The Chessman (14 page)

“Remember when you came by a few years ago, to ask about Marly’s relationship, or lack of one, with Bret Ingram?”

“Yes.”

“I called you at the number you gave me when the news broke that Dane Schaeffer had methodically gone about killing his old Princeton chums, but you weren’t there. They said you were on medical leave.”

Cady unconsciously squeezed the fingers of his right hand into a partial fist. “I spent several months in physical therapy.”

Dorsey Kelch shot Cady a questioning look that went unanswered.

“Then I contacted Sheriff Littman in Bergen County. He recited what you just told me almost verbatim. No evidence exists to indicate…nothing conclusive—blah, blah, blah.”

“After everything you’ve been through, the last thing I want is to turn your world upside down based on speculation. Quite frankly, Mrs. Kelch, it would sound like faulty assumptions and foolish guesswork.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Dorsey Kelch repeated. “Thirteen years ago my only child dies in a god-awful accident at a god-awful party, but I put my faith in God and live with it. Ten years drag by and suddenly you appear asking if Marly was seeing this Ingram boy, if Marly knew the Zalentines. I’d never heard of Bret Ingram until the day the police informed me that my daughter was dead—the worst day of my life—and I’d never heard of the Zalentine twins until I read in the newspaper how they
drowned
all of those poor young women on that death boat of theirs. Turns out these same Zalentines were at Snow Goose Lake the night my daughter
accidently drowned
. But nothing is ever conclusive. Now, three years later, you’re back in my living room jotting down the name of any guy Marly ever looked at. I’m asking you again, Agent Cady, who killed my daughter?”

“The evidence leads to Dane Schaeffer having taken it upon himself, for whatever reason, to kill the Zalentines, the Zalentines’ attorney, and even to kill one of his best friends—Patrick Farris. Sadly, that’s where the evidence ends. You have every right to be skeptical, Mrs. Kelch. Was Dane Schaeffer haunted by what happened to Marly, was he a part of it, or was it something else entirely? I don’t know what made Schaeffer snap. And I don’t know how your daughter died.”

“But you don’t buy that it was an accidental drowning?”

Cady realized he’d already dug a deep enough hole and said nothing.

Mrs. Kelch shrugged. “Will you promise me something, then, Agent Cady?”

Cady nodded.

“Will you promise to let me know what you find out, no matter what you think I’ve been through? One way or the other, I want to know the truth.”

“Whatever I find out about Marly—good or not so good—I’ll let you know. I promise.”

“Very well.” Dorsey Kelch dabbed a Kleenex to her eye. “You had some questions. How can I help?”

“First, was Dane Schaeffer at Marly’s funeral?”

“He and his father were there.”

“Did they have anything to say?”

“They were both extremely sorry. I don’t remember much else, but I was taking Valium to get me through.”

“Was Bret Ingram there?”

“Yes. The boy was so shook up he sobbed straight through the service. That’s why it never occurred to me that it was anything but a tragic accident until you showed up a decade later.”

“Do you remember if Ingram said anything?”

“The boy blubbered incoherently. I didn’t have time for him. Not that day. I turned and walked away, left the boy mid-blubber.”

“I have some questions about male friends Marly knew while growing up.”

“I see you’ve jotted down Ted Thorsen, Marly’s first boyfriend from back in junior high,” Dorsey Kelch said, smiling. “Ted was all thumbs and left feet. He was so nervous around Marly, he’d visibly shake. Pete and I would go into the kitchen and cringe.”

Dorsey Kelch had retired the previous year from teaching Honors English to college-bound seniors at Reading Central Catholic High School, where she had taught for thirty-five years. It was also where she had met her husband, Peter Kelch, who had been the music director and orchestra conductor until the Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, also called ALS or Lou Gehrig’s Disease, forced him into early retirement. Peter Kelch died from the resulting respiratory failure the summer of Marly’s high school graduation, six years after the onset of symptoms.

“I see you’ve got Scott Dentinger, her counselor friend from church camp. They were real close, pen pals during the school year. Scott’s a priest himself now. You’ve got her friends from Debate Club and the actors from the different plays she was in.”

