1 Runaway Man (16 page)

“It was outright negligence,” Peter Seymour spoke up. “I still say you should have let me file a civil suit against those people.”

“That was
not
an option,” Mrs. Kidd said with a shake of her head. “We didn’t wish to call attention to the matter—even though we were utterly furious. I had never seen Tommy so angry in my entire life.”

“Mrs. Kidd, exactly what happened to Kathleen up there?” I asked.

She sat there in stony silence for a moment before she cleared her throat and said, “One of the boys … he got Kathleen pregnant. An older boy. He was fifteen years old. Kathleen was barely thirteen.”

“He raped her?” Legs asked.

“According to the laws of this state he did,” Seymour huffed. “She was nowhere near the age of consent, as you know perfectly well.”

“Exactly what happened was never clear to us, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Kidd said quietly. “Kathleen never told the school administrators the same story twice. Neither did the boy. We do know that they somehow managed to find a time and place to be sexually active. We were also told that the boy’s older brother attended college nearby at SUNY New Paltz and kept him supplied with marijuana and cocaine. Quite a few of the Barrow kids had drug problems. That’s why they were there in the first place. Not Kathleen. The administrators were certain she was never involved in
that
sort of behavior.”

“I can’t imagine those people were in a position to be certain of anything,” Meg said.

“Kathleen did
not
use illegal drugs,” Mrs. Kidd said to her pointedly.

Meg’s eyes widened. “No, of course not, Eleanor.”

“What was this boy’s name?” Legs asked.

Peter Seymour sat there with his thin lips pursed before he gave Mrs. Kidd a slight shake of the head.

“I see no reason to drag the young man and his family into this conversation, Lieutenant,” she responded. “The incident at Barrow occurred more than twenty years ago. And it has no bearing on what happened yesterday. Is that understood?”

Legs nodded politely but didn’t back off. “So Kathleen got pregnant when she was thirteen. You proceeded how?”

The old lady glowered at him across the coffee table. She’d indicated that she wished to move on. She took another stage sip of her tea before she said, “Tommy was a devout Catholic who did not regard terminating her pregnancy as an option. I’m Episcopalian, but I don’t happen to believe in abortion either. We pulled Kathleen out of Barrow—for good, needless to say—and arranged for her to have the baby at a private location that was safe from prying eyes. Peter found a good family to take the baby. It was a boy. I don’t know the name of the family that adopted him. I never wanted to know.”

“And exactly where was this private location?” Legs asked.

“Why on earth does that matter?” Mrs. Kidd demanded.

“Just answer the question, please.”

She heaved a royal sigh. “Kathleen had the baby at our winter home in the Caribbean. It’s a restored sugar plantation on the island of Nevis. We’ve had it for many, many years. I typically spend the month of February there. In fact, I’m intending to go down next week after h-her funeral. Kathleen stayed there for the final trimester of her pregnancy. I was with her, naturally. She gave birth toward the end of January.”

“Of 1990?”

“That’s correct. She was so young that our family physician flew down with his nurse to be there with her for the last few weeks. And he made certain that our home was as well equipped as any hospital—just in case there were any complications.”

“And were there any?”

“No, there were not. He took every precaution.”

“And his name is?…”

“John Sykes. John was a fine fellow. Passed away, let’s see, nine years ago.” That made two doctors who were dead so far. “He always wanted to open a free clinic down there. We made it financially possible for him to do so. I miss John. Don’t care for this current fellow at all. He treats me like a dotty old featherhead. Which I assure you I am not, Lieutenant.”

“I believe you, ma’am. So Kathleen’s child was born in Nevis?”

“Not officially,” Peter Seymour answered. “It was a home delivery. The birth was never recorded there. Dr. Sykes and the nurse brought the baby to New York when it was medically safe to do so and proceeded with the adoption.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand,” I said. “Was the baby a citizen of the US or of Nevis?”

Seymour stared at me from behind his rimless spectacles. “He was born overseas to an American mother but there was no recorded birth certificate. Got it?”

“Not really, but I’m not super bright.”

“Kathleen remained behind with me in Nevis for a few more weeks,” Mrs. Kidd continued.

