Daddy's Gone a Hunting (13 page)

Bedford, in the heart of Westchester County, was an hour’s drive away. Lawrence often used that time to read reports or catch up on the news. But today he reclined the seat, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Sixty-seven years old, he had once been six feet two but was now
just below six feet tall. His thinning head of pure white hair, his patrician features, and the aura of authority he emitted to those around him were the reasons that he was inevitably described as “distinguished” in the many articles that had been written about him.

Tonight Lawrence and his wife, Veronica, were marking their forty-fifth wedding anniversary. Until two years ago they had celebrated it by going to Paris or London or to their villa in Tortola.

That was, until their daughter, Jamie, disappeared. The familiar knifelike pain bolted through Lawrence’s body as he thought of his youngest child, his only daughter. He and Veronica had believed their family to be complete with their three sons, Lawrence Jr., Edward, and Robert. Then, when Rob was ten, Jamie was born. He and Veronica were both forty-three years old but were delighted and thrilled to welcome their daughter.

Lawrence remembered how enchanted he had been the first time he held the newborn Jamie in his arms, with her beautiful little face and wide brown eyes. Then she had wrapped her fingers around his thumb and he had felt a moment of exquisite happiness. He had thought of his Pilgrim ancestors and the fact that they believed there was a “tortience” between a father and a baby daughter, a special unbreakable bond of love.

Jamie, the golden child. She could easily have been spoiled rotten by all of us but she never let that happen, Lawrence remembered sadly. Even as a child she had a social conscience. By the time she was in high school she was volunteering at a food pantry and helping to organize clothing drives. While at Barnard College she had spent two summers with Habitat, one in South America and one in Africa.

She had been a senior at Barnard when, for her sociology class, she had decided to write a paper about street people. She had explained to them that this would involve talking to the homeless who were literally living on the streets.

Lawrence and Veronica had tried to talk her out of the project, but Jamie was always headstrong. She did promise to be very careful, joking that she certainly didn’t want to put herself in danger. “I’ve got good radar about people and, trust me, I have no intention of getting myself into a situation I can’t handle,” she had assured them. But three weeks after she started the project, nearly two years ago, Jamie had disappeared. A month later, a coast guard vessel had fished her body out of the East River. There was a black-and-blue mark on her jaw, her hands and feet were tied together, and she had been strangled.

There was absolutely no clue as to where she had been or who had been her murderer. Because she had been caught on security cameras talking to street people in lower Manhattan the day before she vanished, the case was in the jurisdiction of the Manhattan district attorney’s office. John Cruse, the detective in charge of the investigation, called Lawrence regularly. “I promise that this case stays open and active until we track down the animal who did this to your daughter,” Cruse said.

Lawrence shook his head. He didn’t want to think about Jamie right now, about the fresh clean smell of the sun-streaked brown hair that tumbled past her shoulders. “If you keep washing it every day, it’ll start to fall out,” he would tease her. Even when she was in college she loved to curl up on the couch next to him to watch the evening news when she came home for a weekend.

As the car made its slow journey across Manhattan to the West Side Highway, Lawrence tried to concentrate on the gift he was giving Veronica for their anniversary. He was endowing a $2 million chair in sociology at Barnard in Jamie’s name. He knew that that would please Veronica. She missed Jamie so terribly. We both do, he thought.

When they turned north on the West Side Highway, he glanced
at the Hudson River. On this gloomy day it seemed to be a shifting shade of dirty gray. Lawrence quickly looked away from it. No matter whether he drove past the Hudson River or the East River, he could envision Jamie’s body bobbing in it, her long hair tangled with muck.

Shaking his head to dispel the horrifying image, he leaned forward and turned on the radio.

It was five thirty when Lou pushed the button that opened the gates to their property. Lawrence was already unbuckling his seat belt before they were halfway down the long driveway. His sons and daughters-in-law were expected at six, and he wanted a chance to change into something more comfortable.

When he got out of the car, Lou already had the front door of the luxurious brick mansion open for him. Lawrence was about to hurry up the curving stairs in the imposing foyer when he glanced into the living room. Veronica was sitting there in a fireside chair, already dressed for the evening in a colorful silk blouse and long black skirt.

If Lawrence was considered distinguished, Veronica was described by the media as the “lovely and elegant Veronica Gordon,” but that was usually accompanied by a list of the charities with which she had been tirelessly involved. In the last year, the articles would include the Foundation for the Homeless, which she and Lawrence had also established in Jamie’s memory.

She always tried to keep up a brave front, but on so many nights he woke up to hear her trying to stifle sobs in her pillow. There was nothing he could do except wrap his arms around her and say, “It’s okay to let it out, Ronnie. It’s worse if you try to hold it in.”

But now, as he entered the living room, she hurried over to meet him. He could see that her eyes were bright. “Lawrence, you won’t believe this. You won’t believe it.”

Before he could ask her a question, she rushed on: “I know
you’ll think it’s crazy but I heard about a psychic who is absolutely amazing.”

“Ronnie, you didn’t go to see her!” Lawrence exclaimed incredulously.

“I knew you’d think I was crazy. That’s why I didn’t tell you that I had made an appointment with her. She was seeing people at Lee’s house this afternoon. Lawrence, do you know what she told me?”

Lawrence waited. Whatever it was, if it gave Veronica comfort it was all right with him.

“Lawrence, she told me that I had suffered a tragedy, a terrible tragedy, that I had lost a daughter named Jamie. She said that Jamie is in heaven, that she was not supposed to live a long life, and that all the good that we are doing in her memory makes her very happy. But she is distressed when she sees how grief-stricken we are and tells us to please try to be happy for her sake.”

Lee probably put this psychic up to this, bless her, Lawrence thought.

