Dark Web (13 page)
“So let’s recap,” Swift said to Deputy Alan Cohen over scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast at the local diner in New Brighton. Time was absolutely critical, but so was food, and so was delegation. They were later than the usual breakfast crowd, but the two cops still drew stares from the other patrons. The crime had come too early to make the news, but there were other ways of getting information, especially in a small town. Swift smiled at a few faces, aware of their curiosity. Then he dismissed them from his mind.
Swift was glad Cohen was able to join him. Cohen was enthusiastic, and Swift needed a sounding board right about now. The only negative rumor on Cohen was that he had terrible flatulence, and no one liked riding in a deputy cruiser with him. He would try to hide it, they would say, which was worse. A straight-up ripper would at least let you know what was coming, instead of the virulent sneak attacks that led to rolled-down windows and caused Cohen to whistle a tune like he didn’t know who’d dealt what.
“We’ve got a family who moves up here from Florida two months ago, in the middle of the school semester,” said Swift. “The wife is able to take a job mid-year as an art teacher at the college in Plattsburgh. They’ve got three kids, two in school, one just a baby. The husband is out of work, trying to start up a business here, or get freelance work as a camera-type guy. Photography or something. The teenager is in some ways atypical, possibly an undiagnosed Asperger’s case. In other ways, seems pretty normal. He plays a game regularly, called ‘The Don,’ with other players all over the world.
“This morning, at just before three a.m., he leaves his house in the middle of a snowstorm. We don’t know why. Both father and mother say laptop was open and switched on when they checked the room for him, and that game was on the screen. Brittney Silas secured and documented the room and seized the laptop, and we’ve been going through it.
“He goes outside in his pajamas. So, either he rushed out, or he’s got some kind of mental state he’s in that doesn’t remind him to put on warmer clothes, or he’s under duress of some kind. Because the car that shows up while Lenny Duso is standing there in the road — we don’t know that it just arrived in town. Those three could have been here earlier. Maybe they were returning to the scene of a crime.”
Cohen was nodding, his gray-blue eyes shining as he absorbed what Swift was recounting.
“You arrive first on the scene in response to Duso’s emergency call,” Swift said to Cohen. “You arrive approximately five minutes after the call. You assess the scene and put out the APB for further assistance. Then you call your Sheriff, Dunleavy. Dunleavy calls my captain, Tuggey, who rouses me out of sleep — I’m on call. Tells me to check it out, looks like a homicide, Sheriff’s Department is willing to T.O.T. I call my evidence tech, Brittney Silas, at the okay from Tuggey to get whoever I need, and he’s making calls, too. I arrive approximately twenty-five minutes after the emergency call, Woodruff about thirty minutes, Silas, about thirty-five, forty minutes. Sound right to you so far?”
Cohen nodded. “Sounds right.” He forked some hash browns into his mouth.
“Okay. I do the initial walk-through with Silas when she arrives. We’re now forty-five minutes or so from the emergency call. With me? And we spend ten, maybe fifteen minutes before I leave her to process the scene up to the body. There’s not much — everything is covered in snow — and we’ve got a description of the runaway car from Duso; working the scene for tire impressions wouldn’t be worth it anyway — it’s a main artery, there are tons of tracks, and there’s the goddamn snow. So, we’re pretty quick on the process. It’s more the body we want to get into as evidence; we have that taken by the on-call service. Meantime, now, I’ve gone over to the Hamiltons, spoken to the neighbors there, and then on down to the Simpkins once we’ve got a solid idea that it’s their kid. Troopers were ready to go door-to-door anyway, but it worked out that way. Point being, I’m at the Simpkins house at
least
an hour and twenty minutes after the call. Still with me?”
Cohen nodded again. “Still with you.”
“So, let me ask you: how long does it take to drive from that spot on 9N to exit 30 on I-87 where my troopers picked up the three kids?”
Cohen narrowed his eyes and chewed his food, swallowed, and said, “I see where you’re going. ‘Bout twenty minutes, thirty in the snow, forty if you’re barely crawling.”
“Exactly. So, what were those kids doing for a whole extra hour?”
“Could’ve stopped at the gas station. Gotten something to eat. Messed around.”
“But they fled the scene. They wanted to get away.”
“Maybe they thought they did. Maybe they’re just kids and it was out of sight, out of mind for them. Time for a soda.”
“But the gas station is closed between 11 p.m. and 5 a.m.” said Swift. He hadn’t been eating while he talked, and his food was getting cold. He picked up a strip of bacon and chewed on it, took a sip of his black coffee. The food was greasy, the coffee strong, and he savored both tastes. He’d skipped breakfast and now his stomach growled in anticipation. He tucked into the meal and started after the eggs, watching as Cohen nodded.
“That’s definitely interesting,” said Cohen. “Who else do they know in the area? This ‘we came up for a surprise visit’ is obvious claptrap. But, maybe they
did
know somebody, and they laid low there for an hour.”
“Totally possible.”
Cohen looked around, seeming to gain mental momentum. “Something else I was thinking; maybe it’s nothing.”
