Havoc-on-Hudson (2 page)

3

“
Mommy, please don’t go, Mommy, please don’t leave me!” he cried, his pathetic wails lost in the foul wake of the giant Greyhound bus. As the double-decker behemoth closed its doors and started moving, the boy fell to his knees on the muddy pavement, watching helplessly. He’d been just a minute too late to reach her, and now she was leaving him be
hind.

“I hate you!” Mommy had screamed, jolting him awake. He’d jumped out of bed, scurried to his listening post behind the bedroom door, and peeked through the crack. Papa was sitting on the living-room floor in a puddle of his own pee. Mama stood over him, shrieking. “I can’t take it any more! I’m leaving! I’m never coming back.” She turned away from Papa, grabbed a small suitcase from the big living-room closet, and stalked toward the bedroom door. Papa picked up the empty whisky bottle and hurled it at her. She ducked into their bedroom, fast, and slammed the door. Danny Joe heard the bottle smash into the door and crack into a million pi
eces.

When she came out of the bedroom, she was wearing the flowery blue dress she sometimes wore to Sunday church. The suitcase dragged, as if it were heavy. Danny ran out into the living room and threw himself at her, grabbing her around the waist. “No! No! Don’t go, Mommy! Don’
t go!”

Before Mommy could hug him, Papa grabbed him by the shoulder and slung him across the room. “Get outta here, you brat!” The air smelled of pee and wh
isky.

Mama gave Danny Joe a sorrowful look. Then she turned to Papa. “You’ve destroyed my life, you bastard!” she yelled. “And Danny Joe’s, too! I never want to see you again!” She grabbed for Danny’s hand and pulled him after her toward the front door, pajamas, bare feet and
all.

“You ain’t getting my son,” Papa roared, and jerked the boy away. “If he is my son! A slut like you, who could know for sure!” He dragged the struggling boy into his room and threw him on his bed. Danny Joe sobbed and so
bbed.

Then he heard the door slam. “Mommy. Mommy,” he c
ried.

Papa rushed into his room yelling, and pulled him out of bed. “Get your clothes on quick and follow your mother. C’mon, c’mon, hurry! I want to know where she’s going! I said hurry, you little bastard!” His words sounded as if his cheeks were filled with mashed pota
toes.

“I hate your stupid guts,” Danny Joe muttered, wriggling into jeans and a sweatshirt. “I hope you die and burn in
hell!”

Mommy was probably going to her friend Leah’s house again. She’d go there whenever Papa got really crazy and threatened to kill them. Leah always let her stay until he’d act normal again and beg Mommy to forgive him and please come home. But this time she said she’d had it up to here with his abuse, and no amount of begging would change her mind. Half asleep, wet and shivering, he followed her at a distance. It took him a few minutes to realize that she wasn’t going to Leah’s house. She was walking in the opposite direction, her umbrella blowing every which way in the wind, and the rain coming down
hard.

Oh, no! She was headed towards the bus station at the top of the hill. He began running slipping and sliding on the muddy road as fast as he could. He got close enough to see her step into the bus, but she never saw him or heard his cries and the bus moved on towards the horizon without
him.

“MO-
M-MY!”

Danny Joe would never forget the sticky mud and the awful fumes that made his eyes burn as the bus pulled away into the distance. This was worse than his scariest nightmare. Rain soaked through his clothes. He shivered and shivered. A white-haired man, seeing a child at risk on the busy road, picked him up kicking and screaming, snatched him away from the traffic and into the safety of the bus sta
tion.

But Danny Joe didn’t want to be saved—he wanted to die—he wanted to be run over by the cars and trucks like bloody road kill. That was just what he felt like—road kill. He was eight years old and Mommy had left him. How could she go away? Who would take care of him
now?

“I love you, Mommy, I love you Mommy!” he cried, his small voice adrift in the
wind.

4

Betsy Colwell had once been an award-winning cop in a tough Manhattan precinct. Due to her intelligence, courage, and savvy people skills, she’d risen swiftly through the ranks to Lieutenant. When she’d applied for the top position in quiet Hudson Hills, the Town Council’s hiring committee had recognized a good thing when they saw it. I’d met Chief Betsy twice at Village Hall functions. The old adage, “iron fist in a velvet glove,” describes her to a T. Her suave toughness is a trait that serves her well every day.

In Hudson Hills, it’s hard not to see Chief Betsy coming down the street a mile away; even now, in the supposedly diverse twenty-first century, the town’s population is 98-percent white. Chief Betsy is not only not the “right height” for a woman, she’s also not white. Here a female African-American police chief will undoubtedly face challenges a white male would never experience. However, our new Chief is attractive and intelligent, and—perhaps most important—holds an undergraduate degree in psychology. So far she’s proven to be just what this community needed.

Sergeant Mike behind the sliding glass window in the hall smiled when he saw me. “Hey, Maggie, what’s up, babe?”

