by David Wind
Gina’s hand closed over mine in a tight grip, but she stayed silent. I returned the pressure. “Why wouldn’t she remember? I would think she would cling to it for sanity.”
“No,” Amanda said, “it’s easier to not remember the good things when your life is ruled by horror. It happens with children who are sexually abused and with children who are abducted—hiding the memories is the mind’s safety valve. But you’ll understand it all soon enough.”
Her last statement caught me off guard. “I’ll understand it?”
“Save Them,” she reminded me. “That’s in your lap now.”
There was no arguing her point. “We’ll have to tell Samantha Collins.”
“You’re sure the pimp killed her?” Gina asked then.
“As sure as I know I’m responsible. If I hadn’t gotten into it with him she’d be alive.”
“Or not,” Gina said. “I’ll ask around the office and put out a general inquiry. Maybe we can get a little intel on where he is.”
“That works for me.”
I looked at my watch, then at Amanda. Is Save Them open on weekends?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then I need to go there. What else has to be done here?”
“I have a couple of organizations I can donate the furniture and clothing to, unless you have something else…“
“No, that’s fine.”
“You need to go through his things and decide what you want to keep. Everything else should be donated. Once the apartment is empty, you need to get a cleaning crew in. Then you can put it on the market.”
“No rush is there?”
Both Gina and Amanda shook their heads at the same time.
“Right now, I’m going to speak with Samantha Collins.” What was left unsaid was that I would be back. There would be something here to help me find Scotty’s killer. It wasn’t hope; it was instinct.
<><><>
The store front office of Save Them was alive with activity. A half dozen college students sat at the small desks lining the walls and working on computers. Two of them had people seated with them. In both cases, it was easy to spot parents looking for a missing child.
As I stood in the entranceway, Samantha Collins emerged from her office with Danny Herman, who I surmised had given the director the news. They were looking at each other, and deep in conversation, when Samantha spotted me.
“Danny just told me. It’s horrible,” she said with a sad shake of her head.
Danny Herman nodded to me and said goodbye to Samantha, who then motioned me into her office. “He’s a good boy. He tries, but he knows he’s in a losing battle—there are so many of our kids out there.”
“He’s not in a losing battle because he’s not looking at the numbers. He looks at the ones he gets to help. He’ll look at numbers down the road.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Her voice was weary, and when she sat behind her desk, her body echoed her voice. The lines around her eyes were deeply grooved. Samantha Collins was emotionally tired, and the news of the girl’s death weighed heavily on her.
“You’re getting a crash course, aren’t you?” she said a moment later.
“Good thing I’m a fast learner. You keep records on the pimps?”
Her eyes were suddenly curious and alive. “Why?”
“Seems to me there are two problems here: the girls who disappear–”
“–And the boys. Don’t forget the boys.”
“All the children who disappear,” I amended, “and the ones who use them, and I mean the pimps. Do you have any information on them, the one called Streeter, in particular?”
“There’s nothing firm. He’s been around as long as we have. He’s always out there, hustling his girls, the… the McNickles girl is the first one of ‘our’ kids we know for certain he was working; but, we don’t know much about him.”
“I thought he ran a lot of underage girls.”
“He may, but she was the first from our network. We don’t get to see all of them. When they’re on the street and not on their own, it’s harder. We wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t told me.” Her brows furrowed in thought. “All I know is Streeter is part of an organization, but I know even less about that.”
“Organization? These people have organizations?” My words tasted sour against my lack of knowledge.
“It’s big business. It’s a subculture, and they think they have every right to do what they do.”
“How can I find out more? Maybe back track over the time she’s been gone?”
She absently twirled a strand of hair over her ear. “I wish it were that easy. I don’t know, I don’t think anyone knows how to do that. The best luck in saving these kids is in the first couple of days. After that, most drop off the face of the earth and never show up again. Others, like the… like Margaret, make it to the streets or a brothel.”
She wiped a tired hand across her face and reached for a pen. She wrote something on a pad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to me. “This is the name of a policeman, upstate. He heads an Internet crime department handling sexual predators and pedophiles.
This man is not some country hick playing at being a cop. He’s spent years honing his skills and is called on from everywhere in the country—sometimes the world—to consult on cases.”
“I’ll call him,” I promised.
“Make sure you tell him I gave you his name. It will help. What will you do now?”
“Look and learn. Not much I can do until I know the lay of the land.”
“That’s sensible.”
For some reason, I felt I had just been given a compliment by my mother. “Her family?”
“The police will do the notification. But I’ve spoken to the mother a couple of times since she went missing. I’ll speak to her again, after the funeral.”
The tone of her words told me she’d had a lot of practice with that. “Will it do me any good to talk to them?”
“I don’t think so.” She paused for a beat. “Don’t forget we need to set up a board meeting.”
