And Then There Was One

by Patricia Gussin

  “His hearing on child abuse charges has been postponed because you won’t be there, but no, we can’t link him to your daughters. We have nothing to hold him on.”

  The temporary spark went out of Katie and she slumped forward, fresh tears brimming. “I’m sorry, I can’t think about anything but Alex and Sammie. About what might be happening to them? Where they might be?”

  “Getting back to Mr. Cutty, Dr. Monroe, knowing his psychological profile, do you think he would try something like this? Take your children to keep you from testifying? He certainly has motive. Of course, he did not do it in person, but he has financial means.”

  “He’s a sociopath who needs to be in jail, at the very least, isolated from children. But kidnapping my kids? Twelve hundred miles away?”

  “We have to be thorough. What do you know about his live-in boyfriend, Adam Kaninsky?”

  “Adam?” Katie sat up straighter, a wariness in her tone.

  Katie stood up and started pacing. She asked for a glass of water. Streeter poured her some iced water. She drank slowly then sat back down. Settling her head in her hands, she began, “Here’s what happened. Several months ago, Adam came to me in a professional setting. He said he had an ethical dilemma. He told me that he was gay and that he had a partner, an older man, a man with money and style, a man with two young sons, Aiden, seven, and Jake, five. He told me that he had witnessed his partner’s sexual abuse of his sons.”

  “He was a witness?” Streeter tried to get her back on track.

  “Adam said that Maxwell would take the boys in the shower with him. Adam didn’t think there’d been anal penetration, per se, but he definitely used the kids as sex objects. The kids seemed to accept it as normal. Adam described them as submissive. I don’t need to get into all the details.”

  “So why did he come to you?” Streeter asked.

  “He felt bad for the kids. Adam wanted it to stop, but he didn’t want to jeopardize his golden status with Maxwell.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him to make an anonymous call to the Child Protection Agency. To use the hotline. That the call could not be traced to him. Then I also called the agency. Anonymously. Just to make sure.”

  “And now you’re officially involved in the case. Isn’t that a conflict, a breech of ethics?”

  “Suppose it is?” Katie looked up, staring straight ahead, but avoiding eye contact. “I wanted to help keep those little boys safe.”

  For his fifty-fifth birthday, Pamela Spansky had treated her husband to a concert. They’d seen Evan’s favorite female vocalist, Monica Monroe, at a sellout performance at the Fox Theatre Saturday evening. Being from Detroit, Monica reminded native Detroiters of the raging popularity of the Supremes back in the old days. Pamela’s favorite was Celine Dion, a Canadian, and for her fiftieth, Evan had taken her to Las Vegas. That time they’d taken their two sons and flown from Toronto. This time they’d left the boys at home and driven from Toronto to Detroit. They’d booked two nights at the Renaissance Hotel to give them a day to recuperate. All had gone well, Monica had put on a spectacular show, but Pamela knew that Evan was anxious to head back home to check on their two sons, Craig and Tim. Not exactly children any more, at age fifteen and sixteen, but Evan was ever watchful, bordering on paranoid, she thought.

  “Check out time’s noon,” Pamela called to her husband. “We told the boys we’d be home for dinner, but we have plenty of time for lunch before we leave.”

  Just as they were getting ready to leave their hotel room Monday morning, Evan called Pamela to take a look at the TV. “There’s been a kidnapping. Right outside Detroit. Two little girls.” Evan paused for a moment. “Geez, they’re Scott Monroe’s kids. He grew up here and he’s Monica Monroe’s brother. How awful for him.”

  Pamela joined him in front of the TV set. “His wife is black?”

  “Guess so,” Evan said, “that I didn’t know. Cute kids. They were in town for the concert, too. How sad is that?”

  “We have to check out, honey. Birthday’s over.”

  With that, Evan clicked off the television.

  CHAPTER 6

  The U.S. Government Bailout Pits “Get’s” vs “Get-Nots.”

