House of Secrets - v4 (42 page)

“Unacceptable,” she said flatly to Malcolm Bell. “I can read this guy, Captain, and I’m telling you, it’s not good. He was barely keeping his cool before Taylor caught it. I don’t want to be taking part in a damn blood hunt.”

The conversation was taking place in Bell’s office.

“Nobody wants a blood hunt,” Bell assured the detective. “I was on the phone with Armstrong’s boss just an hour ago, and he’s gotten it straight from the director himself. And now it’s coming from him to me to you, Detective. The world’s watching. We want precision here, not a pool of blood.”

“Tell that to Armstrong.”

“Armstrong’s not mine. You are. So trust me, if William Pierce is weighing in on this from D.C., local FBI is sure as hell listening.”

“Easy to say.”

Bell allowed the comment to hang in the air a few seconds. “There are some people who might find that a little belligerent, Detective.”

Megan responded immediately. “I’m sure there are. There’s not much I can do about that. I’m only trying to do my job. I’ve got concerns, and I don’t think you’d be happy if you only heard them after the fact.”

“Thank you,” Bell said. “I’ve heard them. And you’ve heard my response. We don’t know what Smallwood wants with this girl, but we do know he’s killed at least three times in the past twenty-four hours to get it.”

“Plus Joy Resnick.”

“Plus Joy Resnick. Though how that connects with all the rest of this is something we don’t know yet.” Bell consulted a pad of yellow paper on his desk, tapping the service end of a pencil against it. “Here’s where we are. Suffolk County is out of it at the moment. They’ve been told to stand down. They’re sitting on their thumbs, and you can be damn sure they’re not happy about it. They’ve got three murders in their backyard, including one of their own. We only have the Mann murder. But the prime suspect lives and works in
our
backyard, and this little girl he has taken lives in our backyard, so we’re leading the investigation. One turf war down. And if you’ve got a hard-on about the FBI, just remember, it’s Washington that bumped Suffolk County out of the picture. We’ve got a U.S. senator in play here. They’re not past lowering the boom on us as well, trust me.”

Megan saw no need to conceal her smile. “So, that’s what a hard-on feels like. I do believe I’ve learned something here today, Chief.”

Bell ignored the crack. “Well, learn this, Detective. We need the turf war kept to an absolute minimum. Here’s what I’ve arranged with our federal brethren. Armstrong and his team are taking Smallwood’s work colleagues, his friends, acquaintances, neighbors, drinking buddies, favorite hookers, whatever they find outside his bloodline. You’ve got the family.”

Megan began to balk, but Bell cut her off. “I didn’t say you
want
the family. I told you that’s what you’ve got. If you want to spend ten minutes arguing with me, that’s ten minutes you’re wasting that you could be spending looking for this creep. Nothing’s going to change the situation. You don’t need to like it, Detective, you just need to do it. I think that’s pretty clear?”

Megan rose from her chair.

“One more thing,” Bell said. “Any move on the suspect himself is to be coordinated between us and the FBI. That works both ways. Armstrong doesn’t make a move without you, and you don’t make one without him. Naturally, extreme circumstances are extreme circumstances. Otherwise, you two go after the perp holding each other’s hands. Is that understood?”

Megan hesitated a moment. “Understood.”

“Fine,” Bell said. “Go find this creep.”

J
effrey Resnick had a one-word assessment of his cousin Robert.

“Freak.”

Resnick delivered this verdict to Detective Megan Lamb in a brightly lit waiting room filled with several dozen young girls between the ages of twelve and fifteen, most of them accompanied by their mothers. All of the girls were impeccably perfect — to Megan’s mind, unnaturally so. A perfection of hair, a perfection of makeup, a perfection of calculated poise. With her own unkempt hair and complete lack of cosmetic enhancement, Megan felt like a separate gender altogether.

“Are we looking for the new Nancy Drew here?”

Resnick answered, “In fact, we’re looking for Annette Bening’s daughter.”

