The Criminal Mind Read online

  Busting with pride at my son’s reflexive command of the issues, I sat back and wondered to what extent I would get the doctor’s cooperation, with or without a court order.

  As John and I clicked our glasses in acknowledgement of our legal brainstorming, Maureen excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Feeling hopeful and emboldened, I popped an entirely unrelated, yet significant question to my beloved children.

  “So, what do you think of Maureen?”

  In unison and to my utter astonishment, they replied: “She seems nice, Dad, but you do know she looks just like Mom, don’t you?”

  After we returned to the 51st Street apartment, I broke the news to Maureen that I had to leave the city on business. Though she seemed both surprised and disappointed, she pulled me close and gave me another slow, soft kiss that seemed to stay on my lips long after it was over. Though another round of lovemaking seemed to be in the offing, I felt thrown off balance by my kids pointing out her likeness to Eleanor. Maureen seemed tired anyway, so I told her that I had to make some calls and that she should not wait for me to turn in—even though the only one I intended to make was to Charlotte. But before my fingers touched the phone, a call came in from Lauren.

  “No way you read my notes on Mia and Upstate New York and are bailing on me this quick,” I began.

  “Oh ye of little faith. I did some digging, got the dope on Mia, and you wouldn’t believe who her adoptive mother is.” Lauren sounded confident and self-assured, as always.

  “Hillary Clinton?”

  “Close, but wrong party. It’s Beatrice Langley, Reginald Langley’s widow.”

  “The former Secretary of—”

  “The Treasury, yes.”

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  “Meet me at the Skylight Diner on 34th Street tomorrow morning at ten, and you’ll find out.”

  After I hung up with Lauren, I couldn’t help but think to myself…What in the world am I getting myself into? I made a couple of quick calls, and then in an effort to clear my head, I went into the living room and turned on the TV. After flipping through the cable channels, I found that The Godfather was on again, and I picked up almost where I left off back in Franklin. But once again, age got the better of me and I dozed off. When I awoke, I checked on Maureen. She was in bed and in a deep sleep. I checked the time. It was only 10:45 p.m. Since I knew Charlotte would still be up, I called her and asked her to look in on Maureen “while I was away on business for a few days.”

  Charlotte answered as I expected she would. “You bring your girlfriend to New York City and then you leave her here? So, what is it? Are you serious about her or not?”

  “Now you’re embarrassing me.”

  “Well, she’s goo-goo eyed for you, Dad.”

  “I can’t believe you’re grilling me like this—like I used to grill you.”

  “Believe it. It’s happening.”

  “Alright…yes, I care about her very much. Now can you just check in on her while I’m gone, please? Have her over…take her out once or twice…and ask John to join in, too?”

  “You’re going to have to ask John yourself. He’s not exactly onboard with the Maureen thing just yet—especially with the resemblance.”

  “Charlotte, I don’t want her wandering around the city alone, so please—”

  “I’ll look after her, but it will have to be after work.”

  “Of course, after work.”

  “I’ll do my best, Dad. Now have a safe trip.”

  The next morning, Maureen and I went for breakfast. When we returned, I gave her two thousand in cash and told her it was for food and fun while I was gone.

  “Nick, there is no reason why I would need this much money,” she said. “I’ll use some of it to stock the refrigerator, but that’s it. When you come back, I’ll be as plump as a pumpkin.”

  “Don’t be silly. The Broadway shows are amazing, and my daughter, Charlotte, is going to give you a call also. She wants to take you out and show you the big city.”

  “That’s sweet of her. I’d love that.”

  “As for the money? I’m really just a poor boy from Brooklyn who got an inheritance I can’t spend in a dozen lifetimes. So, enjoy it while I’m gone. When I get back, we’ll enjoy it together.”

  I was then the recipient of another of those long kisses that made me forget that a limo would be arriving soon with a crusty veteran inside. After Lauren had called the night before, I moved the flight to Syracuse from 11:00 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. There was just one problem: I’d forgotten to tell Charlie and the limo driver.

