Forsaken: A Fallen Siren Novella (3 page)

Welcome to New York
. I watch the young couple walk away as Torres guns the engine, pitching me forward. Some things never do change.

Five minutes and two turns later, we come up on an imposing building on East 65th Street. Looking skyward, the building rises thirty or more stories. If I haven’t gotten turned around myself, the west facing windows should have a sweeping view of Central Park, which is now less than half a block away. We slow to a snail’s pace. A large contingent of television vans, representing both local and national networks, line the sidewalks in front.

I take quick inventory. Several crews are actively filming. Uniformed police stand guard at the door. A narrow alley off to the side of the building is blocked off with crime scene tape and a blockade. “The vultures have descended. Can we get past them?”

 “A homicide and kidnapping in this neighborhood is a hard story to keep quiet,” Torres says. “The minute the call came across the police scanners, the circus was inevitable. We’ve done our best to keep the details of the kidnapping and our involvement to a minimum, but as you can see—”

“It’s going to be damn near impossible with this level of scrutiny,” Zack finishes.

Torres steers past the reporters and cameramen milling around the building’s entrance then turns into the alley. The blockade is removed allowing her to pull into the parking garage. She pauses long enough at the iron gate to punch in a key code. It lifts and we pull forward. A security guard emerges from a second gate, which appears to be a newly constructed booth.

“Agent Torres,” he nods.

She gestures in our general direction as she introduces us. “This is Agent Armstrong and this is Agent Monroe.”

“I’m going to have to see some identification.” The request is made without a hint of apology.

After he examines our credentials, the second gate is raised.

“This one looks new,” I observe.

“The installation was finished just hours ago,” Torres says as we pull into a nearby space. “Maitlan paid for it himself. Had a crew working all night to get it set up. Case of closing the barn door after the horse has already escaped, if you ask me. But he owns the majority interest in the building and can do as he damn well pleases.” She shoots Zack a pointed look. “And we know what Maitlan wants, Maitlan gets.” The statement is punctuated with a plastic smile.

Zack’s expression remains neutral and he says nothing, but I see signs that his exasperation with Torres’ attitude is growing. He slams the car door shut a little too sharply upon exiting. He doesn’t wait for her to lead the way to the elevator.

“We’re heading to the one in the middle,” Torres calls out.

I quicken my pace to catch up with Zack and take a second to whisper, “Is this going to be a problem?”

There’s a telltale tick in his jaw, his fist clenches. “We’ll smooth it out somehow.”

Torres joins us and punches numbers into yet another keypad. The doors slide open. She steps in first, barely waiting for Zack and me to follow. Inside there’s only one button. She presses it and we’re instantly whooshed upwards.

I lean against the back wall. The space is larger than my dining room. Torres and Zack have managed to take full advantage and stand on opposite sides. Torres stares straight ahead, her features set in stone. Zack’s posture is rigid, feet hip-width apart, hands clasped behind his back in a classic parade rest.

“I’d like to interview the doorman again, the one they took up to the apartment,” he says.

“Deke Jackson? We taped the interview. I can show—”

He doesn’t even let her finish. “Get him in here. I want to talk to him myself.”

So much for smoothing it out.

When the doors open, any hope I have to take the tension down a notch is dashed. Crime scene tape still in place to the left of the elevator, where I presume the babysitter was killed, and around the front door, where the second doorman was left unconscious. Dark red bloodstains paint a grisly, Technicolor picture. I recall the photo of the girl, her body splayed out at odd angles, lying face down. A chill washes over me. Not because it’s the worst I’ve seen, but because I know without a doubt that anyone vicious enough to kill one innocent child in cold blood would not hesitate to kill a second.

I look up at Zack. He’s already taken in the scene. Now he’s watching me. His face reflects the same concern.

“Zack! Thank God you’re here.”

