Too Quiet in Brooklyn (7 page)

Meeting Barbara

Outside, I breathed almost fresh air and looked to the west and the sky all orange and red. I smelled newly mown grass, the first cut of the season. Random shards of light full of energy bounced around the neighborhood’s smooth surfaces. It was the last hurrah of the setting sun, a blast of light. I held a hand over my bad eye and looked at my watch. It took me several seconds to focus on the minute hand. I had fifteen minutes to do something about my throbbing head and get to Third Place in time for dinner. Two hours of work and no information to show for it. I’d struck out.

As I walked away with my hand on my eye, I almost missed seeing it, a car careening into the block and coming to a halt across from the station, hazards flashing and a tallish woman, dressed in a light blue pantsuit fell out and flew across the street, her keys jingling, her purse rocking back and forth from the strap on her shoulder. I doubled back and tried to catch her.

“Oh my God. Sweet Jesus, where could they be?” she screamed. “My mother. My child. Where are they?” She twirled around and slammed her fists into flower shop’s steel shutters.

“Somebody, anybody!”

Definitely ballistic.

By this time I’d caught up with her. “Hold on. Calm down.”

She whirled on me and glared.

“No, I’m sorry. I hate it when someone says that to me.”

The exchange seemed to bring her back to herself.

“I can’t find my mother. She’s got my son.”

“Describe her. Older woman?”

She nodded.

“Hair color?”

I could see the two transit workers watching us. Some stragglers emerging from the subway cut a wide swath around us.

“Blonde. No, gray and blonde.”

“Fixed in a bun?”

She nodded. “With a child, four years old. She’s got my son. I left him with her this morning. The school I take him to has had an outbreak of the flu and I didn’t want Charlie to catch it, so I brought him here, before I drove back to work in Manhattan. They’re not at home. Her car’s in the garage. No sign. No note. Not home. Waited an hour for them. This is so not like her. She should be home! My baby! My baby’s with her.”

My head pounded, my eye throbbed, I had to pee, and I felt so bad for the woman. I had to tell her about her mother, but I had to know for certain we were talking about the same person before I told her anything.

“I might know something.” I rummaged in my purse, brought out my wallet and showed her my ID and badge.

Her voice rose. “What do you mean, you might know something. Either you know something or you don’t know anything. Are you stupid? If you think you’re going to get money from me—”

I crossed my arms and looked into her face. “A photo. I need a photo of your mother before I say anything more. Do you have one?”

She started rooting through her purse for her wallet, whimpering, the tears spilling from her eyes.

I knew. Oh God, I knew. I was staring at a slightly younger version of the dead woman. My stomach took a dive when she held up the photo.

There was no easing into this awful truth so I spit it out as gently as I could. “I have bad news. Your mother’s dead and she died under unusual circumstances.”

She stared at me, not comprehending.

“No. This isn’t happening. My mother’s not dead. You’re wrong. She’s in perfect health. She’ll be home any minute.”

She started for the door.

I knew I’d have to say this over and over, but I caught her elbow and explained to her how I’d found the body of her mother a few hours ago in front of my home. It looked like she’d been murdered elsewhere and her body moved.

Her eyes were wide as she stared at me in disbelief.

I continued. “When we found the body, there was no identification. Because I thought I recognized her face and may have seen her in the Clark Street Station a few times—”

“Yes, the flower stand inside. A thing with her, a crazy thing, she talks to people about flowers like she’s some sort of crazy.”

“I’ve been trying to find out who she was and send ID to—”

“Not happening!” She stopped.

“Is there someplace we can go? Where do you live?”

“Cobble Hill.”

“Your mother, where did she live?”

“How could this happen? Not my son, too. Not him, too?”

She was wild, sitting on the floor in the station and pulling me down by the sleeve.

In my head I had this weird image of a crowd watching us rolling around on the floor.

“Your son wasn’t with your mother, at least not when we found her body.”

“My son, don’t you see? But what’s happened to him? Oh my God!”

She screamed and now people did stop and stare at us but I gave them the look of ashcans and they strutted out of the station with their heads down.

“He’s missing and I’ve no doubt that the people who killed your mother—”

“She was murdered?”

I nodded.

