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  He handed Kylie his phone and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I’m going outside to burn one. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “I hope you understand our dilemma,” Anderson said as soon as Madison left. “Our job is to develop these young men, not get caught up in their personal lives. We don’t know if Tripp’s reluctance to call home is connected to Mr. Chevalier’s death. That’s your bailiwick. Barnaby Prep has to stay above the fray. We cannot be the interlocutor between Tripp and his parents.”

  “We understand completely,” I said, “and we’d be happy to pass Tripp’s message along to the family.”

  The truth was that Hunter Alden was definitely hiding something, and we’d have been happy for any excuse to take another shot at him.

  Chapter 35

  Twenty minutes later, we were back at the Alden house. Janelle answered the door. Like Ryan Madison, she had lost some of the spark she had the day before. She was still beautiful, but today I could see the stress lines in her face, and her green eyes were tinged with red.

  “Oh,” she said, which is what civilized people say instead of “You again? What the hell do you want now?”

  “We have a message for you from your son,” I said.

  It was like the cop equivalent of open sesame. She swung the door wide, escorted us to her husband’s office, and knocked.

  One word from the other side: “What?”

  “Hunter, the police are back. They have a message for us from Tripp.”

  Alden opened the door and let us in. Janelle took a seat. We stood.

  “Tripp called you?” Alden said.

  “Not directly, but we have a message from him for you and your wife,” I said.

  “Let’s hear it,” he said, settling into a leather chair behind the desk.

  “It’s a family matter,” I said, pointing to Silas Blackstone, who was standing in a far corner of the room.

  “Ignore him,” Alden said. “What’s the message?”

  “It was delivered to one of Tripp’s teachers less than an hour ago,” Kylie said. “The school asked us to pass it on to you.”

  Kylie played the voice mail.

  Janelle held her breath until she heard “Please call my folks and tell them I’m fine.” A wave of relief washed over her, but it was immediately followed by a wince when Tripp said, “I can’t come home, and I really can’t talk to my dad.”

  Hunter was stone-faced throughout. “Just like I told you,” he said as soon as the voice mail ended. “He’s fine. He’s okay. You heard every word he said.”

  “We’re more interested in what he didn’t say,” I said.

  “And I’m interested in getting back to work. Thank you for coming. Janelle, see these two out. Again.”

  Janelle stood up. “No.” She turned to me. “What do you mean you’re interested in what he didn’t say on the message?”

  “We’ve been told that your son is grieving over Peter’s death, yet he doesn’t even mention it. Not ‘When is the funeral?’ or ‘Did they catch the killer yet?’ Your husband has assured us that Tripp has been calling here regularly, and yet Tripp says, ‘I can’t come home, and I really can’t talk to my dad.’”

  “That’s enough!” Hunter said, coming out from behind the desk. “Get out.”

  I remembered the words of our new mayor: “Hunter Alden can be overbearing, but don’t let him push you. He’s not your boss—even if he tries to act like it.” I was hoping she’d remember them, too.

  “I’m…not…done,” I said, laying it out like a poor man’s version of Dirty Harry.

  “Neither am I,” Janelle said. “Go on, Detective.”

  “Mrs. Alden, Tripp’s message came in this morning. Not to your home phone or your cell phone, but to his teacher—a third party whose phone wouldn’t be set up to trace the call. Tripp has been missing since the murder, and quite frankly this voice mail sounds like a proof-of-life call.”

  “He’s been kidnapped, hasn’t he?” Janelle said.

  “We don’t know, but if he has, whoever abducted him would have instructed the family not to call in the police. That would be a mistake, very possibly one that could cost your son his life.”

  Janelle didn’t say anything. Hunter put a hand on her shoulder. “I hope you’re happy, Detectives. You’ve successfully scared the shit out of my wife. Your work here is done. Unless you have anything to charge us with, leave.”

  There’s no law against being supremely arrogant, so there was nothing we could charge him with.

  We left.

  Chapter 36

  Silas Blackstone escorted the two cops out and watched as they drove off. Heading back to the office, he could hear the screaming.

  He snickered. Janelle was going nuclear.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she shouted.

  Hunter kept his cool. His response was so low that Blackstone couldn’t make it out. But Janelle’s reaction ripped through the thick mahogany door.

  “Spare me? How? By telling me to stay out of it because I’m not Tripp’s mother?”

  Blackstone shook his head. Careful, sweetie. The dead wife is off-limits. You keep this up, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Hunter calls in Wheeler to get rid of you next.

  “How much money are they asking for?” Janelle demanded.

  This was one answer Blackstone didn’t want to miss. He eased closer to the door.

  Hunter deflected the question. “A lot.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We have kidnap and ransom insurance.”

  Silence.

  It was no longer a problem of Hunter’s voice not being audible. Blackstone was close enough to hear their body movements. It couldn’t have been clearer if he’d bugged the room. Hunter just hadn’t said a word.

  “Is there a problem with the K & R?” Janelle asked.

  “Yeah. The R. The insurance company will pay up to ten million, but this guy is asking for ten times that.”

  “Are you serious?” Janelle said. “A hundred million dollars?”