  As expected, Charlie griped about being picked up so early, and then griped some more when I told him we had a few stops to make before we headed to the airport—first to see Lauren and then to pay a visit to the offices of one Dr. Sylvia Field, psychiatrist. I’d called ahead to make an emergency appointment. Didn’t matter. She was booked. Then I dropped the name of Beatrice Langley, and like the parting of the Red Sea, at 2:00 p.m., a slot opened up.

  After I told Charlie what I had planned, he could barely contain his excitement. Being part of the investigation seemed to breathe new life into him. Once we arrived at our initial destination, I watched as he moved easily onto his wheelchair from inside the limo. All I had to do was open the rear passenger door, move the chair close, and he did the rest. He also insisted on wheeling himself. He told me that this was something I had “better get used to.”

  The chrome storefront of the Skylight Diner was a throwback to the trailer car diners of the 1950s and 1960s. After we passed under a long blue awning, we went inside and joined Lauren at a corner booth. She hid her surprise at seeing Charlie, introduced herself, and shook his hand. His marine fatigues, scraggly beard and rough manner didn’t faze her in the least. After all, she had just returned from war-torn Aleppo.

  When the waitress arrived, Lauren and I merely asked for coffee, while Charlie ordered a pancake breakfast.

  “Didn’t you eat at the center?” I asked.

  “So what?” he replied. “You never heard of anyone having two breakfasts? Besides, while the two of you are talking, I’ll at least have something to do.”

  “What do you mean?” Lauren asked. “You’re a part of this too, Charlie.” Lauren then sent a smile in his direction, which caused him to blush.

  “She’s not flirting with you,” I said blithely to Charlie.

  “I can dream, can’t I?” he answered, while shoving a fork full of pancake soaked in maple syrup into his mouth.

  Lauren went on to explain that there was little that she couldn’t find out while working at the center of one of the world’s largest news organizations. The resources were endless, and there seemed to be no bottom to the well of information at her disposal—whether archived on computer servers, or collected from books and records dating back to the invention of the printing press.

  She then spoke while referring to prepared notes that she later gave me.

  “Now a widow going on nine years, Beatrice Langley came from what was dubbed in her social circle as ‘good stock.’ Regrettably, this term was not at all applicable to her husband, Reginald Langley, known to his friends as Reggie, whom she first met at a polo match in the Hamptons. Beatrice was quite the young beauty in those days. Standing next to Reggie, a handsome and fit polo player, the two looked like paper cutouts from a high society magazine—but for Reggie’s background. Reggie was a professional gambler, and though quite the athlete (having played Triple-A ball for the Baltimore Orioles), he had barely enough money to keep up appearances. On the other hand, Beatrice’s family had been in banking since the early 1900s and was downright filthy rich. Regardless of their differences, Reggie’s ship was about to come in, and Beatrice’s family was helping steer it to port.

  “Prior to meeting Reggie, and to the dismay of her family, Beatrice had just concluded a scan
dalous affair with a Dominican chef who worked at one of the country clubs her father belonged to. The affair came to an abrupt end when her father called in a few favors, got the chef fired and ultimately deported. When rosy-cheeked Reggie came along with his athletic build, good looks and pearly white smile, it was all Beatrice’s family could do to keep the two together. Once Reggie caught wind of the catbird seat he was in, he proceeded to shake down her father for a half-million-dollar dowry, and married Beatrice. Shortly thereafter, Reggie began the career in finance he was dreaming of, starting as an assistant vice president in one of his father-in-law’s banks. Bright, charming and even hardworking, he quickly rose up the ranks, impressing both Beatrice’s father and the local political machine. This explains why, five years into the marriage, he ran for Congress and lost, and then two years later ran for the U.S. Senate and lost—all the while climbing New England’s political ladder in lockstep with his rise in the banking industry.

