by S. J. Harper
“We’ll get him back,” Zack interjects, promising something he shouldn’t. This is personal for him, very personal.
I leave my drink untouched. “The clock is ticking. We need the truth.”
Zack waves an arm in Maitlan’s direction. “Fire away,” he tells me.
My first question isn’t for Maitlan. I face Zack. “Explain the connection between the two of you.”
Zack pauses only long enough to down what I assume to be whiskey. “Maitlan and I met in the Middle East, around the time I was trying to extricate myself from my former employers. They wanted Maitlan to take on a project in Iraq—the kind of project that would benefit them and no one else. The deal had corruption written all over it. Maitlan had a reputation for both being a patriot and being willing to bend the rules, but what these guys wanted was too risky. And had political implications that could come back and bite him in the ass.”
“Not to mention it was just plain wrong. I turned the deal down,” Maitlan added.
The sun, pouring in through the windows, is warm against my back. I slide off my suit jacket and roll up the sleeves of my white, cotton blouse. “I take it these men were not used to hearing the word no.”
Zack’s smile confirms I’ve made the understatement of the year. He continues, “When they saw he wasn’t going to play ball, they asked me to drive him back to the airport. No harm, no foul, right?”
“Only, that’s not the way the outfit works,” I say.
His eyes skewer mine. “No. It isn’t. And I’d been in long enough to know that. On the way to the airport, we were attacked. Seems they’d realized I wanted out and figured they’d kill two birds with one stone—get rid of Maitlan and assure my silence.”
Maitlan breaks in. “Zack fought them. Kicked ass. Killed all three gunmen then managed to get us both to a safe house. I took a bullet in the shoulder. Zack got hit in the leg. At first I thought it must have nicked the femoral artery. There was so much blood.” Maitlan stands and begins to pace, he’s looking a little green around the gills.
Zack grins. “Sissy passed out.”
“I’m still not sure how you managed to get me to that safe house.”
“We laid low for a week,” Zack continued, “then I got us both out of the country and back to the states.”
At this Maitlan laughs. “He makes it sound so simple. In reality it was anything but.” He looks at Zack. “I owe you my life and now I’ll owe you my son’s.”
I notice a vintage brass bar cart in the corner. It’s littered with a variety of glasses, an assortment of alcohol and mixers, as well as a variety of soft drinks and bottles of water. I walk over and help myself to one. “Do you think the men who tried to kill the two of you are the same men who have your son?”
Maitlan shakes his head. “No. The evidence Zack has against them has managed to keep us both safe for this long. I don’t see a reason for that changing. And it’s not just Zack that I want on the case. When he transferred to San Diego I checked you out, Agent Monroe. You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself. I’m used to working with the best. I’m convinced if anyone can get Robby back, you two can.”
I open the bottle of water and take a sip. “There’s more to it than that. Torres and her team are competent, more than competent. This is about trust.”
Maitlan passes a hand over his face. It’s a tell that says I’m right. There is more to this story.
“What haven’t you told Special Agent Torres? What is it you think you can’t trust her with?” I ask.
“I’ve done some extremely stupid things since Robby’s mother died.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and stares down into his empty glass. Color rises to his cheeks. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.” I reclaim my spot on the sofa across from him. “Believe me, whatever your indiscretion, I’ve heard it before. We’re not here to judge you. We’re here to find your son. Help us do that.”
He nods, stands, sets his drink on the mantle of the fireplace. “I loved my wife. When she died, I was barely able to hold it together. She’d been sick for so long, you’d think I would have been prepared.” His back is to us, his shoulders slump even further. “Take it from me, you’re never prepared. I had a company to run. A son to raise. And there was so much scrutiny. I had to hold it together. Maintain control, so much control. Day after day until I couldn’t do it anymore. After Robby went down for the night, I’d crawl into the bottle. One night his nanny crawled into bed with me. She’d lived with us since Robby was born. I trusted her.”
“And that was a mistake,” Zack interjected.
