Get Lost Page 9

“I’ve been going out of my mind.”

  “Don’t worry, Gabe. We’re safe. I’m calling you on my brother’s landline. It’s secure. We’re staying with him in his trailer.”

  “Why did you leave like that?”

  “I had no choice. I heard you talking with the lieutenant and worried he’d try to use me to get to Angelina. I did what I thought best.”

  “You still have that gun?”

  “Yes. I saw you put it in the drawer. I took it for protection.”

  “I could have protected you. Leaving that way makes everything more difficult. What—”

  “I did what I thought was best.”

  “Right.” I tried a different approach. “So you’re all together at Santa Clara Pueblo?”

  “We’re safe.”

  I looked around and took a deep breath. I had to calm down. “Nai’ya, I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

  Nothing but silence.

  “Please, listen. That new cell number C.J. gave you—”

  “What about it?”

  “We’ll use only that number from now on. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be back in New Mexico tomorrow night.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “C.J. didn’t tell you? I’m in New York.”

  “New York? What’s going on?”

  “Much more than you realize. You need to trust me. Will you do that?”

  She paused. “Yes.”

  “I’ll come up to the Pueblo day after tomorrow. I want to be with you.”

  “Gabe—”

  “Lay low until I get there. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. All of us are in danger. Wait for me right where you are.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is Angelina there? I’d like to tell her I’m coming to see her soon. Tell her not to be afraid.”

  “Estefan took them into the village. I wanted privacy so we could talk.”

  “Will you have Angelina call me when they get back?”

  The light from the window vanished.

  “I don’t think that would be wise. She’s too frightened. This isn’t the time.”

  My voice rose. “I’d say it’s about twenty-five years past time. Why won’t you let me speak to her?”

  “Gabe, have you been drinking?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  More silence.

  “Nai’ya, I’m Angelina’s father.”

  “She doesn’t know that yet.”

  Her words hit me as hard as any punch I’d ever taken in the ring. I stood there like a fool, all silence, waiting for her next word. After five seconds I hung up, afraid I might say something I’d regret forever.

  A mournful procession of dull gray clouds passed overhead. I walked back up the driveway to the boulevard. Cold night wind bit my cheeks and swirled the stale exhaust of cars and buses.

  I needed both hands to open Donovan’s front door. I dreaded my friends’ questions. I didn’t want to face them, but I needed their help and another drink.

  Sloppy couldn’t believe I’d hung up on her. Neither could I. I spilled the rest of my story—about Nai’ya, about a daughter and grandson I never knew, about Klein and the dead bodies in my barn. The whole thing exhausted me. I begged off early and left Donovan’s around ten-thirty.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I’ve never been a good morning-after drunk. I crawled out of bed, full of impotent rage at my lack of self-control, and wondered how far my love for Nai’ya would take me.

  The hotel’s breakfast didn’t improve my mood. The coffee and Danish were cold. When I checked out, the “tourist tax” on my bill was $15.75 for one night’s stay. It soured me for what lay ahead.

  First on my dance card was the managing editor at the New York Daily News. My head was pounding. My stomach ached. I didn’t phone ahead.

  The lobby floor of Four New York Plaza looked and felt so shiny I could have skated into the building. By contrast, the twenty-third floor lobby was whisper-quiet and all carpet. I eased out of the elevator, straightened my shirt collar, and got my bearings.

  A left turn and a dozen steps brought me face-to-face with Ms. Leticia Brill. A rectangular gold-plated sign on the front edge of the desk hailed her as Personal Assistant to Mr. Charles Vacco, Managing Editor. She seemed to count to ten before she looked up at me.

  “May I help you?” Young, Manhattan-slim and poured into a tight-fitting gray shirt. No wedding ring. Scarlet nails flashed as she tapped on her desktop. Wavy brown hair spilled over one shoulder.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Vacco.”

  Her right eyebrow rose. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I want to speak to him about Tommy O’Donnell.”

  “In what capacity?” No warmth, no welcome, just cool superiority.

