Ukulele of Death, page 25
‘Did you get the confession?’ I asked.
Ken tapped his phone. ‘Right here. He’s going away for Caroline’s murder and your kidnapping.’
Van Houten, eyes wide, struggled to his feet, raised a finger as if to make a profound point in the argument, and then ran for the apartment door, a move none of us was anticipating. But Ken and Aunt Margie could react quickly and were right behind him as he ran. I lumbered after them, my arms out in front of me to feel my way where it was especially dark.
Strikingly, Van Houten decided to run up the stairs toward the roof access, something we use on warmer nights (not as warm as this one) because there is a gas grill up there. Don’t tell the building inspector. Van Houten climbed up the next two flights of stairs, Ken right behind him, Aunt Margie huffing a bit in third place and me rumbling up behind the bunch of them. They were barely visible from where I stood, and I was running out of gas in a hurry. After one flight I had lost them, but could hear their footsteps above me.
When I reached the door to the roof, now wide open, it was a surreal scene. You’re never really prepared for New York without lights. I felt my way around, careful to avoid the perimeter of the roof, which was flat. But you could see the lights on in New Jersey, which didn’t seem fair.
I made out the outlines of the three of them: Aunt Margie was farthest back, closest to me. I stumbled over to her and stopped. ‘Careful,’ she said.
Ken was about fifty feet away, standing with his shoulders back, resisting the impulse to try to reach Van Houten, who for reasons I couldn’t begin to imagine was right on the ledge. And since he is Ken, he was making the issue all about himself.
‘How come you took Fran but not me? Was it because I was too tough on the guy who tried to take me on the street?’ he demanded.
‘What guy on the street?’ Van Houten said.
Ken looked even more livid. ‘So I just wasn’t good enough for you?’
I didn’t think that was the way police negotiators operate but I’d have to ask Mank.
Mank! I hadn’t gotten a text back. That did it. No more dates, even if he found an operating Thai restaurant.
‘She can reproduce,’ Van Houten answered.
Eww …
Ken took a step forward. ‘Back off!’ Van Houten said. ‘I’m not going back to jail!’
Back to jail? ‘You’ve been there before?’ Ken said.
‘None of your business.’ For a friendly billionaire he was a strangely touchy guy. Must have been all the evil-genius-ing he’d been doing. ‘Just back off and let me go and I’ll leave the two of you alone.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Ken said.
‘No. I won’t.’ Van Houten nodded. Then he looked down as I saw flashing lights and a blip! of a police siren. Mank had come through after all. ‘What’s that?’
‘The cops.’ I was just strong enough to walk to Ken’s side. ‘Even if we let you go they’ll get you, Rob. So walk on over here and let’s try to figure this out.’
Van Houten nodded. I swear, he nodded and said, ‘OK.’
And then he stepped off the roof. He didn’t even scream on the way down.
THIRTY-SIX
‘I have a lot of questions.’ Aunt Margie was sitting at my bedside watching me charge. She’d located the portable generator (in the ‘closet’ Ken had mentioned, which was really the cabinet over the refrigerator in the kitchen that we never opened) just in time for ConEd to restore the power to our part of the city. So I was charging up finally and besides I now knew where the generator was stored. That was useful.
‘I wish I had a lot of answers,’ I told her. ‘But there’s something you need to know, Aunt Margie, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. My father is dead.’
‘Dead!’ Aunt Margie looked at me sharply.
‘Yes. Apparently a car accident in France.’
The air conditioner in the window was humming and that was the only sound in the room for a long moment. Then Aunt Margie started to laugh.
Now, people process their grief in many different ways but I have to admit that was not what I would have expected. She laughed heartily until a couple of tears actually fell from her eyes. ‘Oh Frannie,’ she said when she could catch her breath. ‘You really had me going there for a second. A car accident in France. Don’t you recognize the pattern?’
