Next of Kin

by James Tucker

  A moment later he put on his peacoat, scarf, and gloves. He unlocked the front door to the apartment and peeked outside.

  A single lamp on an oak table lit a dim path to the elevator. The doorways to four apartments faced the hallway. He saw nothing dangerous.

  He closed the door behind him and walked along the dark-gray carpeting. In the small elevator lobby he pressed the button on the wall. As he waited, he thought about what to do with Trevor. Maybe they could go to the movies. He had enough money. When Mr. Sawyer and the police had taken him to his home to pack some clothes and his schoolbooks, laptop computer, and iPad, he’d gone into his parents’ bedroom. In the top drawer of his father’s dresser, he’d found a stack of money and taken all of it. He wasn’t a thief. He knew the money was his.

  A minute later he left the building’s main-floor lobby, absently waved and said hello to the doorman, and walked out into the bright sun and the January cold. He stood on the sidewalk along the wide sweep of West End Avenue and looked both ways, but saw nothing strange. Then he gazed at the people on the north side of Sixty-Sixth Street.

  Nobody seemed to be watching him.

  He turned east toward Central Park. As he crossed West End, he sensed that he was being followed or at least observed.

  He stood against the building on the southwest corner of the intersection at Amsterdam Avenue and looked to the west, the direction he’d come from. He studied the pedestrians. He saw a mother pushing a stroller, a gray-haired businessman who was dressed in a gray suit and carrying an attaché case, and teenagers holding hands. The teenagers wore blue jeans and Converse All Star sneakers, and they ignored him as they passed on their way to the park. He saw other people walking and a few joggers. Nothing seemed out of place among the throngs of people looking at their iPhones or moving to the beat of their earbuds.

  Yet he was afraid.

  Determined to escape this unseen and unknown person, he waited for the “Don’t Walk” light at the intersection to blink six times, and then he pushed off from the building wall behind him, sprinted across Amsterdam Avenue, and ran as fast as he could toward Central Park.

  Chapter Eight

  “Ma’am, please lower the gun,” Buddy said, slowly but firmly. “Or I’ll have to arrest you.”

  The young woman didn’t catch the irony in Buddy’s order, but she did as he asked. She had long black hair, dark eyes, a sturdy frame. And a hostile expression.

  Buddy moved to her left. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Onata.”

  “That’s a nice name. Native American?”

  She nodded. “Iroquois.”

  As she turned her head to follow Buddy’s movement, she didn’t see Ward approaching from her right. With a single motion he grabbed the shotgun away from her. Drawing back in surprise, she watched as he opened the breach, emptied the single shell into a waiting hand, and carefully set the gun on the green marble countertop. Yet she appeared docile and less frightened than when she’d had them cornered. She watched as Ward pulled his phone from an interior pocket of his parka and dialed.

  “Mr. Sawyer?” Ward said. “The tunnel led to the lodge. We’re at the back in a food-storage room.”

  Ward hung up. Buddy, Ward, and Onata stood quietly. Nobody spoke.

  Buddy listened for other sounds in the lodge but heard nothing. The place was eerily calm. He looked at Onata. “Did you know about the tunnel?”

  “Nah.” She shook her head.

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Three years.”

  He asked, “Were you here on New Year’s Eve?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you see or hear anything unusual?”

  She hesitated.

  Buddy said, “Please don’t obstruct a murder investigation, Onata. That wouldn’t be smart.”

  Her eyes flickered. “After the family had their champagne and omelets around midnight, I heard nothing until the sirens. The boy must have called for help.”

  Buddy leaned back against the counter and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. He tried to be relaxed and put the young woman at ease. “What happened before midnight?”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She said, “They were fighting.”

  “Fighting?”

  “Well, not really fighting. Not with fists or anything. Arguing, more like.”

  Buddy nodded slowly. “About what?”

  Onata said, “About money.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I’ll pay,” Ben said.

  Trevor hesitated. “Movies are boring.”

