“I’ll say.”
“I’m not really sure who they are. Some people Hunny has a history with.”
“He’s giving them half a billion dollars? I find that mind-boggling.”
“So do I. If I had half a billion dollars, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. It’s unreal.”
“It just sounds weird.”
“If you had a billion dollars, detective, what would you do with it? Where would you start?”
“Well, I wouldn’t give half of it away the minute the check cleared, that’s for sure. I’d buy a few people a beer, and then I would give the matter a whole lot of thought.”
“Hunny Van Horn is impulsive. You must have picked that up.”
“Impulsive.” He laughed. “Well, he’s an effeminate gay.
They’re a mystery to me. So, who knows? Are the Brienings also homosexuals?”
“Not that I know of.”
“My supervisor’s daughter is a dyke. She’s hot, too. Two women. It’s a turn-on. I saw her with her girlfriend and I thought, 100 Richard Stevenson
Jesus, I wouldn’t mind watching those two going at it. Or even getting in there. I wonder if my wife wouldn’t consider that cheating.”
“You could ask her.”
Sanders followed Hunny down the exit ramp and onto Route 85 south.
“There are still guys in the department who badmouth gays.
But not so much as before. You never know who you might be talking to.”
“No. For heterosexual America, it’s a minefield.”
After a moment, Sanders said, “For example, I heard you were gay. So there you are. I wouldn’t have suspected.”
“No, I don’t wear my bumper sticker on my forehead. But I do drive around with it on my car.”
“Gays like Mr. Van Horn make a lot of people uncomfortable.”
“This is true.”
“If it wasn’t for fruity guys like that, gay people would have an easier time. People get turned off, is what happens.”
I said, “Ever hear of Stonewall?”
“Sure. The gays in the city revolted against the cops. Back in the sixties.”
“Hunny Van Horn was there. Gore Vidal wasn’t. And neither was I.”
“Vidal the hairdresser?”
“No, he might have been there.”
We were on Western Avenue now, Hunny about four cars ahead in the right lane. We passed the big State Office Campus, and we could see the entrance to the Stuyvesant Plaza shopping complex up ahead. Hunny signaled and turned into the access road, and then onto the sprawling tarmac, which was thick with the parked cars of Sunday shoppers and diners. tgi Friday’s was close by, on the left, at the near end of a long strip of shops.
Sanders parked within sight of the rear of the restaurant, and we CoCkeyed 101 watched Hunny halt next to the Dumpster near the restaurant’s back door. Another Ford was parked about thirty feet from us, and I could make out a man and a woman seated in the front, their windows rolled up. I indicated this car, and Sanders said,
“Ours.”
Hunny got out of his suv, went around to the passenger side, and removed the travel bag from the front seat. He closed the car door, looked around until he spotted our car, then walked over to the Dumpster. The lid was closed on the Dumpster, and Hunny stood briefly taking in this apparently unexpected development.
Then he lifted the heavy plastic top with one hand and held it open while he heaved the travel bag over the lip and into the receptacle. He let the lid fall back, glanced around, and walked back to his vehicle. No one in the area seemed to notice Hunny do this, or if they did they didn’t react.
Hunny drove back out to Western Avenue and turned toward downtown Albany. We followed.
Sanders said to me, “We’ve got three teams of two monitoring the Dumpster. Now we wait for word from Sergeant Nechemias that the kidnappers have released Mrs. Van Horn and phoned the house with the drop-off information. But they’ll pick up the ransom first, and we’ll be told when that happens.”
We were nearly all the way back to Hunny’s house, heading up Moth Street, when Sanders received a call. He listened and said,
“Okay.”
“The bag has been picked up,” Sanders told me. “By a man and a woman in an old Buick LeSabre. We’re on them.”
Back at the house, Hunny parked and again ran the gauntlet of mikes and cameras. We followed him into the house.
“No call yet?” Sanders asked Nechemias.
“Nothing. Just a few calls from media.”
Hunny looked grim. “I did what they said. So, come on, you puke-heads, come on! Where is my mom?”
At eight o’clock, no call had been received from the kidnappers. Sanders learned that the old Buick had been followed back to Elton Steckenfinger’s second-floor apartment in a rundown section of Watervliet, and the man and woman who had taken the ransom bag had disappeared inside.
Hunny fretted — and drank — and nothing Art or Antoine said could console him. He refused to eat anything — the rest of us had some caviar and Ritz crackers left over from Wednesday’s celebration — and Hunny’s left hand developed a tremor.
Sanders talked to somebody on his phone just after eight fifteen, and a decision was made to confront and arrest the two people who had picked up Hunny’s bag from the tgi Friday’s Dumpster — presumably, though not necessarily, Elton Steckenfinger and a female accomplice.
Twenty minutes later, Sanders received a call. He listened and said, “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Yeah. Sure. That’s all you can do. Okay.”
Sanders rang off and said to Hunny, “I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Van Horn, that your mother was not in the home of the people who took your twenty thousand dollars. In fact, my officers believe their story that they never held her captive at all.
The Steckenfingers are a couple of crystal meth freaks who tried to exploit your situation. Everyone is extremely disappointed. As I’m sure you must be. At least we got the twenty K back.”
Hunny choked back a sob. “But then, where is Mom? What happened to Mom?”
Sanders had no answer for that.
Bill O’Malley rarely left his New York City studio, but he had been driven up to Albany for what the promos on Focks News were calling a special investigation into “bombshell developments at the New York State Lottery.” O’Malley had bumped Geraldo Rivera from his Sunday-night-at-ten spot so that he could score a scoop with his expose of “moral corruption involving underaged drinking, deviant sexuality, and impersonating a socialite” at the home of Huntington Van Horn, “the homosexual celebrity lottery billionaire.”
Hunny had agreed to appear on the show, hoping that he could spread the news of his mother’s disappearance to more people. Mrs. Van Horn still had not reappeared by nine thirty, and the East Greenbush sheriff had organized more volunteer groups to comb the area near Golden Gardens beginning at first light. An Amber Alert had been issued by the State Police.
While Rita Van Horn was not a missing child, Hunny’s celebrity afforded him the clout to bend the Amber Alert law to include the elderly. Meanwhile, Albany police had reported their arrest in the kidnapping hoax, and Elton and Marcie Steckenfinger had already been filmed doing a perp walk at Division Two headquarters.
I had driven over to the house on Crow Street to pick up some clothes and toiletries so that I could spend the night at Hunny and Art’s, and Timmy and I settled in to watch the Bill O’Malley show together.
Timmy said, “Poor Hunny. I suppose this television appearance will be a lot different from his Today Show fiasco. His mother’s going missing must be a sobering experience for him.”
“Sobering? Not exactly that, no.”
“Oh?”
“I advised him against doing the O’Malley show. He’d had more than a few shots of what I think was undiluted Jack Daniels and was semi-fuddled when he left the house for Channel 23.
Anyway, the interview is sure to be unfriendly, and these promos we’ve seen can only begin to hint at just how hostile and unfair O’Malley is bound to be. But Hunny was determined to do it so that Mrs. Van Horn’s picture could be seen by Focks News’s millions of viewers. Hunny himself would prefer a cozy tete-a tete with Anderson Cooper, but — media-savvy celeb that he’s become — Hunny knows where the ratings advantage lies.”