Next of Kin

by James Tucker

  “But he has legal guardianship of Ben,” Mei argued.

  Dietrich Brook shook his head. “Not for long. The judge will make things right. You won’t win, Miss Adams. You’ll lose. And Ben will be ours.”

  He’ll be mine! Mei wanted to shout at him. But she said nothing. Her cheeks inflamed, she sensed tears about to form in her eyes. She sensed her own desperation. Yet she knew these were the very reactions desired by Dietrich Brook. So she dug the tips of her fingernails into the palms of her hands until the pain sharpened her mind and she could feel only resolve. Trying as hard as she could to keep her voice calm, she said, “Ben will not be yours. And you know why. If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call the police.”

  Dietrich Brook chuckled. “But I’m here to discuss selling paintings worth hundreds of millions of dollars through your gallery. What would the gallery owner think if you turned me away?”

  Mei said, “I don’t care.”

  “I have every right to sell the paintings.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Dietrich Brook said, “And I don’t care what you believe. I’d like to sit down with you, have you study the images of the paintings I might sell, and provide me with an estimate of their fair market value.”

  Mei stared at him. Was he serious or was this further intimidation? Or was he suggesting a quid pro quo—her agreement not to object to their bid for custody of Ben in return for her directing the sale of paintings whose commission to the gallery would be many millions of dollars? Maybe all of these things.

  She pointed to the door and said, “Please leave this gallery immediately.”

  Dietrich Brook stared at her, before reaching into the breast pocket of his coat. She could see a bulge there that seemed to be in the shape of a gun.

  She turned and ran across the polished concrete floor. In heels she couldn’t move quickly. She heard footsteps behind her. They were gaining on her, faster and faster they came, louder and louder.

  She saw the black telephone on her desk and lunged for it.

  And slipped.

  And fell to the concrete floor.

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Ward checked his watch. He thought Buddy was wrong and this was a wild goose chase with a doddering old researcher. He feared Dietrich Brook, who remained at large and who could do more damage to Mei and Ben.

  Withdrawing to the far corner of Dr. Kosmatka’s office, he held up his phone and dialed.

  “Huh?” A deep voice with attitude.

  “Is Dietrich still at his place?”

  “Hasn’t left.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Fucking sure.”

  Chapter Ninety

  Mei looked up, expecting a terrible blow. She cringed at the dark figure above her. Tall and lean and muscular. His expression superior but puzzled, as if he were observing a roach in distress. His large hands were closed into fists. He brought one of them down near her chest. She squirmed backward on the concrete floor, trying to get away from him. But he moved faster, leaned over her, suddenly opened his hand.

  She wanted to scream, but what good would it do? She was alone in the gallery with Dietrich Brook. She’d bend, break, or die at his will.

  In his hand was a small white card. He held it three inches from her breasts, then dropped it onto her dress.

  “My business card,” he said quietly. “Call me after you’ve determined the value of the paintings. And don’t for a moment think of obstructing my taking custody of Ben.” Then he set a green folder beside her.

  She watched as he walked to the gallery entrance, paused to unlock the glass door, then opened it, and stepped outside onto East Fifty-Eighth.

  Mei didn’t get up. She lay on the floor and began to shake. So close, she thought. So close to being killed. Dietrich Brook had pursued her, chased her across the gallery. And then for a reason she couldn’t fathom, he’d let her go. Rather than the gritty death she’d expected, he’d offered her a bribe.

  Nothing about the last few minutes made sense to her. Nothing. As she stared up at the lights in the ceiling, the panic and tension of the encounter eased, and she began to cry. Her tears weren’t from physical pain, although her right hip ached from the fall and her right hand hurt so badly she thought it might be broken. Her tears were for Ben. She believed that Dietrich Brook had been right about no judge allowing her and Buddy to keep him. What had she been thinking? Their wonderful life—a life with Ben so filled with danger but nevertheless enchanting—would end. During her few days with him and with Buddy, she’d been happier than she’d believed possible. Their status as a family had begun to seem permanent, although she knew it might not be. She didn’t think she could endure losing the boy but didn’t know how to prevent it. If she lost Ben . . . her mind traveled along that terrible path and she wept.

