During his term as county executive, he was the chief administrative officer of county government. He was elected for four years and had a high approval rating when he decided not to seek reelection from the voters of Long Island. His expertise on budgets, program services, and labor relations proved to be what most considered an extremely successful term during his tenure, however it was his relationship with the police department and its force that created the quick response that was given to William Lance.
Special Agent Jack O'Connor arrived at the door within the hour. Though he was not convinced foul play was involved, he took information from both William Lance and Robert Simpson as to Deborah Lance's trail. He then drove to the Cross Island Ferry, which was getting ready to close for the evening, and realized there was no way to verify that Debbie had in fact took the vessel other than her father being a eye witness to her driving on to the boat. Only a reservation would have been documented proof that she was on the boat once she checked in. He knew then it was going to be a long weekend.
Sunday, June 5
Special Agent O’Connor was back at the Lance house Sunday morning, and it was clear because no one had heard from her that there was a mystery surrounding the disappearance of Debbie Lance. The FBI agent had already been informed that the Charger she was driving was found about a half-mile from the ferry. He ordered the car to be impounded immediately for forensics to go over it. Still, the possible scenarios were a concern. Anything could have happened on the water, or after the car was driven off the ferry. Regardless of how it happened or why, Debbie Lance was nowhere to be found.
William Lance had called in a favor and requested help from the Suffolk County Police Department. As a courtesy to the former county executive of Suffolk County, the current administration called the police commissioner, who in turn called detective lieutenant Kevin Cronin to send someone out to the house. Although this was not a murder case yet, Cronin recognized this was a special inquiry that needed attention. He sent detectives Paul Powers and Bud Johnson to Belle Terre to speak with the FBI. As they were approaching the mansion on Cliff Road, Agent O’Connor was leaving and asked the detectives to meet him at the security building, which was located about a quarter-mile down Cliff Road near the entrance to the Belle Terre community.
When they got out of their vehicles, O’Connor was not friendly and immediately demanded to know why two Suffolk detectives were intending to go to the house.
“This is being handled by the FBI. Let me make that clear,” he said.
“Hold on,” Bud Johnson replied as he held up his hands. “Don’t shit your shorts.”
“What?” O’Connor replied.
“Listen,” Paul Powers interrupted. “We’re here as a courtesy to the Suffolk County executive. All we want to know is information and to offer any help we can and take a look at the evidence so far.”
O’Connor looked at Bud for a moment and started to calm down. The agent reviewed the chain of events and the evidence to date with the two detectives. “She actually had boarded the ferry to go to Connecticut. As of now, how she disappeared off the ferry is the big question.”
As he spoke, Paul Powers had many thoughts in his brain as to the possibilites. O’Connor continued, saying, “We believe it’s likely to be a kidnapping. Bridgeport police found her 2010 Charger abandoned a half-mile from the ferry in Bridgeport.” Agent O’Connor thanked the detectives for their offer but told them the agency would handle it.
As the three men parted ways, O’Connor noticed Bud Johnson looking behind him and, as Johnson opened his car door, yelled to him. “What was that about?” O’Connor hollered.
Bud replied as he got in the car. “I like to look at asses.”
“Oh,” Agent O’Connor answered. “A comedian on the case, just what we need.”
Ignoring the banter between Bud and O’Connor, Powers called the Bridgeport Police Department for information on the abandoned car. As they drove off toward the ferry, Paul spoke. “I want in on this case. Listen, it’s Sunday. I’m going to get on the ferry, and I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. I have to refresh my memory on a few things.” Bud knew there was no talking Paul out of things once he started with his theories. Paul got out of the car and walked over to the ticket office, paid cash, and waited to board the next ferry to Connecticut as a pedestrian. “See you tomorrow, partner,” he said to Bud.
Paul rode the ferry back and forth twice Sunday and again on Monday. There was still no word on the whereabouts of Debbie Lance or any communication from the potential kidnappers. The more he thought about it, the more he became obsessed with what happened to Debbie Lance. He started pushing numbers on his BlackBerry to make calls. First Rachelle, then Allan, his high school friend who was now head of security in Belle Terre, and then Timothy, the co-owner of Timothy’s Bar and Grill, a bar and grill on Main Street in the village. He set up a meeting to talk to them. He had a plan. They set a time when they could all get together Wednesday evening, unless the case was solved by Tuesday.
He walked up the stairs to his apartment and played his messages back. Kevin Cronin’s voice boomed over the machine. “Paul, it’s me. Listen, your visit yesterday was a courtesy call. Let’s not get tangled up with the FBI unless we are asked. After all, this is not a murder.”
As Paul undressed, the messages continued, and it was Kevin Cronin again. “Off the record, I don’t believe it’s fair of me to tell you what to do with your own time. I’m a firm believer that preventing murder is more important than solving a murder.” As the call disconnected, Paul smiled. The detective strongly felt he knew how Debbie Lance had disappeared. Why she had disappeared was another story. One look at the Pink Mansion, and he assumed money may be the motive.
