Trapped (10 page)

images. We didn’t see anything like that on Kelly’s computer.

But there’s another part of the statute that covers endangering

child welfare. Acting in any manner that is likely to be injuri-

ous to the physical, mental, or moral welfare of a child.”

“You’re saying he could be prosecuted, maybe.”

“Very tough to make that case,” Shane cautions. “Your

daughter is technically a minor, but the courts are loath to

invoke the law in teen romance situations.”

“He’s not a teenager!” I snap. “He’s grown man. Also

he’s a flight instructor, that makes him like a teacher, right?

With a teacher’s responsibility?”

“Agreed,” says Shane. “Absolutely. He had no business re-

sponding to a sixteen-year-old girl. The fact that she was, ah,

somewhat deceptive about her revealing her age might or

might not be a mitigating factor.”

I fold my arms across my chest, feeling stubborn. “They

always say that, don’t they? ‘She said she was older. Showed

me a fake ID.’ Or whatever.”

“They always do,” he agreed. “But let’s keep our priorities

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straight. The important thing is to locate your daughter.

That’s our goal. After that, let the law take care of itself.”

“You think he’s in Oyster Bay? That he took her home?”

He glances at me in the rearview. “It’s a place to start. The

Nassau County Police will make a drive-by, checking tags.

I figure we’ll get a jump start, actually ring the doorbell.”

“A private investigator can do that?” I ask.

“Ring a doorbell?” He chuckles. “Most of them. But just

so we’re clear, Mrs. Garner, I’m not a licensed P.I. I’m a

consultant. And we consultants can ring doorbells like

nobody’s business.”

An hour or so later—would have taken
me
forty-five

minutes, tops—the big Lincoln finally rolls into Oyster Bay,

heart of the so-called Gold Coast. North shore of the island,

facing the Sound. Heading for the village, not the city. We’re

not far from the inner bay, the local claim to fame, but it’s

midnight and all I can see is a swath of the shore road illumi-

nated by headlights. That and the moonless silhouettes of

majestic trees and huge, estate-style homes nestled along the

cove.

Randall Shane, clever devil, has an on-board navigation

system.

“Teddy Roosevelt used to live out this way, did you know

that?” he asks.

“I heard.”

“You do business here?”

“We’ve done a few weddings on Cove Neck. Amazing

affairs, believe me. Twenty grand for a bridal gown, every

stitch by hand. Two thousand just for the pearl embroidery.

Anyhow, if you’re lucky enough to live out here you probably

call it ‘the Neck’ or ‘the Village.’ That area to the west, along

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Chris Jordan

the shore, that’s ‘the Cove’. All very different from the city,

where the working stiffs live. Out here on the Neck some of

the residents tend to talk about Teddy like he lives next door.

Like you might run into him at the next catered barbecue.”

“No kidding?” He glances at the navigation screen, slows

for the next intersection. “So this area we’re heading into, the

Mannings are likely to be wealthy, is that correct?”

“On the Neck? Super wealthy. Megabucks.”

“They may have security,” he points out.

“They all have security,” I tell him.

“Could be a problem this time of night.” He reaches into

the glove compartment, takes out a small leather case.

“Gun?” I ask.

“Cell phone,” he says, deadpan. “In case some gung ho

rent-a-cop picks us up.”

The navigation screen bongs gently. Shane applies the

brakes, bringing the Town Car to a full and complete stop.

“This is it,” he announces.

Headlights pick up a locked, black-iron gate and a long,

curved driveway beyond, paved with finely crushed oyster

shells. Appropriate, given the location. Costs a fortune but

makes a nice, satisfying crunch when the Rolls rolls up the

driveway. Or the Bentley, or the Ferrari. Whatever the vehicle

of choice on any particular day.

