Lucas Holt Series: Books 1-3 Page 3

  He first met Ronnie Glick at the last national convention held in Charlotte, North Carolina. The federal government had provided a hundred million in security grants for that year’s conventions. When Charlotte expanded hiring to surrounding jurisdictions, Glick made the list of those sent from the Asheville Police Department.

  Assigned to the Dunhill Hotel, where some members of Congress stayed, Glick was there to greet a stream of politicians, including Senator Todd Grayson and his personal counsel, Douglas Cain. A man of average height with a slight frame, Glick wore his uniform well—jacket and slacks cleaned, pressed, and fitted, along with spit-shined shoes. Standing outside the hotel entrance, he exuded efficacy.

  The impression of efficiency and usefulness is what drew Cain to the North Carolina officer. He approached Glick late one evening after the day’s events. They chatted about Glick’s career, the fast pace of New York City and the Charlotte Hornets. Glick told Cain he had never married, was retiring at the end of the year, and would probably go stir-crazy. It was then Cain thought to add Glick to his payroll as a private investigator. He needed some new blood, someone willing to come to New York for a year or two, someone with no ties and available at any time.

  His caution had paid off when Glick informed him that Maxwell hailed a cab and rode it to a Gramercy Park brownstone. P.I. Lucas Holt lived there. He knew Holt by his reputation and from his inquiry into the death of Sheila Rand. What does Janet think she’s doing?

  Lucas Holt’s digging into the call girl’s murder had been as aggravating as an invasive plant in the garden. He’d stopped when his daughter Marnie was abducted. He brought it on himself. After the kidnapping, talk of the Rand murder all but disappeared.

  Cain swept aside a stack of files to clear the middle of his desk. He singled out an undersized gold key from a ring in his pocket and slid it into the lock of a concealed drawer. About to open it, he paused, pushed out of his chair, and strode to the door to secure it. His secretary would be in any moment, and he needed complete privacy.

  He pulled the drawer open, removed a file, and spread the contents on the desktop. Focusing on one photo of the fifteen-year-old girl, he picked it up for a closer view. Cain studied her face and frowned. She looks too much like her father.

  Checking his watch, he opened a burl wood cabinet and poured himself a drink. He gathered the papers and slid the picture in the folder. Cain wasn’t sure why he kept the file, except that what it contained marked his transition from company lawyer to personal henchman.

  Chapter 5

  Leaving his air-conditioned law office at 666 Fifth Avenue, Cain’s mind raced. I need to be persuasive.

  Stepping outside the building was like entering a sauna wearing a fur coat. Cain loosened his tie. A Town Car waited to take him home. The driver leaned against the hood, talking on his cell phone. He ended the call as soon as he saw his boss and hurried to open the car door. Cain waved to him.

  “I have to meet a client at her apartment before I call it a day, Jimmy. But I’ll walk. It’s not too far.” And I need more time to prepare. “You go on home, and I’ll get a cab when I’m done.”

  Jimmy removed his cap, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His brow knitted in confusion, and he looked around as if he could see the thick, muggy air that surrounded them.

  “Heat’s not too bad, I guess. Are you sure, Mr. Cain?”

  “Yes, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Okay, sir, have a good night.” Jimmy rounded the front of the car, tugging at the collar of his shirt, which stuck to his back under the wool-blend blazer he wore. He slipped into the driver’s seat and pulled away.

  Cain watched as Jimmy jerked the limo into traffic and weaved his way downtown. Once the car was out of sight, Cain turned and strolled north along Fifth Avenue. He wasn’t in a particular hurry. He didn’t actually have an appointment, but he intended to see a client, of sorts, whether she wanted to see him or not.

  Twenty minutes later, Cain entered a Park Avenue apartment building and announced himself at the desk. The concierge made a phone call and when done, pointed to the elevators. Cain rode to the top floor. The lift opened directly into the apartment. A woman, dressed in a casual linen shift and sandals greeted him.