“Hey, Mike. The Chief wants to see me.”

Mike buzzed me in, his face darkening.

Uh, oh! I thought.

“I guess she’s gonna tell you what happened yesterday,” he muttered, not quite meeting my eye.

I stared at him, then turned on my heel and headed for the Chief’s office, feeling suddenly anxious.

The Chief was intently studying a report or something and didn’t immediately notice me standing in the doorway. I remembered the office as being dim, dusty and cluttered, full of oak furniture seemingly dating from the 1920s, but Betsy Colwell had worked magic here. The massive pigeonholed oak desk was the same, only gleaming now; I could smell lemon polish. The creaky oak desk chair had been replaced with something ergonomic in chrome and brown. A long brown couch with matching chairs replaced uncomfortable oak benches. Slatted blinds let the sun in, allowing a half-dozen-or-so plants to thrive. It still looked official—even a bit magisterial—but now it was a room you could breathe in.

“Wow!” I said. “Some change in here!”

“Betsy glanced at me, stood up from her cluttered desk and greeted me with an extended hand and a grin. “Yeah. Told the town fathers I was really interested in the job, but my asthma wouldn’t allow me to work in the office the way it was.” She waved me toward a comfortable chair by the desk.

I sat. “Do you really have asthma?”

“Of course I do.” Then she sobered. “Listen, thanks for coming in, Maggie. Sorry I had to call you away from work, but we do have to talk.”

I raised an eyebrow and sank into the chair. Sitting in the other, not behind the desk, she leaned forward, her cornflower-blue eyes intense and striking in her café-au-lait complexion. “Grace Chung from Cromwell Realty? Do you know her?”

“Yes, sure. She’s one of Cromwell’s top agents. What’s up? Has something happened to Grace?”

“No, thank goodness she’s okay. A little shook up, that’s all.” Chief Betsy described an attack that had happened at an open house the day before.

Stunned, I shuddered. “Chief, in all the years I’ve been in business here, I’ve never heard of an attack at an open house.”

Betsy sighed. “Grace was a really lucky lady. A couple of customers barged in and interrupted the guy mid-attack.” She gazed at me, silently for a long minute. Meaningfully.

“Chief! You’re scaring me!”

“Really, really lucky.” She nodded solemnly. “Because, Maggie, it gets worse. Grace isn’t the only one. First thing this morning, I got a call from Jim Fanelli, Chief across the river in Spring Valley. They had a serious incident a couple of days ago.” Another moment of silence, then, “but that woman wasn’t as fortunate as Grace Chung. The Spring Valley victim was raped and beaten—savagely. A colleague found her tied to pipes in the boiler room of the house she’d been showing a male customer—semi-conscious.”

I gasped. This was one of my nightmares come to life. “How is she?”

“Still in ICU, lucky she’s alive.”

“Oh, my god!” I felt numb. Was it just that I didn’t want to believe that such a thing could happen? Or, more that I couldn’t take it in.

Or was it that the Chief had hit a nerve with me? A wave of almost forgotten anger washed over me, almost shattering me. I took a deep breath, pulled myself together. Had the chief noticed?

But she was looking down at her reports, didn’t seem to take in my sudden distress. “Jim hasn’t talked to the media, yet,” she went on, “but word got out, the way it always does. The New York Post ran the story today on Page Six. It’s a double whammy for the Post … caused quite a frenzy.” She snorted. Turns out the victim’s the wife of a local politician, and the two are in the middle of a vicious divorce and custody battle.”

Must be the husband, I thought immediately, in full, instant, denial of any danger to real estate agents in general. My words came out a bit shaky. “Chief, I’m not sure how I can be of help here?”

Her cell phone rang. She picked it up from the side table, glanced at it, set it down again, gave me a sympathetic smile. “Maggie, the good news is that the Rockland police have a detailed description of the perp. Fanelli has his top people working double shifts, and they’ve notified all local jurisdictions. They’re investigating all known sex offenders …”

I opened my mouth, but Chief Betsy held up a hand before I could utter a word. “Here’s why I called you in. I’m not comfortable with the fact that in a period of only seventy-two hours, two area brokers have been attacked.” She held up a single finger. “Not just one,” a second finger joined the first, “but two. I think the real estate community should be informed. And, since it comes to that, you’re the person who can best rally them to be on alert.”

Huh
? “Why me?”

“Because you’re prominent in the biz, you’re well-respected, you’re smart, and, most important …” She sat back in her office chair, fingers tented at her lips, and assessed me.

“Whaaat?”

“Because you’re a mature woman. You’ll speak about the threat with more authority than a man.”

“Well, you’re damn right about that.” This time it was more than anger I felt; it was sheer rage. I took a deep breath; it was like sighing inward. I couldn’t do this. Could I? “Did Grace get a good look at her attacker?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. Her verbal description was detailed, and she’s coming in later to work with a sketch artist. We’ll compare notes with what Rockland has on their end.”

