Crosshairs, page 11
She cracked even faster than I’d expected. She blurted out, “Bridget and I were just fooling around. Jane’s the one who freaked out when we took her little notebook. She pulled my hair.” Fiona pointed to a few strands of hair on the table. It didn’t seem that serious, but it backed up her comment.
I didn’t even have to turn my head toward Jane before she started on her defense. “Dad, I told you, I have a big project! It’s driving these two nuts that I won’t tell them what it’s about. So they grabbed my notebook. I’m sorry we were so disruptive when you came through the door.”
“Wow. That’s a good explanation.” I looked at the two younger girls. “Is what Jane said accurate?”
Both the girls nodded their heads. It was satisfying to see my girls tell the truth. Especially after I was already feeling bad about having bought a lie from Wendy Robinson and wasted my afternoon. Then we heard the front door open.
Bridget said in a low voice, “Please don’t tell Mary Catherine.” The other two girls were nodding their heads vigorously. Was I the pushover? Was my new wife the disciplinarian in our family? This was something I’d have to think about.
I looked at Jane. “I appreciate your honesty. The only thing I’ll ask is that you guys find a less aggressive way to work out problems. Also, I need you to keep your phone on all the time when you’re out of the house, Jane.”
“Dad, when I’m in Columbia’s library they’re really strict about us keeping our phones off and not using them.”
“They’re probably strict about turning the volume down. But you can answer texts.”
Mary Catherine came in and gave me a hug and a kiss as Ricky and Shawna raced by with a quick “Hey, Dad!” But my wife’s Irish sixth sense took only a second to read the temperature of the room. She said, “What’s wrong?”
I smiled and said, “Not a thing, now that you’re home.”
I noticed the three girls’ smiles as I covered for them. I didn’t like to lie, but this one seemed like a good cause.
CHAPTER 45
I WAS AT my desk the next morning before seven. One minute later I was bothering Walter Jackson. I’d given him Wendy Robinson’s name and told him we couldn’t find her anywhere. That was usually enough for our super analyst to come up with a few addresses no one would think of.
Before I could say a word, Walter asked me, “Do you know why the man who invented the Ferris wheel never met the man who invented the merry-go-round?”
I just shook my head.
As usual, Walter couldn’t contain his wide grin. He said, “They traveled in different circles.”
I chuckled and tried to be polite as I asked about Wendy Robinson’s information.
Walter handed me a sheet of paper with a few more addresses. He said, “The address up in Brewster is her mother. I think that might be a good place to start.”
I lost track of time as I went through notes and answered phone messages. Trilling still hadn’t shown up when I broke out of my tunnel vision. I dialed his phone but got no answer. A few minutes later, he sent a text. I’m at an appointment. Then I have to run by my apartment. I’ll meet you at the office.
Trilling’s lateness was the sort of thing that an administrator like Harry Grissom should handle. But I didn’t want to get my new partner in trouble. I just wanted to find out what the hell was going on with him. On the other hand, it was closing in on noon, and I wanted to get on the road and talk to Wendy Robinson’s mother in Brewster. It would take about an hour to get up to the little town near the Connecticut border.
I decided it was time for bold action. I found Trilling’s home address in Queens and headed over there to catch him when he came home. According to his text, he was headed there before the office. This way we could save some time.
It wasn’t hard to find his apartment building after I came over the Queensboro Bridge. It was a two-story building just off Northern Boulevard. I slipped into a spot on the street nearby.
About twenty minutes later, Trilling pulled up in his FBI-issued Ford Taurus. He didn’t seem shocked to see me.
All I said was “We need to talk.”
Trilling nodded. He said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” A couple of minutes later he was back on the sidewalk with two Miller Lites and a bag from a local deli.
Trilling said, “Sorry. Apartment’s a mess. I’ll share my roast beef sandwich with you if you don’t tell anyone about having a beer in the middle of the day.”
I took the beer and half a sandwich. We leaned on the hood of my Chevy. I was a little curious to see how a young man would decorate an apartment in Queens but decided to worry about it later. “You ever going to tell me where you disappear to?”
“Is this a private, off-the-record conversation?”
I nodded impatiently. I wanted answers and then we needed to get back to work.
“And you want to know about my appointments.”
I nodded silently.
Trilling took a few moments. He let out a sigh and finally started slowly. “I see a therapist at a VA outpatient center in Manhattan. I’ve been having a few problems adjusting to civilian life, and my therapist is concerned I have a form of PTSD. I talked to the NYPD medical staff and told them what was going on. That’s why I was pulled out of Emergency Service. It’s also why they shipped me over to the FBI fugitive task force. They thought it would be a good place to hide me so no one would ask questions.”
I tried to process what he was telling me. As a member of a large government agency, I knew that this sounded plausible on every level. If I told someone on the street about this, they’d laugh and say it was part of a prank. But I could see the anguish on Rob Trilling’s face. Now I understood why he was skeptical about the NYPD.
Trilling said, “I’m not ashamed of having issues after combat. Just feel like it’s my business and it shouldn’t be advertised.”
