by JP Ratto
I watched her glide to a small bar cart and pour herself a drink. She sat next to me on the sofa, rested her back against the rolled arm, and crossed her long legs. Her strappy silver shoes exposed narrow, pedicured feet and pale pink polished toes, which hovered perilously close to my knee. I shifted to avoid touching her.
“So—may I call you Lucas?” I must have moved my head a millimeter, which she took as my assent and continued. “Lucas, have you had time to reconsider your refusal to tell me where my daughter is? You must see it’s a breach of our contract not to do so. How about a compromise? Tell me where she is, and I promise not to contact her until she is eighteen.”
I almost laughed. She might not contact Karen, but I was sure she’d find some way to leak the girl’s location—and the bit about her birth parents to an interested third party.
“I’m sorry, Janet. I can’t do that. I may not have thought about all the ramifications of this case when I first agreed to take it. You must understand—”
“No, you must understand. I need to know where she is. I’ve waited long enough. It’s been hell all these years not knowing her, wondering what type of person she’s become. Who does she look like? She must have changed even in the last couple of years.”
Although persistent, I detected anguish in her plea. “She’s a bit of both of you. But she has your eyes and nose. She’s a lovely young woman.”
Maxwell drained her wine. “I suppose those people who raised her did an adequate job.”
“Yes, they did. You should be very grateful.” Too late, I realized that was the wrong thing to say.
“Grateful?” Maxwell sprang from her seat and began to pace and rail. “I should be grateful to have had my child ripped from my breast and given away? I should be grateful that Cain saved me from a life branded as an adulterer with an illegitimate child?”
I half rose from the sofa when she moved in front of me. Her eyes bore into mine. I fell back into the seat again. Better to stay quiet and let her get it off her chest.
“Todd Grayson loved me. Really loved me. I could tell. He said he would leave his wife—said we’d make a better team for his political career. We were alike in so many ways. He just needed the right incentive. A push.” She sat in the chair across from me, staring past me.
“The child should have persuaded him.” Tears streamed down her face. “We should have been together, but instead he abandoned me. I couldn’t believe it—thought Douglas had something to do with it. I went to him and begged him to let me see Todd. I knew once he saw me again—saw his daughter—everything would be all right.”
She paused briefly before pressing on. “Instead Cain forced me to give up my baby and paid me like a common whore for my trouble. I began to think that perhaps Todd suffered too—suffered through a loveless marriage, suffered because we were apart. Cain gave him no choice. His career was too important. I accepted it—all of it—until he took up with that call girl.”
Her voice filled with derision, she said the name, “Sheila Rand.”
Janet Maxwell leaned back in the chair. I watched her face harden at the thought of Grayson with another woman. Her jaw clenched. I saw the venom, the hate. How had she known about Grayson’s relationship with Rand? It was more than a year after she’d given up Karen. Had she really moved on? Accepted it, as she said? I made an attempt at consolation.
“That was a long time ago, Janet. You’ve moved on—”
“Moved on? Knowing he was cheating on his wife with another woman when he could have been with me? He moved on, hadn’t he? The son-of-a bitch even gave her my jewelry. He hadn’t suffered at all. Where’s the justice in that? He deserves to suffer. She deserved what she got.”
Maxwell smiled, and it was then I noticed the way she fondled the stone at her neck. The same way she did when I first met her—when she first mentioned Grayson’s relationship with Rand. I recognized the blue teardrop. I’d seen it so many times.
The same sapphire stone that hung on Maxwell’s neck had hung in Sheila Rand’s torn ear.
Chapter 52
Janet Maxwell had murdered Sheila Rand.
That was not the only revelation to surface. Even though Todd Grayson was innocent of the crime, his handlers made sure nothing tied him to the incident. Especially the actions of a former lover, who also happened to be the mother of his illegitimate daughter. Did Douglas Cain know Maxwell had killed Rand?
