Daddy's Gone a Hunting

The questioning began. And it was the same as yesterday. Why didn’t he call 911 when he looked down into the sinkhole and saw the medallion that he had tried to give to Tracey Sloane?

  “I told you yesterday and I’ll tell you again now and I’ll tell you tomorrow, if we’re still here, that I panicked. Sure, I should have called nine-one-one. It was the right thing to do. But your guys put me through a meat grinder twenty-eight years ago. Obviously, I should have known there was no way I could avoid going through it again. So here we are.”

  For two hours Matt Stevens repeated much of the same questioning, then played his trump card. “Jack, we know what happened to Tracey that night,” he said. “We have found a reliable eyewitness who saw her get into a vehicle willingly.”

  Stevens and the other detectives watched closely to see the reaction of the man who they believed had picked up Tracey that night. But Worth seemed unruffled. “So why didn’t your so-called reliable eyewitness come forward when she disappeared?” he asked. Now there was a sneer in his expression. “I guess you thought you’d bowl me over with that crazy story.”

  “She got into a midsize furniture van. It was black with gold lettering on the side that said FINE ANTIQUE REPRODUCTIONS,” Matt Stevens snapped, his voice rising.

  “I don’t believe you!” Jack Worth shouted. “You’re making this up. Look, I told you I’d take a lie detector test. I want it done now. And then I’m going home and you can try out that fairy tale on the next poor slob you pull off the streets.”

  It was on the tip of Jack’s tongue to tell these cops that he wanted to talk to a lawyer, but then his instinct told him it would make him look guilty and stopped him. I’ll pass that lie detector test and prove to them once and for all that I don’t know what the hell happened to Tracey Sloane, he decided. And I don’t care if I ever find out. What a bunch of garbage! How stupid do they think I am?

  92

  At one o’clock Friday afternoon, Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein were at the doorstep of Lottie Schmidt’s home. They had not warned her that they were coming because they did not want to put her on guard. Neither did they want to find her sitting with a lawyer when they arrived.

  When she opened the door, Lottie’s face froze into angry disapproval, but beyond that Frank noticed the look of fear that crept into her eyes. “Come in,” she said, her voice sounding dull and weary. She held up her hand to show that she was holding a cell phone. “I’m on the phone with my daughter. I’ll tell her that I’ll call her back.”

  She led them back to the dining room, where the photo albums and pictures she had shown them on Wednesday were still on the table. Without being invited, the marshals sat down in the same seats where they had previously been.

  Lottie did not try to continue the conversation with her daughter in privacy. She spoke into the cell phone. “Gretchen, those fire marshals you met at the wake are here to talk to me again. I’ll call you back later.”

  “Put on the speaker and I’ll talk to them! I’ll tell them what I think of them for harassing you!” Ramsey and Klein could both hear Gretchen angrily shouting as Lottie broke the connection and turned off her phone. She sat down opposite them and folded her hands on the table. ‘Well, what now?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Schmidt, in this day and age, I’m afraid that almost any story can be quickly checked,” Frank Ramsey said in a conversational tone. He paused. “Including yours. The facts are that your husband did grow up on the von Mueller estate. But he was not a member of the family, nor was he an heir to any fortune. His father was a gardener there, as were his grandfather and great-grandfather. Augustus von Mueller was indeed an aristocrat, but he was an only child and he had five children, all of them girls.”

  Frank opened the photo album and pointed to one of the pictures that Lottie had already shown to them. “It is indeed your husband in this picture with the von Mueller girls. As a child he played with them. Any facial resemblance is purely coincidental because all of the children were blue-eyed blondes. And it’s a real stretch to try to point out a family resemblance between your husband and Field Marshal Augustus von Mueller.”

  Ramsey paused, then continued: “The entire von Mueller family was arrested and did indeed disappear after Hitler came to power. The castle and the property were confiscated by the Nazis. The servants who took care of the grounds were allowed to leave. Your husband’s father died of a heart attack around that time. Your husband was raised by his own mother, not by some kindly nurse who adopted him. Whatever valuables were recovered after the war were claimed by a distant cousin of the von Muellers and were eventually turned over to him.”

  Lottie Schmidt’s expression did not change as she listened.

  “Mrs. Schmidt, if your husband had good taste and autocratic manners, it was because as a child he observed them, not because they were in his blood,” Klein said. “Don’t you think it’s time to tell us where Gus got the money to buy that house for Gretchen?”

  “I want to call my lawyer,” Lottie Schmidt said.

  Both marshals got up to leave. When they were almost at the front door, she called out to them. “No. Wait. Come back. What’s the use? I’ll tell you what I know.”

  93

  Jack Worth continued his attempt to appear confident as he was hooked up to the lie detector machine. “When you see the results, you’ll know you’ve been wasting your time,” he told Detective Matt Stevens. “And mine,” he added.

  “We’ll see,” Stevens said. He began by asking Jack the usual litany of routine questions about his background that they knew he would answer truthfully.

  “What is your name? How old are you? Where do you work? How long have you worked there? Are you married? Do you have any children?”