“I have too many other things to do first. I’m running flat out right now. Can you take care of things until then?”
“Of course. You’ll let me know when?”
“You’ll know.”
The understanding of what I’d said grew strong in her eyes.
Chapter 25
Leaving Save Them, I walked along Eighth Avenue with the piece of paper Samantha Collins had given me tucked in my shirt pocket. The shirt, a loose fitting Hawaiian type, was simple and blousy so my piece would stay hidden beneath it.
I had taken a moment to look at the name and the phone number she had given me and memorized both. His name was Sergeant Sam Cohen, of the Ulster County Sheriff’s Department. I would call him on Monday.
There was nothing to be done right now for Margaret Ann McNickles, but there would be. My purpose for walking uptown wasn’t to look for anything: It was to use myself as bait and try to pick up a tail.
I kept my pace leisurely but steady. The streets were busy with tourists, whose flow slowed me enough to use storefront windows to see if anyone was keeping pace without being obvious. There was no tingle in my neck, no recurring face in the storefront windows.
I decided to skip Scotty’s and go to my place, which I reached ten minutes later, sweating lightly and glad to be in the air conditioning. The apartment felt empty, and I did my best not to think about what had happened last night: not the sex, but the closeness, the need to hold Gina and to have the feeling of being a part of someone’s life.
It wasn’t easy, what we were attempting, but if we could do it, it would be worthwhile. There had been a fair share of women since we’d split up, but none had made me want to take the risk of spending more time with them.
I wondered what she was doing, but chased the thought away. There was work ahead. Chris had been right when he’d come down hard on me. A week of whining and complaining and pretending to be the tough
guy who would take care of things was more than enough. It was time to act.
I changed into dark slacks, a white shirt and a grey lightweight sports jacket and was out the door just after the little hand touched the five and big one the twelve. My jackets had all been tailored to conceal the Sig Sauer P226R, which was snug against my left side.
I hailed the first available cab and went to Sutton Place and Lia Thornton’s apartment. The concierge was the same as the night before. He spotted me, picked up the house phone and dialed.
“Go right up,” he said, repeating her penthouse number on the off chance I’d forgotten it. Even if I didn’t have an eidetic memory, having been shot at would have been enough to lock the apartment number into my head for a long time to come.
This time Lia opened the door, not her housekeeper. “I’d been hoping to hear from you, after last night.” Her voice was level, her tone accusatory.
“And you would have, but something came up.”
“About what happened here or does it have to do with Scotty?” she asked, leading me into the living room. The window had been replaced and the wall was patched and painted.
“They work fast here.”
“I pay enough for it.”
“I bet you do. No, it’s not about last night or Scotty. A fourteen year old girl had her throat cut and was dumped into the river.”
Her eyes widened, she swallowed hard, but didn’t miss a beat. “What happened?”
“Her pimp killed her.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?”
“It’s not about you.” I sat on the same couch as last night. “It’s something else I was working on.” When she sat down and stared at me without speaking, I explained what had happened last Sunday, and how my good deed had killed the girl.
“But you can’t blame yourself. You were trying to help her.”
“In the wrong way, and if I’d given it a half minute’s thought I would have done it in a different way.”
She leaned toward me and put her hand over mine. Her skin was warm and soft. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“I could have backed off, but I didn’t and she’s dead. It’s as simple as that.”
“Nothing is simple in this life. You did what you thought you had to.” She withdrew her hand and clasped both in her lap. “Did you find out anything about last night?”
“Only the type of rifle the sniper used and the fact he wasn’t as good as he thought. But it makes no difference because I have no leads. I need to ask a few more questions.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“No. Tell me about Albright. You met him because he was your husband’s broker?”
She nodded. “Yes, he handled most of Jeremy’s investments. When Jeremy died, I stayed with Thomas.”
“About your husband’s death, the report says it was suicide. Why?”
She sucked her lips between her teeth, compressing her mouth into a narrow line. When she exhaled, her mouth returned to normal. “I don’t know for sure. Jeremy was extremely old fashioned in many ways. Honor to him was something very important. All I’ve been able to figure out was that it involved a bank client and he was ashamed of it. When he’d realized what he’d done, he couldn’t live with it.”
“It would have had to be pretty bad to give up all he had.” I didn’t add ‘and give you up’.
“I’ve been trying to find out for several years, but haven’t been able to. What I know, is after he died, the investigation found no wrongdoing.”
“Do you think Albright was involved in it?”
Her head moved from side to side. A wisp of blonde hair fell across her cheek. “Thomas? No, he would never. All our dealings were always above board.”
It was interesting that this woman, who seemed so on top of everything, didn’t see another side of Albright. “Did you know he was being investigated by the SEC?”
“The investigation was nothing. They did it because he didn’t allow his clients to get hurt when the tech bubble burst and the market blew up. But they also cleared him of any wrongdoing.”