  “I identified Tommy’s body in New Mexico. Gabe McKenna.” I offered my card.

  She held it between her thumb and forefinger like it had just washed up on the Jersey Shore. She read it and then read me. I studied the soft flow of her hair.

  “Stay here, Mr. McKenna. I’ll see if Mr. Vacco is free.” She rose and disappeared through a mahogany paneled door.

  Her desktop looked too neat, like that of an employee without enough to do. But the autographed photo of Derek Jeter on the wall behind her chair scored her some points. She returned before I completed a mental review of the Yankee captain’s career highlights.

  “This way.” She motioned me through the door and led me down a short corridor. The length of her stride flashed a hint of silk slip beneath her black skirt.

  Vacco’s office was a sterile festival of chrome and glass. Aggressive air conditioning made the room colder still. But a panoramic view of New York harbor made it all worthwhile.

  Charles Vacco sat like a wax dummy, dwarfed behind a desk that could have doubled as a helipad. A half-dozen large screen TVs broadcasting the major 24/7 news channels covered the wall to my left. No sound, just a barrage of video cutting and popping like silent firecrackers.

  Vacco didn’t move when I approached his desk, and his blue-gray gaze never wavered. He looked pleasant enough. Warm eyes, square jaw, solid shoulders. The kind of guy who gets elected fraternity president. “You’re here about Tommy O’Donnell?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sit down.” He motioned me to a chair across from his. “May I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Mineral water?”

  My pounding head screamed for coffee. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Miss Brill says you’re from New Mexico. That you identified Tommy’s body.”

  “I did.”

  “You sound pretty New York to me.”

  “Tommy and I grew up together. Queens, Elmhurst.”

  “He was a good man. Best investigative reporter I’ve ever known.”

  “Whatever you had him working on got him killed.”

  “You know this for a fact, do you?” Vacco’s voice had a sudden edge. He leaned forward.

  “It’s clear enough. Probably got his wife killed, too,” I said.

  “What’s your source?” His warm, dark eyes went cold. The rest of his face gave nothing away.

  “I stopped by their home yesterday. Thought maybe you could help me out.”

  Vacco shifted in his seat. “If you’re here to make me feel bad about what’s happened, save it. I feel that way already.” His right hand opened the center desk drawer and took a couple of pills from a small silver case. He swallowed them dry. “Bad stomach.”

  “Help me out here, Mr. Vacco. What kind of story was Tommy working on?”

  “I wish I could help you. The fact is, I don’t know.”

  “You were his boss.”

  “Tommy O’Donnell was a respected veteran of his craft. A goddamned icon around here. Your quintessential New York reporter. He knew what buttons to press. And he knew where all the skeletons were buried.”

  My mind flashed to the recen
t discoveries in my barn. “Go on.”

  “Look, I didn’t nursemaid every story Tommy did. That’s my point. He worked on his own, pursued his own leads. He’d earned that much over the years. Later, he’d check things out with me before we ran with the story. That was our routine.”

  “So what did he share with you about this one?”

  “Not a thing. That’s what made it so unusual. He was downright secretive. Said it was too soon. But he did call it the hottest thing I ever handled.”

  “That’s how he described it?”

  “His exact words. Tommy said I shouldn’t know. I needed to have plausible deniability in case anything turned sour.”

  “He was looking out for you.”

  Vacco nodded. “That’s the kind of guy he was.” He made a fist of his left hand and rubbed it furiously with his right. “I should have stopped him right there and demanded to know more. I feel responsible for what happened.”

  “I don’t think Tommy would want you to carry that around.”

  Vacco dragged himself from behind his desk and paced to the window. He stood with his back to me, looking out across the harbor. “He was my friend, too, Mr. McKenna.”

  His cellphone chimed the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth. I swallowed my other questions for the time being.

  “Vacco.” He looked over his shoulder at me, his face stricken. He lowered his voice, but not so much that I couldn’t hear. “I see…right away.”

  Who gives this guy his marching orders?

