“Can you describe them?”
“Thugs, if you ask me.”
I thought we wouldn’t get much more information from him and I had to pee real bad, so I took down his name and address, pointed to my card still in his hands, and told him I’d like to talk to him.
“Anytime after nine. Got to get my beauty rest. I’ll be home all day.”
“One more question. When was the last time you saw the woman?”
He shrugged. “Last week on Court Street. I was going to the cleaner’s with a load of clothes in my arms. All I could do to nod.” He thought for a second. “That would have been last Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday.”
Jake Thompson
The next morning around six I was awakened by an irate. That was right. The Cojoks’ landlord was on the phone.
“What the hell happened to my tenants?”
As if I were the one who took Lake Cojok.
“They’re not around. Place is bare.”
“How’d you get my name?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. “Cops won’t even let me inside.”
That was how I found out Jane’s crime scene unit was working the place and might even come up with something, although to the naked eye last night, the place had been licked clean. “Why are you calling me?”
“Police told me you’re investigating.”
“Actually I’m glad you called,” I said. “I need you to tell me as much as you can about Stephen and Lake Cojok.”
He told me to meet him in his office on Montague Street in half an hour and gave me the building number.
I knew that address, the now-defunct bank where Mom used to work. I had to sit a moment—I hadn’t been inside since the bank’s Christmas party the year before Mom was fired. I struggled into my clothes, kissed a snoring Denny, and was out the door, the wind stinging my face as I ran to my car with a doughnut stuck between my teeth.
If you thought at that time of the morning I’d find parking close to my destination, you’d be wrong. Fifteen minutes later, having commandeered a too-small spot, I squirmed out of my seat, inching my stomach past the steering wheel. Wiping sugar from my lips, I locked the car and ran the three blocks to the building. Panting, I climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on a door whose cryptic legend read, “Thompson & Son.”
Jake Thompson was affable enough if slightly aloof and totally full of himself, at least on first blush. Until he smiled and I melted. Suited up in pinstripes with shoes buffed to a blinding glint, he stood in the open doorway, his eyebrows cocked in surprise, I supposed, at my appearance. I smelled sandalwood and aftershave as he shook my hand. He was about my age. Taller than Denny. Mr. Charm. Out of habit, I looked at his ring finger. Bare. Maybe I could have gone for him had he been more my type and had I not been in love with my husband. At least his veneer was enticing, but I leveled with myself—I’d give our fling ten minutes.
His suite of rooms was newly refurbished, with magazines on glass tabletops and chairs upholstered in a bluish-gray tweed arranged in a haphazard fashion around a small waiting room. The walls were painted a deep French blue, the place finished with crown molding. He led the way to his office, offered me coffee, which I declined, and a chair facing a desk that was spotless except for a stack of manilla folders in one corner. Then he walked to the window and adjusted the blinds with a long cord, which he wrapped around his left hand. When I was seated, he gave me an appraising look. “Had I known—”
“Stephen Cojok was killed yesterday morning.”
He pushed himself away from the desk and stood, color flooding his face. Either he was shocked at the news or he was putting on a good act. He didn’t say anything for a minute, but sat back down and pulled the manilla folders toward him, straightening them into a perfect rectangle. “Poor Lake.” He got up and paced. “I can’t say I’m sorry to hear about Stephen. Just a little … a little shocked, I guess.”
I gave him some time.
“He was my age. Young and fit. A little reckless. He seemed impervious to disease or harm. Mixed with some dangerous types, though.”
“How so?”
“You must have heard about the drugs?”
I nodded.
“I went to high school with him. New Utrecht.”
Jake Thompson came from Bensonhurst? Strange, I would have pegged him for the Heights, maybe Cobble Hill or Carroll Gardens, but even those neighborhoods were a stretch. “You and Stephen Cojok were friends?”
He grinned, showing me a perfect set of teeth. “Hardly. Stephen was always in trouble. I hung out with a different crowd.” He ran a finger along the edge of his desk. “Although we had one thing in common—fathers who thought their sons would never amount to much. We talked about it a few times.”
I watched Jake Thompson examine his hands and thought of Denny and his dad and how I doubted he’d ever get over him. Maybe that was a thing between fathers and sons. Maybe it was hard to find a balance—either the fathers thought their sons were no good or they thought they walked on water. Or maybe it was all in the minds of the sons, never any in between, so the sons never could please anyone. At that moment, I saw how difficult it was to be a man. But then how much of reality did any of us really see, especially when it came to our loved ones? Come to that, did we ever approach the truth? I was far from it when it came to sussing out Jake Thompson, let alone solving the murder of Stephen Cojok and the disappearance of his wife.
Jake Thompson was going on. “But Stephen cleaned up his act. Clawed his way back up. It must have been hard on his old man.” He narrowed his gaze. “You know about Stephen’s mother?”
I wanted to hear his telling of it, so I shook my head and let him tell the story, thinking it would be the closest I’d get to hearing Stephen’s version. “She left in the middle of the night. No note. No nothing. Stephen said his parents fought most of the time, so it wasn’t too much of a surprise. But he missed his mother. He described it as a constant ache, like having a sore tooth.”
