by Abbey, S. C.
Chapter 9
“IF YOU HAVE any news, any news at all, call me.”
The door closed with a gentle click. Detective Frost fished for his cell as he walked back to his car. The driveway to the house cluttered with dried leaves from their branches above as fall gave way to winter.
“Darrow, talk to me. What do you have on our little professor?” Said the detective as he opened the door to his vehicle. He supported his weight with his arms on the roof of the car. He looked far, his eyes fixated upon the sleepy trees in front of him.
The sound of paper crushing came through. The person on the other side fumbled for the phone. “Sir, I’m still working on it.” Replied Agent Darrow, who was clearly trying to swallow something he had been eating.
“Tell me what you have so far.” Frost asked, the exasperation in his voice transparent.
The sound of rapid keyboard typing and mouse clicking filled the silence. “His parents were Alastair and Helena Nolan – Alastair was an engineer back in London before he got killed in a plane crash – Pan Am Flight 301 – have you heard about that incident?” Said Agent Darrow.
How can I ever forget? The Langholm bombing.
Pam Am Flight 301 was a transatlantic flight bound for Detroit from Frankfurt, via London and New York. It was hijacked midway right after the stopover in London and crashed in Langholm. There were no known survivors. Some bodies were never found. Detective Frost had been part of the FBI investigation team which concluded that it was a terrorist attack – a bomb. Rumor has it within the FBI that the plane was supposed to target New York City instead.
Enemies of the free world.
“Helena was a homemaker before she passed away in 1994, one year before Alastair got killed – complications arising from an asthma attack.” Continued Agent Darrow. “Tough luck for them boys, one after another.”
A frown appeared on the face of Detective Frost. “Nolan’s got a brother?”
“Yeah, a younger one it seems,” replied Agent Darrow, “was adopted shortly after Alastair’s accident.”
Records didn’t show. “Go on.” Frost commanded as he entered his vehicle and shut the door. A beetle flew and hit the windscreen with a thud.
“Harvey Nolan was picked up by one Dr. Bertram Moore – an art dealer and historian – dude lives in a castle man, on Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island – he was Alastair’s college mate back in Oxford. Nolan came to New York to live with him.” Said Agent Darrow.
“He adopted him across the Atlantic?” Frost retorted. The puzzling arrangement did not escape him.
“Alastair had – in a will – instructed Moore to be the legal guardian of his kids if anything were to happen to him. It is as if he knew he was going to die. Funny for an engineer. What did he thought he was going to die from? Short circuits?” Laughed Agent Darrow. “Moore didn’t get to Nolan’s brother in time though – someone else got to him first.”
His left hand started to sweat from gripping the steering wheel – a habit he had whenever he was in the driver’s seat – he wasn’t even driving yet. “Get me more information, I’m on my way back to the station,” said Frost as he turned the keys in the ignition, the spark plug struggled to start the engine.
“Oh yeah, Christina’s brother Francis attends Nolan’s Criminology class in Columbia.” Commented Agent Darrow. “Thought you might want to know.”
The irony. Another strand of web.
“I already knew that,” muttered Detective Frost.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” Dismissed Frost. “I need you to continue working on it. And Darrow, get some eyes on Harvey Nolan.”
Chapter 10
“WE MAY BE an orphanage housed in a rundown building in a small town, but the Saint Michael’s Orphanage has been extremely committed to enabling the lives of all the children who pass through our doors every single year since 1997 through our residential program. We have offices in 3 other developing countries where we attempt to rehabilitate children from these countries whose families are torn apart by war, extreme poverty and natural disaster.” Clarissa Wheelock explained. She continued to flip the prospectus in a mechanical fashion as she described their cause. “I can ensure you that your generous donation, no matter how large or small the amount, will go toward the implementation of our programs which will directly benefit these kids–”
Harvey sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair on the opposite side of the table, its varnish worn out from years of use. His fingers tapped his kneecap as he surveyed the room he was in. A highly polished bronze sculpture of an eagle with wide spread wings laid on the right far side of the room facing him. A full colored resin statue of an American bald eagle in a swooping down posture sat on the left side of the table that was in front of Harvey, its rear facing him. A vintage brass eagle paper weight finished the unnecessary decorations on the desk. An old book shelf towered over everything else stood against the wall on the right side of the room. Harvey narrowed his eyes and could see three miniature balancing eagle toys with their beaks perched on triangular stands on the top shelf of it. The director must really love eagles. She continued to speak enthusiastically about the orphanage’s values and motto.
