Daddy's Gone a Hunting

77

When Doug received the call Wednesday night that skeletal remains had been found in a sinkhole in the parking lot of the complex, and that the fire marshals were on their way to question him, he told Sandra to go home. “You’ve been a big help but I need to be by myself now. Call one of your friends for dinner. Get your hair done or something in the morning. Then come back. I don’t want-”

He stopped himself. What he had been about to say was that he didn’t want Sandra acting like the lady of the house, or butting in when he was talking to the marshals, or leaping to answer his phone whenever it rang.

Sandra had pelted him with questions when she answered the call from, as she described him, “the guy who sounded as though he was furious about something.” He had explained his distress over the call. “It’s from an investment advisor who lost a lot of money. I encouraged him to have his clients invest in a new hedge fund, but the guy who runs it turned out to be a disaster. His clients lost everything they put in and now he’s blaming me.”

“That doesn’t sound right to me, Dougie,” Sandra had said indignantly. “I mean you may have suggested that guy invest in something, but investing is always a gamble. My father told me that. He said that if you put a few dollars a week in the bank, you’d be surprised how it will grow and you’ll always feel secure knowing you have something behind you.”

“Your father is a very wise man,” Doug Connelly said bitterly, as he finally eased her out and escorted her to the door. Bernard, who had expected to drive them to dinner at SoHo North, was instead chauffeuring her to her own apartment.

Doug went straight to the library and poured himself a double scotch, then realized that the fire marshals had undoubtedly called Jack Worth as well. He picked up the phone to call Jack, but Jack did not answer his cell phone.

Then he remembered that Jack had called him a couple of hours ago, but he had decided to ignore the call.

Thirty-five minutes later, the fire marshals Ramsey and Klein arrived. On the way, they had discussed their strategy for talking to Douglas Connelly. They fully expected that he would absolutely disclaim any knowledge of knowing Tracey Sloane and any knowledge of how her body ended up underneath the pavement in the parking lot.

They had also agreed that Jack Worth was more than a mere person of interest. He was now being questioned in the Manhattan district attorney’s office. “I think we’re going nowhere with Douglas Connelly,” Ramsey said as he parked the car in a no-parking spot and flipped down the visor to display their “Fire Department Official Business” status.

The doorman told them that Mr. Connelly was expecting them and that he would let him know that they had arrived. On the way up in the elevator, Klein asked, “What are the odds that his lady friend is still around?”

“Fifty-fifty,” Ramsey replied. “She would drive me nuts but my guess is that he’s the kind of guy who likes having someone thirty-five years younger hovering over him.”

Douglas Connelly was waiting for them, the door of his apartment open behind him. They could detect the smell of liquor on his breath and see the glazed expression in his eyes. As they had expected, he directed them straight to the library, where a half-filled glass of whiskey was on the table next to his chair.

As they both declined his offer of a glass of water, or something stronger, Frank glanced at the bookshelves that covered the walls. He had the fleeting thought that the books on display looked like matched sets, the kind of rare first-edition volumes that are finished with gilt-edged pages and illustrations. He wondered if Connelly had ever taken the time to open one of them. And then he wondered if the books, like everything else in this apartment, were copies of the real thing.

As he motioned for them to sit down, Connelly opened the conversation. “I cannot begin to tell you how absolutely shocked I was to receive your phone call. Do you have any idea whose remains were found or how long he might have been there?”

“We think we know the identity of the person and in fact it was a young woman,” Ramsey said. “Does the name Tracey Sloane mean anything to you, Mr. Connelly?”

The fire marshals watched as he frowned in concentration.

“I’m afraid not,” he said firmly. “Who was she?”

“A twenty-two-year-old young woman, aspiring to a theatrical career, who disappeared on her way home from work nearly twenty-eight years ago.”

“Nearly twenty-eight years ago? You think she was buried in our parking lot for that long?”

“We don’t know,” Frank answered. “But you do not recall ever having met her?”

“Twenty-eight years ago, I was a very happily married man and the father of two young children.” Douglas Connelly’s tone became icy. “Are you in any way insinuating that I had any connection to that young woman at that time?”

“No, we are not.”

“When exactly did she disappear?”

“It will be twenty-eight years this November thirtieth.”

“Wait a minute. The horrible boating accident that took the life of my wife and brother and four close friends was on the third of November that year. I was in the hospital until November twenty-fourth. Are you daring to suggest that a week later, when I was still recovering from terrible injuries, that somehow I was involved in-?”

Ramsey interrupted him. “Mr. Connelly, we are suggesting nothing. We are here because that girl’s skeletal remains were found on your property.”

“Was Jack Worth working at the complex at that time?” Nathan Klein asked.

“I assume that if you have any interest in Jack Worth, you already know that he has been working for our family for well over thirty years.”

“Were you friendly with him back then?” Klein asked.

“Jack started as an assistant bookkeeper. I was the son of the owner and had no reason to fraternize with him. He worked his way up in the company until our longtime manager, Russ Link, retired five years ago. By then Jack had proven himself to be fully capable of taking over the day-to-day running of the business and I put him in charge.”

“Then your relationship has always been a business one?” Klein persisted.

“Primarily. In these last five years, outside of office hours, we have had dinner occasionally. Like myself, Jack has been concerned that the forecast of the market for the antique reproductions we manufacture is not healthy. That is a fact of life that we both recognize. The answer is to close shop and sell the property, but not at a bargain price. I have been waiting for an appropriate offer.”

“Aside from your business relationship, what do you think of Jack Worth?” Ramsey asked bluntly.

“Both before and after his divorce some years ago, everyone was aware that Jack was a womanizer. In fact, I know that my father, shortly before he died, had blasted Jack about being too attentive to a young secretary in the executive office who was married. She told my father that Jack wouldn’t stop insisting on having a drink after work. Apparently, to be rejected, even by someone who was happily married, was a personal insult and challenge to him.”

The fire marshals stood up. “Mr. Connelly, you’ve been very helpful,” Frank Ramsey said. “We won’t bother you anymore tonight.”

“It isn’t a bother,” Douglas Connelly said as he got to his feet, too. “But may I ask, what is your interest in Jack Worth? Did he know the woman whose remains were found today?”

Neither detective answered the question. With a polite “Good night, sir,” they left the apartment. At that point, neither Ramsey nor Klein was about to tell Connelly that Jack Worth was then in the Manhattan DA’s office being peppered with questions about Tracey Sloane.

Questions, they were to learn, he answered over and over again with the same sixteen words. “I did not kill Tracey Sloane and I did not bury her in that parking lot.”