Attitude...
Kepler gave him a that’s-not-funny-so-watch-yourself look. Blondie shut up and decided not to offer what he’d been about to, whatever it was.
“All right, Fred Stanford Chapman—”
The rookie said, “Why don’t you call me Stosh? It’s—”
“Naw, you’re definitely a Fred Stanford Chapman,” Kepler said, like he was bestowing an honorary title.
“Definitely,” Surani echoed.
“Now. Listen up.” Kepler briefed the Patrol officer on the Charles Prescott Op and, even though he remained a little smart-ass around the eyes, the kid seemed to get it. And even made a few good suggestions.
Then Kepler said, “Let’s get some breakfast. Something big.”
“And expensive,” Surani added.
Kepler let drop, “We’ll charge it to Patrol. Our Viking warrior here’ll sign for it.”
The kid was silent for a moment. He’d be thinking that even on stakeout operations he had to buy his own food. “Me?”
“This case is so fucked up — excuse me, Gandhi,” Kepler said, with a look at Surani, who gave him the finger yet again, “that we need some Bloody Marys too. Or, hell, champagne.”
“Champagne?” The rookie was dying.
Kepler gave it a whole ten seconds. Then said, “We’re fucking with you, Fred Stanford Chapman.”
“Yeah.” And he tried to look as if he’d known that all along.
“We got time for coffee, that’s it. We go to... What’s the address again?”
“Madison and Eighty-Eight.” He added to the new member to the team: “That’s where Prescott’s concubine’s supposed to be.”
The young officer said, “A concubine is a woman who exists in a marriage-like relationship but’s unable to marry her lover, usually because of a difference in social class. You wouldn’t really have concubines in America. Fewer class issues, you know.”
Both the detectives stared at him.
The kid blushed. “I’m just saying.”
“Jesus Christ,” Kepler muttered. “Now you’re definitely buying.”
Surani, the more-or-less voice of reason, said, “Let’s get a move on.”
The detectives waited, continuing to stare at the patrolman.
“What?” The kid’s voice nearly broke.
Surani frowned. “You weren’t listening?”
“How’s that?”
“The briefing. Just now.”
“I was, yeah.” But he looked uncertain, as if he maybe hadn’t been listening as much as he ought to’ve been.
“Forget about that?” Kepler pointed to a bulletproof vest, sitting on a table near the door.
“I’ll pass,” the young officer said. “Sweat like a pig in one of those. Besides, what could go wrong?”
Chapter 24
Morning After, No. 2
10:00 A.M., SUNDAY
1 HOUR, 10 MINUTES EARLIER
Daniel and Gabriela had checked out and were sitting at a wobbly table in a coffee shop on the Upper East Side.
She nodded back to the hotel in which they’d spent the night. “You always take girls to dives like that?”
“Only the ones I think can handle it. You passed the test.”
She gave a wry smile and turned back to her task. Dozens of documents sat in front of them, business records, letters, copies of emails.
She examined the last few in the pile. She leaned back. “It looks like there’s close to a million dollars in quote ‘miscellaneous assets’ that my boss has. But there’s no clue where they could be. It’s so unfair! To know there’s money out there, enough for the ransom, but not know where it is. How the hell’m I going to get Joseph his goddamn money?”
Daniel had examined his half of the documents and he admitted he’d found nothing either.
Gabriela’s coffee sat untouched before her. Daniel was drinking tea. Two bags sat in the cup, dyeing the water ruddy brown. Not many people drank tea, she reflected. Her mother did. For the past six years, though, the woman mostly just stared at the cup of cooling English Breakfast on the table in the assisted-living home.
Forget that. Concentrate. This is important, this is vital.
Gabriela found herself sweating. She wiped her palms on her blue jeans. She’d peeled off the windbreaker, but the restaurant was hot and her wool sweater, which she’d knitted herself, was warm. The pale green garment was thick. She remembered picking out the yarn, searching online to find a good pattern for the collar and sleeves, an Irish chain.
She sipped coffee and picked at toast, for which she had no appetite. Then, with both hands, she gestured desperately at the documents and muttered, “Where do we go from here? Safe-deposit boxes?”
“The police will’ve found them all, locked them down.”
They were silent, surrounded by the sound of the milk steamer, Muzak from CDs offered for sale, a little conversation and a lot of clattering keyboards. Looking out the window, she noted the silhouette of the Queensboro Bridge, 59th Street. It was stark against an indifferent sky.
Gabriela had a sip of coffee, then another. It was bitter. She didn’t mind. The sharp flavor made her alert.
“Did you find anything about this mysterious Gunther?” he asked.
“Nothing, no.”
“What about family property?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your boss’s parents? Brothers and sisters? Someplace that was held in a different name than Prescott.”
Gabriela said quickly, “Yes, yes! There is.” Her eyes grew wide. “That could be it. When Charles’s father died last year, he and his siblings were going to put the family home on the market but they decided they had to fix the place up first. Charles would go up there every few months to work on it. It’s still being renovated.”
“Whose name was it under?”
“It was a trust the lawyers named something like One Oh Nine Bedford Road Trust.”
“The police might not have heard about it yet.”
She continued, “I’ve seen pictures. It’d be perfect to hide money — it’s old, two hundred years. And has dozens of rooms and a huge basement. How big is a million dollars?”
Daniel laughed. “I wouldn’t know. My clients use wire transfers. But it’s probably not as big as you’d expect. Where is the house?” he asked.
“Near Ridgefield, Connecticut. In the western part of the state, near the New York border.”
“I know it. We could get up there and back in time before the deadline. We can take my car. I garage it a couple blocks from here.” But then he frowned and asked, “Is the phone up there still working?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“You better try it first, before we show up.”
“Why? You think Charles’s hiding there? The police traced him to the Caribbean.”
“No,” Daniel said. “I think the police might be there.”
“Oh. Of course.” She lifted her mobile.
But Daniel stopped her, pointing to a pay phone in the back of the shop.
“You think they’re tracing calls?” she asked.
“I’m way past paranoia at this point.”
She rose and walked to the phone, lifted the receiver and fed in some coins. Two minutes later she was back at the table, scooting the chair next to him.
She offered a rueful look. “Good decision, Daniel.”
“Who answered?” he asked.
“Detective Holloway. Connecticut State Police. I said it was a wrong number and hung up.” Gabriela sighed and her body seemed to collapse in on itself. Daniel wasn’t much taller than she was — maybe three inches — but she was so diminished at the moment that he seemed to tower over her. Her head was tilted downward. “That was our last chance... Oh, Sarah...” she muttered. “What am I going to do, Daniel? If we don’t get that money...”