Everything to Lose

by JP Ratto

  I presented my ID at the reception desk and asked for the manager. A few minutes later, a Mr. Ingram introduced himself and led me to one of the seating areas.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Holt?”

  “I’m trying to locate a young woman who is the recipient of a large inheritance, and I understand her father worked for you.” I had begun to feel comfortable with the lie. “His name is Daniel Martin.”

  “Oh, yes, Daniel was a ski instructor here for many years. He and his family moved to Pennsylvania a year ago. I believe he said his daughter might attend college there, so they wanted to be close to her. I imagine he works at one of the ski resorts.”

  “You don’t happen to remember if any of them called you for a reference?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, someone did call, but I don’t remember which resort. I’m afraid I didn’t make note of it.”

  “Did he leave a forwarding address? And perhaps you could give me his prior address here in Stowe.”

  “Let me check his employment file. One moment, please.”

  With Mr. Ingram on his way to his office, I stood and walked toward one of the tall picture windows and scanned the outside view. I thought it must be gorgeous in winter during a light snowfall. About to go back to my seat, I noticed a man in black jeans and t-shirt cross the lobby from the bank of elevators. He strode to the entrance, slipped on sunglasses and a black ball cap.

  It had to be Glick.

  I moved closer to the entrance, hoping he wouldn’t turn around. He exited and I could see through the large glass as he entered the parking lot. He stopped short when he saw my Rover, which I had parked out front. He glanced around and back at the hotel. I stepped behind one of the marble pillars and watched him go a few rows to another area of the lot and get into a Cherokee.

  The resort manager returned and, unfortunately, the Martins had not left a forwarding address. He did provide me with their Stowe address. I wondered about Mr. Glick’s presence in the hotel.

  “Mr. Ingram, I thought I saw an associate of mine leave the hotel. Would you mind checking to see if he is registered here? His name is Ronald Glick.”

  Mr. Ingram sighed and turned toward the reception desk. I followed.

  Glick was indeed a guest. I thanked Mr. Ingram and checked to see if the Cherokee was still there. It was. Mr. Glick was waiting to pick up my tail again. I exited through the back of the hotel. Passing the pool, I walked around the right wing of the resort—in the opposite direction from where Glick sat in his car.

  I took a long stroll around the resort and found what I was looking for—the black Crown Victoria with North Carolina plates. I needed to lose this guy. The lot was void of people, the security guard was on a break, and Mr. Glick could not see me from where he parked. I took out my switchblade—one of those things a prepared PI never leaves home without—and slashed three of the four tires on Glick’s car.

  I wasn’t done with Glick and thought a little intimidation was warranted. The jeep was in a corner spot in one of the few tree-shaded areas of the lot. Walking along the property’s fence, I crept up to the Cherokee from behind. Glick, apparently too intent on watching my Rover to notice my arrival, jumped when I jerked the car door open. Using both hands, I yanked him out by the shirt collar and pressed his back against the Cherokee.

  “I’ll do the talking,” I told him.

  My face was so close to his, I could see flecks of dandruff in his mustache. “I know who you are, Glick. I don’t want to hurt you, so this is just a warning. Get off my back. Tell whoever hired you that you’ve been made. On the other hand, maybe I can do that for you. Empty your pockets. Slow with no sudden moves.”

  Glick’s eyes narrowed. I could tell he was no longer shocked and frightened but pissed. Glaring at me, he produced his wallet, cell, and car keys. I pocketed the phone and keys.

  In a surprise move, he landed a hook to the side of my head. Stepping back, I blocked another hook and threw a flurry of jabs. Glick’s legs began to weaken, and I thought he would pass out. I didn’t intend to hurt him, just send him home with his tail between his legs. By punching me, he’d taken a step up in class. I wanted him to remember the moment. I held Glick up, pushed him into the back seat, and threw his wallet on the floor. I searched under the seats and the glove compartment for a weapon. There wasn’t one. I did find the photo he stole from my room. I left Glick in the car in a half-dazed state and returned to my Rover. I drove away and decided not to go back to my hotel to check out. If Glick was foolish enough to continue following me, he could assume I was still in Stowe.