  Blackstone couldn’t believe it either. They both must have heard wrong.

  “Great math skills, Janelle. Ten times ten is a hundred. Now subtract the ten the insurance company will pay from the hundred this lunatic wants and see how much has to come out of my pocket.”

  “I don’t care what it costs,” Janelle said. “Pay it.”

  “For a dirt-poor cracker from Alabama you’re pretty fast and loose with my ninety million, aren’t you?”

  “You have more than you’ll ever need. You only have one son.”

  “And before I spend a dime, I had to make sure that one son was alive. Last night I told the guy I wanted a proof-of-life call.”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  “And so do the cops. I can’t believe that asshole teacher dragged them in. Who the hell is he, anyway?”

  “Seriously? You don’t know who Ryan Madison is? Tripp talks about him all the time. He’s been a mentor to your son for two years.”

  “Well, Mr. Mentor is a pussy for calling the cops. And how did he know to send for those two particular detectives? I’ll tell you how. They talked to him yesterday when they went to Barnaby, and they told him if he heard from Tripp to call them. So he did.”

  “Can you blame him for that? The police are in the middle of a murder investigation—”

  “I don’t care! I’ve been writing checks to that school since Tripp was in kindergarten. At least a hundred grand a year above and beyond the tuition. You’d think that would buy a little discretion, but no, that candy-ass teacher couldn’t wait to dial 911. Well, guess what? I’m going to make sure he doesn’t do it again. Blackstone!”

  Silas flinched at the sound of his name. He quickly backed out to the foyer. “Coming,” he yelled from the other room. He waited five seconds and entered the office.

  Hunter was at the wall safe.

  “What can I do for you, boss?”

  “Get your car ready. You’r
e my new driver.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My car is in the impound lot, and my driver is dead. You’re my new driver.” He pulled four stacks of cash from the safe and shoved them into a leather envelope.

  “You wait here and make yourself useful,” he said to Janelle. “Those cops have held on to the Maybach long enough. Call their boss. Hell, I don’t care if you have to call the mayor. I want it back.”

  “And where are you going?”

  “Barnaby Prep,” Hunter said as he strode out the door. “Parent-teacher conference.”

  Chapter 37

  Patrice Chevalier was tall, dark, and probably handsome, but his brother’s brutal murder had left his face shrouded with grief, pain, and anger.

  Cates made the introductions, Kylie and I extended our condolences, and the four of us sat down in Cates’s office to talk about a subject that three of us would have liked to put off.

  Cates eased us into it. “Dr. Chevalier and I have been talking, and from what he tells me, his brother was quite the philanthropist.”

  “That’s not how Peter would put it,” Chevalier said. “He would simply say he was just a guy helping out his kid brother.”

  “What did he do to help?” I said.

  “He paid to send me to college in France, then four years of Tulane medical school. I’m a pediatrician in one of Haiti’s most impoverished regions, and after Hurricane Gilbert, Peter helped me build a children’s clinic.”

  “That, Dr. Chevalier,” Cates said, “is my definition of a philanthropist.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Now, how close are you to finding Peter’s murderer and recovering his remains? The Peter Chevalier Children’s Clinic stands as a tribute to my brother’s generosity, and thousands of Haitians—many of whom owe him their lives—mourn his death and are waiting for me to bring him home.” He paused. “All of him.”

  “It’s impossible to tell you how close, but please know that Detectives Jordan and MacDonald are the most accomplished team under my command, and I promise you that bringing Peter’s killer to justice is our highest priority.”

  It was not what he wanted to hear, but the man was practical. “How can I help?” he asked.

  “Did you talk to your brother often?” I asked.

  A hint of a smile. “Incessantly. He would often have nothing to do except sit in a parked car waiting for Mr. Alden. So he’d call me. I had to constantly remind him that chauffeurs have more time on their hands than doctors.”

  “So if Peter had any enemies, he might have told you—”

  Chevalier held up a hand. “If you had met him, you wouldn’t even suggest that.”

  “Maybe not enemies,” I said, “but a romantic affair that—”

  The hand again. “Peter was in a loving relationship with a single woman. But you know that already, Detective. You spoke with Juanita. Now I have a question for you. Have you spoken to Tripp Alden since my brother’s death?”

  “No, sir. We’ve been looking for him.”

  “As have I. And Juanita is worried sick because she hasn’t heard from her grandson Lonnie.”

  “If I may ask,” Kylie said, “why are you looking for Tripp?”

  “Quite likely the same reason you are. Peter was working for the Aldens when he was killed. If anyone can help you in your investigation, it’s the family. But you won’t get anything out of Hunter Alden. So last night I went to see Janelle, but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me where to find Tripp.”

  “How close was Tripp to Peter?” Kylie said.

  “They adored one another. When Tripp was ten years old, he was bored spending the summer in Southampton and asked if he could visit the village where my brother and I grew up. He and Peter flew to Haiti and stayed two weeks. The next summer, he spent a month. And he came back every year until he was fifteen. He is not affected by his wealth. He was right at home in our village—and at this point he speaks fluent Creole. Between you and me, I’d say Peter was more of a father figure to the boy than Alden was. The fact that Tripp hasn’t reached out to me after Peter’s death has me very concerned.”

