by David Wind
“Three years apart, the upper New York, Pennsylvania area - eight year old blonde hair girls.”
“It took some coaxing, but a contact on the national level helped me. He found a pattern and wants to know how and why I came up with it.”
“Then I take it there’s a real pattern. As soon as I have the answers you’ll know,” I promised.
“Good. Yes, there is a very real pattern. Elizabeth Granger was the second abduction. You gave us the first. There was one every two and a half to three years. But the pattern was never picked up. There were seven blonde girls abducted from upstate New York, Pennsylvania and Ohio. And what’s most interesting is not a single one has ever turned up, alive or dead.”
“Could they have been abducted and sold out of the country?” Saying the words turned my mouth bitter.
“It’s possible, but it doesn’t feel right. This man is a pedophile, not a slaver. He doesn’t take enough children for that. He’s a predator whose chosen his territory, hunts within it and does not go past his self-imposed borders.”
She nailed it! He was an animal, but I was a hunter and I would take him down. “You said there were eight, meaning it spanned a twenty-four year period and then just stopped.”
“He may have died, he may have moved somewhere else, or he may even have been arrested and in jail. That’s happened before.”
Her thoughts didn’t sit right with me. The last few days made me confidant of that. “He’s still around, but something stopped him.”
“You sound so certain,” she said, but her voice held an echo of doubt.
“I am. Maybe his tastes have changed, or else he’s being held on a very tight leash, but he’s around.”
“Has this helped?”
“Everything helps. You’ve given me more to work with. Thank you, Samantha.”
“I wish there had been more.”
“It was plenty.”
I dialed Albright’s number. The broker was in a meeting. I left a message. One way or another, I intended to see him today.
My next call was to Rabbit. He had called to check in after he’d heard about the bombing. He also told me he hadn’t heard anything more on Scotty. I followed that call with one to Amanda Bolt, who was out.
I called Chris too, but was unable to reach him. I wasn’t unhappy to have gained the time to plan the set up for tomorrow morning’s meeting with an elusive shadow called Charles Edward Rice.
I would use Femalé as backup and would enlist Tarz to act as the doorman to let Rice and his men in and then to keep watch over them. One more person would help, but I wasn’t sure who would be best. I needed to go to the theatre and lock the layout into my head.
Standing, I grabbed my jacket, and then found Femalé, who was at the whiteboard, drawing lines. She’d added Jeremy Thornton’s name and Brian Vandegroten as well.
“Anything?”
“No. This Vandegroten is a zip. I can’t find anything on him online. Where are you going?”
“First is the theatre for a look-see, then to talk to Tarz. If Albright calls, set something up for later. Oh, maybe this Vandegroten is dead… Check the obits starting back from whenever Arnie Steeplechase said the transfers stopped… what, ten years ago or so?”
I got out ahead of the daggers flying from her eyes.
<><><>
The theatre was a hive of activity: the stage crew was running through the scenery changes, while the actors were working around them. The appearance was pure Fellini, almost to the ridiculous, but it didn’t seem to matter to any of them.
As they worked, I wandered around the orchestra level, impressing everything into my memory. I marked the spot where the camera would go, and where I would place Femalé. The second person, whoever it would turn out to be, would go into the orchestra pit.
Ten minutes later, I went to the stage looking for Tarz, who had been on the boards just a few minutes before. I found him off to the side, watching two actors go through their lines. “Hey Teach,” he said with a nod.
“I need a favor tomorrow morning, you free?”
“What time? Rehearsals are called for ten.”
“Seven-thirty, right here.” When I told him what needed to happen, he gave me a simple, “no problem,” and returned to the other actors. I started out, pulled my cell phone and dialed Sonny Mark’s number.
He answered with a growl. “What?”
“Have you found anything on Rice yet?”
“Storm… Sorry, I thought it was someone else. Yeah, but you won’t like it.”
I ignored his words. “What’d you find?”
“Not much. There are a lot of Charles Rices in the northeast, a ton of Charles E. Rices, but there is no Charles Edward Rice. I’ve run down seven Charles Es and none of them is Charles Edward: Edgars, one Edwin, three Evans and even one Ethan.”
“Anything yet on the number in Harrisburg?”
“The message center he’s using is like one of those mailbox places. They rent telephone numbers and offer an answering machine or an answering service. They haven’t the foggiest idea of who he is.”
“How does he pay?”
“They wouldn’t say. I was told to produce a court order.”
“That figures. Okay, I guess that’s a dead end for right now.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no, I’m still looking.”
“Stay available for tomorrow morning. I may have something for you.”
“What something?”
“Rice, maybe. Just be available from six on. I’ll let you know.”
My phone beeped. The readout was blocked. “I’ll talk to you later,” I said and hit the button. “Storm.”
“You were trying to reach me?” Thomas Albright asked.
“I need to speak with you.”
“Is something happening with the play?”
“No, it’s about Jeremy Thornton.”
I listened to him breathe for a few seconds. “Jeremy’s been dead for a while.”
“Shall I come to your office?”
“I’m on my way to a meeting with an out of town client. I have an appointment in an hour. Meet me at the Plaza in twenty minutes. The bar.”
