by David Wind
“I’m finding out a lot, but nothing that’s ready to be told. And I have a meeting.”
“The papers keep putting out stories on his death. We need to get this finished so it doesn’t interfere with the play.”
“I can’t stop the press, and the longer you keep me on the phone, the longer it keeps me from doing my job, which means you’re interfering with the play. Goodbye.”
“Very tactful,” Femalé said dryly.
“School records… guidance report?” I prompted as she chewed her toast with irritating slowness.
“The school records showed a lot of absences. The records were for upper school: her elementary records weren’t there. Elementary school was a parochial school in Mississippi, but those records were lost, so all we have are the ones from Jefferson Parish.”
“They couldn’t get another copy?”
Femalé shook her head. “Remember, I was there to verify certain things for an inheritance, not to run a full background check, which would have raised suspicion.”
She was right, of course. “Go on.”
“The records were interesting, though. She missed a lot of school. She was suspended twice, and she spent a lot of time in detention. There were several in-school reports. Her homeroom teacher asked for Social Services to be notified of problems at home.”
“Abuse?”
“Some memos referred to her coming to school bruised. The guidance counselor’s reports were filled with speculation. The counselor believed she was being physically and sexually abused. Two weeks after they called Social Services, Jane McPherson dropped out of school. The guidance counselor’s last report showed the phone to the McPherson home had been disconnected.”
I pictured Lia as she was today and tried to picture her as a teenager, bruised and afraid. It wasn’t a nice picture. “So it was a dead end?”
Femalé shook her head. “I went to the local police and told them I was trying to locate Jane McPherson for a client. I used the inheritance line. They were nice and did a check for me.”
“It was that easy?”
“I smiled a lot. Sometimes you don’t need to be super macho to get information. It took a while—the records were buried deep—but the nice sergeant,” she said with a coy grin, “dug them out. There were eight complaints over a two-year period: reports of cries and noises from the house, but nothing ever came of it. Three days after Child Welfare visited the McPherson house, her father reported his daughter as a runaway.”
“And I’m sure you checked on the father.”
She gave another of those self-satisfied smiles. “Of course I did, but not there. I went back to the city, and met with your friend. Bill Kelly’s very interesting. He likes you a lot. Said you were…what were his exact words? Um… the hemorrhoid that always manages to pop out when it’s the last thing you need.”
“Don’t push it,” I growled.
“I gave him the real background and he did several look-ups. Her father died six months after Jane ran off. It was a homicide—there were no witnesses, no suspects, and the case was never closed.”
“How?”
“A knife. He was found in an alley in the French Quarter. They interviewed Jane McPherson three times and cleared her. The reports are in the folder. She was alibied by the boyfriend and three others.”
I glanced at the time: it was eight-thirty. I drained my coffee, and stood. “You want another cup?”
Femalé shook her head. I went to the pantry and poured the coffee. So far, everything Femalé had said backed up my thoughts about Lia Thornton. She had been abused as a child. She had somehow learned to cope, and I suspected as had Scotty, it had been by submerging those memories into some dark corner of her mind and then locking them away. But what had happened in her childhood had shaped her life, taught her to use her body to get what she wanted, and made her into what she had been then and was now.
When I returned with the coffee, I asked, “What else did you get on her?”
“Shortly before her father’s death she hooked up with a slime ball named Jake Lamoure, a small time street hustler with a record for cons and for taking tourists and their money. He used hookers with the cons. You know the route. Set the guy up with the girl in a hotel room, take photos and shake him down.
Well, he hooked up with Lia—Jane, and began using her in the cons. They were both busted a few times, but no jail time because the marks refused to testify.”
“After the busts, she started dancing in clubs. She was arrested again, a month before her eighteenth birthday and sent to juvi. She was released when she turned eighteen and went back to dancing. The interesting thing was after she got out of juvenile, she was pulled in four more times but released each time.”
“For what?”
“Each arrest was based on her being underage. It seems she looked much younger than she was. I guess that was a plus for the boyfriend and his cons.”
“I would guess it was.”
“Kelly said the records showed she left New Orleans three months after her last arrest. A few weeks after she split, the Lamoure guy was found dead of an overdose in his room. She sure got out in time.”
“That’s it? Everything is in there?”
“All the copies of the school records, birth certificate and the sheets on the father, Lemoire and Lia are in the folder.”
“See if you can find out anything on the period when she and her father were out of state.” I reached for the pile of file folders I’d put there yesterday and lifted three of the four. “And get me whatever you can dig up on these three kids.”
She opened the first file and looked at the picture. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know yet. They were among some folders at Scotty’s.”
“The box on my desk?”
I nodded. “First, check on the three names; then, go through the folders to see if any of them have any similarities to these. When that’s done, send the box to Save Them.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Don’t forget to look into those missing years.”
“I won’t.” She rose and started out.
“Femalé,” I called in a low voice. When she turned back, I said, “Good job.”
Her smile widened. “Thanks, Boss.”
