The Mortal Groove (14 page)

“I know. She finally came clean after I showed her a copy of the adoption papers.”

“What adoption papers? There aren't any.”

“Sure there are. Looked pretty official, too. I included the Tanhauers' names and the street address where they were living when they adopted her.”

“How'd you find that?”

“It's what you pay me for, pal. It was a row house in the Village. Nice place. I checked it out last night. Anyway, she gave up pretty quick when she looked at those fake papers. I put in a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo, then signed Cabot's name at the bottom, and Sigrid's.”

“You're a genius.”

“I like to think so, but mainly she was scared. That was clear from the moment I mentioned Margaret's name. I told her I was a PI, gave her my card. Said I was trying to find Margaret—for a client. She wanted to know who, but I told her it was private.”

“So where is Margaret?”

“You sitting down?”

“Just tell me.”

“Mrs. Tanhauer said she died.”

A tremor rippled across Peter's cheek. “When? How?”

“SIDS. When she was eight months old.”

Peter bowed his head, rested it against the steering wheel. “I don't believe it.”

“Neither did I. That's part of what I been doing all day. Looking for her death certificate. The long and short of it is, there isn't one. So I went back to the house, but by the time I got there, Mr. Tanhauer was home. He wouldn't even let me in the door, so I stood on the front steps and asked him about Margaret, told him there was no death certificate on record and asked why that was. He said it was my problem if I couldn't find it. Then he slammed the door in my face.”

Peter smacked his fist against the steering wheel.

“Just wait. It gets better. As I was about to drive away, I get this call from the lady who lived next to the Tanhauers in the Village. Like I said, I drove down there last night, talked to a bunch of people. A few remembered them, but not very well. One guy told me
to go talk to the woman who owned the row house next to the one the Tanhauers rented. Apparently, she'd been there since the Declaration of Independence was signed, knew everything that happened in the neighborhood. I knocked on her door, but she either wasn't home or wasn't answering. So I wrote a message on the back of my card and stuffed it under her door. Her name is Disalvatore. Lucia Disalvatore. She's the one who called. And get this. She not only remembered the Tanhauers, she remembered Margaret. Said she used to baby-sit her, that she was a sweet little girl, but very quiet. Actually, she said she never spoke. The woman thought it was odd because the kid was almost two.”

“What?”

“Carrie Tanhauer was lying, Lawless. Margaret didn't die of SIDS. But she did disappear from their lives right around the time they moved to the Upper East Side—the place they lived before they moved to that apartment on the West Side. I plan to check out the East Side address this afternoon. My guess is that they moved for a reason. I'm bettin' that nobody at the East Side address will have ever heard of Margaret. Whatever happened to her happened during that move. We've got to find out what. If you've got another minute, I'll tell you what I think.”

“Go ahead.”

“People like the Tanhauers, folks who are willing to buy a kid, well, there's something wrong with them in my book. What if they get a kid that turns out to be defective in some way? What do you think they'd do?”

“You're saying there was something wrong with Margaret?”

“She's
two
and she doesn't talk? When my kid was two he never shut up.”

“You think they did something to her?”

“I'm not saying they of fed her, but I'll bet you anything they
got rid of her. I mean, they paid good money for damaged goods. Rich people don't stand for that. If either of us ever does talk to that lawyer who brokered the deal, that's the first question that should get asked. If Margaret turned out not to be a perfectly healthy child, I figure there's a good chance they took her back to the lawyer and demanded a refund.”

“But what about Margaret? What happened to her?”

“Hope you got a lot of money, pal, because this investigation is gonna take time.”

The fact was, each morning Peter opened up his laptop and looked at the numbers in his dwindling checking account. At the rate Shifflet charged, it wouldn't be long before he was broke. “Call me after you check out the East Side address. And then send me another invoice. This time, use my Yahoo address.”

“Will do, sport. Later.”

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Peter tossed the cell on the passenger's seat, then got out of the car. If Margaret was still alive, and he prayed she was, her fate could easily rest on the conversation he was about to have with Vaughn Cabot.

He removed his briefcase from the backseat, locked the car, then approached the front of the house. The curtains were no longer parted. After ringing the bell, he waited. It didn't take long for the door to be opened.

A thin, almost frail-looking man stood before him. His skin appeared leather hard from way too many hours spent on the golf course. Flat gray hair sat on top of his head like a saucer. He was dressed in a yellow shirt, striped tie, gray slacks, and white shoes, and looked for all the world like a man who'd been hermetically sealed inside the Sands Hotel in Vegas since the days of Sinatra and Dean Martin.

“Mr. Johnson?” said Cabot, flashing his baby white teeth.

“Yes,” said Peter.

They shook hands.

Cabot led him to an office in the back of the house. The interior was silent. No one else seemed to be around. Cabot sat down behind his sleek, immaculately empty desk and motioned for Peter to take one of the Bauhaus-inspired chairs. The furniture looked expensive, but Peter had the sense that everything in the room was a cheap knockoff.

“I trust you had a good flight?” said Cabot, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his stomach.

“Fine,” said Peter.

“May I see your financial records first, please?” He leaned forward.

Clenching his jaw, Peter said, “That's not why I came.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I'm here to find out what happened to Margaret Tanhauer. Don't play dumb, Mr. Cabot. Don't waste my time. You know who she is. You know Matt and Carrie Tanhauer. You placed Margaret with them ten years ago.”

Cabot looked momentarily flustered. He stood up. “I—”

“Sit down!” demanded Peter.

