The Mortal Groove (10 page)

“What's that?”

“Benson, Klug and Lockhart. Not big into investment allocation, are we?”

“Just give me the information.”

“Tanhauer was a financial analyst when Margaret was adopted.”

“They
bought
her,” said Peter. “There
was
no legal adoption.”

“Right. Whatever. So I go to the address. It's a pricey apartment building a few blocks west of Central Park. I talked to the doorman and he says the Tanhauers moved out to the Hamptons about six months ago. He figured they left a forwarding address, but he didn't know what it was. I asked him how long they'd been living in the apartment and he told me a few years. Said they seemed nice enough—always gave him a great tip at Christmas. Then I asked him about Margaret. That's where the story gets a little strange. He says the Tanhauers had two kids, but they were both boys.”

All expression died on Peter's face. “Then you've got the wrong couple.”

“No, these are the right folks, I'm sure of it.”

“How old are the two boys?”

“One is maybe four, the other is in school, so he's older.” Peter struggled to come up with an answer. “They're rich, right?”

“By my standards they're royalty.”

“Okay, so maybe they sent her away to school.”

“Suppose that's possible, but why wouldn't she come home for Christmas?”

“Maybe she's in Switzerland or something and didn't want to leave her friends. Look, I want you to go out to the Hamptons, find their house, and talk to them. She can't have just disappeared.”

“Okay, pal. It's your money. I'll cross the doorman's hand with some cash, see if he can dig up the address for me. But it may take some time.”

“Just call me back when you have something,” said Peter. “Hey, before you go, did you ever hear back from Vaughn Cabot?”

“Nobody ever answers his damn phone. I've left half a dozen messages, but he never returns them.”

“All right,” said Peter. “Thanks.”

After hanging up, he sat for a moment, running a hand over his beard, thinking about what Shifflet had said, then picked up his cell phone again and called directory assistance. A few seconds later he had Cabot's number in New Jersey. He wrote it on the edge of the newspaper. Tapping in the number, he listened as the answering machine asked him to state his name, phone number, and the reason for his call. Peter decided to take a chance.

“Mr. Cabot, my name is Peter . . . Johnson. I hope I've got the right guy. My wife and I want to adopt a child, but for . . . well, for certain reasons I don't want to get into, we haven't been able to find the . . . right situation. I'm told you might be able to help us. Call me back and let's talk. Money isn't a problem. Let me underline that, Mr. Cabot. Money is not a problem. My number is 555-839-2911. Hope to hear from you soon.”

Peter had been reading up on adoption fraud. The number one red flag to look for was money. If Cabot hadn't filed any adoption papers, the chances were that he was an illegal baby broker. That meant the good old American dollar sign was the easiest way to rouse the snake from his hole.

 

Randy sat on the lower deck at his house, waiting for his wife to drop off his daughter. They hadn't firmed up any custody arrangements, mainly because Randy was dragging his feet, hoping to convince Sherrie that before they called it quits, they should talk to a marriage counselor. Sherrie had been after him for years to do couples counseling, but Randy couldn't see himself sitting in
some office, spilling his guts to a stranger. Except now, it was the only card he had left to play.

Ethan had given Larry a lift into Stillwater right after breakfast. Larry had found a truck he wanted to buy. Nothing fancy, just some wheels. He'd hit Randy up for a small loan-—-a couple thousand dollars. Randy was happy to help out, especially after last night. He and Larry had sat up late, smoking weed and passing a bottle of tequila between them as they sat under the stars in the meadow next to the house. Nine years Randy had lived in this place, and not once had he ever done anything like that. Sure, he had a massive headache this morning, but it was a small price to pay to feel alive again.

Larry planned to meet with Melanie Gunderson again tonight. Randy's stomach vanished every time he thought about that woman scrutinizing his past. He prayed that she'd take the money and back off, because if she didn't, he was afraid Del and Larry would push for something more drastic. He was even more afraid that he might go along with it. Randy had tried to bury his past, but in the process, he'd come to the conclusion that he'd buried himself along with it. Maybe that's why Sherrie had left him. She couldn't stand to live with the smell of a stinking corpse.

“Am I alive or am I the walking dead?” he whispered. He really wanted to know. “I'm good at my job. I've made a difference in the world. But what's that prove when I won't let myself ever feel anything. My wife's left me and I'm depressed, but hell, I'm always depressed.” Except, this morning, the blood pumped in his veins a little harder. Last night had been good for him. He felt opened up today, the sun hotter, the sky bluer, his skin alive. It wasn't just Larry's sudden appearance, although that may have been part of the catalyst. This morning, as he walked around the house, it was as if he was waking from a long sleep. Sherrie was
mere inches from being lost to him forever. He wanted her back, wanted forgiveness and absolution for his past. He wanted a goddamn second chance.

When Sherrie's Lexus pulled into the drive a few minutes later, he trotted down the steps to meet her.

“Hi,” he said, smiling and opening the passenger door for his daughter, Katie. He gave her an extralong hug. It meant more to him than just the usual hug, but it didn't even put a dent in her sullenness. She'd made her feelings very clear weeks ago. She didn't want to be dragged from house to house for the next two years. If her parents were gonna get all stupid on her and ditch their marriage, she wanted to live with her mother until she finished her senior year of high school, and then she'd be off to college somewhere, hopefully far far away.