‘Well yeah, but a car accident is possible, isn’t it? Dr Mansoor died in a car accident and we’re certain of that.’ I was gaining strength by the minute. The meter now read nineteen percent. I’d been really, dangerously, low.
‘When they were packing to leave Brad told me I should tell you and Kenny they’d been killed in a car crash until you were ready for the truth,’ she answered. ‘He said that was the go-to explanation, and that if he had to, he’d use it again. I guess he got wind of this guy Van Houten sniffing around you two and he decided to send us a signal.’ Everybody was sending us a signal all of a sudden.
It had taken a while to get to this point. I’d barely made it down the stairs before Mank came up to the apartment. Van Houten had, of course, been spotted plummeting off our building and the cops were dealing with it. I’d told Mank what I knew but not all I knew: That he was a tech billionaire with a fondness for stringed instruments, that Ken had a recording of him confessing to Caroline Seberg’s murder and that when we’d cornered him he’d taken the wrong way out. All of that was true. The part about him wanting me to ‘reproduce’ in a laboratory I’d decided it was best to omit.
Mank had looked at me with at least as many questions in his eyes as Aunt Margie had in her mouth, but had taken my statement and gone on to deal with the, you should pardon the expression, fallout. He said he’d see me tomorrow and there were a lot of implications in those words.
‘I’ll bet my last dollar your dad isn’t dead, and not your mom either,’ Aunt Margie said. The cops were still questioning Ken, who had been the closest to Van Houten when he’d jumped, and who had the confession on his phone. That was going to take a while.
‘I saw the death certificate,’ I said, suddenly determined not to have hope.
‘You want to see the one from the last time?’ Aunt Margie’s eyes actually twinkled. It might have had something to do with the tears from laughing.
I lay back on my pillow and shut my eyes, which felt wonderful. ‘Can you give me a minute?’ I asked her.
‘Of course, sweetie.’ Aunt Margie kissed me on the forehead like when I was six. ‘You rest up. It’s been a long day.’
‘Long week.’
I heard her close the bedroom door and sat up, looking through my phone for the secure email address I’d gotten from Eve Kendall. I’d been working up the nerve to use it and decided that now was definitely the appropriate moment. Especially if Dad wasn’t actually dead.
Dear Olivia, I typed. This is your daughter Fran. Dr Kendall gave me your email but you shouldn’t be angry at her. I’ve been hoping to talk to you for a really long time. I went on at some length from there, but there are things I’m willing to tell you and things I’m not, and what’s in that email falls into the latter category. I’ve gained a reputation in my field for being big and tough. I don’t want to go back to just being big.
When I was done typing I let the pillow swallow me up and the next thing I knew it was about two hours later. My laptop was still on the bed and there was an email waiting there from the address I’d just used. I held my breath.
I will provide you with the heavily edited transcript below.
Oh, Frannie! You can’t imagine how many times I’ve wished I could talk to you. Dad and I have been trying our best to stay away but the temptation has always been there. I’m heartsick that I didn’t get to see you grow up. What you must have thought about me, abandoning you when you were such a little girl! I’m tearing up now just thinking about it. I’m glad to see from your email that apparently you don’t hate us. That’s been my biggest fear.
The second biggest was that you’d be discovered. We’ve heard rumors lately that someone had gotten information about you and Ken. We weren’t able to do much about it but we’ve been busily keeping our ears open. Apparently this Van Houten man you mentioned was the only one who had any inkling. Where he got his information is a concern and we will try to find out.
Yes, my love, we. Your father is not dead. It’s better for the moment that some people think he is, and so a certificate was issued and reports were logged in. But he’s here, with me, and he was with you for some time this past week. You might have seen him in the street wearing a dark-colored trench coat. The man thinks he’s James Bond. It wasn’t until the temperature hit 95 that I convinced him shorts and a polo would do the trick. Seriously. He’s incorrigible. And he just wanted to see you and Kenny for himself.