  — Business News, Monday, June 14, 2009

  Maxwell Cutty paced the length of the great room. Back and forth. What he needed was a massage, a deep one. Sitting alone in that over air-conditioned holding room for hours stiffened his neck. No one had checked on him or asked if he wanted coffee. Then the agent in charge, a total prick, showed up, wanted to know about Adam. Where Adam was, specifically. And that line of questioning made Adam his first problem. Adam, the ingrate, was the root cause of this unacceptable situation. If he hadn’t butted in, and told that shrink lies about how he treated his sons, Aiden and Jake, none of this would have happened. But, even so, Maxwell couldn’t think of Adam’s Adonis body without wondering who he was with? Just thinking of Adam gave him a hard-on. That distraction, he didn’t need.

  Maxwell wrung his hands, still feeling the rage that had erupted that night when Adam had spilled his guts. They’d gone to Bern’s Steakhouse, just the two of them. Adam had been quiet, even moody, during dinner. For an after dinner drink, Maxwell had ordered the most expensive port on the legendary wine list. A real treat that would certainly cheer the boy up, but no, Maxwell watched as Adam’s first tear trickled into the deep purple drink.

  “What’s wrong?” Maxwell had asked.

  “I did something today.” Maxwell had to lean forward to hear him although there were few remaining diners. “I went to see Dr. Katie. Dr. Katie Monroe, my old therapist,” he’d confessed. “I needed her advice.” Maxwell knew that Adam idolized this Doctor Katie. “I asked her, ‘What should I do?’ he’d said.

  At first Maxwell had no idea what Adam was talking about. “Do about what?”

  “About what I saw in the shower.” Maxwell remembered how shaky Adam’s voice had sounded and how Adam had refused to look him in the eye. “I didn’t feel right about what you did to those two kids, Maxwell.”

  “I never hurt Aiden or Jack.” His words came out too loud, and he’d glanced around the room.

  “Dr. Katie used to tell me that men are not supposed to do that to kids,” Adam had said. Maxwell had been grateful that he spoke in a voice so low it was difficult to hear. “That it’s child abuse, sexual child abuse. I learned all about that. I’d never, ever, touch a kid.”

  Adam’s body had started to tremble as he tried to steady the crystal stemware. “Maxwell, I don’t want you to get in trouble, but—”

  Maxwell’s mind had been calculating. Okay, what if the boys were questioned? What would they say? All he’d done was rub his prick on their naked bodies. He hadn’t stuck it inside, though he had wanted to, and would someday, once he got them back.

  Whatever Adam had told that doctor would be in confidence, but Maxwell knew he could not take a chance. Adam wouldn’t be testifying at the hearing. Neither would Dr. Katie.

  The phone interrupted as Maxwell lingered on the consequences of Adam’s unfortunate choice of a confidant. An organized, methodical person, he needed to think things through in stages. Too many things were happening too fast. He had to focus.

  “Maxwell, I’m calling about your hearing.”

  Shit, his lawyer. Why had he picked up? But now that Greg Klingman was on the phone, should he tell him that he’d spent the night at FBI headquarters? While he was there, had the feds searched his house, taken his hard drive? He’d look stupid if he didn’t mention it and Klingman already knew. But what would he say? That the feds thought he had something to do with the missing Monroe kids? What can of worms would that open up?

  “Now that Dr. Monroe is unavailable, the judge wants a postponement. What a tragedy about her kids.”

  “Uh, Greg, now’s not a good time,” Maxwell mumbled. “Didn’t get much sleep last night. Worrying about today.”

  “There’s a lot we have to talk ab
out —”

  Maxwell hung up the phone and put it on “make busy.” What he said was true, he did not do well with less than eight hours of sleep. He’d take an Ambien. When he felt refreshed, he’d go over everything. Was there anything on his computer that could tie him to Olivia or to Dr. Katie Monroe? He didn’t think so, but just in case, he’d have to take action.

  Maxwell slept four hours, awakening at two p.m. only because he’d set an alarm. Still groggy from the sleeping pill, but with clear priorities. First, scrambled eggs, microwave bacon, and strong coffee. Deal with Adam, permanently this time. That was clear to him now. He’d have to use a pay phone and hope that his contact got back to him quickly. After he took care of that, he’d decide whether to call his attorney and raise hell about the FBI questioning him last night. Surely hauling him out at that hour was an invasion of his civil rights? And, had they said anything about a search warrant? One thing at a time, he told himself.

