Slow Burn (7 page)

L
OOMIS PARKED
in front of the Van Dorn house on the Fifth Avenue side of Sixty-Sixth. The bright green trees of Central Park rose high above the stone wall across the street. Every single bench along that stone wall was filled with poor souls either sleeping or just sitting there because they had nowhere else to go. They had to be somewhere, and a bench looking at pretty houses was as good a place as anywhere. They were all ragged and tired, their eyes vacant from more than just the heat. I was just glad they weren’t rioting or marching or making general pains in the asses of themselves. I looked over at them, but I didn’t look at them long.

The Van Dorn place wasn’t much of a house. It was more like a mansion. One of those big, gaudy affairs with turrets and a grand stone staircase leading up to large wooden front doors. Plenty of windows to go around, too, and fine drapery. It was the kind of place that screamed money, the kind of money nobody had anymore and wouldn’t have again for a very long time. If ever.

Loomis and I got out of the car and shrugged into our suit coats. I put the girl’s picture in the inside pocket. We pulled up our ties as close to our necks as we dared in that heat.

By the time we walked up the steps to the front door, my back was already soaked in sweat. My gut dropped when I saw the black crepe hanging over the lions’ heads on the door.

Loomis and I looked at each other. At least we had the right house. I made sure Loomis couldn’t see my finger shake as I rang the doorbell. Chimes rang somewhere deep within the house. A solemn, dignified sound you might expect to hear in a house like that. It was after seven in the morning, and I figured someone would’ve been awake by then. People usually didn’t get that rich by sleeping in.

When the butler opened the door, any thoughts I had about hush money and payoffs went right out of my head. I knew something was wrong. Very wrong. The butler had that look that cops knew all too well. That look of fatigue and grief and fear with a touch of stoicism thrown in to dress it up a bit.

The butler’s skin was as gray as his eyes were sunken and red. He looked like he’d just spent a long night in hell, and I knew it wasn’t just about poor old Silas Van Dorn. Old men were expected to kick off, usually sooner rather than later. No matter how beloved they might’ve been. No, the butler’s look was from something more than grief. Something worse than death. “May I help you?”

Floyd and I badged him and introduced ourselves. I decided to start off asking for something big, then work my way down from there. “We’d like to speak to Mr. Van Dorn for a few moments. Mr. Harriman Van Dorn.”

The butler’s gray expression got even grayer. I caught a flash of worry in his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. and Mrs. Van Dorn are currently in mourning.”

I felt Loomis tense next to me. Talking about doing something and actually doing it are two completely different things. We both knew there’d be no going back once I said what I’d come there to say. “I understand that, and I’m sorry for their loss. But I’m afraid this is urgent police business, and we need to speak to them now.”

Loomis’ voice cracked when he spoke. “If neither of them are available, perhaps there’s someone else we could speak with?”

I half expected the butler to slam the door in our faces. Instead, he stepped back and opened the door all the way. He motioned toward a room off to the right. He kept his eyes on the floor, refusing to look either of us in the eye. The butler quietly closed the door once we’d stepped inside. “If you would be kind enough to wait here, I’ll see if anyone is available.”

We did what we were told. The butler quietly slid the French doors of the drawing room closed behind us. The room was as far from The Chauncey Arms or Lefty’s as you could ever hope to get. Lots of polished wood paneling, probably mahogany or oak. Marble pieces and statuettes all over the place. Lots of expensive, uncomfortable-looking furniture, too. The smell of fresh flowers was everywhere and the air was cool despite the heat and humidity outside. Times were tough, but people like the Van Dorns weren’t the type who had tough times. At least when it came to money.

A few moments later, the French doors opened, and a couple I figured for Mr. and Mrs. Harriman Van Dorn walked in. Or, I should say Mr. Van Dorn walked his wife into the room. The look on both their faces sealed it for me. Something was very wrong in that house. Something more than just the death of an old man.

Mrs. Van Dorn was a bit shorter than me, and dressed all in black. I judged her to be a well-preserved forty-five, but on that particular day, she looked closer to eighty. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Her nose was raw around the nostrils.

Mr. Van Dorn looked to be in his fifties. Tall and lean, with silver hair and the sharp, clear features you might expect a man like him to have. He didn’t look as bad as his wife, but he looked worse than tired. He looked worn down. The same look as the people on the benches across the street from his house.

Loomis and I introduced ourselves, but the couple barely heard us. I watched Mr. Van Dorn help his wife sit down onto one of the sofas.

