Lucas Holt Series: Books 1-3

by JP Ratto

  Abrams stopped near a table. “What are you doing? I told you I couldn’t help you.” He picked up the handset of his landline phone. “Leave or I’ll call the police.”

  Keeler closed the distance between him and Abrams, grabbing the phone and throwing it across the room. “Look, Abrams, I want to do this without any trouble, but make no mistake, I’m not leaving until you tell me what I want to know.” Not knowing whether any money was paid, Keeler asked the question anyway. “What information did Giaconne pay you for?”

  Abrams appeared to weigh his options as he silently returned to the sofa and sat. He stared at his lap and shook his head. “I don’t understand all the interest in that adoption. There was nothing unusual.” He looked up at Keeler. “I have a sterling reputation. I’m a principled man. The work I did helped place orphaned children in secure homes. I have an obligation to uphold the confidentiality of that process.”

  Keeler lost his patience. “Cut the bullshit. You took money from Giaconne. Don’t deny it.”

  “I didn’t take any money from him. I should have let him kill me!” Abrams shouted. “Why did you come to me? Why not ask Giaconne and leave me alone?”

  “Because he’s dead.”

  The flush of anger coloring the elderly man’s face disappeared. He clutched his chest. “How?”

  “He was shot.”

  “Murdered?” Abrams’s breathing became labored. “You? Did you kill him?”

  Keeler had enough. He stood in front of Abrams and grasped the man’s shoulders, lifting him out of the seat. “You have two minutes to tell me about this adoption. Be warned, I won’t need your permission to kill you.”

  Chapter 11

  Her name was Ellie Clarkson.

  Angered and disgusted by Hamlin’s part in Marnie’s disappearance, I had rushed from his home. Once inside the Rover, I took deep breaths to ease my racing heart. I sat motionless for a few seconds, my eyes shut tight, fighting back a torrent of pent-up tears of rage. “Son of a bitch,” I shouted as Ray opened the car door. I could feel his eyes on me. He knew better than to tell me to calm down and sat quietly beside me.

  “That son of a bitch knew all this time who took Marnie. I had to get out of there, Ray. I could’ve killed him.”

  “I wouldn’t have let you do that, but I can imagine how you feel.”

  I shook my head. “No, you can’t imagine.”

  “What are you going to do now, Lucas? You’ve got a name, but nothing else.”

  “I’ll do an internet search and see what comes up for Clarkson in upstate New York. I don’t want you or Sean to do anything that will snag the attention of Sheppard and Burke.”

  “That’s probably best,” Ray agreed. “I’d better get back to the city and catch up with Sean before anyone finds out I’m here with you. I want you to keep me posted, though. When Sheppard finds out what you know—and he will—it might get ugly.”

  I nodded and hit the ignition button. “I know. How did you leave it with Hamlin? Did you tell him he’s lucky he’s still breathing?”

  “Yeah, and if he thought he was in danger from you, it’s nothing compared to what will happen when Sheppard and Burke find out what he told you.”

  ***

  After I dropped Ray downtown to continue with his investigation, I drove to my brownstone to do a people search for Eleanor Clarkson. The drive helped me to regain my composure and put me in a mindset to move forward.

  I was in my office when Maddie appeared in the doorway, looking beautiful in tight black jeans and fitted cream-colored sweater. I waved her in and continued my search. I spoke as I typed. “I got a name out of Hamlin. It looks like she lives in a small town upstate. Or at least she did fifteen years ago.” I jotted down the address. “I booked a five o’clock flight on United Express out of Newark. It lands in Ithaca at six thirty. I’ll rent a car and drive to Wellsburg. I want to be there this evening when someone is likely home.”

  Maddie’s lips parted but she didn’t say anything. I moved to stand facing her, slid my arms around her warm body, and pulled her close. “Sorry to have to leave again.” I kissed her.

  “Would you like company?” she whispered against my mouth.

  I did and I didn’t. “I think I should go alone. Not sure if I’ll be back tonight. It depends on what I find when I get there.”

