Michael would have liked his company now, but like a year ago, when Mary died, he would have to forgo the sage advice of his father.
Mary’s plea dominated Michael’s heart, only to be reinforced by the business card reflecting the same address. The address of Stephen Kelley, an attorney Mary thought could help Michael in his quest.
Michael’s father had always urged him to find his birth parents, explaining that it was important to know where we come from, what we are made of. Alec had explained very early on that Michael had two sets of parents: the ones whose love brought him into the world and the ones whose love brought him up in it. But Michael banished the thought of seeking them out while the St. Pierres were alive. He had felt it to be a betrayal of his parents, as if he was turning his back on them, to abandon those who chose him for those who chose to give him up.
Michael stood in his great room, his two big dogs asleep at his feet, staring at Mary’s letter and the business card that sat side by side on the coffee table before him. The address was in Boston, a foreign land to Michael: 22 Franklin Street held no meaning. To a Yankee fan, it was the land of the enemy. He had only been up to the New England city a handful of times, preferring Cape Cod, a place that had held special meaning for him and Mary, a place to run to for their weekend escapes.
Michael’s mind was a swirl of confusion as he thought on the single business card. It was no coincidence that it matched the address that Mary had given him, the ticking of the grandfather clock at four a.m. driving home the point.
Michael picked up his glass, downed his Jack Daniel’s, and immediately snatched up the bottle for a refill. His mind was a jumble as he ran the past four hours over again, so sure that he was missing something, so sure that a simple clue eluded him. Then it hit him.
His mind was so consumed with the card, he had forgotten about the water-soaked purse. He picked it up and laid it on the coffee table. It was simple, tan leather with a brass clasp and woven strap. He triple-checked every empty pocket and seam and realized it was the deviation from the typical that underscored the significance of the single item found within. There were no personal effects, none of the usual female accoutrements, grooming or otherwise, that clutter a female bag. It was empty but for the business card the water had not managed to wash away.
And then a chill raced up Michael’s spine and grabbed hold of his mind. He stepped back and looked at the purse again. He was not captivated by the design of the purse, nor the card that was found inside; a truth of recognition percolated to the surface.
There was no question in Michael’s mind—he had seen this purse before.
Chapter 8
Ilya Raechen was at the Delaware Bridge when he finally exhaled. He had driven the Chevy Suburban with tinted windows the last four hours without so much as a whisper or touch of the radio dial. He flew down the Jersey Turnpike, happy for the EZ-Pass convenience of avoiding a toll clerk; the less people who saw him the better. It was so cliché to be riding with a victim bound and gagged in the rear cargo space, but he had had no choice. Vans and panel trucks drew attention in this post-9/11 age and he couldn’t hide behind his Russian diplomatic credentials if he was pulled over. Not too many excuses for riding around with a trussed-up woman in the back of your vehicle.
For all his life, Raechen had told his son, “Don’t worry, Daddy will protect you, he will never let anything happen to you.” It was a promise that every parent made to their child, it was a promise that every child believed. And it was a promise that Raechen wasn’t living up to as he watched his son slipping away, wasted by disease. But things were changing, hope would be reborn for not only his son but for himself. No more broken promises—he would save his son no matter the cost.
He had waited until five-thirty in the morning before leaving the motel. The lights were dimmed and the parking lot was empty; never much traffic at dawn. He loaded both pistols, sliding them in his waistband at the small of his back. He hadn’t fired his Glocks in seven years, since he retired from the field to start a family. Raechen prayed before entering the Suburban that the day ahead wouldn’t break that streak.
As he crossed the border into Delaware, he picked up his cell phone and called for the plane. It would be fueled and ready at a small airstrip in rural Maryland, diplomatic clearance processed for a smooth exit from the country. Raechen would accompany Genevieve and personally deliver her not out of loyalty or pride; he would do it to ensure payment, to obtain the treatment that his son so desperately needed. He was counting on them, but more importantly, his son was counting on him.
Chapter 9
The loft was a big boys’ playground, a private room upstairs in Valhalla. Busch designed it to his exact specifications, replicating an image that had resided in his mind since he was sixteen. The room was long and narrow, the angled ceiling rose up twenty feet, mirroring the roofline, its thick, exposed beams dark and polished. The pool table, card table, and pinball machine were set off in the back section, while a thick couch and two Barcaloungers filled up the front, circling an enormous plasma TV screen. A small bar in the corner was stocked by the liquor and beer distributors as a courtesy for Busch’s continued business from his downstairs establishment. This was his sanctuary, frequented only by friends. Jeannie had allowed him his indulgence on the proviso that the bar and restaurant’s operations were not affected.
Busch followed Michael into the room, ducking his head under the low doorway, slamming the door behind them. He poured them each a drink and finally let loose.
“No sign of a body yet. Whoever it was got out alive. The car was rented in Boston,” Busch said. “Under an alias. Do you know anyone in Boston?”
