Willow Pond (5 page)

Later on, Wilson walked in and headed directly to Phillip. The detective stopped at his side, then waited impatiently for Phillip to acknowledge him. When Phillip finally looked up, Wilson glared down, arms crossed. “It’s about time you got here, Austin. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Phillip scowled, but didn't have time to answer before they heard a commotion outside. Laura got up and parted the kitchen curtains, peering toward the road. A cop was running toward the house, pursued by dozens of reporters and photographers. For a second she wondered if they had found Todd, then read the expression on the cop’s face and knew they hadn't. He stepped into the kitchen and slammed the door in the reporter’s faces, looking somewhat frazzled by the chase, then handed an envelope to Phillip.

“What is that?” Wilson asked, frowning.

“It's for Mr. Austin. We believe it's from the kidnappers, sir.”

With Detective Wilson looking over his shoulder, Phillip read the note out loud. His voice was smooth and commanding, obviously comfortable with performing.

Dear Sir:

We have your son. If you follow our instructions and do not involve the police, he won’t be harmed. We want $250,000. In two days, you will receive another letter telling you where to deliver the money.

Laura stared agog at Phillip. “Don't involve the police? Oh God. We never should have called them. But I didn't know what else to do. Oh God, Phillip. What are they going to do to him now?”

“Take it easy, Mrs Austin,” Wilson said, examining the letter. “They're just trying to throw a scare into you. Mr. Austin, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is peanuts to you. What are these bums really after?”

When Phillip didn't say anything, Laura jumped in. “Phillip and a friend have been flying up and down the East Coast, looking for stills. Could that be it?”

“Huh.” Wilson turned to Laura. “Did he get your aunt all steamed up?”

“My aunt? I already told you she has nothing to do with this.”

“Oh yeah. She's a saint, I’m sure.” He turned back to Phillip. “Which bootleggers are you messing with?”

Phillip cleared his throat and glared at the detective. “Bootleggers are not the issue here, Detective Wilson. My son—”

“Maybe you just answer my questions. Then I might have something to go on.”

“I’m not the criminal here,” Phillip murmured.

“I need names of anyone suspicious. Trust me, folks. This is no time to play it cute. What about former employees? Anyone got it in for you?”

A look passed between them and Wilson took out his notepad. “Out with it.”

Laura got up and walked to the window. The sky was dotted by clouds, as if someone had tossed cotton balls and let them scatter across the blue. She gazed at the tulips, hands on her hips. She could only think of one employee episode, and it had happened the autumn before, when she had helped Brian Madigan plant the bulbs. Phillip had been angry and embarrassed when he learned she had been helping the landscaper. He would have fired Madigan had she not talked him out of it. She had to wonder. If she’d let Phillip fire him, maybe this wouldn't be happening.

While Laura, Phillip and five hundred guests attended Todd's October christening, Brian Madigan had broken into the safe in Phillip’s office. He’d stolen twelve thousand dollars and Laura’s diamond necklace. As Phillip finished telling the story to Detective Wilson, the cop shook his head with disbelief.

“Don’t you have any security?” Wilson asked. “I mean, how careless are you people?”

“If cops did their jobs, we wouldn’t have to live in an armed fortress,” Phillip grumbled.

“Did you press charges?”

“Sure, but they were dropped for lack of evidence,” Laura said.

“Wait a minute,” Phillip said, squinting at the detective. “I don't like the way you're asking these questions. It's almost as if you think this is our fault.”

Laura sat down next to him and put her hand on his leg. “If it will help find Todd …”

He glanced down at her hand, then studied her face. She held his gaze even when his frown twisted into a mocking smile. “All right,” he said. “But I'm still curious about how Madigan got into the safe. Maybe he's some sort of master thief.”

The most difficult aspect of that situation was Laura had liked Brian Madigan. He was bright and articulate, and she enjoyed talking with him. Could she inadvertently have said something which might have prompted Todd’s kidnapping?

“You fired him.” Wilson said.

“Of course.”

“Can we find out if he has a criminal record?” Laura asked.

“I’ll get one of my men on it right away.”