  A half a mile away, I pulled over and entered the Martins’ prior address into Gypsy. I drove to the house where Kathryn Sullivan now lived. There were no cars in the driveway and no one answered the doorbell. I called information for the Sullivan’s phone number and luckily, it was listed. I left a message on the machine and my card with a note in the mailbox. Regardless what the Sullivans might tell me, I had a lead. The Martins were in Pennsylvania.

  Before leaving Stowe, I had one more thing to do. Checking the calls on Glick’s phone, I hit send for the last number. There was an immediate answer. The man’s voice sounded strained and angry.

  “Glick, I told you I’d call you in a few hours. What do you want?”

  “This is not Glick.”

  “What? Where is he? What’s happened to him?”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Glick is unavailable.”

  The man shouted, “Who the hell is this? How’d you get this phone?”

  “It was easier than I imagined. I don’t know who you are, but I have an idea who you work for, and I have some advice for both of you. Call off Glick. You’ll have to do a lot more than attach him to my tail to keep me from doing my job.”

  I disconnected the call and left Stowe as the clouds cleared and the sun, a giant red ball, sank behind the mountains.

  Chapter 10

  Glick held a towel packed with ice on his jaw as he paced his hotel room and planned what to do next.

  After coming out of his Holt-induced stupor, he assessed the damage. He had no phone and no keys for the Jeep. But he could use the Crown Victoria. He’d rushed to his room to get the keys and back to the parking lot, stunned to find it wasn’t drivable. He had spent the better part of the afternoon arranging to have his car towed for repair.

  The dumb-as-dirt security guard couldn’t imagine how someone could slash a car’s tires while he was on duty. Never mind that he parked on the other side of the resort to have a smoke. The guard had looked at the Crown Victoria, scratched his chin, and asked, “How come only three tires are slashed?”

  Idiot. But Glick had wondered too. He couldn’t think of a good reason other than leaving one tire intact made the deed more noticeable.

  Glick sought out the hotel manager.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Glick, did your friend catch up with you?”

  Glick’s brows furrowed. “Friend?”

  “Actually, he said he was an associate of yours—Lucas Holt. He saw you leave the hotel earlier and inquired if you were a guest here. He used to be in law enforcement too, so I didn’t see a problem.”

  Glick wasn’t pleased the manager told Holt anything but knew you could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

  “No, no problem at all. As a matter of fact, I did see him in the parking lot.”

  It didn’t take long for Mr. Ingram to tell Glick what he told Lucas Holt, which wasn’t much except the general whereabouts of the Martins. He believed they moved to Pennsylvania.

  ***

  The car rental agency brought Glick another set of keys, for which he had to pay dearly. It was evening when he called Douglas Cain from a new burner phone to give him an edited version of what had happened.

  “I know what happened,” Cain said. “You fucked up and got too close.” Glick knew the lawyer was not happy to hear Holt had a good lead on the location of the girl and a head start over him. Cain, whose voice sounded strained to Glic
k, told him to forget about Holt and return to New York.

  “But, Mr. Cain, I’m sure I can pick up his tail again.”

  “No, it’s been hours.”

  “I called his hotel, he’s not checked out. I—”

  “Just come back to New York.”

  “Sir, I think you’re making a mistake. If—”

  “Glick! Holt’s probably halfway to Broome by now! It’s over. Get back here ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll be back as soon as my tires are replaced.”

  “Forget the car. Have it flat-bedded back here. Drive back in the rental.”

  Glick needed to buy more time. “Okay, but it’s too late to arrange today,” he lied. “I’ll do it first thing in the morning and be on my way after that.”

  “Fine. I need you to keep an eye on Janet Maxwell again.”

  Glick hung up. So Cain hasn’t been straight with me. He’s known where the girl is the whole time.

  Ronnie Glick decided, since Holt made him look like a buffoon, he’d retaliate—a plan was already forming in his mind. I’m tired of babysitting Ms. Posh. He was trained for better than that. He would show Cain his real value.