The relationship between Grayson and Maxwell was one of the New York elite’s best-kept secrets. In hindsight, I realized Cain had to shut down any investigation of Rand’s death. Unsubstantiated rumors of Grayson’s possible dalliance with a call girl were nothing compared to the exposure of his affair with Maxwell. Janet Maxwell had never forgiven Grayson for abandoning her, and she would have her revenge. Even if it meant using her own daughter as the means to his personal and political end.
I should have trusted my instincts, which told me to pass on the case, in spite of Maxwell’s offer to give me information tying Grayson to Rand. But the proposition was too tempting. If I had something on Grayson, I’d hoped I could persuade him or his lawyer to shed some light on what happened to Marnie. In my gut, I knew they were connected.
There was no doubt in my mind what I had to do.
I rose from the sofa and slipped past Janet, who remained in the chair, her eyes staring ahead, the evidence linking her to murder clutched in her hand. I poured myself a finger’s worth of her top-shelf whiskey and knocked it down in one gulp.
Fortified, I returned to sit opposite the woman who stabbed Sheila Rand to death in cold blood. I scooted forward, clasped my hands, and rested both arms in my lap. “Janet—”
Her head jerked toward me and the coolness in her eyes sent a jolt of frost up my spine.
“You know,” she whispered, “don’t you?”
“I know you’ve been deeply hurt, and you did something I’m sure you regret—”
“I have no regrets,” she said and left the chair to pace again. “At least not about anything I’ve done of my own accord. My only regret would be not seeing Todd Grayson as miserable as he’s made me.”
Maxwell stood by a chest and picked up a photograph. I rose and moved closer to scan the framed photos. The one she held was of a younger Janet and a handsome gentleman who I recognized as Grayson. All the others were of both of them or just Grayson. That alarmed me. Where were the photos of her husband and son? Had she completely regressed back twenty years? She was delusional. I knew how dangerous she could be, and I had to tread carefully.
Janet whirled around and threw the picture frame across the room, shattering the glass. She pressed her palms into her temples and the tendons on her neck bulged. Before I could stop her, she ran and dropped to the floor. Shoving the shards in all directions, she tore the picture out of the frame. Blood dripped from her hand as she ripped the photograph into smaller and smaller pieces, chanting, “This is all your fault…all your…fault…all…your…fault.”
She’d lost control. I pulled out my cellphone to call Scully.
Janet shouted, “What are you doing?”
I dropped the phone back in my pocket. “Janet, your hand is bleeding. Let me look at it.”
“No. Stay away from me.”
“It’s over, Janet. I have a friend who can help. I need to call him.”
“It doesn’t matter who you call. Nothing you do can harm me now—it will only harm Todd. I’ve made sure, whether I’m here to see it or not, he will suffer. I will ruin him.”
“Think about what it will do to your daughter.”
She shook her head and sidestepped to a desk. As she opened a drawer, I pulled my .38 Special from inside my jacket and held it at my side. Janet removed a cloth from the desk and wrapped her hand. I relaxed.
“I have thought about her—every day of my life for the past seventeen years. Every day I thought about how she would help me bring down her father.”
“Janet, you would use your own child as a mean
s for revenge?”
“Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Holt.” The corners of her mouth rose in a sneer. “She was conceived as a means—but that didn’t work. Now her existence will serve another purpose.”
I’d never met a more cold and calculating woman. If she were hungry, this woman would eat her young. Why didn’t I see it?
Maxwell was deranged. I had to get her into custody. I inched a few steps toward her. She saw my movement and the gun in my hand.
“Janet, I want you to sit back in the chair. I’m going to call Detective Scully.”
“Give up? Oh no. I won’t do that,” she said and leaned against the desk, tucking back loose tendrils of her hair. “Lucas, I can help you, if you help me.”
Her voice was no longer strained and shrill, but smooth and businesslike. I kept direct eye contact to distract her from what my hands and feet were doing.
“It’s a little late for deals, Janet.”
