“True. Still, it was worth a try. If you’d corrected her, she could have pretended she misheard. Anyway, maybe she lied about her own name too.”
“Yeah.” Maggie looked glum but didn’t stop chewing. “God, I knew there was something not quite right there. I hope we end up with more identification of her than whatever Identi-Kit portrait I can make.”
“You think they’ll let you try, if they arrest you?”
She shook her head. “I just wish I could remember some of the other things she said. Maybe one would lead us to her somehow.” The cheeseburger was disappearing fast. “Okay. Number two, maybe Rachel is lying.”
“She’s certainly in an ideal position for a kidnapper,” said Nick. “She lives next door, and she’s pregnant so she has a good excuse to ask questions about the details of Muffin’s life.”
“That’s true.” Maggie chewed thoughtfully a moment. “And the parents seem to trust her. She’s even been told about the progress of the case. Knows about the ransom and the stuffed toy. But why would she tell you? And if she took Muffin from Mrs. Golden, why would she claim that she went to Montessori? It’s so easy to check.”
“Well, maybe she did go to Montessori, to throw the police off the scent, and then went to Mrs. Golden later.”
“Won’t wash. Because Steve would have told her where to pick up the kid, and he’d remember.”
“Which brings us to possibility number three,” said Nick.
“Steve my-friends-call-me-Buzz Bradford.” Maggie waved the waitress over and asked for pie and a second glass of milk. Then she continued, “But that won’t wash either. It’s his own daughter.”
“Still,” mused Nick, “it’s simpler if he’s the one who’s lying.”
“How do you mean?”
“If Steve told you the truth, both women have to be lying—Mrs. Golden about the agency, Rachel about where she went to pick up Muffin.”
“Yes.”
“But he’s the one who told you the name of the agency. He’s the one who told Rachel where to look for Muffin. He’s the one who didn’t give his full name or tell you how to reach him in case of trouble.”
“Or ask how to reach me in case of trouble. Right. And he’s the one, maybe, who told Mrs. Golden his name was Hartford.”
“Yes.”
The pie arrived, looking machine-made and aged simultaneously. Oblivious to its provenance, Maggie set to work on it. “I believe it with my head. But it can’t be true!”
Nick, contenting himself with coffee, asked, “Is it that you can’t believe such a successful guy would set you up?”
“Hell, no! For half a million I’d consider setting someone up myself! But Nick, it’s his own daughter!”
“Hey, you know parents aren’t all great. Kids get beaten, abandoned—all kinds of terrible betrayals. Look at Jaymie. At Ramona.”
“Yes,” she said stubbornly, “I know there could be stresses in his life. But we’ve all got stresses. Right now, if Dan can’t adapt his program, we’ll lose money on the Department of Corrections bid. And you’re back to making rounds. Stress, right? And yet Sarah’s the only part of my life that I know for sure won’t be sacrificed. Whatever happens.”
Nick nodded.
She waved in the general direction of Gardenport. “That sister from South Brooklyn told us about families with real problems. How could Steve Bradford have that much stress? All that money makes this place look like Oz to me.”
Nick took her hand. A bony, strong, hardworking hand. He said, “Gladstone was in politics for the money. Lots of mouths to feed, the family estate to maintain. He rose to the top, ran the greatest empire of its day. It’s hard to imagine a more perfect citizen of the world—loyal husband, devoted father, great statesman. But he was always tortured, pulled in one direction by his zeal to reform the world through religion, another direction by his oratorical talents, yet another by his taste for prostitutes.”
“You think maybe Steve got pulled too far in some direction? And wasn’t strong enough to resist? But his daughter—”
“I know. I can’t imagine anything in the world that would lead me to hurt or frighten Sarah. But it’s always a balancing act. Hell, Maggie, you know that from your own life! Maybe he’s got gambling debts, or a blackmailer.” He remembered what Rachel had said about Elaine’s being on a pedestal. “Or maybe he’s just noticed he’s middle-aged and life is passing him by.”
Her thoughtful gaze met his and sharpened, searching for a personal meaning. “What the hell do men think life is?”
