The Lost Boys

by Faye Kellerman

  “Not that tolerant.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Your ownership is buried under a sea of shell corporations and DBAs.”

  Gabe looked at her. “How do you know?”

  “Because Peter and I set it up that way with your dad. When you turned eighteen, the ownership was passed from Terry as your guardian to you. Peter and I knew it might be a problem. We weren’t about to let you be dragged down. The whole thing went easier than expected. Your dad wasn’t anxious to ruin your career either.”

  “If it came to him or my career, he’d choose him.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “I am.” Gabe shook his head. “You guys are such nice people. Much better than blood.”

  “You know, it could be that your mom cut contact with you because she’s worried about your safety. Her husband is in deep trouble.”

  “I think she’s more worried about her safety than mine. She had no problems dragging me into the mess in the first place.”

  “For sure,” Rina said.

  “I wouldn’t even believe her story except that Chris told me the same thing: that her husband is in deep debt from gambling.”

  Rina said, “He seems genuinely worried about your mother. You’d think after all this time, he wouldn’t give a hoot about her.”

  “You’d think. He always told me that he’d take her back.” Gabe shrugged. “We’re two of a kind. No matter what she does, I still want her in my life.”

  “She’s your mother, Gabe. That’s not weird. But carrying the torch for a woman who ran off with another man? That’s a little weird.”

  “Who can explain love?”

  “Is it love or just a desire for revenge?”

  “Maybe both.” Gabe became lost in thought. Then he said, “Chris has this gigantic office where he works—more like a living room. With leather sofas and chairs with a desk and an office for his secretary.”

  “Talia.”

  “Yeah, Talia. That’s where he meets rich clients and people from the casinos and from the banks. He has a stocked bar. He’s always entertaining people there—parties for the rich and famous with his sex workers milling around.”

  “You’ve been to them?”

  “I attended a few when I turned twenty-one. Chris does everything by the book now. He kept me well hidden until I was of age. Then, all of sudden he wanted me to meet some people—impress them that he has a classically trained pianist as a son. You know, cart me out as a prop. Actually, I didn’t mind. The women …” He blew out air. “Unreal. Chris thought I was an idiot for not taking advantage of his generosity, but I’d never do that to Yasmine. Never.”

  “You’ve got a good moral compass.”

  “Yeah, it’s amazing considering where I come from.” His eyes were far away. “You know, my dad actually pays them for sex whenever the mood hits him. I guess it’s like paying himself. But they do get their percentage and a tip. He drills it into them. You’re a sex worker, emphasis on the worker part. Never ever give it away for free. Not even to the boss. To him, even sex is a business.”

  “He’s done very well for himself.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Gabe returned to earth. “Anyway, the party office is Dad’s public space. He has an equally gigantic private office that’s only accessible from a private elevator that has fingerprint and pupil recognition as well as a punch code. His own personal Fort Knox. He has a vault in there. A big one. My dad always has a lot of cash on hand.”

  “I’m thinking that brothels might be cash business.”

  “For sure, but the private office is more than a big safe. It’s all done in black and white. Not an ounce of color. He has his gym area with equipment that looks like a torture chamber: weights and straps and God knows what else. He also has a regular desk there. But mostly he spends his nights with this Captain America set of video monitors that shuffle through all the rooms in his brothels. You’d think it would be lurid, him staring at people having sex for six hours, but it’s not. It’s his way of keeping tabs on everyone, making sure that his girls and boys are okay, making sure the clients are not trying to bargain or cut deals behind his back, making sure no one gets too rough, making sure the rooms are properly cleaned afterward, making sure that the workers are tipped properly. It’s all business. Like I said, Chris is all business. Despite the parties and the sex and all the fun and games, Chris is eagle-eyed. Nothing escapes him.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “His private suite is basically a bunker with a view of the mountains. No one goes into that office except him. He posts a guard outside to make sure that he gets privacy. I’ve got my own private suite one flight up when I visit. I confine myself up there. The one thing I don’t want to do is get in Chris Donatti’s way. I keep quiet until he’s ready to talk or to go to dinner or whatever. When he’s ready, he focuses on me. Laser eyes. He has the capacity to listen when he wants to. Until then, I stay in my suite. It’s fine. He bought me a Steinway. I’m happy.”

