“No problem,” Danski said. “It will give me a chance to go over the case.”
Litchfield laughed. “You’ve gone over that file a thousand times. I don’t think there’s a line in there you’re not familiar with. It’ll be interesting to hear what Martin has to say about Susan and how she’s told everyone that he died big-game hunting in Africa.”
They cleared the George Washington toll booth twenty-five minutes later.
“I guess she had to come up with some kind of story to explain why he was no longer on the scene. She couldn’t admit that he walked out on her when he decided he had enough of her drama.”
“We don’t know what went on,” Litchfield said.
“Leaving your wife is one thing,” Danski said. “But what about Jake? No man I know would leave a four-year-old son behind no matter how much he despised his wife and wanted to get away from her or how much he loved the girlfriend if he had one.”
Danski flipped through the pages of his case folder as Litchfield picked up speed. “Here’s another thing,” he said when he came to a highlighted paragraph. “Most people change the locks on their doors when they move into a new residence. It only costs a couple of bucks, especially when you only have one door. A lot of times the super does that for a new tenant.”
“I agree, but Susan claimed she never considered it a risk,” Litchfield said.
“That means the previous occupant probably still had a key to the place.”
“She didn’t change the lock after Jake was taken, either.”
“It’s pretty safe to assume that Martin still has his key to the apartment.”
“We’ll ask him about that when we see him,” Danski said and continued reading through the folder the rest of the way.
“We have to check in with the local cops when we get to Wilson Corners,” he said when Litchfield put on his blinker and exited the Thruway two hours later.
“It looks like a quaint little town,” Litchfield said as rain suddenly sprinkled the windshield.
Danski took in the peaceful surroundings. “This might be a nice place to retire when the time comes,” he said when they passed a large lake.
“The police station is up ahead,” Litchfield said when he noticed a road sign. He pulled in behind a marked Wilson Corners PD cruiser, and pulled the key. Before getting out he sat back and took in the idyllic setting.
Town Hall was a turn of the century wood-frame two-story structure. Potted plants sat on top of a wood-railing that ran across the front of the building. A hundred yards away a small church took up a corner plot. A rusty chain was looped across the entrance to a pebbled parking lot. Across the street, garage sale signs were posted in front of an abandoned gas station. The detectives went to the left side of Town Hall and followed the red footprint markings on the pavement to the police department entrance.
Inside they identified themselves to a thin, white-haired desk sergeant and stated the purpose of their business in the Wilson Corners jurisdiction. The sergeant held up his index finger and made a quick phone call. When he hung up, he ushered the detectives to the sheriff’s office and introduced them to a hunched, bald man who sat behind a large wooden desk. Behind him were two large glass-enclosed display boards containing shoulder patches from police departments around the world. Danski had seen similar displays in every chief’s office he’d ever been in.
The man stood and extended his hand. “I’m Chief Lansing,” he said with a big smile. “My sergeant said you fellas have business here in Wilson Corners.”
“Yes” Danski said. “We came up here to see Martin Whitlock. Are you familiar with the name?”
“Oh yes, I know Martin Whitlock very well,” Lansing told them. “He’s a highly respected man in this area. He’s always quick to help somebody when he can and he’s donated quite heavily to some of our town projects. A lot of people have been after him to run for mayor in the coming election. I think he’d have a good chance of winning if he decides to run.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Danski said. “I’m sure Martin’s a good family man and a fine neighbor.”
“Family man!” Lansing scoffed. “Where’d you get that idea? Martin’s a bachelor. He lives all by himself in an old farmhouse he renovated five or six years ago. He put a lot of money into the place and did a very professional job restoring it.”
“I’m sorry. I was under the impression he was married and had children,” Danski lied.
“Uh uh,” Lansing grunted. “He’s dated a few women in Wilson Corners, but nothing ever came of any of them. Last I knew he was seeing Leslie Hart, a waitress at the Corner Cafe, a small restaurant here on Main Street. But I understand Martin and Leslie are no longer a couple.”
Lansing pointed left. “The Corner Cafe is about six blocks from here, but on the opposite side of the street. It’s a nice little place, good food and quick service. You might want to stop off there for a bite before you head back to Manhattan. They open at six in the morning and close at 8 o’clock at night.”
Lansing reached to a coat rack for his hat. “I’m not busy right now. I can escort you to his place myself. It’s only about four or five miles at the most.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Danski said. “We’re only here to make a notification. It’s on the personal side, so we want to keep our visit as low-key as possible.”
“I understand,” Lansing said. He let his hat fall back in place and then provided directions. He gave Danski his business card and told him to call if they got lost or needed him for any reason.
“Please give Martin my regards.”
“Will do,” Dansk said.
Ten minutes later Litchfield turned off the main highway onto a two-lane road that led to a three-story colonial. There were no bicycles or children’s toys anywhere in sight. A tall, lanky, dark-haired man was sitting on a front porch rocker reading a newspaper when Litchfield made the turn into a long, narrow driveway. He put his newspaper aside when Danski and Litchfield got out of their car and headed up the walk.
