We make our way through downtown Albany where I make a right onto Broadway, heading south. When I arrive at the entrance to the deserted Port of Albany, I pull in and drive across the empty, weed-filled lot to the old warehouse buildings that line the docks where the giant ships used to be moored.
While Elvis showers up, his beefy voice bellowing a water-soaked “Blue Hawaii” throughout the twenty-five hundred square foot, wood plank-floored loft, I crack a morning beer and search the internet for the home address of New York State Senator Jeffery Bates. I’m not even half way done with my beer before I find the address which, as it turns out, isn’t all that far from Schroder’s house. In fact, when I Google Map the location, I can easily see that Bates’ house is located less than a mile from the brain surgeon on the same road, same development, same Schuyler Meadow’s Country Club golf course butting up against its backyard.
I finish the beer, crack another one. Elvis has finished with “Blue Hawaii” and now he’s begun “Love Me Tender.”
“You’re not doing anything funky in my shower, are you, Elvis?” I shout out.
“Very funny, Mr. Moonlight. I can’t even see my dick much less hold it.”
Since he’s taking so long, I decide to Google Amanda Bates. The web search doesn’t reveal a whole lot other than her Facebook page, which has been shut down in the wake of her death. Turns out there are quite a few Amanda Bates’ in the world and sifting through every one of them doesn’t appeal to me. I go to The Albany Times Union to view the obit which makes her out to be a loving, devoted, sinless daughter and not one who would lure the likes of Stephen Schroder into a bedroom and then cry rape. Just looking at the grainy image of her face, she seems sweet, young, adorable, and innocent. A Lola look-a-like from a long time ago.
There’s an article about Stephen’s arrest and his pending conviction of reckless murder along with a quote by Detective Miller: “If it turns out that Schroder is indeed directly responsible for the suicide of Amada Bates, we will stop at nothing to see that he is charged to the fullest extent of the law.” Another quote follows his. It’s by a law professor at The Albany Law School: “If Stephen Schroder is charged and inevitably convicted of reckless murder,” he states, “it will set a brand new precedent for hate crimes perpetrated via social media. This isn’t the first time a child has committed suicide because of humiliating second and third party Facebook postings, but perhaps it will be the first time that one of these second or third party culprits pays the ultimate price for their transgressions.” The article ends with a statement from Senator Bates about how broken his and his wife’s hearts are over the sad affair. And while he refuses to comment on Stephen or his arrest, he claims to be placing his “trust in both the American judicial system and the good Lord above.” End of statement.
I close the laptop, take a quick drink of the cold beer. It hits me suddenly that what I’m becoming mixed up in is liable to make some waves in the national news. I can’t help but wonder if it could be good for business. Not that a head-case like me will ever get rich being a gumshoe.
I take another drink of beer as the shower finally stops, along with the singing. I’m almost sad to hear it end. I’m looking out the window onto the river, but my eyes are seeing Amanda Bates, and when I see the now dead teenager, I can’t help but see Lola.
My smartphone is set out on the counter in the kitchen area. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I pick it up, dial Lola’s memorized cell phone. Heart beating in my mouth, I wait for a connection. But I don’t get a connection. At least not with Lola. Instead, I get a computerized message: “The AT&T customer you are trying to reach is not available at this time.”
I hang up.
Is the customer not available because she’s not alive? Or is she not available because she’s blocked my phone number?
Elvis steps out of the bathroom. He’s drying his hair while the rest of his white, bulbous body and shriveled up purple and pink junk is exposed for all to see. Or, for me to see anyway.
“Jesus, Elvis,” I bark, “put some clothes on for God’s sakes.”
He laughs.
“I turn you on, Moonlight?” he laughs.
“I hope not. You leave me any hot water?”
“Not a drop,” he says, opening the fridge, grabbing himself a cold beer. “You got yourself a tiny little hot water tank.”
Visions of a very alive Lola swimming inside my brain, I head into the steamy bathroom knowing that a cold shower might not be a bad idea.