Shane presses a button and the windows slide down to the

smell of the sea, a whiff of cut grass coming to us out of the

dark. For some reason I think of a song my mother used to

hum, or maybe it was a poem she’d had to memorize for

school. All I get are fragments from childhood memory:
by

the shore of something-or-other, where the sacred waters

run.
Xanadu, not Oyster Bay. But “sacred waters,” that has

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79

to be right. Any place this expensive, it has to be sacred, at

least to the wily gods of real estate.

“How do we get past the gate?” I ask.

“Don’t you remember?” says Shane, grinning as he reaches

a long arm out the window. “We ring the bell.”

17. The Man In Black

The gate never opens. Shane keeps pressing the button,

speaking into the lighted intercom, announcing our presence.

“This is in regard to Seth Manning. Seth is in legal jeop-

ardy, please respond,” and so on, never varying his authori-

tative tone. Sounding very much like a federal agent.

Legal jeopardy. Up to me, I’d say Seth Manning is in deep

shit.

We’re both out of the Town Car, stretching our legs and

checking out the heavy gate. In movies the hero simply mows

the gate down, but this one has electronic locks that slip into

a sturdy concrete footing and I’m not at all sure even the

mighty Lincoln could get through. Plus we’re under surveil-

lance by at least three cameras, one of which is night vision

equipped, according to Shane. Try to monkey with the secu-

rity gate and the local cops, rented and otherwise, will be on

us long before we pry it open.

I know this because I’m the one who advocated the mow-

it-down theory of making ourselves known.

“Can’t help you if I’m under arrest,” Shane points out,

nixing the idea. “Antagonizing the authorities won’t help.”

Very rational, but I’m not feeling particularly rational.

I’m exhausted, anxious and cranky. I’m acutely aware of

wearing the same skirt and cotton top donned for my visit to

the county cops, hours and ages ago. Clothing that now

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Chris Jordan

smells sour. I need a hot shower. I need a warm meal and a

good night’s sleep. I need to brush my teeth. I need my

daughter home, my life returned to normal.

“Doesn’t this just prove that he’s gone?” I fret, gesturing

at the locked gate. “Or that he’s in there with Kelly and

won’t come out?”

Shane studies me, runs a hand over his neatly trimmed

beard. “Seth Manning is in his early twenties,” he says. “I’m

assuming this is the family home. The property is listed under

the name Edwin Manning. Could be the father.”

“Right, of course.” I’d been concentrating on the cradle-

robber himself, hadn’t given a thought to his parents.

“His parents may not know what’s going on. If you were

his age, planning to run off with a minor, would you inform

your parents?”

“Doubtful.”

“For all we know, Seth may in fact live elsewhere,” Shane

reminds me. “But this is the address on his driver license, so

we start here.”

“Okay fine,” I concede. “So Mom and Dad are on

vacation. They own other homes. They’re in Gay Paree, or

the Ukraine, or touring the moon.”

“Yes, quite possibly they could be elsewhere,” he con-

cedes, nodding in agreement. “You want to leave?”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying if nobody

answers the damn bell, I’m climbing the damn fence!”

“There could be dogs.”

“Then the dogs better watch out. Woman bites dog, that’ll

be the headline. And you can’t stop me!”

Not sure how it happened, exactly, but suddenly I’m seeth-

ing, lashing out, and Randall Shane is a convenient target.

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81

Oddly enough, the big man doesn’t react. It’s as if he’s been

expecting me to flip out, and braced himself for it.

“What makes you look so smug!” I demand.

“The lights,” he says, pointing at the heavy foliage obscur-

ing the curve of the driveway.

Are there lights twinkling through the leaves? Hard to say.

“The house lights? Are you sure?”

“No,” he says. “Not to a certainty. But moments after I first

pushed the button, lights shifted.”

“The wind? A timer?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. My gut says somebody is home. And

ignoring a buzz from the gate, that tells us something.”

“What?” I ask, embarrassed for teeing off at the guy.

“What does it tell us?”

Before he can explain, a figure emerges from the bushes

and takes a position several paces behind the locked gate. Sur-

prising the hell out of me but not, apparently, Randall Shane.

