Daddy's Gone a Hunting (11 page)

“No. The sedation is very strong.”

“But late yesterday afternoon she
did
say something to my father.” Oh God, if she ever says anything about setting the fire and they hear her, Hannah agonized. What will happen?

“I would doubt that she said anything coherent, Ms. Connelly.” The nurse tried to be reassuring. “There is no change in her condition, which, I’m sure the doctor has explained, is a good sign.”

“Yes, yes. Thank you. I’ll be over soon.”

Hannah hung up the phone and for a long moment lay back on the pillow. What day is it? she asked herself, then began to sort out the events of the past day and a half. Wednesday had been the big day at work, when they told her she would have her own line. I didn’t call Kate, she remembered, because she was meeting Dad and his latest girlfriend, Sandra. Jessie and I went out for dinner. I came home, watched TV, and went to bed. Then I got the call from
Jack at about five yesterday morning. That was Thursday? Was it
really
only yesterday?

She tried to put the events of Thursday in order. The rush to the hospital. Waiting for Dad to show up. Staying at the hospital until Kate was out of surgery, then going to work. That was silly, she told herself now. What did I think I was going to accomplish? Going back to the hospital and thankfully finding Jessie there. Then Dad and Sandra showing up there in the late afternoon, and Kate appearing to say something to Dad. Going home after that and having to deal with the fire marshals again. After they left, Jessie had fixed something for us to eat and then they had gone back to see Kate.

Dad went in ahead of me to see Kate in the afternoon, she remembered. When I got near the bed, Dad was bent over Kate, and he was clearly frightened by what she had said to him.

Does she know Gus is dead? Did she try to apologize to him for setting the fire?

I won’t,
I can’t
believe that.

She pressed the television remote, then was sorry she did. The lead news was the fire. “The question is why was Kate Connelly, the owner’s daughter, in the complex at that hour with Gus Schmidt, an ex-employee who was fired five years ago?” the anchor was asking.

It was the first time Hannah had seen a picture of the ruined complex. How did Kate ever make it out alive? she asked herself. Dear God, how did she ever make it out alive?

She turned off the television, swung her legs to the floor, then realized she was wearing a nightshirt that Kate had given her. “
Ma petite soeur,
on you it should fit perfect,” she had said. “It’s too short for me.”

From the minute she was in her first French class, Kate always called me that, Hannah thought.
My little sister.
She’s always looked out for me. Now I’ve got to look out for her.

Jessie is right. Those fire marshals are going to try to hang this on Kate. Well, I won’t let them.

A long hot shower made her feel better. She plugged in her new coffeemaker, which served up one cup at a time; it was another thoughtful gift from Kate. She decided to put on a sweater and slacks and change later to go to the funeral home where Gus was to be laid out.

Hannah dreaded the prospect of seeing Lottie. What can I possibly say to her that can help lessen her grief? she wondered. “I’m sorry the media is calling Gus a disgruntled former employee with a grudge against the company and a possible conspirator?” No matter what I say, Lottie is going to tell me and everyone else that Kate phoned him to meet her, not the other way around.

Her boots had three-inch heels, which barely brought her up to five feet five. With all those tall models, I always feel like a dwarf at the fashion shows, she thought as she ran a brush through her hair. I always wanted to be as tall as Kate. And I wish I looked like our mother, the way she does. Their pictures are just about interchangeable.

But I’m a chip off the old block of Dad—or Doug, as he wants us to call him now that we are grown. I pray to God I’m not like him in any other way!

When she went out into the hall and rang for the elevator, she remembered with embarrassment how she had been crying when the tall guy with the suitcase had ridden up in it yesterday with her and Jess and the fire marshals. I hope he didn’t think I’d had too much to drink and was on a crying jag, she thought.

Not that it mattered. Not that
anything
mattered except that Kate recover fully and not be accused of setting the fire.

Thankfully she was alone in the elevator, and out on the street was able to hail a cab immediately. On the way to the hospital she could feel her chest tightening. The doctor had warned that Kate’s condition could change in a minute. Even the relatively good news the nurse had given her on the phone wouldn’t necessarily still be true.

At the hospital she got out of the cab and realized for the first time that the rain and dampness of the past few days had been replaced by a sun-flooded sky.

I’ll take it as a sign, Hannah thought. Please let it be a sign that everything will work out.

When she got to the ICU, it was a shock to see her father at Kate’s bedside so early. When he turned his head, his red-rimmed eyes told her that he had had another boozy night. “Did they call you? Is that why you’re here?” she asked in a frightened whisper.

“No, no. Don’t get scared. I just couldn’t sleep and had to see her.”

Almost limp with relief, Hannah looked down at her sister. Nothing was different. Kate’s head was totally bandaged. The breathing tube still covered her face. The wires and tubes were still in place. She was a wax doll, inert, impassive.

Hannah was standing on the right side of the bed. She took Kate’s bandaged right hand in both of hers, bent down, and kissed her sister’s forehead. Can she feel anything through all those bandages? she wondered. “Katie, Dad and I are here,” she said, her voice low but deliberate and clear. “You’re going to get well. We love you.”

