Daddy's Gone a Hunting

A policeman was handing Jack a pad and pen. He scrawled his name, address, and cell phone number on the paper and handed it over to the cop and turned abruptly. They can’t charge me for not fixing equipment, he thought, as, hands in pockets, he made his way back to his car.

  The curiosity seekers were beginning to disperse. The few burning embers were smaller and scattered.

  Jack’s car was a three-year-old BMW. He had been planning to buy a new one, but that couldn’t happen now. He didn’t have a job and he’d have to be careful about appearances.

  It wasn’t even one o’clock in the afternoon, but he felt as though it were midnight. He’d gone to bed late and then the phone call had come about the plant. Less than three hours’ sleep, he thought, as he drove toward his home in nearby Forest Hills. The traffic was heavy and he realized he had had nothing to eat since last night. When he got home, he’d fix something for himself and take a nap.

  But a half hour later, when he was sitting at the breakfast counter in the kitchen his ex-wife had so lovingly planned fifteen years ago, a beer and ham-and-cheese sandwich in front of him, his phone rang. It was Gus Schmidt’s daughter, Gretchen, calling from Minneapolis. “I’m at the airport,” she said, her voice trembling. “Jack, you have got to promise me that when the police start digging into my father’s past, you will stand up for him and say you never believed he meant it when he said he’d like to blow up the plant.”

  Jack reached for the beer as he promised with a fervent tone, “Gretchen, I will tell anyone who asks that Gus was a fine, good man who is the unfortunate victim of circumstances.”

  16

  After questioning Jack Worth in the mobile unit, Marshals Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein called the people who had dialed 911 when they heard the neighborhood explosion. They also called Lottie Schmidt and spoke to some of Kate’s coworkers.

  Then they went to the local police station to make their crime report that the fire was of an incendiary nature and involved the death of Gus Schmidt. They spent the rest of the afternoon at the scene of the fire, searching for any further evidence they might find.

  The next person they wanted to talk with was Hannah Connelly. They called her on her cell phone. She told them that she would be leaving the hospital shortly, and they could meet her at her apartment. They stopped to pick up Gus Schmidt’s clothing from the medical examiner for testing, then headed to Downing Street. That was when they caught Hannah at the elevator.

  They did not stay long in her apartment. “Ms. Connelly, I know how distraught you were this morning, and we didn’t want to burden you. But now we’d like to go over some facts with you,” Ramsey began. “You said that you did not know that your sister was meeting Mr. Schmidt in the museum early this morning?”

  “No, she didn’t mention it to me. I knew that she was meeting my father for dinner last night. Kate and I talk almost every day, but I was busy at work yesterday and I knew she was going out in the early evening.”

  “A few of your sister’s coworkers mentioned that she was concerned and quite vocal about the fact that the family business was going downhill and should be sold.”

  Jessie had made Hannah a cup of tea, then sat next to her on the couch, her manner protective. She had not intended to butt in, but now her instincts as a criminal lawyer were warning her that the way the investigators were zeroing in indicated they believed that Kate may have deliberately set the fire.

  Jessie addressed Nathan Klein. “Marshal Klein, it seems clear that Hannah did not know of her sister’s plan to go to the complex. Knowing Kate, I am very sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for her being there, but I do think you should defer any further questions until Ms. Connelly has a chance to rest.”

  Klein was clearly unimpressed. “I don’t think it will burden Ms. Connelly too much”—he nodded in Hannah’s direction—“to answer a few more questions while her memory is still fresh about the circumstances leading up to the explosion that took a person’s life.”

  Jessica looked at Hannah. “I don’t agree. I am an attorney and a close friend of both Hannah and Kate Connelly. I detect an air of both suspicion and accusation.” She looked at Hannah. “May I put myself forward as Kate’s legal representative at least for the present, Hannah?”

  Hannah looked at Jessie, her mind a kaleidoscope. When she had gone back to the hospital this afternoon, she had been thankful Jessie was there. The doctor had taken both of them in again to see Kate.

