Daddy's Gone a Hunting

  “She was sorry about . . .,” Jessie began to repeat slowly.

  “You can imagine what I was thinking, that Kate set the fire. But then a few days later, Dad said that he realized he had been so shocked about everything that he was garbled about what Kate had told him. He claimed that what she said was that she was sorry about the fire, meaning that she knew how much he loved the complex.”

  “That is one very big difference, to say the least,” Jessie snapped. “Which version do you believe?”

  “I cannot believe my sister is an arsonist.”

  “Nor can I,” Jessie said emphatically, “but I have to tell you that Doug has been on the phone with me. He’s determined to create the scenario that Gus tricked Kate into meeting him at the complex. The way he explains her call to him is that she was always very friendly with Gus and just happened to call to chat with him. The rest of the scenario that Doug wants to put out is that Gus hated him so much for forcing him into retirement that he figured out a good way to punish Doug. He tricked Kate into meeting him at the time he knew the explosion would go off. He probably told Kate that he needed her help. But something went wrong. Gus gets killed and Kate gets badly injured.”

  Jessie took the last bite of the first half of her sandwich and reached for the other half. “A disgruntled employee blew up the complex. The injured daughter is an innocent victim and the insurance is paid. Get the picture?”

  “Suppose, if Kate recovers—make that when Kate recovers—and can talk about it, she says that that is not the way it happened?” Hannah asked, quietly.

  “I don’t know.” Jessie did not want to tell Hannah that she was sensing a certain desperation in Douglas Connelly. No matter what, he can always get a lot of money for just the property, she thought. But he’s counting on the big prize, millions more in insurance. I wouldn’t want to be the one to stand in his way of getting it.

  64

  Lottie Schmidt could see from the caller identification on her phone that it was Gretchen. It was Wednesday midafternoon, which meant that Gretchen might have canceled yet another appointment with one of her massage clients. After she got back to Minnesota and was inside her beautiful home, it finally got through her thick skull that those fire marshals were so interested in her house because they wanted to know how she was able to pay for it, Lottie thought.

  She folded her hands in her lap. She had been sitting at the table of their small dining room going through some photo albums when the phone rang. Then, not wanting to pick it up and wishing she had the courage to walk away, she listened to Gretchen’s frantic message. “Mama, I know you’re never out at this time so why aren’t you picking up? Mama, did Poppa do something funny to get the money to buy my house? If he did, why didn’t you tell me? I never would have shown those pictures to those marshals or cops or whoever they are. Why didn’t you say it straight? Mama, a lot of things went wrong in my life. You and Poppa were so strict. Never let me have any fun. Always telling me to study harder, that my marks were never good enough. I married Jeff to get out of the house and that was a nightmare. I waited on him hand and foot because that was the way you waited on Poppa. And—”

  The thirty-second limit for leaving a message on the answering machine was up. Thank God, Lottie thought, then shrugged. What can you do? Buy the house for her and you’re a saint. Now her big mouth might cause her to lose it and it’s my fault.

  She looked down at the photo album. She and Gus had both been twenty years old when they were married by the minister in her mother’s backyard in Baden-Baden, Germany. She was wearing a white blouse and skirt, and Gus a rented blue suit. The next day they had left Germany to go to America.

  I was smiling, Lottie thought. I was so happy. Gus looked scared but happy, too. I knew how definite he was, and how rigid, but it didn’t matter. It still doesn’t matter. He loved me and he took good care of me. He was such a proud man. When we moved here to Little Neck, and our friends were so thrilled to buy new furniture and show it off, I would say to him, “Gus, don’t have that look on your face. I know what you’re thinking. That they paid too much for it. That it’s cheaply made. Let them enjoy it.”

  He had made their own furniture himself. In all these years, they had only redone the upholstery twice and of course he had done the work in their garage.

  For a craftsman like that to have been so insulted, so wounded. It explained everything.