Was she feeling the slightest response on her palms? Hannah turned to Doug. “Dad, I swear she can hear me. I know she can hear me. Say something to her.”

Glancing to see if a nurse was near enough to hear him, Doug leaned over Kate, his voice a whisper. “Baby, you’re safe. I’ll never tell, I promise I’ll never tell.”

Then he looked up at Hannah and mouthed the words, “Yesterday she told me she was sorry about the fire.”

Hannah was afraid to ask him anything more, but from the look on his face it was clear to her that Kate must have apologized for setting the fire.

26

B
y noon on Friday Mark Sloane knew he had made the right decision to join his new law firm, Holden, Sparks & West. Specialists in commercial litigation law, they represented international real estate firms, investment companies, and worldwide banks. In a litigious world, they had a formidable reputation. Their three floors of sleekly modern offices were a visible sign of their success.

Mark had been back and forth enough in the last few months so that he had no sense of being a total newcomer. He already knew that the receptionist, the first employee to be seen through the glass doors after he walked down the hall from the elevator, was the mother of three high school boys. He was very pleased that he would be one of the top aides to the president of the firm, the renowned Nelson Sparks, and work on the most important cases with him. A partnership in two years had been promised.

But he was not aware that from his first visit he had become a man of intense interest to the single women in the firm and had been the subject of lively discussion among them.

He liked his new office, which looked over East Forty-second Street and Grand Central Terminal. And above all, he was glad to be in New York. Maybe I got that from Tracey, he mused as he stood at the window and observed the panorama below of one of the busiest streets in the world. Coming to New York was always his sister’s
dream. She talked about it to me so many times. I wonder if she ever would have made it big in the theater. So many try and it doesn’t work out . . . And then somebody gets blessed with stardust.

Enough of that, he decided. Time to begin to earn my keep here. Very considerable keep, he acknowledged to himself, as he settled at his desk and picked up the employee telephone book. He had long ago realized that for him the best way to get to know everyone in a company was to match their names to the positions they held. He had already been working on achieving that goal, but now that he was here, he intended to complete the learning process fast.

But despite his eagerness to delve into his new job, he was a bit distracted by the realization that he could now begin his real search for Tracey, or at least bring some closure to his mother about her disappearance. At four fifteen that afternoon he did a search on the Internet for the name of the detective on the case, Nick Greco.

The information he wanted came up immediately. Greco had a website for his own private detective agency. He was sixty-four years old, married with two daughters, and lived in Oyster Bay, Long Island, his profile stated. He had retired as a detective first grade in Manhattan after thirty-five years of service and opened his own investigative agency on East Forty-eighth Street in Manhattan. Just a few blocks away, Mark thought. Almost without knowing he was doing it, Mark dialed the phone number listed on the site.

To Mark’s surprise a live receptionist answered the phone instead of one of those annoying, automated voice instructions. Press one for this, press two for that, press three . . .

When Mark asked for Greco and the receptionist requested the reason for the call, Mark realized that his throat was dry. He tried to clear it but it felt hoarse and rushed as he said, “My name is Mark Sloane. My sister, Tracey Sloane, disappeared twenty-eight years ago. Mr. Greco was the detective from the district attorney’s office
who handled the case. I have just moved to New York and would like a chance to talk with him.”

“Hold on, please.”

Seconds later, a firm male voice said, “Mark Sloane, I would be very pleased to meet with you. Not being able to solve your sister’s disappearance all these years has continued to be a great frustration to me. When can we get together?”

27

“M
ama, I don’t know why you’re insisting on having visitation for Poppa at the funeral home for only a few hours this afternoon,” Gretchen complained. She was watching her mother remove her father’s dark blue suit from the closet.

“I know what I’m doing,” Lottie said firmly. “Your father is not going to be embalmed, so I want you to take these clothes over to the funeral home now. They were picking up his body from the medical examiner’s office early this morning. They will have him ready for anyone who wants to visit by four o’clock. I spoke to the minister. He’ll have a prayer service tonight at eight. And in the morning Poppa will be cremated, as he always wished.”

Lottie’s voice was detached as she spoke. Not
that
tie, she was thinking. I liked it on him but Gus never did. The blue one is nice. His good shoes are polished. Gus was such a perfectionist.

“I mean my friends growing up always liked Poppa, and there isn’t even enough time to call all of them.”

Gretchen was sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing a robe and with curlers in her hair. At age fifty-four her round face was virtually unlined. Unlike both her parents, she had always been chubby, but her body was well proportioned. Divorced for twenty years, Gretchen did not miss her husband, or
any
husband, at all. She was an excellent masseuse and had a full clientele. Active in the
Presbyterian Church in Minnetonka, a suburb of Minnesota, she kept a vegetable garden and loved to cook. On weekends she often had friends in for dinner.

The joy of her life was the home her mother and father had bought for her five years ago. A builder’s spec house, it was a large, handsome one-story, stone-and-shingled structure with a chef’s kitchen and a conservatory. The grounds sloped down to the lake and the landscaping accentuated the house’s charm and surroundings. An annuity Gus and Lottie had bought for Gretchen assured her of the ability to pay taxes, insurance, and any necessary repairs in the years to come.