  She caressed my chest and shoulders with the palms of her hands and kissed me back. “I understand,” she said, pushing away from me. “I’ll be here…if you don’t mind me staying.”

  I smiled. “I’d love for you to stay.”

  “Maybe I can do something to help.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I have contacts; people who can be discreet. What’s the name?”

  “Eleanor Clarkson.” The doorbell rang. “That’s the cab. I have to go. Don’t get in trouble.” I kissed her nose, grabbed a go-bag, and left.

  Chapter 12

  Tom Keeler gave the old lawyer credit. He had been obstinate, cursed Keeler in German—schweinehund—and pushed him away. Keeler admired his courage, but had no time to humor him. If Abrams refused to help him, he would help himself. Opening the file cabinets one by one, he examined the names on each folder until he came to Clarkson.

  Keeler thumbed the contents and settled on an adoption agreement. He removed it from the file, tore off the cover page, which included the addresses of both parties, and tossed the rest into a wastebasket.

  Abrams had been unwilling to say whether he knew why Giaconne wanted the adoption information. What was worth Giaconne’s life?

  Keeler turned to see the old man barreling toward him wielding a broom handle.

  “Get out! Leave now!” Abrams swung the broomstick at Keeler but didn’t connect. Abrams listed from side to side, wheezing to catch his breath, when Keeler grabbed the stick and wrenched it out of his hand.

  “I’ve got what I came for.” Raising the broom handle, Keeler leaned over Abrams in a move meant to be intimidating. “I’m leaving and I’d advise you to forget I was ever here.”

  The elderly attorney teetered and grabbed the edge of the desk. In a heavy labored voice he said, “Your grandparents would be ashamed of you.”

  Taken aback by the rebuke, Keeler stared at Abrams. You don’t know the half of it.

  “Get off your feet, old man, before you fall over.”

  Taking the broomstick with him, Keeler left the house. He opened his car’s trunk and tossed it inside before getting in and driving away. When he was a few miles from Abrams’s neighborhood, he pulled over and scanned the page he’d stolen. It was clear now that a ten-month-old baby named Jane was at the heart of everything. But why?

  Keeler entertained numerous scenarios. Before he’d set out to find out the meaning of Giaconne’s note, Keeler had done something he normally didn’t do. He checked out the person who’d hired him. Generally, he liked to know as little as possible about those who paid him to kill. Often he didn’t know the identity of who hired him—only that they were able to pay. In most cases, a middleman was used to contact him and give him his orders. In Giaconne’s case, Douglas Cain had contacted him directly. He wasn’t even sure where the lawyer got his name; Cain wouldn’t say. Keeler thought that said a lot; Cain was a control freak and liked to micromanage everything in his life.

  With limited internet resources, Keeler had learned Douglas Cain Esq. grew up in a small suburb of Connecticut. He graduated with honors from Quinnipiac University and then went to Yale for a law degree. The lawyer was a partner at a Fifth Avenue law firm, but his most prominent job was that of personal counsel to Senator Todd Grayson.

  Presidential Candidate Todd Grayson. Interesting. Keeler set aside the adoption paper and drove home.

  ***

  Judge Benjamin Mueller leaned against an office building one block from New York’s Southern District Court. He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait long. Despite the mid-October chill, Mueller was comfortable in his dark gray suit over a tan cash
mere vest. His only deference to the fall weather was a beige, wool ivy cap, and Burberry scarf. Although his attire blended with that of downtown New York executives, the long glances prompted by a man of his size from passersby annoyed him.

  Known informally as Big Ben, Mueller served as a district court judge for 16 years. He’d been a member of the committee for 15 of those years. Newly appointed by the President, Mueller had been swept into the court’s underbelly of corruption. It was an unspoken rite of passage for newbie judges to withstand ethical scrutiny by avoiding enrichment through selectively “judicious” rulings. Mueller barely met the test when he ruled in favor of dismissal on a low-profile RICO case. Proponents of the ruling believed the prosecution’s case was tenuous, while critics claimed others were brought to trial with much less evidence. Soon after, Kerrigan approached the judge with an invitation to join his secret cabal.