  The doorbell rang. Lottie had been so lost in reminiscing that the time had gone by more swiftly than she had realized. It was already three thirty, and Peter Callow, the young lawyer who had grown up in the house next door, was coming to talk to her.

  She had called him after the fire marshals were at the house on Monday.

  Lottie knew that this was going to be hard. It was embarrassing to put herself in the hands of someone whom she could still see as the kid who broke her living room window playing softball.

  She got up, her hands pressing on the table to ease the weight on her knees, walked to the door, and opened it. The self-assured attorney in an overcoat, business suit, and tie still had the same warm smile of the eight-year-old who was so grateful when she had told him that she knew he didn’t mean to break her window.

  As she took his coat and put it in the hall closet, and then as they walked into the living room, she was assuring Peter that, since Gus had died, she was doing all right, that she would be all right. After he refused coffee or tea or even water, they sat down. “How can I help you, Mrs. Schmidt?” he asked.

  Lottie had decided that she would not beat around the bush. “Five years ago, Gus told me that he had won a lottery. That was all he said. He used the money to buy a house for Gretchen in Minnesota and an annuity so she could pay the overhead.”

  Peter Callow did not say how wonderful that was. He knew immediately that there was more to the story.

  “They’re trying to blame the Connelly explosion on Gus. The fire marshals were at the wake and came here Monday. They were asking about Gretchen’s house.”

  “How did they know about it?”

  “Because she couldn’t wait to talk about it,” Lottie snapped, bitterly.

  “If Mr. Schmidt won a lottery and paid whatever taxes he owed, there shouldn’t be a problem,” Peter said. “The marshals will be able to check that out very easily.”

  “I’m not sure Gus won a lottery,” Lottie said.

  “Then where did he get the money for the house and annuity?”

  “I don’t know. He never told me.”

  Peter Callow could see, from the deep crimson blush that was enveloping the cheeks of the elderly woman who had been his former neighbor, that she was lying. “Mrs. Schmidt,” he said gently, “if they can’t find any record of Mr. Schmidt winning a lottery and paying his taxes, they’ll be back here questioning you. And I would have to assume that they’ll even go out to Minnesota and talk to Gretchen.”

  “Gretchen hasn’t any idea where her father got the money to buy her house.”

  “And Mr. Schmidt never gave you a hint?”

  Lottie looked away. “No.”

  “Mrs. Schmidt, I want to help you. But you know that the media is going as far as it can, without risking a lawsuit for libel, to speculate that Mr. Schmidt conspired with Kate Connelly to set off the explosion. How long has Gretchen had the house?”

  “Five years.”

  “Wasn’t that about the time that Mr. Schmidt was asked to retire?”

  “Yes, it was.” Lottie hesitated. “Peter, will you be my lawyer? I mean, can you be with me when they are talking to me?”

  “Yes, of course I can, Mrs. Schmidt.” Peter Callow got up. The way this seems to be going, he thought, my new client may soon have to invoke the Fifth Amendment and say nothing further to anybody.

  65

  Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein stayed in the hospital with Peggy and Skip as they made arrangements with the funeral home in Staten Island to come for Clyde’s body.

  Then, composed and cal
m, Peggy called her pastor at St. Rita’s to tell him that she had seen her husband just before he died, and that she wanted to have a funeral mass on Friday morning.

  They were sitting in a small office where they had been invited to wait while the doctor signed the death certificate and she made the calls. Skip was standing protectively behind Peggy, but when she laid down her cell phone, she suddenly turned in the swivel chair and asked, “What are they going to put down as the cause of death?” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Because if they put acute alcoholism, I want the death certificate torn up. Clyde died of pneumonia.”

  As she spoke, the doctor, who had hurried to Clyde’s bedside when the alarms on the machines that monitored his breathing had gone off, tapped on the partially open door of the room and came in. He had obviously overheard Peggy, because he said, in a gentle and understanding tone, “You are absolutely right, Mrs. Hotchkiss. Your husband died of pneumonia and I assure you that is what is on this certificate.”

