Forsaken: A Fallen Siren Novella Page 2

  I can see why he’d remembered Regina Torres. She is a striking woman. Tall, dark hair worn loose around her shoulders, beautiful green eyes, light brown skin. Her face is more angular than classic oval, with high cheekbones, a straight nose and a no-nonsense cut to her jaw. Her make-up isn’t exactly subtle, but her overall look remains professional. She’s wearing black slacks and a grey cable-knit, form-fitting sweater. A blazer completes the outfit, expertly tailored to conceal the weapon she no doubt has holstered on her hip or at the small of her back. Agent Torres may have been sent to welcome us, but the expression she throws our way upon spying Zack makes me feel anything but.

  She slides the cell phone she’s had in her hand into the pocket of her coat. “I have a car waiting outside.” No smile. No handshake offered. She merely turns on her heels and strides toward the exit. “Follow me.”

  “Is Torres always this warm and fuzzy?” I whisper to Zack.

  I get the famous Armstrong shrug and with it the impression that Zack’s not quite so surprised by her reaction.

  “Let’s not keep her waiting,” he says.

  We hurry to catch up and find her outside standing by a standard issue black Suburban parked in a “police vehicles only” space. She opens the rear passenger door, as if expecting Zack and me to climb in the back. Instead, Zack motions me in and takes the front passenger seat. There is a decided ratcheting up of coldness when she slams the door shut behind him.

  As soon as she climbs into the SUV Zack tries to make nice. “Thanks for meeting us. I don’t believe we’ve ever officially been introduced. Zack Armstrong. This is my partner, Emma Monroe.”

  Left with no choice, she takes his offered hand for the briefest of moments. “I know who you are.” The statement is punctuated by the sound of her seatbelt clicking securely into place.

  I lean forward, inserting myself between them. “Normally Zack and I have to actually spend some time in a jurisdiction before pissing off the locals in charge. I’ve had a rough couple of days. So, between us, I’d rather you just come out with the reason for this warm welcome. I don’t have the energy to guess.”

  We’re on the road now, but that doesn’t stop Torres from glancing accusingly at Zack. “You probably don’t have to guess, do you?”

  “You were assigned lead on this case,” Zack says, “and you resent our presence. Maitlin’s request.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Torres snaps back. “A request? More like a demand. He insisted that I call you in. No explanation why. And not as a liaison or consultant. No. He expects you to run the show. And son of a bitch if my boss didn’t fold.” She takes her eyes off the road to look at Zack. “Want to explain why? Because this makes no sense to me.”

  I’m waiting with bated breath. I’d like to know the answer to that, too. Zack gave me no indication while we were on the plane that we’d be walking into a political nightmare. But from where I’m sitting, he had to have known. I assumed it was Johnson and Torres’ boss that decided we should be involved. Now it seems clear it was Maitlan, the father of the kidnapped kid, that requested Zack, and that it was the powers that be who acquiesced. Pretty un-fucking-heard-of. I’m as interested in the answer as Torres.

  But Zack’s response doesn’t appease either of us. “Men like Maitlan are used to getting what they want. It doesn’t have to make sense.” His tone loses its edge, “Wouldn’t this time be better spent going over the details of the case? We read the file on the plane but I’d like to hear what happened from you. You must know more by now.”

  Torres’ glare softens. From my vantage point in the back seat, I see her shoulders begin to relax. She knows Zack is right, it doesn’t matter why we’re here. A child is missing. That should be our focus. She begins to recite the details as if she’s done it a dozen times by rote, her tone dispassionate. “Friday night, Roger Maitlan hosted his annual black-tie party for cancer research. It’s a once-a-year fundraiser, very exclusive. Maitlan and his millionaire friends get together and open their wallets for a cause that is near to his heart. His wife died of brain cancer two years ago. Since then he’s devoted time and resources to finding a cure. The only thing more important to him is his son.”

  “And while Maitlan was using his power and influence for something altruistic, mingling with New York’s upper crust at MoMA, Robby was taken,” Zack interjects.