Cabot's eyes narrowed.

“We can have a civil conversation or I can beat the information out of you. Your call.” He saw Cabot's eyes move toward the top drawer.

In a flash, Peter was behind the desk. He slammed the drawer shut on Cabot's hand.

Cabot shrieked, falling back against his chair.

Peter grabbed the revolver and pointed it at him.

“You're not going to shoot me,” said Cabot, regaining some of his composure.

“You don't know me from Adam. You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

That put some doubt in his eyes. “All right. What do you want to know?”

“Where is she?”

“Dead. She died of SIDS when she was eight months old.”

“Wrong. You lie to me again and you lose a kneecap. Lie a third time and the other knee goes. We've got a lot of anatomy to work through before we get to your brain.” Peter didn't know where that came from. Too much TV, probably. And yet, when he said the words, he realized he meant them.

“She . . .”

“She what?” said Peter. “Tell me!”

“She had a learning problem. Carrie Tanhauer nearly had a breakdown over it. Matt brought Margaret back, said if I didn't find them another child-—a healthy one-—he'd report me to the police and the New Jersey Bar Association. But he didn't need to get nasty, Mr. Johnson—or, whatever your name is. I tell all my customers up front that I guarantee all my placements. It's part of the service I provide, which, in my opinion, is both necessary and unavoidable in this day and age. The Tanhauers now have two thriving young boys, thanks to me.”

“What happened to Margaret!”

Cabot gave his head an irritated shake. “I assume she's in foster care.”

“You
assume?”
Peter cocked the hammer.

“Look. I took her to Jersey City Child Protective Services and told them that I found her wandering the streets. That was a lie, of course, but I had to say something.”

“Did you give them her name?”

“No, I didn't give them a name. From that point on, she was in the system and no longer my concern.”

“Then how am I supposed to find her?”

“Not my problem,” said Cabot.

“When did you leave her there? I want the exact date.”

He stood and opened a filing cabinet.

“Take it slow,” said Peter. “Just in case you've got more guns lying around.”

“No more guns,” said Cabot, removing a date book. He flipped through it, back and forth, until he came to the correct page. “February 17th. Eight years ago this past February.”

Peter's mind started to race. If he had any other questions, he needed to ask them now. “What did she look like?”

Cabot raised his eyes in thought. “Platinum blond. Blue eyes, I think. Yes, blue. Pretty little girl. Actually, she was the spitting image of her mother, if I recall correctly.”

The words were like a knife twisting in Peter's stomach.

Closing his eyes, Cabot continued. “Her facial features were rounded, I'd say. Not the least bit angular. She was compact. Well muscled. The gymnast type, if you know what I mean. Sweet, but retarded.”

Peter's heart was bleeding. “People like you don't deserve to live.

“If you needed my services,” said Cabot, dropping the date book on his desk, “you might take a less righteously indignant view. Now, if that's all, I'd like you to leave.”

 

 

J
ane sat on the couch in her living room, legs tucked up under her, talking on the phone to Kenzie. Mouse was stretched out next to her, his head in her lap.

“So it was a long night,” she said, her hand caressing the fur around Mouse's ears. “We sat in the emergency room until dawn. Melanie's holding her own, but that's all we know. She's still unconscious. The police are calling it an attempted murder. If she dies—”

“Is that possible?”

“At this point, I think anything is possible.”

“Where's Cordelia now?”

“Upstairs trying to catch a little sleep.”

“That's what you should probably be doing.”

“No, I'd rather talk to you. I can sleep later.” Jane dropped her head back against the pillow. “Melanie's mother should be here soon. Cordelia called her from the waiting room last night.”

“Where does she live?”

“Kansas City, Missouri. That's where Melanie grew up.”

“So let me get this straight. You think Melanie was attacked because of the story she was working on. That old murder case in Iowa.”

“That's my theory. I think we should tell the police everything we know, but Cordelia's convinced it would hurt my dad's campaign. She may be right, and if she is, I guess it's something we should consider, but still . . . I met a guy last fall who works as a bodyguard. Cordelia and I are paying him and a friend of his to sit by Mel's door at the hospital, 24/7.”

“You think that's really necessary?”

“If we don't go to the police and something happened to her, I couldn't live with myself.”

“I guess you better make a decision then—and fast.”

“Yeah.”

“You sound beat.”

“I am.”

“Would you like to change the subject for a few minutes?” “Boy, would I.”

“We're still on for the Memorial Day party, right? You're coming down on the 28th? Will you be able to use your dad's plane?”

“Not sure yet, but I'd say it's unlikely.”

“Well, here's the big news. We're riding in the Chadwick Memorial Day parade. The college organizes one every year. It's a big deal around here. I told them we'd carry a banner between us.”

“We're
riding?”

“Yeah, my horses. You on Ben, me on Rocket.”

Jane was actually starting to feel at ease on a horse. Kenzie had been a good teacher.

“I bought us each fringed suede jackets. Yours is black—with a line of red and white embroidery on the front—and mine is buckskin, with turquoise and yellow embroidery. They're gorgeous. And, of course, we'll each wear cowboy hats. We can buy those when you get down here. But the jackets arrived yesterday. I guessed at your size—we're pretty similar. I sent it to you this morning, just in case it needs some alterations.”

“You're really going all out.”

“Do you realize this will be our first big party together at the ranch? You and me—as a couple. But remember, you promised to do the food. I'm leaving that all to you.”