  To Mueller’s mind, his connection to the committee, whose main purpose was to protect Senator Grayson’s political career, posed no conflict of interest with his position on the court. In fifteen years, he’d not been called upon to use his judgeship to benefit Grayson.

  That was sheer luck.

  Mueller remembered his growing concern as police probed into Grayson’s involvement in the murder of call girl Sheila Rand. Pressed by Kerrigan and Cain, Captain Harold Sheppard succeeded in redirecting the investigation and eventually dropping it altogether. Mueller had breathed a sigh of relief when Kerrigan announced the good news, but their elation didn’t last long. Detective Lucas Holt continued to investigate and question witnesses until it became necessary for the committee to intervene. Although he and Kerrigan knew some action would be taken, only Sheppard and Cain were privy to the details. Mueller was horrified to learn of the abduction of Holt’s daughter and privately scorned the deed. He refused to participate in any discussion of the facts. He wanted complete deniability.

  The judge did his best to hide his shock when Kerrigan recently informed him that Detective Scully had tried to access records pertaining to the kidnapping. He needed to maintain the appearance of complacency with the function of the committee. However, once again, he began to dread the idea of using his position to help Grayson, or any member, circumvent the law.

  I should have distanced myself from these men a long time ago.

  He recognized the black Lincoln pulling up to the curb. As Kerrigan exited the rear seat, Mueller straightened his stance. He met his associate halfway and shook his hand.

  “Let’s walk,” said Kerrigan.

  The sun had fallen behind the buildings, casting a gray hue over the mostly gray structures, adding to Mueller’s growing consternation. He adjusted his cap and scarf as a sudden gust breezed over them.

  “What’s up, Emmett? Something you can’t tell me over the phone?”

  “I had another meeting with Sheppard. Told me something very disturbing.”

  Mueller hated to ask and waited for Kerrigan to continue.

  “I accused him of setting up a hit on Detective Scully and, of course, he vehemently denied it. But I didn’t believe him.”

  “And now you do?”

  “Yes, now that he told me Douglas arranged it.”

  Sweat began to bead under Mueller’s wool cap and around his neck. He pulled the scarf away from his skin. Recalling the committee’s discussion of Douglas Cain’s action regarding the exposure of Grayson’s illegitimate child, he shook his head. Unbelievable. Cain will take us all down.

  “Is he out of his mind?” It was a rhetorical question. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing I can do. It’s done, but I intend to speak with him—and Grayson. I’ll let him handle Cain.”

  “I’m surprised, since you’ve been adamant about keeping Todd out of the fray.”

  “I know, but I have another concern and I’m wrestling with what to do about it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sheppard is showing signs of paranoia. He suggested we might make him a patsy if things come too close to home for us.”

  “He’s always been dramatic. What did you say to him?”

  “I couldn’t reassure him, and that won’t bode well for us. He’s a liability we can’t afford.”

  “Emmett, what are you saying—wait—I don’t want to know.” Mueller held up a hand, stopped walking, and turned to look at Kerrigan. “I would rather you keep me out of the loop.”

  At Kerrigan’s stone-faced expression, Mueller took a step back. He began to regret what could be construed as a show of waning allegiance. He jerked in surprise when Kerrigan clapped him on the back and smiled.

  “You’re right, Ben. One of us has to keep to a semblance of integrity. You’ll serve us all better that way.”

  Mueller relaxed. “Thank you, Emmett.”

  The two men walked back to the committee leader’s car. Before getting in, Kerrigan bent to Mueller’s ear. “You may not need to know all the details of our business, but we need to know we have your complete loyalty. Remember, we are stronger together, but no one is indispensable.”

  ***

  Sitting in a leather club chair in Todd Grayson’s Central Park South apartment, Emmett Kerrigan waited for the senator to take a call from his campaign manager.

