Annie on the Lam: A Christmas Caper (3 page)

“
I need to know
.” Annie leaned in across the table. “I'm forty years old and suddenly I realize I don't even know who my mother was, who
I
am or what I want to do with the rest of my life. I feel like I've wasted so many years.” She covered her aunt's wrinkled hand with her own on the tabletop. “Aunt Tawney said I'm like her. So did you. Apparently my father thinks so, too. And that frightens him enough that he's been desperate to find someone to act as my watchdog before he has to give up the duty.”

“That's not how it is, Annie.”

“That
is
how it is. It occurred to me last night that Daddy introduced me to all three men I've been engaged to.”

Tess bent her head and stared down at her lap.

“I'm the same age she was when she died, do you realize that? Maybe if I understood—” Her throat closed and she looked away.

“Okay.” Tess glanced up, wariness in her eyes. “You are like Lydia in a lot of ways. But you're different, too. You're your own person. Understanding your mother isn't necessarily the key to understanding yourself.”

“But it might be. I need the truth. Why was my mother traveling to New York? I know she wasn't doing charity work.”

Tess stared at her a minute then said, “Lydia was bored. At first she did go for the charity, then she resigned her position, but we didn't know that for a while. Judging by the little your father was able to learn after the accident, we think she might've been trying to set things up so that she could move there.”

“You mean leave Daddy.”

“Yes.”

“And me.”

“I can't answer that. Nobody can. Your father did some investigating and found out she'd invested most of her inheritance she hadn't already squandered in some sort of business venture that never played out.”

Sadness swam through Annie. “When I think about her…she seemed withdrawn and tired a lot of the time. And not only that last year. I didn't dwell on it much then. But looking back now that I'm older, I can't help wondering if she was depressed because she hated her life here.”

“Lydia did see a doctor for depression. She had trouble sleeping. But knowing her, I'm not sure she would've been any happier doing anything else,
anywhere
else.”

Annie didn't want to believe that. She wanted to believe that her family was wrong about her mother, that they simply had not understood her. “The man in the car…you didn't tell me his name.”

Tess closed her eyes briefly. Said, “Milford's going to kill me.” Sighed. “His name was Fred or Frank…Reno. Something like that. Your father had him checked out afterward. He was just some flashy, loud-mouthed loser who owned a club or two in the city. I can't imagine what Lydia was doing getting mixed up with someone like him, but we found out he's the person she invested the money with.”

“You said ‘was'. Did he die, too?”

“No, he survived. With little more than a few scratches, actually. It was his car, by the way. Your mother was driving and he was in the passenger seat. We don't know why.”

“Did Daddy confront him?”

“No. What good would it do? It wouldn't bring Lydia back. And, honestly, I think he was afraid of finding out something about her he didn't want to know.” Tess leaned in across the table. “Whatever you're thinking, Annie, let it drop. You might not want to know, either.” Blinking, Tess scanned the café and said, “What's taking our waitress so long?”

Noting her aunt's escalating nervousness, Annie said, “There's something else, isn't there?”

After a long stretch of silence, Tess blinked at her, released a long breath and said, “It's only speculation, but after talking with several witnesses to the accident, the authorities thought Lydia might've driven off the bridge on purpose.”

Six months later
December, New York City

Unwrapping
his meatball sandwich, Joe Brady stepped out of the deli and crossed to the curb. A bite on the run was his usual routine these days. In that respect, driving a cab for a living was not so different than being a cop.

Weather reports predicted a blizzard on the way. Bitter gray cold had arrived ahead of the snow. Joe shivered as he slid behind the wheel. His cell phone rang and he leaned back to pull it from the front pocket of his jeans, noticing that the charge was low. He couldn't seem to remember to plug the damn thing in when he had the chance.

“Brady, here,” he said, around a mouthful of beef.

“Hey, Joe. Ed Simms.”

“Ed! Good to hear your voice.” The old guy had been on the force with Joe's father Patrick back in the day. As a kid, Joe had spent many an hour with the Simms family. Later, Ed had opened his own private investigation firm and it had thrived. Word was, he'd retired with a nice little nest egg. In Joe's opinion, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. “Where you been keepin' yourself, buddy?”

“Out of trouble. Old age agrees with me.”

Joe chuckled. “How's Nancy?”

“Doin' good, doin' good. She loves living out of the city. And she's enjoying the grandkids. You should come see 'em sometime. Bring your mother. Have dinner.”

“She'd like that. So would I.” In fact, his mother would like living out of the city, too.

“How is she, anyhow?”

“Good. She misses Pop, but she's learning to be happy alone.” By driving Joe crazy, but he wouldn't share that with Ed. “It's almost two years Pop's been gone now.”

“Hard to believe. I miss him, too,” Ed murmured. “How about you? Still driving a cab?”