“Not for this one. You’ll want to hear what I have to say. But first, put that silly gun away.”
Instead, I held the gun higher. “Enough of the games, Ja—”
“Games? Locating Marnie is a game I think you’d find worth playing.”
My breath caught in my throat and my anger seethed. “You will not use my daughter as a means to get away with murder.” I yanked out my phone.
“Wait! If you don’t believe me, ask Douglas,” she said, her eyes wide and imploring.
I froze. For the first time since I met Janet Maxwell, I thought she might be telling the truth. My stance wavered, and I flushed with heat. I couldn’t speak. She watched with pleasure as I processed what she implied.
I choked out the words, “No deal, Janet.” I raised my .38 and stepped forward.
She gave me a chilling smile as she reached back in the desk draw and pulled out a revolver. Shit.
She slipped away from the desk toward the foyer, waving her weapon in front of her. Where did she think she would go? Her eyes grew with frenzy and blinked in rapid succession. Her breathing became gasps for air. Deranged and desperate—a lethal combination.
She spoke fast, her words running together, and slurred. “I know you don’t want to kill me, Lucas. You want to know what happened to Marnie. I can tell you.”
“Put the gun down, Janet. There’s nowhere for you to go.”
She laughed. “You’re a self-righteous son-of-a-bitch. You would rather see me in prison than know where your daughter is. Don’t be a fool. Let me go.”
I couldn’t let her go. How did I know if she’d give me any information after she was gone? She had to be bluffing. I shook my head, no.
Janet backed up to the elevator and pressed the button. I had less than thirty seconds until the car reached us from the lobby.
“You have three seconds to put the gun down, Janet, or I will shoot you.”
I sounded like I meant it. She lowered the gun and squatted to rest the weapon on the floor. “Okay, Lucas, but it’s your loss.”
The tension in my shoulders calmed. “You’ve made the right choice, Janet.”
Halting at the sound of my voice, her grip still on the gun, she narrowed her eyes. Maxwell’s hand flew up, her gun pointed at me.
We both fired.
The bullet from her gun missed my shoulder. My shot, meant for the arm that held her weapon, hit her in the chest when she twisted as the elevator’s ding announced its arrival. She stumbled back into it. The doors closed. I ran and slammed the button to open them.
Janet Maxwell slumped on the floor, blood soaking the pure-white silk of her clothes. Raising her eyes to me, she smiled—a sad, sympathetic smile, as though she pitied me for shooting her. She inhaled a ragged last breath, grasped the sapphire gem at her throat, and closed her eyes.
Chapter 53
Weeks later, I sat across from Douglas Cain in his office, determined not to leap over the desk and choke the life out of him.
It was an overwhelming struggle, as I had no doubt of his guilt and responsibility for the death of Mary Wells and Ronald Glick and the kidnapping of Karen Martin. More than that was Janet Maxwell’s taunt that she could help me find Marnie. She knew I didn’t believe it and had suggested I ask Douglas.
Cain leaned forward with his hands clasped on his desk and cleared his throat.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Holt?”
He had a smooth baritone voice and sounded unconcerned, which grated on my nerves. His body language told a different story. I watched him shift in his seat and straighten files on his desk that were already in neat piles.
“I’m trying to tie up a few loose ends to a recent case of mine. My client was someone you knew. Janet Maxwell.”
Cain had the gall to pretend to search his mind for her name. I flexed my fists open and closed, inhaling and exhaling to remain calm. The lawyer also knew how to read body language and wasted no more time with theatrics.
“Yes, yes. I knew Mrs. Maxwell—and her husband too, of course. Such a tragedy. Now the whole family is gone.”
Is he kidding?
“Mr. Cain, I’m sure you know the details of Janet Maxwell’s death so let’s cut through the bullshit.”
He recoiled at my language. Another act, I was sure. He said nothing, so I did.