  When the basic questions were completed, Detective Stevens moved on to the areas of inquiry that were pivotal to the investigation. “Did you ever drive a furniture van belonging to the Connelly furniture company?”

  “Occasionally,” Jack responded promptly. “If my own car was being serviced, they would allow me to take one of the smaller vans home overnight.”

  Matt Stevens was disgusted to see that Worth looked supremely confident.

  “What color are the Connelly vans?”

  “Black with gold lettering. Old man Connelly decided that it looked classy and it’s always remained the same.”

  “Were you driving one of those vans the night Tracey disappeared?”

  “No. I went home feeling lousy and I went to bed.”

  Matt Stevens observed that the computer readings on Worth’s physical reactions remained fairly constant.

  “Anyhow,” Worth continued, “if I had been driving a Rolls-Royce, Tracey still wouldn’t have gotten into it. She never gave me a second look.”

  “Do you have any idea who else might have been driving one of the vans the night she disappeared?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Again, Stevens could discern no physiological reaction to the question.

  “Do you have any idea if Tracey Sloane knew anyone who worked at the Connelly complex?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “All right. Let’s move to a different topic,” Stevens said. “Did you ever have any contact with Jamie Gordon?”

  The computer registered a significant change. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you have any knowledge of what happened to Jamie Gordon?”

  “No, I don’t,” Worth insisted, as the computer continued to indicate a substantial change.

  “Did you kill Jamie Gordon?” Detective Stevens demanded.

  As the reaction being registered on the computer skyrocketed, Jack Worth ripped the wires from his body and jumped up. “I’m done with you!” he shouted. “I thought this was all about Tracey Sloane. You told everybody that the homeless guy killed Gordon. What are you trying to pull on me? I tried to be straight with you guys and cooperate. But now I get a lawyer.”

  94

  Kate stirred. She felt a slight bump as whatever she
was riding on got caught on something.

  Where am I? she asked herself. Am I dreaming?

  “The corner room,” a voice was saying. “Number six.”

  Kate began to remember. She had met Gus in the parking lot. They had gone into the museum.

  I smelled gas, she thought. I yelled at Gus to get out. It blew up. The museum blew up. Something heavy fell on us. I dragged him out.

  Was Gus all right?

  Why had he acted so nervous when I asked him to meet me there?

  I think I’m in a hospital. My head hurts. I have tubes in my arms. I’ve been having the nightmare again over and over. Why?

  She tried to open her eyes but could not. She fell back into a deep sleep . . .

  The nightmare came back. Only this time she knew how it ended.

  He caught me as I tried to run down the stairs. He grabbed me. I screamed, “You’re not my daddy! You’re not my daddy!” He covered my mouth with his hand and carried me into the bedroom. I was kicking him. I was trying to get away from him.

  He threw me on the bed and said, “Watch this, Kate, watch this.” Then he punched the mirror over Mommy’s dresser and the glass went all over and his hand was bleeding. And he said, “That’s what I will do to you if you ever say that again.”

  He picked me up and shook me hard. “Now tell me, what is it that you must never, never say again?”

  “ ‘You’re not my daddy.’ ” I was crying. I was so scared. “I promise. I promise. I won’t say it again.”

  But I know I did say it again, Kate thought. I told him that when he was leaning over me after I got hurt and they brought me here. Then I heard him tell Hannah that I said that I was sorry about the explosion. But he was lying. I didn’t say that.

  I said, “You’re not my daddy.”

  I have to tell Hannah. But I can’t wake up. I’m trying but I can’t wake up.

  95

  Confirming everything he suspected, Nick Greco studied the newspaper photo of the burial of Connor and Susan Connelly. The funeral had been delayed for three weeks so that Douglas Connelly could recover sufficiently from his injuries to be released from the hospital and attend the service.

  Looking weak and devastated, his eyes swollen with tears, Doug Connelly stood at the foot of the two coffins, his left hand clenched as the final prayers were recited at the cemetery.

  That was the hand that Connor had fractured so badly when he played football in college, Greco thought. That’s what his brother, Douglas, meant when he said in that interview that when Connor had been injured, their father had insisted that he keep exercising that hand by flexing it so that it would be strong again. But then his father was furious because Connor had developed a nervous habit of clenching it that lasted long after his hand had healed.

  Seasoned as he was, Greco was still shocked at what he was sure he was seeing. The figure beside the coffins had a clenched hand . . . Was it possible that it wasn’t Douglas Connelly standing there? That Douglas Connelly was in one coffin and his wife, Susan, was in the other? Could it be that Connor Connelly was the only one who survived that accident and then he saw his chance? Could he have stolen his twin brother’s identity and become Douglas?

  The old man, with his old-world ways, had said in one of those articles that he believed that the firstborn son was destined to be the president and major stockholder of the business, and his descendants would own it after him. The second son would have a position in the company and a minor share of the family holdings.

  Douglas had become the president of the company when his father, Dennis, died. I don’t think Connor deliberately caused that accident, Greco reflected. But perhaps after it happened, in the hospital, he saw his opportunity and he grabbed it. He knew his brother and Susan were dead. He was not going to let the company pass to Kate and Hannah. He told them at the hospital that he was Douglas, and he got away with it.

