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 of 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. ‘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 divorcée.’
You’re a fool. You should never have made this call. Just keep talking.
‘I’m telling you because you look like a good man. An honest man.’
The compliment surprised Mitch. ‘Thank you.’
‘You look like a man who would want to know the truth. Are you?’
Actually I’m a man who wants to keep you on the line for the next ten seconds. Nine … eight …
‘You know, Mrs Brookstein, the best thing you could do right now would be to turn yourself in.’ Six … five …
Grace laughed. ‘Please, Detective. Don’t insult my intelligence. I have to go now.’
‘No. Wait! I can help you. If you are innocent, as you say you are, there are legal channels –’
Click.
The line went dead. Mitch looked hopefully at the guys on the other side of the glass, but the shake of their heads told him what he already knew.
‘Two more seconds and we’d’ve had her.’
Mitch sank into his chair and put his head in his hands. Immediately, the phone rang again. Mitch leaped on it like a jilted lover, willing it to be her. ‘Grace?’
A man’s voice answered. ‘Detective Connors?’
Mitch felt the hope drain out of him like blood from a severed vein. ‘Speaking.’
‘Detective, my name is John Rodville. I’m the head of admissions at the Putnam Medical Center.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Mitch said wearily. The name meant nothing to him.
‘We have a patient here, brought in last week with a knife wound to the back. He was in a coma till this morning. We didn’t think he’d make it. But he pulled through.’
‘That’s