Swift pulverized more bacon with his teeth, his gaze inviting Cohen to continue.
“Well, I was thinking about the family’s situation.”
“Yeah? Me too.”
“They sound like they’re on the ropes financially.”
“Uh-huh. The dad started talking about lack of medical coverage. The kid had some special needs.”
“There you go. And that’s on top of a basic struggle, I mean — three kids, one salary? Okay, maybe they have some savings. Maybe they’re secretly loaded. That Getty place they bought is okay; decent little plot of land, nice views of the mountains, but it’s no castle. They picked that up relatively cheap — it had been sitting on the market for three years. So, if they have money, their home doesn’t show it.”
“Or their vehicles,” Swift added, picturing the rusted Ford pick-up in the driveway and the small, ten-year-old Honda. “Not even an SUV to tote the kids around in.”
“Exactly.”
Swift put his silverware down for a moment, his appetite momentarily sated, his attention on Cohen. “Where are we going with this?”
Cohen shrugged. “Just that money is so often a factor. In just about everything.”
“In just about everything,” Swift agreed.
* * *
The bell chimed as a trio of patrons walked into the diner, gaped at the two cops for a moment, then made their way to an open table.
“Now let’s talk suspects and possible motives,” Swift said, picking his teeth with a nail. Their plates were cleared away and Swift had requested the check. He fixed Cohen with a studied glare.
“We’ve got the three in the box now. We can’t hold onto them for much longer unless we charge them.”
“Fleeing the scene of an accident?”
“Could be. If we can show the car has damage, and that the victim suffered from an impact. But as things are now, that doesn’t look too likely. Appearances are that the vehicle and body never made contact. Brittney Silas will let us know.”
“The online game . . .”
“Right. If Kim Yom can find something on the victim’s laptop. She indicated that it could take a long time — longer than we have to keep them on suspicion. But I’m thinking about motive. Possible it was bullying, and it went too far. Happens all the time. We need a clear indication of that, though, and I’m either going to get it from the kids in the box or Yom will get it off the computer. Now, did you do a search on Robert Matthew Darring?”
“I did,” said Cohen eagerly. “No record, which you already knew. I did a standard search after that. White pages address in Queens. Okay. I did combinations, too. There was a hit for ‘Matthew Darring’ on a website called ‘zKillboard.’ Some crazy shit over my head. I made notes. But I saw one thing under this guy’s profile that said ‘I whip my slaves back and forth.’ Other than that, Matthew just gets you to the Bible. Robert Darring, just the physical address. The name Darring alone, clothing manufacturer. Specializes in camouflage.”
“Great,” said Swift. “I’ll take a look at the notes. In the meantime, though, we’ve got something else. Another person of interest is the victim’s biological father.”
Cohen’s eyes widened as he listened to Swift relay the conversation about Tori McAfferty. “So we’ve got this unbidden return of the biological father, and a threat issued by Mike Simpkins, the stepfather. This is something I really want to look at right away. McAfferty is in the county, in South Plattsburgh.” Cohen was leaning forward, those grey-blue eyes stormy. He was waiting, Swift could tell he was longing for some action.
“If you want another assignment, I’d like you to pay him a visit, just get an idea.” Swift said.
“Absolutely.” He was nodding vigorously. “Absolutely.”
“Bring someone with you. Who’s on shift this evening?”
“Deputy Trainer.”
“I’m sure the Sheriff will dispatch him to you. Your department has been very cooperative. Is this something you could do?”
“Yes,” he said. “Absolutely,” he repeated.
“Okay. And I’ll make the inquiries about the financial situation. I’ll use a soft touch.”
Cohen smiled, revealing a block of unstained white teeth. Guy didn’t drink or smoke or anything. “You? A soft touch?”
“Got to. I’ve already spoken with Mike Simpkins twice. He’s going to form a love-hate relationship with me, if he hasn’t already made up his mind one way or the other.”
Cohen nodded, took out his wallet and started pulling out bills to pay the tab.
Swift held up a hand. “It’s on me. Take a look at McAfferty for me. Just a little one; don’t get him worried.”
“I’ll use the soft touch, too,” Cohen said.
Swift grunted. “We’ll be just like mothers with newborn babies.”
Deputy Cohen laughed.
Swift went to the register to pay the bill. He stood at the counter, leaning against it, feeling sluggish but a bit better after eating and talking things through with Cohen. He really liked the deputy. He’d only seen him in passing over the years, but Alan Cohen seemed like a good man, with much more going for him than the rumor mill had to offer. Swift hadn’t been a hundred percent sure Cohen was the man to check out McAfferty; the cursory web search on Darring’s name was partly a test. Now he felt better. Cohen would handle it.
“I’m sorry John,” said the woman at the register. She was the owner of Altos, a woman in her sixties, with a beehive hairdo circa 1958. Swift was a regular. He frowned at her as she held up his card. “This got declined,” she said. The other patrons were by now positively falling out of their seats to hear and see what was going on.
Swift took the card and looked at it. It was a debit card from his personal checking account. The last he’d checked, there was a little over twenty-five hundred dollars in there. He remembered the email he’d gotten that morning about fraud detection. He’d forgotten about that.