His fingers stopped their tapping. “Dr. Wheelock, I’m afraid I have deceived you of my true intentions to meet you today. I am ashamed to say that it is not in the children’s interests that I am here today for. I am here for Christina Jenson.” Interrupted Harvey.
Wheelock looked up from the brochure she had been pointing to and removed her spectacles from her face. “Who are you? Mr. Nolan, or whatever your real name is, my time is precious. I do not normally hold meetings with walk-in strangers poking their noses into my orphanage or asking about my volunteers. My time is reserved for the betterment of the children’s lives–”
Harvey muttered an apology. “I’m afraid it’s still Professor Nolan, but please, call me Harvey. I ensure you, this is not a frivolous conversation I am seeking.” Harvey explained. “Christina’s missing. She’s been missing for a week.”
Dr. Wheelock frowned as she took a closer look at Harvey. Harvey couldn’t tell if it was because she was concerned or that her eyesight was just plain poor. “At least that explains her absence last Sunday. Nothing’s happened to her I hope? What has she got to do with you?” Said the director. Clarissa Wheelock felt a pang of nervousness shot through her heart. She thought about the sweet and kind girl who had devoted much of weekends helping out at the orphanage.
“I was hoping you could tell me something to help me with that. You see, I’m a close friend of hers. I promised her family I would try to look for her.” Harvey said as he contemplated mentioning the FBI. “How frequent does she come to the orphanage to help out?”
“She comes about once or twice a week. Saturdays and Sundays, mostly Sundays. She would tutor the kids in English and Literature.” Wheelock answered, now looking positively disappointed that Harvey probably wouldn’t be donating anything. She replaced her spectacles on and looked straight through Harvey. “It’s been increasingly difficult to get volunteers these days, with the economic recession and employment rates falling, most people would rather be looking for a job or get a weekend job to make ends meet rather than help out for free. She has been a god sent.”
“How about other volunteers?” Harvey continued. “Are there many other volunteers helping out at the orphanage?”
“We have a huge residential facility, Professor Nolan. We house, at any time, no less than 65 abused or abandoned adolescent kids with moderate behavioral and social problems. We could always use administrative and maintenance assistance like tutoring, garden landscaping, building upgrades, and plumbing repairs. We usually have at least eight to ten volunteers coming in during the weekends to help us out with all these chores.” Said Wheelock.
“Was Christina notably close with any of the volunteers?” Asked Harvey.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer that. You see, I am the Chief Program Dir
ector. I take care of the planning of educational and enrichment programs that go on in this orphanage for the children. I allocate the volunteers where they are needed according to their expertise and then leave them to their own devices afterward, I don’t interact much with them after except for meal times where it is communal – the children, staff and volunteers always sit and have our meals together in the canteen.” Said Wheelock.
A rhythmic knock on the office door announced a presence on the other side of the door.
“Come in–”
“Dr. Wheelock, I need to talk to you about removing those ghastly poison ivy by the basketball court, I’ve already had 2 cases of rashes attributed to it – oh mine I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were occupied, I’ll drop by later–” Said the intruder.
“Not at all, Jane. Perfect timing actually. This gentleman here was just inquiring about Christina Jenson. She’s been missing, or so it seems.” Said Wheelock as her glance swiped from Jane to Harvey. “Professor Nolan, this is Miss Jane Aichroth. She teaches Math as a volunteer three times a week. She probably spends much more time interacting with Christina than I do. I suggest you ask her anything you wish to find out about Christina’s time here.”
