1 Runaway Man (17 page)

“We can have this conversation right out here in the hallway if you want.”

He let me in. It was a tiny room, barely big enough for a double bed, dresser and TV. There was a bath. There was a closet. He padded over to the bed and sat on the edge of it, shifting uneasily in his towel.

The Asian girl who was naked in the bed didn’t do a thing. She didn’t even bother to pull the sheet over her bare breasts. Didn’t care if I looked at them or not. Just lay there calm as can be, her gaze more than a bit unfocussed. My guess? She popped something heavy duty to get herself through the unpleasantness of her work day. Unless, that is, a nooner with a pudgy, balding forty-eight-year-old toe sucker was her idea of a good time. She wore a lot of makeup but it didn’t hide the sprinkling of pimples on her forehead. Or the fact that she appeared to be about fifteen years old.

Paul Weiner cleared his throat. “Would you mind excusing us for a moment?” he asked her, gesturing to the bathroom.

She shrugged her narrow shoulders and got up out of the bed, making no effort whatsoever to cover herself. She was so thin I could see her ribs, front and back. Her breasts were a child’s breasts. Clearly, this was a kid with serious troubles. But right now they weren’t my troubles. She went into the bathroom and closed the door softly behind her.

“She’s eighteen,” Paul pointed out defensively.

“If you say so. That would make her just about Sara’s age, wouldn’t it?”

He heaved a pained sigh, his soft white shoulders slumping. “Look, I had to get out of the house, okay? Away from Laurie. Away from our friends and relatives and th-that creep who keeps calling from the funeral home. You have
no
idea how much he’s charging me to bury Bruce. I don’t even know how I’m going to pay for it. I’m
drowning
in debt.”

And yet he’d come up with fifteen hundred dollars to spend on an Asian cupcake for the afternoon. Priorities. Sound financial planning is all about priorities.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I said sympathetically. “You’ve suffered a real blow. You’re just trying to cope. I understand that.”

I heard the toilet flush. Then the shower came on.

“She’s really a very sweet girl,” he said helplessly. “Laurie … hired you to follow me, is that it?”

“I haven’t been in contact with Laurie at all. And she doesn’t have to know about this. You have my word. Assuming, that is, I get something in return.”

Paul pondered this slowly. “Sure, I understand. Just give me two minutes to throw my clothes on and I’m gone. She’s very capable and she’ll do
anything
. Her name is—”

“I don’t want to know her name. And you don’t understand.”

He frowned at me. “What is it you want, Ben?”

“The truth about Bruce’s adoption. I want to know the details of how it went down.”

“Why do you care about that?”

“Because he’s dead, that’s why. Someone hired me to find him. That someone was Peter Seymour, who specifically told me not to mention the law firm of Bates, Winslow and Seymour to you. Tell me why and I’ll leave you and your little girlfriend in peace.”

“There’s really not much to tell,” he said. “Bruce’s adoption was a-a private arrangement. We didn’t go through an agency.”

“You bought yourself a baby, is that what you’re saying?”

“Other way around. We didn’t buy Bruce. We were paid to take him.”

“Paid how much?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“For what?”

“Our silence.”

“And who paid you?”

“Bates, Winslow and Seymour. Or the Aurora Group, to be more precise. Some shell company of theirs.”

“You’re a smart guy, Mr. Weiner. Didn’t this arrangement seem a bit strange to you?”

“Of course it did. But I didn’t care.
We
didn’t care. Laurie and I had been trying to have a baby for years. You have no idea how worthless she felt. Her friends, her cousins, they were
all
having babies. We were desperate. The adoption agency that our rabbi recommended had stuck us on a waiting list that was backed up for years. And the other adoption agencies scared us. You could end up with some kid who has brain damage or God knows what. Sure, it was a bit unusual. But Peter Seymour wasn’t exactly a scuzzball. He was a partner in a white-shoe law firm.”

“How did you hook up with him?”

“Through a client of mine named Frankie Donahue. I used to handle Frankie’s investment portfolio.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“No, he passed away three, four years ago.”

I sighed inwardly.
Everyone
was dead.