It’s Maitlan. I recognize him from the photos in the file Johnson gave us, not to mention the ones plastered all over the press. Maitlan’s polished PR team maintains careful control over his image. The forty-year-old with piercing blue eyes and dark hair graying at the temples is almost always presented in a dark suit, classic white shirt and tie. The photos of the mogul and his family lining the hallway, some adorned with remnants of blood splatter, belie that singular impression. Maitlan may appear the consummate icon of capitalist success in the press, but the pictures on the wall tell another story. They show a Roger Maitlan with laughing eyes and a warm smile—a loving father in private moments. In the first, Robby appears to be about five. He’s riding atop Maitlan’s shoulders, dressed in a baseball uniform, trophy in hand. In the second, Maitlan and his son are cheek-to-cheek, leaning in to blow out three candles on what appears to be a homemade cake. Then there’s a third, taken in what could be Central Park. Maitlan is standing alongside a woman, a natural beauty with short cropped flaming red hair and an easy smile. He’s tossing his son high into the air, his strong arms are outstretched, poised to catch him.

“That one was taken when Corrine was in remission the first time,” he says, tears in his eyes. This Maitlan’s face is pale and drawn, the lines around his mouth are tight with anxiety and fear. His shoulders bunch under the tuxedo jacket he’s still wearing from last night.

Maitlan reaches for Zack’s hand and gives it a friendly shake, “I appreciate you coming, Zack. My office is this way, we can talk in private.”

Okay, it’s obvious that there’s something Zack hadn’t bothered to mention. He and Roger Maitlan know each other. But there’s no opportunity to demand an explanation. Maitlan leads Zack down the hallway to a set of stairs, a second entryway. This one is more formal than the one upstairs. It’s lined with statues, the walls with paintings, and tiled with expensive marble. I follow, as does Torres. Maitlan reaches a doorway at the end of the hall, opens the door and quickly ushers Zack in. Then, without so much as a glance back, the door snaps shut behind them.

For the first time, I sympathize with Torres. We look at each other. I imagine our expressions are mirror images of exasperation and indignation.

“And here I was, taking all of this personally,” she mutters. “Welcome to the club. I think I’ll go check with forensics, see if they have anything new. Want to come?”

The sound of a door reopening draws our attention.

Zack steps out and motions toward me. “Emma, join us?”

“Sure.” So much for female bonding. “Torres was just about to go get an update on forensics.” I turn back to Torres, “You’ve already had a chance to personally interview Mr. Maitlan. How about you give us fifteen, then we’ll regroup?”

She relaxes a bit, nods, then turns on her heels and leaves us.

Chapter Three

Before stepping into the room, I pause in front of Zack. “After this, you and I are going to have a conversation.”

Maitlan is standing behind a well-worn walnut desk gazing out of Cathedral windows at what I’m sure is a twenty-million-dollar view of Central Park. “Zack said you’d find my boy,” he turns and for the first time he
really
looks at me. “He told me there’s no one he’d rather work with in a situation like this.” Maitlan holds out his hand.

I grasp it. Despite his current vulnerability and obvious exhaustion, Maitlan’s shake is firm, confident, practiced. “Emma Monroe,” I say before taking a moment to check the room.

The back wall is filled top to bottom with expansive bookcases. A wrought iron circular staircase leads up to the second level which functions as a reading loft with cozy chairs and a fireplace that’s a twin to the one Zack’s now standing next to.

“Let’s sit,” Maitlan gestures toward a set of sofas by Zack. He and Zack claim one. I take the other. On a coffee table between us there’s a tray containing a crystal carafe of amber colored liquid and a matching set of old-fashioned glasses. Without preamble and despite the early hour Maitlan pours up a couple fingers and with an unceremonious clunk places a glass in front of each of us.

“Zack says you’ll have questions and that if I want your help in finding my son, I better answer.” Maitlan swallows his drink in one gulp. “Robby means everything to me. You have to find him.”

“We’ll get him back,” Zack interjects, promising something he shouldn’t. This is personal for him, very personal.

I leave my drink untouched. “The clock is ticking. We need the truth.”

Zack waves an arm in Maitlan’s direction. “Fire away,” he tells me.

My first question isn’t for Maitlan. I face Zack. “Explain the connection between the two of you.”

