He assured me the FBI was on it. “Any helpful information you can provide …”
“Aren’t I always helpful?”
He hung up.
Cookie looked at the platter of sandwiches, enough to feed the neighborhood. “Still eating for two? I thought we were on a budget.”
“What we don’t eat, we can take home. I for one don’t relish the thought of cooking tonight.”
“When have you ever?”
I didn’t answer, but stared at the sandwich Lorraine put before me, still wrapped in the deli’s signature paper, and without thinking took a huge bite, tasting the chicken and celery with a hint of onion and horseradish. I took another bite, unaware until then how hungry I’d been.
There was a knock on the door.
“You’ve got mayo all over your face,” Cookie said, ever so helpful. She took a handful of chips along with a sip of Coke and patted her face with a napkin while she studied the board. “It’s obvious what happened.”
“How can you say that?” Lorraine asked.
“One of the older children is the perp.”
“You’re leaping,” Lorraine said. “What about aunts, uncles? Grandmothers?”
“Grandmothers?” someone asked.
“Everyone is suspect when a child is missing.”
“The door?” someone asked.
No one replied.
“The housekeeper? They rule, know everything, and no one has access to a home without them; conversely, hardened criminals walk freely through the door if they know the housekeeper.”
“My gut feeling is that this one is innocent.” Still, I thought, she does have a set of keys to the house. She could be an accomplice, easy.
“Seedy-looking characters lurking in Pierrepont Park?” Minnie asked.
“There are no seedy characters in that park,” Cookie said. “Who’s going to get the door?”
I scraped my chair against the wooden floor and walked down the hall, still chewing, head down. When I looked up, Jane and Willoughby were standing on the other side of the grill.
“No wonder the girl’s still missing,” Jane said by way of greeting. “It’s taken you nearly two minutes to answer the door.”
“Are we in time for lunch?” Willoughby asked, looking at the sandwich in my hand.
At that moment, I looked down at my protruding stomach, jealous of anyone like Willoughby, who seemed to have a piece of food in his mouth every time I saw him but who never gained weight. If anything, he’d lost ten pounds since the last time I’d seen him a few months ago.
Jane quirked up her lips. “We happened to be cruising down Henry Street when Willoughby saw your deli delivery, so we stopped.”
I didn’t believe it, but ushered them in and waited until two additional chairs were brought in.
“Any news?” I shouldn’t have asked. One look at her face, and I knew she was either here to gloat or here to pump me for information, and probably both.
“We have the hospital report on Cassandra Thatchley,” Jane said, smiling as she sat at the head of the table.
I must have looked puzzled because she waved a hand in my direction. “I know, usually these things take more time, but we put pressure on Brooklyn General.” After nodding to Minnie and Cookie, Jane helped herself to a sandwich.
“Any ham?” Willoughby asked, his mouth full of chicken salad.
“The blood work showed a large amount of GHB in Cassandra Thatchley’s system,” Jane said.
Cookie asked what GHB was and Jane showed her the printout.
After stumbling over the full name, gamma hydroxybutyrate, Cookie read its description out loud, “A central nervous system depressant commonly referred to as a ‘club drug.’ Who would do that to a full professor? And by the way, she’s not just any English prof. I haven’t heard her lecture, but she’s supposed to be one of the few living experts on the work of Emily Dickinson.”
“Someone who knows how to get this stuff slipped her a date rape drug, but where and how, we don’t know,” Jane said. She narrowed her eyes in my direction. “But we’d better find out because when we know that, we’ll know where Dorset is. And by the way, what are you doing sitting around eating while a child is missing?”
“Shove a sandwich into that woman’s mouth,” Willoughby said. “Speak for yourself, but I do a much better job on a full stomach.”
“And since your stomach’s never full …” Jane smirked. She didn’t wait for applause but banged the table. “We are all of us too complacent here.”
“Last I looked, you’re not heading this investigation,” Willoughby said.
“Of course I am,” Jane countered, her eyes going from a silvery blue to violet.
“So I guess the FBI is just window dressing?”
Willoughby had a point; we were dealing with the kidnapping of a minor, and in that case, the FBI would be heading the investigation. Good news for me, I was sure Tig Able would be on my tail, giving me updates and asking for favors. And when it came to favors, we were his go-to agency.
“I suppose you’ve contacted your agent friend?” Jane asked.
I nodded, but said no more, waiting for Jane to spill what was bugging her. If my reading of the red blotches on her cheeks was any indication, she was a pressure cooker.
“He probably didn’t answer her,” Willoughby said, his eyes doing a furtive slide to his partner’s face.
“Make sure you keep me informed,” Jane said.
I didn’t need my sixth sense to see something big was bothering her. Something or someone. “Have you talked to the crime scene investigators? Have they found anything in the park?”
“If they find traces of it in the park, it proves nothing as far as the Thatchley woman is concerned. The chemical might be all over the place. GHB is an easy get on the Internet or on the street,” Willoughby said.
Jane shook her head as if to tell me not to bother with anything Willoughby said. “Too early to hear from the investigators at the scene, at least that’s what they tell me. I’m sending two of my team members to Cassandra Thatchley’s house as soon as I hear from the CSU super.”