  “Great news, Bonnie. Let’s hit Iowa hard with a few extra stops next week.” Grayson glanced at Kerrigan. “Call me later. I have someone here. Right. Bye.” Grayson disconnected and turned his attention to Kerrigan. “Sorry, Emmett, but the news is good.” Grayson leaned forward and placed his clasped hands on his desk. His handsome face lit up with a grin. “We’ve picked up two points in the Florida polls. That gives us more time to spend elsewhere.”

  Kerrigan nodded. “Bonnie Monk is good at what she does.”

  Other than the slight movement of his head, the older man sat rigid in his chair.

  Grayson’s smile faded. “Emmett, you seem morose. Are you here to dampen my mood?”

  “Hmm, now it’s my turn to be sorry. Todd, I’ve heard something troubling from Commissioner Sheppard. It appears Douglas is trying to solve problems with drastic measures again. Actions not sanctioned by me or the others.”

  Grayson’s knowledge of the inner workings of Kerrigan’s cabal was limited by design. The less he knew, the better, but the senator’s relationship with Douglas Cain was long and deep. Kerrigan was loath to take any steps against Cain that wouldn’t sit well with Grayson.

  Shaking his head, Senator Grayson sighed and slouched back into his swivel chair. “What’s he done now?”

  Chapter 13

  Wellsburg, New York, settled in 1789, current population around 600 was, as I expected, an hour’s drive from Ithaca. The sun had set as we landed, coloring the sky with shades of rust, orange, and purple. The highway south was empty until I reached the crossroads of Route 427 and Main Street. The parking lot of the Wellsburg Diner was half full, as was the lot for Dollar General. I drove down Main Street. Lit by a sporadic placement of street lamps affixed to wooden telephone poles, the road was cracked and potholed.

  I found the Clarkson house, passed it, and parked in front of the house next door. Across the street was an empty lot. According to my search, the house was deeded to Joseph Clarkson. Apparently, Clarksons had owned it for over 70 years. I imagined in these small rural towns, folks settled and didn’t move unless forced by economic necessity. Upstate New York had fallen on hard times with the close of factories and the loss of low-skill manufacturing jobs. Glancing at the brown bungalow-style one and a half-story house in desperate need of paint and repair, I surmised Joseph Clarkson couldn’t afford to move even if he’d wanted to.

  A faded American flag hung from one of the pillars supporting the sagging porch roof. The open space was crammed with a mishmash of furniture that looked like curbside finds. There were lights on inside. Through a few broken slats in the blinds, I could see the flicker of a television screen.

  I couldn’t ease the guilt I felt that my daughter lived her
e for the past fifteen years. How did she grow up? How different would she be if she’d been with Susan and me instead? Nature versus nurture. A wave of sadness washed over me as I thought of Marnie never knowing her mother.

  I rang the bell, but it didn’t work. Pulling open the ripped screen door, I knocked hard on the wooden entrance. Seconds passed when the porch light lit up and the door swung open.

  “You forget your goddamn keys again?” the man in the doorway snapped before he realized who was there. Then he took a step forward to have a look behind me. “Who’re you?”

  “Joseph Clarkson?” I asked the fifty-something-year-old, whose brown hair and clothes blended with the house.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m Lucas Holt, a private investigator.” I pulled out my ID to show Clarkson, but he ignored it and continued to look past me.

  “What do you want? Where’s my wife?”

  “Actually, that’s who I’d like to speak with.”

  “Why, what’s she done?”

  Before I could clear up any misunderstanding, a car rolled onto the gravel driveway beside the house. A blonde-haired woman wearing a blue Walmart vest exited and then grabbed a few bags from the backseat.

  “Joe? Everything all right?”

  “Where’ve you been?” he yelled over my shoulder. “We’re hungry.”

  Mrs. Clarkson rushed up the steps and into the house. “It’ll only be a few minutes. I told you I had to stop at the store after work. Who’s that at the door?” Two boys scampered into the room to greet their mother. Where was their daughter? My daughter. I reined in my impatience.

  “A private investigator, and he says he’s come to see you,” Clarkson said, staring at me. “Is this about that car accident? It wasn’t her fault. She—”

  I raised my hand to stop Clarkson. “No, I’m not here about a car accident. May I come in and speak with Ellie?”