Daddy's Gone a Hunting (6 page)

Hannah insisted on staying. She told her that it was better to be here than just sitting in the hospital or at her apartment. But once she was in her small and cluttered office with the door shut, she sat at her desk and buried her face in her hands. I don’t know what to do, she thought. I don’t know where to turn. If Kate doesn’t make it, or if she lives but is brain damaged, she won’t be able to defend herself if they try to say she was responsible for setting off the explosion.

How many times in the last year or so had Kate openly said that the plant should be closed and the property sold? All our friends knew it, Hannah thought. Kate and I each own 10 percent of the assets, but every quarter for two years we’ve been running at a loss. Thank God we had enough in dividends to buy our apartments when we did.

Did Kate use the words “blow it up” to anyone other than Dad?

The doctor heard him say that.

But why would she want to blow the whole place up with priceless antiques in it? It doesn’t make any sense.

That thought gave Hannah a measure of comfort. But then, with a sinking heart, she remembered that there was a $20 million insurance policy on the antiques alone.

She had recently seen the video of a car racing down the highway with the driver twisting and turning to avoid a crash. The woman had made a call to 911 and was screaming, “I can’t stop it! I can’t stop it!”

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

D
oug 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

W
hen 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 like 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.