by Ty Patterson
She had lost a husband to cancer. A daughter to a traffic accident. She had never married again, and was frequently featured in celebrity shows and gossip columns.
Talking to Landsman had been way down on the twins’ to-do list; however a flunky had called them the day before.
A saccharine voice had whispered over the phone, ‘Ms. Landsman wants you to meet her.’
Meghan and Beth had chuckled at the exec’s choice of words.
Her assistant didn’t get the words wrong. I am surprised we didn’t have to bow and kiss her hand.
Meghan suppressed a smile and put a serious expression on her face.
‘It’s not in our hands, ma’am. The case is quite complicated.’
Landsman leaned forward in irritation, picked a tiny bell and rang it.
Wow, a real silver bell?
The exec rushed in on high heels and a short skirt.
‘Green tea,’ her boss commanded and the exec disappeared.
‘Honey,’ Landsman turned her attention back to Meghan, ‘Amy sold more houses for me in the last five years than all my other closers put together.’
She waited for Meghan or Beth to reply. Neither of them did.
‘You know what that means? My business, my reputation, is sinking, while you and the cops are playing detective.’
An angry puff of smoke forestalled Beth’s retort.
‘Carey Landsman sells to billionaires. Hollywood stars. A-listers. They want to deal with Amy Kittrell alone. What am I to tell them? That some little investigation is keeping her away?’
‘I.’ Puff. ‘Want.’ Puff. ‘Her.’ Puff. ‘Back.’
Green tea arrived and with it the torrent of words stopped. The exec poured for Meghan and Beth in delicate ceramic cups that the twins held gingerly in their hands, and sipped from.
No need to ask us what drink we want. What’s good for Carey Landsman is good enough for us.
‘Ma’am,’ Meghan placed her cup down.
Cool eyes flicked in her direction. A plume of smoke rose delicately from red lips. Sipping and smoking. The socialite turned luxury realtor could do both at the same time.
‘Was Amy Kittrell happy?’
A frown marred the smooth porcelain forehead. ‘What’s that got to do with selling homes?’
Meghan looked at her steadily. ‘Shall we drop this charade? We don’t give a damn about your business. None of this,’ she let her eyes roam around the exquisitely appointed office, ‘impresses us.’
‘Madison Kittrell is out there. We have to find her. That’s all that matters,’ Beth leaned forward, her eyes burning with a fierce intensity.
Carey Landsman didn’t move for several seconds. She didn’t speak. She watched the twins through narrow eyes, through a haze of smoke that lazily swirled toward the ceiling.
She moved when the silence became unbearable. She placed the electronic cigarette on a tray, her expression still unreadable.
‘You aren’t from New York, are you?’
‘Wyoming, ma’am. Jackson Hole,’ Meghan replied.
A smile broke out on the older woman’s face. This time it warmed her eyes. ‘I am a Cheyenne girl myself. Married well. That was my lucky break. The rest, I earned.’
She broke off and looked at them appraisingly. ‘Petersens. There was something about a shooting rampage in a college. One sister lost her memory. Their dad –’
‘That’s us, ma’am.’
I hope she doesn’t shower us with pity. We can do without that.
Carey Landsman didn’t do pity. She rose, went to a side table and poured coffees from a silver flask and served them herself.
‘I lost my daughter, my husband. They were my life. I know something about loss.’
The façade, the larger than life persona, disappeared.
The real Cary Landsman was an intelligent woman who spoke about moving to a large city, living a life she had never experienced. She talked about building the high profile real estate firm on her own.
She spoke about Amy Kittrell in glowing terms. Kittrell had applied for a job in her firm when she had arrived in New York.
Landsman had been impressed with her grit and saw herself in the younger woman.
‘How bad does it look for her?’ she asked the twins.
‘She’s making it bad, ma’am,’ Meghan broke it down to the realtor. ‘If she only spoke freely. Told us who that man was, we might get somewhere.’
Landsman stopped them when they were leaving.
‘I met him a couple of times. Partner. That’s how she introduced him.’
She looked searchingly at the twins.
‘She wasn’t happy.’
Chapter 26
The man and the girl were in Queens, in another motel.
By now the girl knew something was wrong. She had started questioning the man more often. What they were doing? When would they unite with Mommy? When could she go back to school?
The day after their return to the city, his patience snapped. The rage bubbled over. He took a half step and checked himself quickly.
Too late. The girl saw it. Recognized it for what it was. She didn’t question him again.
She spoke to him less frequently.
The man called the hotline a few times and tried to get information on the investigation. He consumed newspapers and media reports.
By all accounts, it looked like the investigation had stalled.
He allowed himself a brief smile.
He would change that.
He had to cajole the girl for his next move.
He took her to Soho, to the Dominique Ansel Bakery, treated her to cookie shots and bought a bagful of Cronuts.
That brought back the skip in her step. She started regarding their getaway as one big adventure. She would have stories to tell when she returned to school.
He didn’t correct her.