Zack pauses only long enough to down what I assume to be whiskey. “Maitlan and I met in the Middle East, around the time I was trying to extricate myself from my former employers. They wanted Maitlan to take on a project in Iraq—the kind of project that would benefit them and no one else. The deal had corruption written all over it. Maitlan had a reputation for both being a patriot and being willing to bend the rules, but what these guys wanted was too risky. And had political implications that could come back and bite him in the ass.”

“Not to mention it was just plain wrong. I turned the deal down,” Maitlan added.

The sun, pouring in through the windows, is warm against my back. I slide off my suit jacket and roll up the sleeves of my white, cotton blouse. “I take it these men were not used to hearing the word no.”

Zack’s smile confirms I’ve made the understatement of the year. He continues, “When they saw he wasn’t going to play ball, they asked me to drive him back to the airport. No harm, no foul, right?”

“Only, that’s not the way the outfit works,” I say.

His eyes skewer mine. “No. It isn’t. And I’d been in long enough to know that. On the way to the airport, we were attacked. Seems they’d realized I wanted out and figured they’d kill two birds with one stone—get rid of Maitlan and assure my silence.”

Maitlan breaks in. “Zack fought them. Kicked ass. Killed all three gunmen then managed to get us both to a safe house. I took a bullet in the shoulder. Zack got hit in the leg. At first I thought it must have nicked the femoral artery. There was so much blood.” Maitlan stands and begins to pace, he’s looking a little green around the gills.

Zack grins. “Sissy passed out.”

“I’m still not sure how you managed to get me to that safe house.”

“We laid low for a week,” Zack continued, “then I got us both out of the country and back to the states.”

At this Maitlan laughs. “He makes it sound so simple. In reality it was anything but.” He looks at Zack. “I owe you my life and now I’ll owe you my son’s.”

I notice a vintage brass bar cart in the corner. It’s littered with a variety of glasses, an assortment of alcohol and mixers, as well as a variety of soft drinks and bottles of water. I walk over and help myself to one. “Do you think the men who tried to kill the two of you are the same men who have your son?”

Maitlan shakes his head. “No. The evidence Zack has against them has managed to keep us both safe for this long. I don’t see a reason for that changing. And it’s not just Zack that I want on the case. When he transferred to San Diego I checked you out, Agent Monroe. You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself. I’m used to working with the best. I’m convinced if anyone can get Robby back, you two can.”

I open the bottle of water and take a sip. “There’s more to it than that. Torres and her team are competent, more than competent. This is about trust.”

Maitlan passes a hand over his face. It’s a tell that says I’m right. There
is
more to this story.

“What haven’t you told Special Agent Torres? What is it you think you can’t trust her with?” I ask.

“I’ve done some extremely stupid things since Robby’s mother died.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and stares down into his empty glass. Color rises to his cheeks. “It’s complicated.”

“It always is.” I reclaim my spot on the sofa across from him. “Believe me, whatever your indiscretion, I’ve heard it before. We’re not here to judge you. We’re here to find your son. Help us do that.”

He nods, stands, sets his drink on the mantle of the fireplace. “I loved my wife. When she died, I was barely able to hold it together. She’d been sick for so long, you’d think I would have been prepared.” His back is to us, his shoulders slump even further. “Take it from me, you’re never prepared. I had a company to run. A son to raise. And there was so much scrutiny. I had to hold it together. Maintain control, so much control. Day after day until I couldn’t do it anymore. After Robby went down for the night, I’d crawl into the bottle. One night his nanny crawled into bed with me. She’d lived with us since Robby was born. I trusted her.”

“And that was a mistake,” Zack interjected.

“Yes,” Maitlan agrees. “I was drunk. We did some coke. There was a video.”

The rest I can imagine. “She’s been blackmailing you.”

Maitlan turns to face us. “Not any longer, she’s dead. I started making payments. Within a few weeks her recreational drug habit turned into a full-blown addiction. She overdosed in her apartment. There was quite a bit of cash and coke. Her property was seized.”

“And with it the video?” I asked.

“I had to recover it. I confessed everything to my attorney. He put me in touch with someone who could get it back.
That
man introduced me to Elysium.”

Elysium. I know it as the place where mortals who are invited by the gods spend their afterlife, those who were heroes, righteous. Something tells me this Elysium is different.