by JP Ratto
Clarkson’s belligerent demeanor slipped away as his eyes widened and his open mouth slackened. He turned to look at his wife. “Go get dinner ready. I’m gonna talk to this guy outside,” he said and stepped out onto the porch, shutting the door behind him. “What’s this all about, mister?”
“Holt. Lucas Holt, and I need to speak with your wife.”
“Well, you’re outta luck.”
“Excuse me?”
“You can’t speak to Ellie because she’s dead.” Clarkson could see the confusion on my face. “That’s my second wife,” he said, nodding his head toward the house. “Been married to Nan for more than thirteen years now.” He turned away from me. “Sorry you came for nothing.”
“Hold on,” I said with the urge to grab Clarkson’s arm to keep him from going back inside. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“As a matter of fact, I do mind. You came here to talk to Ellie, and she’s been dead for over fourteen years. I don’t see how I can help you.”
“I want to ask about the child she brought home fifteen years ago.”
Joseph Clarkson jerked back against one of the old torn porch chairs as if I’d struck him, and nearly fell into it. “I don’t know anything about a child. My only children are the two boys me and Nan had. Now, I need to go have my dinner.”
“Mr. Clarkson, did your wife have a cousin named Rose Bardinari? She ran a daycare center in New York City. Your wife was seen visiting her with a baby fifteen years ago.”
“I don’t know any of Ellie’s family,” Clarkson said, appearing calm and confident. I used his manner as a barometer for his truthfulness. “She didn’t keep in touch with them as far as I knew.”
“You’ve lived here all your life. I imagine I could find a neighbor or someone who could attest to the fact that fifteen years ago you and your wife had a six-month-old baby in this house. You can’t hide a thing like that in a small town.”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The agitation was back. Clarkson lied.
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, and you’d better start telling the truth or you’ll be facing charges of kidnapping or, at the very least, obstruction of justice.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Holt. You can see there’s no teenager living here. It’d be plain as day if she was. You can ask any of the neighbors.”
“She?” I asked and could see Clarkson’s face blanch in the dim porch light. “I never said the baby was a girl.”
Chapter 14
With a look of defeat, Joseph Clarkson dropped into the chair behind him, took out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. “It was all Ellie’s doing. She lied to me,” he said, taking a long drag on the cigarette. “She said the baby was her cousin’s and she wanted to help take care of it because the mother was sick. I didn’t like the idea, but we’d been trying to have kids and Ellie was sad all the time because nothing happened. Having the baby to take care of put her in a better mood. It turned out to be good for her…and good for me too, if you know what I mean.”
As I listened to Clarkson’s admission, my determination to remain composed and detached was deteriorating. “So you took your wife’s story at face value and didn’t ask any questions.” Clarkson only shrugged. “When did Ellie die, and what happened to the baby?”
“It was about two months after she took in Jane—that’s what Ellie said the baby’s name was—when she began having woman problems. Pain and bleeding—you know—down there.” He paused to toss the cigarette stub to the floor and ground it with his foot. “She went to the doctor and we got the bad news. Within four months she was gone.”
“And the baby?”
“Well, I couldn’t take care of her. I mean, she wasn’t even my kid. I had to work and didn’t make enough to hire anyone. My mother was too old, and anyway, she died soon after Ellie. I did what I had to. I gave her away.”
“You gave her away? What does that mean?” I was livid at the thought of Marnie being handed off like an unwanted pet.
“I found a lawyer who takes orphans and places them in homes. He took her.”
“The baby your wife stole was not an orphan, Mr. Clarkson. She was someone’s precious child.”
He looked up at me and sneered, not the least bit sorry for what he’d done. “Ellie told me before she died that the baby was an orphan. How do you know she was someone’s precious child?”
I leaned down and grabbed Clarkson by his shirt, yanking him out of the seat. I brought his face close to mine and said through gritted teeth, “Because that precious child was mine.”
I outsized him by five inches and thirty pounds. I was sure the shock in Clarkson’s eyes was as intense as the rage he undoubtedly saw in mine. My fists clutching his shirt pressed his chin upward.