  Maxwell never left dirty dishes, and he felt his eyelids twitch when he forced himself to leave the house less than perfect. As an architect, he had to have his showcase house ready to impress potential clients, and he could not tolerate one article out of place. Here’s where he and Olivia had seen eye to eye. As much as he did not like to admit it, the splendor of the house had just as much to do with her interior design talent as his architectural genius. For sure, one thing that he didn’t miss about Aiden and Jake’s temporary absence was their untidiness. On his way out the door, he glanced at the framed cover of Architectural Digest with a full-color spread of the elegant Cutty home. Too bad about Adam. He’d have been a perfect partner in this house. Those deep brown eyes, so expressive when they were making love. Longish black hair, very silky, so erotic. Just the thought aroused Maxwell, making him dizzy with desire.

  As Maxwell climbed into his Lexus, he tried to decide from where to place the call? Not Carrollwood, where he lived, but Ybor City, where the guy who called himself “Vincent” hung out.

  The call went to voice mail. “This is Mr. Justice,” he said, using the same name he’d used before. “Call me as soon as possible. I have something for you.” Maxwell gave him the pay phone number. He did not see the forest green minivan with the dark windows lurking at the corner of the block.

  He waited fifteen minutes before the phone rang. “What’s up?” asked the familiar masculine voice.

  “We need to talk. I have a job. Has to be done immediately.”

  “No way. I’m outta here on a long vacation. Out of the country, man.”

  “Good. My job’s out of the country, too. Nevis. Island in the Caribbean.”

  “I know where Nevis is,” the hit man said. “Look, I got no time to haggle. You say Nevis. Yeah, it might work. Meet me tomorrow morning eleven sharp with details. Same place, but come with the money. You know the drill. Seein’ it’s a rush job, it’ll be complicated. Bring a hundred fifty, all up front this time.”

  Before Maxwell could protest at such an exorbitant price, the connection was severed, leaving that buzz in his ear. Last time he had hired Vincent — the only time — it had set him back one hundred grand. Cash in hundreds. Then he’d had more time to plan.

  Maxwell slammed down the receiver and considered his limited options. He had to get his hands on a hundred fifty grand. He checked his Rolex: 3:05. Enough time to get to the bank. Premonition told him to get the money now, not wait until morning, just in case the feds decided to freeze his accounts. Although he didn’t think they could do that. If they had anything on him, they wouldn’t have let him go. He didn’t have that kind of cash in his personal account, so he’d have to take it from the firm. Shouldn’t be a problem with a half-a-million line of credit, but there’d be scrutiny by the fucking accountants. No big deal, he’d have time to replenish the money once he could get at his brokerage account and sell enough stock or go with a margin loan, whatever. He was a professional architect and a damned successful one. But the man called Vincent was right about this job, it could be complicated.

  Streeter picked up the call from Special Agent Emmitt Rusk, his counterpart in Tampa.

  “Cutty went into a bank? What the heck did he do in there?” Massaging his forehead with the palm of both hands, he took a deep breath, then pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed sleep. He’d been awake for almost forty hours.

  “Can’t be sure,” said Rusk. “He went into a private office at the Bank of America with one of the vice presidents. Went in and came out with a canvas case. Without a warrant, we’re not going to get anything from the bank.”

  “Follow him. Let’s get a warrant to access all his financial accounts, personal and business. Meantime, I’m going to crash for a couple of hours, but call me if you get anything.”

  Streeter had sent Katie and Scott home empty. Without a scrap of information. There’d been no ransom note. No trace of the little girls. His only lead, Maxwell Cutty. Not much to go on there, but he’d milk it for all it was worth. As the Tampa field office held Cutty for questioning, they’d gotten a warrant to search his house and seized his computer. They’d found zero evidence of the missing Monroe girls, but they were still going through his hard drive. It was obvious that he had not personally snatched the girls in Detroit, then made it back to Tampa to be found alone in his own bed in his night clothes in the wee hours of the morning. But a man of his sophistication, financial means, and deviant personality had ways and means and motive. Dr. Kate Monroe had been about to nail his ass in court. To what extremes would he go to prevent that?