“How did she feel about the baby being taken from her?” Legs asked.

“She wept for days,” Mrs. Kidd recalled sadly. “And remained deeply, deeply depressed. We sent her abroad to a school in Geneva that was noted for its work with emotionally challenged young people. They placed her on an assortment of prescription medications, which she continued to take for the remainder of her life. Kathleen was … incapable of experiencing the emotion of joy, Lieutenant. This made her extremely angry. Her art was the only thing that gave her some solace. She moved to Paris after she got out of school so as to pursue it further. She had a generous income from her trust fund and was able to live quite comfortably. Paris remained her home for a number of years.”

“Was there a man in her life?”

“When she was nineteen she got married to some awful hunk of eurotrash,” the old lady sniffed. “He was strictly after her money. Tommy paid him to go away and he went away. It lasted less than a month.” She gazed out the tall windows at her panoramic view of Central Park. “Last year she decided to give up Paris and buy the apartment on Riverside Drive. She didn’t tell us why she came home. Kathleen never explained herself. She simply did what she did.”

“Did you see a lot of her after she came back?”

“I tried to. I haven’t many friends left. They’re either dead or they’ve moved to Florida, which is as good as being dead in my opinion. I’m always looking for someone to go with me to the ballet or the opera. I asked her to join me dozens of times, but she always declined—
if
she bothered to return my phone call. I’m well aware that the media thinks Kathleen moved back to New York so as to be with me in my declining years. But the truth is, she wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Or me,” Bobby spoke up. “I called her a million times. So did Meg. But all Kathleen ever wanted to do was stay in her apartment and paint.”

Legs said, “Her doorman told us she seldom went out and almost never had visitors. When was the last time you folks saw her?”

“It w-was Christmas…” Mrs. Kidd replied, choking back a sob. “She … showed up here an hour late looking like something the cat dragged in. Unkempt and filthy. She had nothing to say to us. Just got roaring drunk on eggnog and left without so much as opening her presents. I-I still have them.”

“She was seeing a psychiatrist named Joseph Schwartz. Are you familiar with him?”

“I’ve never heard of him.” Mrs. Kidd glanced at Bobby. “Have you?”

Bobby shook his head. “She didn’t get his name from me. She never asked me for anything, Lieutenant. Never wanted anything. We weren’t close,” he said regretfully. “Hardly spent any time together when we were kids—except for when we summered on Nantucket. Even then I hardly ever saw her. I was too busy having fun with my friends. And then she was off in France for most of her adult life, like mother just said. I wish I’d made more time for her after she moved back to town. I should have but…” He lowered his bright blue eyes, swallowing. “I’ve just been so busy with my campaign.”

“Don’t blame yourself for what she did,” Meg said to him sternly. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should have tried harder,” he insisted. “If I had maybe she wouldn’t have felt so desperate and alone.”

Legs said, “Mrs. Kidd, are you aware that Kathleen had been reaching out to a Canterbury College student named Bruce Weiner? She confronted him publicly on two occasions that we know of in the past three months. Apparently, she was under the impression that he was her birth son.”

The old lady shook her head. “Why, no. I’ve never heard the name Bruce Weiner before in my life.”

Legs stared across the coffee table at her. “So you’re not aware that this same Bruce Weiner was shot to death the night before last at a vacation home on Candlewood Lake?”

Mrs. Kidd’s eyes widened a bit but she had nothing to say.

Peter Seymour had nothing to say either. He wasn’t going anywhere near it. Just sat there like a six-hundred-dollar-an-hour mute. Bobby the K was likewise mute. The library fell into guarded silence.

Until Meg said, “Lieutenant, are you attempting to link his death with Kathleen’s?”

“It does raise questions, don’t you think?”

“I honestly have no idea
what
to think,” Meg answered brusquely.

Mrs. Kidd cleared her throat. “All I know is that Kathleen gave birth to a baby boy when she was terribly young and vulnerable. She never saw that baby boy again. The experience was traumatic for her. Her whole life was filled with trauma. She was a tortured soul. We could never make her happy. We let her down. Everyone let her down. And now…” She halted, her eyes brimming with tears. “And now my beautiful little girl is
gone
,” she sobbed.