“I…I told you I had no idea.” He choked out the words and raised his hands to free himself. I shoved him back into the chair, loomed over him, and blocked any attempt he might make to move.
“Who’s the lawyer? I want his name and address.”
Clarkson squirmed and fumbled for another cigarette. “Jeez it was a long time ago. I don’t remember his name.” He looked at me, imploring me to believe him. “I swear. I don’t remember. I saw an ad in the local paper. All I can tell you is he had an office in Elmira. Said he was some kind of family lawyer.”
“You must have signed papers,” I said.
“No. The baby wasn’t mine. I didn’t need to sign anything.”
“Did he pay you?”
Clarkson hesitated before answering. “Look, Mr. Holt. Like I said, I couldn’t take care of the kid, and I had all these expenses. You know, babies cost a pretty penny to take care of, and I had Ellie’s medical bills and funeral…”
I couldn’t look at him anymore. “So you sold my daughter.”
“I don’t know what else I could’ve done. I didn’t know where the baby came from.”
Turning back toward Clarkson, I said, “You could have told the authorities the truth.”
“And what…wind up in jail for something my wife did? That wasn’t an option. Listen, I’ve told you all I can. Nan will be wondering what’s going on. She doesn’t know about any of this.”
I stood on the ramshackle porch debating what to do next. Clarkson rose from the chair and moved to the railing, flicking cigarette ash over the side. I scanned the darkened neighborhood, the house next door and the one across from it, probably occupied by families living paycheck to paycheck. Then I noticed the car parked in Clarkson’s driveway. It was a late model American make, not more than a year old. It didn’t fit with the rest of the picture.
My thoughts shifted to Frank Giaconne. What had he wanted to tell me the night he was murdered? I took out my phone. The photo of Marnie filled the screen.
Two months before, Janet Maxwell, a recently widowed socialite, had hired me to find the daughter she’d given up for adoption many years ago. It wasn’t my usual type of case, but when she revealed the girl’s father was Senator Todd Grayson, I couldn’t pass on it. The investigation led me to Broome, Pennsylvania, where I found seventeen-year-old Karen Martin. Due to unfortunate circumstances, Maxwell died before they could be reunited. Weeks later, I received the photo of a teenage girl, who I believe is Marnie, via Maxwell’s lawyers.
I had wondered where Maxwell had gotten the picture. Before she died, and before I received the photo, Janet Maxwell suggested I ask Douglas Cain where to find my daughter. I did. He laughed off Maxwell’s insinuation that he knew anything about it. Cain had made sure Grayson and Maxwell’s affair, as well as the fact that they had a child together, was a well-kept secret. It wasn’t out of the realm to suspect Cain knew what happened to Marnie too. But I couldn’t prove it.
Someone had to know where Marnie was to have taken a recent picture of her.
I began to make important connections. Ellie Clarkson’s connection to Rose Bardinari. Bardinari’s connection to Frank Giaconne.
Giaconne’s connection to a “Fifth Avenue” lawyer, who was surely Douglas Cain. If Giaconne had counted on Cain for his “financial freedom” as Mason Reid had said, what did Frank Giaconne have to offer the lawyer?
More precisely, what did Giaconne have and use to blackmail Cain? Blackmail was the most probable reason for Giaconne’s murder. Had Rose Bardinari confided what she knew about the kidnapping to her boyfriend? Did he know Ellie Clarkson? Both Rose and Ellie were dead, so that left only one person who could give Giaconne the information he needed.
I walked down the porch steps and Clarkson followed. He assumed I was leaving and visibly relaxed.
“Nice car,” I said.
“What?” he asked, glancing at the black sedan parked in his driveway. “Oh, yeah, thanks.”
I could tell he was wary at the change in conversation. I meant for him to be confused or, perhaps, caught off guard by my next question, and he was.
“Mr. Clarkson, how much did Frank Giaconne pay you for the name of that Elmira lawyer?”