  Ah, screw Cain.

  He wondered how long it would take Cain to realize he’d blurted out the name of the Pennsylvania town. He was now one giant step ahead of Holt. The head start would give him time to plan a diversion for Holt with the added bonus of some payback.

  It was midnight when Glick, traveling south on NY-17, merged the rented Cherokee onto I-287 and entered New Jersey on his way toward Broome, Pennsylvania.

  ***

  Glick reached Broome at midmorning and drove around to get a feel for the town. Well-kept buildings, clean streets, and a profusion of flowers in hanging pots reminded Glick of villages in the south.

  A few residents walked along the main street, buying a newspaper or fresh baked goods from the bakery. An older couple entered a church for weekday services as the bells pealed. Glick felt he’d stepped onto a set of a fifties family sitcom. He stopped in a coffee shop, sat at the counter, and ordered the breakfast special.

  An elderly man, who sat a seat away, looked at Glick with cataract-laden blue eyes. He rubbed his veined nose with the back of his hand and scratched his chin through four days’ worth of growth. He drank coffee, but he smelled like whiskey. The man nodded a hello.

  Glick ignored him and dug into his eggs.

  Not deterred, the man spoke, “New to town, are ya?”

  His mouth full of home fries, Glick nodded.

  “That your Cherokee out there? Vermont plates on it. That where you’re from?”

  Glick’s eyes shifted toward the man. “Just passing through.”

  “Through to where?”

  Unprepared for the man’s questions, he squirmed in his seat and shoved some eggs into his mouth. Glick searched his brain. What’s the nearest big city? The man sat staring, waiting for an answer.

  Pittsburgh! “Pittsburgh. Yeah, that’s where I’m going, Pittsburgh.”

  “You sound southern. What do ya do in Pittsburgh?”

  Ronnie Glick put down his fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and asked for the check.

  “I’m going to visit a friend,” he said in a clipped tone.

  The man turned to face Glick.

  “I got friends in Pittsburgh. What’s your friend’s name?”

  What the hell? Glick had enough. He threw the cost of the meal plus two dollars on the counter, grabbed his black cap and left.

  The plan forming in Ronnie Glick’s head wouldn’t work in Broome. If the old man were any indication of the type of people in the small town, he’d never be able to pull it off. He needed to go to another town—some place where people don’t care who you are or where you’re from—only how much you’ll pay for a job—any job. He thought he knew just the place.

  Chapter 11

  Grabbing my cup of coffee, I settled into the overstuffed cushion of a wrought-iron lounge chair on my patio.

  The nineteenth-century brownstone I purchased five years ago, nestled in the enclave of Gramercy Park, is my oasis. Clematis, trumpet vine, and climbing hydrangea cover the high concrete walls that enclose my personal paradise. I can identify these perennial vines as my gardener, Pasquale, insists I know by name the beauty that surrounds me. It’s hard to believe I could find serenity in one of the busiest cities in the world—it’s hard to believe I could find serenity at all.

  Hours in the garden with my laptop, doing internet searches of ski resorts where Daniel Martin might seek employment, yielded a couple of possibilities. Remembering Barbara Hansen’s remark about the Martins moving to the middle of nowhere, I discounted the Poconos and other large ski areas. I had a fleeting thought doing so might be a mistake as teenagers tend to have their own view of nowhere.

  Before I set out on another wild goose chase, I called Scully to ask him to check the DMV for Daniel Martin’s driver’s license. Since moving to another state, he might have had a new one. He agreed to check, but before obliging me, he wanted a few particulars about the case.

  “Lucas, anything more I can do besides the DMV? You say this is about a runaway teen. Who is Daniel Martin? Her father?”

  “Yeah, well, not exactly a runaway—more like a missing person. In fact, run the name Karen Martin too. She’s old enough to drive.”

  “Who’s looking for the teen? The mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Parents are divorced, I guess.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, now I’m getting one-word answers. I have an uneasy feeling, Holt. You’re usually a little more giving. Ease my mind…tell me who the mother is.”

