When I arrived, the Promenade was deserted except for a runner whose outlines I could barely see in the dark. I backed into the bushes, hoping he didn’t see me, and waited until he passed by. No Jane. It was not like her to be late. She had to be in the thick of the action.
I walked back and forth in the chill and then stood still, listening. I thought I heard the distinct sounds of someone else, a rustling of leaves to my left.
I shone my flashlight into the bushes covering what I realized must be the Thatchleys’ rear entrance. Moving closer, I noticed lights on in what appeared to be the porch. A single bulb glowed over the back entrance. I blinked, trying to see further into the gloom. Fog swirled about, but I could make out lawn chairs without cushions arranged around a wrought-iron table to one side of a large tree. The sides of the property were bedded and flowers were beginning to grow. I listened, but other than the normal ambient sounds, no one was about. No shadows moved. I doused my light and backed away. Where was Jane?
Beneath my feet traffic rumbled on the BQE, and across the water, I could barely see the Statue of Liberty holding up her torch. Manhattan, usually distinct and gleaming, was a faint silhouette on the far side of the harbor. I pulled out my phone as the thickness pooled around me. Fifteen minutes had elapsed. I punched in Jane’s number and was about to leave a message when out of nowhere an unfamiliar voice asked who I was and what I was doing. Startled, I whirled around as a figure, tall and foreboding, slowly appeared.
“Who’s there?” My voice sounded high-pitched.
No reply. The bushes stirred as the figure approached.
I could feel my heart pounding as the form took on definition. My temples pounded. “Stop. I have a gun.”
The outline hissed, “You do not. It’s me, you fool.”
In a few seconds, Jane Templeton appeared. She was wearing a dark coat and, underneath that, a black hoodie and jeans.
I watched my breath coming out in thick clouds as I exhaled. Controlling my anger, I asked what she thought she was doing and told her she was late, saying I doubted her seriousness. I might have said other things, like accusing her of a deliberate attempt to scare me. I reminded her Dorset had been missing for at least fifteen hours and we didn’t have a clue where she could be, who had taken her, much less the motive. We had no time to waste.
“You know nothing about the pressure I’m under,” Jane said, holding my upper arm for emphasis. “This is not my only investigation. Don’t just stand there,” she said, eyeing the locked gate. She looked around. “Can’t see anything in this damn fog. I suppose your people aren’t here yet. The girl’s abductors could be watching us as we speak.”
I was about to say something when I heard footsteps and we both froze, backing into the bushes until I felt something hit my behind—the bars of the wrought-iron fence. We crouched down, not speaking, and Jane adjusted the hood of her sweatshirt, pulling it over her forehead and tucking in a strand of blond hair. I held a hand to my mouth, trying to hide the condensation from my breath. I watched the ground as two pair of feet and four legs appeared. My heart began beating wildly until I recognized their owners dressed in dark clothes and watch caps, so I jumped out of the bushes and stood in front of the newcomers, startling them into huddling together. Cookie and Clancy.
The four of us stood then, the fog thicker now, enveloping us, while Cookie apologized for not getting there earlier—it had taken a while for her mother to arrive to stay with the kids, but she explained Clancy would watch the front of the house while she found a bench on the Promenade. Jane wanted to know if we were any closer to finding Dorset. I shook my head, fishing for results. Finding none, I said we’d narrowed the list of suspects and were following leads.
“You have nothing and the ten-year-old has been missing close to eighteen hours.”
“Not true,” Cookie said and told her about discovering a collage in Schwartz’s Deli. She dug it out of her purse and showed it to Jane, and I produced my collage, saying I’d found it in a tin box belonging to Dorset.
“Have you compared them for similarities?”
We both nodded at once. “See for yourself.”
The detective moved to the nearest Promenade lamp and stared at both drawings, canting them this way and that in the dim light. When she returned, she handed them back to Cookie. I grabbed the one I’d found.
“Except that they’re on the same kind of paper, they don’t look alike to me. In other words, you two have come up with nothing.”