  “What else do we know?” I ask.

  “Two masked gunman intercepted the doorman as he entered the building during a change of shift. Normally there’s a doorman on duty at all times and the entry’s kept securely locked. The gunmen had it all timed. I wouldn’t say the job was carried out with military precision, but at least one of them had been inside before, was familiar with the procedure for shift change, the location of the cameras.”

  I’m thumbing through the file as Torres is talking. There are photographs of the building and of the views from the lobby security cams before they were shot out. “So, the first thing they did was shoot out the cameras?”

  “No,” Torres answers shortly. “The first thing they did was subdue the doorman coming on duty. They held him at gunpoint, forced him to act like everything was normal even though his wrists were cable-tied behind his back. As soon as they gained entrance, one of the gunmen swept his feet right out from under him. Duct tape was used to bind his legs and cover his mouth. He landed hard, got knocked out. Has a pretty bad concussion. They haven’t discharged him yet. He doesn’t remember much.”

  Zack nods. “The second doorman sustained some injuries as well?”

  “A few cracked ribs and a broken nose while in the lobby. He’s a month shy of retirement, but he went down fighting. According to the surveillance video, he got a punch or two in before the cameras were shot out. Once upstairs, he was cold-cocked but good. When he came to, his hands were cable-tied behind his back, the babysitter dead, and Robby gone.”

  “You’ve questioned him?”

  “Yeah, but he was in a lot of pain and still pretty shaken up. The babysitter was just a kid, seventeen. She lived in the building and he’d watched her grow up.”

  “Any sign that Robby might have been injured?” Zack asks.

  “No. There was no evidence of a struggle. Then again, the boy is just over fifty pounds. He could have been easily subdued. The only thing we know for sure is that the kidnappers exited through the parking garage with a large duffle, one big enough for a seven-year-old to fit in. The footage showed only their backs, but it’s clearly them.”

  “Why shoot out the cameras in the lobby but not the garage?” I ask.

  Torres frowns. “We don’t know. Maybe they didn’t know about the surveillance in the garage. The building manager reported those cameras were just recently installed.”

  “One dead, two injured,” says Zack. “Not your normal stealthy kidnapping. These guys wanted to send a message.”

  We’re winding through the streets of Manhattan. Despite the traffic, Torres doesn’t miss a beat. “What’s the message?”

  “They’re ruthless,” I mutter, still looking at the photographs. “Forensics find anything?”

  Torres shakes her head. “Nothing yet. They were in and out quickly. Wore gloves. Likely used silencers. No one reported hearing anything when the girl was shot.”

  “Do we have a description of the getaway car?”

  “No. They walked out of the garage. We have no idea which way they went or what kind of getaway vehicle they used.”

  “No cameras on the street?”

  “Not for a couple of blocks.”

  “What about ballistics?”

  “The lab is working on that.”

  Zack has been quiet during this exchange. Now he asks, “And no ransom demand?”

  “Not yet.”

  It’s been years since I’ve been in New York. Some things have changed since the last century, but much has remained the same. I recognize that we’re headed toward the Upper East Side—one of the most expensive and exclusive area
s in Manhattan.

  “How’s Maitlan taking it?” Zack asks.

  “Like an ego-maniac who’s used to being in control.”

  We’re paused at a light. Torres rolls down her window and shouts at a young couple who decided to stop in the middle of the crosswalk and argue with one another. Rather than move on, they interpret her attempt to chastise them as an invitation and approach.

  “Can you point us in the direction of Central Park?” asks the wide-eyed damsel. The accent is Southern, her clothing more appropriate for a church picnic than a late summer trek through the Big Apple.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” mutters Torres, flashing her badge. “Do I look like a tour guide to you?”

  Zack, ever the gentleman leans forward. “Morning! Where ya’ll from?”

