Trust No One (A Lucas Holt Novel Book 2)

by JP Ratto

  There wasn’t much to see in the garage. A few boxes marked “Frank” sat on gray plastic shelves. The first contained various old electronic devices: a beta-max recorder, several cables, cassette tapes, and a player. The second box showed promise. There were old letters and newspapers tossed in, as if they could have value someday. Among them was a sheet of paper with a news clipping taped to it. The headline read:

  NYPD Detective’s Daughter Missing.

  Scully scanned the page. The article appeared in the Daily News and gave basic details of the disappearance of Marnie Holt. Included was the name of the daycare center from where Marnie was abducted and the owner’s name, Rose Bardinari.

  ***

  Frank Giaconne had lived in a cluster of four-story apartment buildings located across the road from the Staten Island Mall. Scully parked in a guest spot and followed the arrow on the sign that read Building Manager.

  He rang the first bell in a row of twelve. A gruff voice responded, “Nothing for rent.”

  “NYPD. Detective Ray Scully. I’m looking for the building manager.”

  A pause and then Scully heard, “Down the hall to the right.” The buzzer rang to let him in.

  He walked down a long, poorly lit hallway, painted a tombstone gray. One apartment door displayed a wreath with a faded red bow, probably a permanent fixture from Christmases past. A door opened before he reached the end of the hallway. A clean-shaven, smartly dressed man in his fifties stepped out. “Can I help you, Detective?”

  “Thanks for taking the time. Can I have your name, sir?”

  “Ed O’Neill.” O’Neill shifted his feet and glanced at his watch. “I have plans to go out.”

  Scully peered inside the apartment and could hear the television blasting the news. O’Neill didn’t offer to let Scully inside and closed the door behind him. He stood in the hall and crossed his arms over his chest. “How long will this take?”

  “Just a few minutes. How long have you lived here?”

  “About twenty years.” Scully made a note in a small binder.

  Scully held up a picture. “Do you know this man?

  O’Neill nodded. “Yeah, that’s Frank Giaconne. Is that what this is about? I read the poor bastard was found in a dumpster.” He shook his head. “This guy had no luck. How’d he die?”

  “He was shot. How was he as a tenant? Pay his rent on time? Do you know if he had visitors?” Scully poised his pen over the notebook.

  “He was quiet. No trouble, and paid his rent on time, which is all I cared about. Of course, this is all after the trouble he had. I mean fifteen years ago. I saw him quite a bit then too.”

  “Giaconne lived here fifteen years ago?” Scully asked.

  “He didn’t rent an apartment but often stayed with a woman who did. I would see them go out together, holding hands…she was another one with no luck. Police were here for days questioning everyone.”

  “Does she still live here?”

  “No. She died in a fire. It was big news at the time. Terrible. What was her name?” He bent his head and snapped his fingers in the air as if to jog his memory. “Oh, right. I remember. Rose—Rose Bardinari.”

  ***

  Ray Scully had a feeling in his gut that twenty years on the police force gives you when you’re hanging onto the tail of something big and hazardous to one’s career. He popped a Zantac.

  Sean McCarthy sat facing Scully’s desk and listened intently as his partner began to talk through the case.

  “Here’s where it stands. I don’t want to write up this case yet.”

  McCarthy scooted his chair closer and leaned forward. His eyes shifted to another detective within hearing distance and back to Scully. “I know you’ve got the lead on this, but if Sergeant Rodriguez doesn’t see a case file set up soon, she’ll want to know why. So I’m asking too. Why?”

  Scully considered all the circumstantial evidence that tied Holt to Giaconne. Holt’s business card on Giaconne’s person. The fact that Giaconne was in McAllister’s the same night Holt was. The bruising on Giaconne’s face from someone’s fist could have been the reason for Holt’s bandaged knuckles.

  “What I’ve learned so far, like Giaconne’s connection to the owner of the daycare center, as well as what you see in the M.E.’s report, might lead one to believe Lucas Holt is involved.”