I was about to argue the point when I realized that given the set of Jane’s back and the thickness of the surrounding mist, objecting now would bounce off the detective. I heard a deep-throated foghorn from somewhere out on the murky water as I changed the subject, explaining some of us needed to be present when Cassandra Thatchley handed over the money tomorrow.
“We have it all arranged,” Jane said.
“You’ve told my people what to do?” I asked, feeling my cheeks burn.
“This isn’t the time to stand on protocol. We’ve got to work together,” she said.
“The words that will come back to bite you in the behind,” I said, not to be outdone. But I meant it. She couldn’t get away with ridiculing Cookie. After all, she was the only one who’d come up with any sort of lead, however obtuse. If it hadn’t been for the ransom call and Cookie’s piece of paper, we’d have nothing.
Jane, who’d been talking to Clancy, held his sleeve for a moment, I suspected giving him some final direction.
“So do you mind telling me what’s going on?” I asked.
She explained that tomorrow Denny and Clancy would be stationed close to where the handover was to take place. They’d be changing a tire on Clancy’s beat-up van. I watched Clancy’s face redden. He looked at his shoes, his hands thrust deep in his pockets while Jane explained the rest of the plan. Clancy was hiding something, but I didn’t want to ask. Instead, I listened while Jane finished. She’d post two policewomen in plain clothes underneath the entrance to the overpass, another two down the block, “And the usual uniforms on the bridge. We’re sure to catch the perp. He’ll lead us to the girl and that’s that.”
No one said anything for a moment.
I cleared my throat. “I guess on dates you always have to be the one on top?”
The four of us froze, a shocked tableau in the thick air, and I knew as soon as I’d said the words, I’d overstepped the mark. I was glad Denny or Lorraine weren’t there to hear me, but finding Dorset was my responsibility. I was the one who was supposed to come up with all the plans. Anyway, for the first time ever, I actually apologized to the blonde detective while she stared into the foggy harbor.
The moment was broken when Cookie’s phone started vibrating. She hugged the receiver to her ear and mouthed, “The drugstore lady,” telling the woman on the other end of the line she’d be right over. “A commotion from her third-floor tenants. She heard shouting and a loud bang and thought of me.”
“But not the police?” Jane asked.
Cookie was backing away, starting to step rapidly. “Maybe it’s nothing. If it is, I’ll call it in.” While she was gone, Clancy said he would work the area in front of Cassandra’s house until she returned, but I told him to go with her. “It’s late; visibility is nil. I don’t want her going alone.”
The Talk
“You have the combination, I take it?” Jane asked.
I nodded, knelt close to the gate, and began turning the knob to the right, my head pounding. I stopped at the first number, whirled a half-turn left to the second, and right all the way around to the third. I listened for the click. Nothing happened. After wiping the beads of sweat from my face, I tried again. This time I felt the click and pulled down. The lock opened.
“Hurry up. I can feel someone watching us.”
This was so not like Jane. I swallowed a nasty retort and told her I had someone else watching the house, a barefaced lie.
“Like who?”
“My
father,” I said, crossing my fingers in the fog and wondering why he hadn’t returned my call. “You won’t see him; he’s clever at blending in.” But I was beginning to worry. Usually he was happy for the work and answered my call within minutes. He couldn’t still be in the hospital? I vowed to stop at Brooklyn General on my way home just to make sure he’d been released. For a second, lights flashed in my head as I pictured him appearing out of nowhere on that airplane a few years ago when he’d rescued me from certain death. I segued to the last time I’d seen him. Judging by the state of his clothes—neat but threadbare—he was short on funds. I’d ask him if things were all right, maybe invite him over for dinner, slip him some money.
We stepped into the backyard and I called Cassandra on her phone. In a few minutes she came to the door. She stuck her head out for a second and, seeing me, opened it and we ran inside.
“Who is that woman?”
We didn’t answer but walked through the back porch and into the kitchen, the warmth of the room prickling my skin.
“Detective Jane Templeton, in charge of finding your daughter.”