  “Goose Creek, South Carolina,” the man pipes in. “It’s—”

  “North of Charleston,” interjects Zack. “I was born and raised in South Cacalacky.” Despite the chorus of horns around us and the steam coming out of Torres’ ears, he quickly points them in the direction of Central Park.

  Welcome to New York. I watch the young couple walk away as Torres guns the engine, pitching me forward. Some things never do change.

  Five minutes and two turns later, we come up on an imposing building on East 65th Street. Looking skyward, the building rises thirty or more stories. If I haven’t gotten turned around myself, the west facing windows should have a sweeping view of Central Park, which is now less than half a block away. We slow to a snail’s pace. A large contingent of television vans, representing both local and national networks, line the sidewalks in front.

  I take quick inventory. Several crews are actively filming. Uniformed police stand guard at the door. A narrow alley off to the side of the building is blocked off with crime scene tape and a blockade. “The vultures have descended. Can we get past them?”

  “A homicide and kidnapping in this neighborhood is a hard story to keep quiet,” Torres says. “The minute the call came across the police scanners, the circus was inevitable. We’ve done our best to keep the details of the kidnapping and our involvement to a minimum, but as you can see—”

  “It’s going to be damn near impossible with this level of scrutiny,” Zack finishes.

  Torres steers past the reporters and cameramen milling around the building’s entrance then turns into the alley. The blockade is removed allowing her to pull into the parking garage. She pauses long enough at the iron gate to punch in a key code. It lifts and we pull forward. A security guard emerges from a second gate, which appears to be a newly constructed booth.

  “Agent Torres,” he nods.

  She gestures in our general direction as she introduces us. “This is Agent Armstrong and this is Agent Monroe.”

  “I’m going to have to see some identification.” The request is made without a hint of apology.

  After he examines our credentials, the second gate is raised.

  “This one looks new,” I observe.

  “The installation was finished just hours ago,” Torres says as we pull into a nearby space. “Maitlan paid for it himself. Had a crew working all night to get it set up. Case of closing the barn door after the horse has already escaped, if you ask me. But he owns the majority interest in the building and can do as he damn well pleases.” She shoots Zack a pointed look. “And we know what Maitlan wants, Maitlan gets.” The statement is punctuated with a plastic smile.

  Zack’s expression remains neutral and he says nothing, but I see signs that his exasperation with Torres’ attitude is growing. He slams the car door shut a little too sharply upon exiting. He doesn’t wait for her to lead the way to the elevator.

  “We’re heading to the one in the middle,” Torres calls out.

  I quicken my pace to catch up with Zack and take a second to whisper, “Is this going to be a problem?”

  There’s a telltale tick in his jaw, his fist clenches. “We’ll smooth it out somehow.”

  Torres joins us and punches numbers into yet another keypad. The doors slide open. She steps in first, barely waiting for Zack and me to follow. Inside there’s only one button. She presses it and we’re instantly whooshed upwards.

  I lean against the back wall. The space is larger than my dining room. Torres and Zack have managed to take full advantage and stand on opposite sides. Torres stares straight ahead, her features set in stone. Zack’s posture is rigid, feet hip-width apart, hands clasped behind his back in a classic parade rest.

  “I’d like to interview the doorman again, the one they took up to the apartment,” he says.

  “Deke Jackson? We taped the interview. I can show—”

  He doesn’t even let her finish. “Get him in here. I want to talk to him myself.”

  So much for smoothing it out.

  When the doors open, any hope I have to take the tension down a notch is dashed. Crime scene tape still in place to the left of the elevator, where I presume the babysitter was killed, and around the front door, where the second doorman was left unconscious. Dark red bloodstains paint a grisly, Technicolor picture. I recall the photo of the girl, her body splayed out at odd angles, lying face down. A chill washes over me. Not because it’s the worst I’ve seen, but because I know without a doubt that anyone vicious enough to kill one innocent child in cold blood would not hesitate to kill a second.

  I look up at Zack. He’s already taken in the scene. Now he’s watching me. His face reflects the same concern.

  “Zack! Thank God you’re here.”