  “What does that have to do with setting up the case?” McCarthy’s voice rose and a few heads turned. Scully motioned for his partner to keep it down.

  “Until I can get more concrete evidence and have the opportunity to question him, I don’t want his involvement made official. He’s my best friend and has been through hell. I want to make sure the facts fit the circumstances before he’s hauled in for questioning. I need more.”

  “Okay, I get it. But is it possible to leave out a few details and write up the rest? You can tell me all when you’re ready.”

  “I could do that. It might look like I’m spinning my wheels, and Rodriguez will ask questions. But I have to go with the lesser of two evils.”

  McCarthy rose and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “I’m working the Clausen case. That’ll take me out of the office for a while.”

  Scully stood to stretch his legs. “Any new leads on that one?”

  “Not really, but it looks like this crackhead died in a deal gone bad. Well, I’m off, and if you want to avoid an interrogation from the sergeant, I suggest you make yourself scarce too.”

  “I will. Right after I see what I can learn about the fire at the daycare center and Rose Bardinari. I need to refresh my memory on that case—another necessary evil.”

  “Okay, if you need me, call.”

  Scully stared at his computer screen as McCarthy grabbed a folder and headed for the exit.

  If this starts to go south, I hope I can keep McCarthy out of it.

  Scully sat again and typed in “Bardinari.” The system response indicated she didn’t have a criminal record, but was cross-indexed with the Eastside Daycare Center. He typed the name into the search field. He recoiled from the shock of a system response he had never received before.

  Access Denied.

  Authorized personnel only.

  Enter ID and release code below.

  Unauthorized viewing of these records is prohibited.

  “Shit.” Scully’s mind flashed back fifteen years to the investigation into the murder of Sheila Rand. A feeling of déjà vu washed over him. He remembered the order to stop investigating Senator Todd Grayson or face the consequences. Scully had backed off, but Lucas Holt was stubborn—the evidence at the time pointed to the senator. Shortly after, Marnie Holt was kidnapped, the daycare center had burned down, and Rose Bardinari died in the fire. The cause of the fire was determined to be faulty wiring. That brought to mind something Sal Giaconne said. Scully searched his notes. “Frank was a pretty good electrician.” Scully wondered at the true nature of Giaconne and Bardinari’s relationship and if it had led to their deaths.

  But there was a more urgent question. Who sealed these records?

  CHAPTER 32

  I entered the hotel expecting Celeste to be in the lobby. She sounded upset and angry when I spoke to her from the airport to tell her what had happened. The fact that the thieves had gotten away with the toxin, which was now lost in the ocean, was inconceivable to her. She kept asking over and over why I hadn’t stopped the plane. I had no answer and told her I’d get back to her.

  In the hours between the incident and getting back to Gates’s home, Celeste appeared to have calmed down and was even pleasant when I returned her call.

  Since she knew the ADL board would demand answers, she wanted as many details as I could provide. I told her in advance it wouldn’t be much, but she insisted we meet. After a five-minute wait, I received a text message providing the number of one of the hotel’s suites.

  The door was ajar and I let myself in. The suite was one large room with a king size bed and separate seating area. Like the
restaurant, it overlooked Lafayette Park and had a sweeping view of the White House lawn and presidential residence. “Celeste?”

  “I’ll be right out, Lucas. Pour yourself a drink,” she called from the bathroom.

  I did so and made myself comfortable, wondering what kind of a meeting she had in mind. The bathroom door opened, and I rose from the sofa. Prepared for what my wild imagination had conjured, I was surprised when Celeste walked into the room conservatively dressed in a black long-sleeved dress with a high neck. The hem touched the knees of her long, shapely legs.

  I needed to hone my poker face because her raised eyebrow and slanted smile let me know she read my naughty mind. Abashed, I sat in one of the club chairs and buried my nose in a glass of Scotch. The truth was I had no romantic interest in Celeste Boxer and the meeting was for exactly the reason she gave. Only when she turned away did I see the dress was backless and dipped well below her waist.