“It is absolutely your own business. Sorry I ambushed you at your own apartment. Just needed some answers. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I don’t know. You just seem to have it all together. Great reputation, beautiful wife and family. Maybe I didn’t think you’d be able to understand.”
“I don’t pretend to understand PTSD. But I understand people trying to do what’s right. Both for themselves and for the community. We could work it so our schedule isn’t as rigid. You can make your appointments easier.”
Trilling looked at me and said, “If we’re being completely honest, I didn’t have a therapy session this morning.”
“Are you comfortable telling me where you were?”
“Immigration court. I sat in on the hearing for the five women we rescued from the warehouse in the Bronx.”
“And what did you learn?”
“That no one gives a damn about human smuggling.”
CHAPTER 46
OUR RIDE TO Brewster, New York, was uneventful. Somehow I’d hoped that by Rob Trilling telling me about his PTSD and treatment, communication would open up between us. But I was starting to realize that Trilling’s natural state was quiet and thoughtful. It didn’t do much for a ride through the Putnam County landscape.
Calling the area “rural” was like saying Shaquille O’Neal is tall. This was what we city dwellers would call the middle of nowhere. It looked sort of like the area where I imagined Ted Kaczynski had once lived. Quiet, isolated, and, to a New Yorker like me, a little on the creepy side.
The mailbox on the main road had the name Robinson handwritten on it, and the address matched what Walter Jackson had given me. Wendy Robinson’s mom, Bev Robinson, had lived at this address for more than thirty years.
A long driveway seemed to wind up the heavily wooded lot. I thought a driveway like that would’ve led to a mansion. Instead, what stood at the end was a modest, one-story, middle-class house landscaped with manicured ornamental bushes and well-trimmed grass. It was the sort of place you’d expect a teacher or a mechanic to live in.
Trilling asked, “What do we do if Wendy is here?”
“We question her.”
“I mean, tactically, one of us should stay by the car.”
He was right. I try not to argue with anyone who’s right. Trilling stood at the rear of the car as I walked up the short path, onto the porch, and knocked on the front door.
As I waited, I looked down and saw the doormat. It said, ALL WHO ENTER THIS HOUSE ARE LOVED.
A woman in her sixties with short gray hair answered the door with a smile. I could tell right away that she was Wendy Robinson’s mom by her eyes. They were almost exactly the same as Wendy’s.
I introduced myself and showed her my ID. Trilling stood by until I gave him a signal.
Mrs. Robinson didn’t ask the usual What’s this about? She knew what this was about. From this small but important detail, I could tell the cops had been here about Wendy before. Mrs. Robinson invited us inside, and I motioned for Trilling.
I waited at the front door for him. As he stepped onto the porch and saw the welcome mat, he smiled and asked, “Are we sure this is the right place?”
It was true. Wendy Robinson had warmed to us but hadn’t exactly given off “love everyone” vibes. I said, “Kids don’t always reflect their parents’ traits.”
Trilling said, “Thank God. Otherwise, I’d be in prison too.”
I did a double take at this revelation from my partner, but he didn’t elaborate.
Mrs. Robinson called out from the kitchen, telling us to make our way to the living room. She put on a pot of coffee for us without even asking. That was old-school polite.
The interior of the house was exactly as I’d expected: neat and orderly to a fault. It took us a moment to settle onto the couch with a low coffee table in front of us.
Mrs. Robinson came in and said, “What has my Wendy done now?”
I had told Trilling I wanted him to start the interview. When he said, “Mrs. Robinson—” she interrupted and said, “Call me Bev.”
Trilling gave her a charming smile, shook his head, and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m afraid I can’t. I have too many memories of my mom pinching me for not using proper manners.”
She smiled and said, “Good boy.”
“That’s what my mom would say.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Why do you assume we’re here about Wendy?”
“I have four daughters. Each exceptional in their own way. But only one of them draws the attention of the police. She can be a wild one. She joined the Army to avoid a battery charge. You’re not the first police who’ve made the trek up my driveway to talk to me about my daughter. I’m afraid I haven’t seen her in over two months. And I’m afraid I’d rather not know why you’re looking for her. I just want to make sure you won’t hurt her.”
We assured her it was in everyone’s best interest for us to find her daughter. We checked to make sure we both had the right phone number for Wendy. Then we even asked Mrs. Robinson to call Wendy herself, to see if she could figure out where her wayward daughter was staying. Just like our calls, she got no answer.
Mrs. Robinson said, “Last time she was here was to practice with a rifle. There are no other houses around, and she said there were no ranges in the city.”
Both Trilling and I leaned forward. Mrs. Robinson didn’t know where Wendy’s rifle had come from, but she told us it wasn’t here at the house. Then she took us into the backyard and pointed out to us where a large old sheet of plywood was propped up against some trees in the distance.
As we walked toward it, I saw groupings of bullet holes in four different parts of the four-by-eight-foot sheet.
Trilling said, “Wrong caliber. These holes are likely made by .223s. We’re looking for maybe a .308.”
“That doesn’t mean she only has one rifle.”
We couldn’t find any bullets to dig out of trees for forensic examination, but we told Mrs. Robinson that we might be back.