Chapter 15
I watched Clarkson’s smile fade. He took a moment before launching into adamant denial. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Giaconne. I’ve told you all I’m going to.” He turned away.
“Giaconne is dead. Murdered.” That got Clarkson’s attention, and he twisted back to face me. “It appears he may have been involved in a blackmail scheme. My guess is you benefited from that money.”
Clarkson remained silent, a clear sign of his shock. He reached for another cigarette, but the pack was empty. He crushed it and tossed it to the ground. Looking around as if to make sure we were alone, he stepped closer and in a near whisper said, “I had no idea he was a blackmailer. He said he knew Ellie—that his girlfriend was Ellie’s cousin. He knew about the baby and was trying to find her. I didn’t care why and, at first, told him to go away. Then he offered me money. Dammit, Holt, look around. I needed that money. Giaconne told me no one would know where he got the information.” Clarkson searched his pockets, probably looking for a loose cigarette. He rubbed his face and massaged the back of his neck. “Shit.”
I determined Clarkson worried about Giaconne’s killer coming after him too. I thought I could use that. “Mr. Clarkson, I can’t tell you if the person Giaconne blackmailed knew you were his source of information. Someone who had no personal connection to Giaconne gave me Ellie’s name. I think the sooner you tell me the name of the attorney who arranged for my daughter’s adoption, the sooner I can bring the right people to justice.” It sounded a bit dramatic, but I needed to make a point.
“How does that protect me?” Clarkson wanted to know.
The truth was I couldn’t offer Clarkson protection and, why would I? His wife stole my child while he stood by and did nothing. I didn’t want to lay out my theory about who was behind Marnie’s kidnapping and Giaconne’s death. I suspected Douglas Cain was the target of blackmail, but I couldn’t prove he had anything to do with Giaconne’s murder.
“I believe the truth is your only protection.”
***
It neared eight o’clock at night when Clarkson gave me the lawyer’s name and address. Via a quick search on my cellphone, I discovered A.S. Abrams, Esq. was retired and in his nineties. It was a twenty-minute trip to Abrams’s Elmira home. I wondered if it would be too late to disturb the old attorney. My concern aside, I drove there anyway, wanting to be near the one person who might know Marnie’s location.
Turning onto Abrams’s street, my heart raced at the sight of an emergency vehicle pulling from the curb and, without turning on its siren, drove away. It was either a false alarm or a fatality and, therefore, no need to rush to the hospital.
I pulled into the space vacated by the EMTs. The first floor of Abrams’s house was lit up. A woman stood at the front door speaking to a couple, perhaps neighbors. The woman inside shut the door and the couple walked down the street. Anxious to find out if anything had happened to Mr. Abrams, I sprinted to the door and rang the bell.
“Hello.” The woman, who I could now see in the light, appeared distressed. She spoke in a somber voice; her eyes narrowed as she sought recognition. “I’m sorry; I don’t think we’ve met. Do you…did you know my uncle?”
I caught the correction from the present to the past in her question and my hopes sank. “My name is Lucas Holt and I’m a private investigator. I came here to see Mr. Abrams.”
“An investigator? What investigation? Have the police sent you?”
“No. Excuse me; you said you are Mr. Abrams’s niece?”
“Yes. I’m Carol Hoffman. I don’t understand what’s going on. This is all so surreal. I just spoke to Uncle Al a couple of hours ago. He was fine.”
“Ms. Hoffman, what happened to your uncle?”
Carol Hoffman, I’d guessed, was in her late fifties. A big-boned woman, she held her shoulders back and inhaled, shuddering when she released the breath. Her composure was quick. “Could I see some identification, please?”
I showed her my ID. “I’m a private investigator, but I’m also a former NYPD detective.”
She nodded. “Come in, Mr. Holt.”
I glanced around as she led me into a large multi-purpose living area. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“My uncle passed away. Apparently he’d had a heart attack.”
I tried hard to keep the utter disappointment out of my voice. “I’m sorry for your loss. He was how old?”