In the darkness the figure resolves into a small, slender

man dressed from head to toe in black. He has thinning hair,

raccoon eyes, and seems to have rubbed dirt on his face.

The small man raises something that could be a gun and

points it at us. Before I can duck, the beam of light makes

me flinch.

Flashlight, not gun.

“Who are you?” he demands in a shaky voice. “What do

you want?”

“Mr. Manning? I’m Randall Shane and this is Mrs. Jane

Garner.”

“I don’t know you.” He backs away, looks ready to slip

back into the foliage. “What do you want?” His voice sounds

like a speaker with a loose wire, like he’s on the verge of lar-

yngitis, and fighting it.

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Chris Jordan

Shane raises both hands, as if in surrender, and takes a step

closer to the gate. “We have reason to believe that Mrs. Garner’s

daughter, Kelly, has run away with Seth Manning, who is listed

as living at this address. Are you Seth’s father, sir? Are you

aware that Kelly Garner is a minor? Can you help us find them?”

At each statement of fact the man in black seems to shud-

der, as if receiving a series of thudding body blows. Shaking

his head, no, no, no. “Never heard of the girl,” he responds,

voice cracking. “You’ll have to leave. I demand that you

leave immediately!”

Shane slips closer to the gate. His own powerful, compel-

ling voice becomes less demanding, more conciliatory.

“Where’s your son, Mr. Manning? Can you help us, please?

Mrs. Garner is worried sick. This isn’t about pressing

charges, it’s about getting her daughter back.”

“Go away! You must go away!”

“Why is that? Has something happened?”

The man in black retreats, blending into the foliage. Only

his eyes showing, like the Cheshire cat. “Nothing happened,”

he says softly. “Go away.”

Shane takes a business card from his wallet, slips it

through the iron bars. It flutters to the ground like a small,

white leaf. “My card, sir. I can help you.”

The eyes vanish. The voice has been reduced to a pleading

whisper. “You can help by going away.”

Then the leaves shiver and he’s gone.

Shane pulls the Town Car over in a shallow turnaround a few

hundred yards from the Manning estate. He kills the engine.

On the other side of the road, seemingly close enough to touch,

the water is black, glistening. A few miles away, visible along

the shore, the snug little cove exudes life. Docks, homes, street-

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83

lights. A familiar, clustered warmth that seems alien out here

on the Neck, where many of the homes are hidden from view.

Shane shifts himself in the driver’s seat, facing me.

“Your reaction?” he asks.

“Messed up,” I admit. The feeling of dread has returned,

nagging at my guts. Getting into the car, my knees had been

weak. “That was Seth’s father, wasn’t it?”

Shane nods. I can’t quite make out his eyes. He’s a hand-

some skull in the dark. “Almost certainly,” he agrees. “I ad-

dressed him as ‘Mr. Manning’ several times and he failed to

correct me. Probably used to people knowing who he is.”

“His face was dirty,” I say, mouth as dry as sandpaper.

“Smeared on the dirt so we wouldn’t see him,” Shane

says. “I’m almost certain he was hiding in the leaves, listen-

ing to us for a while before he revealed himself.”

“But why?”

The big man sighs. “This is pure speculation, but I as-

sume he wanted to know who we are. Or more importantly,

who we aren’t.”

“Why?” I repeat. “Why not call the security guards to run

us off? Or call the cops? Why come out to the gate at all? People

who live in houses like that, on estates like that, they don’t run

around at night, dressed all in black, faces smeared with dirt.”

I’m unaware of clutching the back of the leather headrest

until Shane gives my hand a reassuring pat, as if preparing

me for bad news.

“In my estimation Edwin Manning is desperate,” he says

carefully, gauging my reaction. “He’s making it up as he

goes along.”

Desperate, frightened, lost. That was my impression, too.

“I’ve seen parents behave like that, many times.” Shane