  A moment later she used her left arm to push herself up. She looked across the empty gallery and saw the lights of cars pass by on the street outside. She heard herself breathing and was grateful to have lived. She’d survived, but she didn’t know why.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Dr. Kosmatka said, “Bring me the bills of sale.”

  Buddy went over to the old man’s desk, picked up the three papers, and brought them to the table.

  Dr. Kosmatka set them beside the family tree diagrams and the official documents. He put the unlit cigarette in his mouth and bent over until his eyes were very close to the bills of sale. He looked at one, compared it with the diagram of a large family tree, and glanced at an official document.

  Buddy watched him, trying to be patient. The old man straightened, pointed at the first bill of sale. He said, “At age forty-four Ranem Baum sold a painting by Michelangelo to Gerhardt Bruch. Baum was soon thereafter condemned to Auschwitz, along with his wife, his son, and his daughter. The only survivor was his wife. When Auschwitz was liberated she remained in Poland, perhaps voluntarily and perhaps not, and in 1946 married a Polish Catholic, at which time her name changed to Nowak. They had one child, in 1947, and the couple died three months apart, in 1968. The child married but had no children. According to our records that child is a widow named Agata Nowak. She’s approximately sixty-eight years old and lives in Krakow.”

  Buddy nodded and glanced hopefully at the two remaining bills of sale.

  Dr. Kosmatka took up the second bill of sale. He again studied it carefully, peered over at a different family tree, and checked an official document.

  Buddy glanced at his watch and asked, “Same result with this one?”

  Dr. Kosmatka cocked his head for a moment, and said, “No, no. This bill of sale”—he pointed a large walnut-colored finger at it—“is for a painting by Rembrandt, sold to Gerhardt Bruch by a woman named Yetta Morgenstern. She was condemned to Auschwitz along with her mother, father, husband, three sons, and one daughter.” Dr. Kosmatka straightened, looked up at Buddy, and said, “Only the daughter, Olinda, survived.”

  Buddy lowered his eyes and shook his head. “Terrible,” he said.

  “Terrible,” Dr. Kosmatka agreed, and turned back to the family tree atop the papers. He breathed deeply and then continued. “Olinda married a young man called Daniel Roth, who’d also survived Auschwitz. They immigrated to Israel and had three children, two of whom died in infancy. Daniel and Olinda Roth died in 2002 and 2005, respectively. The surviving child, Adon, is alive and living in Israel, where he has two children of his own.”

  Buddy said, “Do they all have Roth as a last name?”

  Dr. Kosmatka nodded. “Yes.”

  Buddy pulled out his notebook and pen and jotted down the names. He’d follow up late tonight or tomorrow. He’d call Jerusalem or Tel Aviv or wherever they lived. He’d talk with them and see if any of Adon Roth’s children were in America.

  “But this one,” Dr. Kosmatka said, pointing to the third bill of sale, “is a different case from the others.”

  Buddy saw Ward move closer and stand on the other side of the old man.r />
  “This is the bill of sale for the Caravaggio, the painting you told me was stolen last night.”

  “Yeah,” Buddy said. “Sold to Gerhardt Brook by Nessa Meyer. What happened to Nessa Meyer?”

  Dr. Kosmatka shook his head. “Very bad, I’m afraid. She was sent to Auschwitz with her grandmother, grandfather, mother, father, husband, three sons, and two daughters. As in the previous case, only one son survived.” He sighed and shook his head slowly and with great sadness.

  Buddy watched him, sensed his deep emotions.

  Dr. Kosmatka continued, “The son remained single for a long time. At thirty years of age he married a Polish Catholic woman. And here’s where this case is different.” Dr. Kosmatka picked up the copy of an official document and said, “By some method, the son took his new wife’s name. At the time that was impossible without intervention from the courts. Perhaps a bribe was paid or a favor done, I don’t know.”

  Buddy grabbed the edge of the table, held it tightly. “What was the name?” Buddy asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Dr. Kosmatka replied, waving him off.