“How do you know by looking at one photo that she’s the dead woman you found?”

I looked down at the ground. “I’d love to be wrong, but I’m not.”

She doubled over in shock and in grief. “My mother’s dead? She can’t be dead, can’t be. And my son. Where’s my son?”

She wailed and drooled and dripped, running her fingernails down the sides of her face.

“Is his name Charlie?”

“How did you know? There’s something you’re not telling me. I swear to God I’ll rip your eyes out—”

“You called him Charlie a moment ago. ‘I didn’t want Charlie to catch it.’ That’s what you said.”

“Charles. Charles Simon, but I call him Charlie. I’m Barbara Simon.”

“And you looked all over your mother’s apartment for him?”

“It’s a townhouse in a mews. And, yes, I looked all over. Upstairs, main floor, basement, garage. Not there. I called for Charlie, he didn’t answer. They’ve been gone such a long time. No windows open. No air on. Too warm.”

The woman was beginning to hyperventilate.

“My mother opens windows on days like today. No one’s been there since this morning.”

I know about sudden loss. It bites you in the behind and grabs you and shakes you. It takes everything from you, not just your loved one. And it takes it away bit by bit. There’s the first shock when part of your mind flushes away. Then your heart goes. Next your energy. Your sense of delight. It takes the you from you and either makes you numb or turns you into a screaming bag of bones. I wasn’t going to leave this woman while she disappeared, no, not for nothing.

“Is there any chance he could be with a neighbor? Did your mother have friends in the area? Perhaps she dropped him off while she ran an errand and—”

She shook her head. “She’d never do that. Never let him out of her sight. He’s only four.”

“Anyone live with you?”

She looked at me like I’d gone loopy.

“Bear with me. Answer the question.”

“Just a husband and wife. She cleans. He gardens, does the, you know, manly chores like fix the screens, mow the lawn, does some gardening, we have a small backyard, he greases the garage door, that sort of thing.”

“Home all the time?”

She nodded. “Except for shopping day, but that’s Wednesday.”

“Have you spoken with them today?”

“No, why would I? You’re wasting my time.”

“Your mother wouldn’t have dropped Charlie off at your home this morning? Perhaps the killer wanted to meet her somewhere and she brought him home, change of plans?”

“Oh my God I never thought of that.” She brought out a phone from her back pocket, made a quick call. “Dora, it’s Barbara. Fine. Listen, Mary didn’t drop Charlie off by any chance this morning did she? She listened for a bit and slowly lowered the phone, shaking her head, the tears flowing down her cheeks again. She rummaged in her purse, brought out a tissue and blew her nose, rocked her head from side to side.

I slammed a fist into my side. Why had I given her hope? My blood seemed to have turned to ice water and I saw bright lights, blinked and felt something slow and deliberate leaking from my bad eye. I swiped it away with my hand. “Do you have a recent picture of him?”

She nodded, scrabbled in her pocketbook, and held it up. I saw the picture of a little boy, perhaps four, so sweet, sad brown eyes, chestnut hair, serious mouth. She teared up and told me again how this couldn’t be happening.

“Do you have a digital copy?”

She didn’t understand.

“Do you have the picture in your phone?”

She made a few taps and the same photo appeared. I asked her to send it to me and gave her my cell number. In seconds I had it.

“Your mother’s name?”

“Mary … Mary Ward Simon.” She told me her mother lived in the mews at the end of College Place.

“Behind the old D’Agostino’s?”

She shrugged.

“Behind the CVS on Henry?”

“That’s it, a small street. The mews on College Place. She lives in the house at the end, 38 College Place.”

The station was only a few blocks away and she wasn’t in any condition to drive. Somehow I held her shoulder as we walked and managed to send a text to Denny. Reluctantly I sent it to Jane as well, telling them I’d found the daughter of the dead woman and was able to identify the victim as Mary Ward Simon and gave them her address. “Headed there now with the daughter. Meet us,” I texted. I also told them that her four-year old son who was with Mary Ward Simon this morning, according to the daughter, was missing, giving them the particulars, telling them I feared abduction by Simon’s murderers. I attached the digitized photo and asked them to contact all law enforcement agencies in the area.

“The police will meet us at your mother’s house.”

“What about my son?”