I told Jane I’d taken a look at the Thatchley kitchen and found nothing out of order. “It’s a designer job, professional appliances barely touched. The housekeeper suggested they didn’t do much cooking. I doubt Cassandra was given the drug there, more likely in the park, and as Willoughby says, that’s going to be hard to trace.”
“Do her adult children live at home?”
I nodded. “Her older daughter has a studio in DUMBO. I’m going there after the meeting.”
“Good idea,” Jane said. “Make sure you keep me informed. Better yet, I’ll go with you.”
This was so not like Jane Templeton. I stared into her eyes. There was pleading in them, and something else, something raw, something I rarely saw: vulnerability. “Okay, what’s up?”
Lorraine was busy brushing crumbs from the table, pretending not to listen.
“It’s the chief,” Willoughby said, and I heard the rush of air as Jane gave him a swift kick underneath the table.
“That was my ankle!” Willoughby reached for the last sandwich as Minnie removed the empty platter.
The room went silent, and Jane squirmed in her seat and folded her napkin. We waited. I could hear the rumble of traffic on Henry Street.
“All right. The chief called me into his office when he heard the Clauson child was missing.”
“She’s not a child. She’s ten.”
“Whatever.” We were silent while Jane worried her lip.
“Your chief knows Dorset Clauson?”
“You’re crazy.”
This was like wrenching nails out of hardwood.
Jane explained. “Her father, Ronnie Clauson, was one of the chief’s best friends. They went to high school together and always kept in touch. Matter of fact, Ronnie was in the chief’s wedding party. He was godfather to two of his kids. They played cards together, had season tickets
to the Yankees, the Knicks, the Jets. Until his death, Ronnie was the chief’s insurance agent. He covered his car, his home, his life.”
That was some close friend, all right.
“He was stunned when Ronnie Clauson dropped dead. To this day, he thinks there was foul play. At the time, he wanted to investigate, but his wife pleaded with him not to do it.”
“Cassandra Thatchley?”
Jane nodded. “She refused to have an autopsy. She said Ronnie had a heart condition, something he was born with; and he warned her before they were married that he might go at any time. Something in the family, she said.”
I made notes as she continued, interrupting only to remind her that Cassandra Thatchley lost her first husband quite suddenly in 9/11.
“Apparently there was some doubt about his being in his office when the plane hit. Afterward, when he was presumed dead by the court, she refused a lengthy investigation into his whereabouts and, likewise, refused it in the case of Ronnie’s death.”
“Must be a stickler for privacy,” Willoughby said.
Minnie, who’d been washing up in the pantry, was leaning against the doorway. “Who can blame her?”
Lorraine nodded.
“The chief complied only reluctantly,” Jane said. “He wants Ronnie Clauson’s daughter found and found today. He’s holding me responsible for her abduction, despite the FBI’s involvement.”
“A tall order.”
“I think he blames himself for not investigating Ronnie Clauson’s death.”
“But he couldn’t have done, not without the permission of the family.”
“He could have investigated without ordering a postmortem.”
“Get real. What kind of an investigation would that have been?” Jane asked.
Just then she received a call from the precinct, probably someone on her team. As she listened, I watched her rise slowly from her chair. I felt sorry for Jane Templeton, first grade detective, promoted early in her career, a woman trying to prove herself in a man’s world. She shoved her chair in and began walking out of the room, motioning Willoughby to follow. “Suspicious death in Downtown Brooklyn,” she said as she strode to the hall. She turned to me. “I’m trusting you with this one and the pressure’s on. Just a friendly suggestion: take Lorraine with you when you interview Brook Thatchley.”
She didn’t have to remind me about pressure. I felt it in my shoulders and neck. I called after her. “Just a friendly suggestion, you might want to do a neighborhood near the park. Someone’s bound to have seen something.”
She whirled around. “Who do you think you are, telling me what to do? Don’t you think I’d have had an army swarming the streets around that park if I’d had the manpower?”
I knew better than to goad her. My husband was on the force, and although it was the largest one in the world with over thirty-four thousand women and men, there were times when they were stretched to the limit. Still, there was something almost obsessive about my need to harass Jane Templeton. I glanced at Cookie, who was studying her phone, at Minnie pretending not to be in the room, and at Lorraine, who was frowning in my direction. I rose and crossed my arms.
“All right, all right. We’re on it.” And Jane and Willoughby were almost out the door when her phone rang again. This time her face brightened. “It was the CSU super. They found something.”
She made a call and barked something indistinguishable, mumbling something I couldn’t catch. She waited for a reply, nodding, then stowed her phone.
“Well?”
“They found something interesting in a garbage can near where Cassandra Thatchley was sitting this morning.” Frowning, she reached for the door.
Jane loved it when I had to pull information out of her, so I tugged on her sleeve. “What was it?”
She shrugged. “A coffee cup.”
“And?” I asked.
“It still contained some liquid.”
“Must have the drugs in it.”
“As usual, your speculation is way off the mark. Too early, you know that. The coffee could have been used to deliver GHB, but try to prove it in court. It may not be connected to the Thatchley woman at all.”