“Miss Aichroth–”
“Professor Nolan. I would love to help you but can we walk as we talk, I’m almost late for a class. I shouldn’t keep the kids waiting.” Said Aichroth. She was already half way out the door when Harvey stood from his uncomfortable chair and thanked Clarissa Wheelock for her time. Dr. Wheelock never so much as blinked at her laptop in response. He followed Jane Aichroth out of the office into the hallway as she hurried toward her classroom on the other side of the building. Her short legs carried her as fast as they could.
“Miss Aichroth, is there anything you can tell me? How did Christina end up here?” Asked Harvey as he quickened his pace to match hers.
“She was a train wreck when she first appeared here. I believe you know about her husband. What a pity. A young couple, so in love. I vaguely remember her mentioning that she had been recommended to help out the less fortunate, so that she can view her own life in a better, fairer perspective.” Said Aichroth. She slowed her pace in deep thought. “I don’t think she ever specified who asked her to. She’s been coming here every weekend ever since. She’s gotten a lot better you know, compared to before.”
“Was she especially close to anyone? Other volunteers, staff, kids?” Inquired Harvey.
“She was always friendly with everyone though she kept mostly to herself. One can tell that she shielded herself from connecting deeper with anyone. It is as if she didn’t want to let anyone in, not anymore perhaps, after her husband’s death.” Said Aichroth. “She did seem to have taken to a volunteer though, Deacon. I have seen them more than a couple of times sitting at the bench by the courtyard, talking. Decent man, Deacon. Has been volunteering here longer than I have. Even adopted a few kids himself.”
Harvey paused at the revelation. “Where can I find Deacon? Do you happen to have an address or a phone number?”
Miss Aichroth chortled as if Harvey had said something rather senseless. “It’s hard to miss him, really. He runs the circus by the Raritan River, close to Buccleuch Park. You can see the Big Top from half a mile away.” Aichroth explained. “Enjoy the fair while you are at it. I sincerely do hope Christina’s okay. She deserves a better life than fate has given her so far.”
The sound of a school bell rang.
“That’s me. I’d pray for Christina.” Said Aichroth as she left Harvey by the hallway and pushed the door to the classroom. She stopped and turned back at the door. “Godspeed Professor Nolan.”
Chapter 11
SPECTOR SHIFTED HIS posture on the beige French bistro chair and removed his sizeable wallet from his back trouser pocket. The blood rush back to his numbed thigh and he felt more comfortable right away. He placed his wallet on the wooden surface round table in front of him, a folded copy of the Wall Street Journal sat to the left of it. An unlit candle lamp adorned the rustic alfresco table – the daylight was bright enough, there was no need for it. He lifted his cup of double espresso to his lips and sipped the bitter concoction. A New York City harbor cruise circled under the Brooklyn Bridge and he knew it would be heading back around the tip of lower Manhattan – he had seen it countless times. Spector imagined the horde of tourists taking in the sights of the New York City skyline, just as he was this fine morning. He could no longer remember what it was like to be a tourist in this fine American city he had so grown to love. He took a larger mouthful of the espresso, it burned his tongue ever so slightly. An oddly refreshing contrast to the cool wind that blew against his face.
“Sir, would you like something to go along with the coffee?” Said a deep baritone voice from the back. “Perhaps something sweet? May I recommend the milk chocolate and hazelnut Gianduja pancakes served with Vermont maple syrup and apple wood smoked bacon?”
Spector turned slightly to his right, toward the source of the voice. He greeted the man with a warm smile which turned into a look of contemplation at the waiter’s suggestion. “I’m afraid my stomach doesn’t agree with that much sugar this early in the day. As a matter of fact, I’m afraid my stomach doesn’t agree with any food this early in the day. I will have to pass on your wonderful suggestion and ask for another double espresso. Pity. I love chocolate.”