She walked us to our car, where I handed her a business card with both of our cell phone numbers. She agreed to call us if she heard from Wendy. Then Mrs. Robinson said, “Can you help her?”
“She may not need help. Right now we just want to talk to her. She lied to us, and we need to know why.”
Mrs. Robinson shrugged. “You can never tell with Wendy. At one time, she wanted to be a teacher. She even took a few classes at City College. But she’s content to take on odd jobs around the city and exercise at that gym of hers.”
Once we were in the car, I turned to Trilling and said, “Doesn’t your sister live close by?”
“Yeah, Ludingtonville. About ten minutes from here.”
“We can count that as our lunch break if you want to visit.”
He didn’t answer immediately. He was even more thoughtful than usual. Trilling turned to me and said, “You introduced me to your family. I guess I should introduce you to mine.”
CHAPTER 47
ROB TRILLING’S SISTER lived in the middle of the tiny town of Ludingtonville, in a nice two-story house that was kept in good order. A Dodge Ram 1500 pickup truck with Montana plates sat in the driveway.
Trilling casually said, “My mom and grandpa have been here visiting for a few months. They’re helping my sister with the kids because my brother-in-law is a long-haul trucker.”
He said that his mom, who was named Mona, and his grandfather, Chet, would be there watching his sister’s toddler and infant while she worked as a bookkeeper at an auto-parts store in the next town.
A woman I took to be Mona Trilling opened the door as we walked up the driveway. I don’t know why it surprised me to realize that she was only a couple of years older than me. She had black hair and wide, dark eyes. She hugged Trilling like she hadn’t seen him in years, instead of only six days ago, which he had just told me was when he last came up to visit.
Trilling’s grandfather, Chet, came to the door behind Mona. He was a distinguished-looking older man, just under six feet tall with neatly trimmed gray hair and clear, dark eyes.
Chet asked, “Who’s this, Rob?”
Trilling said, “This is my partner, Michael Bennett, Pops.”
“Partner in the Army?”
“No, Pops. I work for the police now.”
The old man smiled and nodded.
They welcomed us into the living room. I chatted with Mona Trilling about the differences between New York and Montana. She told me how happy she was that two of her kids had ended up living near each other, so she could visit both of them at the same time. I gathered that Trilling’s older brother was running the grandfather’s car dealership back in Bozeman.
I said, “It’s nice that you and your father can drive across the country together to visit your children.”
“Oh, Pops isn’t my father. He’s my former father-in-law.”
“From what I hear you take really good care of him. I just assumed he was your dad.”
“No, but we’re close. After my husband left, Pops stepped up and really helped with the kids. I don’t know how much Rob has told you, but his father was not a good man. Anyway, Pops has always been very kind to me. And I intend to stick with him through the troubles I know are coming. Right now it’s just a little memory glitch. We’ve been told it’ll get much worse and he’ll start to act erratically. That’ll be tough on Rob. He loves his grandfather.”
I just sat there silently. That hit me hard. I couldn’t imagine my grandfather, Seamus, having those issues, even though he was almost ten years older than Pops. I listened to the banter between Trilling and his grandfather. In short snippets, you couldn’t tell there were any problems at all. They joked with each other. The elderly man brought up incidents from years before with perfect clarity. And it all made me a little sad.
Learning that Mona looked after an ex-in-law, I started to understand my new partner a little better. Apparently everything I’d seen on the job where he cared so deeply was no act. He had learned lessons about looking after other people, and I could see exactly where he’d picked up those traits.
Trilling and his grandfather went to the rear bedrooms to check on the napping children. As soon as they were out of the room, Mona Trilling turned to me and said, “Is my boy doing all right in the big city?”
“Everything I’ve seen says he’s caught on to life in New York pretty well.”
“You have no idea how I worried about him the whole time he was deployed. When he told me he was leaving active duty, I felt such relief, I didn’t know what to do. Then he goes and joins the New York City Police Department and I start to worry all over again.”
“He’s got a good head on his shoulders. And he knows how to take care of himself. I wouldn’t worry too much.”
“Do you know if he’s dating at all? I don’t want him to be lonely. He brought a young woman by in September for a visit. They were coming back from some weeklong VA retreat in Albany. Her name was Darcy and I think she worked for the VA. She seemed like a nice young lady, but I never heard anything more about her. And Rob is so private, I hate to ask him direct questions about his dating life.”
I thought about my own daughter texting Rob Trilling to ask him out. I looked at Mona and said, “I think Rob will be okay. We’re working a lot of hours right now while we’re on one case. Like every job, we have busy times and slow times. He’ll have time to figure out what he wants to do and who he wants to date.”
That seemed to satisfy his mother. Just then, Trilling stepped from the hallway, holding an infant, while his grandfather held the hand of a toddler.
Chet looked right at me and asked, “Who’s this?”
My heart broke a little bit for the whole family.
CHAPTER 48
BEFORE WE’D EVEN driven back to the city, Walter Jackson had texted me a new possible address for Wendy Robinson. Rob Trilling insisted we look for her right now.
