Too Quiet in Brooklyn (20 page)

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Couple of months ago. My birthday. He never forgets it.” She smiled, breathed.

“Do you have a number where he can be reached? Or an address? The address of this horse farm, for instance?” I crossed my fingers and waited.

She shook her head.

“Not even a cell phone, something he’s asked you not to give out? I know it’s rude of me, but it would really help.”

She shook her head. “As I say, he doesn’t keep in touch, not like Donald. Donald’s my youngest son. He’s in school now, Rutgers. His second year, finance, just like his dad. He’ll do well, Donald, I’m not worried about him. We’re close enough that he could commute every day, but he boards with a family in New Brunswick. Better that way. He doesn’t have to worry about me. He does, you know, he worries. I tell him not to, that I’m fine. I have my life here, a big house to keep, friends I’ve known all my life. Why should he be worrying? An A student, but he was always a good student. He and his dad were pals, too, and he remembers only the good times, not the rough times when we had to scrimp and could afford only crackers and peanut butter some nights for dinner, but he was only seven when it happened.”

“When what happened?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you knew. When the twin towers fell, David was working on the ninety-fifth floor of the second building. They never found …” She took two quick breaths.

Geez, she didn’t look old enough to be married, let alone be a widow. Maybe a catastrophe like that just stops everything, breath, life, growth, but I didn’t say anything, I didn’t have any words for her, I’m such a loser. I just waited, my hand gripping the love seat. I was just a kid when it happened but I remember watching the smoke and the confusion. 9/11 replayed in my head. I saw thick ash rolling over from Manhattan and coating everything in the Heights.

I watched Nanette ring her hands, pause and twist them again. She must have followed my gaze because she stopped. Stopped dead. She must have willed herself into certain, bone-hard stillness, the kind you find inside a black hole.

“Jim is ten years older than Donald. Makes a difference. When his father died, Jim’s world was destroyed. No college, no nothing. He had to work. He just couldn’t handle it. Sometimes I wish he’d been the one to …”

Instead of finishing the sentence, she got up and walked to the bookcase, picked up a framed photo, and handed it to me. It was a black and white of the four of them taken in 1999, she told me. The four of them, their arms locked around one another, looking into the camera and smiling. Invincible.

“What kind of work does Jim do?”

“I’m not sure. A little of this, a little of that. Hard to get a good job with a record, you know. He needs to find a girl, someone from a nice family, someone who’ll straighten him out, stop him from drinking away his life.”

So she knew about the drinking. “You wouldn’t happen to have a recent picture of him that I could borrow? I’ll send it back. Or if you have a digital copy, you could text it to me.”

I could tell by the way she cocked her head she didn’t do texting. “I have something you could borrow if you promise to mail it back. She reached for her purse—she was one of those women who keep it on the floor on the fireplace side of the love seat. She got out her wallet and gave me a small photo from the inside flap.

One of the corners was cracked, but it was a good likeness. I saw a man in a suit and tie, longish hair, but hey, not bad looking. His eyes were, I don’t know, blank, like as if there was nothing inside him. I looked on the back and in careful script was written, “Jim, 2011.”

It was the guy with the beer breath, the one I’d seen yesterday afternoon on Henry Street at the site, the same man in Jane’s mug shot. I tried out the two-quick-intakes of air trick. It worked.

I willed my face into plastic. “If Jim calls you, will you get a number where I can reach him?” I handed her my card. “He might have some vital information about the missing boy.”

She smiled. It was a wistful smile. I thought she was going to cry, but she breathed in and held it instead, like a hesitation step in a dance.

I put the photo into a zipped compartment in my bag, swallowed the rest of my water, thanked her for her kindness, and left.

“We’re waiting,” Cookie reminded me, her hamburger and fries long gone. Looking in the mirror, she spread her lipstick, examined her teeth, and stared at me, her mood expectant.

Denny smiled, patient. “Let her come back to us when she’s ready,” he told her.

I told them about Nanette Arrowsmith and Jim’s father and brother, left nothing out, showed them the photo. Cookie glanced at it, shook her head, and passed it to Denny who said, “Same guy as in the mug shot. His poor mother. Did you believe her or do you think she’s hiding her son?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I believe her. She’s as honest as she can be. But she’s his mother. She said the armed robbery thing was a setup.”

