was a security guard, but he doesn’t remember seeing anything. Probably inside watching TV or dozing,” Seth reasoned. “The card was stuck in the victim’s mouth. Message on the back said, ‘Red Light Special’.”
“As well as victims two and three, there’s a full background on the first victim in the files,” Silver added. “A financial planner named Stewart Rothcliff. The local cops called us in after the perp contacted the press and announced there would be more to come. He wanted attention right out of the gate and took steps to guarantee it. Although if your theory that this could be a cover for something else is correct, that would play into it nicely.”
“It’s not my theory. I’m simply mentioning the possibility. I’ll need a few more days of digging to formulate any theories. What I can say after a cursory look is that I see no obvious connection between the victims, beyond that everyone worked in the industry. One was a financial advisor in Florida — the retirement belt. Another was a high-rolling hedge fund partner in the city, who lived in Connecticut and worked with his son…” Richard flipped his pencil onto the table. “The final victim was a technology type whose partner has questionable associates, to put it mildly. None of that adds up to an obvious motive or a suspect,” Richard concluded.
Silver nodded. “Fair enough. Folks, you can see that our new colleague from Financial Crimes brings a valuable difference in perspective, and I hope everyone gives him the cooperation and support he’ll need. Let’s plan on another meeting tomorrow morning, ten a.m., to compare notes. We should have something more from forensics by then, and who knows — CSI may have found something.” Silver felt the words ring hollow in her ears.
The meeting broke up with murmurings and the sound of chairs scraping the ceramic tile floor. Silver glanced at her watch. She’d need to move to get Kennedy from daycare before it closed.
Which returned the Eric confrontation to the forefront of her thoughts. And the fact that she’d see him within a few hours when he stopped to pick up Kennedy for the ballet.
Some days sucked.
Today had earned a position in her top sucking days of the year, and she still had the evening to go.
Things weren’t looking promising.
Traffic was a snarl, gridlocked in most intersections as short-tempered drivers jockeyed for meager advantage. One of Silver’s annoyances on even balmy late spring days was how clogged the streets could get. She left her Bureau car at the lot overnight and usually took the subway, but she was running late and had decided to splurge for a cab. Finding one had been a challenge, and she was now regretting her decision as they inched north towards the daycare near the Flatiron district.
The taxi pulled to the curb in front of the daycare center, and Silver paid the driver and got out. She hated that she had to leave her daughter there from when school let out at two until six, but it was an imperfect world. She was doing her best, and the truth was that Kennedy enjoyed helping the owner, Miriam, with the younger kids. Kennedy was practically an employee after five years there. Miriam loved her and treated her as if she was her own daughter.
Silver swung the battered wooden front door open and waved at the receptionist, who was chatting on the phone and barely glanced up. The usual din of children from the rear was absent — she checked her watch and saw that it was six twenty — past official closing time.
She entered the largest play room to find Miriam sitting with Kennedy at one of the tables, going over schoolwork with her. Her daughter’s unruly hair hung in her face as she concentrated on whatever math problem she was solving. That should have been Silver helping her daughter, not a surrogate. Silver felt a twinge of guilt and sadness and something else. Jealousy? Possibly. Time was going by so fast.
Kennedy looked up from her studies, small hand clutching a pencil, nails black, her school uniform accented by a black woven bracelet and a black leather necklace suspending a silver cross.
“Hey, Mom. Late, huh?” she said.
“Yup. Another long one. And traffic was a bear. Miriam, I’m so sorry…”
“Not a problem. Just don’t let it happen again, or I’ll have to charge you my hotel rate, and it ain’t pretty,” Miriam teased, with a smile that lit up her face.
Even though she’d been born the following decade, Miriam was a throwback to the Sixties who favored clothes that would have been more congruous at a Grateful Dead concert than a New York daycare. A frustrated sculptor from Ohio, she always smelled vaguely like patchouli and often bemoaned she’d been born twenty years too late — had missed the Summer of Love through a cruel trick of temporal fate.
“Come on, sweetheart. Big night tonight,” Silver said, smoothing Kennedy’s hair with her hand. Kennedy pulled away, already too old for such childlike displays of affection. Silver continued without missing a beat. “It’s all she’s talked about for weeks. New York City Ballet.”
Kennedy rolled her eyes. “TMI.”
She’d started speaking in acronyms six months earlier, and Silver had made a conscious effort not to let it annoy her.
“Okay. Collect your gear and let’s hit it. I’m going to have my hands full getting you fed and cleaned up in time for your…for your pick up.”
She just couldn’t bring herself to use the term ‘father’. Her anger bubbled up almost to the surface as she recalled the afternoon’s insulting interaction. Now more than ever, Eric was the enemy, having taken the gloves off and shown his true intentions. But she would not allow her feelings to color Kennedy’s evening. They’d have to discuss things soon enough, but tonight she could have her dream date. There would be time to explain how her scumbag ex wanted to break up their little family unit so he could stick it to her and appear to be a more sensitive candidate when he ran for office. Silver knew he was engaged to an advertising executive almost ten years his junior — Amber — who was as ambitious and transparently selfish as he was. No doubt the coming nuptials were also window dressing for his career.
They were a perfect match — photogenic, artificial, driven and self-involved.
“Are you done with your homework?” Silver asked as Kennedy packed her books into her bag.
“Half an hour ago. Miriam and I were just going over the next chapter so I’d be prepped.”
When had Kennedy switched to calling her Miriam instead of Miss Miriam?
“All right, then. Let’s make tracks for home, shall we?” Silver suggested, her voice adopting more of a commanding, no-arguments approach than her usual light demeanor. Kennedy better not start trying to call her Silver instead of Mom any time soon, though, or there would be one more child sold to the circus this year.
“’Bout time,” Kennedy muttered, but Silver let it go. She was at an age where she was starting to test boundaries — so Silver chose her battles carefully. Token disgruntled ennui didn’t really qualify.
“You’re welcome,” Silver replied, pretending to mishear her angelic offspring’s comment. She exchanged a glance with Miriam, who barely concealed her smile.
“Okay, you two. Stay out of trouble. Enjoy the ballet,” Miriam enthused.
“Again. Sorry for being late. Monster day,” Silver explained.
“Don’t sweat it. See you
Mother and daughter trudged down the sidewalk, part of the swarm that was the New York rush hour. Silver always felt the desire to hold Kennedy’s hand, but she had rejected that as suitable only for babies a few years back. It seemed like only yesterday she’d been a toddler, wobbling around on unsteady legs, a drunken sailor on a pitching deck. Now, she was all energy and attitude and independence, having modeled her mother’s self-dependent view of the world.
They crossed the street and weaved their way through the rushing humanity, and made it to the flat in twelve minutes, Silver glancing nervously at her watch. They wouldn’t have much time.
“Go clean up, and don’t dawdle. You need to eat before you go. No excuses,” Silver ordered as she unlocked the two deadbolts, to be greeted by the heady stagnant air from the hall as it wafted past her.
“What’s on the menu?” Kennedy asked as she pushed into the tiny entry foyer and dumped her backpack by the walnut side table.
“Leftover spaghetti. Your favorite.”
“I don’t want any. It’s fattening,” Kennedy said on her way to her room.
Silver considered Kennedy’s frame: three percent body fat, all petulant arms and legs and winsome
