Lucas Holt Series: Books 1-3

by JP Ratto

  ***

  Maddie showered and dressed while I made notes and phoned Ray from another burner to talk about a visit to former detective Scott Hamlin.

  “I think he’s our best lead, Ray. I hope no one’s gotten to him yet.”

  “I’m sure he’s heard about the shooting, though I don’t know if he maintains contact with anyone from the precinct. The only one he really hung out with was Burke. In any case, I have his personnel file. He lives in Queens.”

  “Great, give me the address. I want to pay him a visit.”

  There was a few seconds of silence.

  “Ray?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Listen, I know you’re anxious to find Marnie, and it appears Hamlin is a good place to start. But in light of all the attention on me, I think we should take this slow.”

  “Ray, it’s taken over fifteen years to get to this point. I’d say that was pretty damn slow. I’m not waiting any longer.”

  “I understand. But I know you, and if you go in there like gangbusters, you’ll never get anything out of him. He’ll run straight to Burke for protection, and you’ll be back to square one.”

  As I processed Ray’s words, I was having a debate with myself. One part of me wanted to go to Hamlin’s home and beat him to a pulp for not doing more with the information he’d uncovered. Part of me knew I had to tread carefully or I’d never find my daughter.

  “Okay,” I said. “What do you suggest?”

  “I think I should talk to Hamlin first.”

  “And how do you suppose you’re going to do that without Burke knowing what you’re doing?”

  “As it turns out, Sean and I have a new case. It wouldn’t raise suspicion if I left the precinct, although I wouldn’t be surprised if Burke puts a tail on us.”

  “Exactly my point.” I was losing patience and, so far, Ray’s plan didn’t have any chance of success.

  “Hold on, Lucas. Let me finish. The field investigation and interviews could take all day. The beauty is that we have about a dozen people to see in one apartment building. I’ll talk to Sean, but I’m sure I can slip out and leave the interviews to him. You and I can go to see Hamlin.”

  Chapter 8

  The personnel database listed Scott Hamlin as retired and living in Glendale, New York, a working-class neighborhood in the borough of Queens. Scully exited Lucas Holt’s Range Rover and walked up to the narrow single-family home set amid a cluster of attached row houses. He was familiar with the community, its dense population, and string of mom-and-pop businesses, not quite the city and not quite the suburbs. He didn’t call ahead. He wanted unrehearsed answers to his questions.

  A petite woman in gray slacks and a white sweater answered the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Mrs. Hamlin? I’m Detective Ray Scully from the Twelfth Precinct. Your husband and I worked together before he retired. I’d hoped to catch him at home.”

  “Is anything wrong? It’s been a long time since he’s seen anyone from the precinct.”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m looking for information on an old case Scott worked.”

  “Okay, sure. C’mon in. He’s in the backyard barbequing our lunch. Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks.” They walked along a short, dark hallway, its walls crowded with framed photographs, to the kitchen at the back of the house. Hamlin was outside, poised over a charcoal grill, spatula in hand, ready to flip the grilling meat. Scully opened the glass sliding door. “Hey, Scott. Got a burger for me?”

  Hamlin, beanpole thin despite his infamous appetite, jerked his head toward Scully.

  “Ray Scully. What are you doing this far from home?” He laid the spatula down to shake hands and looked Scully up and down. “And you mean a salad, don’t you?”

  “Why is everyone talking about my weight? I might have gained maybe five pounds.”

  “What? Today?” Hamlin joked and put the last of the burgers on a plate, covered it, and shut off the grill. They sat in resin lawn chairs with a small table between them.

  “I heard about the shooting at the Twelfth. It’s all over the news,” Hamlin said. “Is that why you’re here? Can’t imagine what you think I might know about it.”

  “No, that’s not why I’m here. Well, it could be indirectly related…” Scully paused. “Do you keep in touch with anyone from the precinct?”

  Hamlin shook his head. “No, not for a while. Never did much socializing, and I like the quiet—just me and the Mrs.” He raised a beer to his lips. Scully noticed the retired police officer’s tight grip on the can.