“Hey, we’re all given these little idealized pictures—even Gladstone liked to visualize himself as a religious reformer. But it’s damn hard to find idealized exciting images of fathers to emulate. I mean, who are the famous fathers? Lear? Rigoletto? Montague and Capulet?”
“Don’t you dare emulate them!”
“Well, there are a few good guys famous for being dads, but they’re such wimps. Saint Joseph, or the Waltons.”
“Yeah. Don’t emulate them either.” She was smiling at him now, intrigued by his observation.
“Or look at history,” Nick continued. “George Washington, father of his country but not of babies. Jesus was not a father. He’s defined as son. And His father is pretty hard to emulate.”
“True.”
“Or go back into the Old Testament. Good old Father Abraham. Remembered for his readiness to sacrifice his son for the sake of an ideal. Are we to emulate him?”
“You’re suggesting Steve is emulating him?” said Maggie, then suddenly her eyes flared open with excitement. “Oh, God! Abraham!” She sprang to her feet.
“What’s up?”
“Abraham! He lives in Bay Ridge!” She was sprinting to the back of the restaurant toward the telephones.
“Long way from the Holy Land,” muttered Nick to Sarah, who slept on.
Maggie was a long time on the phone. When she returned she looked grim and didn’t sit down. “Espèce de salaud,” she said, snatching up the baby carrier and strapping it on. “Let’s go!”
Hastily Nick picked up Sarah. “Um—mind bringing me up to date? In English, please.”
“We’re going back to the station. That son of a bitch! Where the hell is our bill?”
“Coming, I think,” said Nick as he slid Sarah into the carrier. The waitress, alarmed by the obvious signs of hasty departure, was scribbling on a pad and in a moment had brought it to them.
Maggie was already at the door. “Okay. Hurry. Let’s see if we can catch the quarter to three.”
Outside he had to stretch a little to match her long, angry strides. “I can tell it’s serious,” he said, “because you’re swearing in French and because you left half your pie. Is it Steve?”
“Yes. Unless Mrs. Golden is the best liar ever. Which is still possible, I suppose.”
“You spoke to her? Father Abraham appeared in a vision and gave you her phone number?”
They had paused grudgingly for a light, but Maggie started across the street as soon as the traffic thinned. “God, Nick, bear with me! I’ll try to be coherent. First, it’s not Father Abraham. It’s Nephew Abraham. Jerry Abraham of Bay Ridge, her sister’s son. Jerry wasn’t home, but his wife was, and she gave me Mrs. Golden’s phone number.”
“Golden is her real name, then?”
“Unless this is a more elaborate setup than seems probable. I called the number Mrs. Abraham gave me, and there she was. Chatty as ever.”
“What did you say?” he asked nervously.
“Well, in case she’s involved in the kidnapping, I didn’t want to let her know that I knew about it.”
“Right.”
“So I told her I was the one who brought Muffin to her yesterday. She might have recognized my voice anyway. I said I’d just discovered Muffin’s sweater among Sarah’s things, and I wanted to give it back and needed the parents’ phone number. Did she have it? No, she said, Mr. Hartford said he’d be at a lot of different numbers in his job, so
he’d call her.”
“Hartford again?”
“She was sure. He spelled it for her on the phone.”
“Hartford for her, Buzz for you—looks damning. Let’s jump to the punch line, okay? Where’s Muffin?”
“Douglaston. Two stops down the line from here. There’s a church drop-in babysitting service near the main street. Mr. Hartford called her last night and said he’d been held up, please keep Muffin overnight at the apartment. He said he’d add a hundred dollars to her fee. So she said fine. Then early this morning he called again and told her to take Muffin to the drop-in center in Douglaston. He or his wife would pick her up. She objected a little, but he said he’d already messengered a package there with her pay. She went, the package with her pay was there, so she left the little girl and took her money back home.”
“So we call Elaine Bradford.”
Maggie shook her scarfed head. “Not unless Muffin is really there. If she’s not, if Mrs. Golden is lying or if Steve has moved her again, the cruelest thing we could do to that woman is raise a false alarm. Look, here comes the train. Sarah and I will get off at Douglaston and see if we can locate Muffin, and you—”
“Maggie, you’re already a suspect! You should stay away from her!”