  “You know how to handle him.”

  “Absolutely. Over the years, I’ve come to like my dad. But in the back of my mind, I know what he is. The point of all this rambling is I’ve been to his private office twice. Once I was there because I cut my leg on a rusty nail that was poking from my bed frame. I was bleeding pretty badly. I called him up and told him what happened. He came up and got me and brought me to his suite until the doctor could see me in my suite. The other time was when I got terrible food poisoning and I thought I was going to pass out. Finally, I called him and he took me to his private space, just to keep an eye on me.

  “When I cut myself, I was sitting on this big black leather couch waiting for the doctor, watching him as he did his monitoring. But when I had food poisoning, I was actually in his bedroom, lying on his ginormous bed. The walls were bare except for this beautiful, detailed pen-and-ink drawing. Only drawing there, only drawing in his private space period.”

  He looked at Rina.

  “It was Mom. I think he drew it from a photograph right after she left him. You don’t keep that in your private space unless you love the subject of the drawing.”

  Rina thought a moment. “Then maybe he does see this as a chance to get her back. And maybe that’s good, Gabe. No one could protect your mom and your siblings better than Chris.”

  “Yes, he could protect her—if he didn’t kill her first.” Gabe was the picture of dejection. “Why didn’t she call just to say good-bye?”

  Rina said, “I don’t know, but I do know that she will contact you when she’s ready. In her own way, she loves you very much.”

  “Yeah, in her own way. It’s got to be her way.”

  “No sense getting mad.”

  “You’re right.” Gabe threw up his arms. “I’ve got a great fiancée. I’ve got a foster family that has accepted me as one of its own. I’ve got a great life without her. Why do I care?”

  “She’s your mother.”

  “She’s whacko.”

  Rina patted his hand. “Gabe, you made yourself a good life—you were blessed with great genetics and a superior talent, and you’ve made the best of it. Your career has taken off. Enjoy your success.”

  “And yet I’m still sulking. What is wrong with me?” He paused. “She’s okay, right? I mean, my mother is a ridiculous person, but I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her—or to my sibs.”

  “Terry is a survivor,” Rina said. “She’ll do whatever she needs to get by.”

  “Do you think Chris was lying when he said that he doesn’t know where she is?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Gabe stared at her. “Why was it his first instinct to call you and not me?”

  “He said he did try to call you.”

  “I didn’t see any missed calls from him. He didn’t call me until way later in the day.”

  “I don’t know, Gabe. Your dad uses me as a sounding board in much the same way you do. Please don’t kill the
messenger.”

  “Sorry.” Gabe took a bite of his croissant. “I guess I’m still resentful of both of them.”

  Rina said, “You know that your mom had a really hard upbringing. She practically raised her half sister single, and her parents used her like household help. When she got pregnant, they kicked her out. She lived with her grandparents for a few years, but then they moved to a retirement home in Florida and again she was left on her own. Even when she didn’t have anything, she always made sure you had a roof over your head and food in your stomach.”

  “A lot of peanut butter and jelly and macaroni.”

  “Exactly what kids like to eat. And through it all, she somehow managed to go to college and get into medical school.”

  “Chris was supporting us by then.”

  “Do you know how desperate she must have been to go back to him?”

  Gabe looked sheepish. “I see your point. And I do love her. That’s why I’d like to know that she’s safe.”

  “She’ll call you when she’s ready.” Rina touched his hand. “I’m having dinner with Hannah and Rafi at their house. Want to come over?”