“Mr. Whitlock?” Danski called out.
“Yes, that’s right. What can I do for you, Detective?”
“Are we that obvious?” Litchfield snickered.
Whitlock grinned. “Jim Lansing called and told me you two were on your way out here to see me.”
“We’re from NYPD’s Cold Case Squad,” Danski said. “We’re investigating your son Jake’s disappearance back in 2013.”
“You don’t think I’ve got him here with me, do you?”
“I guess not,” Danski answered. “That would be too easy.”
“You look pretty healthy,” Litchfield said. “We were told you were killed in a hunting expedition in Africa a year and a half before Jake disappeared.”
Whitlock gave a hearty laugh. “Susan likes to tell that story. The truth of the matter is I got to a point where I simply had enough of her and everything that was going on in our relationship at the time, so I packed a bag and walked away from her and Jake.”
“Just like that?” Danski said.
“Yup, just like that,” Martin answered. “Our marriage was a sham. Susan had numerous affairs and she wasn’t very good at hiding them. It caused me to have my suspicions about Jake’s paternity. It bothered me that I was never able to bond with the boy no matter how hard I tried, so I brought him to my doctor who arranged for him to be tested, and sure enough the DNA showed that he was not my son. He belonged to one of the men Susan was fooling around with at the time.”
“But you signed the birth certificate,” Danski said.
“Yes, I did, but at the time I didn’t know Jake wasn’t my son. I didn’t know about the affairs so I just assumed I was Jake’s father. He was two and a half when I learned the truth. I left them immediately when I found out.”
“So, you’re saying you’ve had no direct contact with Susan since that time?”
“I still provide for her. Fortunately, money is not something I need to worry about, Detecti
ve. I send her a check every month, all completely voluntarily on my part. There was never any discussion about the matter. I send the same amount now that I always sent when she had Jake to take care of.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Danski said.
Martin shrugged.
Litchfield took in the tall trees and mountains behind the house. “This is a very big house and you’ve got a lot of property here. Chief Lansing told us you live here all by yourself. I imagine it can get pretty lonely on a cold winter’s night.”
“What are you getting at, Detective?”
“Did you ever think of marrying again?”
“Obviously, you’re thinking I left Susan for another woman, and that’s not the case. I’ve met a few interesting women here in the Catskills, but you know what they say, once burned, twice careful. I’ve learned to become comfortable on my own. I’ve had a couple of girlfriends over the years, all short-term relationships, but I prefer to be by myself. I’ve got twelve acres here to keep me occupied.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t come back to the city five years ago when you learned Jake was missing,” Litchfield said.
“Why would I, Detective? I knew Jake wasn’t my son. It might sound cold and callous, but the way I saw things, finding him was someone else’s job, not mine. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
The detectives shook their heads. “No sir, I guess not,” Danski said. He gave Whitlock his business card and asked him to call if he thought of anything or came across any information that might help them find Jake.
“Do you know she’s got your rifles in a storage facility in Manhattan,” Litchfield said as he descended the steps.
“It doesn’t matter,” Whitlock grunted. “I’ve got others.”
“One last question,” Danski said. “Do you still have a key to your old apartment?”
Whitlock almost laughed. “No, Detective. When I make a mistake I don’t keep reminders. I left my key on the kitchen table when I left.”
The detectives got back into their cruiser and swung into a turn when they reached the crest of the driveway. “He seems like a very cold-hearted and bitter man,” Litchfield said as they got back on the two-laner.
“I can’t really say I blame him,” Danski said.
“I guess we can head back to Manhattan,”
“School’s back in session,” Danski said. “We could wait for the school bus to come and see if it drops off a boy in front of Martin’s house.”
Litchfield smiled. “I see you don’t trust him.”
“Just a thought,” Danski said.
“Lansing suggested that we stop at the Corner Cafe for lunch before we head back,” Litchfield said. “If it makes you feel any better, we can stop in there and see if Martin’s old girlfriend is working.”
“Good idea,” Danski said. “I’m getting pretty hungry.”
They found the Corner Cafe easily when they reached Main Street. The noon-time crowd was thinning out and there were several open tables. A tall, slim blonde-haired waitress approached their table carrying a glass coffee pot in each hand when they sat.
“Good morning, Leslie,” Danski said after reading the name on the plastic badge pinned to her blouse.
“Coffee?” she asked and both detectives nodded. She raised the pot in her left hand and then the right. “Regular or decaf?”
“Regular,” they both answered and pointed to the pot with the dark rim.
“I’ll be right back to take your order.” She said after pouring. She carried the coffee pots behind the counter and set them on a burner.
“What can I get you?” she said when she returned to their table.
Litchfield ordered a tuna sandwich on rye toast with a side of cole slaw.
“How’s your meatloaf special?” Danski asked.
“It’s always a big hit; everybody loves it,” Leslie answered.
“Then that’s what I’ll have,” Danski said. “With corn, mashed potatoes and plenty of gravy.”