  “As it happens, Scott, I need information about Rose Bardinari. She died years ago in a daycare center fire.” Scully watched for a reaction. Hamlin’s face was still, except for the slight tightening of his jaw. “The case was connected to Marnie Holt’s disappearance. You remember?”

  “Never forget it.” Hamlin pointed to an open cooler of beer. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks. The reason I’m asking is Rose had a boyfriend. Frank Giaconne. Did you interview him when you investigated Marnie’s disappearance?”

  Hamlin took his time answering. “Yeah, I think I remember him. He had his own place—lived upstairs from his mother, right? There was nothing to connect him to the kidnapping.”

  “And what about the fire?”

  “What about it?” Hamlin emptied his beer can and tossed it in a recycle bin. Before Scully could respond, he said, “If you mean did he have anything to do with the fire, the official answer is no. It looked like faulty wiring and an overload. I don’t remember the exact verbiage used.”

  “And the unofficial answer?” Scully asked.

  “There’s always a question of arson when a business goes up in flames during the night. We briefly looked for suspects with motive. Giaconne had nothing to gain from the destruction of the daycare center.”

  “What about murder? Did you consider Rose’s death wasn’t an accident?”

  “The coroner at the scene determined that Rose fell and hit her head after being overcome by smoke. The ME confirmed it. In any case, Giaconne had been arrested that night for drunk driving and vehicular manslaughter.” Hamlin popped open another beer. “But you know all that.”

  Scully nodded. “Giaconne’s dead, you know. Murdered.”

  “Too bad for him,” Hamlin said with no sincerity and didn’t appear surprised by the news.

  “His brother told me he was a pretty good electrician,” said Scully.

  “We didn’t talk to his brother. Frank Giaconne was going to jail for manslaughter. We were told not to spend a lot of time checking him out. The fire chief and arson squad were satisfied with their findings, and so were we.”

  “Not to belabor the point, but I remember thinking the fire so close to the kidnapping was too much of a coincidence. Holt thought so too.”

  Hamlin shook his head. “I’m not getting it. If Rose Bardinari was involved in the kidnapping and someone killed her, you think it was Giaconne? Why would he kill her? And if he did, are you suggesting he set the fire to cover his tracks?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Scully said.

  “What was his motive for killing his girlfriend?” Hamlin asked. “There was no evidence he was even there that night.”

  “You mean no eyewitnesses.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what about the day of the kidnapping?”

  “He had an alibi for the time Holt’s daughter disappeared.”

  “Okay, back to Rose Bardinari. What was your feeling about her involvement in Marnie Holt’s kidnapping?” Scully noticed Hamlin stretch his neck and shift restlessly in his chair.

  “My feeling? Everything is in the file. Why don’t you read it instead of me trying to recall all the details of an incident that happened over fifteen years ago?”

  “I can’t read the file because someone has given it a restricted status.”

  “Restricted? Since when?”

  “No idea, and rather than poke my nos
e where someone might think it doesn’t belong, I’ve decided to take the back road to find out what I need.” Scully could see beads of sweat dotting Hamlin’s forehead even though it was a cool October afternoon.

  “I had no feeling about the woman. She said she was in the bathroom with one of the tots helping him after he did his business. When she got back to where the little ones were napping, Marnie was gone. Crib was empty. She was frantic and called the police.”

  “What about her cousin? My sources tell me Rose had a cousin who visited her with a little girl about the same age as Marnie Holt.”

  Hamlin stood when his wife came outside to get the plate of hamburgers. “You going to be long, Scott?”

  “Not too long.” When Mrs. Hamlin went into the house, he said, “Look, Ray, I don’t know what this has to do with Giaconne getting shot.”

  “I never said how he died and you didn’t ask. You’ve had no contact with anyone at the Twelfth?”

  Hamlin shifted his stance and shrugged. “I must have seen it in the papers.”

  Scully knew Hamlin wasn’t being straight with him and weighed the pros and cons of revealing too much. Without access to the file, he wouldn’t be able to connect the dots.