Michael said nothing as he thought of the Boston address that Mary had given him, that happened to be on the business card in his pocket.
“I think Genevieve Zivera was driving that car.”
“What?” Busch’s eyes scrunched up as he broke out in a laugh. “What, she flew down out of Heaven to drive around and get some R&R?”
Michael said nothing as he stared back, making his silent point.
“She’s dead, Michael,” Busch said seriously.
“I know. I still think she was driving that car,” Michael said as he walked to the large circular window and stared down at the town of Byram Hills.
“What’s going on, Michael?” Busch shot back. “You stand there and say a woman has risen from the grave, found a way to come back to life, and then fall silent? There’s a reason you’ve drawn this conclusion. I’m your friend, for Christ’s sake, tell me what’s going on.”
“All right,” Michael said as he walked back and leaned against the bar.
Busch picked up a pool cue and walked around, trying to contain his percolating anger.
“Before Genevieve disappeared four months ago, before she died, she came to see me.”
Busch stopped his pacing and turned to Michael, his eyes growing stern.
“She asked me to do her a favor,” Michael continued.
“Michael.” Busch was getting pissed. “Most people ask their friends for a ride home, or to loan them a couple dollars. People don’t ask those kind of favors of you. What the hell did you do?”
As Busch listened to Michael’s tale of his winter exploits in Switzerland, he did everything in his power to stop from lashing out at his best friend. Busch would never lose his moral code, his creed that he lived by. The law was the law and it was made for a reason, but as he listened to the details of what Michael did, as he learned that Michael acted upon a friend’s dying request, he found it hard to judge him. Michael hadn’t benefited in any way, shape, or form. His actions had, in fact, put his own life and liberty in danger. Busch said nothing as Michael finished his story. He put the cue down and leaned heavily against the wall, his body collapsing as he put his head back.
“There’s something else,” Michael added, reluctance in his voice.
Busch inhaled and held it. He took a seat on a bar stool. He a
ccepted Michael’s European story but did not like where this was going.
“There was a purse in the car. It’s the same purse Genevieve had with her four months ago when she came to see me.”
Busch closed his eyes. “Here we go.”
“It only had one thing in it.” Michael laid the card on the pool table.
“You stole evidence?” Busch asked with closed eyes. “That’s bad karma, Michael.”
“Evidence? Genevieve was in that car, I’m sure of it. And there’s no question that this card was meant for me.”
“What the hell is going on, Michael? Are you hiding something?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I thought you retired.”
“Don’t go there.” Busch couldn’t kid himself anymore, he missed being a cop, being a detective, figuring things out. But his wife, Jeannie, had pushed him into early retirement. He didn’t voice it to her but he had had second thoughts right up to the day he retired, and it all came flooding back as regret now. He missed the thrill of the chase, the solving of the crime, the righting of a wrong. He missed the justice of it all. Now, all he saw were people drowning themselves in Scotch and beer, complaining about how boring or terrible their mundane lives were. Busch had dreamed the bar would be his reward, his relaxing retirement, but it was nothing of the kind. It was simply boring. The truth of the matter was Busch missed his old job. Grass-is-greener syndrome. He left the force to live his dream of owning a bar and putting the stress behind him. But he missed the adrenaline rush and the feeling that he was making a difference.
“If Genevieve was driving that car, where is she?” Busch asked as he finally opened his eyes.
“I don’t know, but I don’t think she’s dead.”
“If she was driving that car, I hate to say it, but she could be dead and we just haven’t found her yet. Or she could be hurt. Or she wasn’t driving that car and you just have an overly active imagination.”
Michael withdrew Mary’s letter from his pocket and placed it next to the business card. The two identical addresses next to each other.
Busch walked over and picked up Mary’s letter. He read it through without comment, put it back down, and became lost in thought.
“Don’t tell me coincidence.” Michael paused a moment, gathering himself, gathering his thoughts, trying to regain some sense of calm. “Because this is anything but.”
Busch looked again at the business card. “Who’s Stephen Kelley?”
“Beyond the fact that he’s an attorney?” Michael said. “I have no idea. He does pro bono work for the church and orphanage I came from. I tried to reach him but there’s no answer.”
Busch continued to stare at the card, comparing it to Mary’s letter.
“Paul, I think my dad is out there somewhere. And this all has something to do with him. I don’t know how. Mary was pointing me in his direction, Genevieve always insisted I look for him. These addresses are the same starting point.”
Busch finally turned to Michael. “What are you looking for, Michael? What are you hoping to find? Is this about finding your dad or is it about Mary, about filling perceived requests and last wishes to heal your guilty heart?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said. “But…”
“Michael,” Busch said softly. “Mary is gone. Nothing you do is going to bring her back. But if you want to find your real parents…”
Michael walked to the table, picked up Mary’s letter, and looked at his friend. “Do you feel like going to Boston?”