  Peggy’s hand began to tremble as she reached for the envelope he was holding out to her.

  “I’ll take it, Mom,” Skip said.

  Peggy dropped her hand. Then looking past everyone, she asked, “You know what crazy thought went through my head just now?” It was a rhetorical question. Skip and the doctor and the fire marshals waited.

  “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is one of my all-time favorite books,” Peggy told them, the tone of her voice reminiscent. “When the character Johnny, who was an alcoholic, dies, his wife pleads with the doctor to make the cause of death ‘pneumonia’ because he really did have pneumonia. She tells him that she has nice kids and doesn’t want them to ever have to say that their father died of alcoholism. Well, I’ve got a nice son and four nice grandchildren and my husband was a war hero and I won’t have anyone forget that.”

  “Mom, you heard what the doctor said. It’s okay.” Skip put his hands on his mother’s shoulders.

  Peggy brushed back the tears that were beginning to slip down her cheeks. “Yes, of course and thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “My sympathy, Mrs. Hotchkiss.” With a brief nod, the doctor was gone.

  Steadied by Skip, Peggy stood up. “I guess there’s nothing more I can do here. The funeral director said he would take care of clothing for Clyde.” She looked at Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein. “You’ve been so kind. If I had been too late to see Clyde before he died, it would have been terrible for me. I wouldn’t have been on time if the police car hadn’t picked me up and rushed me to the hospital. I needed to have him go, knowing that we were with him and that we loved him. But now you have to tell me: Who was the girl you asked Clyde about?”

  “Mrs. Hotchkiss, we can’t give you details but we’re eternally grateful that you were there to urge your husband to answer our questions,” Frank Ramsey said.

  “I never knew Clyde to tell a lie or even shade the truth,” Peggy said firmly. “He told you that he punched the girl and she got out of the van and then he heard her scream, ‘Help me, help me.’ What happened to that girl?”

  “I can tell you that she never made it home that night,” Frank Ramsey said.

  “Did you believe Clyde?” Peggy demanded.

  Frank wanted to say “yes” to comfort her, but looking into the now-blazing eyes of the widow of Clyde Hotchkiss, he said, “What he told us opens a whole new avenue as we try to solve the death of this young woman. It may turn out to be incredibly valuable information and we thank you for persuading him to share it.”

  Twenty minutes later Frank and Nathan were having lunch in a sandwich shop near the hospital. When they were seated and had ordered, Frank asked the first question. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Clyde couldn’t bring himself to tell his wife and son that he was a killer,” Nathan suggested.

  “He admitted punching her and that accounts for the black-and-blue mark on Jamie’s chin.” Like Nathan, Frank was thinking aloud.

  “He was probably pretty drunk when he hit her. She got out of the van. I remember reading that she was a good athlete. I think she was on the track team in high school. That means she was both young and fast. Once she was out of the van, I bet he couldn’t have caught up with her,” Nathan pointed out.

  It was the kind of investigative analysis that was second nature to both of them.

  “Or maybe the punch knocked her unconscious and he had all the time in the world to tie her up, strangle her, put her in the cart, and dump her in the river.”

  “Assuming, of course, that he happened to have twine with him in the van. That would have come in handy,” Klein said, sardonically.

  “If she was already dead, he could have left her there and come back with the twine,” Ramsey shot back.

  The sandwiches arrived. Unlike the ones that, unbeknownst to them, Jessie Carlson and Hannah Connelly were enjoying ten blocks away, these looked as though they might have been made yesterday. Nathan shared that possibility with Frank Ramsey.

  “Or maybe the day before yesterday,” Frank said as he signaled for the waiter to ask the chef to try again.

  When the new sandwiches arrived, they ate in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. The silence was broken when Ramsey said, “The more I think, the more improbable it is that someone happened to be outside that van at what was probably sometime between midnight and six in the morning. And if there was someone else there, why would he attack Jamie Gordon? Doesn’t make sense. I think Clyde Hotchkiss couldn’t admit in front of his wife and son that he killed a college girl because she annoyed him. I just doubt that, when he meets or has met his Maker, he can talk his way out of that one.”

