Daddy's Gone a Hunting (41 page)

“I want to call my lawyer,” Lottie Schmidt said.

Both marshals got up to leave. When they were almost at the front door, she called out to them. “No. Wait. Come back. What’s the use? I’ll tell you what I know.”

93

J
ack Worth continued his attempt to appear confident as he was hooked up to the lie detector machine. “When you see the results, you’ll know you’ve been wasting your time,” he told Detective Matt Stevens. “And mine,” he added.

“We’ll see,” Stevens said. He began by asking Jack the usual litany of routine questions about his background that they knew he would answer truthfully.

“What is your name? How old are you? Where do you work? How long have you worked there? Are you married? Do you have any children?”

When the basic questions were completed, Detective Stevens moved on to the areas of inquiry that were pivotal to the investigation. “Did you ever drive a furniture van belonging to the Connelly furniture company?”

“Occasionally,” Jack responded promptly. “If my own car was being serviced, they would allow me to take one of the smaller vans home overnight.”

Matt Stevens was disgusted to see that Worth looked supremely confident.

“What color are the Connelly vans?”

“Black with gold lettering. Old man Connelly decided that it looked classy and it’s always remained the same.”

“Were you driving one of those vans the night Tracey disappeared?”

“No. I went home feeling lousy and I went to bed.”

Matt Stevens observed that the computer readings on Worth’s physical reactions remained fairly constant.

“Anyhow,” Worth continued, “if I had been driving a Rolls-Royce, Tracey still wouldn’t have gotten into it. She never gave me a second look.”

“Do you have any idea who else might have been driving one of the vans the night she disappeared?”

“No, I don’t.”

Again, Stevens could discern no physiological reaction to the question.

“Do you have any idea if Tracey Sloane knew anyone who worked at the Connelly complex?”

“No, I don’t.”

“All right. Let’s move to a different topic,” Stevens said. “Did you ever have any contact with Jamie Gordon?”

The computer registered a significant change. “No, I didn’t.”

“Do you have any knowledge of what happened to Jamie Gordon?”

“No, I don’t,” Worth insisted, as the computer continued to indicate a substantial change.

“Did you kill Jamie Gordon?” Detective Stevens demanded.

As the reaction being registered on the computer skyrocketed, Jack Worth ripped the wires from his body and jumped up. “I’m done with you!” he shouted. “I thought this was all about Tracey Sloane. You told everybody that the homeless guy killed Gordon. What are you trying to pull on me? I tried to be straight with you guys and cooperate. But now I get a lawyer.”

94

K
ate stirred. She felt a slight bump as whatever she was riding on got caught on something.

Where am I? she asked herself. Am I dreaming?

“The corner room,” a voice was saying. “Number six.”

Kate began to remember. She had met Gus in the parking lot. They had gone into the museum.

I smelled gas, she thought. I yelled at Gus to get out. It blew up. The museum blew up. Something heavy fell on us. I dragged him out.

Was Gus all right?

Why had he acted so nervous when I asked him to meet me there?

I think I’m in a hospital. My head hurts. I have tubes in my arms. I’ve been having the nightmare again over and over. Why?

She tried to open her eyes but could not. She fell back into a deep sleep . . .

The nightmare came back. Only this time she knew how it ended.

He caught me as I tried to run down the stairs. He grabbed me. I screamed, “You’re not my daddy! You’re not my daddy!” He covered my mouth with his hand and carried me into the bedroom. I was kicking him. I was trying to get away from him.

He threw me on the bed and said, “Watch this, Kate, watch this.” Then he punched the mirror over Mommy’s dresser and the glass went all over and his hand was bleeding. And he said, “That’s what I will do to you if you ever say that again.”

He picked me up and shook me hard. “Now tell me, what is it that you must never, never say again?”

“ ‘You’re not my daddy.’ ” I was crying. I was so scared. “I promise. I promise. I won’t say it again.”

But I know I did say it again, Kate thought. I told him that when he was leaning over me after I got hurt and they brought me here. Then I heard him tell Hannah that I said that I was sorry about the explosion. But he was lying. I didn’t say that.

I said, “You’re not my daddy.”

I have to tell Hannah. But I can’t wake up. I’m trying but I can’t wake up.

95

C
onfirming everything he suspected, Nick Greco studied the newspaper photo of the burial of Connor and Susan Connelly. The funeral had been delayed for three weeks so that Douglas Connelly could recover sufficiently from his injuries to be released from the hospital and attend the service.

