“Why the tattoo?”
“We’d need to ask her that one. My guess would be strong allegiance to family.”
“The poor woman. Her mother escapes the Gestapo, but Sarah can’t manage to dodge our murderous madman.”
“Sarah had a child. A young boy.”
“Where’s the father?”
“Works as a banker. In Tel Aviv.”
“And the boy?”
“Sarah’s mother-in-law, Anita Benjamin, had called in a missing person. She’s sure to have some information on the boy, and hopefully some knowledge of Sarah’s last known whereabouts.”
“You’ll be following up with her?”
“My next order of business.”
“Margaret, you beat the Feds at their own game. How does it feel?”
“Great!”
“While we’re on the subject of feelings, are you OK with how things are? Between us, I mean?”
“I should be asking you that question. You’re the one who’s bearing all the emotional stress. Stress you don’t need to carry, I might add. I do have one question, though.” There was that rapid heartbeat again.
“Fire away.”
“Have you given any more thought to what I said about Colette’s take on this?”
“You mean about me seeing other women?”
“This woman!”
The notion blindsided Driscoll. She certainly got right to the heart of the matter. He had to admire her directness. “What we shared the other night was wonderful. I forgot I could feel so good. The truth is, I do have strong feelings for you. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. But, I still need more time to think things over.”
Margaret gazed into the Lieutenant’s eyes. “John, I appreciate your being frank with me. I really didn’t know what to think. You’ve seemed so distant lately. I thought you had some regret over what happened between us. I’m happy to hear you don’t.” A smile erupted on Margaret’s face. She took Driscoll’s hand. “Take all the time you need to sort things out. I’m not going anywhere.”
It was Driscoll’s turn to smile.
Chapter 47
“Mrs. Benjamin, I have questions, disturbing questions, and I regret that I must ask them,” said Margaret as she returned the older woman’s gaze. There was a sadness to the woman’s eyes, a sadness that went beyond the present circumstances.
They were sitting in Mrs. Benjamin’s finely upholstered living room. It was quiet and heavily furnished, with thick velvet drapery. Votive candles burned on a table.
“I want to help where I can,” said Mrs. Benjamin. “Sarah would have wanted it that way.”
The response put Margaret at ease. There was no pretense about the woman. And it was apparent that she and the victim shared a loving relationship.
“Did your daughter-in-law tell you where she was going Friday night?”
“To her recital hall. Sarah taught violin. Her class was giving a recital on Sunday. They were to play Beethoven. It was going to be a working weekend filled with practice, late Friday through Sunday. That’s why she dropped Robbie off. She was going to pick him up after the show on Sunday. When she didn’t, I called the hall. She had never shown up! I got frantic. I knew something had happened. But no one could ever imagine…” Her voice cracked.
Margaret fought back the urge to take the woman’s hand. She had interviewed hundreds, if not thousands, of grieving relatives in her career. The nurturing urge was always there. She was proud of it, but she was always able to remain objective and professional by curtailing it. “I’m sorry I have to ask this next question.”
“Go on. I want to help where I can.”
“How was Sarah’s relationship with her estranged husband, your son?”
“My son was a scoundrel.”
The answer surprised Margaret. She thought it refreshing to interview someone who displayed a frankness and willingness to be so open with someone she had never met. A smile formed on Margaret’s lips as Mrs. Benjamin continued. “Sarah never stopped loving him, though. Even after the divorce. He was the only man she ever loved. She was hoping for a reconciliation.”
“Did you know much about her social life?”
“She was dedicated to her music. That much I know.”
Suddenly, a sobbing child darted into the room and threw himself into the older woman’s arms.
“My grandson Robbie is practically an orphan,” said Mrs. Benjamin, cradling the crying boy.
The young boy stole a look at Margaret.
“Robbie, where did your mommy go after she dropped you off?” asked Margaret.
The boy buried his head in his grandmother’s arms.
Margaret produced her police shield and held it out to the boy. He raised his head again.
“Can you find the Indian on my badge?” she asked.
Moist eyes searched the shield. A tiny finger pointed out the Manhattan Indian.
“Would you like to wear my badge?”
The boy nodded his head.
“I appoint you Deputy Robbie Benjamin,” Margaret announced, pinning the shield to the boy’s shirt.
Mrs. Benjamin smiled.
“Am I a real policeman?” the boy mumbled, tugging on Margaret’s sleeve.
“Yes. It’s official now.”
“Can I tell my friends?”
“Sure.”
“Do I get a gun?”
“What for?”
“I’m gonna shoot the bad guys.”
“Well, Officer Benjamin, I’ll see what I can do.”
“A beeper, too?”
“A beeper?”
“A blue one.”
“Why blue?”
“Like the one I found.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“At the mall. It beeps when someone wants to talk to you, like the guy who beeped us in the car.”
“What guy?” Margaret felt a rush of excitement.
“The guy Mommy talked to.”
“Mommy talked to a guy?”
Margaret and Mrs. Benjamin exchanged glances.
“Mommy made a phone call from the car on her fold-up phone.”
“Do you remember what Mommy said on the phone?” said Margaret.
The boy shrugged.
“Where’s the beeper now?”
“Mommy took it when she called the guy from the car.”
“Mrs. Benjamin, did Sarah have a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need the number.”
“Certainly. It’s 917-288-1274.”
Chapter 48
Driscoll listened intently to Margaret’s voice as it crackled through the speaker of his car phone.
“Cellular One shows Sarah Benjamin’s last outgoing call lasted nine minutes. The call was to a pay phone on the first floor of the Kings Plaza Shopping Mall in Brooklyn.”
“Dead end,” muttered Driscoll. He made a left turn off of Eighth Avenue and pulled to the curb in front of 411 Garfield Place.
Mrs. Benjamin’s residence was as Margaret had reported, an unassuming brownstone on a street of ordinary attached houses. He climbed the steps leading to a gothic oak door. It was ajar, letting out fragments of conversation from the inner rooms.
He stepped into the vestibule. Men and women, dressed in mourning attire, stood in small groups, talking softly. It felt to Driscoll as though the house were overheated. He took off his Burberry and hung it on an elaborate Victorian coatrack.
“You must be Lieutenant Driscoll,” a voice said. “I’m Anita Benjamin.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“It’s comforting to have you among us.” Mrs. Benjamin ushered Driscoll into a room crowded with visitors.
Driscoll recalled the Irish wakes he had attended. In this house, there was no coffin, no viewing of the departed. Instead, platters of food crammed an elongated mahogany table.
“I’d like to meet your son,” said Driscoll.
“That’s him, the scoundrel, over there with the brunette.”
Driscoll walked toward Isaac Benjamin. “Mr. Benjamin, I am Lieutenant Driscoll, and I would like to talk to you.”