“He swore he would get back at us,” Laura muttered.

“What about his wife?” Phillip asked. “Wasn’t she crazy or something?”

Laura and Madigan had been planting the tulips when he'd told her his wife, Gabrielle, was being released from Bellevue Hospital. Laura had felt sorry for the poor man. Now she wondered.

A rap on the door, then another younger cop walked in, looking for Wilson. The two men stepped outside for a few minutes and Laura tried to listen to what they were saying, but their words were muffled by the wall. When Wilson returned he sat down, slammed his hands on the table and looked straight at Phillip.

“Any of your bootlegger friends drive a dark blue 1925 or '26 Buick, Austin?”

“Your insinuations are annoying.”

“No kidding. Listen. You are damn lucky I haven't asked you where you were between eleven and eleven thirty yesterday morning. Actually, now that I think of it, where were you?”

They stared at the detective.

“Are you accusing me of kidnapping my own son?” Phillip demanded.

“Just answer the question. Where were you?”

“Washington, DC.”

“Uh huh.” Wilson scribbled on his notepad, then waited, pen poised. “What about an alibi?”

“I was at a meeting with the film director, Richard Hamilton, among others.”

Wilson shoved a cigar into his mouth. “Get me a phone number where I can reach him.”

“What’s this car you mentioned?” Laura asked.

“Your neighbor claims he saw a car matching that description headed this way around eleven o’clock yesterday morning. He said he'd never seen the car or the man behind the wheel before. We'll look into it. In the meantime,” he said, snapping his notebook shut, “I have a few other leads to investigate. I assume I don't need to remind you to stay close while this investigation is underway.”

“We're not going anywhere until you find Todd,” Laura assured him as he headed outside.

Laura stood at the window, watching Wilson make his way past the reporters and photographers. When the familiar weight of Phillip's arm wrapped around her shoulders, she stiffened and moved away.

Phillip's expression was laced with contempt. “Oh,” he said. “I see. So it's okay for you to touch me, but not for me to touch you?”

“I’m sorry, Phillip. It's just, well, I feel like we're in a fishbowl.” She waved irritably toward the media outside. “Can’t you do something about those vultures?”

“I will. Later. For now I just need some quiet.”

“Quiet? Ha. There's a big difference between you and me, Phillip. I cannot stand all this quiet. This house should be loud with Todd's voice right now. Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”

Chapter Seven

During the long days and nights of waiting, the press never left them alone. Fortunately, only one reporter managed to get into the house. A crafty reporter from the Newark Star Ledger climbed a tree and edged onto a particularly large branch, from which he managed to open Mrs. Nickerson’s second story bedroom window.

After the police removed the man and Laura was satisfied the nanny was all right, she joined Phillip in the living room. They sat side by side on the white velvet sofa, feeling the awkward space between them. He stared at her, and she avoided his eyes, looking from the rose-colored walls to the double glass doors leading to the garden.

But before the police had ousted him, the reporter in Mrs. Nickerson's room had said something that clicked with Laura. What if they did cooperate, at least in part, with the media? An interview might uncover a new lead, or cause someone to remember something they had seen or heard.

Phillip looked uncomfortable at the suggestion. “I don't think that'll do much good. Plus, once one of those vultures gets into this house we might as well let him move in.”

“We could choose who we want. I have someone in mind already.”

That surprised him. He cocked an eyebrow. “Who?”

“The reporter who covered the shooting at McGuire’s last year. I met him when I went to make sure nothing had happened to Virginia.”

McGuire’s was a small speakeasy on East Twenty-Ninth Street, and Virginia was friends with the owner. Two rival gangs had been fighting over whose territory held the speakeasy when the shooting occurred. Three men wound up dead, including the owner. Virginia had been on the premises when it happened, but had managed to stay out of the way.

“Why him?”

“I like the way he handled it. I think he’d be fair.”

“Fair or unfair, you're just asking for trouble.”

Laura felt blood rush into her cheeks. He was so stubborn. He seemed perfectly happy to sit back and wait for things to happen. Well, she couldn't.

