Luckily the waiter arrived and we ordered starters. I chose the shrimp with andouille sausage, one of my favorites, and Denny ordered more ribs and another beer.
“And to drink?” the waiter asked.
“I’ll have what he’s having.”
“The baby,” Denny cautioned.
“Change that to ginger ale.”
I was about to talk shop because—give the man his due, even in his grief and, amazingly, even after I told him I was pregnant—he supported my work. But he stopped me mid sentence, holding up two tickets he’d taken out of his suit coat pocket. Carnegie Hall. “Simon Rattle conducts the Berlin Philharmonic next month. Brahms Symphony No. 2.”
Not my favorite kind of music. I gave him a crooked smile, recalling what my mom once said about classical music: in college, she’d hated the stuff but forced herself to sit through a few concerts at the Juilliard and amazingly longed for highbrow when the season was over. But at least Denny wasn’t pining in the corner for his father; he was taking action, and that gave me hope he was progressing in his grief.
“Why do you love Brahms?” I asked, knowing full well it was because of his mother.
“Mom called today. The case in Chicago is solved, and she’s on her way home.”
My good fortune. I decided to touch a sore. “Frank, too?”
He nodded. “I bought two more tickets. We can go together.”
What had gotten into him, a miracle? I pictured the last time he and Frank were together, when Denny sat in the corner, not even saying hello to the man.
“Frank likes classical stuff, too?”
He smirked. “Hates it.” He drank his beer. “Mom loves it.”
I applauded the devil in him and looked down at the menu to hide my smile while he chose a double order of salmon with herb crust, a New York strip, and a side of French fries and mixed house greens. For the first time in a month, his appetite was good. I decided on the Southern fried chicken. I was up to eating half a bird, especially the kind coated in cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. Or at least I hoped it would sit well with whomever I was carrying so emphatically.
The waiter brought our entrées, and after the second bite of crunchy skin and perfect meat, I brought up a subject dear to both of us while my stomach was still functioning. “I’m getting involved in the fight against that super tall monstrosity they want to build downtown.” I told him that Cookie and I would attend the hearing next month before the Landmarks Preservation Committee because the new foundation would crowd some landmark or other. I waited for his response, but he said nothing. Noting Denny’s interest waning, my heart sank; I was sure he was tumbling back into his grief.
But I kept up my end of the stick. We discussed Stephen Cojok’s death, which Denny was sure involved drug money. “Stephen didn’t pay the piper.” To illustrate, he told me about a family in Queens—ten children, a mother, and father—killed while they slept. “Someone with a key to their apartment sliced them up good with a machete. It makes front-page news, then dies quickly, because drug killings are never solved.”
Suddenly, he looked down at his plate. “Keep eating your chicken. Whatever you do, don’t turn around. There’s a guy too interested in us. He’s sitting alone at a table in back of you. I’m going to get a better look,” he said, throwing down his napkin. His chair scraped against the hardwood, and he was gone.
I kept chewing, feeling my tits shrink, even though I think Denny, being a cop, tended to see danger where there was none.
Food had lost its appeal, but I forced myself to continue, shoveling chicken and sides of corn and asparagus into my mouth while my stomach rolled. I swigged the last of my soft drink, watching as Denny squared his shoulders and walked away from our table toward the men’s room. I felt my mouth go watery and stared at an invisible point on the far wall, willing my mind to swill onto something else. I began planning how Lorraine could help with the investigation now that she was back in town. She was great with finding obscure if significant connections, and there were unexplored histories in this case.
When Denny returned, he was frowning. He stuffed a napkin back into his shirt collar and opened his cell, his thumbs working. “Take a look at the picture I just snapped,” he said, holding up the screen.
It was the same guy wearing the jacket I’d seen staring at me and Cookie in Teresa’s. My stomach did a huge roll and I excused myself, barely making it to the ladies’ in time. When I returned, Denny had already paid the bill. Good job because I’d lost my appetite for mud pies and coffee.
Empty
In the middle of the night, my phone rang. It was Ina O’Neill. Frantic.
“I can’t find Lake. She didn’t answer my calls all evening, so I went to her apartment. It was a mess, and she wasn’t there.”
For a few seconds I tried to calm the woman, telling her to take her time, to sit down and take deep breaths.
“I’ll … be … all right. Just find my daughter.”
I looked at the clock on my dresser. A little after three. I managed to sit up, dangling my feet off the bed and gripping my phone. There was a sourness in my stomach and a pounding in my ears.
Denny slept on.
I put Ina O’Neill on hold and punched in Lake’s number. No answer, so I left a message.
“I’ve been trying to reach her since nine o’clock,” she went on. “She never goes out after dinner. I should have gone to see her earlier. Why didn’t I? Let’s see, when was the last time … Oh, why didn’t I?”
Her words were bullets flying through the ether, and they weren’t making much sense, so I arranged to meet her in front of Lake’s building in fifteen minutes, sooner if we could make it.
I shook Denny’s shoulder. His soft snoring continued until I shook him some more and whispered in his ear. Still no movement except for a slight smile on his lips. Half asleep, he reached over to my side of the bed, gathering the pillow to his chest.
