by Adam Pepper
“Beats a cab every time, Mr. Blake. Great way to travel.”
“Good. Very good. Let’s have a seat.”
I took a seat on the hard brass bench. What a horrible seat. I’m sure it cost a fortune but my ass was sore from the moment it made contact with the cold, hard seat. The slender pillow didn’t pad the thing a bit.
“So,” Blake said. “Let’s get right to it.”
“Yes…” I paused. As much as I hate to admit it, I was intimated by the man. “Mr. Blake, this is a bit awkward. But we need to clear the air on a few things.”
“Very well. Speak your mind.”
“Remember, I work for you.”
“I was about to remind you of the very same thing.”
“Of course. You pay me to do a job. And I do it. That’s why you hired me. But please understand, I have some very good leads, but I need your full cooperation.” I paused to let him talk, but he didn’t. So, I continued. “You’re a very smart man. I don’t have to tell you the obvious. But bear with me. If you have a lawyer defending you in a case, he needs all the facts in order to best defend you. Same as a doctor, if you go to a doctor to help you get better, he needs to know all the risk factors, your history. Etcetera. Again, I hate to state the obvious, but it’s important that we work together.”
“I understand, Mr. Mondale. But we are dealing with my daughter. I explained when I hired you, she is my life. I will do anything to protect her.”
“Of course you would.”
“Anything at all.”
“Like create a totally outlandish story to cover up something she’d done?”
“Do you have a daughter, Mr. Mondale?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t truly understand.”
“Okay. I’ll give you that. But you do understand, I work for you. I’m not a cop.”
“No, but your friends are.”
“I have a friend who’s a cop.”
“You wanted to be a cop.”
I slumped down and the armrest dug into my back.
“I know all about you, Mr. Mondale. I know about your felony convictions and how they ruined your chances at a career with the NYPD.”
“Are you trying to put me on the defensive, sir?”
“Just letting you know where we stand. You’re not the only one who does his homework.”
“Of course. I know.”
“A cocaine habit. A nasty gambling habit.”
“I don’t do coke anymore. Haven’t touched the stuff in years.”
“A drinking problem.”
“Sir, please don’t change the subject. We need to talk about Mackenzie and her missing friends. The police want to talk to her, and to you.”
“And how do you know that?”
“My friend, Victor’s a cop in the city. He helped me get some information. To help you, and some things have come to their attention.”
“You say you are on my side, and yet you give information to the NYPD that could incriminate my daughter?” His voice didn’t raise, but his blue eyes sharpened and shot a hole right through me.
“Not intentionally. I needed help to piece things together. Quid pro quo. That’s what makes the world go around, Mr. Blake. You of all people know that. I didn’t know I would wind up incriminating Mackenzie.”
“But you did.”
“I may have. But we have to work from here. I need to talk with Mackenzie about her friends. Does she know where they are?”
“No. Maybe they’re together, shacked up somewhere. You know how kids are.”
“That would make a whole lot of sense. But if that’s what happened, then I need to hear that from Mackenzie. And so will the police.”
“She’s asleep right now. I had her doctor prescribe something strong for her. You saw her. She’s an emotional wreck. She needs to rest.”
My cellphone rang. I looked at the number; it was Victor.
“This is Victor now. My detective friend.”
“Very well,” Blake said. “Take the call.”
I stayed in my seat and answered the call. “Victor, what’s up?”
“Hank, I saw Mr. Singh. We have a positive ID on the vagrant.”
“Great. No surprise there.”
“Yeah, but I do have a surprise.”
I shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench and looked away from Blake, whose eyes were affixed on me.
“What is it?”
“Your friend, Blake.”
“Yes, Vic. I’m sitting with Mr. Blake right now.”
“Oh, really. Well that is interesting. You see, I called the Westchester detectives who are working on the Palmer disappearance.”
“Right, and?”
“They told me that Mr. Blake’s head landscaper, Mario Libardi is also missing.”
I looked at Blake but didn’t say a word. He put his index finger to his lips as if eagerly anticipating what I had to say.
Victor continued, “So when I told them about Mackenzie’s two missing pals, they were very interested. That was the first they’d heard of it.”
“I see.”
“They’ve been trying to make a case on Blake since day one. They think Palmer and the gardener both missing has to be connected to the Blakes. Now add this in, they are convinced.”
“I imagine they want to speak to the Blakes.”
“Oh yeah. They’re on their way.”
“Now?”
“Right now. So, if you’re there, I guess your confidentiality thing with your client is blown.”
“Yeah, that’s the least of our problems at this point.”
“I guess so.”
“Thanks for the info, Vic.”
“Yeah, we’ll talk soon. You be careful.”
“I will.”
“Be very careful.”
“Okay. Talk to you later.”
I snapped my flip phone shut, then stuck it in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I took a deep breath.
“So? What did your detective friend have to say?” Blake asked.
“He told me about your gardener.”
“Mario? Yes, we’re all a bit concerned about him. He’s been a loyal employee for many years.”
“And?”