Paul had grown up in the Village area of Port Jefferson and grew to love it so much that when his father moved to Florida, he stayed. He could not afford a home in the Village but was lucky to find the apartment above Z Pita restaurant. During his years of growing up and going through the police academy, Paul rode the ferry hundreds of times back and forth to Connecticut. The one thing he noticed as a cop was the lack of security on the ferry. He was never stopped while carrying a gun and was never stopped when he had a shotgun in the trunk. He had other concerns about the lack of security and realized those same concerns could be the reason that whatever happened was pulled off, most likely while the ferry was on the water. He knew if someone was going to get killed or kidnapped, it was very possible to accomplish it on the ferry, and he felt confident he could prove it.
Wednesday, June 8
The evening was cold for June. Usually Paul would just wear a dark T-shirt when he went out for the night. He was so used to not wearing a jacket that he suffered in the cold when not wearing one. As he entered the bar, he could see Timothy, Rachelle, and Allan sitting at the far table. He studied their eyes as they conversed. Something amused Rachelle, and she continued to giggle at whatever words were coming from Timothy. Paul found her laugh attractive. He noticed how her eyes sparkled when she laughed. His concentration was broken when Timothy let out a laugh that sounded like Santa Claus, except he said “Ha, Ha, Ha” instead of “Ho, Ho, Ho.”
A couple at the second table from the wall began to argue so loudly that the entire bar turned their heads. It ended quickly with a slap to the man’s face before the woman ran out of the bar. The man she left behind, shaken and embarrassed, looked around with a nervous smile and then stared down at his drink.
As Paul approached his three friends’ table, he smiled at Rachelle and appreciated it when she reciprocated with her Julia Roberts smile. “Hi there!” she said with a hug. Paul acknowledged Timothy with a polite hello and gave Allan a hug. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I asked you to come tonight because I need your help.”
Timothy, Allan, and Rachelle knew what it was about. There was no doubt it was about the kidnapping at the Cross Island Ferry. Paul believed it was time to get some ad
ditional help even if it was not through normal channels. Timothy, as much as he annoyed Paul, was the self-appointed “mayor” of Port Jefferson, as the co-owner of Timothy’s on East Main Street. It was a popular hangout for all the locals. Rachelle was the hostess and co-owner of Z Pita restaurant, which Paul frequented for many reasons. But it was Rachelle he had become attracted to over the past few years.
She was 5’5” tall with eyes the color of the Pacific Ocean and the perfect figure to match. She started as a waitress at Z Pita while going to school and became so interested in business that she combined her interest of writing about restaurants and local happenings in the Port Jefferson area in the local paper, Port Jeff Now, or the Now, as it was commonly referred. Her writing talents won her awards, and she was most proud of the article “The History of Drowned Meadow,” which was Port Jefferson’s original name. This was due to the business district becoming a marshland that flooded with every high tide. The name was used until 1836, when it was changed to Port Jefferson. The Now promoted her to writing more serious articles about the quiet village. Her business acumen was so well respected by Z Pita majority owner Joey Z that he offered her equity in the restaurant to insure she would stay with him during her goal of being a respected writer on Long Island. He also hoped it would encourage her to stay even after she established herself in journalism. Rachelle was so busy with her goals that at the age of 28 she had not been out on a date in more than two years. Paul thought that was a waste, but he was happy there wasn’t anyone in her life. He held out hope that they would eventually have an opportunity to know each other on a different level.
At 29, Paul moved up fast in the Suffolk County Police Department. He became the youngest detective sergeant of the homicide squad in Long Island’s history at age 26. He worked day and night on his cases when he was not at the gym. He knew it was because he did not have a family of his own that he had the time to focus on his cases. He was at the peak of his physical and mental conditioning.
Paul told the group his thoughts on the case. Though Debbie could have disappeared once she reached Connecticut, he felt that it happened somewhere over the Long Island Sound on the vessel itself and believed he knew how it was pulled off. Since this was being handled by the FBI and it wasn’t a murder, it wasn’t Paul’s case, but progress was going nowhere. It was odd to him that she had been gone four days already with no leads. He decided to work on his own time. He rode the Cross Island Ferry back and forth five or six times, studying every possible way she could have driven onto the boat to never be seen again.
He asked Timothy to keep his ears alert and eyes open at the bar that had his name on the front sign. The people involved in the kidnapping had to be local. William Lance was not well known outside of the Long Island area, plus they were apparently comfortable pulling this off on the ferry. Allan was head of security in Belle Terre and had been Paul’s best friend since junior high school. Married with two children, life was difficult on a security officer’s salary, but his wife Ann worked as a freelance artist, which helped make ends meet in the expensive little village. Even with Allan’s job and his wife working, it still would not be enough to afford Belle Terre if it had not been for his inheritance from his parents.
As drinks were served at the table, Paul explained to his three friends that he felt strongly about how the job was pulled off and asked if they wanted to take a ride with him on the ferry Saturday. He would show them. All three of them were intrigued enough to say they would meet him on the 9:00 am ferry. Paul said they should meet him at the pedestrian walk-on area. They said good-bye, and Paul offered to walk Rachelle home. She lived up on Prospect Street in a little house at the top.
