Too Quiet in Brooklyn (11 page)

“Why do you need to know?” she asked.

“I need to talk to everyone who’s close to Charlie.”

“But he could care less about Charlie. And he’d never have taken him. In his way, he loved him, I guess. He’s got visitation rights but never uses them. Hasn’t seen his son for over a year.”

“Still, I need to contact him. Does he send alimony?”

“No, but so far I haven’t needed his money. I just want out of the relationship. Frank has a drug problem. Never could hold down a job. Has one get-rich-quick scheme after another. I’m sick of writing him checks.”

“Is that Frank or Franklin?”

“Just Frank. That’s all I ever called him.”

“What’s Frank’s last name?

“Alvarez.”

“Middle name?”

“Thomas.”

“Does he have a fourth name?”

“Huh?”

Getting information out of her was like pulling threads off a vacuum brush. “Do you have an address and phone number, maybe the name of his employer or his work number?”

“I’ve no idea where he is, but I’ll look around. I might have it in the divorce papers. I’ll text you whatever I find out after we get off the phone.”

When I asked for them, she gave me their marriage and divorce dates, Frank’s social, his birthdate, his mobile number and carrier.

I hung up with Barbara after telling her I’d get in touch as soon as I had any new information.

* * *

There was a lot of speculation going through my head as to why Charlie was abducted, a lot that I didn’t feel was necessary to share with Barbara, and images I couldn’t get out of my mind, none of them pretty. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to talk to the ex. But before I searched the internet, I thought I’d take a ride and cruise Barbara’s neighborhood. Might save some time, and lots of time I didn’t have. I hoped I’d get lucky, somebody walking a dog or taking out the garbage may have known Frank Alvarez and kept in touch.

While I walked to the car, I phoned my contact at the morgue. We became friends after Mom died. He was one of the guys who sat at the front desk logging in visitors. I don’t know how he stands the smell of cheap cleaner not quite masking the odor of death, but he told me once it wasn’t so bad, “Smells like the swimming pool at a hundred and thirty-fourth after a bunch of us been pissing in it all day.”

When I asked him about Mary Ward Simon, he said, “You know I can’t say nothing.”

Which meant he knew something. “Templeton was happy though, I think one of the CSU guys found stuff on the clothes, prints maybe.”

“Do you know who did the autopsy?”

“Like I say, don’t know nothing, but I did see the coroner on duty talking to Templeton.”

“You didn’t hear what she said?”

“Sorry.”

My call to Jane asking for cause of death and any other info she had went to her voicemail.

I felt my phone vibrate with Barbara’s text, sending me all the info on her husband I’d requested. I tried calling his mobile, but the phone was no longer in service. With his social, I hoped I could get the latest information, so I started my car.

In case you’re wondering, and probably you’re not but I’m going to tell you anyway, my main car’s a ’92 Chevy Beretta. Mom’s car. Once in a while, I still get a whiff of her perfume, so I keep it, although the body’s rusted in spots and it smokes a ton of oil and the engine has close to 197,000 miles. Denny nagged me about it, so last year I gave in and got a BMW Z5 to use on the highway, but I rarely touch it. Not the same feel as Mom’s Beretta.

Driving down Henry this time of night was a breeze, since all sane people were at home eating dinner. I slowed near Lucy’s and peered in the window. One light was on at one of the rear desks. I looked at my watch, one minute to eight, and waited to see if the lantern over the door came on. Sure enough, it did. But Mr. Baggins does it to me every time. I couldn’t pass by Lucy’s and not stop. He purred and pawed the treat drawer and had his way with me. Two minutes later, I was gone.

I got a green on Atlantic, drove to Amity and swung over to Clinton. From Vinegar Hill to Cobble Hill in less than seven minutes take away the Baggins buzz: lady luck was rolling the dice. I did a slow whistle when I saw Barbara’s building, a red-bricked townhouse, Georgian without authentic details, but not bad, and the upkeep fit right into the neighborhood which is Uber Upper. Someone had recently swept around the stoop, and the windows shone. I parked, ran up the steps and saw a single bell. Looked like Barbara owned the building.

As I ran back down, I saw someone on the other side of the block with a garbage lid in one hand stuffing something into the can, a few pedestrians farther down the block, a guy opening his car door—going to give up his parking spot to whoever was hovering with the turn signal flashing behind him—and somebody sweeping the stoop two doors down. I chose the sweeper.