Jane showed her badge and extended her hand to Cassandra Thatchley, who stood there shivering. Keeping her arms folded around her waist, she glared at me. “I told you not to bring anyone else.”
“You make a mistake following the demands of kidnappers,” I said.
Jane nodded. “You need to let us worry about the kidnappers; you need to let us tell you what to do. Believe me, it’s our job, not yours. Your job is to tell us everything you know or suspect and let us take it from there. That’s how we’ll find your daughter.”
The woman paled and we stood still for a moment until she took our coats and disappeared. When she returned, she led us to a small breakfast nook, where we sat.
“We’ve had experience with abductors,” I said. “And I haven’t lost a case yet.” I avoided Jane’s eyes, adding that I owed my success in part to the expertise of detectives like Jane Templeton “who never hesitate to give me advice.”
“With the kidnapping of a minor, the FBI is in charge,” Cassandra Thatchley said, as if she were an expert in the law.
“If you can find them to offer a helping hand,” I assured her, “and Detective Templeton is in charge of this case as far as the precinct is concerned.”
I felt Cassandra Thatchley soften. To give the woman her due, I could tell she had been crying and not for the first time wondered how I’d be if one of my children were taken. Probably a wild woman. I pictured an ugly scene at the supermarket, the result of taking my eyes off the stroller for a second to fetch some milk, and only one twin looking up at me when I returned. A chill went up my spine.
“There are soft drinks in the fridge,” she said, her voice trembling. “Mrs. Hampton has long gone, so you’ll have to help yourselves. I’m not much of a hostess and tonight I’m not much use to anyone, I’ll admit.” She twisted a tissue in her hand. “This is so unlike Dorset. Where could she have gone?” She began to sob.
I wished more of Lorraine’s compassion had rubbed off on me, and decided now was the time to show whatever humanity I could muster. Ignoring Jane’s puzzled look, I crouched on one side of Cassandra’s chair and put my arms around her shoulders. “Dry your eyes. We’ll find your daughter, I swear we will.”
“And soon, too,” Jane added. “When they begin making demands, kidnappers make mistakes, mark my words. That’s one thing to be happy about. Another is that we know their motive is money.”
“I should rejoice in that?”
Jane nodded. “They could have kidnapped your ten-year-old for sex.”
“Yes, well, are you trying to tell me I should count my blessings?” Cassandra rubbed her forehead. Closing her eyes, she breathed in slowly. “I’m sorry. This day has been such a horror. When I realized Dorset was missing, I thought for sure she’d be back. She’d gone to April’s or she’d slept in. Truly I don’t remember a thing that happened this morning—getting up, dressing, walking to the park.” She stopped talking and narrowed her eyes. “But now something’s coming back. Now, I remember … people. I was talking to someone. Was Dorset with me? I seem to see …” She shook her head. “Others?”
“In time, it will come back to you,” I said.
While Jane and I busied ourselves making a pot of coffee, finding cups, sugar and cream, I reminded Cassandra she’d been given a powerful drug that morning. The way she looked at me, I don’t think she quite believed what I’d just said.
“Is there anyone you can think of who would take your daughter?” Jane asked as we brought the coffee to the table.
“Not anyone who would know my routine,” Cassandra replied.
How naive was she? The woman told me she went to the park on a regular basis with her daughter. The perps must have studied her movements.
“Then a relative? A former friend with a grudge?”
Cassandra held the mug to her lips and breathed in, but set it on the table without drinking. “I don’t have friends.”
“Have you eaten dinner?” I asked, and watched as she gave a slight shake of her head.
Jane reached for her coffee. “One thing we’ve found out by the call—”
“You told her about the call?” Cassandra half rose from her seat.
“Mrs. Thatchley, we’re not playing games here,” Jane said. “If you want to see your daughter again, you have to cooperate with us, despite what these kidnappers told you.”
She looked down at the table.
“They know you can afford the ransom,” Jane said. “Who would know that?”