  “You know that information is confidential.”

  “It’s not if you want my help.”

  “Sorry, Scully. No can do. Listen, I have to go. I appreciate anything you can find out.”

  “Yeah, later.”

  I missed working cases with Scully. We grew up in different environs. I lived in a small town in the Adirondacks until I joined the Army Rangers. Scully was Brooklyn-born into a family of cops. We made a good team; we both had a profound respect for the law. But life happens, and I realized in some instances working on the fringe got better results. The last case we worked together was the Bowery call girl murder.

  After cleaning up a few dirty dishes, I entered my second-floor office and scanned the room. A box of files pertaining to the unsolved case remained tucked in a corner, for years, in whichever room I used as an office, wherever I called home. A constant reminder of what led me to become who I am.

  Although close by, I hadn’t opened the file for some time. I dusted off the box and moved it to the floor next to my desk. Janet Maxwell’s admission that she knew about Grayson’s relationship with the girl was new evidence in the case. I should have told Scully.

  Since I needed to hear from Scully before moving forward, I closed the Maxwell file and turned my attention to the murder of Sheila Rand.

  Rand, twenty-six years old, receptionist by day, call girl by night, had resided in one of the more seedy buildings in the Bowery section of New York. The rundown walkup was a few blocks from the high-priced, steel-and-glass building in which Grayson lived.

  When Sheila didn’t show up for work for two days, and phone calls to her apartment were unanswered, the superintendent was called to let the police inside. Scully and I arrived at the secured scene on a Wednesday morning. The familiar smell of putrefaction told us the victim had been dead a few days. It was later determined she died on the previous Saturday.

  Rand’s partially clothed body lay on the floor next to her bed. A glance at the numerous wounds and blood splatter indicated a stabbing. The assailant had inflicted several shallow stabs and one deep penetrating wound in the stomach, where he thrust the weapon in and up toward the heart. The medical examiner ruled it cause of death. Other lacerations on Rand’s arms and hands showed she had put up a fight. The autopsy revealed drugs and a
lcohol in her system. In her condition, Rand wouldn’t have been able to sustain much of a defense against her attacker.

  There was no evidence of sexual assault or consensual sex. Her clothes, removed in a haphazard way, were probably ripped off in the struggle. In addition to the stab wounds, an earring had been ripped from her lobe and clumps of her hair pulled out.

  The most damning piece of evidence was her diary in which she recorded an appointment with TG on Saturday at 10:00 p.m. That and the corroboration of an eyewitness, who said he saw the senator enter the apartment building, led us to Todd Grayson.

  I reread the eyewitness statement from Henry Williams, the resident of a nearby building, who was later discredited as being unreliable due to his addiction to heroin. Grayson’s lawyers insisted someone paid Williams to give false evidence. He had an expensive habit to support. As I pulled out photos of the crime scene, my phone rang. It was Scully.

  “That was fast,” I said.

  “Yeah, fast and uninformative. Both Daniel and Karen Martin have Vermont driver’s licenses that don’t expire for years.”

  “I was afraid of that. I didn’t ask this before because I didn’t have a name, but what about his tax returns? If he was working the last year or two, he would have filed a return.”

  “Lucas, checking the DMV is one thing, but I have to have a good reason to pull tax records. Remember, you don’t work for law enforcement, and I’m not working this case.”

  I thought about mentioning Janet Maxwell’s admission. But that would have opened a whole new can of worms, and I needed to stay focused on finding her daughter. I knew I’d find the Martins—it would just take longer without Scully’s help.

  “Okay, Ray, thanks again.”

  “Anytime. Hey, I look forward to that beer.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon calling ski resorts in Pennsylvania without any success. Maybe Martin no longer worked as a ski instructor. If that was the case and I had nowhere to go, I would have to tell Scully about Maxwell and Sheila Rand. Even then, there was no connection to Maxwell’s daughter. But it might be incentive for Scully to check into Martin’s tax returns.