“Same place where they spend their nights. In their stables. New York’s got five major ones. A couple of them house up to seventy horses. They’re up in the Hell’s Kitchen area, between Eleventh and Twelfth avenues, from West Thirty-seventh to West Fifty-second.”
Butler was stroking the side of Molly’s neck.
“Where does Molly bed down?”
“Shamrock. On West Forty-fifth.”
“And Sanderson’s horse?”
“No four-by-six for Teener. Sanderson had his own stable. A single. On the Eastside somewhere.”
“Not a fan of overcrowding?”
“Like I said, I’m probably the only friend he’s got in the city.”
“He piss someone off?”
“I don’t think so. He was a hard man. Kept to himself. Stayed out of everyone’s business. And didn’t invite many into his. That rubbed a lot of the guys the wrong way. Most of them are regulars. So we see each other every day. Like family,” said Alfreds.
“I take it Sanderson wasn’t much of a family man.”
“He had his own. Two kids. A boy and a girl. They used to work the carriage with him. Probably brought in most of the cash. Sanderson dressed them up as Indians. He told the strollers Central Park was originally built as an Indian reservation. The kids were the only ones still around. Might seem a little corny. But we see people from all over the world. Many of them think the old Westerns on Nick-at-Nite are reality shows. His Two-Little-Indians package was a draw. A gimmick to attract customers. One of his hundred ways to make a buck. It worked pretty well. Sanderson had many repeat customers.”
“You said the kids worked the carriage. What’s that involve?”
“Part of the attraction was to give his customers a chance to ride with a pair of real Indians.”
“Where’d they sit?” Butler could live without knowing and would have preferred it that way. But this was an investigation, not a casual conversation.
“Nobody sits up front with the driver. The city is big on that rule.”
“So they sat in back?”
“Alongside the customers.”
“Could get a little tight back there, no?”
“Don’t even go there. These were kids. With their dad right there with them.”
“Tell me you never saw them share a blanket.”
“That’d be a lie. It gets plenty cold. It’s an open-air carriage.”
“What’d these kids look like?”
“Indians.”
“No. Not how they were dressed. What did their faces look like?”
“Indians. That was part of the show. They were coated in war paint.”
“You never saw their faces?”
“Not without the paint.”
“How is it you knew Sanderson went to Pennsylvania?”
“His son told me?”
“Angus?”
“That’s not the name I knew him as. His father called him Titus.”
“When did he tell you?”
“Back a month and a half. Maybe more.”
“Here?”
“Nope. Haven’t seen the kids for over four years. They must be in their late teens by now. As they got older, Sanderson stopped using them. It was no longer cute.”
“You must have seen his face when he told you two months ago his father was heading out of town, no?”
“’Fraid not.”
“He was still wearing makeup?”
“Doubt it. He called me at the stable.”
Chapter 89
“The resemblance is uncanny,” said Angus, studying the woman’s face. “You’d think they were twins.”
Terror filled his captive. And it was heightened by the rag’s metallic taste and the bite of the wire that bound her wrists and ankles to a hard wooden chair.
“You still haven’t told me how you found her,” said Cassie, taking her turn scoping their prize, indifferent to the plea her eyes conveyed.
“It wasn’t easy,” Angus said, shooting the hostage a glare. “I’m probably gonna hafta see a freakin’ eye doctor because of you. I spent over a week scouring the Internet to track you down!”
“Next time I wanna see how it’s done,” said Cassie.
“There’ll be no next time.”
“Then clue me in, damn it!”
With his eyes still fixed on the woman, Angus caved. “The Web, Lovee, is a veritable feast for need-to-know people like me. There’s birth records, public deed listings, frequent flyer accounts, and motor vehicle records.” Angus was beginning to sound like a broken record. The monotony was making him dizzy. He leaned his face into that of his captive. “Guess where I found you,” he said.
“She’s not gonna answer you, Angus. You’re better off just telling me.”
“Death records.”
“She don’t look dead to me,” said Cassie. “Not yet.”
The woman’s heart thumped, as tears welled, perspiration collected, and nausea set in.
“You ever read a memorial?” Angus asked Cassie.
“Nope.”
“They’re like the freakin’ medal of honor of obituaries. They’re filled with all sorts of stuff. You learn all about the dead person’s hard work, loyalty, and dedication. They also throw in the date the person died. Maybe a membership in a lodge. And in the end, it tells you about the relatives. Emma Stiff, survived by…” He turned his attention to the woman. “That’s where I found you.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t become a schoolteacher,” Cassie said. “You’re not very good at explaining things. I’m freakin’ lost.”
“The memorial was on a Web site for some art student’s league. It was for a Colette Driscoll, wife of Lieutenant John W. Driscoll, NYPD. Said she was survived by a sister-in-law and it featured her name. A unique name. Hyphenated. Discovering where she lived was a breeze after that.” Angus positioned himself behind his captive.
Cassie grinned. The woman fainted. Angus propped her head back up.
“Lovee, meet Mary Driscoll-Humphreys. Lieutenant Bloodhound’s sister.”
Chapter 90
Cassie was the first to hear it. She rushed to the window, spotting the helicopter. And not just any helicopter, a police helicopter. Correction. There were two.
“Well, Angus, you were right to call him a bloodhound.”
Angus was astonished. “He’s outside?”
“I don’t know if he is, but a shitload of his friends are.” Cassie did the Wicked Witch melting bit, descending out of sight.
Angus huddled beside her.
“You said not to worry. Nobody saw you graze his sister with the car.”
“Like I said. Nobody saw me.” Angus chanced a glance outside. What he saw didn’t make him happy. He slid back down. “Okay, his sister. I got outta the car. Did the ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry’ routine, and finessed her into letting me drive her to the hospital to make certain she was okay. The gun pointed at her head made for a quiet ride.”
“You came directly here. Nonstop.”
“Just to mail the camera’s memory card. Pulled to the curb. Hopped out. Mailed it, and climbed back in. Not once was she out of the crosshairs.”
“And the car. Nobody saw you hot-wire the car?”
“C’mon. Do I look like an idiot?”
Cassie thought about the question. She was tempted, but she chose not to offer her opinion. “Outside of strip searching the bitch to see if she’s packing a LoJack, what’re we gonna do? We got an army of cops out there!” She shook her head. Considered the possibilities. “I’m tired of running. And tired of hiding. Sure, we got his sister, but that might really piss him off. We could end up dead! Maybe it’s time to turn ourselves in.”
“We’re not giving up. They don’t get to win!”
“The cops?’
“No! The ones who liked to come on your face ’cause it’s disfigured. The one who wanted his balls licked while he peed. The one who tied a belt around your neck. Made you howl like an alien while he screwed you up the ass. You forgettin’ when that bastard carved you up, raped you, and left you screaming? Strapped to a table, screaming. You forgettin’?”
As Cassie collapsed on the floor, Angus thought about what she’d said. Her warning that they may end up dead, kept repeating inside his head. He considered their options. We might have Driscoll’s sister, but there is a freaking horde of cops outside and they all have guns. Could there be a trigger-happy shooter among them? A police shooting in the Bronx a few years back popped into his head. He couldn’t remember the victim’s name, but while reaching for what turned out to be his wallet, over forty police bullets were fired. Half of them struck and killed the man. Bits and pieces of a more recent shootings came to mind. Something about a man being shot and killed by police, hours before he was to be married. If he wasn’t mistaken, that incident also included a hail of police fire.