It’s been so tempting to see you since we’ve been here in New York, the first time in decades. I visited your office a few days ago but the woman there – she seems very nice – said you weren’t in (I think that’s what she said) and I didn’t have the courage to leave you a real message. I regret that.
I’m sorry you were put through so much, from the time we left until these past few days. But you were never in any real danger, I promise. I made sure Van Houten couldn’t do you any harm. When I handed you back your cell phone at his lab I was so proud. You had found a way out of the predicament without my help. Substituting – we’ll call it ‘substituting’ – for his assistant was worth it just for that. And when your dad left you at the apartment he saw Van Houten there. He’s not a violent man but he does know how to dial 911.
I was sorry to hear about Aziz Mansoor and hoped to attend his funeral service in some sort of disguise but once we realized you and Ken were on a track toward Van Houten we were sidetracked. We visited Aziz’s grave two days later. He was a nice man. You would have liked him.
It’s time for me to sign off, Frannie. I’m glad you found this address; I don’t know if I ever would have had the courage to contact you myself. Any connection with me or your dad could be dangerous. You should know that we’re always aware of what you’re doing (oh my, that sounds more ominous than it should!), we love you and we are very proud of you.
For the time being, it’s probably best that you and I keep this line of communication to ourselves. If I tell Dad he’s going to go into security mode and change all our email addresses, possibly sending money to Margie for you to move out of the apartment because he’ll believe it’s compromised. So I’m not going to tell him for now. I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you should tell Kenny. I’d love for him to know we’re OK but I don’t know his nature as an adult. As a little boy he was impulsive. He might not know how to deal with that kind of information, your father might get wind of it and we’d be in the same situation. Like I said, you know him better than I do so I’ll let that be your decision.
I promise you it will be much sooner between messages next time. We love you both very much. And I think the work you’re doing, to help people find their birth parents, is just wonderful. What lovely children we made. You make sure you two stay safe, now.
I’ll be watching.
Mom
I slept better that night than I had in weeks. Maybe years.
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘It was the uke,’ Ken said.
He does things like that – just brings up a topic out of the air with no segue or context. I think it’s mostly for effect, but it’s also because he’s thinking about something and doesn’t understand why you aren’t too.
‘What was the uke?’ I’m always available if you need a straight line fed to you.
‘The package at Grand Central. The thing from the key your pal Morris the cop sent along.’
‘Miller.’
‘Whatever. It was the uke. Want to see it?’ Without waiting for an answer Ken got up from the breakfast door and briefly visited his bedroom, coming out with a package he’d finally picked up that morning that was exactly the size of a ukulele. ‘Damned if I can figure out what’s so special about the thing.’
He removed it carefully from the box, from which he had clearly torn off a good deal of wrapping. The instrument was small, as you’d expect, and had a brown wood for the body. The neck was a lighter tone with flowers painted on various frets. Painted on the lower half of the soundboard was the flower for which the uke was named, in red.
It looked, frankly, like a ukulele and wasn’t exactly designed to help some poor high-school sophomore get to second base in the back seat of a Subaru. I laughed a little looking at it.
‘A million two hundred thousand dollars,’ I said in wonder. ‘And once Caroline figured out that Van Houten was a homicidal lunatic she sent it to us, for all the good it did her.’
‘You have to assume whoever inherits our pal Bob’s estate will be somewhat, um, disappointed with what they can get back on this,’ Ken said. He tried to play the uke but I got nervous just watching him pick it up and gently took it out of his hands. ‘How do we figure out who gets it?’
‘That’s for his lawyers to sort out, but I think it should go back to the family in Portland, Maine if we can prove this is the one that was stolen from them,’ I said. I put the uke back in the box, which had no case. It was probably a ukulele expert’s nightmare to have it packed that way. ‘Why do you think Van Houten asked her to steal a ukulele? Couldn’t he have used something from his collection?’