Alone, I pulled over the envelope and took out the paperwork. The first sheet was the copy of her birth certificate. She was Born Jane Susan McPherson, on November second, thirty-eight years earlier, in Jefferson Parish to John and Louise McPherson.
The rest of the copied pages were just as Femalé had said. When I finished, I looked at the chart I’d drawn up yesterday to see if anything fit: nothing Femalé had uncovered fit the picture.
I called Chris’s cell, figuring he would be out in Queens on the case he was working. “Are you clear for a minute?”
“Yeah, just sitting in the car, waiting.”
“Don’t you have grunts for that stuff?”
“I want to be in on this one. It’ll happen soon.”
“Well, while you’re sitting there, I need another favor.”
“You always do. What?” he asked.
“Can you get me Streeter’s sheets from the Miami PD?”
He was silent for a few seconds and then, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Amigo.”
“Can I ask another favor?”
This time there was terseness to in his answer, “Does it ever end?”
“Can you get me sheets on Lia Thornton?”
“What sheets?”
“Try the names Jane McPherson, Lia Ross, and Lia Thornton.”
“You’re joking,” he said, surprised.
“Chris….”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. I’ve got to go.”
After hanging up, I looked up the phone number of the play’s director, woke him and gave him the go-ahead for the move to the theatre. Then I asked how things were going.
His single worded reply was, “great.” I th
anked him and went on to the next call, which was Paul Gottleib.
“How are you Gabe?” he asked.
“I’d be better if I didn’t have the play hanging on my back.”
“I understand. Have you learned anything new?”
Enough to make me crazy, I wanted to say; but instead said, “Bits and pieces.”
“At least you’re getting somewhere.”
“Your message was about some papers?”
“Scotty maintained a safe deposit box. Your name is on the box with Scotty’s, and although surrogate court gave me the authorization to open it and I’d like you with me at the bank.”
His words triggered the memory of when Scotty had me sign the signature card a few years ago—’Just a precaution’ he’d said. “Do you know what’s in it?”
“Knowing Scotty, I would assume legal papers. He was security conscious,” The lawyer reminded me.
Ending with a promise to call him, I sorted through this morning’s information. The background info on Lia Thornton was interesting, but offered nothing solid.
This part of my work was what I liked the least—searching through the mundane, until I found the trigger to steer me in the right direction. Where was the trigger?
I looked at my chart then hit the intercom button. “I need the white board set up.”
“Already done,” was Femalé quick response.
She knew my working habits well enough to be a half step ahead. I wondered if she would be ready for what would come next. I was sure she would, I could only hope she believed it herself.
The white board, set up in the conference room, was three foot by four-foot and set on an extendable tripod. Four markers, red, green, blue and black were neatly lined on the conference table along with a felt eraser and an eighteen-inch plastic ruler.
Using my original chart, I set up three columns and then added a fourth, which was for the names of children on the folders. Once the names were transferred, I stepped back to look at it. The chart made perfect sense from an organizational aspect. If it would start telling me who was who in the configuration, I would be a lot happier.
Who was missing? What was the link?
The intercom in the conference room buzzed. “What?”
“Lia Thornton is on two. Will you take it?”
Yesterday my excuse was my need of Femalé’s information. I had none for today, so I picked up the phone and said, “Good morning.”
“It seems to be so far. How are you, Gabriel?”
“Working hard.”
“That’s always a good sign. I left you a message the other day. I was disappointed you didn’t call back.” Although she sounded let down, I didn’t believe it.
“Well, that means when I don’t disappoint you the next time you call, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“What an interesting way to apologize for your rudeness.”
“I was busy, Lia, working the case. What did you need?”
“Company. I wanted someone to talk to and decided you would be the right one.”
“About?”
“I don’t want to get into it right now, maybe another time. Was Thomas able to reach you?”
“He was. He seems to be taking an aggressive interest in the day to day working of the play.”
“He deems it necessary to push things forward and make certain everything moves properly.”
“And altruistic as well…. He’s just doing this out of the goodness of his heart is he?”
“I do so like the way you use sarcasm. Will you be free for lunch?”
“To talk?”
“To eat… to talk… to whatever….”
I wasn’t sure I was ready to know what ‘whatever’ meant in Lia’s lexicon. “One?”
“Perfect. Claire’s on Fifty-third then?”
“Keeping this low profile are you?”
“Why would I need to keep anything low profile? I like the places where I can count on the food being prepared well.”
“One O’clock.” Hanging up and turning back to the board, which was still not giving up any secrets, I was struck by another thought. I scooped up the phone and called Gottlieb back. When he answered, I said, “If you’ve got the time now, why don’t I meet you at the bank.”
He said he’d make the time and gave me the address.
Chapter 38
Paul Gottlieb was waiting inside the bank and waved me over as soon as I came through the revolving door. The bank was gearing up for the noon rush, with several small lines already queued at the teller’s windows and most desks occupied by bankers and their clients. We went to the vault entrance where Paul introduced me and pointed to the paperwork which he had set out before my arrival. I signed at the three yellow stick-on signature arrows.