  They were standing at the corner of Sixty-First and Madison, high-end stores and office buildings around them. Trevor was an inch taller than Ben, with blond hair and blue eyes. Dressed in his school uniform of khakis, a white Brooks Brothers button-down, and a navy-blue blazer under a gray overcoat, he looked as if he were headed to work in a law firm. But he’d done plenty of illegal things already, and he was only ten.

  Ben knew this, and knew that he needed to convince Trevor to play all afternoon with him. Because even now, even as they stood on the busy corner of Madison Avenue, he sensed that someone was watching him.

  Ben said, “I’ll pay for the tickets and popcorn. Sodas and candy, too.”

  Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you care about the stupid movie?”

  Ben said, “Come on. Nobody will find out.”

  After a moment Trevor shook his head, turned away from Ben, and looked around. “Let’s go to Starbucks.”

  Ben tried not to let his disappointment show. Or his confusion. Trevor had always wanted to play with him, not just in the city but also during their summers in Sagaponack. Their parents had been close, and Trevor’s little sister had been Ellen-Marie’s best friend.

  They walked a few blocks to Starbucks, both pretending the winter winds didn’t bother them. Trevor ordered a hot chocolate, and Ben ordered a second and paid for both.

  They found a table by the windows. Ben took off his gloves, unbuttoned his coat, and loosened his scarf. He watched to see if Trevor did the same, but his friend kept his gloves on and his overcoat buttoned.

  Ben said, “Did you get the new Star Wars video game?”

  Trevor nodded. “Yeah. Pretty cool.” With a gloved hand Trevor pushed a lock of his blond hair out of his eyes.

  “What level did you get to?”

  “I dunno. Four, maybe.”

  “I’m at level six.”

  “I’d be there, too, if I didn’t have school.”

  Ben didn’t respond.

  Trevor said, “When are you coming back to school?”

  Ben saw his hands begin to shake. He put them in his lap. “Soon, I guess. But maybe a different school.”

  Trevor nodded. “Yeah. Don’t come back to Browning.”

  “Why not?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  Trevor stared at him. Then he looked away and took a sip of his hot chocolate.

  Ben said, “Why does it matter where I go?”

  Still, Trevor wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Why?” Ben asked again.

  At last Trevor looked at him and said, “Wherever you go, bad things will happen. My mom told me.”

  Ben felt his face warm. He wanted to argue with his friend but didn’t know what to say.

  Trevor got up from the table and peered down at him. He said, “My mom told me I should stay away from you. So I shouldn’t even be here. Not with you.”

  Ben watched Trevor walk out the door and disappear up the street. As he sat there alone at the table and alone in the world, he faced out the window so no one could see him cry.

  Chapter Ten

  “Ben?”

  Nan Sawyer had woken in the living room, surprised that she’d slept during her soap. Taking care of a young boy had tired her more than she expected. Putting aside the quilt, she stood carefully and walked toward the small bedroom.


  “Ben?” she called again.

  Perhaps, she thought, he was napping. Didn’t young boys take naps? She didn’t know. She and Ray had never been able to have children.

  Yet Ben wasn’t in the spare bedroom. He must have gone into the kitchen for a snack, she decided, and padded quickly toward the kitchen. She hoped he’d found the orange juice she’d bought for him, the cheese and crackers.

  “Oh!” she said when she entered the kitchen. “Who are you? Why do you have that . . . ? What are you doing? No!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ben returned to the Sawyers’ apartment building after he was able to stop crying at the Starbucks. It had taken a long time. He’d drunk all his hot chocolate and many times wiped his eyes. Wiped his nose. Tried to keep other people from hearing him sob. One of the employees, a young woman wearing a green apron, had heard him, come over, and asked if he was okay.

  “Yes,” he’d said, “just a cough.”

  She’d eyed him carefully for a moment. “Would you like me to call your mom or dad?”

  He’d felt as if he was going to be sick. Unable to speak, he’d turned his whole body toward the window. Then he’d begun to shake, and was afraid the woman would call the police. So he got up and averted his face as he pushed past her and out onto the sidewalk. The bracing air outside made him feel a little better, but not much.

