Daddy's Gone a Hunting (7 page)

There was a ring at the vestibule door and in a moment, the only
apartment door in the lobby opened. The superintendent, whom Mark had met before, stepped out and let two men in. Mark could clearly hear the voice of one of them. “We have an appointment with a Ms. Hannah Connelly.” Mark recognized the voice of authority, and he instinctively felt that even though neither of the men was in uniform, both were in law enforcement.

“She’s right there,” the superintendent said, pointing to the young woman with the dark glasses. “She must have just come in.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, they’re here already. You didn’t even get a chance to get something to eat,” the redhead said, her voice low.

The other young woman’s voice sounded faltering and resigned as she said, “Jessie, whether they come now or later, there’s no difference. Whether they believe it or not, I can’t add a single thing to what I told them this morning.”

What is this about? Mark wondered as the elevator door opened and side by side, he, the two women, and the two men got into it.

14

F
ire Marshals Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein had been on duty at their desks in Fort Totten in Queens when they received the early-morning phone call about the fire at the Connelly complex in Long Island City. They had rushed to it to find squads from two companies battling the flames. The fact that two people had barely escaped the building after the explosion suggested that others might have been trapped inside, even at that unusual hour. At that time they could not tell if Gus Schmidt had managed to crawl out on his own before he died. When they learned that the one survivor had been rushed to Manhattan Midtown Hospital, they immediately followed, hoping to be able to interview her. She was already in surgery, and her sister and the plant manager had no idea why she had gone to the complex.

The marshals had returned to the fire and then changed into the gear they always carried in their car. After they had battled the flames for four hours, the fire was finally extinguished and it became clear that no one else had been in any of the buildings. The back wall of the museum had been the first to collapse, but by then the searchers had gotten out of the conflagration.

Ramsey and Klein, their heavy boots protecting them from the heat of the scorched remains of the complex, methodically searched for the source of the fire.

The first eyewitness, a watchman from a neighboring warehouse, had come running over at the sound of the explosion and verified that the flames were originally shooting straight up from the museum. The fact that its back wall had collapsed was the second clue that it was there that the fire had started.

Next was the painstaking search for evidence of causation, including possible arson.

By eleven o’clock on Thursday morning, Marshals Ramsey and Klein had found a partially unscrewed gas pipe that had leaked gas into the museum. The wall that had fallen had covered the remains of the charred outlet that had the wires exposed. The two veteran fire marshals did not need to look any further. The fire was of an incendiary nature and had been deliberately set.

Before they could finalize their crime report, Jack Worth, the plant manager, had arrived on the scene.

15

W
hen he drove into what had been the Connelly complex, Jack Worth was shocked at the amount of destruction. Even though it was a cold, damp day, a crowd of onlookers, kept at a distance by lines of yellow tape, were watching as firefighters continued to walk through the rubble, their heavy boots protecting them from the heat of the cluttered ruins. The hoses they were holding sent forceful gallons of water onto the smoldering pockets throughout the wreckage. Jack pushed his way to the front and caught the attention of a policeman who was on guard to keep anyone from slipping through the ropes. When Jack identified himself, he was taken to see one of the fire marshals, Frank Ramsey.

Ramsey did not waste his words. “I know we spoke to you at the hospital and I’d like to verify a few of the statements you made. How long have you been working here?”

“Over thirty years. I have an accounting degree from Pace University and was hired as an assistant bookkeeper.” Anticipating further questions, he explained, “Old Mr. Connelly was still alive then, but he died shortly after I started to work here. It was two years before the boating accident that took the lives of one of his sons and his daughter-in-law as well as four other passengers. By then, even though I was pretty young, I was head accountant.”

“When were you put in charge of the whole operation?”

“Five years ago. There was a big turnover then. The former plant manager retired. His name is Russ Link. He lives in Florida now. I can give you his address there. Over the past ten years our craftsmen have been retiring. Gus was the last to go, just as I took over, and quite frankly it had to be forced. He simply wasn’t capable of doing the work anymore.”

“Do you have an outside accounting firm?”

“Absolutely. They can verify that the business was going downhill.”

“Is the business insured?”

“Of course it is. There is a separate policy for the antiques.”

“How much is that policy?”

“Twenty million dollars.”

“Why weren’t the security cameras working?”

“As I told you, the company hasn’t been doing well lately. As a matter of fact, we’re losing money hand over fist.”

“You mean you couldn’t afford to fix the security cameras?”

Jack Worth had been sitting in a folding chair facing Marshal Ramsey in the back of a mobile police van. For a moment he broke the eye contact he had been making with Ramsey, then said, “Mr. Connelly was looking into several security systems, but didn’t want to commit to one of them yet. He said to hold off because he was expecting to sell the business as soon as he got the right offer for the land.”