Chapter 38
A half hour later, we’re driving back to Schroder’s neighborhood in Loudonville, the posh North Albany suburb. We pass by the former brain surgeon’s big yellow monstrosity first, not saying a word about it, barely craning our necks to look at it. I continue driving on past the brand new custom mansions, with their manicured lawns, and picture perfect landscaping until I come to a home that’s surrounded by a big, black, wrought iron fence. The kind of fence that consists of sharp, spear-like shafts implanted vertically in the ground so that anyone who attempts to scale it risks impaling themselves in the most sensitive of places.
There’s a big metal gate that secures the driveway. It’s open which is fortunate for us since I’m not sure Bates will be in the mood to allow a private investigator working for the Schroders into his life right now, even if the doc decided to pay his respects at the funeral. Better I show up unannounced.
“This place is bigger than Graceland,” Elvis comments, as I pull in through the gates, slowly making my way up the long driveway towards a three-story white colonial. The home’s front exterior contains four white pillars that support a pyramidal portico and, below it, a long wood porch. The place looks more at home on a pre-Civil War plantation down south than it does in upstate New York.
As we approach the three car garage, I can’t help but notice the five or six cars that occupy both the top of the driveway and the circular turn-around that’s located in front of the porch. The cars are expensive models. Most of them finished in black and sporting dark tinted, bullet-proof windows. Senator Bates’ secret service maybe. That is, the law calls for State Senators to enjoy the protection of a secret service.
Instead of turning right onto the turn-around, I choose the less visible option and park in front of the garage. I am driving a hearse, after all, and these people just buried their daughter less than twenty-four hours ago.
I kill the engine. Elvis and I get out.
“Let me do the talking,” I say.
“Like you need to tell me that.”
He’s got a point.
We take the paved sidewalk around the side of the house to the front porch. We climb the stairs, make our way to the big front wood door. I press the doorbell. A big chime sounds. We wait. Soon, I can make out footsteps. The door opens. It’s a woman. An attractive woman, maybe thirty-five or forty. She’s dressed in a tight, black, sleeveless dress. She’s got lush brunette hair that falls against her shoulders like a wave crashing on a pristine beach, and her wrists support an assortment of silver jewelry while, around her neck, she wears a silver angel on a sterling silver chain. The angel rests just above her cleavage. On her feet, black pumps. I try to look for a wedding ring, but I can’t seem to shift my gaze away from her big brown eyes. Eyes not all that different from Amanda’s. Not all that different from Lola’s either.
“Can I help you?” she asks, softly.
“Dick,” I utter.
“Is that so,” she says, a hint of a smile forming on her tan face.
I shake my head to clear the cobwebs.
“I’m Dick Moonlight,” I say, reaching into my jeans pocket, handing her a business card. “I’m a private detective investigating Amanda’s death.” Gesturing over my right shoulder. “This is my associate, Mr. Hills.”
She looks us both over, forms a frown.
“Do you have some kind of ID?”
I pull my wallet out from the interior pocket on my thin leather coat, open it, exposing the laminated PI li
cense.
She nods.
I put the wallet away.
“May we come in?”
“This isn’t the best of times,” she explains. “The family is very upset.”
“I understand that, and I apologize for the intrusion. But if I could get a word with the Senator and Mrs. Bates.”
“I’m Mrs. Bates’ baby sister. And I can tell you right now, she’s not talking to anyone. Especially a private detective.”
She’s beginning to raise her voice. Not a good sign. Then, someone else enters the room.
“What’s this all about, Lisa?”
She turns, taking hold of the angel on her neck with the two fingers on her wedding hand. No ring. Moonlight the lucky dog.
The man standing behind her is tall. More than tall. Like six feet four tall. He’s thin and well groomed, his salt and pepper hair slicked back on his head with product.
Senator Bates.
“These men are private detectives,” Lisa tells him. “They’re investigating Amanda’s death. Shall I ask them to leave?”
He approaches the door.
“I’m Senator Bates. Now is not the best of time for us.”