Denny groaned. “It’d be good if someone could watch the place. Anybody in Brown’s Fort Lee office owe you a favor?”

“Not that big of a favor.” I frowned. Surveillance eats manpower and equipment. I wondered if it were worth it to ask Cookie to stick around, quickly rejecting the idea when I pictured her in this town sticking out like a sore thumb. “If her son were staying with her now, I don’t think Nanette would tell me, but she’d be a train wreck. I’d spot it.”

I sat on the porch of Swal’s Dairy, smelling cut grass, sweets, and cream, thinking while Denny and Cookie went inside to order. Would Nanette call me if her son came home? I had to find him. I had to start thinking like him. Where would he go to ground? Would he hide with his mother? Perhaps. I decided to alert the Allentown police and ask them to watch the house. One thing I was sure of, though. If Arrowsmith had a job in New Jersey, how did he wind up in Brooklyn, another world away? There had to be a connection.

Cookie and Denny came out, loaded down with goodies, my banana split piled high with five scoops of homemade tutti frutti ice cream, a banana of course, maple walnut sauce, nuts, and whipped cream. One bite and I was in heaven, but I put it down, willing it not to melt. I’d seen a bunch of squad cars down the street sitting in front of an old house with a flag.

“While we’re eating, I want to schlep the photo around, ask if anyone’s seen Jim Arrowsmith and talk to the local police about him,” I said and told them I’d be right back.

My idea was met with stares. I slid my split in front of Denny. “Stuffed already,” I said. “Why don’t you finish this and I’ll walk up the block.”

At the municipal building, I talked to the uniform at the front desk and explained my request. He excused himself and returned a few minutes later.

“Chief wants to talk to you,” he said and showed me into his office.

“New York cops sent out an APB and the FBI already asked for our help,” the chief said.

After showing him my license, I told him I was searching for a local resident whom we’d identified as a person of interest in conjunction with the case. “I’ve just talked to his mother who lives on High Street.” I gave him the address and summarized my visit with her.
 

He nodded.

“We think he might show up there asking her for help. Being his mother and all, I think she’d hide him. She’s been through a lot. She lost her husband in 9/11.”

He shrugged.

“Could you spare a man to watch the house?”

“If I could, I would, but we’re short staffed.” Seeing my frown, he said, “Tell you what, we have to patrol anyway, I’ll have someone pay real close attention.”

It was better than nothing. I thanked him and left. On the way back, I showed Arrowsmith’s photo to all the shopkeepers. One recognized him as Nanette’s older son. “Up to no good. Hung out with a bad crowd,” but that’s all I got.

I climbed the steps to Swal’s and sat next to Cookie and Denny, who’d finished their ice cream and mine, and were waiting for me.

The NJ Connection

In the Jeep, I got out my notes, skimmed the pages, and looked hard at my list of important numbers, trying to memorize them. “One more stop and we’re through,” I said, “unless we get some solid information.”

Half mile up the street, we stopped at an oval sign on a pole in front of what looked like a house, but was the Allentown Auto Shop. Nothing like you’d see in Brooklyn, neat and fancy, and busy as hell. Denny and Cookie waited in the car for me. I walked in and found the owner pounding out the fender of an older car. I told him what I needed.

A pleasant but busy man, he wiped the grease off his hands and smiled. He motioned me into his office. He said the business part of it was run by his wife but she happened to be visiting one of their children out of town. We talked and exchanged pleasantries. I told him that this was my first time in Allentown. I looked around at all the pictures of Jesus and Christian calendars and churches, and realized that this place was a find. When I got some extra money, definitely I’d bring Mom’s Beretta here to get a real tune-up.

“I know Jim. Friends with his dad. David had been a customer for years. Tragedy what happened. The wife knows his wife, too. She used to bring the cars in herself when David was busy.”

I nodded. “Jim was here in March, you say?”

He looked through the files and sure enough, he’d made himself a copy of the papers for the insurance company, complete with date and time stamp and the photo of the van showing the New Jersey plates.