  “Then the marriage lottery paid off—and paid off big—when one fine day a certain U.S. president (who was returning a favor), nominated him for a cabinet position. Fortunately for Reggie, that president’s political party was in control of Congress and his appointment was easily confirmed. Reginald Langley, gambler and gold digger, had become the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States of America.

  “As for Mia, Beatrice had been dead set on adopting the moment she discovered that she couldn’t have any children. Reggie, the bastion of encouragement, had serious doubts as to whether she would be able to assume the grand responsibilities of motherhood over the long term, which is why he suggested she begin by giving foster parenting a try.

  “With the help of a friend in local government, Beatrice was able to view a series of bios and photos handpicked from the files of New York City’s Bureau of Child Welfare. Though Mia’s backstory was troubling, Beatrice softened immediately after seeing a photo of the child’s young, sweet face. Then they met, and Mia’s emotional and psychological difficulties no longer mattered. As for Reggie, he never did meet Mia. At the same time that Beatrice was finalizing the paperwork to become a foster mom, Reggie’s car was veering off a highway somewhere south of Albany on his way back from a hunting trip. Having crashed down into a culvert, he suffered severe head trauma and died a week later. Though Beatrice barely shed a tear, she footed the bill for the elaborate funeral befitting a member of the president’s cabinet, and accepted all condolences graciously. Afterward, she was only too happy to be raising Mia alone.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I can’t believe how much information you found, and how fast you found it.”

  “It was easier than you think. Beatrice isn’t the only one with contacts in Social Services.”

  “Ya gotta have friends,” Charlie uttered, as he slurped down the remains of his coffee, and then cradled the cup in his hands. “You can always get a good cup of coffee here,” he exclaimed.

  “You’ve been here before?” I asked.

  “Why should that surprise you?” he answered matter-of-factly.

  Lauren had to get back to work, but before she left, I had one more assignment for her. “What you need to know, and what I failed to tell you until now, is that Mia suffers from multiple personality disorder.”

  “You’re not serious.” Lauren appeared surprised, but not deterred.

  “I suppose when you get put in a box, and tortured and abused as a child,” I answered, “you either go completely mad, or some force inside you comes to your aid—like white blood cells fighting off an infection.”

  “Oh my God,” Lauren blurted. “This poor kid.”

  “And you wouldn’t know it to meet her. She’s lovely really. Of course, as Charlie can attest, sometimes you’re meeting someone else.”

  “I can attest,” Charlie interrupted, while widening his eyes in exaggerated fashion.

  “This is the most fascinating, and at the same time, the saddest thing I have ever heard.” Lauren looked down, thought for a moment, and then perked up and gave me her full attention. “Nick, I want in on this case, and I’m not talking about a news story. I want to help this girl.”

  “And we’ve also got to find out about those buried kids,” Charlie added.

  “I’m glad you feel this way,” I said to Lauren. “Which is why I need you to do something for me. I need you to get Mia to sign a waiver of doctor-patient privilege, so we can find out what Mia’s alters said to her psychiatrist about the crimes they witnessed, as well as who was responsible. Mia, of course, will tell us everything that she knows. The problem is that it was her alters who saw and heard the worst of it. If we can get the psychiatrist’s session notes and maybe even compel the doctor to talk, we might just find out what actually happened to Mia and many other children as well. Right now, all we’ve got is a little girl’s limited recollection.”

  “I’m sure our lawyers at the network will have the waiver,” she said. “I’ll take care of it. Just tell Mia to expect to hear from me.”

  “We will,” Charlie joined in. “Here’s her info.” Charlie pulled a pen out of his pocket, wrote Mia’s telephone number on a napkin, and then handed it to Lauren.

  “Thank you, but I have it,” Lauren said. She then slipped me a piece of paper with Mia’s address on it. “Take this too, should you need it,” she said.