  “Hello, Douglas. To what do I owe this pleasure?” She gave him a smile that did not reach her eyes.

  “Hello, Janet. I hear you’ve been busy.”

  Janet Maxwell led Cain the length of the foyer, along a herringbone wood floor, to a bright living room, which overlooked Park Avenue. She sat on a tan, modern-style velvet sofa with a tufted back and pointed to the chair across from her.

  “Sit down, Douglas.”

  As Cain settled into the seat, he scanned the eclectic room. Contemporary furniture of all materials mixed with a few antiques showcased an array of pottery, sculptures, and sterling framed photos. Large canvases of modern art covered the walls. He stared at one piece on the opposite wall from where he sat. Its black and white spiral had a hypnotic effect. It was an odd assortment, but Cain knew its value and marveled at how far Janet Maxwell had come in life since her relationship with Grayson.

  “Nice apartment, Janet.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” She rose from the sofa and crossed the room to where a decanter of port and some glasses stood on a tray. “I’m having one.”

  “No, thanks.” Cain adjusted himself in his seat and looked Janet in the eye when she sat down again.

  “What are you doing, Janet?”

  She relaxed against an animal print pillow and crossed her legs.

  “Right now, I’m talking to you. It’s so nice of you to visit. I’ve been lonely since…well, you know, since…” The words caught in her throat, and instead of continuing, she gulped her wine.

  Cain watched her and wondered if it was an act. He knew Janet Maxwell as well as anyone could and didn’t doubt she loved her husband and son. He also didn’t doubt she could push her grief aside to focus on whatever she had set her mind on. At this time, Cain knew it was to locate her daughter. But he had to ask—straight out. There was no other way with her.

  “Janet, did you hire Lucas Holt to find your daughter?”

  For a split second, her eyes widened with alarm and then narrowed to a questioning squint. “Who’s Lucas Holt? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Cain eased out the breath he held and inhaled again. This was going to be harder than he thought.

  “Don’t play games with me, Janet. You were seen at Holt’s brownstone and again at McAllister’s. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I don’t know what anyone thought they saw, but I’m a free person and can go anywhere I like and see anyone I want—and I don’t have to report to you.”

  “Janet, you made a deal a long time ago and were compensated. I’ve kept my end of the bargain by keeping you informed of your daughter for as long as I was able.”

  “It’s been two years, Douglas, two years since you’ve given me any news of her. But that aside, I still don’t know what you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking you outright. Are you trying to find your daughter? And if you’ve put such a thing in motion, you must stop it now.”

  “Again, I don’t have the vaguest idea what you’re talking about. But if I did decide to locate my child, it’s no longer your concern.”

  “It will always be my concern. Anything that affects the life of Todd Grayson is my concern.” Cain knew the second he finished speaking, it was the wrong thing to say.

  Janet uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her face tight with anger.

  “Of course, it’s all about Todd. That son of a bitch didn’t give me a second glance once I told him I was carrying his child. He threw me away like a rag, and you used me to clean up his mess. I was young and foolish then, but I’m not anymore. I don’t care about Todd or what happens to him. Leave me alone, Douglas.”

  She rose, set her glass down, and walked back
through the foyer to the elevator. Cain had no choice but to follow.

  “Janet, you’re making a mistake. You need to be very careful.”

  Her head snapped up. She glared at him. “Are you threatening me, Douglas?”

  Cain did not answer, but met her eyes stare for stare.

  “You have nothing left to threaten me with. Everything I have is gone.”

  “There is the girl.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And how will you use her against me if you don’t know where she is?”

  Cain’s teeth clenched. His hands balled into fists. He wanted to punch this woman.

  “Be careful, Janet. Remember, I know everything there is to know about you.” He turned to press the elevator button. She grabbed his arm.

  “No, Douglas, you be careful. I’m not a fool. I’ve taken precautions. If anything happens to me, you won’t be able to save Todd Grayson or yourself.”

