Liz, a waitress who had worked at Neary’s since the day it opened, was standing at the table. “Let me guess,” she said. “Father Mike, you’ll have the Irish salmon appetizer, and the corned beef and cabbage.”
“Right you are, Liz,” Father Mike confirmed.
“Father Dan, you’ll have the shrimp cocktail and salmon as a main course.”
“I didn’t know I was so predictable, but there you are.” Father Martin then smiled and resumed the conversation with his former pastor. “Mike, we’ve both seen a lot of heartbreak in our day but seeing Douglas Connelly at the funeral of his wife and brother and holding three-year-old Kate’s hand has never left me. When I visited him at home afterward, it was like talking to someone who was walking in his sleep.”
“I agree. He was riddled with guilt but, on the other hand, so is anyone who survives a tragedy that kills someone they love. In this case, it was two people he loved and four close friends. They had radar on the boat but that was nearly thirty years ago. You would think that leaving a Brooklyn pier at eleven at night, you would have the Atlantic Ocean to yourself, but there was plenty of traffic on it. As you know, they were planning to arrive at the tuna feeding grounds at daybreak, a distance of about seventy miles away.”
Father Ferris paused to butter a salted roll, took a bite, and shook his head. “Doug could see the tugboat and they had plenty of room between it and their boat. But what he didn’t see, and didn’t notice on the radar, was that it was towing a barge. The chains were so long and the night so dark that when Doug, at a safe distance, steered his boat behind the tugboat, the chain literally cut the bottom out of their boat. A life jacket and life raft were stored near the helm. He managed to throw the raft overboard and pull on the life jacket. The others were in the cabin and never had a chance because it sank so quickly.”
“No one on the tugboat realized what had happened,” Dan Martin remembered.
“No. Tugboats didn’t carry much of a crew and, at that hour, who knows who was awake? Of course the next day, after no one could get them on the ship’s radio, a search-and-rescue crew went out and found Doug, half dead, lying on the raft. He had been slammed by some of the debris and had deep cuts and bruises from his skull down to his feet. He was in the hospital for three weeks. The bodies of all the others were found, and they delayed the funeral of Susan and Connor until Doug could attend. It’s incredible that now his daughter is suffering from a brain injury because that’s what happened to him. He had memory lapses and times when he referred to Susan as though she were in the apartment. He was never the same after that—at least while I knew him.”
The old priest looked past his companion and sighed. “Old Dennis Francis Connelly used to come here regularly. What a character he was.”
“He was before my time at St. Ignatius.”
“Maybe you were lucky. He was the crabbiest, most superstitious, stiff-necked old Irishman I ever had the hard luck to meet. His background was interesting. He was a street kid from Dublin with a good brain. He was smart enough to know that he needed an education and managed to get a scholarship to Trinity College. As soon as he graduated, he sailed for the United States and got a job as a messenger at the stock exchange. At twenty-two years of age, he had already figured out that was the place to learn how to make money and he sure did.”
The appetizers arrived. Michael Ferris looked around the dining room as he picked up his fork. “I remember when Hugh Carey was governor. He was here a lot. He said that the good Lord had changed water into wine but that Jimmy Neary had reversed the process. Jimmy loved that line and always quotes it.”
“I never heard that one,” Dan Martin said. “But I like it, too.”
“So Dennis got rich but it was always under his skin that he didn’t come from the kind of family that lived in a castle and rode to hounds. His solution was to create his own background. He made a ton of money, sold his investment company, and opened the Connelly Fine Antique Reproductions firm. That museum was his castle and he loved to show people the antiques in it. He knew the history of every piece of furniture, and let me tell you, before you finished the tour, you knew it, too.”
“I read that he didn’t marry until he was in his fifties.”
“Fifty-five, I think. Bridget O’Connor was twenty years younger. Then the two boys were born.”
“They were a year apart, weren’t they?”
“Try four minutes apart. Douglas was born one minute before midnight, on December thirty-first, Connor three minutes after midnight on January first. They hadn’t expected twins and for Dennis it was a terrible worry. Two generations of twins in his family had died violently and he was sure that his own sons would be cursed. He always referred to them as brothers, even though as I understood it, they were identical. Bridget was forbidden to call them twins. Even as babies, they were always dressed in different clothing and had different kinds of haircuts. If Douglas had bangs, Connor had a crew cut. As they got older, Dennis would tell people who didn’t know the family well that his sons were a year apart. They attended different schools from kindergarten through college, but even with all that, they were very close.
Jimmy Neary stopped at the table. “How’s everything so far?” he asked.
“Great,” they said in unison. “Jimmy, I was just talking about Dennis Francis Connelly,” Father Mike said. “You knew him well.”
“Saints preserve us. He could always find something that wasn’t hot enough or cold enough, God rest him,” Jimmy said. “I’m glad that neither he nor Bridget lived to see one of their sons dead and now one of his granddaughters fighting for her life, and that business he was so proud of destroyed.”
“I agree,” Father Mike said.
Liz cleared their appetizer plates. Both priests decided on a glass of chardonnay.
