelligent woman who spoke about moving to a large city, living a life she had never experienced. She talked about building the high profile real estate firm on her own.
She spoke about Amy Kittrell in glowing terms. Kittrell had applied for a job in her firm when she had arrived in New York.
Landsman had been impressed with her grit and saw herself in the younger woman.
‘How bad does it look for her?’ she asked the twins.
‘She’s making it bad, ma’am,’ Meghan broke it down to the realtor. ‘If she only spoke freely. Told us who that man was, we might get somewhere.’
Landsman stopped them when they were leaving.
‘I met him a couple of times. Partner. That’s how she introduced him.’
She looked searchingly at the twins.
‘She wasn’t happy.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
The man and the girl were in Queens, in another motel.
By now the girl knew something was wrong. She had started questioning the man more often. What they were doing? When would they unite with Mommy? When could she go back to school?
The day after their return to the city, his patience snapped. The rage bubbled over. He took a half step and checked himself quickly.
Too late. The girl saw it. Recognized it for what it was. She didn’t question him again.
She spoke to him less frequently.
The man called the hotline a few times and tried to get information on the investigation. He consumed newspapers and media reports.
By all accounts, it looked like the investigation had stalled.
He allowed himself a brief smile.
He would change that.
He had to cajole the girl for his next move.
He took her to Soho, to the Dominique Ansel Bakery, treated her to cookie shots and bought a bagful of Cronuts.
That brought back the skip in her step. She started regarding their getaway as one big adventure. She would have stories to tell when she returned to school.
He didn’t correct her.
He logged onto an auction site, tracked down a burner phone and a prepaid sim card, met the seller in Times Square, and bought the two items off him.
Auction sites were made for anonymous purchases.
On the tenth day of grabbing her, he made her do the tasks.
On the eleventh day, he woke her up early and dressed her in baggy clothing. He wore shades and turned the collars up on his jacket, even though it promised to be a hot day.
He took her to Penn Station and bought round trip tickets to Greenport.
He caught the Long Island Rail Road service to Ronkonkoma, where they transferred, and three hours later were in Greenport.
Baldy, whose name was Pike Deyoung, hadn’t forgotten that he had been bested by a woman. His buddies joshed him about it frequently.
It came up when they went to a bar and a few beers went down their throats.
Pike was a construction worker, working on a midtown hotel project. He fancied himself as an amateur boxer and when he finished his work, changed from his helmet and coveralls, and went to a boxing gym on East 26th Street.
There, he pounded the punching bag till his rage and humiliation drained away.
It started again the next day though, when some co-worker r
eminded him of the ease with which the woman had floored him.
A week after his humiliation, Pike saw her.
She was emerging from a building, opposite his project. He was on the same side of the street as she, not more than ten feet from her, biting deep into a burger.
It was his lunch break. He was alone, having had enough of his buddies.
He did a double take, his mouth half open.Yeah, it was her. He wouldn’t forget that brown hair and green eyes.
Was it really her, though? Or the twin?
He observed her for a few moments.
Nope. It was her. She had a quiet swagger about her that her sister didn’t have. He shielded himself behind a bunch of camera clicking tourists and watched her.
She spoke on her cell, pocketed it, looked at the building she had come from, looked right, then pulled on a pair of shades and the green eyes disappeared behind the dark lenses.
She didn’t look in his direction; she turned her back on him and walked away.
Pike followed. He didn’t know why. He just did.
The tourists ambled away chattering in a language Pike didn’t understand. The sidewalk was empty. There was a line of parked cars, all empty.
It felt like they were the only two people on that strip of concrete.
Pike took another bite. Looked behind him.
No one near him. No one who could recognize him.
Ahead of him was the woman.
Far ahead were people, but not close enough to intervene.
He looked up.
No cameras on the buildings. No cameras on top of lamp poles.
He didn’t think.
He broke into a run.
He would ram his shoulder into her, cross the street, and disappear.
Just a reminder to her that she couldn’t mess with him.
Meghan had spotted the sudden move on her left from the corner of her eye. She looked to her right casually, in the direction Beth had gone.
Beth had exited Carey Landsman’s office earlier to meet Mark Feinberg, her boyfriend. Mark was a detective in the NYPD and had recently returned from Miami where he had been following leads on a case.