“Frankie was an old-school New York City permit expeditor. One of those fellows who you hire if you’re trying to get a construction permit or liquor license or what have you. He knew who to pay off and how much it’d cost. Took a healthy percentage for himself, of course, but he worked like a dog and had put away close to a half-mil by the time he came to me. We were reviewing his investments over lunch one afternoon when I happened to mention our situation. Frankie said he might be able to help us out. That every once in a while he’d hear about an honest, reliable party that was on the lookout for an honest, reliable couple—no questions asked. He said it might not be right away but if he heard of anything he’d let me know.”

“And I’m guessing he did.”

Paul nodded. “About six months later. It was a bright blue Sunday morning in May. I remember the exact date—May the fifth, 1990. He called me at home and told us to meet him in one hour at an address on East 39th Street. We still lived in our apartment on York Avenue in those days. Laurie was more than a little skeptical. Hell, so was I. But we jumped in a cab and went to the address he’d given me. It was a brownstone apartment. Frankie was waiting there for us. And so was Peter Seymour, acting like he was real hot stuff.”

“Yeah, he still does that.”

“Also a doctor and nurse.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“We weren’t introduced. The doctor was in his fifties maybe. The nurse was younger, no more than thirty. They were both very tan, I remember. Not many New Yorkers are tan in early May. The baby was in a crib in the back bedroom. It was a newborn boy. Two weeks old, tops. He seemed healthy and well cared for.”

“What were you told about the circumstances of his birth?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Did the baby have a birth certificate?”

“He did. It said that he’d been born in Nevis on January the twenty-fourth. Which obviously was not the case. Like I said, he was two weeks old—not three-and-a-half months. Laurie had been around a million newborns and was quite positive. But that’s what his birth certificate said, and the arrangement we’d agreed to was strictly no questions asked. So when we applied for Bruce’s US citizenship we entered his date of birth as January the twenty-fourth.”

I mulled this over, my wheels turning. It jibed with what Eleanor Saltonstall Kidd had told Legs and me—that Kathleen gave birth in Nevis at the end of January. The old lady had been good and specific about that. How come? Why the discrepancy about the baby’s age? And why had Seymour insisted that no birth certificate had been filed? “Was the mother’s name listed on this Nevis birth certificate?”

“Yes and no,” Paul replied. “She was listed as Jane Jones. The baby was simply listed as Male Jones.”

“I understand that Bruce was anxious to get a look at his birth certificate.”

“It was something he’d gotten curious about,” Paul acknowledged. “But one of the terms of our adoption agreement was that we stash it in our safety deposit box and never, ever let him see it.”

“Any idea why?”

“Well, sure. Nevis is a tiny island. If he found out that he’d been born there, chances were good he’d be able to track down the identity of his birth mother.”

“Were you and Laurie told anything about her identity?”

“Not a thing. We were not allowed to ask about her. Or to contact Peter Seymour about anything. Ever. That’s what the fifty thousand was for. That and ‘transitional expenses.’ Setting up a nursery in our apartment and so forth.”

“But you must have come up with a theory about who she was.”

“Of course we did. That’s human nature. We figured she was a single young woman who came from a wealthy family. A family that didn’t want to go through official adoption channels because they wanted her pregnancy kept quiet. It
was
kept quiet. And we never heard the name Peter Seymour again—until you showed up the other night. Frankly, we were both quite shaken.”

“Mr. Weiner, why would Peter Seymour want to hire me twenty-one years later to locate Bruce?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

“Does the name Kathleen Kidd mean anything to you?”

“She committed suicide yesterday. I saw it on the news. What of it?”

“Have you ever had any personal contact with her?”

“No, the Kidds are way out of my league. My clientele is strictly middle-class.” He ducked his head, plump hands folded in his lap. “Bruce was our boy, okay? We raised him since he was a baby. We have good memories, Ben. And we want to hold on to those memories.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“If you find out something, I want you to keep it to yourself. Please don’t upset my wife. She’s not a strong person.”

The Asian girl in the bathroom turned off the shower. Then she opened the bathroom door. She was still naked, but now she was wet and naked. She raised one bare foot onto the edge of the tub and slowly, carefully began to wipe each one of her toes dry with a towel, gazing over her shoulder at Paul through her false eyelashes. He stared at her, transfixed. I had to give her credit. For a stoned-out teenager she was a total pro.