Paul had walked Rachelle home from the restaurant a few times after closing during the past year. He could never understand why it never went further than wonderful talks, walks home, and even her sitting down with him at Z Pita when he was alone, which was often. She usually stayed up front at Z Pita and decorated the place during the holidays. It was Joey who constantly walked around and around to make sure everyone was happy and the staff was working.
Z Pita had become a local favorite because of Joey Z. It was not just about the good food and good service. He had turned the place into something very comfortable. He was famous for constantly walking around the two sides of the restaurant making sure everything was going smoothly not only with the customers but with the service. Even his business card, which said ATHENS TO ROME underneath his trademark Z Pita logo, had the words “a friend you haven’t met” underneath his name on the card. He had turned 217 Main Street into a place to come back to over and over again. The word owner used to be on the card, but when he gave Rachelle 3 percent ownership to stay on, he was respectful to update his card to say host. Joey Z, with
Rachelle’s help, kept the standards high.
“I believe,” Paul said, “you writing about this will help put an end to this quickly.” Paul gave Rachelle a quick hug as they walked up the hill to her home, as if to say, “I’ll keep you warm.” Rachelle liked Paul and was comfortable with him. She always felt safe around him, knowing he was a marksman with a 9mm Glock.
“Why are you so interested in this?” Rachelle asked Paul.
“It’s my nature as a cop,” he replied. “Plus something isn’t right. There’s more to this than someone being kidnapped, and besides, you want this town to be safe, don’t you? Nothing like this has ever happened since the Belle Terre murders over 20 years ago.”
“I suppose so,” she replied. “I guess I should be excited about writing the story you want me to do, but I guess I’m a little nervous about it.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Paul answered. “I just thought if you write about it, we may draw whoever is responsible out.”
Rachelle laughed and said, “Paul, it’s been all over the front pages since it happened.”
“True,” he replied, “but not including my theory, which I’m going to show you.”
They reached the top of Prospect Street too fast for Paul. Paul loved the way the wind brushed Rachelle’s hair in front of her eyes. It was almost an awkward moment, but then Rachelle’s younger sister Madison opened the door to break it up.
“Hi, Paul! How’s it going?”
“Going great, Madison,” he said, as he looked at Rachelle.
“Good night,” she said, as she hugged him.
Paul thought maybe he was beating a dead horse trying to be more than friends. As he reached the sidewalk he heard Madison’s voice from the window. “Good night, Detective Powers. Thank you for walking my sister home.” Clunk, he heard the window shut. Madison was an interesting character. Her voice tone was half-childish when she thanked him, but he knew her well enough to know she was sincere in her expression. She was Rachelle’s younger sister at 26, but 5’9” and a dance instructor, she was in perfect physical condition and always protective of her older sister. She had Rachelle’s blue eyes but a totally different personality. She would talk to anyone about anything, maybe because she talked with kids all day and couldn’t wait to talk to an adult. Paul walked down the hill to his apartment above Z Pita and was so tired he fell on the bed with his clothes on, turned on the television, and fell asleep within a few minutes.
Thursday, June 9
It was 8:06 on the digital clock when Paul opened his eyes. His gaze roamed his apartment as he lay there. He thought it was a pretty decent bachelor pad. Originally it was two small apartments when Paul had moved in five years earlier, but after two tenants in the other apartment had payment problems in quick succession, Paul suggested to Joey Z that if he made it one large apartment, he would stay for five years. Joey liked how conscientious Paul was in paying his rent, and having a regular customer in the restaurant who was a cop was only icing on the cake. It was safe to say that Joey Z considered Paul a man he could trust. He quickly revised the apartment to suit Paul.
As Paul continued to adjust his
eyes and convince himself to get up, he looked at all the things in his room that shaped his personality. The CDs on his bureau consisted of Taylor Swift, Pink, Jewel, The Corrs, and Olivia Newton-John. He liked female voices when listening to music. He found he relaxed and enjoyed the songs more than when listening to a male voice. The photos on his bedside table were of his mom, who had passed away when he was 28, and his dad, who was forced to retire as a senior buyer at Woolworth when they closed the stores down in 1997. His father was full of anger when he lost his job at 48 and had to start over in middle management at K-Mart, where he worked until he was 60.
His dad, Anthony Powers, always liked to tell the story of what he felt destroyed Woolworth. He had planned to attend the stockholders meeting when the new upper management changed the name to Venator, which means hunter in Latin and a type of Roman gladiator. This proved to be a disaster, and eventually the name was changed to Foot Locker, after one of its successful specialty stores, in November 2001. Anthony Powers was a proud man, and it hurt him greatly to watch what was once a great company be completely ruined by “outside” management brought in by the chairman. Anthony claimed if he had the talent and patience, he would write a book of not only the fall of Woolworth but its secrets that lay dormant to this day.
The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel Page 2