“They’re doing everything they can right now to find your son. They’ve got all law enforcement agencies involved, including the FBI.”

Turning into College Place, I smelled something strange for the time of year. Cordite, as if someone had been setting off fire crackers, and there was a heavy smell of gasoline. The closer we got to the end of the block, the more pungent the odor became. Barbara Simon didn’t seem to notice, but I pulled out my book and wrote to myself. I’m always doing that, not that I follow up or anything, but this time I would.

I had another thought and tapped into my contacts to look up an associate from my days at Brown’s, Tig Able, now an FBI field agent and left a message for him to contact me asap about a missing four-year-old boy, a probable abduction. Then I texted him the same message I’d sent to Denny and Jane, attaching Charlie’s photo. In a few seconds I got a reply text from Tig saying they’d received the bulletin from NYPD and were on it and he’d call me in a couple of hours with an update.

We walked to the end of the block and I saw the street number, 38, in brass on the door. Barbara Simon opened her mother’s house and we went inside.

In the entryway I folded my arms and closed my eyes, taking two or three deep breaths. Going through her home was as close as I was going to get to meeting Mary Ward Simon. I tried to feel the spirit of the deceased. I imagined I heard her laughter, felt the warmth of her presence. If she were alive, she’d have been a gracious host, come to the door to meet us, all smiles, offer us tea or coffee.

Jane and Willoughby

Jane and her partner, Willoughby sat in the car, Jane at the wheel. They were stuck in early evening traffic.

“Why do they call it rush hour when no one moves?” she asked.

“Same as Good Friday, I figure.”

She didn’t expect an answer, not really, but she should have known. Ask Willoughby something and he always had an answer at the ready.

“Told you this was a bad idea,” she said. “Told you I shouldn’t have turned onto Adams. Why do I listen to you? Now I got to get us out of here and we’re standing still.” Jane stared straight ahead. When they didn’t move, she squirmed in her seat and gave him The Look.

Willoughby unwrapped the hot dog he’d bought from the vendor on Court Street two blocks ago, Jane pulling over so he could pay the man, losing her momentum and getting caught up in the clog of traffic heading for the bridge.

Not only that, it was his second dog. How could he eat so much and stay so trim? Must be all the bed exercise he got. She imagined him humping his girl. She’d met her, too. Sharp chick. How could she fall for him? Must like her meat raw. He’d be on top, that’s for sure, and she’d be sweating bullets and moaning underneath and wondering if she could afford the dress she’d seen that afternoon in Saks.

Jane got bored with the picture show in her head and switched gears. “I got reports to file and I got to get on this new one big time, to say nothing of the other four homicides we got this week and the cold case they got dumped on us the other day.”

Willoughby bit into his hot dog. A huge blob of mustard fell onto the sensitive area between his legs.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Jane slid her eyes over to look, bit her lip. Perfect.

They were still, cars unmoving, exhausts fuming, engines revving.

Willoughby brushed the mustard off as best he could, getting bits of napkin on his brown wool slacks and all over the seat and carpet that she’d just had it cleaned at her brother’s car wash—interior and exterior, wheels polished and shiny, the Bensonhurst special.

“So flick on the siren,” he said. “You’re not the only one with a load. I gotta file my report before I leave, too, don’t forget. And I s’pose you’ll want to meet with the team on this one.”

“Too early, I don’t know where I’m at yet. We got nothing, not even the coroner’s report. But you got napkin all over your parts. Not good for your image and Sally’ll wonder what you been up to.”

She frowned at the road ahead, swimming with fumes and dust. Inched forward. Stopped. She stared at the Watch Tower, slashed with blood from the setting sun. It was squat and unmoving, just like her mind. Didn’t have a clue on this one.

“What’s the matter with you, anyway? You’re getting to be no fun.”

“It’s the pressure. And wipe your mustache—you got napkin and hot dog flakes and God knows what else caught between the hog bristles above your lips.”

She shouldn’t have said that, the bit about the pressure. Willoughby got passed up last month and she was promoted. It meant a raise and he could have used it. His ego was bruised, even she knew that, and she felt ashamed. Ever since then, she’d felt the space between them like a raw hunk of beef she’d swallowed without chewing.