When I was working at Brown’s one of the first things they taught about information gathering was, don’t lie, but don’t say anything that would scare people off from talking to you.

“You said you know Jim. Do you know where I might find him? I’m investigating a case involving an estate liquidation and his name came up. He might have some information we could use.”

He looked at me and narrowed his eyes.

This guy was way too smart for me. He didn’t say anything for a while.

“I don’t know much about Jim Arrowsmith. I know after his dad died, the family was in a bad way. We all pitched in to help the folks who lost loved ones in 9/11. Lots of families in this area because we’re close to the Northeast Corridor and it’s an easy commute to Manhattan.”

I nodded.

The auto body guy continued. “But Jim got into trouble. When he came in with his van a few months ago, he was happier than I’d seen him in a while. Told me he’d been working part time at … what was the name of the place, oh, it’s a horse farm up the road.”

“What road?”

“I’ve lived here all my life and don’t pay attention to names of streets. I’d take you to it, only I’ve got other customers to worry about and we’re short staffed today. Big spread. Owner’s a new guy in town. He bought it four, five years ago and built a fancy house for himself. He breeds horses. Races for fun. As I say, you can’t miss it. Barns and paddocks. On the south side of the road near Cream Ridge, about five or six miles down the road.”

I thanked him, gave him my card, and told him I’d appreciate any more information he might have. “Give me a call if you see him again. And if you have the chance, give him my number and ask him please to call me.”

Fat chance of finding this damn horse farm, I thought, walking back to the car.

We turned around, about to look for the farm when I said, “Hold on. Let’s think this thing through before we go chasing after windmills.” I remembered from watching one of those Kate Hepburn movies with Mom late one night that New Jersey was horse farm country. I also remembered my conversation with Phoebe this morning.

“What was the name of the guy who ran Heights Federal?”

“The president? Winston Connors,” Denny said.

“Phoebe said he came out smelling like a rose, bought a—”

Denny finished it for me. “Horse farm in New Jersey. Are you thinking maybe this guy Arrowsmith worked for Winston Connors on his horse farm?”

A chill went down my spine. “Far fetched, I know. Plenty of horses in New Jersey. And this is horse farm country. So maybe there are what, a thousand horse farms in the area?”

“Someone keeps track of horse population,” Denny said. “I’m not that guy, but maybe fifteen or twenty thousand horses in this area?”

“But it’s still a possibility,” I persisted. I was being edgy, I know, shoving my theory at Cookie and Denny. “Think about it. What’s the connection between here and Brooklyn Heights? Here’s a guy with a record, a loser employed by the owner of a horse farm.”

“It’s a stretch,” Denny said, and rubbed his chin the way he always does when he’s changing his mind.

“And he’s working in Brooklyn Heights for the woman who is auditing Heights Federal Bank?”

Denny frowned into the rear view mirror. “You’re skipping a few steps.”

“You mean she’s leaping over miles,” Cookie said.

“But the more I think about it, maybe you’re onto something,” Denny said. “At least let’s find out where this Connors’ horse farm is. Could be in another county altogether.”

“What’s to lose?”

“Only a child’s life if this is a waste of time.”

“Find a place to park and we can call Jane or Willoughby,” Cookie said.

“We could always go back to Swal’s,” I said. “Actually, I didn’t get enough ice cream.”

My suggestion was met with groans, and a whose-fault-is-that look from Denny, so he pulled into the park again and we squeezed into a space between an Audi and a Lincoln. I looked at my phone. No texts from Jane, so I sent her a text telling her I had news.

Why was I not surprised when a few minutes later, my phone rang. Jane. I told her what I’d found out about Arrowsmith from his mother, the police, some of the store owners, and Allentown Auto Body and about my conversation with Phoebe Daligan.

She was impressed, kept saying good work and what would I do without you. She took down Phoebe’s number, and I heard her start the car and tell Willoughby to get his rear in gear.

I broke it to her. “I need you to find the name and address of the horse farm that Winston Connors bought in New Jersey.”

I rolled my eyes at her reaction and explained my theory about the connection between a horse farm in New Jersey and Heights Federal Bank in Brooklyn. This time there was a different silence coming from her.