  She saw my reaction. “This,” she indicated the dress with a sweep of her hands, “isn’t for you, Lucas. I’m having company later. Now tell me what the hell happened at that airport.”

  ***

  Francesca Vilari sat in her husband’s favorite chair in a corner of their cozy den and wept as she tried to process how her life had been turned upside down. She knew the moment she opened the door to the two federal agents that Robert was dead. Ever since he came back from Lebanon, he was a different person. It wasn’t only the long hours at the lab; it was his whole demeanor, the way he wouldn’t look at her when he spoke, as if he were hiding something. She accused him of having an affair, but in reality, she knew he wouldn’t betray her that way. Knowing this made his behavior all the more frightening.

  Once the agents told her what happened, she called her sister and brother-in-law. They would make the necessary calls. She couldn’t even bear to tell her children. They would be devastated. Her sadness turned to anger in a matter of hours and she began to go through all her husband’s things. He had left her the note on the kitchen counter. Little did she realize the note would mean the rest of her life without him.

  The federal agents were vague and said Robert had been caught in the middle of criminal activity. Criminal activity? What was he even doing at that place? She couldn’t believe Robert had been shot. Murdered. The thought sent cold shivers through her body. She wrapped her arms around herself as she moved from room to room. She couldn’t find comfort anywhere. Desperate to do something besides think, she entered their bedroom. At first, Francesca methodically sifted through Robert’s belongings, the pile of books on the floor next to his side of the bed and his clothes. She could smell his cologne and pictured how he looked in the sweater she’d given him for his birthday.

  She opened his nightstand drawer and noticed the missing gun. Oh God, Robert, what were you doing?

  Incensed that his job may have had something to do with his death, she rushed to his home office and rummaged through his papers, mostly reports, on the desk and in the drawers. She had no idea what she was reading and grew blind from crying. Shoving the papers aside, Francesca pulled out a small drawer in the desk and found a slip of paper with a few scribbled numbers. She kneeled next to the floor safe Robert kept in the office. She opened it.

  Francesca sobbed when she found a stack of handmade cards from the children to their father. There were pictures of her and Robert when they were dating. Her heart wrenched over photos of the family when the children were small—all that her husband considered his treasure. Robert had kept secure what was most important to him.

  That and a sealed envelope addressed to Lucas Holt.

  ***

  Celeste listened to my account of the events at Back River Sky Park with a stony face that only moved when she sipped her wine. I could almost see the workings of her mind behind her dark eyes. How would she explain the theft? How much blame would be leveled on her for the loss?

  “And that’s all I know,” I said. “I’m sure the FBI will be in contact with you—in fact, I’m surprised you haven’t spoken to them already.”

  “Lucas, I thought you were a better detective than that,” she said, smiling.

  Then the real reason for the hotel suite dawned on me. “Ah, I see. You’re not ready for the inquisition yet.”

  “No. I wanted to get the facts from you first. Need to get my story straight—so to speak.”

  “Why not tell the truth?”

  She rose from her seat and refilled her wine glass. “Of course I plan to tell the truth. But it’s always wise to know what truth that is.” Celeste stared out the window. It was a full minute before she spoke again.

  “Well, tomorrow will be soon enough. I’ve already called a few of the board members and set up a meeting. I’m not looking forward to it though.” Celeste downed her drink and turned her attention to me as I placed my empty glass on the bar cart next to her.

  “I’ll be glad to vouch for your actions, Celeste—if it will help.”

  We stood facing each other. Her eyes glazed and she took one of my hands in hers. “Thank you, Lucas. I appreciate the offer. Perhaps some time I can return the favor.” She brought my hand to her lips and kissed it, sending an unexpected wave of heat through my body.

  I eased away my hand. “I thought you were having company later.”