“And, he had a falling out with his wife, I suspect.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know for sure. But it was rumored that they weren’t getting along. I’m not nosy, you know. My employees’ personal lives are none of my business.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“Mr. Mondale, please. This questioning is not necessary.”
“Well, you’re better off getting your story straight with me, because Vic tells me Westchester County police detectives are on their way. Once they heard about Nicki Leifson and Bobby Marks’ disappearances, they became very interested to talk to Mackenzie, and you as well, I’m sure.”
Blake didn’t flinch. His eyes held mine. The stalemate ended quickly.
“I see. I have to make a phone call. Excuse me.”
Blake got up, and left the room. I grabbed an issue of Business Week from the coffee table and thumbed through it with complete disinterest.
* *
At least a half hour passed, then Horace stuck his long, skinny head in and said, “Mr. Mondale, I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem, Horace. Where’s Mr. Blake.”
“I believe he’s meeting with Mr. Greenwal. They should be along shortly.”
“Have the detectives arrived?”
“No. I don’t believe they have.”
“I’d like to talk to Mackenzie.”
“Sir. I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
“Horace. I’m here to help.”
I nudged him out of the way and walked towards the staircase.
He followed behind, his usually calm voice breaking and crackling. “Please, Mr. Mondale. Mr. Blake won’t like this.”
I stopped and grabbed his
arm. “It will be fine, Horace. I’m just going up to Mackenzie’s room to speak with her.”
I turned from Horace and took one step up the staircase towards the third floor where I was met by Marty’s fat belly. He folded his arms and stood his ground, three steps above me. Wes was two steps behind him.
“Come on, buddy. You’re not allowed up there.” Marty said through heavy breath. The walk down the steps was more than his lungs could handle.
I laughed and shook my head. “Fine. That’s fine. Where’s Mr. Blake?”
The doorbell rang. Horace sprang to attention and then walked slowly down the steps, looking frazzled at first, but his dignified manner returned with each step. By the time he got to the door, he was completely recomposed. I followed him down.
“Hello, officers,” Horace said, politely and calmly. “Come right in.”
I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see Blake and Greenwal coming down the steps.
The cops stepped in, ignoring Horace and myself and walked straight towards Thomas Blake.
“Lieutenant Huxley,” Blake said with a plastic smile. “Nice to see you again.”
Blake and Huxley shook hands. Then Huxley scratched his thick, black mustache. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, looked to be close to fifty but in good shape.
“You remember Detective Adams,” Huxley said to Blake.
“Of course,” Blake said and shook the other cop’s hand. Adams had a short haircut and baby face that made him look fifteen years old, although I suspect he was closer to thirty. Then, Blake turned to Greenwal, “You remember my attorney, Mr. Greenwal.”
“Of course,” Huxley responded.
I stood there, shifting my weight from foot to foot. Finally, I cleared my throat. It was obvious that Blake didn’t want me there, but he couldn’t let Lieutenant Huxley know.
“This is Hank Mondale. He works for me.” Blake said.
“Oh?” Huxley asked, “Is he an attorney too?”
“No.” Blake offered no further explanation.
Huxley looked at me with obvious curiosity, but he let it go at that. Victor obviously didn’t mention me or my involvement in the case but Huxley may have had some idea who I was anyway.
“This way, gentleman,” Horace said, and led the way to a large living room that was next to the entrance hall.
Detective Adams followed Horace dutifully, trailed closely by Greenwal. Blake and Huxley looked at each other, then at me. I took the cue and followed next. The two men walked almost side by side behind me.
“Make yourselves comfortable.” Horace said, showing us to a large, comfy beige couch. “I’ll be right back with some coffee.”
I sunk into the soft couch and said to Blake, “This is much better than that awful bench in the library.”
He grunted but didn’t take his eyes off Huxley. Adams and Greenwal sat across from one another. Blake gestured to a brown reading chair for Huxley to sit in.
“That’s quite alright, I prefer to stand.”
“Fine.” Blake sat in the chair himself.
Huxley began scratching his mustache again, pulling two or three hairs at a time. Then he flicked the stray hairs into the air. He took out a notepad and thumbed through it.
Blake got impatient. “Lieutenant, if there’s something you want from me, please get to the point.”
Huxley put his notepad back in his pocket and said, “We’d like to speak with your daughter. We have some questions for her.”
“My daughter is very sick at the moment. That is out of the question.”
“Sick?”
“Yes. Ill. Sick. Feeling horrible. She’s battling a nasty virus. If you must speak with her, once she’s better, we’ll make an appointment to come in to the station.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Blake. That just won’t do. We need to speak with Mackenzie today. It’s very important.”
The clatter of metal rang out, then Horace rolled in a tray with coffee, milk and sugar on it.
“How do you gentlemen like your coffee?” he asked.
“That’s okay. We’ll help ourselves,” Huxley said.
Horace looked at Blake. Blake nodded and said, “It’s okay, Horace. Thank you.”
“Very well.” Horace walked out.
“Help yourselves,” Blake said.
Adams got up and began fixing a cup. Huxley stood in place, then walked to the tray and got himself a cup.
“Just what exactly is this about?” Blake asked. “What is it that you want from Mackenzie?”