  “Is she totally unresponsive, or is there some level of consciousness?” Hannah had asked Dr. Patel.

  “We have her heavily sedated,” the doctor said.

  She and Jessie had stayed for a few more hours. When they were almost about to leave, Douglas Connelly had arrived again, this time accompanied by a young woman. “Sandra met Kate last night,” Doug explained. “She wanted to come with me to see her.”

  “You are not bringing a stranger in to look at my sister.” Hannah remembered that her voice had become high-pitched.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” Sandra had said, her voice soothing.

  Doug had gone alone into the ICU. After a moment Hannah had decided to follow him. She watched carefully as he bent over Kate. It appeared her sister’s lips were moving. Then as her father straightened up, Hannah saw the way the color was draining from his face. “Dad, did she say anything that you could make out?” Hannah had asked, frantic to hear that Kate was able to communicate.

  “She said, ‘I love you, Daddy, I love you.’ ”

  Something inside Hannah made her sure her father was not telling the truth. But why would he lie?

  Jessie was looking at Hannah.

  What was the question Jessie asked me? Hannah thought. About representing her and Kate. “Of course, I want my trusted friend Jessie to represent my sister in this situation,” she said.

  “Then as Kate Connelly’s lawyer, I must insist that there be no attempt to see her at the hospital or talk to her unless I am present.”

  The fire marshals left soon after that, saying they would be in touch. Relieved for the moment, she and Jessie sent out for sandwiches from the local deli. Then they went back to the hospital. Kate, deep in a coma, did not speak again.

  While at the hospital, Hannah called Lottie Schmidt and gave her her heartfelt condolences, and promised to be at the services for Gus. Lottie said they would take place the next afternoon.

  After that Hannah insisted that Jessie take her own cab home. “You’ve had a long enough day with the Connellys,” she insisted. Then she hailed herself a cab.

  Finally back home in her apartment, Hannah went straight to bed. She left her cell phone on the night table with the volume set to the highest pitch. She knew she needed to sleep but was afraid she might miss a call. Instead for over an hour she lay there, her eyes closed, her mind demanding to know what Kate might have said that made her father react like that. What was the expression that she had seen on his face?

  As she drifted off to sleep, the answer came. Fear. Dad had been terrified by what Kate whispered to him.

  Was it that she admitted she had set the fire?

  17

  Kate was trapped in a well. There was no water in it but somehow she knew that it was a well. Her whole body was weighted down and her head was detached from her neck. Sometimes she heard the rustle of voices, some of them familiar.

  Mommy. Kate tried to pay attention. Mommy kissing her good-bye and promising that someday she could go out at night on the boat, too.

  Daddy kissing her good-bye. “I love you, Baby Bunting.”

  Did that happen? Or was it a dream?

  Hannah’s voice, “Hang in there, Kate. I need you.”

  The nightmare. The flowered nightgown and running down the hall. It was very important to remember what happened. She was almost there. For a moment she had remembered. She was sure of it.

  But then everything was dark again.

  18

  The fire marshals did not catch up with Doug Connelly un
til later Thursday evening.

  They called the hospital and learned that he had made a second visit there in the late afternoon. He had been accompanied by a young woman and had gone in with his daughter Hannah for a brief visit with Kate in the ICU.

  The marshals had grabbed something to eat, then had gone to Doug’s apartment building and waited, but he did not show up until after nine o’clock, with the young woman, Sandra, on his arm.

  He invited them upstairs and promptly prepared a drink for himself and Sandra. “I know when you’re on duty you can’t have any,” he said.

  “That’s right.” Neither Ramsey nor Klein was unhappy to see the already slightly drunk man pour himself a strong scotch. In vino veritas, Ramsey thought. In scotch even more truth may come out.

  As they sat down Sandra explained, “Poor Doug completely fell apart after seeing Kate. So I insisted we go out to dinner. He hardly had a bite all day.”