He logged onto an auction site, tracked down a burner phone and a prepaid sim card, met the seller in Times Square, and bought the two items off him.
Auction sites were made for anonymous purchases.
On the tenth day of grabbing her, he made her do the tasks.
On the eleventh day, he woke her up early and dressed her in baggy clothing. He wore shades and turned the collars up on his jacket, even though it promised to be a hot day.
He took her to Penn Station and bought round trip tickets to Greenport.
He caught the Long Island Rail Road service to Ronkonkoma, where they transferred, and three hours later were in Greenport.
Baldy, whose name was Pike Deyoung, hadn’t forgotten that he had been bested by a woman. His buddies joshed him about it frequently.
It came up when they went to a bar and a few beers went down their throats.
Pike was a construction worker, working on a midtown hotel project. He fancied himself as an amateur boxer and when he finished his work, changed from his helmet and coveralls, and went to a boxing gym on East 26th Street.
There, he pounded the punching bag till his rage and humiliation drained away.
It started again the next day though, when some co-worker reminded him of the ease with which the woman had floored him.
A week after his humiliation, Pike saw her.
She was emerging from a building, opposite his project. He was on the same side of the street as she, not more than ten feet from her, biting deep into a burger.
It was his lunch break. He was alone, having had enough of his buddies.
He did a double take, his mouth half open. Yeah, it was her. He wouldn’t forget that brown hair and green eyes.
Was it really her, though? Or the twin?
He observed her for a few moments.
Nope. It was her. She had a quiet swagger about her that her sister didn’t have. He shielded himself behind a bunch of camera clicking tourists and watched her.
She spoke on her cell, pocketed it, looked at the building she had come from, looked right, then pulled on a pair of shades and
the green eyes disappeared behind the dark lenses.
She didn’t look in his direction; she turned her back on him and walked away.
Pike followed. He didn’t know why. He just did.
The tourists ambled away chattering in a language Pike didn’t understand. The sidewalk was empty. There was a line of parked cars, all empty.
It felt like they were the only two people on that strip of concrete.
Pike took another bite. Looked behind him.
No one near him. No one who could recognize him.
Ahead of him was the woman.
Far ahead were people, but not close enough to intervene.
He looked up.
No cameras on the buildings. No cameras on top of lamp poles.
He didn’t think.
He broke into a run.
He would ram his shoulder into her, cross the street, and disappear.
Just a reminder to her that she couldn’t mess with him.
Meghan had spotted the sudden move on her left from the corner of her eye. She looked to her right casually, in the direction Beth had gone.
Beth had exited Carey Landsman’s office earlier to meet Mark Feinberg, her boyfriend. Mark was a detective in the NYPD and had recently returned from Miami where he had been following leads on a case.
Meghan wore her sunglasses and in the same motion, flicked a switch in a stem. The shades turned into a counter-surveillance device.
The stems of the shades were fitted with nano-cameras that projected the rear view onto the lenses, in high definition.
There he is. The same guy who attacked me.
What does he want?
Her question was answered when Baldy threw his burger in a trash can, wiped his hands against his coveralls, and followed her.
Surely he isn’t stupid enough to attack again?
To the left of her was an almost unbroken line of vehicles. To her right were the fronts of buildings.
He’s going to assault me in broad daylight?
She lengthened her stride by a fraction and got her answer.
Baldy ran at her.
Chapter 27
She let him approach, without giving any indication that she had spotted him.
He came fast, his face intent, his lips pulled back.
She pulled out her cell again and pretended to talk. That would fill him with confidence; that she was distracted.
Ten feet.
Seven feet.
Three feet.
His hands reached out for her.
She took a side-step, the cell flying and smashing on concrete.
Her left hand grabbed his right. Her left leg kicked out his right.
She pivoted on her right heel, used his momentum against him, and sent him flying towards a gray wall.
Baldy crashed into it heavily. He groaned once. However, he recovered swiftly.
He turned, his lips bleeding, his eyes small and mean.
He bent into a crouch, his hands going up in a boxer’s stance, and he shuffled forward.
He threw a punch in the air. It didn’t reach her.
Dummy.
He followed with a fast left. Very fast.
She swayed back.
Float. Don’t rush.
Zeb had drilled it in them till it became habit.
Floating, that smooth, languid move he had, gave one control. Allowed one to think.
He had taught them to slow time down, to feel the attack coming, to read it in the opponent’s eyes and body, long before the attacker’s thought turned to action.
Baldy took one more step forward and his fists shot out in a blur.
Left. Right. A hook.
She evaded all with ease.
A shout came from far behind them.
It triggered another flurry of jabs from Baldy.
He can’t afford to be caught. He has to finish it fast.
More yells came, footsteps pounded.
Finish it.
Baldy crowded her against a vehicle, his eyes wide in triumph, a right hook sailing her away, a left jab preventing any escape.
She slid down.
She folded her legs and vanished beneath the hook.
Ducked her head to let the jab whistle past.
