“That’s a stretch. But I’ll look into the rings, if you really think it might lead somewhere.”
“Sam, the first body in my barn had one. Klein flashes one.” I paused. “And the Assistant D.A. of Queens just happens to wear one, too.”
“Oh?” His eyes widened.
“You heard me. His name’s Milner. There’s a connection somewhere.”
“If there is, I’ll find it. Better let Cuozzo know.”
I raised my palm. “Don’t. You don’t know anything about him.”
“He’s well respected. Heard him speak a few years back at a Violence Against Women conference in Chicago.”
“Not enough. You don’t know him. That’s the point.”
Sam waved away my comment. “I cooperate with law enforcement guys I don’t know every day of the week.”
“Don’t trust those guys back in New York. I’m telling you.”
His cellphone interrupted what I expected would be at least a mini-lecture. “You don’t say.” He looked at me and raised a finger. “Okay. I’ve got one stop to make first. Be there in half an hour.” He hung up and slipped the phone back in his coat. “Well, well.”
“What?”
“No registration in either of the vehicles that pursued you tonight. We ran the plates. Both belong to Pueblo-66 Enterprises, Incorporated.”
“Did you arrest the driver of the car I ran off the road?”
Sam frowned. “He got away.”
“Nuts.”
“The Commissioner expressed his disappointment in somewhat stronger terms.”
“What’s your next step?”
“The casino. I’m going to be there when Klein shows up for work.” He checked his watch. “Finish your cheeseburger.”
“Take me home, okay?”
Darkness enveloped my house. I turned on the light in the foyer and the ceiling light in the library before collapsing into the desk chair. The corner clock chimed four times. Otis appeared out of nowhere and jumped on top of my desk. He rubbed his head against my hand until I switched on the lamp. His Lordship then curled up under its warmth.
I lifted my Bohemian crystal paperweight and examined a single sheet of paper beneath it. Four names, all male, written in Rebecca’s hand. She’d listed an address under each of the names. Three were from the New York area, one from a high priced New Jersey suburb. Under all that, a solitary sentence: Two sets of remains are still unidentified.
The answering machine held no messages. The clock said four-fifteen. Rebecca would be arriving in less than five hours and we had a lot of ground to cover. I filled Otis’s food bowl and glanced out the kitchen window at the barn. Seven bodies.
Turning off the lights on my way to the bedroom, I set my alarm for 8:15 a.m. and crumpled on top of the covers fully clothed.
The alarm wasn’t necessary. Sam called from the casino around 7:30.
Propping myself up on an elbow qualified as morning calisthenics. “What?”
“Sorry to wake you. I just thought you ought to know.” A hint of defeat tinged Sam’s voice.
“Know what?”
“Klein’s disappeared.”
“When?”
“Overnight. I drove here right after I dropped you off. We interviewed all the night workers. Apparently, Klein and two of his assistants left about three-thirty with a couple guys nobody’s ever seen before. Two cars. At least one had Colorado plates.”
“That it?”
“In light of what happened last night, you should be warned. Want me to send over a patrol car?”
“No thanks.” I sat up and scratched my head with my free hand. “Rebecca’s coming in around nine. We have tons of stuff to do. Then I need to arrange for car repairs and file an insurance claim. You just find Klein and let me know when you nab him.”
“You’re starting to sound like my boss.”
“You are a public servant, right?”
“About your car…plan on driving that older rig of yours for a while. We need to keep the Cruiser until we conclude our investigation.”
We hung up and I called Rebecca. With Klein on the lam, her research into his connections was more important than ever.
No answer. Probably on her way over. I dragged myself into the shower, dressed, and started a pot of coffee.
I sat at the library desk and read Rebecca’s list of names. After pouring my first cup, I went over the list one more time and phoned Sloppy back in New York.
“Offices of Gerald O’Toole, Attorney-at-Law.” How do secretaries sound so damn perky so early in the morning?
“It’s Gabe McKenna. Is your boss in?”