“And, once again: Did you know that Kate Connelly was meeting the former employee, Gus Schmidt, here early this morning?”

“Absolutely not,” Jack said forcefully.

“Mr. Worth, we will be speaking to you at length again. Do you have a business card?”

Jack fished in the pocket of his trousers. “I’m sorry. I ran out without my wallet.” He hesitated and then added, “Which means I’m
not carrying my driver’s license. I’d better not get stopped by a cop on my way home.”

Frank Ramsey did not respond to the attempted touch of levity. “Please leave your address and phone number or numbers with me. You’re not planning to leave the area, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” Now Jack Worth bristled. “You have to understand, all of this is overwhelmingly shocking to me. I’ve worked for this company for over thirty years. Gus Schmidt was my friend. I’ve watched Kate Connelly grow up. Now Gus is dead and Kate may not make it. How do you think I feel?”

“I am sure that you’re very upset.”

Jack Worth knew what the fire marshal was thinking. As plant manager, Jack should have insisted that the complex be protected by security cameras. And Ramsey was right. But wait till this guy gets a handle on Doug Connelly, he thought grimly. Ramsey might get some idea of the kind of boss I was dealing with.

A policeman was handing Jack a pad and pen. He scrawled his name, address, and cell phone number on the paper and handed it over to the cop and turned abruptly. They can’t charge me for not fixing equipment, he thought, as, hands in pockets, he made his way back to his car.

The curiosity seekers were beginning to disperse. The few burning embers were smaller and scattered.

Jack’s car was a three-year-old BMW. He had been planning to buy a new one, but that couldn’t happen now. He didn’t have a job and he’d have to be careful about appearances.

It wasn’t even one o’clock in the afternoon, but he felt as though it were midnight. He’d gone to bed late and then the phone call had come about the plant. Less than three hours’ sleep, he thought, as he drove toward his home in nearby Forest Hills. The traffic was heavy and he realized he had had nothing to eat since last
night. When he got home, he’d fix something for himself and take a nap.

But a half hour later, when he was sitting at the breakfast counter in the kitchen his ex-wife had so lovingly planned fifteen years ago, a beer and ham-and-cheese sandwich in front of him, his phone rang. It was Gus Schmidt’s daughter, Gretchen, calling from Minneapolis. “I’m at the airport,” she said, her voice trembling. “Jack, you have got to promise me that when the police start digging into my father’s past, you will stand up for him and say you never believed he meant it when he said he’d like to blow up the plant.”

Jack reached for the beer as he promised with a fervent tone, “Gretchen, I will tell anyone who asks that Gus was a fine, good man who is the unfortunate victim of circumstances.”

16

A
fter questioning Jack Worth in the mobile unit, Marshals Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein called the people who had dialed 911 when they heard the neighborhood explosion. They also called Lottie Schmidt and spoke to some of Kate’s coworkers.

Then they went to the local police station to make their crime report that the fire was of an incendiary nature and involved the death of Gus Schmidt. They spent the rest of the afternoon at the scene of the fire, searching for any further evidence they might find.

The next person they wanted to talk with was Hannah Connelly. They called her on her cell phone. She told them that she would be leaving the hospital shortly, and they could meet her at her apartment. They stopped to pick up Gus Schmidt’s clothing from the medical examiner for testing, then headed to Downing Street. That was when they caught Hannah at the elevator.

They did not stay long in her apartment. “Ms. Connelly, I know how distraught you were this morning, and we didn’t want to burden you. But now we’d like to go over some facts with you,” Ramsey began. “You said that you did not know that your sister was meeting Mr. Schmidt in the museum early this morning?”

“No, she didn’t mention it to me. I knew that she was meeting my father for dinner last night. Kate and I talk almost every day, but I
was busy at work yesterday and I knew she was going out in the early evening.”

“A few of your sister’s coworkers mentioned that she was concerned and quite vocal about the fact that the family business was going downhill and should be sold.”

Jessie had made Hannah a cup of tea, then sat next to her on the couch, her manner protective. She had not intended to butt in, but now her instincts as a criminal lawyer were warning her that the way the investigators were zeroing in indicated they believed that Kate may have deliberately set the fire.

Jessie addressed Nathan Klein. “Marshal Klein, it seems clear that Hannah did not know of her sister’s plan to go to the complex. Knowing Kate, I am very sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for her being there, but I do think you should defer any further questions until Ms. Connelly has a chance to rest.”

Klein was clearly unimpressed. “I don’t think it will burden Ms. Connelly too much”—he nodded in Hannah’s direction—“to answer a few more questions while her memory is still fresh about the circumstances leading up to the explosion that took a person’s life.”