  “Of course. No. Nothing.” He stole a second, more furtive glance at me. “Nothing, I swear.”

  I cleared my throat and checked the clock behind his desk. Eleven-fifteen already. I was due at my old bank in half an hour.

  Vacco slid the phone back into his pocket without another word to his caller. “I forgot I have a previous appointment. I’m afraid I can’t help you any more, Mr. McKenna.” He sat back down. His hand trembled a bit on the desktop.

  “That’s a shame. If you change your mind or think of anything, would you give me a call?”

  Vacco nodded. “Why don’t you leave your contact information with Miss Brill? Hotel, phone, your e-mail address, if you have one. If I think of anything more, I’ll have her get in touch.”

  I stood. Vacco rummaged through his desk and avoided my gaze. Our discussion was over. I’d have given my eyeteeth to know who’d just called.

  “Thanks.” I whisked out of his office past Leticia Brill without giving her any of my personal data Vacco had asked for. I could clam up too.

  Frank Darby, a geriatric guard outside the Queens County Savings on 103rd Street and 39th Avenue, greeted me like a long-lost brother. “Mr. McKenna, where ya been?”

  “New Mexico.”

  “You in the foreign service now?” He ran a bony finger along a bulbous nose and held the door for me with his free hand.

  “That’s in the U.S., Frank.” I patted his arm and brushed past him into the bank.

  My meeting was with a Mr. Charles Bishop, Senior Vice-President. A portly five and a half feet of milquetoast, he helped me close out my accounts and stood guard as I emptied my safe deposit box.

  The sight of Holly’s jewelry staggered me. None of her items were all that expensive, but my heart ached more with each piece I removed from the box. I thanked Bishop for his time, crossed the street to a FedEx store and mailed them to my home in Albuquerque.

  Angelo’s Pizza was right across 39th Avenue from the bank. Onion sat waiting for me at the popular lunch spot, hogging one of the few small tables by the front window.

  “Feeling any better today, Brain?”

  I told my first lie of the day. “I’m okay.”

  “Hope you’re hungry.” He unfolded his napkin and tucked it into the front of his pants.

  “I won’t embarrass you.”

  “Listen Gabe, I know it wasn’t easy for you unloading on us last night. Just remember you’ve got two guys in your corner. Slop and I want to find whoever killed Tommy and Siobhan as much as you do.”

  “I appreciate that. Listen, about last night…”

  Onion cocked his head. “What about it?”

  “I’ve got a mess back in New Mexico that can’t wait. You think Tommy and Siobhan would mind if I flew back before their funerals? You and Sloppy—”

  “Course not, Gabe. Tommy would tell you, do what you gotta do. Besides, once we put O’Toole’s legal ability, my detective skills, and your brains together, we’ll find whoever killed them soon enough. Right?”

  “Thanks.” The waitress stopped by with two menus. “You know this could get messy,” I said.

  Onion glanced at the menu for about five seconds before he put it back on the table and looked at me.

  “Life is messy. Sloppy and I talked last night after you left. This case needs somebody on each end anyway, in New York and New Mexico. He’s going to dig into the Chief Tammany angle and find out what he can. I have a few N.Y.P.D. guys who still talk to me. They can keep me updated on the investigation into Siobhan’s murder. Sloppy and I will keep in touch with you every day. You go take care of your business in Albuquerque.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” The waitress returned. I ordered a cold antipasto salad. Onion opted for something called the Deal 3, a large cheese pizza, a dozen wings, and six garlic knots with cheese.

  He must have noticed my jaw drop. “It’s my dinner, too, okay?”

  We dug in and he gave me a slice, the best I’d had in a long, long time. Why can’t somebody make New York pizza in Albuquerque?

  Onion wiped a long string of cheese off his chin and pointed a finger at me. “You be careful when you get back there. My gut says we’re dealing with something big.”

  “Tommy called it ‘the hottest story he’d ever had.’ ”

  Onion stopped chewing and thought about it. “I’m between cases right now, so I can—”

  “Between cases?”