“Twenty minutes,” I said, stepping out into the hot afternoon sun. Forty-sixth Street was busy and while the tourist season was dwindling, there were still enough people on the streets to make it a pain.
I started uptown, and made it two blocks before a warning tingle kicked up in my neck. Slowing my pace, I did my best to spot the tail, but the amount of people on the street made it impossible.
By the time I’d hit Fifty-ninth Street and turned east toward the Plaza, I was no longer trying to find out who it was. If he was stupid enough to follow me into the hotel, then I would have him.
I paced myself over the next couple of blocks and walked up the steps and into the hotel. I crossed across the lobby, stopped by a pillar and turned. Two people came in after me: a woman in her mid-fifties wearing a pale grey business suit and carrying an attaché case, followed by a man in a very loose blue sports shirt, hanging over tan pants. His shoes gave him away: Heavy soled lace ups—cop shoes.
When he spotted me, he turned and walked to the rack of brochures near the bell captain’s desk. As soon as his back was to me, I crossed the lobby and came up behind him. “Don’t even think it. Let’s you and I go visit the little boy’s room.”
He’d stiffened, and then nodded. We walked together into the bathroom off the lobby and once behind the doors, I got real close in his face. “Who are you?”
“Easy Storm,” he began and started to reach behind himself. My hand went to his throat, my fingers squeezing his larynx to immobilize him. He raised his hands. “Stop.” The word squeaked by my fingers. “I’m on your side.”
I released him. “People on my side don’t tail me.”
“I’m going to pull my wallet,” he said, reaching to his back pocket. He withdrew a black leather case and opened it. His ID was across from his shield: his sh
ield was from Homeland Security. The ID said he was with ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement. His name was Brett Malcolm.
“Why are you following me?”
“Because you stepped into the middle of something you shouldn’t have.”
“Which is, agent…” I looked at the ID again, “Malcolm?”
“Which isn’t open for discussion in a bathroom; I’m with the Office of International Affairs.”
I gave him a double raise of my eyebrows. “Wow! Exciting! But I’m not handling illegal aliens, so why is it you’re tailing me?”
“Because you’ve put yourself into the middle of my case, which you’re screwing up.”
“What case?”
He looked around the bathroom and gave a slow shake of his head. “This isn’t the place to talk.”
“We’re not on a date.”
His eyes were humorless. “As I said, we need to talk, and not here.”
I spent a careful few moments making up my mind. “I have a meeting in a few minutes. I’m clear after that. My office at,” I looked at my watch, “six?”
“I don’t think so. Too many eyes have been on you.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, but couldn’t disagree, not after what had been happening. “There’s a pub called O’Brien’s, off Ninth and Fifty-sixth. I’ll be at a table in the back at six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there,” The ICE agent said.
“Alone.”
“Alone,” he agreed. I let him leave first, and then followed him into the lobby to make sure he left the hotel. When he was gone, I went into the lounge. There were three people at the ornate bar. Two tables were occupied, both by what appeared to be business types having meetings; overall, the place was dead.
There was a table halfway down the line; far enough away from the others to be private. I sat at it just as Albright entered. He looked around and spotted me. He walked stiffly to the table and glared down at me.
“I don’t have a lot of time.” The angry tone matched his jaw-thrusting scowl.
“Have a seat. We can do this quickly, but I don’t think you want me to raise my voice.”
He glanced around and, realizing other people were within earshot, sat, placing his attaché case on his lap and folding his hands together and resting them on the case.
I waited just long enough to make him anxious before saying, “Jeremy Thornton was making cash transfers to an account owned by a man named Brian Vandegroten. He was making them from his personal checking account and from his brokerage account. Tell me about them.”
His index finger rose and rubbed against the side off his nose in the irritating way I’d noticed when he was nervous or was trying to think. “What Jeremy did was his own business.”
“You and Jeremy Thornton went back a long time, a very long time. We both know he was more than just a client. I know there was the three million dollars bouncing all over your firm before it found its way back into his company’s account. You know it, because you handled the transactions. I don’t care about the three mil, it’s all the years of money transfers to the Caymans I’m interested in.”
“How did you-“
“Don’t go there, you won’t be happy. I have the information, which is what counts… now, who is Brian Vandegroten?”
Albright looked tired, which was a good sign. “You’re my client. What we say to each other is confidential. I give you my word it won’t go any further than this table.”
He vented with a long and sibilant sigh. “I don’t know who. All I know is Jeremy transferred money to this man regularly. When I asked, he told me he was helping a relative. He never elaborated and I didn’t push him.”
“I didn’t know he had any relatives.”
“Look, I was his broker. If he didn’t want me to know…” Albright gave an expressive shrug.
“You were his friend as well, weren’t you?”
Albright nodded. “You could say that. One can’t maintain a strict business relationship with someone you deal with personal and monetary issues on a day to day basis for decades.”
“He trusted you?”
“Yes.”
“But he wouldn’t tell you about the money?” I pushed.
“No.”
There was more—there’s always more, but the problem was how to get it from him. “Understand that if I find you’re not telling me all, there will be repercussions.”
