Daddy's Gone a Hunting Page 4

  That was the way Hannah’s mind felt now, racing from one fearful possibility to the other. Suppose the explosion was an accident, and it was just a coincidence that Kate and Gus were there when it had occurred. Was that so impossible? Even at four thirty in the morning? But why would Kate have met Gus?

  Five years ago Jack Worth said it was time to retire Gus, that it was clear that with the tremor in his hands and his increasingly poor vision, he simply couldn’t do the job anymore. Gus had been angry and had gotten nasty even when Kate had insisted he receive a year’s salary as a bonus. He and Kate remained good friends.

  Oh God, there has to be a reasonable explanation. Kate would never commit a crime to get money. I know her too well. I can’t believe that I’d even consider that possibility, Hannah thought. She pushed back her chair. What am I doing here? I have to go back to the hospital. I have to be there with her.

  Hannah said good-bye to the others in the office with the simple statement, “I’ll call you if anything changes.” She had turned off her cell phone in the hospital and had forgotten to turn it on until now. She checked her messages. There were a dozen calls from their friends and from Kate’s boss and coworkers. All of them expressed shock and concern. Three of the calls were from Jessie. “Hannah, call me,” she had said.

  I’ll wait to call Jessie until I see Kate again, Hannah thought. Is it possible that it was just last night that Jessie and I had such a good time celebrating that I had my own label? Does that matter anymore? Does anything matter if Kate doesn’t recover?

  When Hannah got to the hospital she was told to go to the ICU waiting room, that Dr. Patel would meet her there. But when she opened the door, someone else was standing at the window, her back to Hannah. One glance at Jessie’s flaming red hair and Hannah was able to release the fear that kept building up inside her.

  A moment later, sobbing and shaking, she was enveloped in Jessie’s arms.

  12

  Doug Connelly was not sure where he wanted to go after he dropped Hannah off. When she got out of the cab, it had pulled away from the curb and now the cabbie was asking, “Where to, sir?”

  All Doug wanted was to go home and get a couple of aspirin and some coffee, but he wondered if he shouldn’t go out to Long Island City to see the damage for himself. Would it seem strange for the owner not to show up when there was such a massive fire?

  On the other hand, it would be better to go home and call for his own car. Or maybe he didn’t really have to go right away, or at all. He gave the cabbie his address on East Eighty-second Street, then leaned back and closed his eyes. He was trying to calculate the appropriate move to make next.

  Was it clear that the fire was deliberately set? Did it look as if Kate teamed up with Gus to set it? And did something go wrong and it went off too soon, before they could escape? Five years ago, when we made Gus retire, he was mighty nasty about it. The girls were always friendly with him. It wouldn’t be impossible to make a case that he got her help to set some sort of explosion and then it went off sooner than they planned.

  But where would that leave the insurance payout? If the insurance company can prove arson by a disgruntled member of the family, would that be an excuse for the insurance company not to pay? Sure the land is valuable, but there is a $20 million policy on the antiques alone.

  Well, no one could ever say I had anything to do with it. Doug took refuge in the knowledge that he had had too much to drink last night and plenty of witnesses to prove it. He vaguely remembered that Bernard, his driver, had helped him out of the car and that Danny, the elevator operator, had taken him into the apartment and made him lie down on the couch. If it came to that, they would testify about his condition and the all-night doorman would swear that he never left the building.

  At least I’m in the clear, Doug comforted himself. If necessary we can start building a case against Gus. Especially if Kate doesn’t pull through, he thought. But then he was ashamed to even consider that possibility.

  The cab finally reached the door of his apartment building. The fare had come to twenty-two dollars. Doug peeled off two twenties from the bills in his wallet and shoved them into the opening between the front and back sections of the cab. “Keep the change.”

  That was something else that drove Kate crazy, he thought. “Dad, why do you find it necessary to give tips that are practically the price of the ride? If you think you’re making a big impression, you’re wrong.”

  Was it only last night that Kate had a sour look when he ordered the champagne? Seems like years ago. Ralph, the day doorman, was holding the door open for him. When he got out, the man’s first question was, “How is your daughter, Mr. Connelly?”

  The disapproving look on Kate’s face from the night before was in Doug Connelly’s mind when he said, “It’s too soon to tell.”

  “There’s a young lady waiting for you in the lobby, sir. She’s been here for an hour.”

  “A young lady?” Startled, Doug walked swiftly to the door of the building. Just as swiftly Ralph was there to hold it open for him. Sandra was sitting upright on one of the armless canvas chairs in the modernistic lobby. She jumped up when she saw him.

  “Oh, Doug. I’m so sorry. You must be in agony. How awful for you!”

  “Ah, the beauty queen tears herself away from Majestic,” Doug said. But then, as her hands reached out to massage his fingers and she kissed his cheek, the demons in his head began to retreat. Sandra was another witness as to where he was last night. He’d go over to the complex tomorrow, or the next day, or never . . . I don’t want to see it, he thought.

  He put his hand under her arm. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said.