  Exhausted as he was, Streeter took one last look at the e-mailed photo of the elegant architect. Age forty-two, dark brown hair, feathered with a tinge of stylish grey just at the temples, so perfect that Streeter suspected he had it colored. The eyes were deep blue and just a touch too sunken as they peered vainly at the camera. Katie said he was narcissistic, and his image fit the bill.

  Streeter then picked up two other photos. In his right hand, Adam Kaninsky, a candid shot outside the Cutty home, looking smug and coquettish in shorts and a tank top. Dark hair, too long in Streeter’s opinion, large soulful eyes, and a buffed smooth body. In his left hand, he held an image of the late Olivia Cutty. Same age as Maxwell, they had graduated together and worked side-by-side in the business they built. Streeter studied Olivia’s photo. She had aged faster than her husband, not usual for a woman. In the black tailored suit she looked sallow and too thin. A fragile appearance that didn’t match the tough business personality her friends described. The “brains behind the firm” was the refrain that kept reappearing in her file.

  Streeter resolved to dig deeper into the investigation of her death. A death ruled accidental by Hillsbourgh County authorities, a death entirely too convenient for Mr. Maxwell Cutty, surviving partner, single father, out-of-the-closet gay man.

  What had caused the Cutty marriage to break up? According to the file: When Olivia Cutty found out her husband was homosexual, she insisted on a divorce. Judgment of divorce gave her the house and typical joint child custody with Mrs. Cutty named custodial parent.

  Seemed straightforward, Streeter thought. Just like Marianne and him. He had every other weekend with his girls — unless the job got in the way. He had every other holiday, too.

  Then Olivia Cutty drowns, falls off a yacht cruising Tampa Bay. The boat belonged to Olivia’s date, who was also her sister’s boss and editor of the Tampa Tribune. Streeter rubbed his eyes, forcing them to scour the accident report one more time. There was a fire on board, a faulty fuel pump. While her host and the two couples on board hustled to find the fire extinguisher, call for help, scurry about, and do whatever had to be done to put out the fire, Olivia, a weak swimmer at best, simply disappeared. Once the fire was contained, the remaining five people started to look for her. Several days later, her body washed up on shore. Cause of death: drowning, confirmed on autopsy. Boys’ custody reverts to Maxwell, and they all moved back into the big house. This time with Adam. Case closed.

  Ha
d Olivia suspected or even known that her ex-husband was molesting her sons?

  Streeter put the case file down. His heart went out to the Cutty kids. Hillsborough County Child Protective Services had placed them temporarily with Olivia’s sister, Roberta. What would happen to them if their father went to jail? But that was not his immediate problem. He couldn’t let anything distract him from finding the Monroe twins. He corrected himself, they were not twins. Exhausted, Streeter slipped off his jacket, laid down on the floor, and was asleep before his head hit the carpet.

  CHAPTER 7

  Former Yankee Catcher, Scott Monroe, in Detroit

  Following Abduction of Two of His Triplet Daughters.

  — Sports News Networks, Monday, June 15

  Cliff Hunter crushed another sheet of lined yellow paper in his big hands. The thin tablet was almost used up. He had to get this right. At first he’d made an outline. First, tell Scott Monroe that he had his daughters; second, decide on the amount of money; third, warn the parents not to call in the law; fourth, set a timetable; fifth, threaten to take the third girl. He wanted to get the language just right. He didn’t want to sound too smart, as if he could even if he wanted to; he didn’t want to sound too dumb. He wanted respect and he wanted money and he wanted payback.

  Cliff’s biggest problem was how to make the demand. He’d considered his options, but hadn’t yet decided. The FBI would naturally be monitoring Monroe’s house, his wife’s office, probably both of their parents’ places, but maybe not Scott’s employer, the Yankee’s central office in New York.

  Next, he had to decide how to deliver the demand. His first choice would have been to do it by e-mail. Quick. Convenient since he had access to the e-mail addresses of both parents, work and home. But Cliff knew his limitations. He was not technology savvy, but he knew that the feds could track e-mails, so he ruled out cyberspace. That left the post office, or a delivery service like FedEx or UPS, or the phone. He was leaning toward the phone, but he wasn’t sure which number to use. He could disguise his voice on a phone message, either in person or if it went to voice mail. Voice message would be preferable, and he knew how to use the Yankee organization’s voice messaging system.