With friends like Grace Brookstein's, who needed enemies?
Talking to Grace's compassionless, embittered sister, Mitch almost felt sorry for the woman whose greed had brought New York to its knees. Connie's anger was like a physical presence in the room, emanating from her body like heat from a radiator. The atmosphere was stifling.
"Is there anyone else you can think of? Anyone Grace might call, or lean on? An old school friend perhaps? Or a childhood beau?"
Connie shook her head regally. "No one. When Grace married Lenny, she got swept up into his world completely."
"You sound disapproving."
"Lenny and I...Let's just say we weren't close. I always thought he and Grace were a mismatch. In any event, there are no old friends. John Merrivale supported Grace for a while, I believe, until Caroline got him to see sense. Poor John."
"Why 'poor John'?"
"Oh, come on, Detective. You've met him. He worshipped Lenny. He was his bag carrier for years."
"He was more than that, surely?"
"John? No! Never!" Connie laughed cruelly. "The media paint him as some sort of financial wizard, a key Quorum insider. It's farcical! He wasn't even a partner, after the best part of twenty years. Lenny used him. So did Grace. Even now he's stuck cleaning up the mess at Quorum. No wonder your colleagues at the FBI haven't found that money. Talk about the blind leading the blind."
THE PRESS CONFERENCE WAS OPENLY HOSTILE. People wanted answers and Mitch Connors didn't have them.
It was almost a week now since Grace Brookstein's dramatic escape from Bedford Hills and pressure was mounting on Mitch and his team to report some progress. The media seemed to have gotten it into their heads that the NYPD was withholding information. Mitch smiled. If only that were true! The truth was he had nothing. Grace Brookstein had walked out of that jail and vanished into thin air like David friggin' Blaine. She had contacted no one, not family, not friends. Yesterday, in a move that had been widely and correctly interpreted as desperation, the NYPD put out a $200,000 reward for anyone who provided information leading to Grace's capture. It was a mistake. Within two hours, Mitch's team had received over eight hundred calls. Apparently Grace Brookstein had been spotted everywhere from New York to Nova Scotia. A couple leads looked like they might pan out, but both ended up coming to nothing. Mitch felt like a kid trying to catch hold of bubbles, not knowing which way to turn and destroying everything he touched. And to think, he'd thought this case would be a slam dunk.
"That's it for today, folks. Thanks."
The grumbling press pack dispersed. Mitch crawled back to his office to hide, but it seemed there was to be no respite today. Detective Lieutenant Henry Dubray was no oil painting at the best of times. Today, squatting in Mitch's torture chair like a giant toad, he looked even worse than usual. His skin was blotchy and drink-ravaged, and the whites of his eyes were as yellow as sunflowers. The pressure of the Brookstein case was taking its toll on all of them.
"Give me some good news, Mitch."
"The Knicks won last night."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. It was a great game. You didn't watch?"
Mitch smiled. Dubray didn't.
"I'm sorry, boss. I don't know what to tell you. We got nothing."
"We're running out of time, Mitch."
"I know."
Dubray left. There was nothing left to say. Both men knew the reality. If Mitch didn't come up with a solid lead in the next twenty-four hours, he'd be taken off the case. Demoted, certainly. Maybe even fired. Mitch tried not to think about Celeste, and the expensive private school Helen wanted him to pay for. In that moment he hated Grace Brookstein.
He stared at the whiteboard on the wall of his office. Grace's picture was in the middle. Radiating outward from it, like the points of a star, were various groups of other photos: Bedford Hills inmates and staff; Grace's family and friends; Quorum connections; members of the public who'd called in with the most promising leads. How could so many sources lead to nothing?
The phone rang.
"Call for you on line one, Detective Connors."
"Who is it?"
"Grace Brookstein."
Mitch gave a mirthless laugh. "Yeah, thanks, Stella. I'm not in the mood for crank callers."
He hung up. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again.
"Stella, I told you, I got enough problems without - "
"Good morning, Detective Connors. This is Grace Brookstein speaking."
Mitch froze. After listening to hours of recordings of Grace's court testimony, he'd have recognized her voice anywhere. He waved frantically to his colleagues in the outer office. "It's her," he mouthed. "Trace the call."
He made a conscious effort to speak slowly. He couldn't show his excitement. More important, he had to keep her talking long enough to make the trace. "Hello, Ms. Brookstein. What can I do for you?"
"You can listen to me."
The voice was the same as the one in the court recordings, but the tone was different. Harder, more determined.
"I'm listening."
"My husband and I were framed. I never stole any money and neither did Lenny."
Mitch paused, trying to keep her on the line.
"Why are you telling me this, Ms. Brookstein? I'm not a jury. Your conviction has nothing to do with me."
"It's Mrs. Brookstein. I'm a widow, Detective, not a divorcee."
You're a fool. You should never have made this call. Just keep talking.
"I'm telling you because I saw you on TV, and you look like a good man. An honest man."
The compliment surprised Mitch. "Thank you."