  “Giaconne paid a visit to Lucas Holt before he was killed. He was about to tell Holt something when they were interrupted. Holt is sure it had to do with his daughter, Marnie.” Scully accessed a picture on his phone and showed it to Hamlin. “I can’t say how I know, but the girl in the photo is likely Marnie Holt. Someone knows where she is.”

  Hamlin staggered back and dropped into his chair. “Holy shit.”

  “Scott, I know about the note you left in the Bardinari file.”

  “The note?” Hamlin stared at Scully and then rose from his chair. “I’m sorry, Ray, I don’t have any more to say. Besides, my lunch is getting cold.” Scott Hamlin turned away from Scully and strode to the back door just as his wife opened it.

  “Honey, there’s someone else here to see you.”

  ***

  Scott Hamlin’s ruddy face blanched when he saw me. He had the look of Munch’s The Scream, and if I wasn’t so angry, I would have been concerned he might have a heart attack. I’d heard their conversation courtesy of a wire that Ray wore. When Hamlin refused to say more to Ray, I had to intervene. Hamlin’s wife noticed her husband’s tortured expression.

  “Scott, are you okay?” She glanced at Ray and me. “What’s going on?

  Hamlin found his voice and choked out a response. “It’s all right, Jen. I was just surprised to see Detective Holt—I mean Lucas…”

  I stepped down into the yard and grabbed Hamlin’s hand, shaking it, and gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Scott, how have you been? Sorry to interrupt your lunch. We won’t stay long.”

  Hamlin nodded and told his wife to eat without him. He wanted to catch up with his old police buddies. She hesitated before going inside. We walked back to the table and chairs. Hamlin was the only one to sit down. Ray and I stood facing him, our backs to the house, blocking any view of Hamlin his wife might have. Scott Hamlin gave me a hard stare and spoke through gritted teeth.

  “I have nothing more to say, Lucas. I’m sorry about what happened. We did the best we could at the time. There was nothing…”

  “Why did you put the note about Rose Bardinari’s cousin in your report months after the case went cold?” I asked, my tone as hard and cold as steel.

  Hamlin shook his head. “I…I…it was a mistake…I was mistaken.”

  “What was your mistake? Withholding crucial evidence that could have led to finding my daughter?”

  “I thought…”

  “What did you think, Hamlin? Did you think slipping a note into a closed case file, on the chance that someone might see it, absolved you from guilt?”

  Hamlin remained silent.

  “Well, someone did see it. They found the note. They told someone about it, and you know what? It disappeared. Now, what does that tell you, Scott?”

  “I don’t know,” Hamlin whispered, his irritation fading. “I tried to do the right thing.”

  I placed my palms on the table and leaned over, my face inches from Hamlin’s. “You’ve got the chance to do the right thing now. Tell us about the cousin.”

  Hamlin wiped sweat from his forehead. “They’ll come after me—after my family. I can’t take the risk. Besides, the trail is probably too cold by now. You won’t…”

  I grabbed Hamlin by his jacket and tugged him closer. “I will find my daughter, you son of a bitch, and you will tell me what you know. And when I do find Marnie and expose all of you, you’ll spend the rest of your sorry life behind bars. But the real risk is not helping me because I swear I’ll—”

  Ray laid a hand on my back, and I released my grip on Hamlin and straightened. I wanted to beat the information out of the bastard. Ray took over.

  “Scott, do yourself a favor. No one knows we’re here and won’t unless you tell them. In order for you to know that Bardinari’s cousin never gave birth to a daughter, you had to know who she was. I can’t get into the files to get her name.”

  “It’s not in the file.”

  “Then how did you…”

  “Bardinari had an address book with the names of a few relatives and friends. We gave everything to Sheppard. I don’t know what happened to it after that.”

  “Didn’t you question why it wasn’t used in the investigation?” Ray asked. “Didn’t you care?”

  “I was under pressure from Sheppard and Burke.” Hamlin’s eyes watered and his lips trembled. “All I wanted to do was finish with the case and retire. At the first sign of what they were doing, I asked Sheppard to reassign me. He said it was too late, and I knew too much.”