  Chapter 6

  Three days after my meeting with Janet Maxwell at McAllister’s, I stood on Gold Brook Covered Bridge, also known as Emily’s Bridge, in Stowe, Vermont.

  Local legend has it the bridge is haunted. A high school paper written in the late 1970s fueled the story of unrequited love and a young woman, Emily, who hanged herself on the bridge.

  The three teens in the picture looked anything but suicidal. Janet Maxwell’s daughter, who inherited her mother’s blonde hair and upturned nose, posed with her friends, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, and they had wide grins on their faces.

  Janet Maxwell hadn’t received any updates about her daughter in two years. The meetings with the lawyer were in person, where he gave her a verbal report and handed her a photo. The only viable clue placing the girl in Stowe was the photo of the covered bridge. Janet Maxwell had thrown me a few fun facts about her daughter; one was her favorite movie was Sound of Music. She also thought the adoptive father’s job was seasonal. That might not sound like much in the clue department. There are dozens of covered bridges and a seasonal job could be anything from tax accountant to pool cleaner. However, members of the famed von Trapp family own and operate one of the resorts in the area. It was worth a shot.

  During my marriage, my ex-wife Susan and I toured New England and crossed more wooden bridges than I’d have liked. Using personal knowledge and an internet search, I had narrowed it down to three in the Stowe area. Emily’s Bridge was the last one on my list. I parked the car on the side of the road a few yards from the entrance and got out.

  Vermont is beautiful in any season. A summer shower had cut through the humidity and left the fresh scent of fragrant wildflowers and wet tree bark. I filled my lungs with clean country air.

  I walked toward the structure, which resembled a barn set down in the middle of the road, dingy, damp, and gray—the color of tombstones. The bridge in the photo and the one in front of me were the same. A sudden cool breeze whipped through the tunnel opening. I shivered, though I wasn’t cold. For a moment, I was rooted to where I stood. I imagined a distraught Emily, weeping into her hands as she prepared to end her life. I understood how helplessness could lead to hopelessness. Even though I hadn’t found Marnie, I remained optimistic. To be hopeful is to survive.

  Not a day goes by when I don’t think of my daughter. Always alive in my heart and mind, I pictured Marnie as her mother looked when she was a young woman. Tall and lean, with Susan’s pert nose that crinkled when she smiled, not the aquiline one I inherited from my German ancestors. Marnie was born with deep blue eyes. Within six months, they had turned hazel. Susan bet me they’d be brown like hers by the time Marnie was a year old. I would have gladly lost that bet to have our daughter home.

  Tires grinding into gravel interrupted my dismal thoughts. I turned to leave. My years as a police detective and private investigator instilled in me a habit of observation. Two cars parked nearby. A young couple sat inside a late-model blue compact. The other was a black Crown Victoria. The tinted windows obscured the passengers. I guessed they were waiting for sunset, when the moon rose to bask the bridge in an ethereal glow and set the scene for ghost watching. I didn’t hang around, as I was looking for a young woman who was alive—at least I hoped she was.

  I crossed the bridge, heading west on Gold Brook Road then north on Waterbury. Driving through the town of Stowe, I arrived at The Mountain Trail Inn. Susan and I had stayed in the expansive white house with wrap-around porches during our fall foliage visit. I wasn’t feeling especially nostalgic, but it didn’t occur to me to stay anywhere else.

  My ex-wife and I had met while skiing in the Adirondacks. I was visiting my parents for a long weekend, and she was with a group of friends. Susan stood out among the rest. I prefer brunettes or redheads to blondes, and Susan’s rich chestnut color was an immediate attraction. Not only did I think she was beautiful, she exuded a serenity that counterbalanced my restless nature, and we both love the outdoors.

