Daddy's Gone a Hunting (34 page)

It was already a matter of record from the questioning of Jack Worth twenty-eight years ago that he had tried to give Tracey the necklace as a gift, but that she had refused him and had actually paid him for it months before she died. Jack had admitted then that he was hurt and disappointed. But he swore he had not killed her. And he was being brought in for questioning again now.

“So we have the plant manager who was working here when
Tracey disappeared and who may have been insulted when she refused to let him give her a gift that cost eight dollars. We have a dead vagrant who admits that Jamie Gordon was in the van with him and who may very well have been hanging around here twenty-eight years ago. And we have a murderer who worked with Tracey and who can’t account for eighteen minutes the night she vanished,” one of the detectives said in summing up.

Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein could have gone home then, but by silent agreement they waited and soberly watched as the sinkhole was photographed and searched for any clue that might determine if it was the actual location where Tracey died.

It was nearly 10
P.M.
when, with searchlights illuminating the grim scene, the skeletal remains were carefully lifted onto the medical examiner’s stretcher.

Pieces of dark blue cloth that had once been slacks and the ivory-colored remnants of wool that had once been a sweater dropped onto the jagged base of the sinkhole as Tracey Sloane was moved from the place where she had been hidden for longer than she had lived.

75

M
ark Sloane left the Marea restaurant, his dinner untouched, after telling Nick Greco that he needed to go home and call his mother. From the description of the necklace, he had no doubt that the remains found in Long Island City were those of his sister.

In one of the last pictures she had sent home, Tracey had been wearing the blue medallion with her name on it. She had written, “Dear Mom and Mark. How do you like my sapphire necklace? A bargain for eight dollars, don’t you think? When my name is in lights on Broadway, maybe I can buy the real thing. Wouldn’t that be great!”

Why and how did Tracey’s body end up in Long Island City? It might never have been discovered if the Connelly complex had not exploded. It was also totally bizarre that one of the young women he happened to run into in the lobby of his new apartment building was the daughter of the owner of the complex where Tracey’s body was found.

Mark looked at his watch. It was only eight o’clock. He knew that he also wanted very much to talk to Hannah Connelly. Maybe she could help him find out quickly if Harry Simon had ever worked at Connelly’s, or maybe had a relative who had worked there. By now the records of nearly thirty years ago are probably gone, he tried to
warn himself. The IRS doesn’t require you to keep them for more than seven years.

He found himself reaching for his cell phone. This is crazy, he thought. It’s just that I want an answer. Maybe all these years, I still thought that one day Tracey would come back into our lives. I’ll be thirty-eight in a couple of months. She was only twenty-two when she vanished. I have to call Mom tonight to tell her that Tracey’s been found. I want to be able to also tell her that, maybe very soon, we’ll be sure that the creep who worked in the kitchen is the one who did it and that he’ll never walk the streets again.

Tracey. Big sister.
Mark, you’ve got a good pitching arm. Come on, make me miss this pitch
 . . .

Tracey taking him to the movies on Friday night. They’d have a hamburger and french fries and a soda first at McDonald’s and when they got to the movies she’d ask,
Popcorn or a Hershey bar, Mark? Or both?

Mark realized that he had his cell phone in his hand and was dialing 411 for information. He was relieved that Hannah Connelly’s apartment phone number was listed. As he was connected to her number, he thought that if she doesn’t want to see me, she can just say so.

The phone was answered on the second ring. Hannah Connelly’s “Hello” was breathless, almost as though she were frightened to answer the call.

“Hannah, I’m Mark Sloane. I live one floor below you in apartment 5C. We met in the lobby last Thursday night.”

“Yes, I remember.” Now her voice was cordial. “You rode up in the elevator with Jessie and me. I’m afraid I was pretty upset.”

“Have they told you yet that skeletal remains were found on your family’s property in Long Island City?”

“How do you know that?” Now her tone was wary.

“Tracey Sloane was my sister.” Mark did not wait for a response. “I just heard about it. I’m on my way home. I’ll be there soon. May I come up and see you?”

“Yes, of course. Mark, I am so sorry.”

Fifteen minutes later, Hannah was opening the door of her apartment for Mark Sloane. When she had met him last Thursday evening, she had been so conscious of the fact that she was openly crying and embarrassed to be seen that she had hardly noticed the tall, attractive man who was standing in front of her. But now what she noticed first was the expression of pain in his eyes so visible that it hurt to witness it.

“Come in, Mark,” she said. “Please, come in.”

He followed her into the apartment, noticing that the floor plan seemed to be an exact duplicate of his own, one floor below. Unlike in his apartment, though, there were no pictures set out on the floor and waiting to be hung. This apartment had the comfortable feeling of a lived-in home.

Even as he observed that, Mark realized how absolutely irrelevant it was to be thinking about wall decorations.