“Sorry,” he said, and stuck the card back in his wallet.
The woman waved her hand in the air. “Come take care of it another time.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
He turned and saw Cohen watching. “Everything alright?”
“Sure,” said Swift. They left the diner together.
Mike’s hand shook as he held the phone and listened to the ringing at the other end. Callie’s friend Sarah was with the girls, Callie herself was sedated and sleeping at CVPH, so Mike stepped outside the hospital to have a cigarette and call his father. The sun was barely visible, smothered behind thick grey clouds. He hadn’t had a cigarette in years. Callie didn’t even know he used to smoke. No one did.
Jack Simpkins answered.
“Dad,” said Mike, his voice cracking. “Braxton is dead.”
“What?”
“He went outside in the middle of the night. They found him in the road.”
Jack Simpkins was silent.
“Callie is in the hospital. I’m with her. She’s a total wreck — they had to sedate her. The girls are okay; they’re with a friend. The State Police are investigating.”
After a long moment, Jack finally spoke.
“Where were you?”
“Where was I? I was in bed. With Callie. We were sleeping.”
Mike felt his heart start to pound in his chest. Had his father just accused him of something? That Mike should have been there for Braxton, or something like that?
“It was just a normal night,” Mike went on, hearing his voice sounding as if it was coming from someone else. “The girls went to bed, Braxton stayed up for a while, reading. Callie and I sometimes go to sleep before he does.” A spasm clutched at Mike’s chest as he felt the emotion well up in him. “He’s gone, Pop. Braxton is just gone. There last night, gone this morning. I . . .”
Mike couldn’t finish. He didn’t know why he had called his father. Jack Simpkins had never been reassuring. When Mike had been facing the loss of his job, Jack had been unsympathetic. “Make yourself indispensable,” he had said. “Make your case to the new firm, cut your rate, do what you have to do.”
Jack had worked for New York Transit all those years and had never joined a union. He stood by the adage that hard work and sacrifice were the only things that paid off. Yet two years ago he had started dumping thousands of dollars into a 529 college fund for Braxton. It was as if he was incapable of showing sympathy for Mike, his own son, but someone an extra generation apart — and a grandchild not of his own line — was somehow deserving of a helping hand.
Mike wept silently, not wanting his father to hear. He could hear Jack breathing at the other end of the line. At last he pulled himself together and took a deep drag from the cigarette. “So, I just wanted to let you know. I’ll keep you posted on the funeral arrangements, if you want to come. I’m going to have to see someone tomorrow about that.”
“Do you have a person there?”
“No, Dad, I don’t have an established relationship with a funeral home. It didn’t cross my mind, what with looking for work, moving into a new house, taking care of the kids while Callie gets up to speed at the college.”
Mike heard the ice in his voice, chill as the cold air outside the hospital. He dropped the cigarette to the ground and mashed it out with his boot. He found himself thinking about the old days again, smoking cigarettes with Bull Camoine on the Staten Island Ferry. Telling Bull things he didn’t tell anyone else.
“Let me know,” said Jack quietly. “I’ll be there. Braxton was a good boy.”
“Yeah,” said Mike. “He was.”
Not like me
, he thought, and then felt ashamed of being selfish and childish and jealous of his father’s affection for his step grandson at a time like this. Still, it sat there, a bilious pit in the center of Mike’s chest.
“Alright, Dad. Take care.”
Mike ended the call without waiting for a response — or lack of. He turned and walked back into the hospital feeling worse than when he’d come out. As the doors slid open, he wondered why he’d even bothered to call. What had he expected? Some warmth and compassion at long last? A break in the freeze-out that had lasted for twenty-five years or more? Mike could smell the fug of his own cigarette on him as he walked into the hospital lobby, and it made him feel dirty. This whole thing made him feel dirty.
A moment after he stepped through the door, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and saw a vaguely familiar number on the display.
“Hello?”
“Mike, it’s Sarah.”
His throat constricted. “Is everything alright? Are the girls okay?”
“The girls are fine. There’s just — there are people outside. Reporters, a van parked at the foot of the driveway.”
“Has anyone come up to the door?”
There was a pause, and then Sarah said, “On their way right now.”
Mike realized that in the midst of all his shock and emotion, he’d forgotten about the press. And, given that Braxton’s death had occurred in the wee hours of the morning, it had taken time to catch on. Probably someone on their way to work a few hours later had gotten rerouted, and they mentioned it to a friend, and it went on from there. The thought of reporters encamped in his front yard with his girls inside — girls who didn’t even yet know what had happened to their brother — it was very troubling.
“Are there police there, too?”
“Yes there’s been the same state trooper down at the end of the driveway since this morning. I don’t see him, though, just the car. Mike, I’d like maybe to take the girls to my place. It’s up Wolf Mountain and there’s a gate at the bottom. I’m just worried these people will surround us as soon as I step outside with the girls. What should I do?”
“I’m going to call the detective in charge of the investigation. Hang tight.”
“Okay.”
“Call you right back.”
Mike hung up. His whole body pulsed with anger.