  “Do we tell the boss and Cruse that we think it’s time to let the Gordon family know that we believe we have found Jamie’s killer?”

  “We’ll tell him what we have, but I’m going to recommend that for now they say absolutely nothing about the notebook or Clyde Hotchkiss. My gut tells me that we haven’t got all the facts yet. But one thing I do know is that the next thing we have to do is find out where Gus Schmidt got that money to buy his daughter’s home. We both know he never won a lottery, and soon we should have confirmation of it. That’s when we really begin to lean on Lottie Schmidt. She may be seventy-five years old and not weigh more than ninety pounds but don’t let that fool you. She’s a tough old bird and I’d bet the ranch that she knows exactly how and where Gus got that money. Our job is to get her to talk.”

  66

  The fact that a kitchen worker named Harry Simon at Tommy’s Bistro had been arrested for the murder of another young actress had jolted Nick Greco to the core of his being. He spent all Wednesday afternoon examining and reexamining every inch of the file containing the investigation into the disappearance of Tracey Sloane.

  Over and over he read the statement of Harry Simon, taken nearly twenty-eight years ago, and tried to find anything that he might have overlooked. He remembered Harry very well. He was then in his early twenties, thin but wiry build, average height, a sallow complexion, and small eyes. His subservient, eager-to-please manner as he had answered the questions had been off-putting but he had certainly given the impression of being so very, very shocked about Tracey’s disappearance.

  Disgusted, Greco reread Simon’s statement. “We got off at eleven. Some of the waiters and waitresses and busboys were going to Bobbie’s Joint for some drinks. Tracey said that she had an early-morning audition and was going home. I started to walk to my apartment, too.”

  His apartment was in the opposite direction from the way Tracey would have gone, Nick Greco noted.

  “Then I thought, What am I going home for? I was pretty broke but I thought, well, so I’ll nurse a couple of beers. We all pay our own checks. So I just went back and joined up with them,” Harry had said.

  Every one of the other employees had vouched for the fact that Harry arrived there just about eleven thirty. They had all agreed they were all at Bobbie’s by about ten after eleven. Not more th
an twenty minutes later, Harry was with them.

  It was a pretty strong alibi, Nick Greco remembered. Unless Harry and maybe an accomplice had dragged Tracey off the street and into a hallway or some kind of vehicle.

  Very unlikely in that short a time.

  We asked the others if there was anything about Harry that suggested he was excited or nervous when he got to Bobbie’s, Greco thought, as he pored through the reports containing the statements of the other people who had been at that bar. They had all said he had seemed to be in good spirits.

  But now we know that he’s an alleged killer who may have managed to stay under the radar for almost thirty years. The homicide squad will be going back through their unsolved cases, particularly involving young women, to see who else might have been Harry’s victim.

  The young actress he had killed two weeks ago had been on her way home from her waitress job in the Lower East Side at midnight when he had accosted her on the deserted sidewalk. He had dragged her into the rear courtyard of a boarded-up apartment building, where he had molested and killed her. Then he had carried her body to his truck, which was parked around the corner on a dark dead-end street. Harry didn’t allow for the adjacent building’s security camera that had captured him committing the crime.

  Frustrated and angry at himself, convinced that he must have missed something about Simon when Tracey went missing, Nick Greco decided to call Mark Sloane to ask him to have dinner. He knew that Mark had to be on a roller coaster of emotions. Harry Simon had worked with Tracey. Harry Simon was an alleged murderer. Had he been the one who had abducted and killed Tracey, and then somehow managed to show up twenty minutes later to have a beer with his friends?

  From the tone of Mark’s voice, Nick Greco knew that the younger man welcomed the chance to talk to him again. Mark said he had a late-afternoon office conference and seven o’clock would be the best time for him.