“Something’s wrong,” I said, shaking him with greater force.
That got his attention. He shot out of bed, reaching for the Glock he keeps in his nightstand, the bedding bunched around his privates.
I told him about the call from Ina O’Neill. It took him a while to register.
“Lake’s mother? Stephen Cojok’s mother-in-law? Drugs?”
I began pulling on my tights.
His eyes popped. “You’re not seriously going over there?”
Good. He was awake and eager, no signs of grief. He and I dressed in record time. We ran down the stairs and out the door.
Denny insisted I wear a vest, so he groped in the back of his Jeep for one that would cover my stomach. After throwing it on, I had trouble walking much less hopping into the passenger’s seat. Denny had trouble hiding his grin. But how could I blame him—I must have looked like a walking turtle.
On the way, I called 9-1-1 and asked the operator to send a squad to Lake’s address. For all I knew, Lake would be there when we arrived, but something told me otherwise. Then I called Jane. After all, she was the one who got me into this mess, why shouldn’t I call on her in my hour of need? Not a surprise, she didn’t answer—who would at three twenty in the morning—so I left a message, summarizing what I knew about Ina O’Neill’s search for her daughter, the ransacked state of the apartment, and telling her she’d better send help and pronto.
When we arrived, we had trouble finding a vacant hydrant—forget about legal parking spaces—so we circled a few times before squeezing the Jeep into a half-space on the corner, most of the car sticking into the cross street, begging to be hit.
Ina O’Neill was waiting for us in front of the building when we arrived. Her hair was disheveled, a scarf wound around her head. An outdoor lamp haloed her, giving her the air of a crazed angel. She wore slippers and a short fur coat despite the mild weather.
As we walked to the door, a squad, its strobe flashing, double-parked, and two uniforms jumped out, yelling, “Police! Halt!”
Luckily for
us, Denny knew them; he clapped an arm around one, shook hands with the other.
“Wait in your car while we have a look,” one of them said.
“Not a chance.” Denny pointed to his calf where he’d holstered his Glock. “Part of a murder investigation.”
For a second, they looked like they were going to argue until one of the cops shrugged and motioned for us to follow. After Ina O’Neill opened the building’s front door, we pounded up five flights of stairs in silence, waiting while she inserted the key into the lock.
Denny turned to me. “Stay here until we tell you it’s safe.”
They inched their way inside.
Ina stood next to me, arms wrapped around her fur coat, shaking and whimpering. My temples throbbed; I panted, bent over, hanging onto the wall, trying to remember what it was like to climb stairs without a bulge in my front, my ear to the door.
In a few minutes, the three men returned. “Empty.”
“Couldn’t be. That’s my daughter’s apartment.” Her eyes met mine. “We were just here this afternoon.”
One cop shook his head.
“And two hours ago, I came over to talk to her because she hadn’t returned my calls. The place was a mess. Drawers overturned. Her clothes, her papers strewn all over.”
Denny looked at me, then at Ina O’Neill. “The apartment’s bare now. Take a look.”
I shivered. We stepped inside.
The apartment was empty. Not a stick of furniture. No clothes. No dishes or pans. No paintings. No trace of Lake or her cat. Nothing.
I walked over to a window and peered outside, running a finger on the sill. No dust. My heart jumped into my mouth, and I heard the theme from Psycho in my head.
“How long ago were you here?” I asked Ina.
She stood there whimpering, unable to process.
How long had it been, I asked her again. No reply.
“Two hours?”
She shook her head.
“An hour?” She shook her head again and quickly nodded.
Which was it? More like an hour and a half, she told me.
How could a place be emptied out in an hour?
With Denny at my side, we walked the perimeter. I took pictures as he opened doors. Peering inside closets, I expected to see clothes, hangers, motes of dust. But there was nothing.
The apartment had been wiped clean, just like my hunches about Stephen’s murder and now Lake’s disappearance. For at that moment, I didn’t have a clue.
Was Lake a part of whatever had happened to Stephen? I doubted it. Did she know more than what she’d told me? I was sure of it. And right then, I stopped, frozen, my heart like stone as it hit me—the distinct possibility that whoever had killed Stephen had taken Lake. Was she still alive? I had no idea.
Back outside, I watched as Ina O’Neill went from barely sane to crazed.
She grabbed my vest. “We’ve got to find my daughter.” Her voice was hoarse. “They’ve taken her. Please. Come with me. We’ve got to find her.”
Just then my phone rang. Jane.
“It’s four thirty and I couldn’t sleep, thanks to your phone call.”
I let her rant and, when she was finished, told her where we were and what we’d found—nothing, and I did mean nothing.
She was silent for a beat, and I could almost feel her shiver.
“Better send a crime scene unit.”
“It’s not your place to tell me my job.”
“I know, just trying to wake you up.”
She ended the call.
As I stood in the night air marveling at the total disappearance of Lake and the contents of her apartment, someone tapped my shoulder. Swiveling, I almost bumped into Zizi Carmalucci, who waved at Denny and gave him one of her sweet-faced smiles.