“But they’re still keeping track of him, in case you didn’t know. Do you know he’s on the verge of bankruptcy?”
“I know he’s been having some personal issues, but his clients are well taken care of.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“You don’t like him very much. He… he rubs you the wrong way. I saw it the first day at the theatre.”
“You’re right, I don’t like him. My senses tell me there’s something’s off with him, and my instincts rarely let me down.”
“You got that from prison, didn’t you?”
Once again, Lia Thornton caught me up short. “You either learn to read people fast, or you get hurt or die.”
“I just can’t imagine….”
“Did Albright talk you into investing in the show?”
“Talk me into it? No one talks me into anything anymore.” Her eyes flashed quickly, but softened just as fast. “I listened to what he had to say, and looked into it. I liked what I found out and invested.”
She paused and looked over my shoulder and out the window. A few seconds later, she turned back. “Thomas Albright is a tough businessman. He works big deals, sets up companies, takes them public and makes a lot of money doing it. He might be in some financial hot waters right now, but it won’t last long. He’s very, very good at what he does. And,” she went on before I could say anything, “he isn’t a murderer. He may have a killer instinct in business, but I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t kill anyone.”
“That’s too bad.” It was because it validated my own thoughts of Albright not having the guts to kill someone, at least not face to face. For him, killing someone would be done financially.
Lia looked at her watch and then at me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a date—dinner and a show.”
“Lucky man,” I ventured.
“He’d like to think so,” she said with a wink. “But it’s just dinner and a show.”
“Too bad for him.”
“I could… make a change in plans.” Her eyes said a lot more than her words, which had already said plenty. I thought about Gina and last night.
“That’s a tempting offer, but I don’t want anyone else angry with me.”
She favored me with a polite smile and I stood. “Oh, did you know Albright borrowed the money to invest in the show—all of it?”
Before she could respond, I made my escape with a promise to keep her posted—after all, she was technically my client.
<><><>
It felt good to be moving forward again. It didn’t matter if I had two different cases on my plate. I was revved up and running on all cylinders. I needed the late night to get more information on Streeter and Margaret Ann, but I had use for the earlier evening as well.
Standing on the corner of First and Sutton, I pulled my cell and called Femalé’s home number. She answered on the second ring, “It’s Saturday night, Boss and I have a date in two hours.”
“Seems like everyone, except for me has a date. Good for you.”
“Maybe you’d have one too if you could be nice long enough.”
“Everyone’s a critic. I need Albright’s home number, any chance?” I knew my chances were better than good, but it was the weekend, so I was being nice.
“Hold on.” The clicking of her keyboard sounded in the phone. A minute later, she gave me the number. I repeated it once to secure it in my mind then teased her with, “Do you stay logged into the office all the time?” But I already knew the answer.
“Only when I’m in my apartment. Gabe,” she said, her voice shifting into a warning tone and I knew she was going to drop something on me. “Have you learned anything more about Lia Thornton?”
“I learned she gets the shakes when someone shoots out her window.”
There was a heavy silence until she asked, “What happen
ed?”
The explanation was the short version, to which Femalé said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“What happened to ‘Thank God you’re okay’?”
“You’re talking to me so you’re okay. Listen boss, I haven’t had any luck either. I want to go to New Orleans and see what I can find.”
She let the words hang there. “When and for how long?”
“One day, maybe two. I’ll leave tomorrow so I can get an early start Monday.”
“Stay in touch. The usual routine,” I said, firmer than was necessary.
“I love it when you get protective.”
“I’ve had enough funerals for one week,” I snapped, then realized I should have kept my mouth shut. With luck, she wouldn’t pick up on it. “I have to go.”
“Bull. What happened?”
My luck hadn’t held. When I finished the story of Margaret Ann McNickles, all she could say was “Poor kid.”
“I’m putting you on the street when you get back. I need your help.”
“Maybe New Orleans should wait.”
“No. Let’s get her background cleared up.” There were several reasons for wanting the information; Scotty’s journal was one of them. “Just stick to protocol there. See Bill Kelly in New Orleans if you need a door opened. He’s in homicide. Tell him you work for me.”
“Okay, boss. And Gabe, watch your back.”
I ended the call and dialed Albright’s number. When he answered, I identified myself and told him I needed to see him. He wasn’t happy but agreed after telling me he had eight o’clock dinner reservations.
Assuring him he wouldn’t miss them, I headed to Fifth Avenue, wondering how the hell someone on the edge of bankruptcy could live in Trump Towers.
Chapter 26
It took five minutes and my private badge to get through security. The pseudo-cops who screened all tenant visitors weren’t happy when they spotted my Sig Sauer, but they waved me through.
Albright’s apartment was high up, not the penthouse, but close. He opened the door before my finger reached the bell. He wasn’t happy. “I hope this won’t take long.”