Huxley took a sip of the coffee and savored it. “This is really good coffee,” he said, smiling for the first time since he’d entered the house.
“Sure is,” Adams agreed.
The smell was awfully good, so I walked over and got a cup. Blake didn’t look at me, but I could feel him eyeballing me through his peripheral vision.
“Does the name Nicole Leifson mean anything to you?” Huxley asked.
“Of course. Nicki is my daughter’s best friend.”
“I see. How about Bobby Marks?”
“Yes. He’s also a friend of Mackenzie’s.”
Huxley nodded and took another sip of coffee while twirling his moustache with his free hand. Then, he said, “When was the last time you saw either of them?”
“It’s been some time. Get to the point. What is it that you want to know?”
“They are both missing. Are you aware of this?”
“Of course I’m aware of this. I told you, Nicki is Mackenzie’s best friend. They spend practically every day together. Of course I know about Nicki’s disappearance. Mackenzie’s been worried sick about her.”
“And what about Bobby Marks?”
“Mackenzie tells me that he’s missing as well.”
“And does that concern Mackenzie?”
“Of course.”
Huxley slugged loudly, then put the coffee cup down on the tray. He paused and the entire room looked at him.
“You see, Mr. Blake, the last time we spoke, we had two missing persons. Your business partner, Bill Palmer and your gardener, Mario Libardi. Now we have four. And from what we can gather, they were all last seen either here on your property, or with your daughter.”
“I told you all I know about Bill and Mario.”
“And what about Nicole Leifson and Bobby Marks?”
“What about them? Mackenzie thinks they ran off together.”
“Ran off together? The Marks boy has been missing the longest. A bit longer than the girl.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Perhaps Mackenzie can clarify it. I really need to speak with her.”
“I told you, that is impossible right now. As soon as she’s better, we’ll answer all your questions.”
Huxley rubbed his thumb and forefinger together so hard it sounded like teeth grinding. He waved to Adams, who finished his coffee and stood up.
“Mr. Blake,” Huxley said, “I have enough probable cause for a search warrant. I will be back.”
“You’re out of line!” Greenwal shouted. “Probable cause of what? That’s nonsense. Two kids ran off together and a gardener split on his wife. What’s that got to do with Mr. Blake?”
Huxley shook his head. “I’ve been a cop a long time. Those are some awfully unlikely coincidences you’re trying to sell me.”
“We have nothing more to say to you today.” Greenwal said, then called out, “Horace. Please show the officers out!”
Horace entered the room. Huxley turned towards him, then walked out. Adams followed closely behind.
“Have a nice day, officers,” Horace said, then shut the door.
Tension floated through the room like the smoke that drifted upwards from the opulent, ceramic coffee cups—white cups with gold brims. Greenwal looked down, silently. Blake looked up, with a pensive yet angry look on his face. I stayed in my seat and sipped what was left of my coffee.
Finally, I spoke up.
“Mr. Blake, I’d like to see Ma
ckenzie.”
He looked at me, breathed heavily, but didn’t say a word.
“Mr. Blake, please. I am here to help.”
“You’re no help. I should never have hired you.”
“Are you firing me?”
He bit his lip and scowled. Then asked, “Why shouldn’t I? Look at the mess you’ve put me in.”
“Mr. Blake, I apologize. It wasn’t my intention, but sooner or later the NYPD and Westchester cops were going to compare notes.”
“Maybe,” Greenwal said. “Maybe not.”
Blake waved at Greenwal to shut up, and he got the hint.
“Listen to me,” I said to Blake. “I can still help you. I have some idea what’s going on.”
“You do?”
“There have been at least two murders in the city. One in Manhattan and one in the Bronx. We have a suspect. A sketch of a suspect, anyway.”
“So?”
“The suspect is a vagrant. Why don’t I show Mackenzie the sketch. Maybe she’ll recognize the guy.”
Blake didn’t say a word and he didn’t give off any clues as to what he was thinking. But when I looked over at Greenwal, I knew I was striking a nerve in these two.
“Do you know who the vagrant is?” I asked. “Does Mackenzie know him?”
Blake stood up. Then he said, “Okay, Mondale. Have another cup of coffee, and I’ll be back.”
I nodded, and fixed myself another cup of coffee. Greenwal followed Blake.
The wait went on for a while, and thankfully, Horace popped his head in, then showed me to the men’s room as my bladder was about to burst from all the coffee. As I came out and started walking back towards the living room, Greenwal appeared at the top of the staircase.
“Okay, Mr. Mondale. This way.”
I walked up the first flight of steps and met him. Then Greenwal started up the second flight. I followed. We walked down the corridor to Mackenzie’s room. Marty and Wes were standing outside. Marty’s head was in a comic book, laughing like a stoned hyena. Wes was reading a newspaper and rocking out to some tunes coming through headphones. Neither so much as looked up as we passed.
Greenwal opened the door, then said, “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
The smell of stale air and spoiled food wafted about the room. It was dim, and the blinds were drawn. A single lamp on an end table was on. Mackenzie Blake was lying sideways on her bed, sitting atop her comforter. Thomas Blake stood next to her.