Maggie found a set of seats facing each other, flopped into one of them, and propped her feet on the one across. “I’d send you, but you don’t know what Muffin looks like. Besides, you have to get back to the loft to collect your paycheck, right? That was our deal.”
“We could call the police. Anonymously.”
“This is quicker. You saw Elaine Bradford’s face, Nick. Muffin probably feels the same way.”
“Shouldn’t I at least take Sarah?” The train was easing out of the station.
She smiled, almost apologetically. “I’m afraid it’s nearly moo-cow time again. Nick, really, I’ll be careful. I’ll keep my hair hidden and do my best not to look like a shifty-eyed kidnapper. But if Mrs. Golden was telling the truth, and Steve Bradford did this—well, we can’t wait! We can’t give that son of a bitch the chance to get away with it.”
Nick knew that determined look: Maggie as Valkyrie, as pursuing Fury. There was no stopping her now. And he had to admit that he agreed—however pure Bradford’s motive might be, even if he was trying to get the half million for his family, the pain suffered by that woman and the little girl was too cruel, too high a price. Nick almost hoped Mrs. Golden was lying. But he was still uneasy. “Look, I’ll be back at the rehearsal loft in less than an hour. Call me there, okay? Before you contact Elaine Bradford, before you call the police, before you go after Mrs. Golden if Muffin isn’t there. If you haven’t called by four o’clock, I’ll call out the Mounties.”
“It’s a deal,” said Maggie.
But it was still with a sense of foreboding that Nick watched them leave the train at Douglaston.
Even on the street outside the loft building he could tell that something was wrong. A young police officer, pale and squinting in the unaccustomed sun, was standing in front of Anna Maria’s window. He watched sharply as Nick entered the stair hall. A second officer, older, black, with profoundly sad dark eyes, was waiting on the landing, gazing up toward the door of the rehearsal loft. “Excuse me. Is it all right to go up?” Nick called. The dark eyes cataloged him, swiftly and professionally. “You involved with this show?”
“Yes. An actor.”
“Go ahead, then. We’re about to leave.”
Nick climbed past him and opened the battered door to the loft. The dismal tableau that greeted him increased his misgivings. Daphne, dressed neatly in a navy suit and a white blouse, armor for the upcoming hearing, no doubt, stood proudly near the center of the room, head high, tears rolling silently down her thin cheeks. Derek, bewilderment clear in the helpless gesture of his arm, was asking, “But what did she say?”
A black girl in a pink dress, little Mellie, gripped the hem of Daphne’s jacket. In a tiny voice she said, “‘What kinda motherfucker are you? We just kids.’ But then I was running cause she said run. So I didn’t hear no more. Only—only—” She turned her face into Daphne’s jacket.
Daphne laid a protective hand on the small head. “Enough of this,” she said, her voice rough. “Derek, you’ll do that thing for us?”
“Of course. Call me when you can. Daphne, I’m so very sorry.”
“Yeah.” Daphne took the girl’s hand tenderly and hurried out. Nick held the door for them, but in her distraction she didn’t even say hello. At the landing she glanced at the mournful officer and said, “Let’s go.” The three disappeared around the turning.
“What’s up?” Nick asked Derek.
“God, I don’t understand! She said—but I’m not very clear, Nick. It’s a nightmare, a dream. Ever since they told me about Ramona, nothing seems sensible. It’s as though everything is ticking along underwater.” He spread his fingers, frowned at his hands. “I do things physically and it’s as though someone else is doing them.”
“Yeah. Everything loses its real meaning.”
“It’s so hard to concentrate …” He gazed at the big window with vacant eyes. “Ken Martin will be coming about four, you know that?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here. I came early because I’m expecting a phone call. Um—what happened with Daphne?”
“Oh, right, you didn’t hear. She was at Anna Maria’s, and the children were to meet her there. But—”
The door opened and Jaymie demanded, “What’s happened? I saw Daphne out there and she won’t talk to me!” Distractedly she fingered the strap of her tote bag. “There were policemen!”
