Vanished

14

Tom Armour had been polishing up his closing arguments since late that afternoon when he got home, and he was finally satisfied that they were exactly what he wanted. He stretched, yawned, read through it all again, one more time, and finally decided to make himself a sandwich. His apartment looked as though rats had been nesting everywhere, and when he opened the refrigerator, he remembered that it was empty. He was contemplating it hungrily when the telephone rang and he debated whether or not to answer. It was probably the damn reporters again, but then again it could have been something important.

“Yeah?” He picked it up absentmindedly. He was trying to decide if it was worth going out to get something to eat, or if he was better off just going to bed and getting some sleep so he'd be rested in the morning. Rested, but definitely hungry. He had skipped lunch that day too, and he could hear his stomach growl as he held the phone to his ear, wondering who would call him at that hour. The only interesting woman in his life had announced that she was marrying someone else shortly before Christmas. She claimed that he was married to his work, and she was tired of hearing about his cases. But at thirty-six years of age, he had managed to establish himself as one of the city's most prominent criminal attorneys.

“Is Mr. Armour there?” It was a female voice he didn't recognize, but she sounded very pleasant.

“Who do you think this is at this hour? The butler?” And then suddenly he wondered if it was a crank call related to Charles Delauney. Representing him had been interesting, but early in the case it had also won him his share of crank calls and threatening letters…how can you represent a monster like that, etc. etc. etc. “Who is this?” he asked with a puzzled frown. Nobody had called him at home in weeks, months, let alone an attractive-sounding woman.

“This is Beatrice Ritter. Is this you, Tom?”

“None other.” He knew who she was by then, and he liked her. He had liked her when she'd come to him and begged him to take Charles's case. And he liked the pieces she had written about Marielle, and Charles, and his trial, since then. It was easy to figure out that she was on his team.

“I need to talk to you.” She sounded earnest and excited.

“Go ahead. You got me.” With a growling gut and an empty refrigerator and nothing else to do until the morning.

“Can you meet me somewhere?”

He glanced at his watch and winced. He was an attractive man, and he was standing in the kitchen in his white shirt from court that afternoon and his trousers and suspenders, and all he'd had for the past fourteen hours was a hell of a lot of black coffee. “It's almost eleven o'clock. Can it wait till tomorrow morning?”

“No, it can't.” She sounded desperate.

“Is something wrong?”

“I have to see you.”

“Have you murdered anyone?”

“I'm serious…please…trust me… it can't wait till tomorrow morning.”

“I assume that this is somehow related to my client?” She had become the champion of his cause for reasons Tom didn't quite understand, but he was willing to take advantage of, if it served his client.

“Yes, very much so.”

“And it can't wait?”

“I don't think so.” She sounded very earnest.

“Are you willing to come to my apartment?” Most girls weren't willing to visit a man at that hour of the night, but she wasn't just any girl. She was a reporter. She was used to doing things no sane man or woman would do, and he admired the gutsy way she did things. She was a tiny woman with an enormous spirit. And he liked her. One day they might even be friends, but not right at the moment.

“I be there…” she said excitedly. “Just don't tell me you live in New Jersey.”

“How's Fifty-ninth Street, between Lexington and Third?” He lived in a quiet brownstone.

“I'd say lucky. I live on Forty-seventh. I'll catch a cab and be there in five minutes.”

“Will you do me a favor first?”

“Sure.”

“Could you grab me a roast beef sandwich? I haven't eaten since breakfast.”

“Mustard or mayo?”

“Both. Anything. I'll eat the bag. I'm starving.”

“You got it.”

His doorbell rang twenty minutes later, and she stood there in navy slacks and a bright blue sweater. She had a blue bow in her hair, and she handed him a brown bag, with a beer, two pickles, and his sandwich.

“You're a saint.” He didn't even care what she had to say to him, he was just grateful she'd brought him dinner. “Do you want to share the beer?”

“No, thanks.” She shook her head, and slid into a chair in his kitchen. It was as though they were old friends, but he knew she had watched the entire trial, and indirectly, they had been through the war together.

“How do you think it's going?”

“I'm not sure. The jury's tough to read. Sometimes I think the guys like him better than the women, sometimes…I'm not sure. At least you gave Marielle Patterson a certain amount of credibility again. What a son of a bitch Patterson turned out to be.” He nodded, still cognizant of the fact that she was a reporter and this could be a trick. “You've done a great job for Charles Delauney.”

“Thank you. He looked good on the stand today, at least I thought so.”

“So did I,” she said softly. She had managed to catch his eye as he left the stand, and he smiled when she gave him the high sign. He had been touched by her interest and her faith in him, and a little puzzled by her zeal, but he liked her. Not nearly as much as she liked him, but in Bea's eyes, it was a beginning…unless…but that was up to Tom Armour…and the jury.

“So what's up? What brings you here at this hour with a roast beef sandwich? I assume you didn't just come here to tell me you admire my style in the courtroom.”

“No,” she grinned, “but you're very good. Better than most I've seen.” But her eyes grew serious then. She had something important to tell him. And they both knew time was running out for Charles Delauney. Both attorneys would be making their closing arguments the next day and after that, it was up to the jury. “I did a very strange thing,” she admitted to him, as she accepted a bite of one of his pickles. “I called someone I wrote a story on a long time ago…well, anyway…last year. You probably know who he is, Tony Caproni.”

“The mob boss from Queens?” Tom Armour looked startled. “You hang out with a nice bunch of guys, Miss Ritter.”

“I wrote a nice piece on him, and he liked it. He said if I ever needed a favor, to call him. So I did.”

“You called Caproni? Why?” He was impressed once again by her courage. Tony Caproni was one of the most dangerous men in New York, but also one of the most powerful in his own world.

“I wanted to know if he'd heard anything, if he knew anybody who knew anybody who…maybe someone in the underworld, so called, knew who really kidnapped the kid, or… I don't know, I just figured it was worth it.”

“And? He came up dry, I assume. The FBI tried the same tactic. They tried all the informants, all their underworld contacts, and they got nothing.”

“So did Tony, the first time he called.” She put the pickle down and grabbed Tom's arm. “He called me tonight. All he gave me was the name of a guy and his phone number and told me to call him.”

Tom stopped eating and watched her. “Did he know anything?”

“Someone… he doesn't know who…paid him fifty thousand dollars to plant the toy and the pajamas. He doesn't want to testify, but if we promise him amnesty, he will. He's scared, Tom. He's scared to death, but he feels sorry for Charles, and he says he'll do it. He also said he thinks the kid is alive, and he wants to speak up before something happens.”

“Holy shit… oh my God…give me his number.” She pulled it out of her handbag, and he picked up his phone, and then he looked at her. “This isn't a setup, is it? You use this in the papers, and I'll kill you.”

“I swear. It's for real.” And for reasons he never knew, he believed her.