  Now, for the first time, he’d be glad to see Mrs. Sawyer.

  “Good afternoon, Ben,” said the doorman.

  “Hi,” Ben replied.

  He walked into the lobby and pressed the button for the elevator. As he waited, he turned around and faced the full-length mirror opposite the elevator doors. He saw his red eyes. He wished his hair were long enough to hide his entire face. He wished it were brown instead of black. He wished that he were taller. Mostly he wished that everything were okay and that his mother and father and Ellen-Marie were alive.

  Sometimes he’d pretend they were away on a long holiday. Ellen-Marie would dress up like a princess and order everyone around, her long hair flowing over her shoulders and a tiara on her head. His mother and father would be near her, laughing along and holding hands.

  Yet he knew these were only wishes and dreams. He knew his family was dead. On New Year’s Day the police hadn’t allowed him back into his family house at Camp Kateri. But he’d guessed the details of what they found. He’d overheard one of the local police say, Must have been an ax or a hatchet.

  When he thought of the last few moments of their lives, his mind seized up and he found himself staring at nothing, having not moved or thought about anything he could remember for long periods of time. Except he’d develop a stomachache and his hands would be damp with sweat.

  As the elevator chimed and the doors opened, he turned from the mirror and walked inside. The doors closed and a few moments later opened onto the fourth-floor hallway. As he was stepping out of the elevator, he stopped.

  There it was.

  The scent.

  The same one he’d noticed on New Year’s Eve when he hid in the tunnel to the lodge. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. His eyes focused on the Sawyers’ door. It was no more than twenty feet from him.

  He reached behind himself and put out his hand to prevent the door from closing. Never taking his eyes off the hallway, he backed into the elevator. Then he looked at the buttons and pressed the one marked “L.”

  Only when the door closed and the elevator began descending did he bring air into his lungs.

  A moment later he burst into the lobby. Running to the doorman standing on the sidewalk outside, he shouted, “Help! Mrs. Sawyer isn’t okay! Something is wrong!”

  The doorman looked down at him with a kindly, imperturbable expression. “What do you mean, young man? What’s she doing?”

  “I didn’t go into the apartment, but I just know something is wrong.”

  “And why do you think so?”

  “What? No. No!” Ben walked around so that he was staring straight at the doorman. He sensed that his face was flushed and that he was crying, but he couldn’t be calm. “Please call the police. Please! ”

  The doorman’s face showed his annoyance. “No, I won’t call the police. I’ll just ring the Sawyers’ apartment. If there’s no answer, I’ll go upstairs to check on things.”

  “Please, hurry.”

  Lumbering through the glass doors and into the lobby, the doorman leaned over his small desk and picked up the black telephone. He dialed the Sawyers’ extension and waited. After a minute, he set down the receiver and turned to Ben, who was watching him expectantly. “There’s no answer.”

  Ben said, “She’s hurt. She’s . . . she’s . . .”

  The doorman sighed and stared at the ceiling. “All right, Ben. I’ll go check on Mrs. Sawyer. You stay here.”

  Ben waited by the desk. He feared that the man or woman who wore that distinctive scent would come into the lobby and kill him. He picked up the telephone receiver and dialed two digits: 9-1. Holding a trembling index finger above the 1, he waited to see who came around the corner.

  He heard the elevator chime. Then footsteps moving rapidly. His stomach tightened and he gripped the telephone.

  The doorman hurried into the lobby and over to his desk, his face pale. His eyes were wide and he appeared shaken. “Give me that,” he said to Ben, and took the telephone from him. He saw that Ben had dialed 9-1. He pressed the final 1.

  A moment later he nearly shouted, “I need to report a murder!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Buddy said, “An argument between whom?”

  Onata knit her muscular fingers together. “Alton and Bruno and Carl.”

  “Alton Brook who was killed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Dietrich Brook?”

  “I’m not sure about him. I think he was drinking champagne, listening to his older brothers.”

