Benny was right. He had no names, no addresses, and couldn’t tell me anything I hadn’t heard before from Lake. “You were his savior, though. You listened. You didn’t judge.”
“You see, Stephen and I were ships passing in the night. No judgment. Although most of our conversation was one way, from him to me. He knew I was gay; that didn’t seem to bother him. He needed to talk, and I let him ramble.”
Benny seemed almost too good to be true, and I wondered what was in it for him. My cynicism poking through. For all I knew, he was doing a con job big time on me, maybe even working for Stephen’s boss, and I was the sucker getting hooked into a yarn. My heart began to pound. But it was a connection, and an important one, not that all of our connections aren’t important. Then a small voice in my head grew louder: No, Benny was a human being just like the rest of us, groping in a maze, but he’d found the right way; he figured out he’d been put on this earth to help his fellow humans. So talking to Stephen became part of his life’s work.
“Did you meet his wife?”
He shook his head. “Lake? I saw her once coming toward us, but that was my cue to go.”
“And you know nothing else about him?”
“I’m sorry.”
He showed me to the hall and was opening the door when I thought of one more thing.
“I’m trying to trace his mother.”
His head made a quirky gesture like that of an inquisitive bird. “Karen something?”
I stopped. I could feel the elevator rising to my throat. Karen—that was what Stephen’s father had called her in passing.
Benny went on. “I never met her, of course, but I know Stephen had recently found her. He’d been searching most of his life for his mother. As a kid, he wrote letters to Santa, and that’s all he asked for, to find his mom. See, she’d left him years ago when he was a kid.”
“You wouldn’t have an address.”
Benny didn’t answer. He seemed enthralled with the mystery and the horror of it. “All those years spent looking and he finally finds her. As if by a miracle. Then he’s killed.”
He stopped talking. I waited before asking again how Stephen found his mother.
“Quite by accident.”
Benny was lost again in the marvel of it, and I told myself to be patient. To listen, and not just with my ears.
“He was standing in line someplace. It’ll come to me.”
So I waited.
“Just that it was someplace in Bay Ridge.”
“Think, now. Anything else? Time of day? How long ago? Where were you when he told you? Did he say anything about her, what she looked like?”
“We were in the park of course, our hangout. I hadn’t seen him in a while when all of a sudden, there he was, sitting on our bench. He was excited. He’d shaved, wore clean clothes, and I knew something was up. He said he’d found his mother.”
Benny’s face was radiant. I gave him space.
“I’d never seen Stephen so happy.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“Now I remember. He said he’d been delivering something for his boss. And before you ask, I don’t know anything about it, nothing at all.”
I waited, thinking Benny was a careful man, insistent that he knew nothing about the drugs, and my mind, being what it was, suspected collusion.
After a few minutes, he went on. “I think he delivered to a Thai place on Third Avenue. Wasn’t the first time, either; I know the Bay Ridge business was a frequent run of his. And since he didn’t like Thai food, he said he walked around until he found American. It must have been fate, Stephen told me, because as he was about to leave the neighborhood, he saw his mother walking on Third Avenue. From his sideview mirror. Can you imagine his astonishment?”
“And he knew the woman was his mother, even though he hadn’t seen her in years?”
“Does a son ever forget his mother? He followed her and watched her enter a coffee shop.”
“On Third Avenue?”
He nodded. “Sally’s something or other.”
After urging him to call if he thought of anything else, I thanked him and ran down the stairs, pulling out my phone and leaving a message for Stephen’s father. He must have his wife’s maiden name. Whether or not he’d give it to me was another question. Something about the story was troubling: what had Stephen been delivering in Bay Ridge? Where and what had he delivered for his boss? Not content with just one iron in the fire, I called Minnie, gave her Henry Cojok’s contact, and asked her to do some digging.
“I’ve left a message for him, but I doubt he’ll return the call, so please give him a nudge. When I met with him the other day, he wouldn’t admit to knowing where his estranged wife is, but I think he has more information than he’s letting on. Tell him we’re trying to locate her. Tell him it’s important. And you might try the middle school in Bay Ridge—they’d have Stephen’s birth certificate, and with luck, it would have his mother’s maiden name. Henry Cojok referred to her as Karen. So did the man I just met, an acquaintance of Stephen.”
I could hear Minnie crunching chips and scribbling as she talked. “I’ll do my best, but don’t forget.” Crunch. “All these years with no word? She could have changed her first and last name.”
Minnie was right. Just then I remembered the photo of her in my bag. I rooted around before I found it, scanned it into my phone and sent it to her.
“Oh my! Madonna and child,” Minnie said. “Why would a woman leave her son?”
“Maybe because of abuse, who knows? Maybe an affair?”
“But she didn’t take the child with her? Why do you spend time tracing her?”
“Just get back to me as soon as possible with the info.”
At the Augustus
The gallery didn’t open until noon, so Lorraine and Frank had time for a leisurely breakfast.
“Denny shook hands with me before he left.” Frank shoveled in scrambled eggs. “Did you see that?”
Lorraine smiled. “I’m not surprised. He just needs time.”