I felt Floyd looking at me. I knew he was thinking this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I was beginning to wonder the same thing. We’d just pulled these people out of a very dark, private place. I knew we’d better have a damned good reason for it. Judging by the looks on their faces, I was beginning to think we did.

After we all sat down, I said, “Thank you both for seeing us this morning. I know this is a difficult time for you and your family. Our condolences on your loss.”

Mrs. Van Dorn stifled a sob behind a white handkerchief.

Her husband answered for her. “Thank you, Detective, but as you can see, my wife isn’t doing very well and we’re both very tired. We would appreciate it if you could tell us the purpose of your visit.”

I took a deep breath and started in with my pitch. “We’re investigating an incident that happened sometime last night that you may be able to help us with. A young girl…”

“No!” Mrs. Van Dorn shrieked as she threw her arms around her stomach and pitched forward on the couch. “Oh, dear God, no!”

Mr. Van Dorn grabbed his wife and tried to pull her close to him. But the little woman couldn’t be moved. Her body shook with dry sobs. “No,” she whispered.

Loomis and I didn’t look at each other this time. We didn’t have to. I watched tears stream quietly from Mr. Van Dorn’s eyes, but his voice held steady. “Please continue, Detective.”

I swallowed hard and forgot about the picture in my pocket. “It involves a young girl, a brunette with fair complexion. About nineteen or so. She…”

Mrs. Van Dorn shrieked as she bolted off the couch and ran from the room. I motioned for Floyd to go after her and he did.

Mr. Van Dorn dropped his head in his hands and sank back in the couch. “Oh, God, no… no… please… not her… not my Jessica… not my little girl... not my Jessica.”

Mrs. Van Dorn’s long wails filled the halls of the mansion.

I folded my hands and looked at the floor while Mr. Van Dorn wept. All thoughts of hush money suddenly seemed like a distant bad dream. I’d been right about a connection between Silas Van Dorn and the dead girl after all.

Sometimes I hate being right.

W
HEN
M
R.
Van Dorn calmed down a bit, I fished my pack of Luckies out of my pocket and offered him one. He looked at it like it was the first cigarette he’d ever seen in his life.

He looked up at me and said, “I quit last year.”

I didn’t move the pack. “Today’s an exception. It’ll help, believe me.”

He took one and I lit it for him. He took a deep drag and let the smoke slowly escape from his nose. Just like he’d never stopped smoking.

Like I said, old habits die hard. The worst ones hardest of all.

I lit one myself and watched Mr. Van Dorn stare at nothing in particular. I knew he was in that in-between state of mind, somewhere between shock and grief. The tide of emotion had just rolled out, but I knew that wouldn’t last. I decided to make my move before it came crashing back in. But I moved slow.

There was suddenly a hell of a lot more at stake here for Loomis and me than just a dead girl and her rich parents. A lot more. I’d suddenly found myself way out on a tightrope. I knew I should call it in, but if I did, Chief Carmichael would take the case from me and probably rip me open just for being there in the first place.

And if I pushed Mr. Van Dorn too hard, too fast, I could spook him into running for the phone. One call to the right people downtown, and I’d be back in uniform pounding pavement. Sure, I still had too much dirt on too many people for Carmichael to fire me, but they could make things a hell of a lot more unpleasant than they already were. But even though the hush money angle was dead, there still might be something in this for me.

Something just as important as money. Maybe even more important. Working a case like this. The case of a lifetime.

I waited for what felt like a respectable amount of time, then said, “Sounds like we’ve got a lot to talk about, sir.”

Mr. Van Dorn looked up at me as though he’d just remembered I was there. “Can you tell me what happened?”

I kept it simple. “We found a girl this morning in a place called The Chauncey Arms down on Twenty-eighth Street and Ninth Avenue.” I decided to leave out the other details for now. There’d be time for that later. “I have a picture of her if you think you’re strong enough to see it. I promise it’s not… graphic.”

He nodded and I took the picture out of my pocket and showed it to him. He only looked at it for a fraction of a second before looking away. “That’s her. I knew it would be.”

I put the picture back in my pocket while he took a deep drag on his cigarette. He let the smoke out slowly. Then something looked like it dawned on him. “But how did you know she was our daughter? I suppose her things must’ve led you to…”

“We didn’t find any of her things in the room, sir. Just… her. But the room we found her in was registered to a Silas Van Dorn, which led us here. I didn’t know the girl we found was your daughter until I saw your reaction.”

Mr. Van Dorn’s eyes went wide. Almost wild. “The room was registered… in my father’s name?” I nodded.

“As of when?”

“Yesterday…”

Mr. Van Dorn threw his cigarette into the fireplace. “Those animals! Those goddamned animals!”