“Yes,” Maitlan agrees. “I was drunk. We did some coke. There was a video.”
The rest I can imagine. “She’s been blackmailing you.”
Maitlan turns to face us. “Not any longer, she’s dead. I started making payments. Within a few weeks her recreational drug habit turned into a full-blown addiction. She overdosed in her apartment. There was quite a bit of cash and coke. Her property was seized.”
“And with it the video?” I asked.
“I had to recover it. I confessed everything to my attorney. He put me in touch with someone who could get it back. That man introduced me to Elysium.”
Elysium. I know it as the place where mortals who are invited by the gods spend their afterlife, those who were heroes, righteous. Something tells me this Elysium is different.
Maitlan continues, “It’s a club, the kind of club that caters to every man’s taste. Very private. Very exclusive.”
Zack holds up his glass. “I take it we’re talking about more than a place you can go to smoke cigars and drink whisky?”
That gets a small smile from the multi-billionaire. “On the surface it looks like your typical stodgy gentleman’s club. Members do stop in the bar on occasion, have a drink, a bite to eat, smoke a cigar. But most, including me, go there for sex. Encounters that are uncomplicated, even anonymous if you wish it. Fantasies made to order. It’s run by a woman named Eve Devlin. There’s nothing she can’t arrange… for a price.”
“And what does all of this have to do with your son’s kidnapping?” I ask, my patience wearing thin.
“I believe Eve has Robby.”
My partner asks the question that’s on both of our minds. “And why would Eve Devlin take your son?”
Maitlan waits a beat before replying. “Because I took from her the only thing she loved more than Elysium. I’m responsible for the death of her daughter.”
Zack and I exchange looks.
“She was your nanny? The one that overdosed?” I ask.
“No. Eve’s daughter, Amanda, was employed at Elysium. She wasn’t one of the working girls. She managed the schedule, kept the books. Nice, though rather plain. Despite her upbringing she was shy and somewhat sheltered. There was a social awkwardness about her. I don’t believe we’d ever had a conversation that didn’t involve me booking a reservation until that night.”
I interrupt him then. “I’m not a therapist, Mr. Maitlan. And Zack sure as hell isn’t a priest. If you’re going to confess—
“I didn’t murder Amanda, if that’s what your thinking.”
“Just tell us what happened,” prompts Zack.
“It was just a couple weeks ago. I’d called in and requested—” He falters, clears his throat, “A favorite of mine. Amanda took the reservation as usual and assured me the girl would be available when I arrived. Only when I showed up, it was Amanda waiting for me in the room. Naked. In bed.”
He pauses, shuts his eyes for a moment as though dredging up the memory is painful. When he continues, his voice is once again calm, controlled. “I’d stopped in the bar, had a few drinks before going upstairs. At first I thought I had the wrong room. I apologized and started to back out. That’s when Amanda professed her love for me. I thought she was joking. And I did the worst thing I could have done. I laughed. She unraveled before my eyes. It became clear she’d concocted a fantasy in which we wer
e a couple. She kept saying that night was to be the beginning for us. She would be a mother for Robby. A wife to me. I would never have to frequent her mother’s place again.”
He pauses again, a look of conflicted anger and sadness darkening his eyes. “She was fragile, and only a girl, barely twenty. The more I tried to calm her, the more hysterical she became. For obvious reasons, the rooms are soundproof. No one was going to come to the rescue. I left her there and went in search of help.”
“What happened next?” I ask.
Maitlan shakes his head. “I don’t know exactly. In an effort to maintain discretion, I went in search of Eve. I’d barely gotten the words out when she muttered ‘not again’ and ordered me out, banning me from ever coming back. A few days later I learned Amanda committed suicide. Broke the mirror in the adjoining bathroom and slit her wrists. Eve might have saved her life if she’d immediately called 911. But there was Elysium and its clients to protect.”
