The Kills

by Linda Fairstein

  He spoke before I did. "Tripping? Did you see which way Tripping went?"

  "We got entangled in each other. That's how I fell. He got up and started running-"

  "After Dulles?" Graham asked.

  "No, no. The other way. He ran toward a black car that was parked near the taxi drop-off area," Jenna said. "Over that way."

  "You see him get in?" Mike asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Driver's side?"

  "No, no. Someone was already waiting there, in the car. Another man."

  Mike and Graham Hoyt were speaking at the same time, with different concerns.

  "That son of a bitch was coming after Dulles, to take him away from us. To kidnap him. Had a car waiting and everything," Hoyt said, turning away from his wife.

  Mike wanted to know what the man in the car looked like.

  "He was a white guy. Short hair, thin face."

  "Lionel Webster."

  "Who's got a gun, Mike," I reminded him.

  "She's yours," he said, telling Jenna Hoyt to stay with me till he got back or got word to us later.

  Mike jogged in the direction of the parking garage, talking into his cell phone as he did.

  Graham Hoyt took off the other way, toward his sleek-looking speedboat, the Pirate 's tender tied up at the end of the dock. Jenna followed behind him, favoring her bruised leg. I ran after them, overtaking her quickly and trailing behind her husband.

  Halfway down the pier, Jenna let out a groan. I looked back and saw her doubled over, kneading a cramp out of her calf. She waved us on.

  Graham Hoyt took care of the slipknot and tossed the rope onto the clean white rear seat of the boat, bounding in after it. "We're going for the boy," he called out to his wife.

  He held out his hand and I jumped on as he juiced the motor and headed upriver.

  38

  The bow of the Whaler crashed against the waves, and the second speed bump threw me down onto the seat. Graham Hoyt was holding the wheel, driving the powerful craft hard, running it between and around the river traffic. Spray from the cold river was splashing over the sides, carried by the wind, soaking my hair and face.

  Hoyt looked back at me. "Stay down, okay?"

  I nodded that I would.

  With his left hand he picked up a walkie-talkie device, trying to raise his captain on it.

  Seconds later came the reply that he could be heard.

  "We're in the tender, trying to catch up to you. Is Dulles okay?"

  The machine crackled as the answer was transmitted. I could hear the captain say that the boy was "just fine."

  Hoyt asked how far ahead they were, and I thought I heard the words "Spuyten Duyvil," which was just a few miles north. He replaced the device on the dashboard and turned to me with a smile, slowing the speed a bit. My stomach had been churning as the boat slammed against the water over and over. Now I was able to let go of my firm grip on the edge of the seat.

  "He's good, Alex," Hoyt said, flashing me a grin. I could barely hear him over the sound of the engine.

  I called out from the back of the boat, "You're both really determined to get him through all this. That's clear."

  He was relaxed now. "I only hope Jenna can put up with Andrew's nonsense until we get a judge to formalize the arrangement. I've raised a lot of money for children's organizations around the world, Alex. It's Jenna's passion, and we've been pleased to do it. All those orphans in Bosnia and Afghanistan and East Africa. What the hell else is there but kids, in the end? I've thrown a lot of my money into making kids' lives better."

  Somebody had just been talking to me about a corporate lawyer who donated money to children's charities. The wind whipped my hair into my eyes and mouth, and I tried to recall the conversation. I remembered, too, there was a scam involved.

  We had passed the Seventy-ninth Street boat basin and were parallel with the West Side Highway. I took my cell phone from my pocket and called Mercer Wallace to see whether he had any word from Mike.

  "Hey, where are you?"

  "With Graham Hoyt, trying to catch up to the big boat to find Dulles. Halfway between Hoboken and Harlem, on the water. You heard anything from-"

  "I'm telling you right this minute, Alexandra, lower yourself into the drink if you have to, but get yourself back to shore this very minute."

  "What's wrong?"

  Hoyt must have heard the change in my voice and looked around at me. I smiled at him and shrugged my shoulders. "Just checking with my deputy to make sure nothing serious came up while I was on the Vineyard. She's home with her kids."

  "Is anyone else with you?" Mercer asked.