“Who’s this young man?” Cady had a photo album opened to what must have been one of Marly’s birthday parties in the Kelches’ backyard. She was all teeth for the camera, couldn’t have been more than fourteen. A little blond kid stood in the background by the swing set staring at her, his smile a mile wide.

Dorsey Kelch lit up. “That’s little Jakey Westlow. God bless him. Marly babysat Jakey back when she was ten or so.”

“What’s Westlow doing now?”

“Another sad story. Jakey’s mother, Lorraine, had Jakey pretty late in life and the father was never a part of their lives. One of those things.”

“That can be rough.”

“It was. So when Lorraine got kidney cancer, Jakey took care of her. She was all he had, and after she passed, Jakey broke apart.” Dorsey Kelch dabbed at her eyes again with the Kleenex. “He committed suicide.”

Cady finished his cup of green tea, slowly paging through the photo album, giving Mrs. Kelch a chance to compose herself. “That is a sad story.”

“How’s the tea?”

“It’s excellent tea, ma’am.”

“Please call me Dorsey.”

Cady nodded again. “Who’s this young man in the football jersey?”

“That’s Eric Braun. They dated on and off in high school. In fact, Eric was Homecoming King to Marly’s Homecoming Queen.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“The Brauns retired to Florida years ago, but Eric was at Marly’s funeral. He was in the Marines at that point, I think, or some branch of the armed services, anyway.”

Cady scribbled Braun’s name into his notebook, along with the other names he was going to run checks on. He flipped through the remaining pages of the photo album, and then placed it gently on the coffee table.

“Your daughter was very beautiful, Dorsey.”

“In more ways than one, Agent Cady,” Mrs. Kelch said. “In more ways than one.”

“B-R-A-U-N,” Cady spoke into his cell phone on the drive back to D.C. “Eric Braun.”

“Any others on the list military?” Agent Preston asked.

“Not positive, Liz. Life moved on and Mrs. Kelch doesn’t know where several of Marly’s old friends wound up. But if Braun is
Semper Fi
, that fits the profile. Braun would have capability, weapons knowledge, and motivation.”

“I’ll have Agent Schommer run the names.”

“Thanks, Liz,” Cady replied. “I feel good about this.”

Chapter 16

Six Months Ago

“W
hat’s the matter, Papa?”

Drake Hartzell looked up at Lucy from the brown leather sofa. He could only begin to imagine the sight he must make, robe askew, hair a bird’s nest, face moist and red, an empty Delamain bottle resting sideways on the Persian rug, an equally empty brandy snifter lying next to it, two paper shredders—one in front of each kneecap—and six overfed Hefty bags of white shreddings extending diagonally out from the couch.

“Hello, Slim.” Hartzell wiped his face with the swipe of a forearm. “How was your night?”

“My god, Papa,” Lucy said, sitting down in the chair across from Hartzell, concern written across her face. “What’s going on here?”

Hartzell’s nerve turned to pudding. “Nothing you need to worry about, Slim.”

“Have you been to Dr. Hinderaker?”

“My health is fine.” Hartzell almost snorted; he must really look a mess. “Never better.”

“You’ve lost so much weight, Papa. Recently. And let’s face it; you’ve been Mr. Mopey all month long.” Lucy’s eyes darted around the room, halting on the shredders sitting in front of him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s just these markets,” Hartzell said. “These goddamned markets are crucifying me.”

“The economy is
not
your fault, Papa. You didn’t release the bear. Anyone with a brain the size of a pea knows that. It’s like you’ve been telling everyone lately.” Lucy leaned back and did an almost passable imitation of her father. “‘
Buying low. Rock-bottom prices
.’”

Try as he might, Hartzell couldn’t bring himself to smile.

“Papa?”

Hartzell stared at his daughter. He felt his lower lip begin to tremble.

“Papa, now you’re scaring me. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t, Slim,” Hartzell said softly, wishing he’d not had that final glass of cognac. “You’ll hate me.”

A silence hung over the two. Lucy stood, scooted around a shredder and sat on the sofa next to her father.

“Rubbish, Papa. I could never hate you, never in a billion years.” Lucy cupped his left hand in both of her palms. “Now come on, out with it.”