“And she never got in touch?”
“I don’t think so. After that, I guess, Stephen’s world fell apart. He didn’t graduate, you know.” He was silent a moment. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him, but what do I know? Just that Stephen never made the mark, just that Lake deserved better.”
In that we agreed, but after I reminded him she was crazy about her husband, I let the silence marinate for a few seconds while I watched his jaw tighten.
“Lake’s not answering her phone,” I said.
His eyes widened and the red blotches on his cheeks grew. “She’s gone?”
I gave him my card. He examined it, and as if it opened a floodgate, he began to talk. He went on about growing up in Bensonhurst, where his father amassed a fortune renovating and renting out apartment buildings. While he talked, I looked around his office, at the gleaming furniture, a small corner table holding a laptop, at the super large window behind his desk, thick enough to minimize early morning traffic noise on Montague. On the far wall were three paintings, a large square and two small rectangles done by the same artist. I recognized Lake Cojok’s hand.
“You’re a fan of your tenant’s work. Admirable.”
He smiled. “She had a show at a gallery in Greenpoint a few months ago and invited me to the opening. In lieu of rent—things could be tough for them, what with Stephen’s addiction and their medical bills—she let me pick out some paintings.” He told me Stephen and Lake had been renting the top-floor apartment for almost three years. “Sometimes late payers, but her mother is so sweet and Lake’s so talented, I cut them a little slack.” He stopped talking. “You know they had to get married?”
I nodded, keeping my mouth shut, willing him to continue.
“Then she lost the baby. A few times it was Ina O’Neill’s check that covered their rent. Lovely woman. Just as lovely as her daughter.” He looked at my stomach. “Is this your first?”
I ignored the question, gave him my card, an
d told him I’d keep in touch but didn’t think he had much more to offer since he was an absentee landlord.
“I’m a hands-off kind of guy, so you’re right, I’m seldom involved with my tenants. Unless, of course, something like this happens—I let my property manager handle the day-to-day. But I want to keep up with Lake. Please let me know if I can help.”
“Just one more question: you didn’t kill Stephen?”
This time his face turned a dark red, and I could hear his teeth grind, but he managed to control himself, swiveling in the chair and standing. “That wasn’t a real question, was it?” he asked, striding to the door and holding it open.
Next thing I knew, I was lumbering out onto Montague Street, walking away from Jake Thompson and his reaction to my question, but as I did, I turned up to his window and saw him gazing out at nothing, absently winding the cord around his hand before the blinds came crashing down and hid his taut form from my view.
At Teresa’s
At Teresa’s, I left a message for Cookie and ordered myself a huge breakfast—bacon, scrambled eggs, a side of French toast. While I waited for my food, my skin started prickling, a sure sign something was up, so I looked around. A woman seated at the adjacent table was staring at me. She wore a red and black dress and high heels as if she were dining at the Ritz. As soon as she caught me gazing in her direction, she scooped up her belongings and scrambled away.
When Cookie returned my call, I was slurping the last of my meal in a pool of syrup. As I updated her on Lake’s disappearance and the empty apartment, I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know, and I don’t want to say, because … do you think Lake’s dead? But why would she be?”
“I thought she was hiding something yesterday.”
Nothing for a couple of beats. Then Cookie began her usual stream of words. I let her talk herself out of her terror while my temples pounded and I listened to a growing commotion outside. I pegged it for happening someplace across the street. When she and I both recovered, Cookie reminded me we were supposed to meet Lake in Greenpoint that afternoon. Instead, she said she’d meet me in Teresa’s in ten or fifteen minutes and we’d go together to Lake’s studio, saying we needed to check it out.
“But Lake wouldn’t be there now?” I asked.
“You don’t know artists.”
I hung up, and the noise outside grew. Customers started murmuring, some getting up to look out the window.
“What’s going on?” a man asked.
“Across the street!” someone yelled.
More diners began leaving their seats and rushing outside. Curious, I got up and saw two men fighting. Pedestrians gathered.
“I’ll kill you if I get my hands on you!”
Unusual behavior for the Heights. The wail of a siren grew louder, and as the squad pulled up, the crowd brushed themselves off and, along with whoever had been fighting, vanished except for a few hearty souls who stayed to give the cops a blow-by-blow account. When I returned to my booth, my bag was missing.
I looked up to see Cookie walking through Teresa’s front door.
I told her what had happened.
“Oldest trick in the book, and you fell for it,” she said as she slid in opposite me. “Lucky you holster your phone.”
We both craned our necks to look outside Teresa’s plate-glass window, but the scene had returned to normal. I called Denny just to hear his voice. No answer. Then I remembered he was going to pay a visit to his father’s grave before going to work.
“You get yourself embroiled in some doozies, but something’s off the charts about this case.”
I said nothing; I couldn’t because I was about to be sick. I gestured for her to stay, and I ran to the women’s room and lost it.
When I returned, Cookie was talking to the cashier, who was shaking her head.