  Unmoved, Ramsey and Klein began to question Douglas Connelly. His voice was slurred and hesitant as he groped to explain his differences with Kate. “The business hasn’t been doing that well, but I tried to tell Kate that’s not a big problem. Think how much all that land was worth in Long Island City thirty years ago. Peanuts compared to now. Long Island City is changing. People are moving there. They finally figured out how close it is to Manhattan. The arty types are flocking there, just like they settled in Williamsburg. Not long ago you could live in Williamsburg for next to nothing. Now it’s hot. Long Island City is the same way. Sure we have an offer on the land. Take it now and we’d be kicking ourselves in five years for all the money we lost.”

  “But it seems from what others have said that your daughter Kate felt the company was losing money hand over fist,” Ramsey said.

  “Kate’s stubborn. Even when she was a kid she wanted everything now . . . this minute . . . not tomorrow.”

  “Do you think that in her frustration she might have teamed up with Gus Schmidt to destroy the complex?”

  “Kate would never do that!”

  To both marshals, Doug’s blustery tone was masking fear. They were sure they knew what he was thinking. If a member of the family set the fire and would benefit from the insurance, it was certain that the insurance company would refuse to pay the claim.

  They switched to questions about Kate’s relationship with Gus. “We understand that she was very sympathetic to him when he was forced to retire.”

  “Talk to the plant manager, Jack Worth. Gus’s work was getting downright sloppy. Everybody else his age had retired. He just didn’t want to give up. With all his other benefits, we even threw in a full year’s salary. He still wasn’t satisfied. He was a bitter old man.”

  “Wasn’t it at Kate’s insistence that he got that year’s salary?” Ramsey shot the question at Doug.

  “She may have suggested it.”

  “Mr. Connelly, some other of your employees have come forth to volunteer what they know. Gus Schmidt was quoted as saying that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Kate . . .”

  “Certainly Gus was very fond of Kate,” Doug replied.

  At the end of the questioning, as they left, the marshals, even though they were keeping an open mind, had a gut feeling that Kate had found a willing partner to help her do what she had told several people she wanted to do.

  Blow up the entire Connelly complex.

  19

  After leaving Douglas Connelly, Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein decided to call it a day. They drove back to Fort Totten, called their supervisor, completed their reports, then each left for home. They had been on the job almost twenty-four hours.

  Ramsey lived in Manhasset, a pretty suburban town on Long Island. He sighed with relief when he turned into his own driveway and pressed the garage opener. He was used to bad weather but the hours outside on a cold, damp, windy day had penetrated even his warm outerwear. He wanted to get into a hot shower, put on some comfortable clothes, and have a drink. And much as he missed his son Ted, who was a freshman at Purdue University, he wouldn’t mind just being with Celia tonight, he thought.

  No matter how long you’re in the business, it still affected you when a dead man was taken to the medical examiner’s office and a young woman rushed away in an ambulance, he thought.

  Frank Ramsey was a solidly built six-footer. At forty-eight, although he weighed nearly two hundred pounds, his body was strong and muscular thanks to meticulous workouts. Judging from the men in his family, he knew that genetically he would probably be white-haired by the age of fifty, but to his surprise and pleasure, his hair was pretty much still salt-and-pepper. His manner was naturally easygoing but that changed swiftly if he spotted any incompetence among his underlings. In the department he was universally well liked.

  His wife, Celia, had heard the car pulling into the garage and had the door to the kitchen open for him. She had had a double mastectomy five years earlier and even though her doctor had now given her a clean bill of health, Frank was always fearful that one day when he opened the door, she might not be there. Now the sight of her, with her light brown hair caught in a ponytail, a sweater and slacks enhancing her slender body, a welcoming smile on her face, made a lump form in his throat.

  If anything ever happened to her . . . He pushed away the thought as he kissed her.

  “You’ve had some day,” she observed.

  “You could call it that,” Frank confirmed as he inhaled the welcoming scent of pot roast coming from the Crock-Pot. It was the meal Celia often prepared when there was a major fire and she knew that there was no way of telling when her husband would get home. “Give me ten minutes,” he said. “And I’ll have a drink before I eat.”