“Not so sure. I’m worried about him,” Frank said. “Something distant in his eyes, and the other day I had a talk with Clancy.”
Lorraine put down her paper.
“Claims Denny’s partner confided in him.”
“In Clancy?”
“I guess because Clancy is Denny’s best friend. She said she heard from the union rep they’re watching Denny—he’s no-showed for work a few times this month alone. They put up with it for a year, but he keeps disappearing.”
Lorraine felt her heart race. She got up and fetched the pot and refilled their cups, trying to stop her hand from shaking. “He’d been to see Robbie’s grave yesterday afternoon, so I’m not surprised. Still, I see progress. You remember what he was like when they came back from their honeymoon and found us in the kitchen?”
Frank gave her one of his wicked smiles. “He could find us like that now.”
Lorraine pretended she hadn’t heard. “Still, I think something else is going on with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not just Robbie’s death. That complicates it, but there’s something deeper.”
“What could be deeper than losing the man he idolized?”
She gave an involuntary shudder as if she could shake away her son’s agony. “We’ve got work to do on Fina’s case, and if you ask me, we’re late.”
They dressed the part of wealthy collectors, or at least Brooklyn’s version. Lorraine felt more comfortable driving, but Frank insisted on taking his Mercedes. “Can’t show up in a beat-up Plymouth, even if it is an antique.” So Lorraine agreed, not that she thought they’d find parking in front of the gallery.
She tried not to think of speed limits and directional signals—Frank didn’t pay much attention to either—so she watched the harbor, choppy in the spring air as they crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge. In the distance she saw tugs guiding a huge liner, probably chugging toward a berth on the Upper West Side
. She could tell by the ship’s three masts glinting in the sun it was the QE2, and she’d love to take a cruise some day with Frank, but she was afraid to say anything just now. He’d take his eyes off the road and they’d have an accident. She squirmed in her seat and concentrated on the job.
“Don’t say anything about the painting when we walk in.”
“Yes, ma’am. You look beautiful, by the way. Not that you’re not always gorgeous. Just special today. Had your tips dyed recently? Anthony got a little carried away, don’t you think?”
A few months ago when she and Frank became reacquainted—one way of putting it—she began taking better care of herself and got a new hairdo. She’d followed the suggestion of her stylist and tried dyeing the tips cerulean, just a touch. “Gives you such a delicious look and brings out your gorgeous eyes,” Anthony had told her. And he’d been right. Frank loved it. Their romance had exploded that night. Into the next day. Lorraine blushed with the memory, then concentrated on Frank’s driving. Someone had to.
He changed lanes abruptly and cars honked. A cabbie rolled down his window and yelled an obscenity. This was the FDR, after all. Lorraine pursed her lips, telling herself to stay silent. About the only thing Frank and her late husband had in common—they were horrible drivers.
Her shoulder hit the door, and she righted herself.
Frank shot her a rueful smile. “That was a close one.”
She tried to remain calm. “I’m surprised you don’t have any dents.”
“That’s because I just got it back from the body shop.”
“Next exit.”
He glanced at her and smiled. “I know, but not to worry, I like a woman who tells me what to do.”
She bit her tongue. Why couldn’t she just keep quiet? She began a Hail Mary in her head.
They rode in silence the rest of the way, cutting over to Madison Avenue on Eighty-Sixth and driving the few blocks to their destination. As if by a miracle, they found parking opposite Augustus Gallery. For a second Frank’s attention was arrested by the antique car parked directly behind them, but muttering something about taking a better look later, they both made a show of arm-in-arming it in style.
Lorraine’s turquoise blouse complemented the Hermes scarf Frank had given her for Christmas. She’d chided him for his extravagance, but kissed him all the same, blushing at the memory. A sudden longing shot through her. What kind of a hot tamale did she think she was?
As they crossed the street, Lorraine stared at the gallery, willing her heart to stop its wild beating. You’d think at her age she wouldn’t be intimidated by places like Augustus Gallery. What was it—her lifelong need to please and knowing she’d never hit the mark? She didn’t have this problem walking into museums, but this place exuded wealth and snootiness rolled into one. Forget that she probably had more money than most of the store owners on the block, especially the galleries that put on such a show. But she reminded herself that her wealth was due to the death of a friend who’d remembered her in her will, not that Lorraine would tell anyone about it, least of all Frank or her children. It was her secret—hers and her lawyer’s. She vowed not to touch any of the principal, but took down the name of Trisha Liam’s investor and let her have at it. No, the money was for her children and grandchildren, a surprise at her death. She hoped she’d live long enough so they’d grow into responsible adults who’d save it for their children. And now that she’d met Frank, she had something to live for. They could use the interest and dividends for travel and the extra expenses that cropped up each year. For an instant, she imaged herself laid out in Russo’s Funeral Parlor, Fina and Denny crying in front of the bier. Embarrassed, she shook herself back to the present.
“You’re a bit early for the owner, I’m afraid,” a tall woman said, greeting them as Frank opened the door. She wore a red and black dress and four-inch spikes, not exactly a spring outfit, and her gait reminded Lorraine of a rooster. “But please, be my guest.” She flapped a hand at the paintings. “Take your time. Look around. No exhibit at present, except for a sampling of the gallery’s artists. I’d be happy to answer any questions.” And with that, she strutted out of sight.