“Are you new in town or just passing through?” she asked and snapped her order book closed after taking their orders.
“We’re up this way on business. While we’re here we wanted to stop in and say hello to an old business acquaintance. Maybe you know him, Martin Whitlock.”
Leslie smiled. “Oh yes, I know Martin very well. We dated for a time until I became convinced that he’s a confirmed bachelor.”
“I was under the impression that Martin was married and had a young son,” Danski said.
Leslie frowned and shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh. He’s been divorced for quite a few years now. No wife, no kids. I would know.”
“It looks like we can cross Martin off our list,” Litchfield said as they watched Leslie rush off. She pulled the order slip from her pad and slid it across the stainless-steel counter to the kitchen.
Chapter Thirteen
That evening Danski ran the facts of the case through his mind as he sat on his patio and stared vacantly at the small boats that passed. Learning that Martin Whitlock was alive moved the man’s name from the obituary column to the number one position on their list of suspects. By noon time, however, those hopes were dashed and the detectives were back to square one, grasping at straws as Gregory called it. For lack of an alternate, Susan Whitlock was once again their sole person of interest. He reached into the cooler for his third Heinekens.
Litchfield was right, Danski had committed the contents of his file to memory. He knew that reading it again wasn’t going to do any good. As he closed the folder and put it aside a business card fell to the ground. He picked it up and studied it for several seconds and then grimaced as he ran it across his fingertips and tried to decide if he should call and discuss the case with John Latimer. “Why not,” he grunted aloud and then tapped the number into his phone pad and waited.
“Sergeant Latimer?” Danski asked and then continued without waiting for confirmation. “This is Detective Danski with the Cold Case Squad. I hope I didn’t call too late.”
Latimer sounded groggy. “It’s one o’clock in the morning,” he said and let out a loud yawn. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t realize it was that late. Time gets away from me sometimes.” Danski said. “I’m working on the Jake Whitlock case.”
“In that case I completely understand,” Latimer said, “I used to have the same problem when I worked the Whitlock case. I was told someone was looking into the case again. How’ve you been doing with it so far?”
“To be honest, not too well. Before we started our investigation my partner and I read over all your reports and it looks like you didn’t leave a stone unturned.”
“I tried not to,” Latimer said.
“Let me ask you this. Did you ever consider that Jake might have disappeared the week before she called the police?”
“No,” Latimer responded, “but that’s an interesting thought. I had no evidence and no inclination or reason to refute the information Susan provided. I took her word for it that her son was taken when she said he was. She said she put him to bed at ten o’clock that night and he wasn’t there in the morning.”
“Yes,” Danski said. “But that doesn’t make sense, does it? According to her, the door to her apartment was locked when she went to sleep and it was locked when she woke up in the morning and let her housekeeper inside. Nothing was disturbed in Jake’s bedroom or in any other part of the apartment, and yet she maintains that someone mysteriously got in and kidnapped the boy.”
“Yes, I agree. I always s thought something was wrong with that story,” Latimer said. “Our TARU team inspected the locks on the door and there was no sign of tampering. In fact, there was no evidence of any type that anyone was in Susan’s apartment that night other than her and Jake. The closest thing we have to real evidence was a grainy tape of someone leaving the lobby with a little boy that we c
ould only assume was Jake.”
“And, the man was never identified.”
“Correct,” Latimer said. “We never learned how the perp got into Susan’s apartment that night, but I felt strongly that Jake was unconscious when he was taken out of there. From that point on, anything is possible. Susan denied knowing the man on the security tape and we were never able to establish a connection. Jake might have been targeted by someone that’s involved in child sex markets – you know, groups that kidnap children and then ship them off to Asia. We investigated all the possibilities. I’m sure you know that white four-year-old children are a commodity there.”
“My partner and I thought Susan might have participated in an illegal adoption and Jake was adopted by a couple that was not able to have children on their own. We know there are a lot of those couples out there.”
“That’s another possibility,” Latimer said.
I’m sure illegal adoptions go on every day of the week in attorneys’ offices all over the city,” Danski said. “But I have a nagging thought that some sick bastard might have been watching Jake, stalking him and Susan, just waiting for the opportunity to snatch him. As far as we’re concerned there’s no doubt that the boy seen on the security camera being carried out of the building that night was Jake and that he’d been drugged.”
“Oh, yes, positively,” Latimer said. “It was a shame TARU wasn’t able to enhance the picture.”
“The man could have been a family friend or relative, another tenant in the building or a complete stranger.”
“Unfortunately, we may never know the answer to that question,” Latimer said.
“What about the FBI” Danski asked. “Were they involved at any time?”
“They joined us late in the day and weren’t around long. They came in, ready to take charge of the case, but once they realized there was nothing to work with and they weren’t going to get a quick headline out of it, they were gone.”
“Yeah, I know how they work,” Danski said. “The possibility we don’t want to consider is that Jake may be dead.”
“That’s the one I feared most,” Latimer said.
While Everyone Was Sleeping Page 7
