Lucas Holt Series: Books 1-3

by JP Ratto

  “Lucas Holt?”

  “That’s me.” I stood and indicated the empty seat across from me.

  She sat down, placed her purse in her lap, and leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. Her body language was all business. I waited for her to start the meeting.

  “Mr. Holt, thank you for coming. My name is Janet Maxwell, and I need your help.”

  I took a few seconds to process her name. Maxwell was the name of a private investment company in the Big Apple, one I’d checked out to handle my personal finances, but went with one of the big-name firms instead. I remembered seeing a recent blurb about the company in Investor’s Business Daily, some trouble with the management. Janet Maxwell’s clothing and manner told me she was educated and had means. I doubted she was there to solicit financial business.

  “Would you like something to eat or drink, Mrs. Maxwell?”

  She hesitated and took a deep fortifying breath. “I could do with a glass of wine. Chardonnay, please.”

  I signaled for a waiter and ordered. We engaged in idle chitchat about the history of McAllister’s until the drink arrived.

  “What made you so sure I wouldn’t throw away the note?” I asked.

  “I hoped you wouldn’t. I’m reluctant to use my phone these days. Conversations are not always private. What I have to discuss must be kept between us.”

  “How do you know me and what I do? I assume you’re here to ask for my particular professional services.”

  “I first heard of you when you were with the NYPD. You worked on a murder case involving an acquaintance of mine. I followed the progress in the papers.”

  I knew the case. It was one I’ve struggled to put behind me but stubbornly remained at the forefront of my mind. I realized how I’d known the woman who sat across from me—from the newspapers. Her husband, president of Maxwell Investments, and their ten-year-old son died in an automobile accident. I wondered why she was asking for my help. Did she think their deaths weren’t an accident? I’m a private investigator, but at the time, my focus was to locate kidnap victims.

  “Mrs. Maxwell, what is this about?”

  Her eyes glazed with tears and she looked at me with pity. “I’m so sorry about what happened to your daughter, Mr. Holt. I can fully imagine your pain.”

  My pain. The unimaginable pain I endured fifteen years ago has become a sort of dull ache. Except when someone forces me to relive the horror by bringing up the incident and telling me how “so sorry” they are. At that moment, I regretted being there; I should have burned the damned note. This woman knew a lot more about me than I did about her. I waited for the stabbing in my gut to subside and took a large swig of my ale. My jaw clenched.

  “How do you think I can help you, Mrs. Maxwell?”

  My tone was colder than I intended, and she jerked back in her seat. I saw a fleeting look of anguish and futility pass over her face, as if I’d already refused to help before she could persuade me I had to. She took a moment to recover, her eyes never leaving mine. This was a woman with resolve. Her expression softened, and I hoped to God she wasn’t going to tell me, again, how sorry she was for my loss. She opened her handbag, pulled out a photo, and held it out to me.

  “Mr. Holt, I need you to find my daughter.”

  I picked up the photo.

  Three girls in their early teens posed in front of a covered bridge. I did the math. “Is this your daughter in the middle?” I could see a resemblance.

  “Yes.”

  “Is she from a previous marriage?”

  “No, I was never married to the father.”

  Up until now, Janet Maxwell appeared in control of her emotions, considering her recent tragic loss. But just the mention of the father seemed to rattle her. She slouched in her chair, tugged at the bottom of her sweater, and twisted her hands in her lap.

  “Did you have custody of your daughter?”

  “No, I never did.” She picked up the napkin from the table and dabbed her eyes. “I gave her up for adoption.”

  “This photo is evidence you’ve had contact with her before.”

  “Not directly. The lawyer who handled the adoption kept me informed of her progress through life—sent me pictures. It was part of the arrangement.”

  “That’s a pretty favorable deal. But you never had personal contact?”

  “No, it was not part of the arrangement. My daughter doesn’t know who I am. That’s why I’d like you to find her.”