  “You could say that. Anyway, I can be flexible, come out to New Mexico if and when you need me.”

  “You’re a pal, Onion. And I may take you up on that. If I do, I’ll cover all your expenses. In any case, we keep in touch every day, right?”

  “You got it.” He looked toward the heavens. “Hear that, Tommy?”

  My spirits rose. Ten minutes of good food and small talk later, my phone rang.

  “Mr. McKenna?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Mr. O’Toole’s secretary. He wanted me to tell you he’s tied up in court this afternoon. He said for you to stop by and sign your statement transcript from the Queens D.A.’s office.”

  “Is it there now?”

  “Yes. Dropped off about an hour ago.”

  “Great. I’ll stop by after lunch. If Mr. O’Toole calls in, tell him I’ll stay in touch when I get back to New Mexico. Thanks.” I hung up and turned to Onion. “I better get going. Got a couple more stops to make before my flight.”

  “Okay, Brain. Don’t forget what we talked about. And watch your back.”

  I put money on the table. “I won’t forget. Call you in a day or two. Here. Take this.” I wrote my new cell number on the back of my card and slid it across to him. We shook hands and walked away in opposite directions.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I flipped a mock salute at the statue of Elijah Dumbarton and strode across the concrete quad of his college. The old nineteenth century codger turned his fortune, built on the labor of his textile workers, into a school for their descendants.

  Nowadays he stands proud and serene, a roosting and feeding spot for New York pigeons. Larger-than-life, Elijah still carries out the motto of his institution, Sustinere et Servare, to support and serve.

  My old office had been reassigned as soon as I’d taken my leave of absence. I proceeded straight to Personnel.

  “Good afternoon, Marge.” I winked at portly Mrs. Lonergan. Rumor had it Dumbarton College had been constructed around her desk. No one had ever seen her anywhere el
se.

  “Professor McKenna! Welcome back, you’re certainly looking well.”

  “An illusion I’ve cultivated for years.”

  “Ms. Blanch is waiting for you in her office.”

  “Ah. The Divine Ms. Blanch. How is she?”

  Marge checked right and left and lowered her voice. “The same, I’m afraid.”

  “Nuts.” I walked past a row of eight-foot cubicles and waved at all the worker bees. At the end of the corridor, I knocked on the large oak door of their Queen.

  “Enter.”

  I poked my head inside. “Good afternoon.” I continued into a Gothic chamber darkened by purple velvet drapes. Two rococo sofas flanked an enormous desk. A plain wooden chair at the foot of it was Iris Blanch’s only concession to her visitors.

  “Sit down.” She gave me the flinty-eyed stare that earned her the title of “Dr. Warmth” among my former colleagues.

  My footsteps echoed off the hardwood floor and walnut-paneled walls. I gripped the back of the wooden chair to steady it as I sat down.

  “You’re late.” She looked at a small wooden desk clock and tapped its top, like we were playing timed chess.

  I stared at the woman, a sour artifact weathered by thirty years of administrative overreach. I offered no apology.

  “So, you’ve decided to leave?” Something about my leather jacket seemed to catch her eye, perhaps the tan lamb’s wool on its collar.

  “I’ve decided not to return.”

  Ms. Blanch paged, machine-like through a manila folder in front of her. She slid two stapled sets of papers across the desktop. “Initial the bottom of each first page. Sign in the middle of each second page. Keep the second copy.”

  “Mind if I read it first?” I studied the document. It terminated my employment and held the school blameless for any future mayhem I might inflict upon the world.

  “The college will henceforth make no further contributions to your retirement account. You are, of course, free to keep contributing on your own.”

  “How kind of you.” I signed where I was supposed to sign.

  “Professor McKenna, I don’t think I like your attitude.” She punctuated the remark with an acidic glare.

  “I don’t think you ever did, Ms. Blanch.” I sighed audibly for effect, folded my copy of the papers and slipped them into the breast pocket of my coat. I reached into my wallet and took out one of my cards. “In case you ever need to reach me.”