“Yes,” said Derek. He passed a hand back across his dull hair and concentrated on his listeners. “What happened was this. The two kids were coming to meet Daphne. They were meeting her at Anna Maria’s for an after-school bite before they went to the hearing. But apparently when they got off the A train at Canal Street, someone accosted them underground.”
Nick felt chilled. It was a station of tunnels and corners. He’d just come from there himself. Maggie and Sarah would be there soon. In a voice that was suddenly hoarse he repeated, “Accosted?”
“Went for them, the little sister said. The fellow had a ski mask and a gun. Callie told her to run, so she did. But apparently he’d grabbed Callie’s arm and she yelled at him. Cursed him and said—they were just kids.” Derek looked away suddenly and swiped at his eyes with the cuff of his sweater.
Jaymie sank onto a folding chair too, trembling. Nick cleared his throat and asked, “What happened?”
“He killed her.”
Tough, outspoken little Callie. Nick blinked at the grimy floor.Mine eyes dazzle; she died young.
XIV
Friday, 3:30 PM
March 9, 1973
On his way back from changing Busby’s marked bills for unmarked at the bank, to let everyone see that things were normal, Steve paused to discuss the weather with two of his subordinates. Then he returned to his own office suite. “I’m back, Myra,” he called.
“Oh, Mr. Bradford! Mr. Lugano is here. You didn’t have any appointments so I let him go on back to your office to wait.”
Damn. Well, he’d just have to get rid of him. Steve managed to smile and say, “Thanks, Myra.”
Lugano was sitting behind the desk. He stood with a polite smile, but Steve had already seen that the drawer was open. Damn, why hadn’t he locked it?
“Hello, Bradford, good to see you!” said Lugano genially. “Do you have time to discuss our offering now?”
“Why, yes, why not?” stammered Steve. He saw then that Lugano was pushing a neatly printed note toward him.
“Don’t delay the ransom delivery! I’ll explain,” read the note. Damn! How had he found out about the ransom? Busby, no doubt. Aloud, Lugano was saying, “Would you mind walking across to our lawyer’s with me?”
Belatedly Steve remembered that Lugano thought the office might be wired. “Yes, um, of course.”
“Here’s a summary.” This was cover for a second note: “Ransom is $50,000 short.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Steve hesitated, then pulled the unmarked bills from inside his jacket. He had to look cooperative until Lugano left. “I was just—ah—cleaning up some details.”
Lugano understood. A shadow of disapproval flitted across his face, but he accepted the packet and added it to the others. “Don’t forget your briefcase.” The amber eyes were sympathetic as he slid the plastic bag of money into the tired plush toy and held it out to Steve. Helping out the foolish, rattled parent.
“Of course not. Here it is,” said Steve. He was rattled, in fact. He tucked the sagging bear into his briefcase and squeezed it closed again. Thank God he was already carrying the little gun and the passport, he thought with an inward shudder. What if Lugano had found them too?
Halfway down the hall Steve paused. “Damn! Forgot my pen,” he said. “I’ll be right along.” He hurried back into the office and came out again instantly, sliding the pen into his pocket.
Lugano’s face was still sympathetic. “Your briefcase,” he reminded Steve gently.
“Oh! Right.” Steve dodged back to pick it up again. So that wouldn’t work. Silly to try, he realized now. He’d better not push his luck; those sympathetic eyes could turn predator, he knew. Well, okay, Steve, play it by ear. In Venezuela, José Santos would be improvising all the time. Better find a way now. Good practice.
But outside he couldn’t help asking, “Did my father-in-law call you?”
“Yes. On his way out of town.” Lugano was brief. “I know you’re worried. But it would be invaluable if we could see the pickup. We really would like to catch these fellows.”
“But I want my little girl home safe!”
“Of course. Don’t worry, with an open-air exchange on Canal Street we can stay completely hidden. But we want photos.”
“I see. You won’t go after them?”
“I promise. When we hear that your daughter is home safely, then we’ll start working. Seriously, Bradford, our goals are exactly the same as yours.”
Not quite, thought Steve despairingly. He said, “I know. But I’m damned nervous. Couldn’t you pull back? Stay out of it, just as their note demanded?”
Rehearsal for Murder Page 17