Lorraine took her time. Frank followed her around like a lost stray.
“This is a load of crap,” he whispered.
“Just because you don’t like abstract.”
“Not all abstract. Some pictures of kids in the snow on that wall.” He walked over to a stack of catalogues in the front, picked one up, and thumbed through it. “Holy cannoli! Did you see these prices?”
“Frank!”
There were three rooms, each containing a row of paintings evenly spaced on the walls. She examined each one, Frank mumbling by her side, and stopped in front of a small oil sitting on the chair. In the left-hand corner were the initials LC and a date. Lake’s painting. She picked it up and looked at the back. Canvas, not linen. At first she didn’t know what to say; she knew she had to pretend to like it. It was colorful enough, the design pleasing. She stepped back, and the painting turned and she stopped, surprised. As she stood there, Lorraine found herself drawn into the artist’s world of line and color and form.
“Remind you of Bijet?” she asked Frank.
“Not exactly.” In her ear: “Who the hell is Bijet?”
“Stay with me on this, Frank.” She shot him a look.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” another woman, tall with gray hair and a large mole on her left cheek, emerged from the back. She introduced herself as the gallery’s senior associate.
“It would be such a counterpoint to the Monet in the dining room, don’t you think, darling?” Lorraine looked up at him.
Frank nodded, giving her a bewildered smirk. As they stood side by side in front of the woman, he took his hand off Lorraine’s shoulder and pinched her rear.
She steadied herself. “What can you tell me about the artist?”
The associate smiled. “She’s new to our gallery. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll get her résumé.”
When she returned, the woman apologized; she couldn’t seem to locate anything on the artist; she’d make a few phone calls. “May I have a card? I’ll call you when I have her CV.”
“You have just the one work?”
The woman frowned. “If you’ll wait a few minutes, I need to consult the database.”
“Maybe the other woman knows?”
“What other woman?”
Lorraine looked at Frank. “There was another woman here, wasn’t there?”
He nodded. “Wearing a red and black dress?”
“She had prominent features,” Lorraine said. “And a large tortoiseshell comb in her raven hair. Dark, thick eyebrows. She came out of the back and greeted us.”
The woman assured her she was the only female associate employed by the gallery, saying there was a man who helped out from time to time, especially for openings and in November and December when the gallery brimmed over with customers. “And of course, the owner, but he is rarely here, only for important collectors and, of course, major exhibits. Perhaps you were next door when you saw this black-haired woman? Many collectors gallery hop and get us mixed up with our neighbors. It could be you are confused.”
Lorraine felt her skin prickle.
Frank put his arm around her. “We’re certain someone else tried to help us. And it was here, in this gallery. Another associate, a woman in a red and black dress, minutes before you came out.”
The gray-haired woman straightened, her brows furrowed. She asked again for Lorraine’s phone number, and after a slight hesitation, she wrote it down on a slip of paper. After telling them she’d call when she had more information about the artist, the woman excused herself.
As soon as she disappeared, Frank and Lorraine made for the door, Lorraine’s heart pounding. “She’s lying, but why?”
In the Alley
Outside, Frank said, “Keep your head down and walk fast.” At the corner they turned right and hurried do
wn the block until they came to a narrow alleyway.
“What are we doing, Colombo?”
Frank swiveled his neck in both directions. “Looking around.” He turned into the alley.
“For what?”
He took out his phone and began taking pictures. “How should I know? Just doing a little snooping.”
“You should work for Fina.”
Lorraine recognized the backs of the buildings whose stores fronted Madison Avenue. They looked like they’d been around a while, early twentieth century, she imagined, most of them brownstones two or three stories high. Well-kept. A high-rent neighborhood. Most extended back to the alley, and many had garages—logical, most of the stores would need some sort of service access to haul inventory back and forth, especially those galleries showing heavy pieces—they couldn’t have trucks blocking Madison Avenue, a major north-south thoroughfare since the mid-nineteenth century. Known for its advertising agencies in the last century, the street had been home to many Uptown galleries since the 1920s. She craned her neck. No backyards, of course. Directly behind Augustus Gallery, they stopped at a formidable-looking garage with a high metal door. Frank took more pictures. He went up to the door and pounded on it, making a loud, hollow drumlike sound.
“Frank! You’ll wake the dead.”
“Empty. Big enough to hold a large truck, and look, fresh tire tracks.”
Lorraine looked down but saw nothing. “You’re imagining.”
He pointed to a small impression on the driveway.
She shrugged.
He snapped more pictures.
“Just because you got a new phone last week, now you’re Dick Tracy?” But she was so proud of him, and her heart pounded: she wanted to be with him always.
He walked around to the side and disappeared, returning a few minutes later. “Looks like it backs up to the gallery.”
“Almost like an attached warehouse?”
He nodded. “There’s a side door close to the alley, but it’s locked.”
They stood there a few minutes more, not moving. No one around. Lorraine reached up and stroked his cheek.
Death and Disappearance (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 5) Page 12