Chapter 10
Dawn. Already seventy-five degrees, the never-ending humidity condensing on the windows of Busch’s car as they drove out of the Byram Hills police station. The lake had been dragged; divers scoured the bottom, all coming back with the same assessment: whoever was driving the Buick, dead or alive, was not in the water, on the shore, or anywhere near the wreck. Footprints had been found at the water’s edge but they were inconclusive—they could have belonged to a fisherman, teenagers, no one knew for sure. The car had been traced back to a rental office at Logan Airport in Boston but the driver had yet to be identified—all of which only strengthened Michael’s suspicions.
Michael’s cell phone was tucked into the crook of his shoulder. It had been three minutes since he had been put on hold by the Vatican operator. He and Busch were on their second Coke, Michael having taken up Busch’s preferred source of caffeine and sugar.
There were three quick beeps on his cell phone and then, “Michael?” The accent was Italian.
“Simon.” Michael couldn’t disguise the thrill in his voice; it was like announcing a birth, or that someone had miraculously overcome some horrible disease. But it was tempered by circumstance, by anxiety. “She’s alive,” Michael said.
“What? Hello to you, too,” Simon replied, not grasping what Michael had said.
“She’s alive, Simon.”
“Who’s alive?”
“Genevieve.”
“Alive?” Michael could practically feel Simon’s confusion through the silence on the end of the line. “That makes no sense.”
“I know it’s hard to believe.”
“Did you see her? Where is she?”
“No, there was a car accident…” Michael went on to bring Simon up to speed. His story did not find much credibility in his own mind during the telling, as he realized he might be falling victim to his own imagination and wishful thinking. He explained the purse and the business card, how the address matched the one that Mary had given him, how the police had found no body.
“But you didn’t see her?” Simon asked, making a point.
“No,” Michael reluctantly answered.
“Did you look for her?”
“We started to last night, not realizing who we were looking for. The police dragged the lake, but I know she’s not there. She’s gone, Simon, I don’t know how, but she’s gone.”
As the moment went on, Michael realized something: Simon did not once question her resurrection, her sudden reappearance as if she had never been dead at all.
“I have to go,” Simon said abruptly.
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Nothing. Stay out of it, Michael.” Simon’s voice was utterly serious, his request more an order.
“You know me better than that. Simon, I thought she was dead. You presided at her funeral, for Christ’s sake. What’s going on?”
“Stay out of it,” Simon implored him. “I’ll find her.”
“But she was here, she was coming to me.”
“If she was there, she’s long gone.”
“How do you know?”
The silence dragged on, only broken by intermittent static.
“She could have been kidnapped,” Michael said. “She could be on the run. You don’t even know where to look.”
“I know where to start,” Simon said. “Listen, I know she is your friend, she’s mine, too. But trust me, Michael, you can’t protect her.”
An ominous silence seemed to pour from the phone line and float about the car.
“Protect her?” Michael asked, his mind suddenly on guard. “Protect her from what?” Michael could feel his blood begin to pump; he felt like his brain was turned upside down.
“Please.” Simon paused. “Just stay out of it. If she’s alive, I’ll find her.”
In the eighteen months that Michael had known Simon, they had become friends. But Simon was still Simon. A man capable of a ruthless devotion to God, and a ruthless devotion to his friends. A man who had taken more lives than he had saved. A man who never used the word “please.”
“Simon,” Michael said, resigning himself to forgoing the search, to letting Simon find her. “I thought she was dead.”
“So did everyone,” Simon said softly, and his phone clicked off.
Chapter 11
The scull shot along the Charles River, its bone-white hull seeming to float above the late springtime water as if it were frozen. The two rowers looked like wind-up
toys in perfect synchronization. Michael watched them disappear around a corner upriver as they drove over the Longfellow Bridge into the heart of Boston. They left the police station at five a.m. and made the typical three-hour drive in less than two and a half hours; when Busch drove his Corvette, he didn’t believe in wasting time. They agreed that despite Simon’s emphatic plea, when they returned they would do everything to find Genevieve.
While they had stopped by the police station under the auspices of Busch checking on the sunken-car investigation, the real reason for their visit was twofold. Even off the force, Busch was still the most popular guy in the station. Rookies and vets alike came to him for advice both personal and professional, the way it had been for twenty years. He, in fact, garnered more respect than Captain Delia. And so when Busch asked Joe Grasso to help him out, the sergeant had no problem looking the other way. He never questioned why Busch needed information on the owner of 22 Franklin Street in Boston as he tapped into the police department’s database, diving deep into the DMV, FBI, and LexisNexis files. The printout was short but surprising.
Stephen Kelley was a fifty-eight-year-old attorney with a thriving practice. A former district attorney, he avoided the criminal defense arena, instead opting for mergers and acquisitions—Michael thought the man was still protecting criminals. His impoverished background was murky and contained several sealed police files from his youth. But after the age of twenty a man emerged from the south side of Boston and found it within himself to amass a net worth of over seventy-five million dollars.
The Thieves of Faith Page 6