“Counselor, you know I believe there’s a connection between you and John Crocker.” At the mention of the mercenary’s name, Cain blanched. “Crocker didn’t mention he and I had a history?” The lawyer breathed in short measured spurts, and I could almost hear his heart pound. Good. “I believe you hired him and Glick to stop me from finding Maxwell’s daughter. In the process, Crocker murdered Mary Wells and Ronald Glick. That makes you a murderer too.”
Cain tried nonchalantly to catch his breath. He began to tidy his desk again. Then he responded with the same defensive cliché that you hear all guilty parties utter in every murder mystery on TV.
“You can’t prove any of that.”
I ignored it, staring at him for a moment as he leaned back, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He was right. I couldn’t prove it. But I could make him sweat, and with my next question I succeeded.
“Why do you suppose Janet Maxwell suggested I ask you how to find my daughter, Marnie?”
Cain’s eyes widened, his jaw dropped. He swiped beads of moisture from above his lip and sputtered his words.
“If you knew Janet Maxwell, then you knew she was crazy. She’d say anything to save herself. You can’t be foolish enough to have believed her.”
Douglas Cain rose from his chair, adjusted his tie, and buttoned his jacket. He walked around the desk and opened the office door.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Holt. I have a meeting.”
I stood and moved to face him, giving him my most intimidating glare.
“I’m not done with you, counselor.”
Douglas Cain was on notice.
***
I hailed a cab and gave the driver my address. As we zigzagged through hordes of Manhattan traffic, my phone vibrated. I smiled when I read the caller’s name.
“Maddie.”
“Hi, Lucas. I heard what happened with your client. How are you?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve had some wild cases but…”
“You closed the Rand case. That’s a good thing.”
“Sure. I’m trying to see it that way. What’s going on in Broome?”
“Ha! Nothing much compared to when you were here. Thank goodness.”
“How’s work on your house coming along?”
“Great, I’ve put twenty-five of Broome’s unemployed back to work.”
“Sounds like a win-win situation.”
“We’re about to close the case on the two murders. Karen Martin is doing very well, considering.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said, and I was.
Disappointed the conversation had drifted into business banality, I wondered if it was the right time to suggest we move the relationship to the next level. Maddie beat
me to it.
“Listen…” Maddie paused. “Lucas, if you ever need to talk…you know about a case or anything, call me any time.”
The softness and sincerity in her voice was as comforting as a favorite blanket.
“Thanks,” I said. “I have a few things to wrap up, but how about I call you in a few days and we make a plan for you to visit New York? I’ll give you the VIP tour.”
“I’d like that, Lucas. But, I’ll have to go shopping. I’ve nothing to wear.”
“Perfect.”
***
Arriving home, I climbed the stoop and unlocked the front door. The mail was spread across the foyer. I tossed the bills and advertisements on the entrance table and headed for the kitchen.
The refrigerator needed restocking, but I found a Smithwick’s. I grabbed the cold beer and tapped a selection on the wall-mounted keypad of my integrated stereo system. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong filled the house with “Summertime.”
On my way to collect the mail and go up to my office, I picked up a framed picture of Susan and Marnie taken weeks before she was kidnapped. Looking at their smiling faces made my stomach simultaneously lurch with happiness and wrench in pain. I remembered Maxwell’s words. “You want to know what happened to Marnie. I can tell you.”
Any regrets for shooting Maxwell were interrupted when the doorbell rang. I walked into the adjacent living room and glimpsed out the window. A FedEx truck was at the curb. I opened the door.
“Hi, Mr. Holt. I just need your signature.” I signed the electronic device and accepted an express envelope.
“Thanks, Ed.” Closing the door, I read the name of the sender: Brown and Harrington, LLC, Attorneys at Law.
Maxwell’s lawyers. Was this about the lawsuit she had threatened?
I tore open the envelope. Inside was a picture of a sandy-haired teenage girl with a slight cleft in her chin. Just like mine.
The End
Chapter 1