“One moment please.” At least there wasn’t any sugary elevator music.
“What’s up, Brain? How was your trip back?” Sloppy’s staccato voice was music enough.
“Aside from the two guys who tried to kill me, it was smooth as silk.”
“What? Where?”
“Here in Albuquerque. On my way home from the airport.”
“Somebody knew you were on that flight.”
“Obviously. And somebody followed me to New York, too. Look, forget that for now. I need your help.”
“Name it.”
“I’m going to give you a list of names. Four of them. Find out everything you can about these guys—background, jobs, and families. Any information about the circumstances of their disappearances.”
“What’s the connection? They got anything in common?”
“Yeah. They were all buried in my barn.”
“Jeezus. These names, can you e-mail them to me?” Sloppy said.
“Afraid not. My fax, e-mail, and phone lines are probably tapped.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. And do us both a favor.”
“What?”
“Hang up and call me back at this number on your secretary’s cellphone.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Not at all, Slop. You might be bugged too.”
He let out a deep breath. “If you say so.”
“Thanks.”
We hung up. A couple of minutes later O’Toole called me back. “I agreed to reimburse her for the minutes and gave her the afternoon off. Fire away.”
I spread Rebecca’s sheet in front of me. “First guy is Angelo Zappeli.” I spelled the surname. “Last known address 6607 19th Avenue in Brooklyn. Out on bail and awaiting trial for embezzlement from the New York Transit Authority. Last seen July 12th, 1971.”
“Next.”
“Sergei Dmitrov.”
“A Russian?”
“Indeed. Member of the Soviet Union delegation to the U.N., believed to have defected to the U.S. in November of 1962.”
“Right after the Cuban Missile Crisis?”
“Yep. But I doubt you’ll find his disappearance is connected to that.”
“If the C.I.A. was involved, that would be classified,” Sloppy said.
“So how the hell does his body end up in my barn?”
“Beats me. Who’s next?”
“Brian Livingstone. Upper Saddle River, New Jersey.”
“Expensive real estate.”
“Ran his own financial management company. Disappeared in October of 1979, along with more than fifty-three million in his clients’ assets. Left behind a wife and a couple of kids.”
“I remember that one,” Sloppy said. “One of my Profs used it as a case study in estate law.”
“All that dough bought him was a ticket to my barn.”
“And the fourth?”
“I saved the most interesting for last. January of 1958. Guy named Richard Van Heyer.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Get this: he was an investigative reporter for the New York Daily News.”
“No shit. I’ll get Onion on this right away.”
“Tell him to text me his bank account info, I’ll do an E.F.T. for fifteen hundred. That should cover his initial expenses.”
“Listen, Gabe.
You watch your back.”
I smiled into the phone. “Same thing Onion told me.”
We hung up. Nine-thirty. Rebecca was late. I called her again, but there was still no answer.
My phone rang. “Welcome back, Gabe.” C.J. sounded downright perky.
“Flew in last night. How’d you know I’d be back today?”
“Rebecca buzzed me right after we closed yesterday. Said things were popping. So what’s the current body count?”
“Then you heard about the cemetery in my barn.”
“Yeah. But I kept that little nugget from Charmaine. Then she saw it on the TV news. You better not show your face around here, man. She might try to rearrange it.”
“Don’t joke about that. Two guys tried to kill me on my way home from the airport last night.”
“You shitting me?”
“I wish. Cops traced both cars to the Pueblo-66 outfit. And now Klein’s disappeared.”
“So what happened?”
“They took a couple of shots at me and then tried to run me down on Paseo del Norte. I used my driving skills to full advantage.”
“Cops get ’em?”
“One’s dead, the other escaped.”
“Damn.” C.J.’s voice picked up a bit. “You hear from Nai’ya yet?”
“We talked night before last.”
“She okay?”
I paused. “Yeah.”
“What’s wrong, Gabe?”
“Nothing I can go into now. I may go see her tonight.”