“Part-time between cases.”

After a short pause, the older man said, “I still say you were too hard on yourself after all that mess went down. You're a detective, not a P.I. Or a cabbie, for that matter. But it's good to know you're staying busy.”

“I could be busier,” Joe admitted. He placed the messy sandwich on the seat beside him and stuck his key into the ignition. He hadn't heard from Ed in months and wondered what had prompted this particular call. More than an offhand dinner invitation and a subtle lecture, he guessed. “What's up, Ed?”

“I had a call today from an old client. Hotshot banker from Savannah name of Milford Macy. His old lady drove a car off a bridge into the Hudson more than twenty years ago and he hired me to check out the vehicle's owner, a fellow who was riding along in the passenger seat. I believe you know the guy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Joe checked the traffic over his shoulder and prepared to merge into it.

“It was Frank Reno.”

Slamming his foot down on the brake, he threw the cab into Park and stayed put. “No shit.”

“I thought that might get your attention.”

“You thought right.”

“Anyhow, I didn't find out much at the time. Just that Macy's wife and Reno were doing some kind of business together. He was small-time back then, but already threatening enough that if anybody knew anything they weren't willing to talk. I advised Macy to let it drop and go on with his life, and that's what he did after taking some steps to keep the details of the accident low-profile. Didn't want the scandal of a possible suicide reaching the tea sippers back home in Georgia.”

“So why's he calling you again after so long?”

“Seems his daughter moved to the city last summer and went to work at a bank. No big deal until a couple of months go by and she takes on a second job working as a waitress at Landau's.”

“I know the place,” Joe said.

“You know Harry Landau?”

“I know of him. He's Reno's nephew.”

“That's right. Reno set him up in the restaurant business. Macy didn't make the connection but a little red flag went up when his kid started calling home with a lot of vague questions about money laundering, etcetera, etcetera. He was afraid she might've gotten herself in the middle of something way out of her league.”

“Takes after her mother, huh?”

“Apparently. So he calls me this morning and asks me if I'd check out Harry Landau, and when I tell him Landau's bad news, that he's Reno's nephew, and then bring him up to date on Reno's activities in the years since his wife bought it in that car—”

“Damn. Did he wet his pants?”

“The poor guy was pretty shook up. Now he's thinking it's no coincidence that his kid landed herself a job at Landau's. He thinks she's up to something, and I tend to agree with him.”

“Man.” Joe shook his head, reached for his sandwich, put it down again. He'd lost his appetite. Frank Reno was directly related to his reasons for turning in his badge a year ago. Joe was no longer a police detective, but he still wanted the son-of-a-bitch's head on a plate more than just about anything.

“Macy wants someone to keep an eye on his daughter for a while. I told him I'm out of the business, but that I knew an ex-cop familiar with Reno—that'd be you—and that you have a real hard-on for the guy.”

Joe winced at Ed's choice of words. “Actually it's nailing him to the wall that excites me,” he said caustically, “Not the man himself.”

Ed chuckled. “You in? He's willing to pay out the nose.” The old man quoted a daily rate that shot Joe's pulse through the roof.

He took about five seconds to think it over. Joe didn't like the idea of babysitting some socialite who was probably playing with fire just to add a little excitement to her life, but he needed the cash. And he couldn't bring himself to pass up an opportunity that carried even a slim chance of taking him one step closer to locking Reno away where he belonged.

He picked up his sandwich again and a meatball rolled into his lap. Frowning at the red smear of sauce on his jeans, Joe said, “Give me Macy's number. I'll give him a call. And thanks, Ed.”

 

T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT
, Joe sat in the cab on a side street with the headlights off and his eye out for the cops since he'd parked by a pump. The last thing he needed right now was a ticket and he wasn't counting on any special treatment, ex-detective or not.

He adjusted his iPod earplugs and hit play. Music pulsed through his head. If AC/DC couldn't keep him awake, nothing could. Anticipating at least another boring hour or two ahead, he settled back to watch the falling snow and the traffic at 32nd and Park.

Even at midnight, the windows of the high-rise building across the street blazed like a blowtorch and the trees lining the sidewalks twinkled with tiny white Christmas lights. Beside those trees, people still strolled, some pausing to admire holiday displays behind the glass storefronts: figurines and trains and miniature villages.

Joe yawned. New York City might function just fine without sleep, but he didn't. He longed for his nice warm bed and at least eight hours of peace and quiet.

Trailing his gaze from Landau's on the top floor of the building down to the street-level entrance, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of “Back In Black” then shivered and cursed. He wasn't sure if his ass was frozen or just paralyzed from boredom. Either way, he guessed he deserved a numb butt if he couldn't come up with a better way to earn a dollar.