The woman sitting at the desk fronting the safe deposit vault was in her mid-fifties, and wore a classic blue suit with a collarless beige blouse. Her nametag read Nancy Etinger, Assistant Manager. Auburn dyed hair and moderate amount of make-up complemented her practiced smile.
“May I see your identification please?”
I pulled my wallet from my hip pocket, slid out my driver’s license and New York State Investigator’s license and placed both on the desk. She compared my signature to the papers I’d signed years ago and, with the same smile, returned them to me.
“Everything is in order, gentlemen. This way please.”
Rising, she opened the low gate and waited for us to step through before closing it. She took the lead, and brought us into the vault room where she went a third of the way down, turned and put a key into a box on the fourth row from the bottom.
Gottlieb produced Scotty’s key and inserted it. A moment later, Mrs. Etinger pulled the box out and walked us to the back of the vault and into one of four private booths.
She set the box on the table, said, “Call when you’re done,” and left.
The box was long and wide, perhaps six inches high. When I hesitated, Paul said, “Go ahead.”
Strangely reluctant, I picked up the chrome ring and pulled the top back to reveal the contents. Working together, we took everything out and spread it on the table. There were assorted groups of papers and three pieces of jewelry: A man’s wedding ring, a woman’s wedding ring and an engagement ring. The engagement ring was a simple design, with a round diamond, perhaps a carat in size, secured in a plain platinum setting. I was fairly certain they were his parent’s rings.
Gottlieb picked up a multi-page document. “His insurance policy: I have a copy at the office.”
There were several savings bonds in thousand dollar denominations. All matured twenty or more years earlier. “I wonder why he didn’t cash them in.”
“Sentimentality—holding on to the things his parents gave him. A thousand dollars face value should be double by now,” Paul murmured thoughtfully.
I picked up another small pack of papers. They felt like old copy paper, the old-fashioned shiny heat transfer paper. The first one was Scotty’s birth certificate. Following that were his father’s army discharge papers and birth and death certificates. Next were his mother’s birth and death certificates.
But it was the last paper in the box that got to me. It was Elizabeth Granger’s birth certificate, complete with small tiny footprints. I stared at it so intensely I didn’t hear Gottlieb call me the first time.
“Gabe.” he repeated. I heard him through a distant chill and looked up in question.
“He kept all the police and FBI reports on his sister. There’s one from a private detective.”
The paper was a dull yellowish and crisp to the touch so I handled them gently. Realizing there was too much to read now, I put them down. “Anything else?”
The lawyer shook his head. “You want me to take them to the office?”
“No, I’ll take them. I want to read the reports and put the other stuff together with his things.”
“You okay?”
I felt the weight of the city crushing down o
n me. “He never stopped looking for her.”
“I know.” He gathered the papers into a large envelope he’d taken from his attaché case.
I picked up the rings and closed my fingers into a fist, securing them in my palm. “I wish he had some family to give these to.” Opening my palm, I handed them to the lawyer.
Gottlieb said nothing as he closed the box, pressed the call button and motioned toward the door.
I followed him out to the street where he hailed a cab, turned to me and held out his hand. When we shook hands, he gave me a sad smile. “It takes time, Gabe.” His grip loosened on my hand, but didn’t leave. “Did any of it help?”
“As in clues? I won’t know until I go through the papers.”
He looked deep into my eyes. “I’ve no doubts you’ll find out who did this, Gabe.” Releasing my hand, he bent himself into the cab. I started back to the office. I wanted to drop off the papers before going to my meeting with Lia.
<><><>
Claire’s was a trendy eatery on Fifty-third between Lexington and Park, one of the current ‘in’ spots for the publishing world, with a reputation for gourmet level food at equivalent prices.
I walked in at one-ten, and was assaulted by a mixture of scents designed to get one’s appetite juiced up. The hostess smiled. She looked all of twenty, wearing a pair of tight black slacks and a powder blue top offering a nice landscape of two well-formed breasts. She had shoulder length bobbed blonde hair, perfect make-up and welcomed me with a soft, “Good afternoon,”
“I’m meeting Ms. Thornton.”
“Mr. Storm, yes? Ms. Thornton is seated. This way please.”
It always amazes me to watch a woman walk on three or four inch heels without the least bit of hesitation or sway. She wound her way to a corner table set by a window on one side and a modern painting on the other. Lia Thornton’s back was to me, which was good, because I hated sitting with my back to the room. She was staring out the tinted window, watching the people pass by.
“Ms. Thornton,” the hostess called.
From over her shoulder, Lia graced both of us with a dazzling smile. She was beautiful, self-confidant and easy to look at. Today she wore a white silk top. I couldn’t tell what she had on below that because, not having X-ray eyes, I couldn’t see beneath the table. But I knew it would be perfect.