Looking weak and devastated, his eyes swollen with tears, Doug Connelly stood at the foot of the two coffins, his left hand clenched as the final prayers were recited at the cemetery.

That was the hand that Connor had fractured so badly when he played football in college, Greco thought. That’s what his brother, Douglas, meant when he said in that interview that when Connor had been injured, their father had insisted that he keep exercising that hand by flexing it so that it would be strong again. But then his father was furious because Connor had developed a nervous habit of clenching it that lasted long after his hand had healed.

Seasoned as he was, Greco was still shocked at what he was sure he was seeing. The figure beside the coffins had a clenched hand . . . Was it possible that it wasn’t Douglas Connelly standing there? That Douglas Connelly was in one coffin and his wife, Susan, was in the other? Could it be that Connor Connelly was the only one who survived that accident and then he saw his chance? Could he have stolen his twin brother’s identity and become Douglas?

The old man, with his old-world ways, had said in one of those articles that he believed that the firstborn son was destined to be the president and major stockholder of the business, and his descendants would own it after him. The second son would have a position in the company and a minor share of the family holdings.

Douglas had become the president of the company when his father, Dennis, died. I don’t think Connor deliberately caused that accident, Greco reflected. But perhaps after it happened, in the hospital, he saw his opportunity and he grabbed it. He knew his brother and Susan were dead. He was not going to let the company pass to Kate and Hannah. He told them at the hospital that he was Douglas, and he got away with it.

Greco had in front of him the group picture that had been found in Tracey Sloane’s apartment, the picture that, when Greco examined it closely, showed Connor Connelly’s clenched hand on the table. Connor had been a fairly regular patron at Tommy’s Bistro. He had been on the list to be interviewed when Tracey went missing but was taken off when it was realized that he had been killed in that accident a few weeks earlier.
Or so we had thought.

Had Tracey Sloane somehow become a threat to Connor Connelly? How? The night she got into that van, she must have thought that the driver was his brother, Douglas. Somehow Connor must have become aware that she had noticed his habit of clenching his hand and he knew that she could ruin everything.

Greco pushed the speed dial button on his phone, connecting him to Detective Matt Stevens. “Matt, I think I know who killed Tracey Sloane.”

Stevens listened, startled at what he was hearing. “Nick, it makes sense. Tracey Sloane would not have been nervous about accepting a ride at night from a Connelly, whose brother had been one of her friendliest customers. And twenty-eight years later, her remains are discovered on their property. We know that explosion was deliberate.
From what you’re saying, I would bet that her body has been there since the night she got into that van.”

“Matt, I would suggest that it is time to bring Mr. Connor Connelly, better known as Douglas Connelly, in for a chat. I only wish I was still on duty.”

“I wish you were, too.”

“Matt, I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but my gut tells me that Tracey’s death and Jamie Gordon’s death and the explosion that killed Gus Schmidt and almost killed Kate Connelly are all connected.”

“I think so, too, Nick. We’ll find out. That I can promise you. As soon as I hang up, I’m calling Connelly. I want him here today.”

96

H
annah’s sense of uneasiness was turning into active distress. Something was terribly wrong. She knew it. Kate had been more than restless this morning. They hadn’t moved her yet into a private room. Something or someone had frightened her. I shouldn’t have left her, Hannah thought. I know I shouldn’t have left her. She was trying to get through to me.

I wonder if Dad has been over to see her yet today. She reached for her cell phone and called his apartment.

Sandra answered on the second ring. Obviously upset, she said, “Hannah, I would like to know what’s going on. Your father has been in a horrible mood since yesterday. Then not twenty minutes ago, some detective called. I answered the phone and he asked for your father. First, your father starts yelling at me for answering. Then he grabbed the phone right out of my hand. I guess the detective asked him to go down to the DA’s office or something and speak to them and then your father started yelling at him, too. He was shouting that it was all a conspiracy to keep him from getting his insurance money. Then your father yelled, ‘What do you mean that Jack Worth has been very cooperative?’ Then he hung up the phone and rushed out. He didn’t tell me where he was going. But, Hannah, he’s losing it. It’s been too much of a strain.”

“You have no idea where he went?” Hannah snapped.

“I guess maybe he went to see those detectives. He repeated the address they gave him. I offered to go with him but he practically took my head off. Then he stormed out.