  "No."

  "You close to any place he can dock or pull in?"

  "Not far."

  Hoyt kept checking back on me.

  "Is it Mike? Did he get Andrew Tripping?"

  "I haven't heard a thing from Mike. I got another glitch."

  "Like what?"

  "Just you come home."

  "You've got to tell me so I know what I'm dealing with here," I said, hoping the concern in my whispered words hadn't been carried to Hoyt by the wind.

  "After I left Kevin Bessemer at the hospital, I stopped by to see Tiffany's mother. Thank her for calling in the tip."

  "Yeah."

  "Remember Tiffany told us she took something from Queenie's apartment, after she got there and found the old girl was dead?"

  "A photograph. She took a photograph of Queenie with her son."

  "That's who all of us believed was in the picture, when Tiffany said it was a young boy, right? We just assumed it was Fabian because it came out of Queenie's apartment."

  "It's not Fabian?"

  "Mrs. Gatts had the picture at her place, 'cause she took her daughter's purse home with her the day Tiffany was arrested. It was a ten-year-old boy in the picture, all right, but it wasn't McQueen Ransome's son and it wasn't taken forty years ago."

  "What?"

  Hoyt had slowed the boat even further, and I continued to fake my lack of concern.

  I needed to listen to Mercer and not panic. I needed to let him tell me what he knew.

  "The kid in the photograph is Dulles Tripping-it's a Polaroid and he signed his name right on the back, thanking McQueen Ransome for something, maybe something she gave him."

  "Um, hmm, I understand," I said, beginning to see the light.

  "And it's dated. It was taken on the afternoon Queenie died, just hours before Kevin and Tiffany got there and claim she was already dead."

  "I see," I said, still pretending to be talking to Sarah Brenner. "I'll take care of that next week."

  "You'll take care of it right now, Alex. Whoever the agency had let Dulles go off with that afternoon, whoever he was allowed to visit with, might be the person who killed McQueen Ransome. Now maybe it's not Graham Hoyt, but until I can get an answer to that from the child welfare agency, I don't want you alone with him for another nanosecond."

  "It's okay, Sarah. We're just a couple of minutes away from the yacht. I'm counting on a delicious lunch from Mr. Hoyt's chef." I wanted Mercer to know there was a crew on board the boat with Dulles, so I wouldn't be alone for long.

  "Call me when you get there, right?"

  Hoyt had picked up the walkie-talkie again and was speaking to someone on the Pirate.

  "Would you do me one more favor?" I said to Mercer. I had shifted my body now so that I was holding the phone to my left ear, my back to Hoyt, with the magnificent skyline of Manhattan receding before me.

  "Shoot."

  "Call Christine Kiernan, will you? She triangulated a phone number for a new case last week. Tell her it's urgent. Ask her to do a trap-and-trace on my line immediately. She's got all the forms and the contacts at TARU. She can do it in minutes. Keep an eye on me till we get back. Track my coordinates, please?"

  "Stay on with me, Alex. Just stay on the line."

  Hoyt shut off his receiver and hung it in its cradle. He jerked the steering wheel as hard as he could and
pushed ahead on the throttle, turning the boat completely around, a full one-eighty, heading back to the mouth of the great river. I fell down against the seat and the small phone flipped out of my hand onto the wet floor, sliding across out of reach to the other side of the tender.

  Find me, I prayed silently to Mercer. Find me before I'm sleeping with the fishes.

  39

  I hugged the leather seat cushion and tried to balance myself against it on my way to grab the cell phone. Hoyt had let go of the wheel for a few seconds. Steadier than I as the boat crossed its own wake, he stepped ahead, leaned over, and picked it up before I could get to it.

  "Is there some change in-?" I tried to ask without broadcasting my alarm.

  "We're going back to the Chelsea Piers. Just stay where you are. I'm going to bounce us around a bit." He was looking angry now, under way at excessive speed and rolling me across the stern of the sturdy Whaler.

  He pressed a button on the phone and held it to his ear with one hand. He must have hit redial. If he heard Mercer's voice and not Sarah's, he'd know I'd been lying.