The young waiter in the impeccable black vest and slick haircut nodded at Spector with a crooked smile and left him to whatever’s left of his espresso. Spector returned to facing the New York City skyline once again and this time, the statue of liberty to the left caught his eye.
When will I get true freedom?
Spector finished the coffee in a single mouthful as his thoughts raced toward the week before. He had been in Mexico City for a mission. A rather straightforward one in his opinion. Instructions were to deliver a suitcase of unknown contents to a low level Mexican drug smuggler by the name of Big Boy of the Sinaloa Cartel, a mole who had been recruited by his organization in the drug smuggling gang some years back. As usual, he hadn’t questioned the purpose of the mission or doubted the motives of his supervisors. That was how they worked. It had all begun well with he and his partner successfully smuggling the suitcase past the borders and contacted Big Boy. They were to meet at the Cafe del Palacio in the Palacio de Bellas Artes at noon, where the huge numbers of tourists would conceal them in plain sight while they dropped off the package. It all went downhill pretty quickly when the men at the table next to them pulled out handguns and shot at his partner and Big Boy. Big Boy died on the spot with a bullet wound through his head. His partner suffered a shot to the shoulder and would have suffered another if not for the suitcase he had held toward his chest. It was by sheer luck that they had managed to escape the pursuit of the gunmen as the horde of tourists provided a human shield between them and the carelessly fired bullets. Spector had no time to feel pity for them. They had then located a safe house where Spector had to stitch his partner up and dispose of the suitcase – a liability now that its recipient wasn’t alive anymore. His partner survived. They had to lay low for a couple of days before they could leave the country. The 2-day mission had become a 14-day one. Spector scoffed at the memory.
I am better off working alone.
“Sir, your double espresso. Buttered scone complimentary of the manager. Enjoy.” The young waiter said. The heels of his oxfords tapped softly on the hardwood floor as he walked back into the cafe.
These amateur young agents are a burden. Why must we work in pairs when I can do it all by myself. Isn’t that more efficient? Spector thought to himself as he fished his cellphone out from his pocket and read a text massage he had just received.
‘Scone’s quite good. Must try it.’
Spector snorted to himself. He carefully peeled open the scone to reveal a tiny vial with an encased needle point and took a quick look at his watch. 8.30 a.m. The target should be here anytime soon.
Th
e loud thumping of the expensive brogues announced the arrival of the short fat balding man. His checked caramel three piece suit could barely contain his gut. He barked at the young waiter, who had earlier served Spector, for a table and proceeded into the café. Spector stood up from his table and picked up his wallet. He left the bill on the table and entered the café.
“Lad, may I know where’s the restroom?” Asked Spector.
“It’s by the back, near the kitchen. I think it is occupied.” Said the young waiter, his demeanor unchanged by the rude customer from before.
“No worries lad. I’ll help myself.” Said Spector as he walked toward the toilet.
He entered the washroom and the fat bald man in the checked suit was rinsing his hands by the sink. Spector uncapped the needled vial and carefully pricked the bald man on the side of his left thigh as he squeezed past him by the narrow space toward the urinals.
“Ouch. Hey! Watch it man.” Said the bald man. His manners did not improved from earlier.
Spector flashed an apologetic smile at the bald man and entered a cubicle. He waited till he could hear no sound from outside the cubicle before he exited it. The bald man had gone back into the café. Spector slipped out of the toilet quietly and walked straight through the front door out of the café. An orange brown railing across the pathway separated him and the East River. He strode toward the fence and slipped the now spent vial out of his jacket, and discarded it into the waters beneath him.
A ruckus could be heard from the inside of the café. A certain obese man in a caramel suit had collapsed on the floor and was foaming at his mouth. Spector fished out his cell phone again and replied to the text massage he had received earlier before throwing it into the waters as well.
‘Scone’s too buttery. Didn’t like it.’
