Daddy's Gone a Hunting (35 page)

W
hen Doug received the call Wednesday night that skeletal remains had been found in a sinkhole in the parking lot of the complex, and that the fire marshals were on their way to question him, he told Sandra to go home. “You’ve been a big help but I need to be by myself now. Call one of your friends for dinner. Get your hair done or something in the morning. Then come back. I don’t want—”

He stopped himself. What he had been about to say was that he didn’t want Sandra acting like the lady of the house, or butting in when he was talking to the marshals, or leaping to answer his phone whenever it rang.

Sandra had pelted him with questions when she answered the call from, as she described him, “the guy who sounded as though he was furious about something.” He had explained his distress over the call. “It’s from an investment advisor who lost a lot of money. I encouraged him to have his clients invest in a new hedge fund, but the guy who runs it turned out to be a disaster. His clients lost everything they put in and now he’s blaming me.”

“That doesn’t sound right to me, Dougie,” Sandra had said indignantly. “I mean you may have suggested that guy invest in something, but investing is always a gamble. My father told me that. He said that if you put a few dollars a week in the bank, you’d be surprised
how it will grow and you’ll always feel secure knowing you have something behind you.”

“Your father is a very wise man,” Doug Connelly said bitterly, as he finally eased her out and escorted her to the door. Bernard, who had expected to drive them to dinner at SoHo North, was instead chauffeuring her to her own apartment.

Doug went straight to the library and poured himself a double scotch, then realized that the fire marshals had undoubtedly called Jack Worth as well. He picked up the phone to call Jack, but Jack did not answer his cell phone.

Then he remembered that Jack had called him a couple of hours ago, but he had decided to ignore the call.

Thirty-five minutes later, the fire marshals Ramsey and Klein arrived. On the way, they had discussed their strategy for talking to Douglas Connelly. They fully expected that he would absolutely disclaim any knowledge of knowing Tracey Sloane and any knowledge of how her body ended up underneath the pavement in the parking lot.

They had also agreed that Jack Worth was more than a mere person of interest. He was now being questioned in the Manhattan district attorney’s office. “I think we’re going nowhere with Douglas Connelly,” Ramsey said as he parked the car in a no-parking spot and flipped down the visor to display their “Fire Department Official Business” status.

The doorman told them that Mr. Connelly was expecting them and that he would let him know that they had arrived. On the way up in the elevator, Klein asked, “What are the odds that his lady friend is still around?”

“Fifty-fifty,” Ramsey replied. “She would drive me nuts but my guess is that he’s the kind of guy who likes having someone thirty-five years younger hovering over him.”

Douglas Connelly was waiting for them, the door of his apartment
open behind him. They could detect the smell of liquor on his breath and see the glazed expression in his eyes. As they had expected, he directed them straight to the library, where a half-filled glass of whiskey was on the table next to his chair.

As they both declined his offer of a glass of water, or something stronger, Frank glanced at the bookshelves that covered the walls. He had the fleeting thought that the books on display looked like matched sets, the kind of rare first-edition volumes that are finished with gilt-edged pages and illustrations. He wondered if Connelly had ever taken the time to open one of them. And then he wondered if the books, like everything else in this apartment, were copies of the real thing.

As he motioned for them to sit down, Connelly opened the conversation. “I cannot begin to tell you how absolutely shocked I was to receive your phone call. Do you have any idea whose remains were found or how long he might have been there?”

“We think we know the identity of the person and in fact it was a young woman,” Ramsey said. “Does the name Tracey Sloane mean anything to you, Mr. Connelly?”

The fire marshals watched as he frowned in concentration.

“I’m afraid not,” he said firmly. “Who was she?”

“A twenty-two-year-old young woman, aspiring to a theatrical career, who disappeared on her way home from work nearly twenty-eight years ago.”

“Nearly twenty-eight years ago? You think she was buried in our parking lot for that long?”

“We don’t know,” Frank answered. “But you do not recall ever having met her?”

“Twenty-eight years ago, I was a very happily married man and the father of two young children.” Douglas Connelly’s tone became icy. “Are you in any way insinuating that I had any connection to that young woman at that time?”

“No, we are not.”

“When exactly did she disappear?”

“It will be twenty-eight years this November thirtieth.”

“Wait a minute. The horrible boating accident that took the life of my wife and brother and four close friends was on the third of November that year. I was in the hospital until November twenty-fourth. Are you daring to suggest that a week later, when I was still recovering from terrible injuries, that somehow I was involved in—?”

Ramsey interrupted him. “Mr. Connelly, we are suggesting nothing. We are here because that girl’s skeletal remains were found on your property.”

“Was Jack Worth working at the complex at that time?” Nathan Klein asked.

“I assume that if you have any interest in Jack Worth, you already know that he has been working for our family for well over thirty years.”

“Were you friendly with him back then?” Klein asked.

“Jack started as an assistant bookkeeper. I was the son of the owner and had no reason to fraternize with him. He worked his way up in the company until our longtime manager, Russ Link, retired five years ago. By then Jack had proven himself to be fully capable of taking over the day-to-day running of the business and I put him in charge.”

“Then your relationship has always been a business one?” Klein persisted.

“Primarily. In these last five years, outside of office hours, we have had dinner occasionally. Like myself, Jack has been concerned that the forecast of the market for the antique reproductions we manufacture is not healthy. That is a fact of life that we both recognize. The answer is to close shop and sell the property, but not at a bargain price. I have been waiting for an appropriate offer.”

“Aside from your business relationship, what do you think of Jack Worth?” Ramsey asked bluntly.

“Both before and after his divorce some years ago, everyone was aware that Jack was a womanizer. In fact, I know that my father, shortly before he died, had blasted Jack about being too attentive to a young secretary in the executive office who was married. She told my father that Jack wouldn’t stop insisting on having a drink after work. Apparently, to be rejected, even by someone who was happily married, was a personal insult and challenge to him.”