  The interior of the inn had gone through a renovation since I was there sixteen years before. My room was on the first floor, furnished with two four-poster queen beds, a sitting area, and bath. The old air conditioner rattled and hummed, apparently not part of the redo. The sound grated on my nerves. The rain and darkness brought the temperature outside down to a comfortable, cool seventy degrees. I shut off the offending racket and raised the window a few inches. I peered through the glass and could see my Rover. The lot was dark except for one or two porch lights from separate inn accommodations across the way. My stomach growled, and I checked the time. It was after nine. Too late to eat a heavy meal.

  The aroma of steak, seared over mesquite on a wood-burning grill, wafted in from a nearby restaurant. I almost changed my mind about skipping dinner. Instead, I removed the photo of the teens from my shirt pocket, leaned it against the cut-crystal bedside lamp, and dropped onto the nearest bed. I dozed to the sound of intermittent splashes as tires sloshed through puddles on the main road.

  ***

  The hard click of a car door shutting jerked me awake. I moved off the bed to stand behind the open curtain and peeked outside. The porch lights were off, but I could see another car had pulled up next to mine. I was about to return to bed thinking it was a latecomer to the inn when the movement of a small light caught my attention.

  Someone was looking into my SUV, directing the light in each window. I wanted to shout at him to stay the hell away, but something about the car was familiar. I realized it was the Crown Victoria parked at the bridge—the one with the tinted windows.

  The figure, medium height and thin as a rail, wore dark clothes and a black ball cap. The bill hid his face. I watched as he squatted and shone the light under the vehicle. He rose, shut off the flashlight, and leaned against his car.

  I grabbed my duffel, took out a pair of night vision binoculars, and returned to the window. The figure had moved and wasn’t where I could see him. I scanned the bumper for the license plate number. I wrote it down and continued to search for him in the lot.

  Probably another guest, and I overreacted. I drove a Range Rover, equipped with all the bells and whistles, and people often stopped to admire it. It was midnight, though, in a darkened lot—not much to see and admire.

  I tapped Ray Scully’s number on my cellphone. He worked the night shift the last few months, so I figured he could use a wake-up call.

  “Detective Scully.”

  “Hey, did I wake you?”

  “Very funny, Holt. Haven’t heard from you lately. How’ve you been?”

  “Great. Hey, listen, I have a North Carolina plate I’d like you to run.”

  “Working on a case?”

  “Yeah.” I gave him the plate number. “Let me know when you ID the owner of the car. Thanks.”

  Before I could end the call, I heard Scully shout, “Hey, wait a minute.”

  “Yeah? What’s up?” I knew an inquisition was about to start.

  “I know you, Holt. Whenever you go mum on a case, I can bet you’re digging on sacred grou
nd, and somehow I’ll be the one left holding the shovel.”

  “Relax, friend. It’s just a missing person’s case. Runaway teen.”

  “Yeah, sure. Okay, I’ll get back to you about the plate.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hated lying to my old friend, but if I told him Grayson might be involved, I’d never hear the end of it.

  Shutting the window, I glimpsed outside. Nothing had changed. I was about to call it a night again, when I heard something brush against my door and footsteps padding down the hall. I pressed my ear against it then jerked the door open and stepped into the empty hallway. The door across the hall swung open, and a man poked his head out.

  “Oh, thought I heard someone at my door,” he said.

  “I thought the same. Seems we’re both hearing things.”

  “Night,” he said as he closed his door.

  I didn’t think I imagined it, but there was no sign of anyone. I ran back to the window—the Crown Victoria was still there.

  Shrugging into a shirt to hide my holstered pistol, I left my room and hurried down the hall to the reception desk. A middle-aged woman with permed gray hair stood behind the desk. She was on the phone. When she saw me, she put up a finger for me to wait. Impatient, I was going to return to my room when she hung up.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I thought someone knocked on my door. A friend of mine said he might catch up with me here. Has anyone checked in, in the last half hour?”

  “No, I’m sorry, no check-ins since eight o’clock. What’s your friend’s name? If he shows up, I can let you know. What room are you in, Mr.…?”

  “Holt. Never mind, he probably got tied up. I’ll call him tomorrow. Thank you. Have a good night.”