The Seducer. Jule McBride

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ “Family first,” he assured. “C’mon. Let’s see what Sully’s found out.”

      It wasn’t good, Rex realized, after seating his mother and himself at a round table shaded by a leafy oak. He glanced at Truman, who’d come in his uniform, then at their oldest, suit-clad brother, Sullivan, who was captain of the precinct nearest the house. Both brothers, with their light brown hair and whiskey eyes, were the spitting image of Augustus. Rex looked like Sheila. Her hair had been as dark as his before it turned gray.

      “My boss Dimi’s refusing to run the article I’ve been writing about your family and the NYPD,” Trudy was saying, her blue eyes snapping with indignation, her straw-blond hair blowing across her cheeks with the breeze. “It was supposed to be in tomorrow’s News, but Dimi won’t publish anything until he’s sure Mr. Steele’s done nothing wrong.” She groaned in frustration. “I can’t believe this! Now, more than ever, your names should be in the paper! We need to figure out what’s happened!”

      Rex squinted at his brother’s girlfriend, who was a reporter. Along with the news about Augustus, Rex had been apprised that Trudy and Truman had just cracked what the tabloids had dubbed the Glass Slipper Case. Judging from the light in Trudy’s eyes when she glanced at Truman, she’d fallen for him while they were working together. Despite the circumstances, Rex felt a rush of happiness for his baby brother. “What was the article about?”

      “For the past two weeks, Trudy’s been on a ride along in the patrol car with me,” Truman explained, rising from her side. He started pacing, the hands on his hips slipping down to a billy club and holstered gun. “That’s how we wound up solving the Glass Slipper Case. Anyway, the article was supposed to be good PR for the city. You know, a day in the life of a cop. It was going to press tonight.”

      “I remember you mentioning it,” said Rex.

      “I was at my desk writing it,” Trudy added, “as well as the Glass Slipper story, when Sheila called.” Pausing, her eyes darted to Sheila’s. “I’m sorry I was so angry when I came over earlier today.”

      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. СКАЧАТЬ