“And if it does contain GHB, it’s just a coincidence that it was found near where she was sitting? Give me a break.”
Jane told me not to interrupt her. “They’re taking it to the lab now. The super could tell I need the results like yesterday, so it shouldn’t be too long before we have more information.”
Even I knew that was a long shot. Lab results could take weeks, months, but I had to hand it to Jane. Either the lab loved her, or she had some pretty nasty dirt on the head tech, because the lab hopped to for the blonde detective.
Lorraine asked if there was a logo on the cup, and Jane shook her head: it was a plain paper cup, polyethylene coated, no distinguishing marks, no plastic lid, no nothing. At least it was something, and I’d bet anything it was connected to the case, even though Jane assured me I was grasping at straws as usual. The population density around the Promenade was thick, even early in the morning, especially in the spring when people were trying to lose the weight they’d gained in the winter. She gave me a piercing look. Still, I figured the cup for a direct connection to my client. Don’t ask me how, I just knew it. And if it was Cassandra Thatchley’s, she must have known whoever had offered her a cup of coffee—she wouldn’t have taken it from a stranger. I’d stop looking in her house for evidence she’d been drugged there. I looked at my watch: early afternoon and no word Dorset had returned.
When the detectives were gone, we drew up a plan for the next twenty-four hours and agreed to meet again the following day, sooner if we’d found something significant. While Lorraine and I interviewed the principals—Cassandra’s daughter, Brook, and Cassandra’s two mothers-in-law, Bea Thatchley and Greta Clauson—Cookie would take a look around Pierrepont Park, knock on some doors, and hang around Cassandra’s townhouse. She’d also check all the coffee shops around the area; and if she found a place that didn’t sell their coffee in signature cups, she’d see if they remembered their customers that morning. A long shot: with the amount of traffic around the Promenade, I doubted she’d find any information. But if there was a whiff of anything, I knew Cookie would find it, and I gave her carte blanche to get Clancy involved if her mother would sit for their children. In her spare time, Lorraine would do some digging into Ronnie Clauson’s death—she was good at research.
As far as the coffee cup found in the park, we’d have to wait for the lab results. Not likely they’d find any prints, other than those of the victim, although, as I recalled, Cassandra had been wearing gloves when I’d first seen her that morning. I told Cookie about the movement I’d seen earlier in the stand of trees near the scene, something I hadn’t had time to follow up with, and she got up, texting as she pushed in her chair, glad, she said, for the work.
“What about those drugstore robberies you were telling me about?” she asked as Lorraine and I put on our coats.
“They’ll have to take a backseat unless you think you’ll have time to interview the owner. His store’s a few blocks from the park on Montague.” I gave her the address. “Who knows, they might be connected.”
“Even I know that’s a stretch,” Cookie said and she was gone.
But not me. I was born with a sixth sense, that’s what Mom always said. Sure, there were times it failed me, but I thought I might be onto something. What’s more, I knew now for certain whoever had given Cassandra Thatchley the drugs was Dorset’s kidnapper. My stomach did a roll. Time was slipping away. I made for the door, waving goodbye to Minnie, who was on the phone. She held up a hand, motioning me to stay.
Hanging up the receiver, she said, “Brooklyn General Hospital just called. It’s your father. He’s just been admitted to the ICU. Eighth floor.” She gave me the room number.
It was the wrong time for him to be sick. Dorset had been missing for five or six hours and I needed to concentrate on
finding her. I hesitated, wondering what to do. Last time I’d seen him, he’d been complaining about chest pains, but knowing my father, who panicked at every little murmur, I thought it was probably nothing. Case in point, he’d driven himself to the hospital last year with what he thought was a heart attack. It turned out to be a chest cold. Figuring he was now in good hands whatever the diagnosis and the doctors probably wouldn’t let me see him anyway if he was in intensive care, I decided to pay him a visit after I’d finished my interviews.
“Do me a favor, Minnie. Send a large bouquet with my name on it to his room. He’ll understand.”
Brook
Lorraine offered to drive and I was grateful for the lift, even though her ancient Plymouth, the one she’d inherited from a friend, had a standard shift and drew looks whenever she had trouble sliding it from first to second, snarling cars and flaring tempers all around us. Denny urged his mother to get rid of it, but she wouldn’t hear of it because she claimed the ghost of her friend lived in the car. “I have long conversations with Phyllida whenever I’m at the wheel and alone with her. Besides, she gave me this automobile for a good reason and I won’t sell it until I understand why. What exactly did the hospital say about your father?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about it, and Lorraine being Lorraine, she knew enough not to ask about him again. First we drove to Bea Thatchley’s address, a three-story townhouse in Cobble Hill. “Wait until you meet her,” I said after we’d found parking as if by a miracle across the street. Lorraine, adept at keeping an open mind, pretended not to hear me. We walked to the front door and entered. There were several mailboxes in the lobby, which told me the building had been converted into apartments or co-ops. I rang Bea’s bell and waited. “Must not be home,” I said, and told Lorraine about meeting her that morning outside Cassandra Thatchley’s home. “She volunteers at St. Anthony’s,” I added as we made it back to the car.
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 7