“He would have been ninety-three next month. Yes, he was old, but my uncle was in excellent health. Although, lately he was upset about something, but wouldn’t tell me what it was.”
“Were you close with your uncle?”
“Yes. I worked with him for five years before he retired at age eighty-five.”
“Wow, that’s a long career. What type of law did Mr. Abrams practice?”
Carol Hoffman studied me a moment. “Mr. Holt, why did you want to see my uncle?”
I was impatient for answers so I decided not to skirt around the facts. “I’m looking for my daughter.”
Ms. Hoffman’s eyes registered mild surprise. I could tell she had a keen intellect and was working out all the possible scenarios. “It’s been ages since my uncle facilitated adoptions, Mr. Holt.”
I was glad she also decided not to avoid the obvious implication of my statement. “The adoption I’m interested in took place fifteen years ago. Did your uncle keep his records?”
“Of course, he did. However, as far as I understand, the confidentiality of his cases survives his death.”
It seemed some negotiation would have to take place. “Did he work alone?”
“Yes. It was he and his secretary. When Lillian retired, I took over.”
“I wonder if you could connect me with Lillian.”
“Only if I were to conduct a séance.”
I raised a brow at her flippancy, and she immediately apologized.
“Sorry, Mr. Holt, that was an awful thing to say. I’m so upset by my uncle’s death. In any case, I’m not sure I can help you.” She waved her arm around the room, indicating an uneaten plate of food. “I need to clean up.” She smiled. “Uncle Al still cooked for himself. I never worried about him setting the house on fire. He was that alert. Sharp as a whip. The only part of him that failed him was his body. Poor thing.”
The conversation drifted, and I needed to refocus it. “I don’t want to upset you further, but I want to warn you that the adoption of my daughter was an illegal one.”
“Illegal? What do you mean?” Carol Hoffman’s demeanor shifted from mourning the loss of her uncle to protecting his reputation. “My uncle would never do anything illegal, and I don’t appreciate you coming here to besmirch his reputation. Especially now that he can’t defend himself. I think you should leave.”
I wasn’t going anywhere. “Ms. Hoffman, I understand your position, but let me tell you the circumstances.”
“What circumstances? I’ve dealt wi
th biological parents who regret their decision to give up a child. It’s often a gut-wrenching choice. Of course, many men are left out of the process.”
The idea must have suddenly occurred to her because she lost her defensive edge and looked at me with pity. Her voice softened. “Is that what happened? Did you just find out you had a daughter?”
Once again, I prepared to dredge up the past and tell my story. Talking about Marnie’s kidnapping did not get easier with each retelling. “No, Ms. Hoffman. My daughter Marnie was kidnapped when she was six months old.”
The woman stumbled backward, and I lurched forward to grab her elbow to steady her. “Maybe you should sit down.”
She nodded and sat in a worn leather club chair. “Please, sit down too, and tell me about your daughter.”
***
When I finished recounting the details of Marnie’s kidnapping, Carol Hoffman rose and walked to the area of the room that served as her uncle’s office. “Mr. Holt, I’m shocked to hear what happened to your daughter. The first thing I need to do is verify that my uncle facilitated the adoption. You say Joseph Clarkson is the person who gave up the child. Let me see what I can find.”
She scanned the file cabinets until she found the one she wanted and opened a drawer. “Before Lillian retired there were only paper files. When I took over, I kept current case records on the computer as well as a paper file. Luckily, the files are sorted alphabetically and not by year.” I watched her rifle through the folders in the drawer with deft fingers until she stopped mid drawer. “Yes, there is a folder for Joseph Clarkson.” She turned to look at me, her hands still resting on the files. “This confirms what you told me, but I can’t let you have the file. My uncle has made a provision in his will for all his files to be turned over to another attorney. I will give you his name, and once the transfer is made you can—”
“Ms. Hoffman,” I interrupted and moved to stand near her. “I have been searching fifteen years for my daughter. I’m too close to finding her and will not leave here without knowing who adopted her.”