“Now’s the only time, Senator,” I say.
“And why is that?”
“I’ve been to see Stephen Schroder in county lockup.”
“And?”
“You might be interested in hearing what he has to say about Amanda and the truth about what happened down the road at the Schroder home last Friday night.”
I’m taking a hard line with him, but I have no choice. I leave now, I’ll never have another chance to steal a private face to face with him.
He stares at me. Into me.
“Okay,” he says. “Please come in.”
We enter into a giant vestibule that’s something out of Gone with the Wind with its massive center hall staircase that leads up to the second floor and the crystal chandelier overhead. Somewhere off in another room someone is crying. Mrs. Bates, no doubt.
“Shall I retrieve my sister?” Lisa says to the Senator.
“Let’s not bother Kathleen lest we need to,” he says.
He places his hand on her shoulder, squeezes it. When he removes it, the tips of his fingers slide down her arm, and at the very last moment, their fingertips touch. When they do, they both lock eyes with me. I shoot them both a quick wink and a smile. I want to tell them I’m trained to notice these ever so subtle gestures, but I don’t. Moonlight the sly.
“This way, Mr. Moonlight,” Bates says. “We’ll convene in my office.”
As we walk, I turn and take one last glance at Lisa. Turns out, she’s doing the same. Trying to steal a quick look at my backside.
“Gotcha,” I say.
But she turns away and disappears into the depths of the mansion.
Chapter 39
Bates’ office is cordoned off by a big six-panel door that slides into the wall. Makes me feel like I’m caught up in a Sherlock Holmes novel. The office itself only adds to the illusion. The walls are covered in cherry paneling. The windows are wide and draped with thick black velvet curtains. There’s a fireplace to the left-hand side of the door and two tall-backed, leather chairs set in front of it. Placed in between the chairs is a wood table. Set upon the table is an ashtray and beside that a metal stand that holds several pipes. Located on the opposite side of the wide room is a big desk. If I had to guess, it’s built of the same high-quality mahogany as some of Dad’s higher priced caskets.
“Do I know you?” Bates says, his eyes glued to Elvis.
Elvis smiles.
“I get that a lot,” he says with a twitch of his lower lip.
“You’re not from around here,” Bates observes.
“What was your first clue, sir?”
Bates stands four-square with his hands stuffed into his suit jacket pockets. Elvis stands before him, gut hanging over his tight jeans, a clean T-shirt bearing the words “Only Beer for Me: I’m the Designated Driver.”
After a weighted moment, Bates works up a smile.
“Yes, indeed,” he says. “It’s a different way of life south of the border.”
He gracefully crosses the room, goes around his desk, seats himself gently in his leather swivel chair.
“Can we get down to business, gentlemen?” he asks. “This is a very difficult time for me.”
I step over to his desk, stand behind one of the two leather smoking chairs set before it. Looking up quickly, I spot not one but two security cameras positioned in the corners of the ceiling. They’re both aimed at me and at Elvis. Someone’s viewing and recording our conversation in real-time.
“First of all, Senator,” I say, “I’m truly sorry for your loss. I, too, am a father, and I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to bury your child. Second, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”
He nods, cathedrals his fingers, brings them up to his lips.
“You mentioned having spoken with young Mr. Schroder.”
“That I did. He claims he wasn’t the one who lured your daughter into his bedroom last Friday night.”
He shakes his head.
“If not him, then whom?”
“Stephen claims it was Amanda who lured him. And when he refused to give her what she wanted, she got undressed thinking maybe that would do the trick. When that didn’t work, she started calling him names. Calling him gay, a fag, the usual. As it turns out, young Mr. Schroder is indeed gay and having some trouble dealing with it.”
A portion of Bates’ desk is set aside for some family snapshots. There’s one of he and his wife back when his hair was all black and not so slicked back. The two are dressed to the nines at some formal function, holding one another’s hands, happy smiley faces beaming at the camera. She’s brunette like her sister, her face a bit rounder, her eyes dark brown but sparkly, like she’s got her whole life to look forward to with the man who holds her hand. Perhaps a man who will one day work his way up to President of the United States of America. People have dreams. Big dreams.