A man in his fifties tipped his cap when I introduced myself and told him what I wanted.

“Yeah, I knew Frank. Frank and what’s her name, Barbara. Didn’t know them well, just to talk to. They have a baby, don’t they? Or did. Little boy now, I guess. Seen him walking down the street with Barbara this morning, early.” He paused, lowered his head, and stuck his hands in his pockets, leaning the broom handle against his shoulder and rubbing it with his chin. “She was a screamer, I’ll say that.”

“As in good looking?” I asked?

He shook his head. “As in yelling at her husband.”

“You heard them fighting?”

“Saw him beat up lots.”

“Him?”

He nodded. “Couple of times I saw him walking to the subway with his head down. Swollen lips, black eyes.”

“More than once?”

He nodded.

“If it came down to it, would you swear to that in court?”

He didn’t say anything for a while, rubbing his chin back and forth on the broom handle. “If it came down to it, and you called me to the stand, I’d have to tell the truth, wouldn’t I? But I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side. We’re still neighbors, you know how that is.”

My turn to nod. “Would you mind giving me your name and number?”

“Eppers. Stan Eppers. Hold on, got a card here somewhere.” He patted his shirt pocket, his back pocket. He drew out a card from the bill flap of his wallet and handed it to me. “I feel sorry for the guy.”

I guess he thought better of what he’d just told me because he followed it with, “Don’t get me wrong. She seems nice enough. I really don’t want to get involved, but why would I? The wife doesn’t like her. She’s got a brick townhouse and ours is only a brownstone. It makes a difference in this neighborhood, at least to her type it does. Doesn’t give us the time of day. Nose in the air, so to speak.”

“Do you know where Frank works? I need to reach him.”

Stan Eppers narrowed his eyes and shook his head. He probably thought I was going to serve him or something, so I ad-libbed. “It’s a confidential matter, but I believe he’s come into a little money.”

“Frank’s a techie guy. He works on big computers. Works for the city or the state. Anyway his office is someplace in Lower Manhattan. Must still work there, a guy like Frank wouldn’t give up a job like that. Trying for a promotion, he told me once, but it was a city job. That’s it, he works for the city, and they have all kinds of perks. It’s a job for life, but Frank wasn’t resting, he was a go getter, Frank was. We used to talk computers. Don’t get me wrong, I know a little bit, like to tinker, but I’m nothing compared to him. I used to ask him questions and he always knew the answers. Yes, he did. He helped me out on more than one occasion.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“A couple of months ago now, it must be. He picked up the boy. Frank was wearing a suit. Had a fancy new car and all. I figured he must have gotten his promotion. I was real glad for him.”

I thanked him and left, letting the information roll around my head. When I stopped for gas at a station on Atlantic before driving back to Vinegar Hill, I scribbled down what Barbara’s neighbor told me. A thirty-five minute trip door to door and I’d probably saved myself an hour or two of frustration doing preliminary searches for Frank on the internet. And I’d gotten a whole new slant on my client. I needed to talk with Denny and Cookie.

* * *

When I got home, Denny was busy with Mary Ward Simon’s Mac, going through spreadsheets and stuff, reading some Word documents, maybe client correspondence between her and the bank—better him than me—so I fired up my old MacBook and started looking for Barbara’s ex. With the information I’d gotten from the neighbor, I only had to go to one or two sites. Lucky, because my laptop was getting long in the tooth and slow. Not what I needed. Both sites found him and listed his home address and phone number in Battery Park. Another site gave me nothing when I plugged in Frank Alvarez, but when I typed F. T. Alvarez, it gave a work address and phone for the City of New York, Storage and Continuity, on Vesey Street in Manhattan. Too late to knock on his apartment door, but I could call. When I did, it went to voice mail, so I left a message. I told him I was a private investigator working for a client who was searching for the heirs to a small inheritance. It was a stretch, I know, but at least it sounded positive. I asked him to call me at his earliest. Then I called his work number, which turned out to be a direct line, and left the same message.

So far, luck was with me this evening.

“What would I do without you?” I asked Denny, kissing his light brown waves. Even to my ears, I sounded fake.

He looked up at me and smiled.

“No, really. It may not seem like I’m head over heels but believe me, I am.”

“But you don’t love me enough to marry me.”

“You’re wrong. We’ve had this talk before. I’d never ever want to give you up, but … I don’t know, I’m just not ready for marriage. There’s so much I need to do first.”