The fire marshals stood up. “Mr. Connelly, you’ve been very helpful,” Frank Ramsey said. “We won’t bother you anymore tonight.”

“It isn’t a bother,” Douglas Connelly said as he got to his feet, too. “But may I ask, what is your interest in Jack Worth? Did he know the woman whose remains were found today?”

Neither detective answered the question. With a polite “Good night, sir,” they left the apartment. At that point, neither Ramsey nor Klein was about to tell Connelly that Jack Worth was then in the Manhattan DA’s office being peppered with questions about Tracey Sloane.

Questions, they were to learn, he answered over and over again with the same sixteen words. “I did not kill Tracey Sloane and I did not bury her in that parking lot.”

78

O
n Thursday morning at seven o’clock, Lawrence Gordon received a call from Detective John Cruse, who explained that two fire marshals who were investigating the explosion at the Connelly complex would like to see him. “Something has come up that we need to talk to you about, sir,” Cruse said.

“It’s about Jamie, isn’t it? Do you know who took her life?”

“Mr. Gordon, we didn’t want to contact you sooner because we knew that what we would tell you would be very distressing to you and Mrs. Gordon, and we wanted to have as much information as possible. Fire Marshal Frank Ramsey and Fire Marshal Nathan Klein and I can be at your home in an hour. I’m not sure what your schedule is today, but can you wait for us?”

“Of course, come right over.” Lawrence had just finished showering and shaving. His bathroom was on the opposite side of their large bedroom and, with the door closed, Veronica had not heard the ring of his cell phone. That was another habit he had acquired in the nearly two years since Jamie had gone missing. Even after her body was found, he had continued to keep the cell phone close to him, waiting for the call that the police had tracked down her killer.

Now, hating to do it, he sat on the side of the bed and put his hand gently on Veronica’s face. She opened her eyes immediately. “Lawrence, is something wrong? Are you all right?”

Veronica often got up by the time he was dressed, put on a robe, and had coffee with him downstairs. But if she was asleep, he never woke her up. Too often, the fact that she was still sleeping meant that she had been awake most of the night.

“Sweetheart, I’m fine but Detective Cruse and two fire marshals are on their way here to talk to us. It’s about Jamie.”

Lawrence watched as his wife closed her eyes in pain. “You don’t have to talk to them,” he said. “I can handle it myself if you want.”

“No, I want to hear what they have to say. Do you think they’ve arrested someone?”

“I don’t know.”

They both dressed quickly. Instead of wearing his usual business suit, shirt, and tie, Lawrence put on casual slacks and a long-sleeved sports shirt. Veronica, her hands shaking, reached for the exercise clothes that were her usual morning choice. She went to the local gym faithfully every morning for a nine o’clock exercise class.

Dottie, their live-in housekeeper of many years, was in the kitchen. The coffee was ready and the table already set in the breakfast room. When she caught a glimpse of their faces, her cheerful “Good morning” died on her lips.

“Three investigators are coming,” Lawrence told her. “We think they may have information about Jamie.”

“You mean about who killed her?” Dottie asked, her voice quivering.

Dottie had worked for them since before Jamie was born. Her grief when they lost Jamie had been as deep as anyone who had not been the girl’s parent could have felt.

“We hope so. We don’t know,” Lawrence said quietly.

When Cruse, Ramsey, and Klein arrived a half hour later, they accepted the offer to have coffee, then sat across the table from Jamie’s
parents. Cruse concisely repeated for both of them that Ramsey and Klein were fire marshals and the lead investigators of the explosion and fire at the Connelly complex.

“We have learned that a homeless man had been sleeping at night for probably several years in a van that was parked at the far rear of the Connelly property. It had been in a collision some years ago and left at the back of the parking lot. When the van was discovered to be filled with old newspapers, it was sent to the crime lab. While there, under further examination, Jamie’s notebook was found,” Cruse explained.

“Jamie’s notebook!” Veronica exclaimed.

“Yes. It has her name on it and is clearly the one she was using when she did the interviews of homeless people for the project she was working on. We were able to trace the identity of the homeless man who was living in the van through a family picture we found there. You may have seen it on the news. It showed a young couple with a baby.”

“We both saw it,” Veronica said numbly. “Did that man kill our daughter, and if so, have you arrested him?”

“His name was Clyde Hotchkiss. I must first tell you that he died yesterday morning at Bellevue Hospital.”

Lawrence and Veronica gasped and reached for each other’s hand.

Ramsey waited for a moment, then said, “He had been brought to the hospital when a passerby saw him collapsed on the street near the West Side Highway. He was dying of pneumonia and lived only a few more hours. We were notified because hospital personnel recognized him from the newscasts and contacted us. We were able to speak with him briefly.”

“What did he say?” Lawrence demanded. “What did he say?”

“We asked him about Jamie. He admitted that she got into the van and kept bothering him with questions. He admitted punching
her once but claims she jumped out of the van and then he heard her cry, ‘Help me, help me!’ ”

“Did he try to help her?” Lawrence Gordon’s face was pale, his eyes glistening with tears.

“No, he did not. He died admitting only that he had punched her, and swearing that he did not kill her.”

“Do you believe him?”

The marshals looked at each other. “I’m not sure,” Frank Ramsey said.

“I don’t believe him,” Nathan Klein said flatly. “His wife and son, who had not seen him since he walked out on them nearly forty years ago, had also been contacted and had come to the hospital. They were there when we talked to him. His wife begged him to answer our questions, but I think he couldn’t admit to killing Jamie in front of her and his son. The information that we are giving you will be released at a police press conference at noon today.”