“Phillip, please. You cannot expect me to just sit on my hands. I have to do something to get Todd back. The police don't seem to be getting anywhere. It's just another case to them. But ...” She swallowed hard and struggled to get the next words out. She hated appealing to his ego. “You are such a big star, Phillip. A reporter might take an active interest in helping. Who knows what he might be able to turn up.”

“Yes, but a man in my position has to be careful.”

Phillip didn't seem to realize a man in his position should be careful around her as well. Since Todd’s kidnapping, there had been an unspoken truce of sorts between them, but he was about to find out just how fragile their truce was.

“That's a horrible thing to worry about, Phillip. You should be ashamed of yourself. How self-centered and egotistical can you be?” she demanded. “This is our son we are talking about. Don’t you care about him at all? He is missing. We have no idea if he is still alive. And all you can think about is yourself. That makes me sick.”

He pursed his lips, then closed his eyes in a rare moment of acquiescence. “All right, all right. I will see what I can arrange. Which paper does he write for?”

“The Herald Tribune, I think. I don't remember his name, but I know he won a Pulitzer for that series about gangsters.”

***

Just before noon, Virginia pulled up in front of Bacchanal. She opened the door of her forest green Packard town car and extended a shapely leg from within. Stepping onto the sidewalk, she took a quick look around, then descended the short flight of stairs and went inside.

After the bright hubbub of Sixth Avenue, Bacchanal was as dark as a cave, its bar mirror shimmering like a mirage. Sawdust was sprinkled on the floor, gathering remnants from the previous night. The sickly sweet blend of gin and cheap perfume still hung in the air.

While she was opening the blinds to let in some light, Virginia spied a police car pulling up to the curb. Two men got out and made their way toward the speakeasy's entrance. At five feet eleven inches, Virginia was well aware of how her physical presence affected people. Especially men. Cops were just men with badges. She timed it so that when she opened the door, Wilson was just putting his fist up to knock.

“Oh.” He looked confused for a moment, as if he didn't know what to do with his fist. Then he dropped it to his side. “Miss Kingsley. We need to ask you a few more questions.”

“Fine.” She ushered them inside then closed the door behind them. “We can go into my office.”

“I’m afraid not. They have an interrogation room ready for us at the station house. Get your coat if you like.”

Virginia stared straight into Wilson’s small eyes and spoke with an icy calm. Her tight smile matched her voice. “Fine. I will let you play your game, Detective. After all, I guess even you have to find a way to amuse yourself. But you should be aware that the game will not last long.”

Fifteen minutes later they led her into a small room at the police station, and Wilson pulled out a chair for her. She accepted it graciously, and he told her to wait as he headed out the door.

The walls of the windowless room were institutional green; the cracked linoleum was gray. There were no paintings on the wall, not a speck of color to break up the monotony.

Virginia was delighted. The lack of personality in the room was perfect. The other cop had remained in the room with her, and he couldn't take his eyes off her. She smiled coyly at him and placed her hands on the table. He stared at her long red fingernails as if he'd never seen anything like them.

She used her most sultry voice on him. “Boring job, huh?”

She rose to straighten the skirt of her red Chanel suit, and watched the young cop's hungry eyes travel down her body, then linger on her long legs.

Wilson returned and tossed a newspaper on the table in front of her. He tapped the headline with a stubby finger.

“Seen this?”

Police question aunt about possible connection to Austin kidnapping,
it read.

“Not until now,” said Virginia, scanning the article. “Why?” She glanced up at Wilson, a mischievous smile lighting her eyes. “Are you enjoying the spotlight, Detective? Pretty impressive case, this.”

“Why don’t you tell me about the bad blood between you and Phillip Austin?”

She looked away, accidentally catching the eye of her young admirer. He stared at her lips while she spoke. “I thought you had jurisdiction over Suffolk County, Wilson, not New York City. What are you doing here?”

“The N.Y.P.D. has been …” He frowned. “Just answer the question.”

“Ah.” Her gaze dropped to her fingers, still flat on the table. “One of my favorite games: cops doing favors for each other. Now. What do you want to know?”