Father Dan said, “Mike, I brought up the Connellys because, after I read about the accident, I decided to visit Kate Connelly in the hospital. I saw her there this morning and met Hannah. Kate had been running a fever. If it had been caused by a serious infection, the fever could have been fatal but, thank God, it had just broken. I told Hannah that, nearly thirty years ago, I had contacted her father after the boating accident. I thought at that time that maybe I could be of help to him.”
“I did, too, back then,” Father Mike replied. “But he made it clear that he didn’t need any help from me and he didn’t need any help from the God who took his wife, his brother, and his friends. When I saw him, it was just a week after the funeral. He had broken his hand and was in terrible pain. The doctor had insisted that he have a nurse with him. I think they were afraid that he was suicidal. He broke his hand by punching the mirror over Susan’s dressing table.”
Michael Ferris, S.J., observed, “I just hope that the curse his father worried about doesn’t land on him. Maybe we should be grateful that Kate and Hannah aren’t twins.”
57
At seven o’clock on Tuesday evening, Frank Ramsey turned off the television in the family room. He and Celia had watched the CBS local news at six o’clock and seen the anchor, Dana Tyler, show the viewers the picture that had been found in the van. Then Celia had gone into the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. She was taking a roast chicken from the oven when Frank joined her there. He sniffed appreciatively. “I’m hungry and it looks as though we’re actually going to sit down quietly tonight,” he said.
“I hope so. It certainly hasn’t been that way since the fire.” She glanced at him. “I don’t think you have too much faith that the picture that was found in the van will be useful.”
Frank sampled the mashed potatoes. “Excellent,” he judged. “To be honest, I think I’m trying not to get my hopes up. That picture is the only thing we have that may lead us to whoever was in the van.” It did not even cross his mind to tell Celia about Jamie Gordon’s notebook. That information could not be shared on the outside, not even with her.
But Frank realized that ever since the notebook had been found,
Jamie Gordon, the murdered student, had been constantly in his thoughts. He knew the hell that her parents had been living in since she first went missing and then when her body was found a year and a half ago. If this homeless guy was the one who did it to her, he wanted him to pay for it.
Ten years ago they had enlarged the kitchen to include a rounded dining alcove, which had become the place where they ate most of their meals. It had an Amish antique barn door that had been sanded, put on legs, and now served as their table. The built-in cushioned bench against one wall and high-backed chairs on the other side were inviting and comfortable and added to the sense of peace and relaxation at the end of the day. Early on in their marriage, they had both agreed that dinner was for conversation, not for watching television.
Together they put the serving dishes on the table and sat down. In the hope of getting some response to the picture, Frank laid his cell phone beside his plate. Less than a minute later, a call came in. He clicked it on. “Frank Ramsey,” he said.
“Marshal, this is Officer Carlita Cortez. I just answered a call about the family picture that has been distributed and I think it may be the real thing. I think you might want to speak to this woman.”
“Who is she?” Frank laid down the fork that had been halfway to his mouth.
“The caller is Mrs. Peggy Hotchkiss and she lives on Staten Island. She said that the picture she saw on the news is of her and her husband and their son. It was taken forty-one years ago. Her husband walked out on them a short time later. He was a Vietnam vet with serious psychological problems. She never could trace him but has always believed that he might have become a homeless man.”
Frank forgot that the dinner he had been so ready to eat was in front of him. “Put her through.”
Celia watched as her husband listened and his expression became increasingly intense. Finally, he said, “Mrs. Hotchkiss, I can’t tell you how important it is that you called. I can be at your house in less than an hour. You say you have all your husband’s military records there. Can you have them available for me to examine? Let me confirm your address.”
Frank Ramsey disconnected the call and looked at Celia. “If the picture was still in the possession of this woman’s husband, he is Clyde Hotchkiss, a Vietnam vet with a chestful of medals who came home badly damaged emotionally. She told me she’s been praying for forty years that she would find him. I just hope that, if it is the same guy, he doesn’t turn out to be an arsonist or worse.”
Having said that, Frank realized he had almost talked about Jamie Gordon’s notebook.
“Frank, you are going to wait ten minutes and eat the dinner I prepared for you,” Celia said firmly.
“I’m sorry, Ceil, I will,” he said, apologetically. “And, as I said before, the guy who was in the van might have come across this picture years ago. It might have nothing to do with him. But if it does, as a Vietnam vet, his fingerprints are on file with the military. We’ll be able to check them.”
Frank made a quick call to Nathan Klein and they agreed to meet in about an hour in the Staten Island home of Peggy Hotchkiss. Then, knowing how important it was to Celia, Frank began to eat the dinner that he had so looked forward to and now could not taste. He was already measuring in his mind how bad it would be for the anxious woman he had just spoken to about her long-missing husband, if this highly decorated Vietnam vet was both her husband and a killer.
To say nothing of the reaction of Jamie Gordon’s family. The closure that comes from an arrest also brings its own special heartbreak.
It was not the first time in his long career that Marshal Frank Ramsey had reflected on that fact.
58
The red satin shoes. Mommy was dancing in them. Around and around the room. Then Mommy was bending over her, kissing her cheek.