  13

  When he knew he was going to move permanently to New York, Mark Sloane made some carefully considered decisions. He signed up with a well-recommended real estate agent and told her what he wanted. A roomy two-bedroom, two-bath condo in the Greenwich Village area. His law office was in the Pershing Square Building, opposite Grand Central Terminal, so the commute would be easy by subway or foot.

  The furniture he had gathered in his post–law school days had seen better days. He decided to pitch it and start from scratch. It also gave him a chance to completely eliminate any traces of the several ladies along the way who had been more than willing to move in with him.

  The real estate agent had introduced him to a decorator who had helped him select a comfortable couch and chairs, a coffee table and end tables for the living room, a bed, dresser, and lounge chair for the bedroom, and a small table and two chairs that fit perfectly below the unusual luxury of a kitchen window.

  Mark had shipped the bulk of his clothes, his bookcases, books, the native art he had collected over the years, and the hand-woven rug in vivid shades and intricate designs he had bought in India.

  “The rest we’ll fill in as I get the feel of the place,” he had told the decorator, who had been all too anxious to plan window treatments and accessories.

  He left Chicago that Thursday morning in a heavy snowstorm. His plane was three hours delayed in taking off. Not an auspicious start, he thought as he disembarked into the gloomy late afternoon at LaGuardia Airport. But then as he waited for the luggage at the carousel, he acknowledged that he was glad to be here in this place at this time. The job he’d been in for the past five years had lost its challenge.

  He planned on Skypeing with his mother regularly. That way he wouldn’t have to take her word for it that she was “just fine.” And he had plenty of old friends in New York who were fellow graduates of Cornell. Time for a new beginning.

  And time for something else to be resolved, he thought, as he reached down and with an easy movement lifted his one heavy suitcase from the carousel. With fellow passengers who also had been fortunate enough to have their bags among the first to come tumbling down the chute, he made his way to the cab stand outside and stood patiently in line. His height had made him a star basketball player in college. His hair had once been auburn li
ke his sister Tracey’s, but it had darkened to a deep brown shade. His somewhat irregular features, caused by a badly broken nose during a game, were complemented by warm brown eyes and a strong mouth and chin. To strangers, Mark Sloane gave the immediate impression of being the kind of guy you’d like to know better.

  Finally he was in a cab and on the way to the apartment. On previous visits to New York City, Mark had observed that many drivers talked on their hands-free cell phones and were not likely to strike up a conversation. This cabbie was different. He had a classic New York accent and wanted to talk. “Business or tourist?” he asked.

  “Actually as of today I’m a resident,” Mark answered.

  “No kidding. Welcome to the Big Apple. I don’t see how anyone who comes here would ever want to go home. Always something going on. Day and night. I mean it’s not like living in some burb where the most exciting thing you can do is watch somebody get a haircut.”

  Mark was sorry he’d let himself in for a dialogue. “I’ve been living in Chicago. Some people consider that a pretty good town, too.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Fortunately the traffic got heavier and the driver turned his attention to it. Mark found himself wondering what his sister Tracey’s reactions were when she first arrived in New York. She hadn’t flown, probably because she didn’t want to spend the money. Instead she’d come by bus and moved into a YWCA rooming house before finally getting the apartment where she was living when she disappeared.

  I’ll get settled at the job quickly, he thought, and then figure out how I can get the detectives interested in her case again. I guess the best place to start is the district attorney’s office in Manhattan. Those detectives were the ones who investigated the case. I have the name of the lead guy, Nick Greco. I should be able to track him down.

  With his plan set, he tipped the driver generously when he arrived at his newly purchased apartment on Downing Street, took his shiny new keys from his wallet, let himself into the vestibule, and then entered the lobby. It was just a few long strides to the elevator, where two attractive women were waiting, one tall with vivid red hair, the other dark-haired, small-boned, and with heavy sunglasses covering most of her face. It was obvious she was crying.

  The redhead had certainly noticed Mark’s suitcase. “If you’re here for the first time, you’ll notice that the elevator is slow,” she told him. “When they renovated these old buildings, they didn’t bother to replace the elevators.”

  Mark had the feeling that she was making conversation to divert his attention from her tearful friend.

  There was a ring at the vestibule door and in a moment, the only apartment door in the lobby opened. The superintendent, whom Mark had met before, stepped out and let two men in. Mark could clearly hear the voice of one of them. “We have an appointment with a Ms. Hannah Connelly.” Mark recognized the voice of authority, and he instinctively felt that even though neither of the men was in uniform, both were in law enforcement.

  “She’s right there,” the superintendent said, pointing to the young woman with the dark glasses. “She must have just come in.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, they’re here already. You didn’t even get a chance to get something to eat,” the redhead said, her voice low.

  The other young woman’s voice sounded faltering and resigned as she said, “Jessie, whether they come now or later, there’s no difference. Whether they believe it or not, I can’t add a single thing to what I told them this morning.”

  What is this about? Mark wondered as the elevator door opened and side by side, he, the two women, and the two men got into it.