Grabbing an overnight bag from the trunk, Katie disappeared up the steps. Randy moved around to the driver's side. “You coming in?” he asked Sherrie, trying to look serious, even though he felt like pulling her out of the car and spinning her around.

“No,” she said. She looked about as cheerful as Katie.

“We should talk,” he said. “Come on, just sit on the deck with me for a few minutes.”

She seemed torn.

“Please?” he asked, hoping that he still had some pull with her.

Finally relenting, she turned off the motor and got out.

Sherrie and Katie were both brunettes, although Sherrie's hair was short and Katie's was long. Both were slim and athletic. Randy hadn't seen either of them in a couple of weeks. Was it possible that they'd grown even more beautiful in that short period of time?

“You want something to drink?” he asked on his way up the steps to the upper deck. “I think the coffee's still on from breakfast. Or I could fix us a drink.”

“A little early in the day for that.”

“Come in the house for a second,” he said. “There's something I want you to see.” Entering through the second-floor patio doors, he could tell that Katie had already made it up to her bedroom because he could hear Blue October blasting from the speakers in her room. She was trying to erase her parents' existence. He didn't blame her.

When he turned around, Sherrie was walking silently around the kitchen—her kitchen—a tentative, almost forlorn look on her face. She was living in a small apartment now. He'd only seen it from the outside, but he knew it was small because Katie had told him about it one night on the phone.

“What do you want to show me?” she asked.

Randy moved toward her. “Don't freak, okay?” Drawing her against his chest, he said, “I miss you so much.” She felt stiff in his arms. He'd done that to her. He'd made her that way. “I love you more than you know. Maybe I never said that enough.”

“That's an understatement,” she said, but she didn't push him away.

He wanted so badly to show her how much he loved her. He kissed her as softly as he knew how. That was another thing missing from his marriage. Tenderness. When had he stopped allowing himself to feel that emotion? He knew the answer. All roads led back to Sue, and before that, to Vietnam.

Randy backed up, saw the tears in his wife's eyes. “I'm sorry. I've made so many mistakes.”

She just stood there, wiping her eyes.

“Have you thought any more about seeing a couples counselor?” he asked.

“Why are you doing this?”

“What?”

“I've been after you for years to go to counseling. The answer was always no. I get it that you don't like having your life messed with. You like things neat and clean. No hassles. When things get messy, you always walk out the door and then you stay at work until the mess resolves itself. But you know, Randy, the chaos you leave behind never really resolves. It might go away for a while, but it's still there, festering. If you think counseling is just a quick fix, think again. Our marriage is broken. It has been for years. Maybe it was never any good and I just refused to see it. But I can't live with coldness anymore. I'm done. Finished. I may not find someone else to love in this life, but I'm nowhere near as lonely since we separated as I was living with you.”

She might as well have slugged him in the stomach. He was struggling for a way to respond when the front doorbell rang. Whoever it was, it was the worst possible timing.

“I better go,” said Sherrie.

“No, please. I'll get rid of them. You can't just leave. You have to give me a chance to explain.”

She stood next to the kitchen counter while he dashed downstairs. Two police officers stood outside the front door.

“Are you Randy Turk?” asked the shorter man.

“Yes?”

“We need to talk to you about that car you found in the ditch yesterday afternoon.”

Randy looked back at the stairs. Sherrie was on her way down.

“I'll talk to you later, Randy,” she said, passing the officers on her way out.

There was nothing he could do but watch her go.

 

 

T
he officers introduced themselves as Sergeant Williams and Patrolman Vessi. Their eyes swept the interior of the house—and Randy-—as they sat down on the Italian-leather sectional in the living room.

“I'm an attorney,” said Randy. In jeans and an old red polo shirt, he didn't look all that professional, so he decided to state it up front.

Williams started in without preamble. “The information we were given said that you were jogging along Potter Road last night when you saw the burned car. Is that correct?”

Randy nodded.

“Is that your usual route when you go jogging?”

“Yes.”

“How often do you run?”

“As often as I can. Two or three times a week, sometimes
more.” Randy wondered where Williams was going with his questions.

“I'd like you to go through it again with us. What you saw. Any details you remember that you might not have reported last night.”

Randy had assumed the wreck was the result of an engine malfunction or an accident. It occurred to him later that someone might have torched the vehicle for the insurance money. Either way, it wasn't a big deal. So why were the cops all over it? “Well, it was around five in the afternoon when I went out. Like I told the guy on the phone, I saw this burned car off to the side of the road in a ditch. I climbed down to take a closer look, just in case someone had been in it when it went off the road, but it was empty. I assume the driver got out.”

“Did you touch anything when you examined the car?”

“Maybe I put my hand on the door. It was pretty charred.”

“Did you move anything? Or remove anything?”

“Hell, no. Have you found the owner? The plates weren't local.”

“No they weren't,” said Williams. He glanced at his partner. “The car was from Colorado. The owner's name is Carlos Xavier. Ever heard of him?”

Randy shook his head. “You think he set it on fire himself?”

Williams sat forward, rested his arms on his knees. “We found a body in the trunk, Mr. Turk.”

“Oh,” said Randy. “I see.”

“The man was dead before the car blew. We're still checking it out, but we think the body may be Mr. Xavier. There was evidence that an accelerant was used.”

“So you're thinking it was a homicide?”

“Did you see anyone else out last night? A neighbor? A stranger?”

“No, no one. The car was cold, so it must have happened a while ago.”

“When was the last time you went out for a run along Potter Road?”