  Buddy said, “What were they arguing about?”

  “I heard only a few words. The adults—the four sets of parents—were having drinks. I was bringing in another bottle of champagne when I heard them.”

  She paused.

  Buddy added, “I understand you weren’t eavesdropping. What were they arguing about?”

  “The company they own.”

  Before Buddy could ask another question, they heard rushed footsteps and turned to the main door to the storage room.

  “You made it,” Ray Sawyer said, slightly out of breath. “That must have been how Ben escaped.”

  Ward nodded. “One mystery solved, at least.”

  Sawyer unbuttoned his overcoat and unraveled his scarf, revealing a Harris Tweed sport coat over an ivory-colored shirt with no tie. It was then he took note of Onata. “Hello there. I’m Ray Sawyer, Alton Brook’s lawyer. I’ve asked Detective Lock and Mr. Mills to help with the case.”

  Onata was quiet.

  Buddy took a step closer, trying to engage her. “Onata, would you tell us everything you heard Alton, Bruno, and Carl arguing about?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t hear much. I just went into the room with some champagne and left quickly, taking a couple of empty bottles with me.”

  “But what did you hear?” Buddy pressed.

  She looked at each of them in turn as she said, “Carl wanted Brook Instruments to be sold. Alton and Bruno wanted the family to keep it. They kept talking about the price they could get, but that was all, except . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Buddy waited a moment. When she didn’t speak, he prompted, “Except what?”

  After a long moment Onata said, “As I was closing the door, Natalie told Rebecca, ‘You already borrowed my husband. Why do you have to take the company, too?’”

  Buddy held up a hand. “Remind me—who is Natalie?”

  Sawyer said, “She’s Bruno’s wife.”

  Before Buddy could ask another question, Ward said, “Thank you, Onata. But I’d like to be sure I understand. Ben’s aunt, Natalie, was upset about the pote
ntial sale of Brook Instruments. And she was angry with Rebecca, her sister-in-law, for having an affair with her husband?”

  Onata turned to him. “That’s how it sounded.”

  Buddy was going to ask more about the goings-on in the Brook family, but Ray Sawyer’s mobile phone rang.

  “Hello?” the older gentleman answered. “What?” Sawyer pressed the phone more tightly against his ear. “Yes, this is Ray Sawyer. I’m not hearing you very well.” He put his free hand over his other ear and stared downward in concentration. “What?” Sawyer repeated, and then listened intently.

  Buddy and Ward glanced at each other. Buddy feared he’d been proven right and Ben was dead. He watched Sawyer carefully.

  Sawyer’s hands began to shake. “The boy is all right?” he said into the phone. “But my wife . . .” Sawyer was quiet. His free hand moved uncertainly over to his eyes, covering them, pressing on them.

  Buddy knew what was happening. He’d delivered that message before. Ward’s face showed empathy. Onata’s hard exterior softened. She took a step toward Sawyer.

  At last Sawyer removed his hand from his eyes, which had filled with tears. He saw Buddy and Ward, and yet didn’t see them. Red splotches formed across his face. Slowly he sat down on the floor. “No,” he said, dropping the phone. “My poor Nan. My poor, poor Nan. My sweetheart. My darling.”

  Buddy went to the older man, knelt down, and put his arms around him. Didn’t say anything. No words would have helped the old man’s pain. Sawyer seemed to shrink, to reduce in size as he was overcome with the terrible news. He cried and wept and said no over and over and over again. There was no way to comfort him.

  Buddy felt awful for Sawyer but also spurred on. As he held the older man, who shuddered in his arms, a new resolve formed within him. He needed to act, quickly and decisively.

  When Sawyer grew quiet, Buddy picked the phone off the floor and spoke into it, identifying himself and getting the name and precinct of the officer on the other end of the line. Then Buddy moved away from him, stood, and handed Sawyer’s phone to Ward. Onata reached down, took Sawyer’s arm, and helped him up. She murmured something in his ear. She led him out of the food-storage room and into the lounge beyond.