  14

  Fire Marshals Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein had been on duty at their desks in Fort Totten in Queens when they received the early-morning phone call about the fire at the Connelly complex in Long Island City. They had rushed to it to find squads from two companies battling the flames. The fact that two people had barely escaped the building after the explosion suggested that others might have been trapped inside, even at that unusual hour. At that time they could not tell if Gus Schmidt had managed to crawl out on his own before he died. When they learned that the one survivor had been rushed to Manhattan Midtown Hospital, they immediately followed, hoping to be able to interview her. She was already in surgery, and her sister and the plant manager had no idea why she had gone to the complex.

  The marshals had returned to the fire and then changed into the gear they always carried in their car. After they had battled the flames for four hours, the fire was finally extinguished and it became clear that no one else had been in any of the buildings. The back wall of the museum had been the first to collapse, but by then the searchers had gotten out of the conflagration.

  Ramsey and Klein, their heavy boots protecting them from the heat of the scorched remains of the complex, methodically searched for the source of the fire.

  The first eyewitness, a watchman from a neighboring warehouse, had come running over at the sound of the explosion and verified that the flames were originally shooting straight up from the museum. The fact that its back wall had collapsed was the second clue that it was there that the fire had started.

  Next was the painstaking search for evidence of causation, including possible arson.

  By eleven o’clock on Thursday morning, Marshals Ramsey and Klein had found a partially unscrewed gas pipe that had leaked gas into the museum. The wall that had fallen had covered the remains of the charred outlet that had the wires exposed. The two veteran fire marshals did not need to look any further. The fire was of an incendiary nature and had been deliberately set.

  Before they could finalize their crime report, Jack Worth, the plant manager, had arrived on the scene.

  15

  When he drove into what had been the Connelly complex, Jack Worth was shocked at the amount of destruction. Even though it was a cold, damp day, a crowd of onlookers, kept at a distance by lines of yellow tape, were watching as firefighters continued to walk through the rubble, their heavy boots protecting them from the heat of the cluttered ruins. The hoses they were holding sent forceful gallons of water onto the smoldering pockets throughout the wreckage. Jack pushed his way to the front and caught the attention of a policeman who was on guard to keep anyone from slipping through the ropes. When Jack identified himself, he was taken to see one of the fire marshals, Frank Ramsey.

  Ramsey did not waste his words. “I know we spoke to you at the hospital and I’d like to verify a few of the statements you made. How long have you been working here?”

  “Over thirty years. I have an accounting degree from Pace University and was hired as an assistant bookkeeper.” Anticipating further questions, he explained, “Old Mr. Connelly was still alive then, but he died shortly after I started to work here. It was two years before the boating accident that took the lives of one of his sons and his daughter-in-law as well as four other passengers. By then, even though I was pretty young, I was head accountant.”

  “When were you put in charge of the whole operation?”

  “Five years ago. There was a big turnover then. The former plant manager retired. His name is Russ Link. He lives in Florida now. I can give you his address there. Over the past ten years our craftsmen have been retiring. Gus was the last to go, just as I took over, and quite frankly it had to be forced. He simply wasn’t capable of doing the work anymore.”

  “Do you have an outside accounting firm?”

  “Absolutely. They can verify that the business was going downhill.”

  “Is the business insured?”

  “Of course it is. There is a separate policy for the antiques.”

  “How much is that policy?”

  “Twenty million dollars.”

  “Why weren’t the security cameras working?”

  “As I told you, the company hasn’t been doing well lately. As a matter of fact, we’re losing money hand over fist.”

  “You mean you couldn’t afford to fix the security camera
s?”

  Jack Worth had been sitting in a folding chair facing Marshal Ramsey in the back of a mobile police van. For a moment he broke the eye contact he had been making with Ramsey, then said, “Mr. Connelly was looking into several security systems, but didn’t want to commit to one of them yet. He said to hold off because he was expecting to sell the business as soon as he got the right offer for the land.”

  “And, once again: Did you know that Kate Connelly was meeting the former employee, Gus Schmidt, here early this morning?”

  “Absolutely not,” Jack said forcefully.

  “Mr. Worth, we will be speaking to you at length again. Do you have a business card?”

  Jack fished in the pocket of his trousers. “I’m sorry. I ran out without my wallet.” He hesitated and then added, “Which means I’m not carrying my driver’s license. I’d better not get stopped by a cop on my way home.”

  Frank Ramsey did not respond to the attempted touch of levity. “Please leave your address and phone number or numbers with me. You’re not planning to leave the area, are you?”

  “Absolutely not.” Now Jack Worth bristled. “You have to understand, all of this is overwhelmingly shocking to me. I’ve worked for this company for over thirty years. Gus Schmidt was my friend. I’ve watched Kate Connelly grow up. Now Gus is dead and Kate may not make it. How do you think I feel?”

  “I am sure that you’re very upset.”

  Jack Worth knew what the fire marshal was thinking. As plant manager, Jack should have insisted that the complex be protected by security cameras. And Ramsey was right. But wait till this guy gets a handle on Doug Connelly, he thought grimly. Ramsey might get some idea of the kind of boss I was dealing with.