  “No, I’ve got a rehearsal at eight in the city. Afterward, maybe Yasmine will take a break and we can spend a few minutes together. Medical school hasn’t been easy for her. Being with me hasn’t been easy for her. I’m always gone—traveling. And her relationship with her parents is not what it used to be. She was so close to her mom, and now they don’t talk like they used to. I try to be supportive, but I know she feels alienated. That can’t be good for her.”

  “She’s a determined girl. She’ll get through it.”

  “Yes, she will.” He smiled. “Sounds like someone we both know, so please don’t tell me I’m marrying my mother.”

  Rina smiled. “The thought never entered my mind.”

  CHAPTER 18

  INITIALLY, DECKER HAD planned to keep the car and drive to Saint Louis. Upon learning it was an eight-hour drive, they opted for a nine a.m. flight out even if the tickets came out of their own pockets. Since the appointment wasn’t set until eleven-thirty and they gained an hour, they had plenty of time to rent the car and get their bearings. The address put them in Clayton, Missouri, an area bordering western Saint Louis. As they drove, they followed GPS in a circuitous route, because a public park, miles long, kept interfering with streets. It was a beautiful, verdant area, encompassing the zoo, museums, a planetarium and science center, and sports areas, all of it abutting a major college.

  “Washington University,” McAdams said. “It’s a great school. No Harvard, but then again what is.”

  “That’s the Tyler I’ve come to love.” Decker grinned. “Snob.”

  “Definitely.” McAdams looked out the window. “I wonder why Bennett McCrae decided to go to Duxbury rather than Wash U.”

  “The McCraes were living in New York back then.”

  “Ah. Right.” McAdams nodded. “Not that Duxbury isn’t a great college, but New York has some excellent universities.”

  “Like most teens, he probably wanted to get away from home,” Decker said.

  “That is understandable.” McAdams looked at the multitudes sunbathing on the grass. He didn’t understand the appeal of basking. It was hot outside. He turned up the fan a notch. “Brutal out there.”

  “It’s the humidity. I hated Florida in the summer. But at least it was training ground for ’Nam. We were in long sleeves and pants and boots. In the jungle, it’s a necessity because of all the bugs and other creepy crawlies. Sweat pouring out of you. You had to drink even if you didn’t feel like it because of the climate. You became dehydrated so quickly. The enemy wasn’t as problematic as the weather. Those poor northern boys—they’d never felt heat like that. It’s all-consuming.”

  He turned left and into an enclave of brick houses. Some were in the Federal style, but others were two-story Arts and Crafts bungalows with wraparound porches. Retail stores included boutiques and little cafés and vegan restaurants. As they wended through the area, the lots grew bigger, the homes became statelier, and the lawns went from patch size to sports fields.

  Barney and Harriet McCrae lived in a Georgian-style house replete with pillars and a double-door front entrance. The lawn was green, with leafy white oaks, maples, dogwood, and sweet gums blocking the fierce sun. The driveway was circular, and one lane was taken up by a black Land Rover. Decker parked behind it and killed the motor. He stepped outside, and the heat was one big, wet slap on his face. He could already feel his clothes drooping. They walked up to the front door and rang the bell. It seemed like ages before it opened, and that welcome gust of cool air kissed their cheeks. A well-dressed woman was at the doorway. She had on a white short-sleeved shirt, denim pants, and jeweled sandals. Her brown hair was short and shagged, and her ears were adorned with gold hoops. Her skin was smooth, her complexion was chestnut-colored. Her eyes were brown and sad, and when the detectives identified themselves, they turned even sadder.

  “Come in.” She moved to the left to let them in. “I’m Harriet McCrae. I suppose you know that. Would you like some water or lemonade?”

  McAdams said, “Anything with ice.”

  A small smile. “It’s hot outside.” She led them into a parlor that looked out past the driveway and the front lawn. The furniture was sixties modern—slung-back sofa, brightly colored wing chairs with wire bases, a mirrored coffee-table top held up by a giant ceramic hand.

  McAdams said, “I like how you did the room.”