  “What about the lawyer? Can’t you go to him? Revise the arrangement—your daughter is how old?”

  “Seventeen. She’ll be entering college in the fall. That’s the last photo I have of her.”

  “Then she’s a grown woman. This lawyer should be able to help you.”

  “He won’t help me. He told me two years ago he’d lost contact with her adoptive parents and is not sure where she is. The family moved and left no forwarding address.”

  I pushed the photo across the table. “Mrs. Maxwell this isn’t my area.”

  “Please, Mr. Holt.” Her eyes watered and her voice was a whisper.

  I’m not a hard case, and I hated turning her away. With her social connections and money, I was sure she could hire the right person for the job—it just wasn’t me.

  “If the lawyer won’t help, then there are investigators who are in business to locate birth parents and children. You’d be better served hiring one of them.”

  “That’s not what this is.”

  I could sense there was something she wasn’t telling me. Her eyes had held such fortitude when she first sat down. Now, they averted mine and focused on the diamond ring on her finger, which she pulled on nervously.

  Only a few patrons remained at the bar. The tables all around us were cleared and reset for dinner. I glanced at my cell phone for the time. We’d been there for over an hour, and if I didn’t move the conversation along, we’d be there all night.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve not given me enough reason to take this case.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Not quite a resignation, but she knew she had to give me more if she wanted my help.

  “I didn’t want to give up my daughter, Mr. Holt. They forced me to do it. Then I moved on, got married, and had my son.” Her voice cracked, her grief coming to the surface. She took another deep breath and continued.

  “My daughter is the product of an affair I had with a married man who was and is a prominent figure. Once I told him I was pregnant, he refused to see me again and cut off all direct communication. He sent his lawyer to assure me I would be financially compensated. He gave me details of a plan to either terminate the pregnancy or agree to adoption. I chose the latter, hoping for a way to raise the child myself. But I was so closely watched and constantly reminded of my obligation and the dire consequences if I did not comply.”

  Janet Maxwell’s manner vacillated between bravado and fear. The conversation would appear strained to a casual observer, so I flagged the waiter and ordered a couple of drinks and an appetizer. A few early birds entered the pub for dinner and, luckily, sat far enough away to afford us privacy. The case of Maxwell’s missing daughter grew more and more intriguing. This was not a simple case of paying hush money or making things right. This sounded like coercion. If I wanted to parse the situation, I’d liken it to a kidnapping.

  “Consequences?” I asked, picking up where we left off. “You were threatened—how?”

  “At the time, my parents were alive, and I believed they would come to some harm if I didn’t do exactly what I was told. Then after I married, the threat extended to my husband and son. Now, it’s just me.”

  “Has someone threatened you recently?”

  “Since the birth of my daughter, my life has always been in danger. Think of the scandal if my relationship with the father is revealed.”

  “You need to tell me who he is.”

  She sat straight up in the chair, tucked her shoulder-length hair behind her ears, then placed her
clasped hands on the table again—an obvious attempt at composure.

  “I’d rather leave him out of it. It has no bearing on locating my daughter. Her father chose to be out of the picture from day one. To the best of my knowledge, he’s conveniently forgotten she exists. Still, I want to know where she is, so if necessary, I can protect her.”

  “You believe she’s in danger.”

  “I believe we both are.”

  I leaned back in my chair to digest her statement. I wondered if she was telling me the truth. Or was she telling me what I needed to hear so I’d agree to find her daughter?

  “Do you believe the lawyer has lost contact with your daughter?”

  “I believe that if he’s lied to me and knows where she is, then her life is as much at risk as mine. I hope and pray someday I will see her again.”

  Those words hit me hard. I could’ve uttered them myself. They’d passed through my mind every day for the last fifteen years. It was my turn to compose myself.

  We both took a much-needed gulp of our drinks. The appetizer lay untouched. Janet Maxwell feared for her life. Whether she searched for her daughter or not, she was a loose end. With Maxwell’s family dead, the principals involved in this arrangement had nothing to keep her from divulging their secret—except for the daughter.