  Mercer probably answered immediately, since we had been disconnected abruptly.

  Hoyt turned to me and sneered, throwing the phone into the water and laughing as he spoke into the breeze, "Sorry, wrong number."

  There were craft of all shapes and sizes zigzagging across the Hudson on this fall afternoon. I wasn't able to stand up without falling at the speed we were going, no one could hear me over the noise of the various engines if I were to call out for help across the water, and the only option left-waving my arms in the air-would look like a friendly greeting to most boaters out on a sunny afternoon.

  "Don't even think about it, Alex. Just sit nice and still."

  I was anything but still, tossing around on the seat cushion as Hoyt purposely steered the boat back and forth, almost hot-rodding it on the chop to keep me off-balance.

  "Over here," he said, snarling at me. He pointed to a spot directly next to his feet.

  I didn't move. Hoyt spun the wheel sharply to the left, hard enough to knock me across the length of the rear seat and send me crashing onto the floor.

  "Damn it. I said I want you over here."

  I crouched and started moving in his direction, looking everywhere for some kind of tool that I could use to defend myself.

  We were below Forty-second Street now-I could track the West Side Highway ramp descending and the roadway curving-but Hoyt gave no sign of slowing down as we came into striking distance of Chelsea Piers.

  "We're going to let the boy be for a while, Alex. You and I have things to talk about."

  There wasn't going to be time for a long conversation before we passed the southern tip of Manhattan heading into Upper New York Bay and the ocean that stretched out forever beyond the Verrazano Bridge. The Atlantic was a massive graveyard that I didn't want to visit today.

  "Your captain will be back-"

  "I know, I know. And your buddies will be looking for you all the way from Chelsea to the Dover cliffs. But I just told my crew that the damn engine in this boat is acting up again. And my unreliable steering column-I meant to have it repaired in Nantucket. It would be a terrible thing if I lost control and it crashed up on the rocks," he said, pausing to glance down at me. "With one of us still aboard."

  There had to be a knife or bottle opener or sharp-edged object in some compartment or other. Everything seemed to be stowed tightly in place, and I saw nothing loose that I could grasp for protection.

  Hoyt went on. "I just told the captain that you insisted on seeing the Statue of Liberty up close. So this excursion will be, after all, your very own idea, Alex. That's the way he'll tell it."

  I was sitting in a puddle now, and when Hoyt dipped the boat on its side to throw me off-guard from time to time, I shivered from my thighs to my shoulders as the cold water saturated my clothing.

  With one hand, he unlatched a drawer beneath the windshield and reached in, removing a short length of rope and dangling it in front of my face.

  Paige Vallis. What had Squeeks told me about her cause of death? She'd been strangled by some kind of ligature. Probably a thin rope.

  Hoyt let go of the wheel for a few seconds while he made a sailor's knot, deftly, as if he'd done it hundreds of times before. Maybe even in the laundry room of Vallis's apartment building. Again he let it swing before my eyes.

  "What was it that changed your mood, Alex? What did the detective tell you that seemed to frighten you so terribly?"

  "Nothing scared me. I-uh, I was just worried about Mike. He was talking to me about Mike Chapman. Nobody's heard from him since he ran off after Andrew Tripping. Mercer's concerned, too."

  Hoyt grabbed a handful of my hair in his left hand and smashed my head backward against the edge of the cockpit door.

  "Lying never helps, Alex. You're smart enough to know that. I heard you say the name Fabian. Now why in the world would you be talking about him right now?"

  I didn't answer. I had found the man who was the missing link between the two murders-McQueen Ransome and Paige Vallis.

  "Something the friendly detective said shocked you. Why don't you slip this rope over your ankles while you think about telling me what it was exactly?"

  He lowered the noose and I fumbled at putting my feet through the opening. Though I was a very strong swimmer, I couldn't do anything if I went into the water with a restraint around my legs.

  "I thought about putting it over your neck instead, but then if one of us survives this little accident-and surely one of us will-I wouldn't want to have to explain those burn marks that would have been on your throat." Hoyt pulled up on the end of the rope and it tightened over the cuff of my pants, jerking me closer to him and lashing my head against the boat's floor.