  It’s Maitlan. I recognize him from the photos in the file Johnson gave us, not to mention the ones plastered all over the press. Maitlan’s polished PR team maintains careful control over his image. The forty-year-old with piercing blue eyes and dark hair graying at the temples is almost always presented in a dark suit, classic white shirt and tie. The photos of the mogul and his family lining the hallway, some adorned with remnants of blood splatter, belie that singular impression. Maitlan may appear the consummate icon of capitalist success in the press, but the pictures on the wall tell another story. They show a Roger Maitlan with laughing eyes and a warm smile—a loving father in private moments. In the first, Robby appears to be about five. He’s riding atop Maitlan’s shoulders, dressed in a baseball uniform, trophy in hand. In the second, Maitlan and his son are cheek-to-cheek, leaning in to blow out three candles on what appears to be a homemade cake. Then there’s a third, taken in what could be Central Park. Maitlan is standing alongside a woman, a natural beauty with short cropped flaming red hair and an easy smile. He’s tossing his son high into the air, his strong arms are outstretched, poised to catch him.

  “That one was taken when Corrine was in remission the first time,” he says, tears in his eyes. This Maitlan’s face is pale and drawn, the lines around his mouth are tight with anxiety and fear. His shoulders bunch under the tuxedo jacket he’s still wearing from last night.

  Maitlan reaches for Zack’s hand and gives it a friendly shake, “I appreciate you coming, Zack. My office is this way, we can talk in private.”

  Okay, it’s obvious that there’s something Zack hadn’t bothered to mention. He and Roger Maitlan know each other. But there’s no opportunity to demand an explanation. Maitlan leads Zack down the hallway to a set of stairs, a second entryway. This one is more formal than the one upstairs. It’s lined with statues, the walls with paintings, and tiled with expensive marble. I follow, as does Torres. Maitlan reaches a doorway at the end of the hall, opens the door and quickly ushers Zack in. Then, without so much as a glance back, the door snaps shut behind them.

  For the first time, I sympathize with Torres. We look at each other. I imagine our expressions are mirror images of exasperation and indignation.

  “And here I was, taking all of this personally,” she mutters. “Welcome to the club. I think I’ll go check with forensics, see if they have anything new. Want to come?”

  The sound of a door reopening draws our attention.

  Za
ck steps out and motions toward me. “Emma, join us?”

  “Sure.” So much for female bonding. “Torres was just about to go get an update on forensics.” I turn back to Torres, “You’ve already had a chance to personally interview Mr. Maitlan. How about you give us fifteen, then we’ll regroup?”

  She relaxes a bit, nods, then turns on her heels and leaves us.

  Chapter Three

  Before stepping into the room, I pause in front of Zack. “After this, you and I are going to have a conversation.”

  Maitlan is standing behind a well-worn walnut desk gazing out of Cathedral windows at what I’m sure is a twenty-million-dollar view of Central Park. “Zack said you’d find my boy,” he turns and for the first time he really looks at me. “He told me there’s no one he’d rather work with in a situation like this.” Maitlan holds out his hand.

  I grasp it. Despite his current vulnerability and obvious exhaustion, Maitlan’s shake is firm, confident, practiced. “Emma Monroe,” I say before taking a moment to check the room.

  The back wall is filled top to bottom with expansive bookcases. A wrought iron circular staircase leads up to the second level which functions as a reading loft with cozy chairs and a fireplace that’s a twin to the one Zack’s now standing next to.

  “Let’s sit,” Maitlan gestures toward a set of sofas by Zack. He and Zack claim one. I take the other. On a coffee table between us there’s a tray containing a crystal carafe of amber colored liquid and a matching set of old-fashioned glasses. Without preamble and despite the early hour Maitlan pours up a couple fingers and with an unceremonious clunk places a glass in front of each of us.

  “Zack says you’ll have questions and that if I want your help in finding my son, I better answer.” Maitlan swallows his drink in one gulp. “Robby means everything to me. You have to find him.”