“I see.”

“Or possibly Julianne Moore’s, we’re not sure yet. For that matter, I’ve been hearing Holly Hunter’s name thrown around as well. That’s the nature of the biz.”

Megan asked, “Could we talk somewhere in private?”

Jeffrey Resnick gestured at the little beauties. “We’re already way behind schedule.”

“The nature of
my
business is to locate your cousin as quickly as I can. I’m sorry if you’re running behind schedule, but your girls are going to have to cool their pretty little feet for a few minutes longer. There’s a child out there we need to find pronto. Let’s get to it.”

Resnick showed the detective into a room where a camera and tripods were set up in front of a pair of card tables. The camera was aimed at a bentwood rocker on which sat several pages of a script. Megan picked up the pages and took a seat. Resnick told his assistant, who was seated at one of the card tables, to leave the two of them alone for several minutes. Jeffrey Resnick pointed at the camera.

“Do you want to record this?”

Megan ignored the question. She was leafing through the pages. “Is this a comedy?”

“That’ll depend on if anybody laughs.”

Megan cocked an eyebrow, setting the pages aside. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

Resnick had flipped a folding chair backward and lowered himself into it. He was a foot-tapper. Nerves. Caffeine. A generally high-octane system. His shoes were doing a real number on the wooden floor.

“It sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Were you two close?”

Resnick shrugged. “I’d say moderately close. We didn’t hang out together or anything like that. We’re both… we
were
both busy people.”

“What were your thoughts when you heard your sister had been murdered?”

“You mean, did it cross my mind that Robbie might have done it?”

“Did it cross your mind?”

Resnick’s shoes shared an exchange. Megan studied the man’s face. From the photographs she had seen of Joy Resnick — when she was alive — she could see the family resemblance. Soft brown eyes. Narrow nose. Resnick scratched hard at a spot on his head.

“I don’t think about Robbie all that much. If Joy and I hardly hung out together much, I can tell you Robbie and I never did.”

“Did you have a theory about the murder?”

Resnick shrugged again. “My theory was that Joy must have pissed off the wrong man. There are a lot of wrong men out there. I’m sure in your business you know all about that.”

“I’ve run across a couple,” Megan said. She shifted in her chair. “So, let’s talk about your cousin.”

From the transcripts of the interviews with the Suffolk County police, Megan had the vague outlines of Jeffrey Resnick’s cousin.

Megan asked, “What can you tell me about the death of Robert’s parents?”

Resnick answered, “I was fourteen when that happened.”

“How old was Robert?”

“Same age. Robbie and I were born the same year. He’s the older by three months.”

“Go on.”

“It was ugly. Uncle Ray shot Aunt Vivien while she was taking a bath. I mean, can you imagine?”

“And then your uncle shot himself?”

Resnick held a finger pistol up to his temple. “Correct.”

“What kind of man was your uncle?”

Resnick gave her a confused look. “What difference does that make?”

“A father resorts to murder, his son resorts to murder. Catches my interest.”

“He was pretty distant. I mean, he wasn’t exactly one of your piggyback-ride-giving uncles. Uncle Ray never seemed particularly happy.”

“And your aunt?”

“Sexy.” Resnick’s shoes tapped a snappy beat.

“Do you want to elaborate on that for me?”

“We’re off the record here, right?”

“I’m not a reporter, Mr. Resnick.”

“I know. Just kidding.” His feet finally stopped moving. “To put it bluntly, Aunt Vivien was a fox. I’d be lying to you if I didn’t tell you I had a crush on her. Maybe not a crush, but I know I was always jazzed whenever I saw her. You remember when you were fourteen, Detective? A sexy adult can be pretty powerful stuff at that age. Aunt Vivien was a number.”

“I understand that your uncle killed his wife because he thought she was having an affair.”

“That’s the word on the street.”

“And what about your cousin? How did Robert respond to losing both his parents in that way?”