  Charlie got back into the limo as easily as he got out of it by locking the chair’s wheels, climbing on to the open doorframe, turning, and dropping himself on to the rear seat. And he didn’t so much as break a sweat in the process. Even the driver marveled at his strength and dexterity.

  Once the chair was placed in the trunk and we were all seated inside, I announced to the driver that our next stop would be Park Avenue and 60th Street.

  “Why the hell are we going there?” Charlie asked, as he wiggled to get more comfortable.

  “Lauren gave me Mia’s address. Since our flight won’t leave for a few hours, let’s take a look. I have a feeling you might like her digs…at least what we can see from the outside.”

  “Fine with me.” Charlie chuckled as he spoke. “And I must say, I like that Lauren.”

  “Either way, don’t get too excited about the upscale visit,” I said. “We’ve got time to kill before our next appointment, so we’re just doing a drive-by. I doubt we’re getting out of the car.”

  “A drive-by, huh. Should I be packing heat?” Charlie asked, as the driver, a man in his seventies, eyeballed us via his rearview mirror as he turned off 35th and on to Park.

  “Funny, but not funny,” I said.

  Charlie looked out the side window on to Park Avenue. “Do you know why there are these big planters with flowers in them running up and down the center of the avenue?”

  “No, I don’t, Charlie. Maybe because it adds a park-like atmosphere to the two-way street called Park Avenue?”

  “That’s one reason, but not the main reason,” Charlie said proudly. “In the mid-1800s, there was a railroad that ran up the middle of what was then called Fourth Avenue. In 1875, the train stopped running and the tracks were sunk into a trench and covered with dirt. Later, grass and benches were added to cover the trench—thus, the park-like atmosphere you speak of. Later on, when the high society-types moved in, the name of the street was changed to Park Avenue.”

  “Very impressive,” I responded. “I didn’t know you were such an urban history buff.”

  “I’m also impressed,” the driver added cheerfully. “And may I add, sir, a ‘thank you’ for your service.”

  Charlie ignored the driver’s ‘thank you’ and turned to me. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Captain, and there’s a lot I know about Upstate New York that you’ll find damn helpful once we get there—if we ever get there. Did I catch that we have another stop after this?”

  “Patience, Charlie. We’re killing three birds with one stone before we leave.

&nbs
p; We’ll be back in your hometown for dinner. You’ll see.”

  Charlie continued to look out the window. “I’ve been up in this area many times, you know. I also know Mia’s address. She told it to me once.”

  “You came all the way up here in your chair?”

  “If you can walk it, I can ride it.”

  “Whatever you say.” I looked down at the address, then up at the numbers on the buildings. I asked the driver to slow down. “Here it is, 510 Park Ave.” The driver stopped beside an awning braced onto brass poles that extended from the curb to the building, where gold-trimmed front doors under an elegant, stained-glass Tiffany light welcomed all inhabitants and invited guests—of whom we were neither.

  “There are marble floors, walls and ceilings inside,” Charlie exclaimed with surprising familiarity. “There’s even a spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. Of course, to go any higher, you have to use the bank of elevators. The rich don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “How on God’s green earth do you know all this?” I asked.

  “I followed Mia home once, waited, and then went inside. There are two doormen on at all times. One, who was working at the time, was also a veteran—Iraq and Afghanistan. He let me hang out and look around for a few minutes.”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  “Hey, I lost my legs. I didn’t lose my arms, and I certainly didn’t lose my mind.”

  “I suppose not, Charlie.”

  “No supposing about it. Where to now, Captain?”

  I looked up at the building through the limo’s skylight. It was about fifty stories high. “I’ll bet my uncle’s inheritance that Beatrice Langley’s apartment is somewhere in the stratosphere up there.” I then looked down at my notes and nodded to the driver. “Please take us to 81 Greenwich Street. I believe it’s in the Village.”

  “It’s in the Financial District,” Charlie said.