Cassandra Thatchley gestured around the room. “Anyone with eyes and half a brain, Detective.”
I watched Jane’s back stiffen.
“Let’s get some food into her and see if she’s more cooperative,” Jane mumbled.
“Maybe that’s it,” I said under my breath. I asked Cassandra when was the last time she’d eaten.
She shrugged. “Brook should be home soon. I asked her to bring food.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I feel light-headed.”
The woman needed nourishment. I looked around, but there was nothing on the counter or inside the cupboards. If she were lucky, I’d come across some veggies. Instead when I opened the refrigerator, I found leftover cake wrapped in cellophane. I squeezed part of the frosting and a chunk flaked off in my hand. Pretty stale, but it would have to do. I cut and plated three slices. Cassandra pointed to a drawer near the sink and mumbled something about silverware and napkins.
I was about to take my first bite of cake when there was the sound of a door opening and footsteps in the hall.
Brunswick
The kitchen door opened and a man entered. He had long wiry hair and features echoing Cassandra’s. With his legs laddered, he stood on the threshold for an instant, his arms crossing his chest.
“I’m home,” he said, adding a, “for what it’s worth,” under his breath. He gave his mother a peck on the top of her head.
Cassandra stared at the piece of cake in front of her. “Brook will be here soon with our food.”
I couldn’t help it, I kept looking at him. “You must be—”
“Brunswick Thatchley, Cassandra’s son.” I could see tails of a longer coat beneath his down jacket. Slowly he walked to a row of hooks near the back door and hung up his outer garment. He wore jeans and a blue button-down shirt underneath a tweed sport coat. Brunswick’s loafers looked spit polished. Turning back to the table, he faced me and held out his hand.
As I shook it, I introduced myself and Jane, watching his face as I started to tell him the reason for our visit, but Jane interrupted with, “Call it police business.”
“All right, Mrs. Police Business—call me Wick. Most people do, except for my mother and Mrs. Hampton and I suppose my sister and”—he gestured with his head to his mother—“her daughter.”
I knew Jane: her face had that mixture of intrigue and stillness like it always got just before one of
her explosions. “You’re Dorset’s brother?” she asked.
“Half brother. We share a house and one parent and that’s about it. We did function as a family once upon a time. Mommy dearest did her best when I was in high school and, in her word, ‘floundering.’ She snagged a make-believe daddy who read our report cards; we sat at the table each evening and choked on burnt food.”
Not for the first time that evening, I wished Lorraine were here. She would have peered into Brunswick Thatchley’s soul and lifted his suffering, if only for a moment.
“What happened?” Jane asked.
Neither son nor mother answered. If anything, Cassandra Thatchley seemed more withdrawn than she had that morning.
Brunswick smiled and I smelled booze on his breath. “You are?” As if he hadn’t heard my introduction.
Jane showed him her badge. I told him again I’d been hired by his mother to find Dorset.
“She’s missing?” he asked.
“You knew that. You were the one who called your sister this morning to warn her I’d be coming over begging an interview.”
“We’re so proud of Brunswick,” Cassandra said, recovering. “He’s a dissertation fellow and research assistant at Columbia, aren’t you, dear?”
He mumbled something about thanks to her influence greasing the way.
She ignored his remark. “Sit down, sweetheart, and join us.” Cassandra spoke as if from far away. “Have some cake and coffee.”
“Left over from Dorset’s birthday? No, thanks. And you know what caffeine does to me.” Glass in hand, he walked over to a cabinet in the corner of the room. He pulled out a bottle and held it up to the light. “Tennessee’s finest.”
“Not now, Brunswick.”
He poured himself a hefty dose, guzzled, refilled, guzzled again.
“Manners, Brunswick!”
“I almost forgot.” He bowed low in our direction. “Would anyone else like a swill?” he asked, extending the bottle toward us. “No? I thought not. See, Mother?” Wiping his hand across his mouth, he stowed the whiskey and, slamming his glass on the table, pulled out a chair and straddled it, one foot tapping the floor.
Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Page 18