Unable to look her way, Hartzell told his daughter everything. He began with his origin, his real name, his childhood in Liverpool, his coming over to America. He gave her the short version of how the markets worked—the version he parroted to clients—but he then confessed to how he
worked
the markets, how the funds were diverted, how he cooked the books and had done so for many, many years, how with the financial meltdown his entire house of cards was soon to come tumbling down upon his head.

Hartzell felt her hands tighten at this point. Unable to meet her eyes, Hartzell continued speaking to the floor. He walked her through the grim reality of the situation, how they would likely consider him a flight risk and deny bail. How it would likely take a decade for the courts to sort it all out, and how no matter what dream team of attorneys he could assemble, the climate was such that he’d face the rest of his life in prison. He told her how he’d always known this day would come, no two ways about it, and how unlike Bernard Madoff he indeed had an exit strategy, and how he’d have vanished into the ether months ago, but he couldn’t leave…because it would literally kill him to abandon her. He told her how it ripped him up inside to think that she might be made to pay for his sins by a frenzied media that smelled blood in the water or targeted for harassment by a fleet of angry investors whose nest eggs had abruptly evaporated. He ended by telling her how terribly sorry he was for ruining her life.

Hartzell felt a tear slide past his nose, followed by another. He repeated his apology again as her hands slipped away from his. Hartzell sat motionless and awaited judgment.

“Papa?”

“Yes.”

“Look at me, Papa,” Lucy said. “I need you to look me in the eye.”

Hartzell’s heart caught in his throat. He felt fear, a captured pirate walking the plank. Telling Lucy the truth was the hardest thing he’d done in his life. Hartzell turned his head toward the only person he’d ever loved. She’d been weeping in silence while listening to her father’s confession, hearing her papa admit to being a fraud, feeling the rug slip out from under her feet. Hartzell watched as tears worked their way down Lucy’s face. She made no attempt to wipe them away.

“Now listen to me carefully, Papa,” Lucy began speaking, iron in her eyes. “You are not going to spend one second behind bars. Not now. Not ever. Furthermore, you are not going to give one penny back—not one red cent. Let them find us in the ether.”

Hartzell felt a wave of shock pass slowly through him, and then a second wave of relief, and finally a tsunami of elation. He wanted to stand and cheer to the heavens, but another thought occurred to him that brought more tears to his eyes.

Lucy truly was his little girl.

Chapter 17

C
ady squinted at the digital 3:33 a.m. on the clock beside his twin bed as the constant
Deet-Deet-Deet
of the alarm drummed slowly, annoyingly, into his consciousness. What the hell? Cady began arbitrarily pressing buttons and fumbling with switches, silently cursing the maid or room service joker that must have set the alarm as some kind of a middle-finger salute for a guest not leaving a tip. Cady got lucky and pressed something with his thumb that stifled the alarm. He rolled over and began drifting back into a doze.

“Thank you,” a voice across the room whispered. “That was a tad annoying.”

Cady sat upright, nerve endings taut as piano wire. Instinctively Cady reached for his sidearm, which, while traveling on FBI business, he kept holstered atop the bedside table at night. The Glock 22 was nowhere to be found. Cady then began reaching for the lamp.

“I’d really advise against that,” the voice stated simply, as though ordering an extra side of coleslaw.

Cady stared at the shape in the chair near the window, shook off his drowsiness and willed himself to be observant. It was a shadowy figure, topped with what looked like a fedora, the kind worn in the old movies. Possibly a trench coat or long jacket, dark trousers.

“It’s been a while, Agent Cady.”

Cady froze, realizing he was a dead man. He knew who was sitting in the side chair of his Embassy Suites hotel room.

The Chessman.

“I’m no longer with the FBI.”

“I’m sure that’s been remedied,” the voice replied, now an octave above a whisper. “Why else would you be in D.C.?”

Cady struggled to hear over his pounding heart. The Chessman’s accent was noticeable for a lack of one, what the network news liked in their anchormen. Tom Brokaw-esque. The window chair was about two feet off the floor. At this angle, the man would be sitting upright, one foot in front of the other, his hat about even with the television. Cady took mental notes—
he’s over six feet, possibly an inch taller than me
.

“We thought you were dead.”

“Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

So he was literate and quoted Mark Twain.

“Why did you kill Kenneth Gottlieb?”

“How’s your right hand, Agent Cady?”

“Go to hell.”

“A bit testy about that, are we?”