“Give her my love.”
“I sure will. Listen, did Rebecca give you any hint that something might be wrong when she called you last night?”
“No. She sounded happy you were coming home. Thanked me again for dinner the night you left. That was it. Why? Is something wrong?”
“Probably nothing. She’s late for work.”
“Man, you worry too much.”
“Bullshit. How about Rebecca and I stop by for lunch later?”
“Not until one-thirty. Charmaine has her weekly beauty parlor appointment then.”
“I could use a mess of ribs. Bye.”
I called Rebecca a third time. Her voice recording asked me to leave another message. I felt a jolt in my stomach. After hanging up, I grabbed the keys to the Hudson and headed out to my carport.
It was a quarter to ten when I pulled out onto Rio Grande Boulevard. The Hudson warmed up as the sun hit it, so I opened the driver’s side window. Fifteen minutes later, I parked in front of Rebecca’s apartment in the Huning Heights neighborhood south of Central.
She lived in a second floor apartment of an old Victorian home that had been converted to multiple units. Her car sat in the small parking area at the end of the driveway.
Thirteen steps up to her door. I knocked and checked the street down below. A blue early ‘70s Mustang sped down the block. I knocked again and tried the knob.
Her door was unlocked.
“Rebecca?” I pushed it in far enough to edge my head inside. “Rebecca?” No answer. I had a sudden flashback of Siobhan’s co-op back in Queens.
I took a step into the apartment and stopped, a sickness rising in my stomach. Papers and pillows were scattered around the living room. Her coffee table and large lounge chair lay on their sides. Her television set had fallen backward onto the rug, its screen now facing the ceiling. A standing lamp leaned against the far wall, its pole bent, splinters of glass around its base. Only her large green sofa appeared untouched.
I yelled her name a third time and rushed through the living room into the kitchen. Her espresso machine was on. A red light indicated its brew cycle was complete. An English muffin peeked out from her toaster. A full glass of orange juice sat on the small dinette table in the corner. It looked like an ad for breakfast.
My growing fear propelled me to her bedroom. My hopes rose when I found the room empty. Then I noticed some ominous details. Overturned vials of creams and perfumes decorated the top of her lace-covered vanity. A small pair of scissors lay on the floor. I knelt down and examined it, careful not to touch.
Thin streaks of red covered the blades and part of the handle. Dark red stained the bed sheet where it drooped down to the floor. Specks, like breadcrumbs, drew my eyes along her carpet, down the hall and into the living room. In my haste, I’d missed them on my way in. I slumped against a wall.
“Dear God, please…” I called 911, gave them my location and sank onto the couch. My gaze caught the corner of a manila envelope that stuck out from beneath her overturned coffee table. I took a tissue from my pocket and lifted the table enough to kick the folder out with the toe of my shoe.
Rebecca had written one word on the front: Klein.
Using the tissue, I opened the folder. Empty, except for a yellow post-it note stuck to the inside cover. I unstuck the note and turned it over. There were only two words on it: Find Mahatma.
I jammed the paper into my pocket and took another quick tour of the apartment. The bathroom was empty and apparently undisturbed. A neatly folded bath towel hung on the rack. Rebecca’s bedroom and hall closets told me nothing more. I returned to the living room a third time and looked out the front window. Where the hell are the cops?
Down on the street, two squad cars pulled up to the curb. I let go of the drapes and walked out to meet the patrolmen at the top of the stairs.
Officer Darrell Jackson arrived first, breathless, his face stricken. Sergeant Crawford and two other cops I’d never seen before huffed up the steps behind him.
Jackson grabbed my arm. “Where’s Rebecca? What happened?”
“Jackson,” Crawford barked, “you look the place over. I’ll deal with McKenna.”
The rookie officer paused and then glided past me without another word. The other two cops followed him inside the apartment. It was a Crawford vs. McKenna rematch.
“You’ve been a busy boy these past twelve hours.”