Resnick paused a moment before answering. “I guess I’d say that he went inward. Except the thing is, Robbie was always inward. So… more inward.”

“Prior to their deaths, what would you say was your cousin’s relationship with his parents?”

“Easy. Closer to Aunt Viv than to his dad.”

“And after his parents’ death, Robert moved in with your family.”

“That’s right.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about that?”

“Not really. Except that I was snotty about it at first. The idea was that I would share my room with Robbie, but I refused. So we redid the TV room, and that’s where Robbie stayed. The TV went into the basement. That always kind of pissed me off.”

“You
were
snotty.”

“Guilty. What can I say? Having Robbie move in with us was definitely not a bonus. But if you’re asking if he caused trouble or anything, the answer is not really. He read a lot. He didn’t really interfere with me. Frankly, Joy was a lot friendlier to him than I was.”

“That’s how you’d characterize the relationship? Friendly?”

“Sure. Joy had more patience than I did. She’d also been pretty tight with Aunt Viv.”

“Did Robert have any friends?”

“A few.”

“Any friends in particular that you remember?”

“I’d say his closest friend was this guy named Jonathan Cole. He’s the one I remember who’d actually come over to our house to hang out with Robbie. An okay kid. Kind of a suck-up. A lot more talkative than Robbie. But then, so is that chair you’re sitting in.”

Megan jotted down the name. “Do you have any idea if the two maintained the friendship?”

“I guess it’s possible. I seem to recall that Cole became, like, a chiropractor, I think. Or a dentist. Something.”

“Any idea where he lives now?”

“Jonathan Cole? Not a clue.”

Megan questioned Resnick a little longer. Resnick answered her as best he could, but the fact was that as soon as he went off to college he pretty much severed ongoing contact with his cousin.

“Joy saw him now and then, I think. She felt sorry for him. Robbie took that job at the museum, and we all just figured he’d stay there forever. Not much of a life, if you ask me.”

Megan had one final question.

“Do you have any idea why Robert might have taken the Foster girl? Any idea at all?”

The feet came back into the act. Resnick tugged thoughtfully on his chin. “Maybe he’s looking for a friend.”

T
he little wannabe starlets all looked up as Megan and Jeffrey Resnick emerged from the audition room. Megan produced her card and handed it to the casting agent. “Anything at all comes to you, don’t hesitate. Call me.”

Resnick tucked the card into his shirt pocket. “I understand that Robbie got a raw deal in life, but that’s no reason to take it out on others. Especially not Joy. Do me a favor, Detective. When you find him, I’d like the first crack at strangling him.”

T
hree days after nineteen-year-old Lillian Burkett arrived in New York City from South Carolina she was date-raped by a sailor from Moscow. Idaho, who was in town for the annual Fleet Week festivities. Memorial Day weekend. The two had met on the Staten Island ferry, when the sailor hit her up for a cigarette. He carried a gold-plated lighter and showed off a fancy move of flipping open the lid using the palm of his hand and striking the flint all in the same maneuver. Fast. Like a seasoned gunslinger. He told her his name was Carl.

The two had some drinks at the Bridge Café, tucked beneath the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge, before venturing into Chinatown to find something unusual to eat. Lillian insisted that unless a steamed pig was hanging in the window she would not consider the place unusual enough. One of her girlfriends back home in Blacksburg had tucked this bit of wisdom into the gregarious brunette’s head. They found a place on Pell Street (no pig, but a wire draped with leathery red ducks) where no English was spoken, not even on the menu. The only English word in the entire place was
Coke
, and Lillian and the sailor ordered some of that to go along with the bottle of Bacardi that Carl had picked up at a liquor store on Pearl Street.

Lillian Burkett was a broad-shouldered skinny Minnie in those days, tall and seemingly weightless, except maybe for her thick nest of chestnut hair. Her face was nothing less than stunning. Pale as a pearl, sharp-lined nosed, and large dishy eyes the color of violets. She had moved to the city, she told Carl, to meet interesting people.