  Buddy stared at him.

  Dr. Kosmatka continued. “After the wedding, this man and his wife had two daughters. The man died in 2012 and his wife last year, both in Krakow. One of their daughters died five years ago in Gdańsk. But the other daughter married a Lithuanian and, according to these records, is alive.”

  “Where?” Buddy said. “Where does she live?”

  Dr. Kosmatka looked up at him. “Here, in New York.”

  Buddy felt a chill come over him. He nearly shivered in the warm room. He removed his hand from the table and clenched it between him and the old man. He said, “Did she and her husband have children?”

  Dr. Kosmatka turned back to the table and studied the family tree. “Yes,” he said. “One son.”

  “How old is the son?”

  Dr. Kosmatka squinted at the family tree. “He’s twenty-six or twenty-seven.”

  “Does he also live in New York?”

  “Yes.”

  For the first time Ward spoke. “The name, Dr. Kosmatka. What’s the young man’s name?”

  Dr. Kosmatka checked his papers once more, straightened, and removed his reading glasses. He held the unlit cigarette in his left hand. He said, “The young man’s name is Jonas Vidas.”

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Ben peered out the window of Detective Vidas’s car. He didn’t like the way the car seats were low and the side of the door high. It was hard to see out. He couldn’t see the people on the sidewalk, though he had a view of shop signs lining Tenth Avenue and the upper stories of the buildings they passed. Not that it mattered all that much. He told himself that soon Detective Vidas would drop him off at the Carlyle Residences where Mei would be waiting for him on the sidewalk. She’d take him upstairs to her apartment, and they could talk and have a snack and maybe he could goof around on the piano. He listened in the car but didn’t recognize the song playing over the radio. Then he heard Vidas’s mobile phone ring.

  Vidas took the phone out of the breast pocket of his suit coat and glanced at it. He frowned and pressed the button on the side of the phone to make it stop ringing. Then he returned the phone to his breast pocket.

  Ben felt the car accelerate through the traffic. Vidas honked once, and the Ford gained speed.

  Ben said, “Was it Buddy?”

  Vidas looked at him and smiled. “What?”

  “Was it Buddy on the phone?”

  Vidas laughed. “No, no. It was just my mother. She forgets that I work and can’t listen to her talk about her dinner plans or her hair appointment. No, when Buddy calls I answer. Don’t you worry about that.” Vidas smiled a second time and then faced forward.

  Ben turned to see out the passenger window.

  Vidas’s phone beeped twice, in rapid succession, the notification of a new voicemail.

  Vidas took the phone from his suit coat, pressed a couple of buttons, and held it up to his left ear.

  Ben couldn’t understand the voicemail, not even a word of it, but the voice on the recording sounded a little like Buddy’s. It didn’t sound like a woman’s voice, unless Detective Vidas’s mother had a strangely deep voice.

  Ben looked over at Vidas, whose expression had become anxious. Vidas glanced at Ben but didn’t smile this time.

  Vidas said, “Yeah, that was Buddy. Didn’t realize when the phone rang a minute ago. He said Mei’s appointment is running longer than she expected, and he wants us to hang out together until Mei can get over to her apartment. Once she’s back at her place, she’ll call me, and I’ll drop you off then. But in the meantime we should grab a snack, all right?”

  Ben said, “Mei was going to make me a snack.”

  Vidas nodded. “Yeah, I hear you. But Mei isn’t around, so I’ll have to do. Just this once. Now, what sounds good to you?”

  Ben shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “Pizza?”

  “No.”

  “Tacos?”

  “No.”

  “Donuts?”

  For a moment Ben stared out the window, not really seeing anything, only wishing he could be with Mei and that she didn’t have a meeting. Then he said, “I’m not hungry.”

  “Come on, Ben!” Vidas said. “My mom always gave me a snack after school. I’m sure you’re hungry, so I’ll think of something. Maybe I’ll even make you something myself, at one of my apartments. I rent two of them. They aren’t far.”