  I seethed with anger and couldn’t believe what I heard. “So you quietly did their bidding and then skulked away in retirement bliss while my wife and I agonized over the loss of our child. How can you live with yourself?”

  Hamlin began to weep. “You have no idea.”

  “Scott.” Ray nearly shouted and Hamlin’s head shot up. He swiped his tears. “Scott, give us a name.”

  Chapter 9

  Keeler made it to the small upstate New York town in less than four hours. He drove past the house and noted there were no cars in the driveway. He circled the block twice and then parked a few yards away from the house. Keeler’s early model Buick blended with most of the cars on the street and in driveways—a reflection of the struggling working-class neighborhood.

  Checking the time on his cell phone, he sighed, thinking he would need to find an inconspicuous place to wait for someone to come home. Sitting here a few minutes won’t matter. Keeler slouched in the seat. His eyes roamed, settling on a faded American flag. He stared as the symbol of freedom waved gracefully with the fall wind and thought about wanting to be part of protecting that freedom—and then his dream began to go awry.

  Like a dog reacting to an unfamiliar noise, Keeler awoke to the scratchy sound of an overused record just before hearing a horn blare Reveille. It was 4:30 a.m. The essence of military training is discipline and repetition; all six leapt from their cots. They had thirty minutes to make their beds, perform personal hygiene, and form up outside the barracks.

  Two hours later, after a two-mile run, a visit to the mess hall, and a shower, Keeler headed to class. The next eight months would be intensive training in advanced combat survival skills. He would also receive training in leadership and teamwork, or as he liked to call them, the soft skills. Of his training to date, this concerned him the most. It seemed to him, outside of a few guidelines, you had to be born with these talents.

  How do you know how to lead your team in thousands of situations?

  Class over, he jogged back to the barracks. A candidate was never seen walking anywhere. Keeler stood erect, in front of his cot, facing the contender across from him. Not allowed to move his head, he still sensed the sergeant’s presence.

  Ramirez was waiting, waitin
g for some rookie to make the mistake of “eye-ballin’” him. It didn’t happen and that made him meaner than usual.

  There was total silence aside from the patter of Ramirez’s shoes. Keeler could hear him at the first locker, checking for contraband in Calloway’s drawer. Contraband could be anything not issued by the army in Ramirez’s estimation. The clinking of hangers told Keeler he was checking uniforms for unauthorized creases that hadn’t been ironed out. Lastly, he focused on the black dress shoes, a sure-fire winner most of the time, looking for his image in the spit-shined shoe tips. Before moving on, Ramirez looked over the face of candidates for stubble and checked their fingernails for dirt.

  Keeler was ready. The last thing he did at night was make sure everything was ship-shape in case of a pop inspection.

  Ramirez changed up his strategy. He first stopped in front of Keeler and held his eyes a long time. What the fuck? Ramirez looked down at the dull sheen of Keeler’s belt buckle. He folded his fists, placed them on his hips, and smiled. “I knew it would be you. Take off your trousers, boy.” He paced in front of the other applicants. They stared ahead, still as lawn gnomes.

  Caught off-guard, Keeler didn’t immediately react. His blank look belied the mounting headache.

  “Am I not clear? Is that how I can count on you reacting to a direct order in the field? TAKE. OFF. YOUR. TROUSERS!”

  Keeler loosened his trousers and struggled to pull them over his boots. He left them sitting on the floor.

  “Do you expect me to bend over and pick them up, Candidate Keeler?”

  “Sir. No, I don’t. Sir.” He picked up the green camo trousers and held them close to his body. Ramirez grabbed them and turned to the group.

  “Look at the buckle on this man’s uniform trousers.” He held them at chin level. “It appears to have been disrespected. It doesn’t shine like my buckle. That tells me this man doesn’t respect his uniform. If he doesn’t respect his uniform, I can’t believe he respects himself. And if he doesn’t respect himself, he sure as hell doesn’t respect me and the organization of which I am proud to be a member.