Jule Mcbride - The Seducer

Rex was less concerned with what had transpired between the women than with collecting facts pertaining to his father’s disappearance. “You say they’re pulling the story?”

Truman nodded, stepping behind Trudy, placing his hands on her shoulders and massaging them. “The rumor’s that Pop’s on the take.”

“Ridiculous!” Sheila exclaimed. “Earlier, when Trudy came over, I’d just gotten a call from Police Plaza. They didn’t even do me the courtesy of coming by the house to tell me he disappeared! And he’s been on the force thirty-three years! He’s never taken a dime, except from his paycheck, but they made me go all the way downtown to tell me he’s…he’s…”

Rex’s fingers closed over hers. “It’s okay, Ma.”

Looking unconvinced, Sully thrust both hands deep into his trouser pockets and relaxed against an oak tree. Red painted lines on the bark marked their heights as kids, but Sully, now thirty-six, towered over the marks. “That internal affairs woman who’s been on my back is heading up the investigation.”

Rex cursed under his breath. “Judith Hunt?”

“Yeah,” returned Sully. “According to her, the money in the city’s Citizen’s Contribution fund is missing. She took a crew to Seduction Island to dive for whatever’s left of the boat.”

“The Citizen’s Contribution fund was set up so that private citizens could make personal donations to the police without any question of impropriety,” said Trudy.

“Do they really think your father could steal public money?” whispered Sheila. “After all his years of loyalty and service?”

Sully sighed, his eyes lighting briefly on his brothers. “I hate to have to say this, but they’ve got Pop withdrawing money at the bank. On videotape.”

Sheila was dumbfounded. “Your father withdrew money?”

Sully paused, then said, “In light of some of the tragedies we’ve had in Manhattan, the account’s bigger than ever. It was…seven million.”

Sheila was reeling. “Dollars? Of public money? And a bank let him take it? There’s got to be a mistake! He’d never…”

“He wire transferred the money from Citicorp,” countered Sully, “then picked it up elsewhere in two suitcases. He works with the accounts, so he knew the numbers.”

Sheila stared. “He took the money in suitcases? That’s impossible. Your father could never do such a thing. He’s an officer. He knows how that would look.”

“The videotape’s incriminating,” agreed Sully.

Stricken, Sheila whispered, “What if he’s dead?”

“C’mon now,” chided Rex gently. “Pop’s too tough to die.”

“You’ve got a point there, Rex,” agreed Truman.

“We’ll figure this whole thing out,” Sully assured.

“I just don’t get it,” interjected Trudy, lifting her hands to twine them with Truman’s. “He’s an administrator at Police Plaza. He doesn’t even work on cases. The only logical explanation is that he stumbled onto something.”

Rex raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Trudy shrugged. “Who knows?”

Rex rifled a hand through the blond wig he wore, wishing it didn’t itch in the summer heat. “Even if Pop discovered someone mishandling funds—say, from the Citizen’s Action account—taking the money himself is a strange way of fixing the problem. He had to know he’d be seen on tape. Maybe he posed intentionally,” Rex mused. “Why wasn’t the money invested, anyway? Isn’t that the responsibility of the Dispersion Committee?”

Sullivan shrugged. “All good questions, Rex. But the fact is, we haven’t got any real clues as to what’s happened. Not yet. All anybody knows for certain is that the boat, named the Destiny, docked at the Manhattan Yacht Club and Pop was on deck when it left the slip.”

Rex visualized the mile-long sidewalk fronting Battery Park, overlooking the Hudson River and the Statue of Liberty. “On Wall Street?” he murmured, imagining his father exiting Police Plaza, then walking along Centre Avenue. To get to the yacht club, he’d have passed City Hall, the Brooklyn Bridge and the Stock Exchange. “That’s a pricey place to dock. Donald Trump and Henry Kravis keep boats there. Who owned it?”

“Registered under a false name,” supplied Sullivan. “I’m still looking.”

Rex shook his head. “We need to find that out.”

“And if your father’s still alive,” added Sheila shakily.

“No bodies have been recovered,” Rex reminded.

When everyone fell silent, Rex cast brooding eyes into the garden, long enough that his gaze unfocused, making the world appear to be a blur of color. Situated on Bank Street in the West Village, the Steeles’ home had been handed down through Sheila’s family, and from the front, despite cheerful green shutters, the stone edifice was gloomy. The courtyard opened onto another world, however. Hidden from the city streets, the garden exploded with the flowers Sheila tended whenever she had spare time left after community work.

Silently, Rex cursed his father. Why didn’t he bother to notice how often his wife’s face was drawn with worry? She’d strived so hard to make their lives wonderful. And now this. Staring into the courtyard where they had played as kids, Rex could hear his father saying, “We’ve got to toughen you up, Rex. When you join the force, we don’t want them thinking you’re a pansy, do we?”

Nope. Which is why Rex had turned out as tough as shoe leather. He had a scar from a knife fight on the Lower East Side. A black belt in karate. Promotions for daring feats of courage. Commendations. He could outshoot any officer in Manhattan. But deep down, he was a lover, not a fighter. It was he, not his brothers, who remembered his mother’s worry when Augustus didn’t make it home from stakeouts. And the excruciating times—sometimes minutes, sometimes hours—between hearing a cop was killed in the line of duty, then being told the victim wasn’t Augustus. No doubt, things were as Trudy said. Augustus had discovered wrongdoing, then set out in high macho style to catch the perpetrator himself.

Now Rex would have to find him. A far cry from the last time Ma called us here, Rex thought ruefully. Only a few weeks ago, she’d received one of the biggest lottery wins in New York City history, and driven by a good heart and desperate desire to see her sons happily married, she’d made an unthinkable deal. If Sullivan, Rex and Truman kept silent about the money and married within three months, she’d divide fifteen million dollars between them. Otherwise, she’d give the money to a wildlife research station on the Galapagos Islands.

She’d looked so beautiful that day, too, with humorous lights dancing in her eyes. Unlike the stiff gray suit she’d chosen for today’s trip to Police Plaza, she’d been wearing a vest embedded with tiny mirrors and a brightly patterned skirt, dressed for her volunteer work with CLASP, an organization for the homeless.

Rex could still hear what Truman had to say once the men were alone. “Fifteen million! That’s five million each.”

Sully had shaken his head. “If Ma hadn’t shown us the letter from the lottery board, I wouldn’t have believed something like this could happen.”

Rex had chuckled. “Don’t be so suspicious, Sully. This is Ma we’re talking about. Not a criminal.”

“Beg to differ,” Truman had countered. “Didn’t Ma say she expects us to find wives? And if we don’t, she’s going to give all that money away to a foundation that saves sea turtles?”

“They also save marine iguanas,” Rex had reminded.

“And don’t forget flightless cormorants,” Sully had said.

“Oh, right,” Truman had whispered. “Flightless cormorants.”

At that, the brothers had stared at each other in shock and, a moment later, they were hooting—clapping each other’s backs and wiping tears of merriment from their eyes.