  “Clean lines, nothing fussy,” Harriet said. “I’ve had enough fuss in my lifetime. Please sit. Is it too hot in here? I hate frigid air-conditioning. My husband always complains that I keep the register too high.”

  “Keep it however you’re comfortable.” Decker sat on the sofa. “But I will take off my jacket.”

  McAdams took up an aqua chair. “Same.”

  “Give them to me, gentlemen. I’ll hang them up.”

  “Is your husband home as well, Mrs. McCrae?”

  She turned around to face them. “No. Should he be?”

  “No breaking news, sorry,” Decker said. “I was just curious.”

  A long sigh. “He’s working. I’ll be right back.”

  After she left, Decker made a face. “I think I inadvertently raised her expectations.”

  “Expectations are all she has left.”

  Decker regarded the parlor. Not many pictures in the bookcase: a portrait of her husband in black and white; a wedding picture with the same man in a tux standing next to a woman in a lace, long-sleeved gown with a high neckline and a big veil; a snapshot of two middle-school-aged boys; another of two teenaged boys next to a house; and one more wedding picture, this one with a man in his late twenties or early thirties and a young woman in a strapless gown.

  Harriet returned with three glasses and a pitcher of lemonade and ice. She poured half a glass into each tumbler and distributed them before she sat down on the opposite arm of the sofa from Decker. “Thanks for letting me know about Zeke Anderson.”

  “I thought you’d prefer to hear about it from the police.”

  “Of course.” A pause. “I called your police department earlier this morning to see if you had any more details. I spoke to a man named Kevin Butterfield. He was nice enough but didn’t tell me much.” Harriet looked intently at Decker. “I’m hoping you can be more forthcoming.”

  “There’s not much to report, unfortunately,” Decker said. “We found Zeke’s remains several days ago and we’re still looking for any others.”

  “How can that be?” Harriet exclaimed. “They all disappeared at the same time.”

  “We realize that. We have people out there scouring the woods. We’re hoping that something will materialize.”

  She sighed loudly. “Have you talked to Wanda Velasquez yet?”

  “We were there yesterday,” McAdams said.

  “What does she say about all this?”

  “Not much.”

&nb
sp; “They hired a private detective. So did Zeke’s parents, and so did we. We figured we could compare notes and come up with some ideas.” She dismissed the outcome with a wave of her hand. “Waste of time and money. More than that, it was a waste of hope. So where are you in the investigation?”

  “At the beginning,” Decker said. “We’re going over everything from page one. Now that we have Zeke’s remains, we have an actual case to look at.”

  McAdams asked, “Did you keep the notes from the private investigator?”

  “We threw them out. Like I said. Waste of time and money.”

  “You threw out everything?”

  “We did … about five years ago. Doesn’t matter, Detective. Ask me any questions. I had his notes practically memorized. Not that there was all that much. He wasn’t very good.”

  “Anything you want to share?” McAdams said.

  “If there was, I would have called you a long time ago.” She took a sip of lemonade, and the others followed. “Ten years, Detective. A whole decade has come and gone with no resolution.”

  “And I’m very sorry for that.” Decker put his glass down on a pink glass coaster. “I’ll do whatever I can to move this forward. In that spirit, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Of course not. I mean why else would you come here.”

  “I understand Bennett and Max knew each other before Duxbury.”

  “They went to the same high school. They were nothing alike.”

  “Friends?”

  “Hardly. Bennett used to say he didn’t need a pet because Max was his puppy dog. Not the nicest thing to say, but the boy was a nuisance. I think Max applied to Duxbury because that’s where Bennett wanted to go. Once there, Bennett, being social and witty, made lots of friends.”

  “And Max? Did he have a lot of friends?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t keep track of him.” A shrug. “Bennett said he was as socially inept in college as he was in high school. Sometimes Bennett found him a pest. Other times he took pity on him. Like when the boys needed a fourth roommate to complete their suite. Bennett asked Max. I think he just felt sorry for him.”