  My hands were free, and I thought about striking at his knees to bring him down with me. But the cord on my legs limited my mobility, and although he was shorter than I, he seemed to be strong-and determined.

  "So you were saying to Mr. Wallace-something about a photograph and a boy-possibly Fabian Ransome?"

  I couldn't speak. I didn't know what kind of answer Hoyt was looking for.

  "Now's the time to talk," he said, lifting his leg to deliver a swift kick to my side. "Heard you're never at a loss for words in the courtroom."

  I looked up at him, everything coming into focus. "So you're the one paying for Tiffany Gatts's lawyers. You're the one she's afraid will have her killed if she talks."

  He was weaving between a ferry and some smaller boats, maneuvering through heavier traffic as we got down to Battery Park City and its busy marina, nearing the southern tip of Manhattan.

  I could see the majestic statue of Lady Liberty straight ahead of us, green copper skin glinting in the sunlight, her torch raised high as she appeared to be striding forward. She loomed over the harbor, welcoming the tired, poor, and huddled masses, her "mild eyes," as Lazarus described them, blind to my dilemma.

  I thought of the image of Liberty on the face of the Double Eagle. Was I going to die because of a useless twenty-dollar piece of gold?

  Hoyt was clear of some of the traffic and ready to talk again.

  "All this for what?" I asked. "You and Peter Robelon are both chasing after the same thing, aren't you?"

  "Don't spend too much of your time thinking, Alex. You should be admiring the view."

  "I can figure out Tiffany's role in this. Tiffany and Kevin Bessemer. Who's Spike Logan working for? Which of you sent that bastard after me?"

  "Watch how you speak of the dead."

  I looked up at Hoyt.

  "The sea is a treacherous place, Alex. I told Spike I'd pick him up in the tender, from Stonewall Beach, the morning after the storm. He seemed to have lost his footing on the swim platform when he tried to get on board. I went to save him with the grappling hook, but-well, I missed the mark."

  That must have been just shortly before I saw Hoyt on the Pirate yesterday, gassing up in Menemsha. "
You killed him because he didn't bring back what you sent him for?" I was rolling the words slowly off my tongue, trying to understand what had been going on around me. "You killed him because his mission was to get from me whatever it is you think I have?"

  "Paige set you up, Alex. Right before she died. I know you've got it."

  I could see the seven points in Liberty's diadem, one for each of the world's seas and continents. "That's not true, Graham. She didn't send me anything. She-"

  He kicked my side again with the bottom of his shoe. "It's ugly when you dissemble. Think about it. Paige didn't want to die, Alex. She really didn't. She pleaded with me, on her knees, on the cold cement of the basement floor. I gave her one chance, and she told me she sent it to you. Help me, Alex," Hoyt said, patting me on top of my head. "Help yourself."

  "What is it, Graham?" I pleaded. "How the hell can I tell you when I don't know what you're looking for?"

  We were almost in front of Bedloe's Island now, circling the star-shaped foundation of Fort Wood, on which the great lady stood. I could see the broken shackles at Liberty's feet, and envied her escape from tyranny, when all that held me was a length of rope.

  I tried again. "The coin. Is it the Double Eagle you're looking for?"

  "Not anymore, Alex."

  I put my head in my hands and tried to shake the image that had appeared. I was thinking of the photograph of Queenie and the Tripping boy, taken just before her death. "You took Dulles with you when you killed McQueen Ransome? That's how you-"

  Liberty was behind us now, and Hoyt was going full throttle into Upper New York Bay, with Staten Island straight ahead. If he veered left, under the Verrazano to the ocean, I would be running out of shoreline as fast as I was running out of ideas.

  "Don't be stupid, Alex. You know how I feel about kids. He just came in for a bit of a tease, to warm the old lady up, remind her of her lost little boy. See if she'd part with her precious gold treasure, which was worthless to her anyway. That's what she'd promised me, as long as I'd bring the kid by every now and then to visit her. Pay some of her expenses. Find her a nicer place to live. Dulles performed like an angel. Then I sent him out to the car, and-"