Joe twisted his head side to side to work the kinks from his neck. He reached for the months-old newspaper on the seat beside him, pulled a penlight from his jeans pocket and clicked it on, illuminating an old issue of the
Savannah News
society page his newest client had sent to him by overnight FedEx. After skimming the full-color photo of the smiling blond socialite and her tuxedoed escort, Joe read the print beneath it:
Annabelle Macy and Mr. Lance Holcomb celebrate the announcement of their engagement at the home of Mr. Milford Macy
…

He returned his attention to the porcelain-doll blonde, a woman so elegant and fragile and hands-off perfect she looked like she'd shatter into a million jagged pieces if a man touched her. Her mouth might be smiling, but her eyes looked as bored and weary as he felt right now. Despite the enormous rock on her finger, the socialite looked unhappy. But what did he know about women? Especially rich ones? For all he knew, she might be upset that the rock wasn't bigger.

Joe skimmed a fingertip across Annabelle Macy's image. She was older than he had imagined, though her eyes looked like a lost little girl's.

He laughed at himself.

She was no little girl. Annabelle Macy would be a fine-looking woman even without all the jewels and fancy duds. But something other than her appearance drew his interest. Something in her expression, in her body language, made him sense more to this particular socialite than sparkle and shine. He thought he recognized the look of desperation on her face. It was the same one he saw in the mirror each morning. On an ex-cop, chewed up and spit out at the age of forty-one, he could understand and accept it. But what would cause a woman like Miss Macy to wear such a look? That mess with her mother? Even after twenty-four years? He didn't get it.

Joe studied the photo more closely and decided the look was probably boredom rather than desperation. The Macys had named their daughter well. Anna-
belle.
Rich, pampered, southern. Lacking nothing, but wanting more. He'd heard about her type. It was a long shot that he would gain any useful inside scoop regarding Reno by following her. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he figured the chances were about as slim as his wallet. More than likely, Miss Macy was only playing mind games with her daddy, trying to get his dander up by going to work for Landau.

Joe snorted and laid the paper aside. The woman was old enough to have grown kids of her own. Some people just never grew up; some people didn't have to. Too bad he wasn't one of 'em.

When a knock sounded on the cab's passenger side, Joe jumped and dropped the penlight into his lap. Pulling out his earplugs, he turned and saw his cousin Dino at the window.

Dino opened the door and slid in. “Using my cab as an office, eh?”

“I finished my shift.” When Dino opened his mouth to speak again, Joe added, “Look, I just need it a couple more hours. I pay for the gas, so what do you care?”

Dino sat back. Shivering, he tugged the side of his stocking cap down over one exposed ear. “Cold as a witch's tit out there.”

Joe glanced back at the building. “I wouldn't know about that.”

“You got hot water in your veins or somethin'?”

“Nope. Just never touched a witch's tit.”

Chuckling, Dino rubbed his hands together to generate heat. “Finally got a case, huh?”

Joe twisted his neck until it popped and a dull ache spread up to his left temple. “Yeah. Yesterday.”

“How many does that make now? Three? Four?”

“Five.” He squinted at his cousin. “What's it to you?”

Dino lifted his hands. “I don't mean nothing. Five's not bad. Better than a poke in the eye, ya know? You've only had your shingle out a year.” He returned his hands to his lap. “Ever think of going back on the force?”

Scanning the cab's dismal interior, Joe smirked. “What? And give up all this? I'll stick with my five cases.”
And driving your shit-hole of a cab part-time to make ends meet.
He drew a deep breath of cold, stale air tainted by years of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke.

For at least a minute, they stared in silence out the window. Then Dino reached across and lifted the newspaper from the seat. He glanced down at the photograph. “You tailing one of these?”

“The woman.”

Dino's whistle was long and quiet. “She's a looker. What did she do?”

“You're nosy as hell, you know that?”

“Yeah…so, what'd she do?”

“Nothing unless you count leaving Georgia to move to the big city a crime.”

“Who hired you?” Dino thumped the picture of Lance Holcomb. “This guy?”

“No, her father.”

Dino drew back, lifted the paper closer to his face and narrowed his eyes. “She's a little long in the tooth to be answering to her daddy, ain't she?”

“Not in their world, I guess.” Joe gave his cousin the short version of why Milford Macy had hired him.

Dino whistled again. “Reno, huh? You got a reason besides money for taking this case, then. Hope it works out for ya.” He took a last look at the paper, chuckled and returned it to the seat. “Maybe she likes to stir things up to keep from gettin' bored. She's either gutsy or stupid.”

“
Daddy
didn't give me the impression he thinks she's brave.” Joe recalled the note of genuine distress and frustration in Milford P. Macy's voice. “He says she's impulsive.” He paused a beat. “And in over her head.”