“So she hesitated. She let her daughter die and instead of accepting responsibility for that choice…”
“She blames me. The day of Amanda’s funeral I received an enormous spray of orange lilies. I looked it up. They symbolize hatred. The card simply read: An eye for an eye. One week to the day, Robby was taken. She sent the flowers. She took my son. I don’t have proof, but I know it.”
“Why not call in an anonymous tip, have vice go in and search the place?” I ask.
“Because they can’t be trusted. Eve doesn’t just service the wealthy, she also allows in select government officials, upper echelon law enforcement, celebrities, and powerful criminals. She has leverage. A call to the police to report the goings on at Elysium would likely result in… nothing. Plus, Robby won’t be there. Eve’s far too smart for that. I’m going to get my son back and I’m going to need my own leverage. That’s why you’re here.”
Zack’s gaze moves from me to Maitlan. “Speak plainly, Roger, tell us what you want.” His tone says he already knows. I lean forward.
Maitlan’s entire body relaxes from the weight of relief. “Eve keeps a ledger. Not on a computer, I’m talking about an actual paper journal. Details about who her customers are, their preferences, how much they’ve paid over the years.” He’s speaking to Zack, not me. “I want you to steal it. I know how you protected yourself from your former employers. It’s worked. It’s kept us both safe. I know you’re capable of breaking into Eve’s office and getting that book. And, I know I can trust you to do it. I’ll pay you anything. We’d have the leverage I need, then we could arrange a swap.”
“The book for your son,” Zack says.
“Eve will have no choice.” Maitlan slumps against his chair. “Eve plans to kill Robby. That’s what the message on the card meant. I know it. But if we can get our hands on that book, she’ll have no choice but to return him. To protect herself not only from the police, but from her clients. As I see it, it’s the only way.”
I look over at Zack. His eyes are on me. Trying to gauge my reaction. I’m trying to gauge his. Is he really considering this? Before I can ask he turns to face Maitlan.
“You’re right that I leveraged my freedom with information that could hurt not only my employers, but the governments of several countries as well. It’s working…for now. But it’s a standoff. A dangerous one. Not a perfect solution.”
“It’s a crazy idea,” I pipe up. “Someone has to be the voice of reason here. First of all, you’re assuming a lot. We don’t know it’s Eve behind the kidnapping. Even if she is, and Zack got the book, why would Eve trust that you hadn’t made copies? What if you’re wrong that the business is more important than the death of her daughter? Not to mention we’d be compromising the investigation and wasting precious time that we could be using to find Robby.”
Zack rises. “I do think this Eve Devlin is a lead worth following.”
I glare at him. “Tell me you aren’t really considering—”
Before I can finish my thought, the door flies open. Torres steps into the room, a headset in her hand. “You’ve got a call coming in,” she says to Maitlan. “No caller ID. It may be a ransom demand.”
Maitlan jumps to his feet and rushes after Torres. “If it is and I can keep him on the phone long enough, you can trace it. Right?”
Zack and I follow close behind.
“If they’re calling from a landline or a registered mobile, yes. We’ll have the location within seconds. The phone company’s been alerted,” says Torres.
We cross the hallway and head into the room next door. This turns out to be a conference room with a long table down the middle. Two agents have set up their equipment here; one looks up as we enter.
He snaps his fingers at Maitlan. “Pick up line one. If it’s him, keep him talking as long as possible. The longer he talks, the more information we’ll have to study. And ask to speak with Robby. Be cooperative but insistent.”
Maitlan grabs for the phone. With a shaking hand, he puts the receiver to his ear. “Maitlan here.”
For a moment, only the ticking of the wall clock breaks the uneasy silence in the room. Torres has the headset to her ear and she’s taken a seat at the table, a pad in front of her. She starts to write. Finally, Maitlan speaks.
“It might take a little more time than that, but I can get you the money,” he says. Then, “Okay. I understand. Yes. I’ll do exactly as you say. But I want to speak to Robby.”
Once more there’s silence as Maitlan listens, his face contorted in apprehension. “No. I want to speak to my son. I need to be certain he’s okay. Please, you can’t… No, don’t hang up!”