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Buddy rushed out of the Polish Institute. He stood on the steps above West 246th Street and felt the cold air of dusk.

  He recalled Ward’s description of the killer. Omniscient was the term his brother had once used. It meant “all knowing.” Now he understood how the killer had discovered Ben’s whereabouts at any given time.

  He’d told the killer.

  He’d hidden nothing.

  He’d trusted.

  And Ben would die because he hadn’t seen what had been right in front of him.

  Jesus.

  He felt panic take over him. His stomach roiled. His chest felt hollow, and the cold air he drew into his lungs hurt bitterly. He felt his hands begin to shake. He knew he needed to do something, but what? He could put an APB out on Vidas, but on what evidence? Vidas could just disappear with the boy. And what if he were wrong? What if Vidas meant no harm?

  He turned to Ward. “Call your guy. Make sure he’s still watching Dietrich Brook.”

  Ward nodded.

  “Where?” Buddy asked. “Where the hell would Vidas take Ben?”

  Ward didn’t move. He thought for a while, staring into the middle distance toward the Horace Mann School. He said nothing.

  Buddy grew impatient. “Ward? Hey, Ward? We’ve got to do something!”

  Ward turned and looked straight at him. His expression was hard and cold, his voice flat. “He’ll take Ben somewhere private, somewhere he can do his work quietly and without notice.”

  Buddy said, “That could be anywhere.”

  “No. Not anywhere. He’ll go to an abandoned building or his apartment or . . . or there’s another option. He could—”

  “By the river?” Buddy interrupted. “He could . . .” Buddy went silent. He couldn’t say “dump the body,” couldn’t say that Ben’s body would be “wiped clean and without prints.”

  Ward shook his head. “Too many people. Too big a chance of being seen.”

  “Fuck!” Buddy said, making fists with his hands. He wanted to jump out of his skin, but he had no idea where to go.

  Ward said, “He could go to Ben’s parents’ town house. Has it sold?”

  “I doubt it’s even on the market,” Buddy said. “There’s no way Ray Sawyer sold it this fast.”

  “If he goes there, Ben would be killed in his own house, just as Ben’s and Bruno’s and Carl’s families were killed in theirs.”

  Buddy said, “Let’s roll.”

  Ward didn’t
move. “But what about Vidas’s apartment? He’d feel safe there, wouldn’t he? He’d think he could deal with Ben on his own terms.”

  Buddy nodded. “Yeah, he could take Ben there. He has the top floor, so he could escape by the roof to the roof of the next building if he got cornered.”

  “Maybe that’s where he’s gone,” Ward said. “I’ll go there and you go to Ben’s family town house.”

  “Deal.”

  Buddy used his phone to look up Vidas’s address in the East Bronx, gave Ward that information plus the address of the town house owned by Ben’s family on East Seventy-Fourth Street, and jumped in the Charger.

  Ward hurried toward his waiting Range Rover.

  Buddy considered the fastest way to get to the Upper East Side. Then he made a U-turn on 246th and headed west to Waldo, then wound south and west until he could merge onto the Henry Hudson Parkway heading south.

  For seven or eight miles.

  In rush hour traffic.

  Fuck!

  He punched on the siren and drove dangerously fast, as if Ben’s life depended on his reaching the town house rapidly. Because it probably did—if Ben wasn’t already dead. He thought of Vidas laying a hand on Ben, and something in him reacted in a way he’d never felt before. It was like a knife cutting into his own body. He saw Ben’s light-brown eyes and black hair, his boyish smile, and the way he’d clapped when Mei had accepted his proposal, and he instinctively wanted to protect and even to love him. Yes, in that moment he knew he loved Ben. He loved him as if Ben were his own son, loved him in a way that was different from how he loved Mei, but just as insistently, just as completely. He must save his boy—his boy—he thought. Some way. Somehow. There must be time.

  Yet he worried he’d be too late. That he’d fail Ben as he’d failed Lauren.

  He sensed a sliver of hope, but that hope was fading by the second.

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Ward climbed into the plush back seat of the Range Rover, nearly shouted Vidas’s address to Brick, and told him to step on it.