Her right hand blurred; her spear finger strike buried deep in Baldy’s gut.
His breath left him in a whoosh.
Her right hand continued moving.
It bent. Her elbow gouged Baldy’s meaty thigh.
She slid out smoothly from underneath him.
She rose and before he could turn, grabbed his head, and slammed it against the vehicle’s window.
The vehicle’s alarm blared. Footsteps came closer and suddenly there was a bunch of people surrounding them.
Meghan stepped back, let another man approach Baldy and turn him.
Blood ran down his face. His forehead was cut. His nose seemed to be broken. His eyes were half closed.
‘I saw what happened,’ a short woman stepped forward, her eyes wide in excitement, her shopping bags swinging in one hand.
‘I shouted at her, to warn her, but I was too far away.’
‘You alright, honey?’ She reached into a bag and pulled out a bottle of water. ‘Here, drink it. I never saw anything like it. The way you took him down.’
She held her phone up. ‘I got it all here, honey. He attacked you, with no warning. That’ll shut him up. And the cops, if they hassle you.’
The cops came, two cruisers rolled up and from one Beth emerged, followed by a tall, lean, young man. Mark Feinberg.
Beth looked anxiously at Meghan.
Meghan winked back. ‘I’m fine,’ she mouthed.
She took another step back, letting the cops do whatever they had to. Onlookers crowded the police, eager to give their statements.
The short woman grabbed Mark’s arm, spoke at length, her hands gesticulating. He took her phone and gave it to another cop.
Another cruiser arrived, more police joined the scene. Witnesses were interviewed. Meghan’s statement was taken.
She told the police about the previous attack. The shopper’s phone recording told its own story.
Baldy was led away, and the crowd started dispersing.
A few cameras clicked. Tourists. They would have stories to tell. It happened in New York. They had ringside seats.
All but one cruiser departed.
Mark came to Meghan and hugged her.
‘When we heard about it, Beth asked me to call an ambulance. For him.’
He grinned when Meghan punched him in the arm.
‘Lose something?’ Beth asked when Meghan looked behind her, at the pavement.
‘My phone. I tossed it away when I saw him coming.’
The phone was beyond repair. They collected the pieces, crushed the sim card, and trashed it.
‘You didn’t miss much,’ Beth pulled her cell out. ‘Pizaka and Chang haven’t –’
Her voice stilled. Her face whitened.
She turned the screen for Meghan and Mark to see better.
On it was a video.
She played it.
A girl, Maddie, was doing math problems in a book, speaking aloud.
Subtracting and dividing numbers.
Chapter 28
‘What does it mean?’
Beth had asked the question several times before. That didn’t stop her from asking it again. She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration as she paced their office.
Pizaka was staring out of a window, Chang was looking moodily at the video on a screen, Meghan sat at Werner’s keyboard, while Zeb was sprawled on a couch.
None of them had any answers for her.
She had forwarded the video to the two cops, who had arrived at the twins’ offices later in the day.
They came bearing news that Pike Deyoung had acted on his own. Meghan barely acknowledged it; she had suspected as much.
The twins had set Werner on the video before the cops arri
ved. Werner didn’t come back with much.
The message had been sent from Greenport from another burner phone that was now inactive.
Werner didn’t find any matches for Maddie or John Doe from security cameras in the subway system.
From its resolution, the video was taken on a cheap phone. Its number was dead.
Werner looked at angles, at the room Maddie was in, and compared it to millions of other images at its disposal.
It didn’t return with any Eureka message. Maddie could have been in a hotel. She could just as well be in a suburban home.
The book she was writing in was a ruled notebook. Such books were available at any Staples outlet or from any big box store.
Werner looked at lighting and shadows in the room. It couldn’t detect if there was anyone else in the room.
It analyzed Maddie’s voice. It seemed to be normal. She seemed to be happy.
Pizaka and Chang didn’t have any better news. The NYPD’s Police Laboratory was still analyzing the video; their initial findings corroborated Werner’s. Detectives were canvassing Greenport and various stations in the Long Island Rail network. There was no encouraging news to report.
‘Maybe the video is old. From a collection they had at home,’ a lazy voice called out from the couch. Zeb’s.
They still assumed it was John Doe who had kidnapped Maddie. No one else had stepped forward to claim the kidnapping. No other suspects had emerged; neither had any ransom note been received.
‘How would John Doe have access to videos in their home?’ Meghan balled a sheet of paper and threw it at the sprawled figure in frustration.
‘No idea. You should ask her.’
‘Pizaka and Chang have tried.’
‘Try harder.’
They went to ask, Zeb playing driver again, in their usual formation. Meghan at the front, Beth behind, the two cops in the rear.
Chang called ahead and made arrangements with the hospital. The hospital said Amy Kittrell wasn’t receiving visitors and it most certainly did not want to talk to the cops.
Chang threatened and pleaded and finally, when he had no choice, he told about the messages. The hospital relented.