“Maybe it fell to the floor when you ran outside and you just didn’t see it,” she suggested, so we disturbed the couple now seated in our old booth. They slid out and I got down on my hands and knees, belly hanging low while I felt the floor with my hands. Nothing, but as we opened the door to leave, someone poked me on the shoulder.
“This what you’re looking for?” a man asked, holding up my bag. “I found it on an empty chair over there.” He pointed to a vacant table. Cookie and I exchanged glances and I thanked the man. We left, me opening the bag and peering inside as we stood on Montague Street.
“Is your wallet still there?”
I nodded. “But someone’s been riffling through it. Look inside.”
Cookie examined the bag. She shrugged. “Typical.”
“Is not. I keep a well-ordered purse.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Someone’s been messing with me, I know it. Remember, I’ve got sixth sense.”
“If you had sixth sense, you’d know what happened to Lake and her apartment.”
“My sixth sense doesn’t work like that.”
We picked up the pace.
“Matter of fact, I think that whole fight was staged so someone could get at my stuff.”
“Why not just grab your phone?”
“They wouldn’t dare—it was in my hand the whole time. Besides, they’re impossible to hack, you know that.”
“And I suppose yours is password protected?”
She had a point. Denny had been after me to turn on security protection and I’d been resisting. Too much trouble to put in a code each time I wanted to make a call, but the purse-snatching incident woke me up.
We sat for a moment in the car, and when my breathing slowed, I took a good look inside my bag, dumping out most of the contents on the dash while Cookie watched, bored. The money was there. So were two pair of nitrile gloves, my keys, notebook, flashlight, tissues, sunglasses, gum. But my credit and business cards were out of their plastic holders, strewn all over the bottom of the purse. I put them back where they belonged.
“Better report it.”
“And give Jane a good laugh?”
“At least change your locks.”
“They didn’t take my keys. They’re still here.”
“They can copy them—they have a duplicating app. All they need to do is take a picture of the key; then they return it.”
My heart beat fast. Cookie was right. But then I remembered I was married to a cop and we had a nifty security system installed all over the house. It would sound an alarm that would wake up the neighborhood—when I remembered to arm it. Why should I worry? Anyway, I had fish to fry, as Mom would have said. Big ones.
“Call Denny and tell him.”
I left him a message, and as we pulled away from the curb, heading for Greenpoint on the BQE, I glanced at Cookie.
“You know where we’re going, right?”
“Lake’s studio, I hope.”
I nodded. “And you know the address?”
She bit her lip. “I’ll know it when I see it.”
Lake’s Studio
“It’s around here. Somewhere.” Cookie’s way of saying she’d forgotten the exact location of Lake’s studio. The usual twenty-minute ride from the Heights to Greenpoint stretched to an hour as we drove through the streets of North Brooklyn, asking directions every few feet—hard to do when you don’t know the address. But finally, Cookie pointed to a dark brick industrial building a few blocks away. “That’s it. Top floor.”
We parked and crunched our way over a gravelly sidewalk and tried the front door. Locked, so we waited until two people emerged, one carrying a large easel. As he tried to maneuver it through the front door, we held it open for him and slipped inside while he thanked us, pressing the button for the freight elevator. In a few minutes, there was a slow rumbling noise as the cab approached. We opened the door, smelling linseed oil and breathing in plaster dust while we did a slow jerky climb.
“Recognize it?” I asked when we stepped into the hallway
at the end of the line.
“Not really.”
We walked through the hall, knocking on doors. A few were open and we peered inside. Finally we found a sculptor. His hair, hands, and apron were covered with white dust.
“Paints large?” he asked when we asked if he knew Lake Cojok.
I nodded. “Riots of color.”
He smiled. “Other side of the floor, the studio closest to the stairwell.”
As we walked in the direction he’d indicated, my heart started to pound. When we finally arrived, I motioned to Cookie and both of us tiptoed to the door. I put my ear to it and thought I heard movement coming from inside. I pounded on the metal.
For a second, there was silence except for a distant clanking, probably coming from the elevator shaft.
I tried again.
A definite rustle, the sound of wood crashing to cement, perhaps from stretchers falling, and the approach of footsteps.
The door opened and a disheveled Lake stood before us, holding a few brushes in one hand and, in the other, a wooden palette with blobs of paint. Her hair hung in loose strands, her mouth was open, and there was a paint smudge on one of her cheeks.
She looked from Cookie to me. “I didn’t expect you until this afternoon. We said around two?”
Cookie and I looked at each other.
“We’d better sit down.”
I saw an old couch on one side of the room. We sat on either side of Lake, and as her eyes grew into saucers, I told her about Ina O’Neill’s frantic call to me and Lake’s empty apartment. Lake said nothing, but looked from me to Cookie, our words washing over her.
“Blue’s gone?”
My hands began to sweat. “I didn’t see him.”
She ranged around the room, stringing words together, more distraught about her missing cat than she’d seemed yesterday about her husband’s death. “Gone? Not my sweet Blue!”
Death and Disappearance (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 5) Page 8