I’ll let you know right now that I had heeded my mother’s advice and had not told Ken that I was in touch with her. If she thought he was impulsive at four she should see him now. I wouldn’t have kept him from making some very public mistakes, perhaps in spaces like Instagram or Facebook where they never really get erased. There would be a time to let him know. This wasn’t it.
‘Everything the guy did was designed to get our attention, right until the moment he stepped off our roof,’ my brother said. Like that was an image I hadn’t been replaying in my head over and over. Could we have stopped Van Houten from jumping? Should we have? ‘He was doing all he could to get us to find him.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Well, we found him.’ I stood up with no place to go. I mean, Rob Van Houten was an evil guy; there was no way around that conclusion. And his death, now that it had been universally reported, had drawn a great deal of attention. Mank and the NYPD were doing their best to deflect it from Ken and me but we still felt like we were under siege in the apartment and I still felt like maybe I could have saved his life. But for what? To spend it in prison? ‘Did you find out anything about his previous stay in jail?’ I asked Ken, knowing full well he’d have researched it overnight. Ken doesn’t sleep when there’s something on his mind. I had been drained of power and even after charging didn’t feel like doing much.
‘He got caught lying to the IRS eight years ago and was sentenced to eighteen months in a minimum-security prison for people who lie to the IRS,’ Ken said. ‘Got out in five.’
I shook my head. ‘And that was what he couldn’t bear to endure again?’
‘I imagine the murder rap would have gotten him more than five months,’ my brother pointed out. ‘And in a nastier jail.’
Just to prove that he wasn’t the only one who could research something (and to avoid telling him I’d emailed with Mom, which was burning a hole in my tongue) I said, ‘I think I found Augustus Bennett, for what it’s worth. He died a rather quiet death six months ago.’ Ken gave me a look. ‘Natural causes. It never made the papers because he wasn’t using his own name, but the notice in a Central New Jersey paper had it listed correctly.’
‘So he never had anything to do with the auction,’ Ken said, stating the obvious.
‘Just another lie my friend Rob told me,’ I said. ‘I so wanted to believe he was just a nice billionaire.’
‘Nice Billionaire would make a great band name,’ my brother said. It was time for me to leave.
Detective Richard Mankiewicz was seated behind his desk when I was allowed into his division squad room. He was on the landline and looked weary. I had a flash moment where I thought that he should plug in for a while to feel better. Sometimes I forget.
‘There’ll be a press briefing at three this afternoon,’ he was saying. ‘I can’t tell you anything before that because frankly, everything I know has already been released.’ He said a few words of dismissal and hung up the phone.
He regarded me closely. ‘Want to get some lunch?’ he asked.
‘It’s ten o’clock in the morning.’
‘I’ve been up since seven a.m. yesterday,’ Mank said. ‘I could use some food.’
‘Thai?’ I suggested.
We ended up at a diner that was trying so hard to be a diner that it was really a parody of a diner. I didn’t especially care since I was just having coffee and Mank didn’t seem to notice as he tucked into a Reuben. My sense of smell was a little offended at this hour, but I decided my sense of smell should mind its own business.
‘The press is wearing you out,’ I told Mank just in case he hadn’t noticed.
He chewed extensively and swallowed. ‘No kidding. They’re not asking that much about you but they want to talk to Ken.’
I closed my eyes at the thought and then looked at Mank. ‘Try to avoid that if you can. The idea of my brother trying to dazzle a gang of reporters scares the living hell out of me.’
‘I’ll do what I can but you two should probably get a publicist to work with you on a temporary basis. It’ll blow over in a few days, but they’ll be a few rough days.’ He took a sip from his Diet Coke. With a Reuben and fries. Men crack me up.
I recoiled at the thought of a publicist and then thought it over a little. ‘Might not be a bad idea for a week or so. I’ll see if we can afford it.’
‘What, the valuable ukulele won’t cover the expenses?’ Mank asked. ‘I hear it sold for over a million bucks.’
I felt my eyes narrow. ‘How did you know about that?’