  Greco had in front of him the group picture that had been found in Tracey Sloane’s apartment, the picture that, when Greco examined it closely, showed Connor Connelly’s clenched hand on the table. Connor had been a fairly regular patron at Tommy’s Bistro. He had been on the list to be interviewed when Tracey went missing but was taken off when it was realized that he had been killed in that accident a few weeks earlier. Or so we had thought.

  Had Tracey Sloane somehow become a threat to Connor Connelly? How? The night she got into that van, she must have thought that the driver was his brother, Douglas. Somehow Connor must have become aware that she had noticed his habit of clenching his hand and he knew that she could ruin everything.

  Greco pushed the speed dial button on his phone, connecting him to Detective Matt Stevens. “Matt, I think I know who killed Tracey Sloane.”

  Stevens listened, startled at what he was hearing. “Nick, it makes sense. Tracey Sloane would not have been nervous about accepting a ride at night from a Connelly, whose brother had been one of her friendliest customers. And twenty-eight years later, her remains are discovered on their property. We know that explosion was deliberate. From what you’re saying, I would bet that her body has been there since the night she got into that van.”

  “Matt, I would suggest that it is time to bring Mr. Connor Connelly, better known as Douglas Connelly, in for a chat. I only wish I was still on duty.”

  “I wish you were, too.”

  “Matt, I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but my gut tells me that Tracey’s death and Jamie Gordon’s death and the explosion that killed Gus Schmidt and almost killed Kate Connelly are all connected.”

  “I think so, too, Nick. We’ll find out. That I can promise you. As soon as I hang up, I’m calling Connelly. I want him here today.”

  96

  Hannah’s sense of uneasiness was turning into active distress. Something was terribly wrong. She knew it. Kate had been more than restless this morning. They hadn’t moved her yet into a private room. Something or someone had frightened her. I shouldn’t have left her, Hannah thought. I know I shouldn’t have left her. She was trying to get through to me.

  I wonder if Dad has been over to see her yet today. She reached for her cell phone and called his apartment.

  Sandra answered on the second ring. Obviously upset, she said, “Hannah, I would like to know what’s going on. Your father has been in a horrible mood since yesterday. Then not twenty minutes ago, some detective called. I answered the phone and he asked for your father. First, your father starts yelling at me for answering. Then he grabbed the phone right out of my hand. I guess the detective asked him to go down to the DA’s office or something and speak to them and then your father started yelling at him, too. He was shouting that it was all a conspiracy to keep him from getting his insurance money. Then your father yelled, ‘What do you mean that Jack Worth has been very cooperative?’ Then he hung up the phone and rushed out. He didn’t tell me where he was going. But, Hannah, he’s losing it. It’s been too much of a strain.”

  “You have no idea where he went?” Hannah snapped.

  “I guess maybe he went to see those detectives. He repeated the address they gave him. I offered to go with him but he practically took my head off. Then he stormed out.

  “Hannah, after we got back from the hospital yesterday, your dad was very upset even though Kate was doing much better and was going to be moved to a private room soon. You would think that he would be happy that she’s going to wake up soon. Anyhow, I tried to persuade him to have Bernard drive us up for a nice lunch in one of those dear little inns near the Hudson River, you know, around West Point, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He . . .”

  Hannah couldn’t listen anymore. She closed the phone and dropped it into her bag. She thought about the important executive meeting scheduled for four o’clock regarding the spring fashion show. She would have to miss it. She pushed back her chair, grabbed her coat off the rack in her small office, and threw it over her shoulders. She stopped momentarily at the reception desk as she rushed toward the elevator.
“I have to go to the hospital. I have to be with my sister. Tell them I’m sorry. I just can’t wait any longer.”

  It took ten long minutes to get a cab. “Manhattan Midtown Hospital,” she said nervously, “and please hurry.”

  Alarmed, the driver looked back at her. “You’re not having a baby or something, are you, lady?” he asked.

  “No. No. Of course not. My sister is a patient there.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. I’ll do the best I can.”

  Has Kate been moved yet? Hannah wondered, as twenty agonizing minutes later, she threw money into the slot between her and the driver, hurried out of the cab, and ran into the hospital. There was a line at the visitors’ desk but, apologizing to the other people who were waiting, she rushed to the front of it. “I believe my sister was being moved from intensive care to a private room today. Where is she?”

  “What is her name?”

  “Connelly. Kate Connelly.”

  The receptionist checked the computer. “She is in room eleven-oh-six. Her father just arrived a few minutes ago. He should be with her now.”

  A sense of sheer panic consumed Hannah. She turned and began to run to the elevators. Not understanding why she was so frightened, she realized that she was pleading, “Let her be all right. Please, let her be all right.”

  97

  Connor Connelly stepped off the elevator at the top floor of the hospital. At the nurses’ station he was directed to turn left and walk down the long corridor to room 1106. “It’s the very last room, the nicest one on the floor, and the quietest,” a nurse said cheerfully. “I just looked in on your daughter. She was quite restless earlier but now she’s sleeping like a baby.”

  “I won’t wake her up,” he promised. “I just wanted to see her.”