Denny tried to hide it, but I knew him well enough to feel his disappointment. Denny was simpler than me. Easier going. He’d had a great childhood, a mother and father who doted on his every move. They were always there for him. Not for the first time, I wondered what that would have been like. Would they be bugging me now, the same way as his parents were insinuating themselves into his life? Some of my friends with backgrounds similar to Denny’s told me their childhood was boring, but they were feeding me a load. My experience was different. And all this talk of abduction and rapid, catastrophic loss, brought memories I couldn’t tame.

Like right now, for instance, I couldn’t get the picture of my dad out of my head, the day he walked out the door, slamming it, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. “Dad?” I called after him. I can still feel the knot in my stomach when I think about it. I watched as he turned, his pair of Ray Bans flashing a splinter of sun in my face. He glanced my way, probably looking through me, but I couldn’t see his eyes. He just kept walking. I’d done something wrong, I know I had, even though the shrinks told me no, it wasn’t my fault, you know how they go on. I didn’t know what I’d done or where he was or how to get him back. Just a damned orphan, that’s what I am now. I wonder if he’s still living. I wonder if he knows about Mom. You’d think with all my experience hunting down skips, I’d be able to find him in a blink, but I’ve never dared to try. Denny wants me to. But it’s an endless wheel sometimes in my head and all this feeling sorry for myself is something I just can’t share with Denny. How could he ever understand, and it sure as hell wouldn’t get Charlie back.

Less than twenty-four hours since Charlie had been taken. If he was alive, we’d still have a chance. I stifled a yawn, making a promise to myself about no more past, and made a pot of coffee. I was sure Charlie’d been abducted, but why. Was he in the way? The most likely reason, but the most dangerous. It favored the chances of his swift demise. Or was he abducted for ransom? If so, Barbara should be calling me any minute. Or was the abduction for pleasure? God, I hoped not. I thought about it. The most likely answer was a combination of two. I slapped my laptop shut and stared at the wall, lost.

Ralph Remembers

“The boss will be pleased, maybe shake your hand.” That’s what Arrow would have said.

Ralph was driving. He was a good driver, he knew because Arrow told him he was, especially when he watched the speed and was careful, like he was being now. Careful. Cautious. Smooth. They didn’t think he knew how to do it on his own, but he did, they’d see. Knew this part of Jersey good. The big boss was going to be pleased. He’d surprise him. Maybe not tonight. Maybe he’d find a place to sleep. Take Charlie to a motel. The thought made him hug the wheel.

“Watch the speed, be cautious and stay in the right lane,” Ralph said, just like he was Arrow talking to himself. Driving was boring, but it was easy work. He didn’t need nobody to do it for him or show him how. He didn’t need nobody else. He could do the work. The boss would see. This was good. He had to think about how he’d talk to the boss about Arrow, but not now. He had to drive.

Watch this—Ralph slowed down, careful to merge with the other cars when the lanes changed from four to three. See? He even turned on the headlights before it got real dark. Didn’t need Arrow anymore. He was alone now except for Charlie, and that was good. The boss would be surprised. He’d ask him about Arrow. Ralph would say something, but he had to think about it first. But not now, now he had to drive.

“A little faster now, you can go about five miles over the speed limit. Not too fast, though, because we don’t want to attract any attention. That’s good. You did good today, Ralphie,” he heard Arrow say like he was sitting beside him. And maybe he was, the good parts of Arrow. “And just so’s you know, it didn’t hurt me,” Arrow’s voice whispered. “Maybe a little at first, but not bad. I went quick. Thanks for that. You know just how to do it.”

Ralph smiled and drove. He looked in the rear view mirror. Charlie was still asleep on the back seat, his head slumped over, a seatbelt fastened around his small waist, his wrists and ankles so smooth and tiny. So soft when he’d untied the rope. Ralph had taken care not to hurt the boy when he pulled the rope tight, even when Arrow was watching. He’d whispered in the boy’s ear to calm him and felt the fuzz of Charlie’s dark red hair on his lips. So soft, Charlie’s ear, and he wanted him bad and felt himself get hard. He shouldn’t be hard. He tried not to think of Charlie. He thought about the boss and what he’d said about blood. If there was blood, there’d be complications. No blood in this operation, not one drop, Arrow had said, and Ralph made sure of that. Boss didn’t like blood. He must remember to tell him there was no blood with the old lady, no blood with Arrow. No blood.