He had somehow expected that Hannah Connelly might be alone, but there were two other people in the room. One was Jessie, the tall redhead lawyer he had met the other night. The other was a guy who was probably a few years younger than he, but who was obviously aware of what was going on. His handshake was firm. “I’m Justin. You must be going through a lot,” Justin Kramer said quietly.

Mark didn’t want to become emotional in front of these people who were strangers. His knees suddenly felt weak and he sat down on the couch.

His voice sounding hollow to his own ears, Mark heard himself
saying, “I was with the detective who investigated my sister’s disappearance nearly twenty-eight years ago. He’s retired now but has always kept a copy of the case file. We were at dinner when he got the call that Tracey’s remains may have been found.

“Or, almost certainly, have been found,” Mark corrected himself.

“I guess the reason I’m here is that I need to have answers. When Tracey disappeared, someone who worked with her in the restaurant was questioned but his alibi was too good. It checked out. But maybe he had an accomplice, I mean maybe someone who worked at the Connelly complex.”

Mark could feel the burning in his throat. “I know the detectives will be asking the same questions, but I have to call my mother now, to let her know Tracey has been found. She already knows that the guy who worked with Tracey and who was slobbering about how wonderful Tracey was has been arrested for allegedly killing another young actress. I know that no matter what she’s ever said, my mother still hoped Tracey would come home someday. I know how I feel. I need to have answers. If there are any records of employees from around that time available somewhere, could I possibly get my hands on them? I need answers. My mother needs answers . . .”

Mark’s troubled voice trailed off. He stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not usually like this.”

It was Jessie who answered him. “Mark, we’re all stunned at the discovery of your sister’s remains. Maybe there will be an answer. The plant manager who has worked for Hannah’s family for thirty years, and who gave Tracey the necklace, is being questioned by the police right now. He was also questioned when Tracey first disappeared.”

Then, studying Mark’s drawn expression and knowing he was
about to break down, Jessie said, “I think you should call your mother before she hears it from someone else.”

Jessie had not intended to say anything more than that but then added, “Why don’t I go downstairs with you? I think you could use a cup of tea or coffee. I’ll make it while you call your mother.”

76

M
artha Sloane had been shattered by the phone call that night from her son, Mark, telling her that Harry Simon, the kitchen worker at Tommy’s Bistro, had just been arrested the night before for allegedly murdering another young actress. The victim had been a girl so much like Tracey, waiting on tables and trying to achieve her dream of becoming an actress.

It’s not so much for me, Martha thought, as she tried to keep herself busy with the kind of tasks that she would always assign herself on one of those days when her mind would be filled with anguish at the possibility that Tracey might still be alive out there somewhere and needing her.

But her house was already immaculate, the closets already in pristine order. It was not her day to volunteer at the nursing home and her book group meeting was not scheduled for another week.

Harry Simon. Odd that with all the people she had met at Tommy’s Bistro when she had gone to help find Tracey, and whose faces were now a blur to her, his was very clear in her mind. He had been a thoroughly unattractive human being, with his narrow eyes and pinched face and obsequious manner. He was crying when he spoke to me, Martha remembered, and he tried to hug me. I pulled back and that Nick Greco, who was in charge of the investigation, said something like, “Take it easy, Harry.” And he stepped between us.

But I thought Simon’s alibi was supposed to be so good.

I hate the word
closure,
Martha thought. I hear the word and I almost go crazy. Doesn’t anyone understand that there’s no such thing? Unless closure means that the person who took your child’s life away will never have the chance to take another life. That is a sort of closure.

The rest of it is that you finally have your child’s body back and it’s in a grave that you can visit and plant flowers there. That’s a form of closure, too. You don’t have to worry anymore that your child is lying in a swamp or being kept prisoner.

Somehow, Martha Sloane had the feeling that soon she would know. Mark had told her that if Harry Simon confessed, or there was anything else new to report, he would call back. Otherwise, he’d talk to her again in the morning.

That was why when her phone rang that evening, after she had wrapped up the dinner she could not force herself to swallow, Martha knew that Mark had something important to tell her.

She could hear that his voice was breaking and he was on the verge of tears when he said, “Mom, they found Tracey.”

“Where?”

Steeling herself, the mother of Tracey Sloane listened to her son’s halting voice. A sinkhole in a parking lot in a furniture factory. She was heartsick. “Was Tracey alive when she was left there, Mark?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet but I don’t think so.”

“Mark, you didn’t believe me, but I told you that in my heart I had given up hope that Tracey was still alive. I think you are the one who still held out some measure of hope. But now we know. Well, I didn’t expect to be coming to New York so soon, but I think I’d like to come tomorrow and stay with you for a few days.”

Martha Sloane did not add that she knew that Mark needed her as much as she needed him.

“I’d like that, Mom. I’ll make a plane reservation for you for the late afternoon. I’ll call you first thing in the morning. Try to get some sleep. I love you.”

“I love you, too, dear.” Martha Sloane replaced the receiver and with slow, measured steps walked out to the foyer and reached for the light switch. For the first time in nearly twenty-eight years, the overhead light on the porch went off.

77