“And she said that the new baby will be a girl and Jamie is so happy that they’re going to name it after her.”

Their youngest son, Rob, and his wife were expecting their third child around Christmas. They already had two little boys and had decided not to find out what this one would be. If it was a girl they were planning to call her Jamie.

Lee knew that, too, Lawrence thought.

Veronica’s expression changed. “Lawrence, you know how hard it is for us not to see Jamie’s killer arrested before the same thing happens to another girl.”

“And it is also hard because I haven’t yet sat in a courtroom to see that monster sentenced to rot in prison for the rest of his life,” Lawrence snapped.

“It’s going to happen. The psychic said that very, very soon something
belonging to Jamie will be found and it will help lead the police to her murderer.”

Lawrence stared at his wife. Lee certainly didn’t tell the psychic to say that, he thought. Good God, was the psychic for real? Is it possible that this is going to happen?

A few days later, he received his answer.

30

A
t four thirty Friday afternoon Jessica picked up Hannah for the drive out the island to the funeral home in Little Neck where the wake for Gus Schmidt was being held. Hannah had changed into a black and white tweed suit, one of her own designs. As Hannah got into the car, Jessie said approvingly, “You always look so put-together. I, on the other hand, manage to give the appearance of someone who closed her eyes, reached into the closet, and grabbed for the nearest hanger.”

“Not true,” Hannah said matter-of-factly, “and in fact it’s insulting. I helped you pick out that suit in Saks and it looks great on you.” She tossed her rain cape over to the backseat, where it landed next to Jessie’s trench coat.

“My mistake. I forgot that you helped me pick it out,” Jessie said ruefully as she stepped on the gas and skillfully maneuvered her Volkswagen between two double-parked cars.

“Anyway, you were just making conversation, which is very nice of you,” Hannah said, “but it isn’t necessary. I admit I’m nervous about seeing Lottie Schmidt. But it has to be done.”

“You know and she knows that there has to be a reasonable explanation for Kate and Gus to have gone to the complex the other night. As soon as Kate comes out of the coma, we’ll find out what it is,” Jessie said firmly.

Hannah did not answer.

Jessie waited until she had turned the car onto Thirty-fourth Street, heading to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, before she said, “Hannah, have you learned something that you’re not telling me?” Then she added, “I am Kate’s lawyer. It is absolutely critical that you tell me what you know so that I can properly represent her. Do you understand how important this is? And don’t worry, should Kate be charged with a crime, I don’t have to tell the DA anything I find out on my own.”

As Hannah listened, she felt almost paralyzed with fear. Kate was still in critical condition. At any moment she could die or, if she recovered, she could be brain damaged. If she did recover and was found guilty of blowing up the complex and causing Gus’s death, she could end up spending most of the rest of her life in prison. It was a scenario that, like a drum banging mournfully, was always repeating itself in her mind.

“Okay, Jessie, I understand.” Kate did not volunteer anything more.

Jessie gave her a worried glance but decided not to press her further. They drove the rest of the way in awkward silence and arrived at the funeral home in forty-five minutes.

As Jessie pulled into the driveway to the parking lot, she said, “Look who’s going inside!” Hannah turned her head quickly and was dismayed to see the two fire marshals opening the door of the funeral home. “Do you think we should wait a while in the car and try to avoid them?”

Jessie shook her head. “My guess is that they’ll stay around and strike up a conversation with any of the people who worked with Gus who may be here. Let’s go.”

In the entrance room, a solemn-faced attendant directed them to the room where Gus Schmidt’s casket had been placed. Hannah was surprised to see the room already filled. A long line had formed to
greet Lottie and Gretchen, who were standing by the closed, flower-covered casket.

Jessie touched her arm. “Let a few more people get in the line. I don’t want to be directly behind the marshals.”

Hannah nodded. They moved to the left behind the last row of chairs, most of which were occupied. From where she was standing, she could see that Lottie was composed, but Gretchen had a handkerchief balled in her hand and was frequently raising it to dab her eyes.

A few minutes later, Jessie whispered, “There are more people in line behind the marshals. We can go over there now.”

A moment after they took their place in line, a woman came up behind them and said to Hannah, “I recognize you from your picture in the newspapers. How is your sister?”

Hannah turned and looked into the concerned eyes of a slender woman who appeared to be in her late forties. “She’s holding her own. Thank you for asking.”

“My husband came separately. Would you mind if I went ahead and joined him?” She pointed to Fire Marshal Frank Ramsey.

It was Jessie who answered, “Of course not.” They watched as the woman asked the same question of the men directly ahead of them and then slipped into the line between her husband and Nathan Klein.

“There’s no way she’s here just because he’s investigating the explosion,” Jessie whispered. “She’s got to have some connection with the family. I want to try to hear what she has to say to them.”

Jessie moved to the side and stepped forward until she was at the foot of the casket. She heard both fire marshals extend their sympathy to Lottie and Gretchen. Then she heard Ramsey’s wife say, “Lottie, I’m Celia Ramsey. I don’t know if you remember me, but you and I were in chemotherapy together at Sloan-Kettering five years
ago. We went through a lot together. I’m so sorry about your loss. I could always see how devoted Gus was to you.”

Celia turned to Gretchen. “Gretchen, I’m so sorry. I remember when I met you at Sloan, you had just bought your new home. You were showing me pictures of it.”

Gretchen’s face lit up. She shoved the soggy handkerchief into the pocket of her black pantsuit. “You can’t imagine how even more beautiful it is with all the work I’ve done, both inside and out. And I’m growing plants and vegetables in my conservatory,” she said enthusiastically. She looked over at her mother, whose expression did not change. “Mama, it doesn’t matter if I show Celia some pictures, does it? I mean she’s already seen pictures of the house.”