No, it was Hannah.
I’m the one who looks like Mommy, Kate thought, still deep in the abyss of her coma. Hannah looks like Daddy. Daddy, in a small package. I hurt so much. Everything hurts . . .
“The fever is a serious problem.” A man’s voice, nearby . . .
I can hear you, Kate thought. You just don’t understand but I can hear you. Hannah, little sister, don’t worry. Something happened to me but I’m going to get better . . .
Daddy was singing to her. “Bye Baby Bunting” . . .
And they were kissing her good-bye . . .
Someone was touching her forehead. “I forgive you . . .”
Someone was praying over her.
I am going to be all right, Kate thought. If only I could tell Hannah . . . and then she felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into sleep . . .
And Mommy stopped dancing and Daddy stopped singing and . . . he never . . .
Her fever finally diminished, she slipped into a deep, restful sleep before she was able to complete her thought.
59
Jack Worth did not sleep well on Tuesday night. The combination of suddenly having time on his hands, coupled with the skeptical attitude of the fire marshals when he’d tried to explain the lack of security on the plant and the presence of the wrecked van, had made him both irritable and nervous.
What am I supposed to do now? he asked himself as the first sign of the dawn became visible in the bedroom windows. Jump every time the phone rings in case it’s those marshals wanting to drop in again?
At 5:30 A.M., Wednesday morning, he threw back the covers and got up. I wonder how much that cleanup crew got done yesterday? he asked himself. If the insurance guys gave them the go-ahead, they must be satisfied they don’t have anything more to find. And that crew arriving means that the security that the cops and the firemen were providing is finished. I’m going to take a ride and see what’s going on over there before anyone shows up.
The decision made, Jack got dressed, rapidly pulling on a running suit, heavy socks, and sneakers. If I take time to shower and shave, I might run into someone getting there early, he thought. I don’t need that.
What I need, he decided, is to go down to Florida and hang out there for the winter. And I need to get back in shape. I’m a good ten pounds more than I should be.
Really more like twenty pounds. He pushed back that thought.
Lately he had been seeing the dismissive expression in the eyes of some of the women he’d started to chat up at the bars. He’d never let his barber, Dom, touch up his hair but maybe it was time. Dom had been pushing him to do it. “Jack, I know the ladies love to run their fingers through your strawberry-blond hair. You told me. Well, it’s still thick but it’s not so strawberry-blond anymore.”
Nothing is what it was anymore, Jack Worth thought.
He turned on the light over the staircase, went downstairs, and walked through the living room and kitchen, barely noticing his surroundings. For Jack Worth, the home that he had once shared with his wife was, for the most part, the place where he slept. His job at the Connelly complex had paid him well. His housekeeper came in once a week, which was enough. He was basically neat in his daily routine.
In the summer, an off-the-books landscaper did the mowing and trimming of the outside property, and the same guy shoveled the snow off the sidewalk and driveway in the winter.
Jack Worth valued his freedom. There wouldn’t be another “Mrs. Jack Worth.” And there would never be another child to put through college.
When Jack got into that kind of thinking, he always got angry. His kid didn’t even have his name anymore. And when they did that name change in court, his ex had told him that her husband, the big-shot doctor, would be happy to pay for Johnny’s college when he graduated from high school.
I told them that no one else is paying for my kid to go to college, Jack thought, as he slammed the door between the kitchen and garage and opened the driver’s door of his BMW. I knew that they just wanted me out of their lives. Stupid. And now I’ll be stuck with the tuition next year.
But who knows? Maybe knowing what is going on and that he was out of a job, Doctor Big Shot would say, ?
??I insist . . .”
Insist, Jack Worth thought sarcastically, as he pressed the button that opened the garage door and backed the car out. Yeah. Maybe.
It was only a few minutes past six and the early-morning traffic was just beginning to appear on the road. Give it another hour and every block turns into a parking lot, Jack thought. Welcome to the city.
Even though the explosion had been not even a week ago, the familiar drive to the complex seemed odd and even frightening to him. Something else was going to happen. Something more than what had already happened.
If it had been an ordinary workday, he would have driven to what had been the front entrance of the complex. Jack chose not to do that. His BMW was a familiar sight to watchmen and security cameras in the nearby warehouses, and he did not want it to be noticed that he had made an early-morning visit. Instead, he decided to get in through the service delivery entrance. A temporary fence had been erected since the explosion to keep out intruders. Jack parked his car and easily hopped over it. And they talk to me about security, he fumed.
He turned to walk over to the car park where the delivery vans had been kept and where someone had been staying in the van that had been wrecked. That was when he saw the orange DANGER signs and realized that a section of the pavement had collapsed into a sinkhole. Breaking into a run, he rushed to see how deep it was.
He stepped over the strip of orange tape and looked down. It was the eastern section of the property and by now the early sun was strong and bright, penetrating the secret of what had been long concealed under the broken pavement.
“No!” Jack Worth whispered. “No!”
He was staring down at the medallion on the grimy chain around the neck of the skeleton of the young woman who had once been Tracey Sloane. The medallion that inextricably tied her to him.
60