There are pictures of a little baby whom I’m taking for Amanda. A picture of a little girl graduating nursery school, a mortar board cap made of colored construction paper set on her head. She’s smiling ear to ear, the dimples in her rosy cheeks making her face seem even more beautiful than it already is. The picture beside it shows a young lady with long smooth brunette hair and eyes just like her mother graduating junior high. The one beside that shows her playing soccer with the Albany Academy for Girls varsity team. The last one must be the most recent. It’s her senior high school picture. The same photo that accompanies her obituary. Only this version of the photo is not only in color, it’s much more alive. She looks just like her mother does in the first photo, only more beautiful, more filled with hope and optimism, if that’s even possible. It’s like the life between mother and daughter has come full circle. But now that circle has been broken with the daughter’s suicide.
The Senator notices me looking at the pictures.
He says, “You think my little girl is capable of something like that?”
I look at her in the senior picture, and I look at him.
“That’s not for me to say. But what is for me to say is this: A young man is behind bars and is very likely to be the first person in history to be charged with the reckless murder of a young lady who committed suicide. That happens, they will make an example out of him and put him away forever. Is that something you want to see happen, Senator?”
“You actually believe what comes out of that delinquent’s mouth, Mr. Moonlight?”
“I’m not sure what to believe yet, which is why I’m here.”
“Then allow me to put it this way. Whose word are you going to take? My late daughter’s or a known drug abuser, alcoholic, Scarface-obsessed, punk son of a bitch who’d kick his own mother in the crotch if he thought he could get a quick laugh out of it?”
“He’s got a point, Moonlight,” Elvis
chimes in. “That Schroder kid is a real asshole. You said it yourself. And he does think he’s Scarface. You ask me, he ain’t dealin’ with reality.”
“Oh, thanks for that, Mr. Elvis Tribute Man,” I say, shooting him a look.
“If you must know the truth, Moonlight,” Bates goes on, “little Mr. Schroder has been stalking my daughter since she was in junior high school. He is also responsible for getting another classmate pregnant. I only know all this because girls talk, and Amanda confided in me about it.”
Bates is a politician, and my gut instinct is not to believe every word he’s saying. But he’s just lost his daughter and what would be his motivation for lying to me? Just to see someone pay for his daughter’s suicide, even if that someone was innocent? That doesn’t seem a likely scenario to me. But it doesn’t make me feel any better about my having fallen for Schroder’s bullshit bait.
“One more question, Senator,” I say. “If your daughter hated Stephen so much, why did she attend his party?”
“I never said she hated him. She just didn’t want to be his girlfriend. If he managed to lure her up to his room, I’m sure he did so through some sort of trickery.”
The room falls silent. Through the sliding door, the faint sounds of sobbing can be heard.
Bates stands.
“I assume our conversation has come to an end, Moonlight? Because I have a terribly distraught wife I must tend to.”
I feel sick to my stomach. Maybe it’s all the drinking I’m doing lately. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Good sleep. Maybe it’s knowing that Lola could be out there somewhere. Out there without me. Not wanting me. Or maybe it’s believing Stephen’s story about being gay and not capable of raping Amanda Bates. Whatever it is that’s happening to me, my judgment seems to be more off than it usually is.
“Yes,” I say, “we’re through. My humblest apologies, Senator Bates. And my condolences.”
He comes around the desk, goes to the sliding wood door and opens it. Then he shows us to the front door. Before we leave, I take one more look behind me. Lisa is standing there, at the far side of the vestibule where it opens up onto the living room. Seated on a couch is another woman dressed in black. She’s sobbing into a handkerchief. For the briefest of moments, she stops weeping and slowly raises her head to get a look at me. We make eye contact until I can’t stand it anymore and I pull away. I shoot Lisa one more look before I open the door and walk out.
Moonlight Weeps: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller Book 8) Page 11