But I did not like being a witness to this little seduction ritual of theirs. “I’ll be going now,” I announced.

He looked up at me guiltily. “You won’t tell my wife about this?”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

I couldn’t get out of that hotel room fast enough.

*   *   *

“I DON’T
BELIEVE
THIS!”

“Why, Sonya? I told you I’d call.” I was talking to her on my cell as I strode from the Windsor to the subway station. I needed to talk to her. Needed to forget about Paul Weiner and that girl up in 613.

“I know you did, but guys never actually follow through. It’s just an empty, meaningless promise they make as they go fleeing out the door into the night, never to be heard from again.”

“I’m not like that, Sonya.”

“You’re so sweet. And you’re
just
what I needed today.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Oh, it’s totally stupid. You don’t want to hear about it.”

“Believe me, I do.”

“There’s a little stomach bug going around my school.”

“And you picked it up?”

“No, little Shoko Birnbaum did. And she threw up all over my brand-new white cashmere sweater. I was just putting it in the sink to soak.”

“So does that mean you’re not wearing a top right now?”

She let out a gasp. “Are you trying to start something on the phone?”

“What if I am?”

“I knew it. You’re a naughty boy. Guess what, Benji? I like naughty boys.”

“Good. When can I see you again?”

“Cookie, you are
so
not doing this right. You’re supposed to keep me wondering and worrying and sobbing. Men always play hard to get.”

“I don’t know how to play. I just know that I want see you again.”

“Wow, I must be dreaming.…”

“You’re not dreaming, Sonya.”

“How about dinner tomorrow? But we’ll have to make it an early night because I can’t handle a roomful of five-year-olds on two hours of sleep. Plus I could barely sit down this morning. My friend Tovah asked me if I’d been hit by a bus.”

“Dinner tomorrow sounds perfect. But I’m in the middle of a crazy case right now and not totally in control of my schedule. So if I have to cancel please don’t take it the wrong way, okay?”

“Sure thing. Oh, hey, Benji? You were right.”

“About?…”

“I’m not wearing a top. Just this flimsy little silk camisole that you can see right through. And I’m washing my sweater in
freezing
cold water.…”

“I’m hanging up now,” I growled, pocketing my phone hurriedly.

I have a ton of male pride. I didn’t want her to hear me whimper.

*   *   *

A SHINY BLACK CADILLAC LIMO
was parked out front. A uniformed chauffeur sat behind the wheel reading the
Daily News
. When I made it upstairs to our office, I discovered we had company.

Bobby the K was seated on the sofa in Mom’s office. Gus was curled up in his lap, purring away shamelessly.

“Ah, here’s Ben now,” Mom exclaimed with a dazzling smile. “I believe you already know Mr. Kidd, don’t you?”

“Why, yes.” I sat in one of the chairs that faced her desk. “Good to see you again, sir.”

“And you, Ben,” he said quietly, his bright blue eyes fastened on Mom’s worn Afghan rug. “I hope you folks don’t mind me just showing up this way.”

“Not at all,” Mom assured him.

“Of course not.” Lovely Rita came sashaying in with a container of coffee from Scotty’s. “Here you are, Mr. Kidd. Black, two sugars.”

“Thank you. Sorry to put you to so much trouble, Rita.”

“It was no trouble at all.” Rita set it down on the end table next to him, beaming with girlish delight that the great man had remembered her name. Or I should say swooning. I half expected her to plant a kiss on his huge melon of a head. To my surprise I felt a pang of resentment. No, jealousy. It was definitely jealousy.

He sipped his coffee, gazing across the desk at Mom. “Forgive me for staring, Mrs. Golden, but I keep thinking that we know each other from a long time ago.”

“Happens all of the time.” She and Rita exchanged a knowing look. “My maiden name is Kaminsky if that’s any help.”

“Did you used to teach?”

Mom let out a bubbly laugh. “Well, I certainly schooled a lot of people.”

“I’m really good with faces and I’m
positive
I know yours. I came in contact with a lot of rock groups when I was first starting out. Did you used to perform with a grunge band?”