I sighed again. I couldn’t believe it when I heard the words come out of my mouth. “I’ll do what I can.”

Leaving the police station, I felt sick to my stomach. Could there be a psycho out there targeting real estate agents. Why? Was it going to happen again?

When? And to whom?

Walking down the hill, back to my office, I took several deep breaths to calm myself down.

To cheer myself
up
, I decided to return Andrew Coyne’s telephone call

5

Andrew Coyne had called to invite me to dinner Saturday evening at his mid-town Manhattan apartment, and I’d been more than happy to accept. Andrew was an attractive mature man I’d recently met at a real estate closing in Tarrytown. He’d been the seller’s lawyer, and at the mortgage bank after the closing we’d exchanged business cards and pleasantries.

Feeling the need to unwind with a good cup of coffee, I headed immediately for a nearby Starbucks. Andrew walked in the door a few minutes later. I picked up my Chai Latte at the counter, nodded to him, and headed toward the only unoccupied table—at the far side if the crowded room.

How he managed it, I don’t know, but when I arrived, Andrew was already sitting at that table.

Eyes wide with assumed surprise, I stood there. “My table,” I teased him.

He jumped up to pull out my chair. “Mind if I join you, Maggie?”

“Please do,” I said. I hadn’t quite forgotten how to flirt.

Then he went up to the counter and ordered a Chai Latte. I found it a charming coincidence that we liked the same drink. When I got to know him better, however, Andrew admitted that he’d deliberately followed me to Starbucks. Not being coffee savvy, he’d ordered whatever it was the lady in black was having.

“You scoundrel!” I said to him then. “You’ve just managed to spoil all the mystique of our first meeting!”

As Andrew had told me, Central Parking was conveniently located across the street from his home. Upon exiting the garage, I immediately saw the Art Deco structure, a four-story building between Park and Lex in the East Fifties, flanked by two skyscrapers, with an antique book emporium at street level. As a broker, I knew this neighborhood to be prime—and pricey—New York City real estate.

And Andrew, I also knew, owned the building.

In the wood-paneled entrance, I pressed an old-fashioned Bakelite intercom button.

Andrew’s baritone responded: “Maggie, I’m so glad you’re here. Take the elevator to the fourth floor.”

He buzzed me into a small, elegant lobby lit by pewter sconces, and I stepped into an ancient Otis Elevator with an ornate iron gate. The elevator rose creakingly, then stopped in a miniscule lobby. Andrew’s apartment was the only one on the floor. Wearing jeans, a striped shirt, and a Williams Sonoma apron, Andrew greeted me at the elevator door. Putting my outstretched hand to his lips, he said, “Dear Maggie, thanks so much for coming.”

“So happy to be here,” I said, and as I stepped inside the apartment, I gasped at the breathtaking interior. A black patent leather couch was set into a curved bookcase, abstract paintings filled the room with color, and walls of glass were illuminated by postcard city views. “This is absolutely stunning.” I meant it.

“My father was an architect,” Andrew said. “And this was originally his studio, so I can’t take complete credit for the interior design.”

After a glass of ambrosial Chilean Malbec, I felt very comfortable with this man. Andrew was perhaps a couple of years younger than me, also widowed. He had qualities women half my age would find attractive, and the thought made me feel a bit competitive. I’m a tall, slim blonde, a former model, but I’m also a woman in my sixties. Andrew was taller than me, very fit, with salt-and-pepper hair and dark eyes. Good looks weren’t everything; he was also well-traveled and sophisticated. I’d be fighting off the thirty-five-year-old divorcees with my eyelash wand!

“Let’s see what you think of my cooking, Maggie.” Dinner was simple, but nicely done. A huge salad, followed by filet of sole and a terrific Pinot Grigio. I’ve always admired men who can cook and also those who know their wines, as wine is the only form of alcohol I find fit to drink.

After dinner, we danced to a soothing Diana Krall CD and finished the last of the Pinot Grigio.

“I can’t stay a minute longer, Andrew,” I finally said, a bit unsteady on my feet. “I’m working tomorrow—I’ve got to go.”

He looked down at me from our dancer’s embrace. “Why not stay over, Maggie?” I’ll get you up before dawn, and you can be at your office as early as you like.”

Whoa! Even though I wanted to stay, with every naughty ounce of my being, I long ago learned not to make split-second decisions about men I hardly knew. Glancing up at him from under modest eyelashes, I gathered my belongings and prepared to leave. Andrew offered to see me to the lobby. Once the elevator gate was closed and we were moving, I was suddenly in his arms in that cramped cab. Between the second and the first floors, Andrew pressed the stop button. The elevator stopped, but we didn’t.

In the lobby downstairs, I was breathless, giddy, and quite disheveled, my heart racing, my senses in high gear. I couldn’t imagine what the guys in the garage would think when they saw me.

Well, maybe I could!