  I was ninety-nine percent certain I would take the case. My decision hinged on one more piece of information.

  “Mrs. Maxwell, I need to ask you again, who is the father?”

  I was taken aback when Janet Maxwell’s grim expression left her face, replaced by a brilliant smile that revealed expensive porcelain veneers. The resilience was back in her eyes. For a fleeting moment, I thought I might have been the subject of a hoax. She sipped the last of her wine before answering.

  “Mr. Holt, the father is Senator Todd Grayson.”

  Chapter 3

  After what she told me, I had suspected who the father of her child was. When Janet Maxwell said she knew me from an NYPD case I had worked on involving an acquaintance of hers, I knew it was the Sheila Rand case. I don’t do murder anymore—not if I can help it. Her family was dead and there was nothing I could do. I had been all set to refuse to help this woman, so the less she told me, the better.

  Then she mentioned my daughter.

  I wanted to bolt from the seat, run home, and boost the slight buzz I had going with a bottle of scotch. It took all my mental strength to keep focused on Maxwell and her story. The parallel was uncanny except she played an active part in the disappearance of her daughter. Well, maybe I did too. The bottom line was the same; we both lost a child for the sole purpose of covering somebody’s ass.

  I first became acquainted with Grayson working as a detective, second grade at the twelfth precinct in lower Manhattan. My partner Ray Scully and I picked up a case to investigate the possible homicide of a call girl found in a Bowery apartment.

  Normally we wouldn’t expand our search for suspects beyond the local residents and sex offenders in our system, but at the time the area, known for its flophouses at the turn of the century and famous “skid row,” had begun a gentrification. Renovated, swanky apartments attracted a few high and mighty and some who thought they were. Todd Grayson, Junior Senator was one of the latter. Cocky and snide off-camera, his dabbling in the unconventional was whispered about in New York high society. Preliminary evidence and a not-so-credible witness led us to the senator. My partner and I visited his office to ascertain his alibi and rule him out. It was routine to follow all leads. Todd Grayson was not available, but his secretary checked his calendar and told us he had been out of town at the time of the girl’s death.

  Before we could verify Grayson’s alibi, there was immediate pushback from the brass and political circles to ignore the lead and turn the investigation to a more appropriate suspect. Our captain strongly suggested Scully and I not question the senator.

  The more evidence we gathered, the more it looked as if Grayson might be involved, directly or indirectly. We had our orders—but being a staunch proponent of justice, I couldn’t let it go. In hindsight, I ask myself, why not. I ask myself the question every day. But hindsight is worthless. My instincts were dulled by a determination to see justice served.

  Ray, my partner and friend, had the sagacity to leave it alone and did his best to persuade me to do the same, to no avail. Two weeks later, my six-month-old daughter was abducted from a day care center. There was never a demand for ransom. At the time, I thought it a random act by some disturbed person—someone who wanted a child, not money. After the incident, the day care center burned down. The owner died, cause of death inconclusive.

  An exhaustive eight-week investigation and search turned up no trace of Marnie. I don’t know how I lasted six months more on the force. I left to devote all my time to finding my daughter. A year after the kidnapping—after living with a woman who I knew blamed me but never said it aloud—my wife Susan and I divorced.

  For as long as I remembered, I always believed Todd Grayson was in some way responsible for the death of that call girl and for the kidnapping of my child. I thought taking the Maxwell case might be a way to prove it.

  “So, Mr. Holt, have I convinced you?”

  The sound of her voice startled me. It must have taken only a few seconds for my past to flash through my mind.

  “Convinced me?” I asked to give myself more time to settle back in the present.

  “Yes, to find my daughter.” She pulled a checkbook from her wallet. “How much do you want as a retainer? Would ten thousand be enough?”

  Janet Maxwell was all business again. I sat there staring at her, wondering whether I would take this case for her benefit or mine. Did it matter?