  “Sure.”

  Fifteen minutes later he was sitting side by side with her on the couch facing the fireplace in the family room. He took a sip of the vodka martini he was holding and fished out the olive. The television was set to a news station. “They’ve been showing the fire all day,” Celia said, “and they’ve dug up the coverage of the boating accident that killed Kate Connelly’s mother and uncle years ago. Have you heard any more about how she’s doing?”

  “She’s in a coma,” Frank said.

  “It’s such a shame about Gus Schmidt. I met him a couple of times, you now.”

  At her husband’s surprised expression, she explained: “It was when I was in chemotherapy at Sloan-Kettering. His wife, Lottie, was in treatment, too. I’m so sorry for her. It was obvious they were really close. She must be devastated. As I remember, they have a daughter, but she lives in Minnesota somewhere.”

  She paused, then added, “I think I’ll try and find out what the funeral arrangements are. If there’s a service, I’d like to go to it.”

  That’s just like Celia, Frank thought. If there’s a service, she will go to it. Most people think about doing something like that but never follow through. He took another sip of the martini, totally unaware that his wife’s coincidental acquaintance with Lottie Schmidt would unlock one aspect of the investigation surrounding the destruction of the Connelly Fine Antique Reproductions plant.

  20

  Mark Sloane’s curiosity about his neighbor was quickly satisfied the next day when he picked up Friday’s morning newspapers and stopped for coffee and a bagel at the counter of a coffee shop on his way to the office. The burning complex was on the first page of the papers and on the inside pages he saw a picture of Hannah Connelly outside the hospital, being rushed to a taxi by her father. Ironic, he thought. The firm he left and the one where he was now dealt with corporate real estate. He had seen his share of buildings conveniently being burned down when they became a financial liability.

  He remembered the time Billy Owens, a restaurant owner in Chicago, had collected on a large insurance policy after a second suspicious fire, and an investigator for the insurance company had sarcastically suggested that the next time Billy needed to unload some property he should try flooding it.

  As he bit into a bagel, Mark read
that the widow of the dead man, Gus Schmidt, was adamant that Kate Connelly, the daughter of the owner, had been the one to make the predawn appointment at the complex. But according to the papers, Schmidt had been a disgruntled former employee of the firm. Mark’s analytical mind toyed with the idea that Schmidt might have been a logical person to involve if someone wanted to burn the complex down. There was a picture of Kate Connelly in the paper. She was a stunning blond.

  In any case, it was an interesting coincidence that the sister lived on the floor below him. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her because of her dark glasses and the way she turned away from him, probably embarrassed to be seen crying. But it was clear that she didn’t resemble her sister at all. The friend who was with her with the blazing red hair and fiercely protective attitude was the one who had made the strongest impression on him.

  As he accepted a second cup of coffee from the waitress at the counter, he turned his attention to his own situation. He’d been back and forth from Chicago to the new office enough times in the previous weeks to feel comfortable with his coworkers. So as soon as possible, he intended to attempt to reopen Tracey’s missing person’s file. It’s not just Mom, he thought. Tracey has never been out of my mind, either. When that woman who’d been missing since she was fourteen escaped captivity twelve or fourteen years later, I wondered if maybe Tracey was possibly being held somewhere against her will.

  She’d be fifty this month. But she hasn’t aged in my mind, he thought. She’ll always be twenty-two.

  He paid his bill and walked out onto the street. At 8 A.M., Greenwich Village was bustling with people heading for the subway. Even though it was cold, there was no feel of rain in the air and Mark was happy to stretch his legs and walk to work. He did not officially start at the new office until Monday, but going there today would give him a chance to settle early. On the way he thought about the detective who his mother had said had worked so hard on Tracey’s case. Nick Greco. Mom said he was in his late thirties then, so he’d be in his sixties now. He’s sure to be retired, he thought. I can always try to Google him.