Bobby rushed to the old lady’s side to console her.

Seymour said, “This interview is over, Lieutenant Diamond.”

Legs nodded grimly. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Kidd. I’m sorry for your loss.”

She didn’t hear him. Just sat there and cried.

Meg shook my hand again, although this time her gaze was chillier. She’d sized us up and decided we represented a potential threat to her.

“I’ll show you guys out,” offered Bobby, wiping his own eyes.

Meg stayed there in the library with Mrs. Kidd. So did Peter Seymour, who was avoiding us so we wouldn’t pepper him with more questions.

Bobby led us across the marble entry hall toward the elevator. Again, I was struck by how much shorter he was than I’d thought. “I want to thank you guys for your courtesy. You both seem real decent. Watch your backs, okay?”

Legs said, “Meaning?…”

“You’re dealing with a situation here that’s gotten out of control.”

Legs’s dark eyes narrowed. “You think your sister’s suicide might have been something other than a suicide?”

Bobby pushed the button for the elevator. “I’m with my wife on this one. I honestly don’t know what to think.”

“You must have an inkling,” I said. “What’s really going on here?”

“I wish I knew,” he sighed. “But if I were you guys I’d steer clear of it. If you don’t, you’re liable to get pulled in so deep you’ll never get out.”

“Is that some kind of a threat?”

Bobby showed me his best campaign smile. Well, almost his best. His eyes weren’t totally into it. “Just the opposite, Ben. I’m trying to look out for you. Understand?”

“Not really, but I’m not super bright.”

The elevator arrived. We got in and started back down to the lobby.

“That rich old lady just chumped us,” Legs grumbled at me. “All she gave up were cherry-picked morsels. And she was spinning them all of the way.”

“Damned good acting job,” I said admiringly. “I guess she’s had plenty of practice over the years. More than Bobby. What was
that
just about?”

“Dude’s scared shitless.”

“Of what?”

“His political future, what else?”

“Legs, why were Bruce and Kathleen murdered?”

“Because they knew too much.”

“About what?”

“That’s what we have to find out.” He glanced at his watch. “Millbrook’s a two-hour drive, tops. I’m going to drop that nine-mil slug of yours off at the lab and then take a quick run up to the Barrow School. Maybe somebody still works there who was around back in eighty-nine and remembers the real deal. I’m guessing the Kidds paid everybody off—but a pissed-off janitor might have slipped through the cracks.” He glanced over at me. “Any idea what you’re going to do?”

“Actually, I have a very good idea.”

*   *   *

THE WINDSOR HOTEL ON LEXINGTON
caters mostly to out-of-town business travelers who want a midtown location, a bed and not much else. It’s not a tourist hotel. And for sure not a luxury hotel. The lobby’s barely a lobby at all. There’s no fancy seating area with plump armchairs. No piano bar. No coffee shop or gift shop. Just a front desk, a bell captain’s station and a whole bunch of busy people bustling in and out. One of those busy people was a tall guy with receding black hair who stood just inside of the front door, glaring impatiently out at the street. He appeared to be waiting for somebody who was late. He was pretty good at it, too, but I made him anyway. My dad taught me well.

No one answered when I knocked on the door to room 613. I stood there in the hall and listened to the moaning and groaning that was going on inside. I knocked again, harder this time.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice finally demanded.

“Room service.”

“I didn’t order anything.”

“Compliments of the concierge, sir.”

He undid the chain and dead bolt and opened the door. Paul Weiner was naked except for the towel he’d wrapped around his plump middle. His face was flushed. His thinning hair was mussed. He blinked out at me in horror. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I was hoping to talk to you.”

“B-But how did you find me?” he sputtered.

“This is how I make my living, remember?” I replied. There was no need for him to know that when I’d called his house, Sara told me he’d come into the city to catch up on work. Or that when I’d called his office, they told me he was home in Willoughby due to a death in the family. Or that I knew he was a dues-paying member of the Gladiator Club. Or that I’d shmeared the bell captain fifty bucks and slipped past the plainclothesman who was staked out downstairs. There was no need for Bruce’s father to know any of that. “May I come in?”

He hesitated, swallowing uncomfortably.