  She stepped closer. “I have company now,” she said and slid her hands along my arms toward my neck. “I was hoping when this was all over, we could get to know each other. You seem like a man of many layers. I think I’d enjoy peeling them away to get to the core.”

  I laid my palms over her wrists to stop her. “This is not the right time for me, Celeste.”

  “I see,” she said, and I thought, perhaps, she did see. I was glad I didn’t have to go into a long explanation about Marnie, Susan’s death, and my growing feelings for Maddie Grange.

  Celeste straightened and smoothed her dress. She raised her hand toward the door, indicating the meeting was over. She walked me out to the hallway.

  “Good luck,” I said and strode to the elevator.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Blues Beat, a small neighborhood bar, sat on an upper west side corner of Third Avenue. Owner Joe Alesi, a former NYPD detective, retired to follow his true passion—spending time in a pub trading stories with other cops. In hindsight, he would have chosen a different name, one that didn’t have every jazz enthusiast asking, “Who’s playing tonight?”

  Over the years, the old glass-paneled door changed from clear to black paint. It was replaced with solid oak and had a small opening for a bouncer to screen customers, much as they did during Prohibition. Although never used, it still added to the 1920’s mood. Six green vinyl booths sat opposite a bar with seven stools. On one side of a large ornate mirror over the bar was a framed poster of a newspaper proclaiming “Prohibition Ends at Last.” The other side hung posters of Elliot Ness and Al Capone.

  Displayed on the walls adjacent to each booth were photos of police officers who had died in the line of duty. Alesi believed his brothers in blue should never be forgotten.

  Scully entered and waved to Joe and the officer to whom he was talking. He took the booth furthest from the door and grabbed the beer list. This time of day, Alesi took care of customers himself.

  “Since when isn’t a stool good enough for you?” Alesi pulled out an order pad and wrote Bud.

  “Meeting an old friend. Billy Dougal.” Scully looked up. “Know him?”

  “Sure. Back in the day. He worked in the file room, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “If I have time, I’ll say hello.” Scully glanced over at the bar that was beginning to fill up with customers. “Your beer is coming right up.”

  Ten minutes later, a Peter Boyle look-alike walked in and hailed Scully. “Great to see you.”

  “Same here,” Scully stood to shake Dougal’s hand. “Hey, didn’t you used to have hair?”

  “Hey, I haven’t seen you in—oh, I’d say twenty pounds.” T
hey both laughed, knowing it would continue like this the rest of the night.

  Scully nodded toward the bar. “Joe’s tending bar tonight as usual. What’ll you have?”

  “Same thing I always have, a Bud on draft.” Scully signaled for a beer.

  Alesi came over and they talked a few minutes about how different things were today. Joe returned to the customers at the bar, and Scully and Dougal caught up on life and its toll on their good looks and physique.

  Dougal asked, “How’s Lucas doing? I heard about his wife’s passing.” Scully could see the concern in his eyes. No one referred to Susan as Holt’s ex. They all knew the circumstances of the divorce and loss of love was not the reason they had split.

  “He’s hanging in there. It’s been a long time. I think he’d hoped, someday, they’d be together again. With Marnie still missing and now Susan gone…it’s not easy. I think, for the first time, he’s feeling alone.” Scully looked to the bar for Alesi and signaled for refills.

  Dougal sighed. “I remember the day we all heard the news that Holt’s daughter was missing. I know I can speak for every officer in the precinct when I say it hit us all hard—like it was our own kid. Every day after the kidnapping, I examined new files—old ones—anything that came to me for something that might help. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do. I thought maybe I’d see something nobody else saw. You know what I mean?”

  Scully nodded and took a swig of beer.

  “What’s up, Ray? What are we doing here after all these years? Not that I don’t love seeing an old friend, but you called me for a reason.”

  “Yeah, I did. I’m investigating a murder and the victim had a relationship with the woman who owned the daycare center from where Marnie was abducted.”