For a terrible moment, he stares at the phone. He looks over at Torres. “He wouldn’t let me talk to Robby. What if he’s dead?”
“He’s not,” she replies calmly. “More often then not those who pay the ransom get their kids back.”
The agent at the table who was monitoring the call looks up. “The call couldn’t be traced. They used a burner.”
“It’s probably already in a dumpster somewhere,” I say. “These guys know what they’re doing.”
Maitlan is pacing. “Why wouldn’t they let me talk to him?”
“Don’t read anything into it,” says Zack, his voice calm. “Right now, we need to play the hand we’ve been dealt.”
I know Zack probably heard both sides of the conversation. His werewolf hearing is exceptional, but for now, I look to Torres. “How long before the drop?”
She’s torn the top page from the pad. For once, there’s no hostility in her manner when she answers. “Mr. Maitlan has two hours. He needs to get the money, then walk to the Central Park Boathouse and await further instructions by the large tree outside the Express Cafe.” She glances at her watch. “It’s noon now. He is to be at the Boathouse with the ransom in a backpack by two. That doesn’t give us much time.”
“It’s all the time I need.” Maitlan says, heading for the door.
Zack moves to intercept him. “Slow down for just a minute.”
Maitlan pushes him aside. “They said no cops.” His voice is shaky. “They’re watching. If they see you, suspect you’re there, Robby is dead.”
If he isn’t already. The words go unsaid, but it’s what I’m thinking, what all of us are thinking. The kidnappers have already demonstrated they have no problem with killing. Why not provide proof of life? Either they can’t, or they want to keep Maitlan guessing, suffering.
“I called the president of the bank at home hours ago. We’ve been friends for years. He’s been moving cash into the central branch all morning. I can make it to the bank and back in an hour.”
“How are you going to get out without the press seeing you?” I ask. “Reporters are all over. They’ll be watching the parking garage, too. There’s no way for you to leave the building unnoticed.”
That makes him pause. But just for an instant. “I won’t leave this building. I also own majority interest in the adjoining one. When Corrine fell ill, I broke through the wall
and built out the office space so I could easily work from home. It’s actually in the building next door. I can access the thirty-second floor hallway from the upper level of my office. If I change into running clothes, wear a couple sweaters and the backpack under a hoodie to give me more padding—”
“It could work,” interrupts Torres.
That’s all Maitlan needs. “I’ll change,” he says, then he’s out the door.
I spy a large urn on a credenza. Nearby are mugs, sugar and creamer. I tilt my head toward it. “Don’t know about you, but I could use a cup of coffee.”
“No thanks,” replies Zack. He turns to stare out the window.
“I reached out to Deke Jackson. I had to leave a message,” Torres says. When that gets no response she adds, “Do you want me to send a car and have him brought in or will my prior interview be satisfactory?”
The tension in the room is so thick, I can barely breathe. I pour myself a cup of the dark roast, take a sip of the bitter brew.
Finally, Zack shakes his head. “There’s no time for me to question Mr. Jackson now.” He turns to the other agents in the room. “I imagine things are going to be moving pretty fast for the next few hours. I’m going to need everyone’s full cooperation.”
“You’ve got it.” The man across the table from Zack rises and offers his hand. “Riley O’Neill.” My guess is that he’s in his late twenties—maybe thirty. He has “new agent” written all over him—from the crisp white shirt and tasteful dark blue tie to the suit coat hung carefully over the back of his chair. I’d even bet he has oxblood wingtips under those well-creased suit pants.
Zack looks pointedly at the gentleman to O’Neill’s right, the one who instructed Maitlan on how to handle the call. He’s older, early fifties. His hair is close-cropped. His skin is weathered. His accent is all Brooklyn.
“Ben Bradley. Just tell us what you need.” He raises his hands in a surrender posture before tilting his head toward Riley. “We’re a good team. Been together for a while now, and this isn’t our first rodeo. Though I can see how you might get that impression considering the baby face on Ri-Guy here.”