“You’re wasting your time by threatening me.”
“Does Lia know?”
He shook his head. “I never mentioned it to her and she’s never asked.”
The waitress headed in our direction. I waved her off “How ethical is what you did with Lia, borrowing money from a client?”
Albright didn’t flinch, which surprised me. His face remained calm and his eyes were cool. “How ethical was it for you to dig into bank accounts you have no legal right to see?”
“That’s my job. Yours is to invest money for your clients, not to borrow it.”
“I accepted Mrs. Thornton’s offer of a personal loan. I did nothing wrong—no conflict of interest.”
“There’s something wrong with lying. I don’t like being lied to. Believe me when I say this: If you know anything, it would be in your best interest to tell me now.” While my tone was friendly, I was anything but.
“Why is it so important to dig into a good man’s past when he isn’t here to defend himself?”
It was a good question. Why was I doing this? Was it because of Scotty’s feelings for Lia? Because of the off chance it might have something to do with the case? Or have I been kidding myself into making connections without any rhyme or reason? Maybe it boiled down to something else—something ‘hinky’ as Steeplechase would have termed it.
“Perhaps there’s something in Thornton’s—your ‘good man’s’ past—that has to do with Scotty’s death.”
His face took on an unfeigned, stunned look. “That’s not possible. He died several years before Lia Thornton ever considered investing in his play. How can you even suggest something like that?”
It was pointless to elaborate on a feeling. A hunch is something you know is important; and, while you may not know why, you know it is.
Albright stood and switched the attaché case to his right hand. “I think you’re dead wrong. I must go now. Dress rehearsals are scheduled for next week. I hope you’ll have this… business finished soon.”
I rose as well. “That’s my intent.”
Chapter 55
It was a busy cocktail hour at O’Brien’s, which had somehow become my second office for this case. Tim was behind the bar, which was two deep in people. The tables near the bar were full, but the back was empty, which was good for what I’d planned. Femalé and Gina were already seated at a corner table three away from mine. I’d gotten there at five-thirty, and the women had come in a few minutes later, one at a time. It was five to six now, and Malcolm should be showing up soon.
After leaving the Plaza, I’d called Femalé and told her what I’d needed and asked her to meet me at the theatre. Then I’d called Gina on her cell and explained what was going on. She’d started to ask questions, but I’d cut her off with, “I’ll explain it all later.”
I’d met Femalé at the theatre, and while the cast and crew finished up their day, we set up the video camera on the balcony, checked to make sure it couldn’t be seen, and got a spare key before leaving.
“You ready for a drink?” Charlie asked.
“A club soda with lime, for now.”
I glanced at Femalé and Gina, whose heads were almost touching in conversation. Charlie came back and deposited the tall glass on the table.
The minutes passed with the slowness of a kid on New Year’s Eve waiting for eleven fifty-nine to turn to twelve. The door opened and two people came in. Malcolm was not one of them.
Another two minutes ticked by before Malcolm stepped inside. He took three steps, stopped and looked around. I raised my ar
m and caught his eyes. I didn’t glance at the ladies.
The way he walked and the way he took in everything spelled professional. When he reached my table, he took the seat next to me, not across, so his back would not be toward the door. I had counted on this, and made sure there were three not four chairs at the table. The one he’d selected put his back to Gina and Femalé as I had intended.
Charlie appeared at the table the instant he was seated. “What can I get you?”
“Vodka tonic, lime,” he ordered.
“Gabe?”
“I’m fine.”
She left with his order and I slid my chair back. “All right, Agent Malcolm of ICE’s Division of International Affairs, explain how I stepped into the middle of your case.”
He favored me with a sardonic smile. “Interfering in, I believe I said, not stepped in. And, you’re far from being in the middle of it.”
“Whatever works, but I’m still waiting. Charles Rice, yes?”
“Yes, Charles Rice. What do you know about him?” he tossed back at me.
“I was happy to talk to you in the bathroom at the Plaza. You wanted this meeting.”
“I’m not fishing, Mr. Storm, When I know what you have, I’ll fill in the blanks.”
Charlie came over, set the drink on the table and left without a word. “I know he’s involved in child abductions and ‘white’ slavery, if you will; He’s also involved with a high level politician, and with the Conte crime family.”
Malcolm’s nod was thoughtful. “That’s some of it. There’s a lot more.”
He picked up the drink, deliberately taking his time to look at it and then set it back onto the table. “I’ve done a very thorough background check on you. From what I’ve learned, you are someone who can be trusted. Do I have your word that what I say will be kept confidential?”
I held his gaze. “Right now I have one purpose in life, to find the person who murdered my friend. Nothing and no one takes precedence over that. Whatever you tell me stops here. If it helps me, that’s good. If it doesn’t, then whatever you have won’t matter.”
“Fair enough.” He picked up the glass and drank. He put it down and said, “I’ve been working this case for three and a half years. It was active with the Bureau for a long time before me, and went on a back burner after nine-eleven. With Homeland Security’s reorganization of the various agencies, the case was dumped on ICE and I caught it.”