  “I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to find her, Mrs. Maxwell. I’m still not sure I’m the right person.”

  “Mr. Holt, what else can I say to persuade you to help me…and possibly yourself?”

  Shrewd. Janet Maxwell was beginning to resemble a chameleon. She could change her persona to suit the circumstance. Something about her troubled me. She had done her homework. She knew all the chinks in my armor. I wondered if I could trust her. My face must have given me away.

  “You don’t trust me, do you? You think I’ve been less than honest with you. Well, you’re right.”

  I noticed her eyes were the same deep blue as the tear-shaped pendant she wore around her neck. She manipulated the stone between two fingers as she spoke. I found the action almost erotic.

  “Am I?” I asked in another maneuver to collect my thoughts.

  “I see you need more incentive.”

  “What haven’t you told me, Mrs. Maxwell?”

  Janet Maxwell’s smug expression was all the preparation I needed for what was to come.

  “I have first-hand knowledge of Todd Grayson’s relationship with that murdered call girl.”

  Chapter 4

  In his plush leather and mahogany office, Douglas A. Cain, Esquire gripped the arms of his executive chair until his fingers cramped and his knuckles turned white.

  Cain tried to concentrate on the brief in front of him. Someone had brought suit against a Grayson family member. The wealthy were often a target for frivolous lawsuits, the latest a particular nuisance, and waste of his time. Son of a bitch, I don’t have time for this. He slammed the file shut and shoved it away.

  Douglas Cain rose from his desk and paced his office.

  He had provided legal counsel to U.S. Senator Todd Grayson even before the young politician’s election to junior senator representing the state of New York. He and Grayson had both received their law degrees from Yale. Cain had the brains and Grayson the money and connections necessary to attend the prestigious law school. The two men had an immediate rapport. Cain’s pale skin, fair hair, and hazel eyes, hidden behind metal-framed glasses, rendered him invisible next to Grayson’s dark good looks. That suited both of them.

  Cain began his career as Todd Grayson’s handler in their second semester
when one of Grayson’s indiscretions nearly caused his expulsion from the university. Also at stake was his engagement to the daughter of a respected business acquaintance of his father. The marriage would guarantee Todd Grayson easy access to political connections in New York.

  With his friend’s consent, Douglas Cain had persuaded the object of Grayson’s lust that it would be in her best interest if she forgot the whole incident. It also helped that Cain was able to convince her that the right amount of money could heal most wounds. To soften the blow to her ego, Cain entered into an intimate relationship with the woman. It lasted a few months and ended amicably. There would be no further repercussions.

  After passing the New York State Bar Exam, the two Yalies, one privileged and one not, forged a relationship that would benefit each of them. Cain realized Grayson’s potential early on and decided to ride the political wave while clearing the way for a presidential bid. Grayson had deep pockets and Cain had access to whatever resources were necessary to make it appear those situations never happened.

  With Grayson’s presidential campaign underway, Cain spent most of his time maintaining old business, assuring nothing from the senator’s past reared its ugly head. All was going well until that damned reporter brought up Sheila Rand. Although Cain could handle the rumors that would fly, it was one more thing on his already long list. He had a more urgent concern.

  Cain had anticipated Janet Maxwell’s interference when her family perished in an accident, as he could no longer use them to deter her from dredging up the past. Seventeen years before, Cain had convinced Maxwell to give her child up for adoption. He devised what he thought was a clever way to keep her in line. For fifteen years, he’d provided information and photos of her daughter. It seemed to work. Once she married and had another child, she appeared satisfied with his progressively vague reports and, at times, disinterested in the girl.

  As Grayson’s political path took a definite shape, Cain told Maxwell he’d lost contact with the girl and her adoptive parents. He didn’t want her to believe she had a means to threaten him or Grayson. For further insurance, Cain recently hired retired North Carolina police officer Ronald Glick to observe her routine and report anything out of the ordinary.