“Sergeant—”
“You’re a shit magnet, McKenna. The more time I spend with you, the more crap I have to deal with.”
I’d had enough of his act. I moved closer and stood toe-to-toe with him. I spat out my words. “This isn’t about you, Crawford. I’m sorry about your daughter and whatever problems you have in your miserable life, but an innocent young woman is missing here. Open your goddamn eyes. There are signs of a struggle all around here. Blood in the bedroom and on the floor. Try to wrap your head around that if you can.”
He responded with a fat fist that buried itself into my stomach. It was a solid punch that landed where it would leave no mark and could easily be denied. I doubled over, groaned and slid away from him. I blocked his next blow with my forearm. He reached for his gun.
“Hold it right there, Sergeant.” Jackson stood in the archway between the kitchen and living room. He aimed his handgun squarely at Crawford’s hulking body. “Drop the gun and sit on the couch.”
“You’re career is over, Jackson.” Crawford turned and flashed his distilled hatred at me. But he placed his gun on the floor and sat on the edge of the couch. I picked up the weapon and handed it to Jackson.
The two other cops entered the room and stopped short. The taller one looked at Jackson. “What the fuck?”
“Thomas,” Jackson ordered, “go down to the street and secure the area. Don’t let anyone up the stairs.” He turned his head slightly toward the smaller, swarthy cop, but his gun and gaze never left Crawford. “Garcia, call Lieutenant Archuleta. I don’t care what he’s doing. Tell him to get over here right now. Then keep the sergeant quiet.”
Crawford leaned against the back of the couch and glowered at his young subordinate. “You’re dead, Jackson.”
The young officer called for a forensic unit while he stalked the premises, a frantic perpetual motion machine. At last it was time to question me.
“What were you doing here this morning, Professor?” Jackson kept eyeing Crawford as he spoke.
“I flew into town last night after a c
ouple of days in New York. Rebecca didn’t show up for work this morning or answer any of my calls. I came over to check on her. I was worried.”
Deep lines formed across his brow. He looked at the overturned coffee table, then bent down and examined the empty manila folder. He noticed the single word Rebecca had written there. “Klein? What’s this all about?”
“Rebecca was doing research for me on Joseph Klein.”
His voice cracked like a rifle. “Why?”
“Klein’s real estate company used to own my home. And he knew my daughter was a witness to the killing of Tommy O’Donnell in Klein’s office.”
Jackson scowled. “You realize you put Rebecca in danger?” He turned away and stomped out of the room.
I looked at Crawford and his Cheshire cat grin. “What’s so funny?” I said.
Crawford let out a muffled yet defiant laugh. “Haven’t you ever watched a young man drown before?”
Garcia prodded the back of the sergeant’s thick neck with his gun. “Knock it off, Sergeant.”
Forensics arrived first. Jackson met them at the front door. He looked back at Crawford as he spoke. “We’ve found blood stains that need to be tested and typed. Check the entire apartment for prints. Lieutenant Archuleta should be here soon. Report back to him.”
As if on cue, Sam appeared at the front door. He took one look at me and threw his hands up.
“Lieutenant,” Jackson stuck out an arm to halt Sam’s entrance into the room. “I need to speak with you in private.” He motioned toward the hallway.
“That’s right, Sam,” Crawford bellowed from the couch. “Go ahead and listen to what the young fool has to say. Just don’t believe a word of it.”
“Can’t you just shut up, for once?” I glared at him from across the room.
“We’re not done, you and me,” he said. “Not even close.”
Garcia again poked Crawford from behind.
Crawford turned his head. “Watch it, Beans. I’m not forgetting you either.”
A minute later, Sam marched into the living room, staring at me. “Did Sergeant Crawford physically assault you?”
I nodded. “Twice. His first punch hit me in the stomach—”
“Liar!” Crawford shouted.
“I blocked his second punch with my forearm.” I rolled my sleeve up. A red welt on the bone had begun to swell. I showed it to Sam.
Get Lost Page 11