  “It has us concerned too,” Cates said. “We will find him and get some answers from him.”

  “When?” Chevalier snapped loudly. “And don’t tell me that you have the most accomplished team under your command looking for him, because I know otherwise. Hutch Alden was here this morning using his boundless political powers to keep you from doing just that, wasn’t he?”

  Cates didn’t say a word.

  “Thank you for not denying it. My apologies for raising my voice.”

  “I can only imagine the stress you’ve been under these past forty-eight hours,” Cates said. “No apologies necessary, Dr. Chevalier.”

  “Please. Call me Patrice,” he said, mellowing his tone. “Last night, when I visited Janelle, I asked if I could go through Peter’s personal effects. With her permission, I took his computer and his cell phone.”

  “We already have his phone,” I said.

  “You have his business phone. This is his personal cell, and since the police hadn’t seized it, I assumed it was not part of your investigation. Once I had his contacts, I was able to reach out to our people.”

  “Our people?” Cates said.

  “There is a strong Haitian community in this city, many of whom work in quiet obscurity for the privileged few your unit was created to serve. My brother was part of that community. They were the glue that kept Peter connected to his Haitian culture.”

  “And one of those people works for Hutch Alden,” Cates said.

  Chevalier nodded. “Yes. But I shouldn’t have to go underground to get the information I deserve in connection to my brother’s murder. In the future, I’d like you and your detectives to be much more forthcoming.”

  “Understood,” Cates said.

  “And please tell me that you won’t let the politics of wealth and power stand in the way of finding Peter’s killer.”

  Cates rose from her chair and extended her arm. “You have my word on it, Patrice.”

  He stood and shook her hand. He smiled—all the way this time. His eyes brightened, and his lips parted to reveal perfect white teeth. There was no more “probably” about it. Patrice Chevalier was a handsome man.

  “Thank you, Captain,” he said.

  She smiled back. “Call me Delia.”

  On the surface, it might have looked like there was a spark between them, a connection that might have led to dinner, and then who knows what. But I knew better. Delia Cates did not allow sparks to fly between her and the family of a homicide victim. The good doctor had caught her in the act of trying to bullshit him, so she turned up the charm, hoping to regain some of his trust. It was a variation on good cop/bad cop with Cates playing both roles.

  She only had one agenda. Find the killer and the two missing teenagers.

  Chevalier’s agenda was the same as hers. Only he had one more priority—one he had shared with us from the get-go.

  To bring his brother home. All of him.

  Chapter 38

  Augie Hoffman braced himself for the frigid blast that would hit him as soon as he made the turn onto the wide expanse of Grand Street. He rounded the corner, and the wind whipped up from the East River and bit into his face. He didn’t care. Tomorrow at this time he’d be out of New York. Another two days and he’d be in Florida. Forever.

  After thirty-two years, this was the last time he had to make the eleven-minute trek to PS 114. He’d told himself he was going to clean out his desk, but the truth was he needed to say one final good-bye to the old place.

  He reflected on the craziness of the last few weeks. He had flown to West Palm Beach to spend the holidays with his brother Joe. Joe’s wife, Debbie, had invited Nadine over for dinner, and by the end of the evening, Augie was love-struck. Two days later, he got the email telling him that PS 114 would be closed until further notice. “I don’t have a job to go back to,” he t
old Nadine.

  “Then don’t go back,” she said. She didn’t have to say it twice. He put in for early retirement, flew to New York, and packed. Tonight, she was flying up, the movers would come in the morning, and he and Nadine would drive back to West Palm to spend the rest of their lives together.

  Thank you, God, he thought when he got to the school. I knew there was a reason why you had all those toxic chemicals dripping out of those light fixtures.

  Since the school was closed, snow had been allowed to pile up everywhere, but there was a clear path from the street to the basement door. Kids, Augie thought. Judging by the boot prints, there had been three of them.

  He took out his key ring and reached for the padlock. “Son of a bitch,” he said. Whoever had been down there had changed the lock.

  Damn bureaucrats, Augie thought. They screw you up, even on your last day.

  He took a closer look at the new padlock. “What the hell?” he said. It was a top-of-the-line, core-hardened steel Abus Granit.

  The damn lock must have cost a hundred and fifty bucks, which was a hundred and forty-five more than the school usually spent. It was like seeing filet mignon on the school lunch menu instead of fish sticks. It didn’t make sense, and in Augie Hoffman’s orderly world, things that didn’t make sense kept him awake at night.

  Who would change the lock? And why?

  He probably should look into it. He had a key to the front door, but that meant trekking all the way around the building in the deep snow.

  Hell, no, he told himself. I don’t work here anymore. It’s not my problem.

  Sure it is, the little voice inside his head reminded him.

  He turned and tromped through the snow toward the front of the building.

  Old habits die hard.

  Chapter 39

  “Where is he?” Lonnie said, standing at the cage door, his fingers laced around the ten-gauge welded wire mesh.