“Hi, you two.” She winked at Denny. “I just got a call. What’s up?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“No, seriously. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
I thought fast. “Will you mention my agency’s name in the story?” Things were a bit slow, and I could use the publicity. Besides, a juicy article about disappearing apartment contents in a respectable neighborhood would garner attention for a few days and might elicit leads, so I told her to ask away.
She turned on a handheld recorder and I spoke into it, telling her what I knew—so far nothing, but managing to make it sound like something.
“This is the ransacking of Stephen Cojok’s apartment. Does it have anything to do with his murder?”
“We’re not sure.”
“My eye.”
I made no reply.
“Any ideas who might have killed him?”
“We’re pursuing various lines of inquiry.” Lorraine had taught me that one. “At least one person of interest is in our sights.” I was making up stories big time, and Denny was getting impatient.
“So was it a break-in or just late payers fleeing their landlord?” Zizi asked.
She had a point. Had Lake and Stephen owed rent for months and this was Lake’s way of disappearing? Was Ina O’Neill in on the ruse?
The Parlor Tenant
After Zizi left, I talked Lake’s mother into going home. “Your daughter might try to contact you. She might be pounding on your door as we speak.”
Ina O’Neill stood there, immovable, as if I hadn’t said a word.
“She might be hoofing it to your house. Does she have a key?”
She shook her head.
“Best wait at home for her. Let me do my job. It will be easier to find her if you go home.” I assured her I’d keep in touch and so would the police. “No doubt they’ll want to question you about your daughter, and I have more questions, too.” We walked her to her car and watched her drive off.
I told Denny we needed to interview some of the neighbors. Someone was sure to have heard or seen something. The contents of Lake’s apartment couldn’t just disappear without a sound. Maybe Lake had seen another tenant on her way out and made some excuses or whispered her whereabouts. Something.
Worried about our unborn child, Denny insisted we needed sleep. And I could see his point—I was exhausted. Besides, there was nothing I could do, and I could use a good long think. I had no idea where Lake was, whether she was dead or alive, but I doubted the latter. No lights on in any of the windows around Lake’s apartment, so I gave an involuntary murmur and hung on to Denny.
As we walked to the car, I heard footsteps behind us, so I turned and saw a guy running toward us, tripping over his feet and struggling into a jacket and scraping his slippers on the rough sidewalk. He was clothed in what looked like scrubs.
“Wait up! What’s going on here?” he yelled. Panting, he introduced himself as the parlor tenant.
“Not the owner?”
He shook his head. “Landlord’s name is Thompson. Lives in the neighborhood somewhere. Has an office on Montague.” He was breathing rapidly.
I told him what we’d seen in the fifth-floor apartment, that the tenant was missing and the place had been stripped of its contents. I left out the part about Stephen’s murder.
“About two hours ago, I heard what sounded like a large truck idling in the street. I don’t like big trucks on the block—they break up the cement, if you know what I mean. Terrible banging, running in the hall, no voices, though. Locked my door, I tell you.”
The guy stopped talking, reached into his pocket, brought out a large handkerchief, and began sopping up saliva from the corners of his mouth.
Denny and I stood there, and I felt the wind off the ocean, so I snuggled into him, waiting for the man to continue.
“I look out the window. Here’s a moving van double-parked. Three, four guys are going in and out of the building, quiet as mice, all wearing white gloves, like they were ace movers or something, moving quick like bunnies and loading the van with furniture.”
“Can you describe them?”
He shook his head, then put a finger to his mouth. “Wai
t a second. One guy looked like a sumo wrestler. Huge, and I do mean huge. And the guy behind him was tall and thin. I thought to myself, what a pair.”
“And you didn’t call the cops?”
He shook his head. “Why should I? I thought maybe one of the upstairs tenants owed money and was doing a disappearing act. Happens all the time in this neighborhood. But I got worried later when something woke me. The missus says I should mind my own business and rolls back to sleep. But I’m the worrier, you know how it is, and when I seen the strobes flashing, a cop car pulling up, you guys rushing in, I’m on red alert. Didn’t turn on the lights or anything, but I’m watching and listening in the dark.”
“Did you get a good look at the truck?”
He nodded and squinted at me. “Some vest you got there, lady.”
“Getting back to the truck.”
“Some sort of fancy hauler, all right. A moving van, but special, like something high class, you know the kind, wide, doors in the back and on the side; black, all polished up, with the cabin part extending over the cab, gold lettering. A white-glove affair. Writing on the side said something about pianos and artwork.”
“You didn’t happen to get the license plate?” Denny asked.
The man shook his head.
My toes were frozen, but I had to ask more questions and the neighbor wasn’t about to move. I introduced Denny, gave the man my card, and told him I was investigating a murder.
“Not that nice young woman on the fifth floor?”
“Her husband.”
“That punk. Little wonder—drug lord was owed money and his men took all the furniture.”
Denny nodded slowly.
I wasn’t so sure.
The tenant went on. “He was some kind of a no-good bum, if you ask me. Used to see him on Court Street up to no good. No good at all. Must hide a lot of stuff from his wife. Seen him talking with friends, almost getting into a fight. And before you ask, I don’t like his friends, either.”
Death and Disappearance (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 5) Page 7
