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EXCERPT FROM STOLEN FLOWER
ONE It was August eighth, eight-thirty in the morning, and already ninety-four degrees outside. I was sitting at the desk wearing running shoes and shorts, trying to decide whether or not to jog Central Park. I figured if I didn't go now it would be impossibly hot later and was about to get up and leave, but the phone stopped me. Louise, my secretary, doesn't come in until nine-thirty. I reached over and picked up the phone, said, "Hello," and it began... "Hello, Frank," said John Lopez, a criminal attorney I know. "Hello yourself. What's happening, how are you?" I said. "Good. Working hard, but good." "I haven't seen you for a while, too long a while." "I know. I've been busy. Very busy. I'm on a trial right now." He sounded distressed. "Are you all right?" I asked. "Yes..." "What's up then? Why you calling so early?" "I'm calling for friend, a dear friend, who'd got quite a problem. I thought perhaps you could help." "I'll do whatever I can, you know that. Who is it?" "...It's Walter Sommers." "You mean the Broadway Walter Sommers?" "Yes." "Tell me about it." He took a long, slow breath. He said, "Perhaps you heard about it; some months back his granddaughter disappeared —" "Yes, I do remember, in Europe somewhere." "That's right. She was on Christmas vacation with her mother. They were in Italy, on a tour of the Pompeii ruins, when the child abruptly vanished. From what I'm told these ruins have many places a child could wander off and get lost in, and the Italian police used dogs and looked for her for a full three days; but nothing...not a trace of her! No ransom demands or anything like that either." "She couldn't have vanished into thin air." "I know, Frank, but like I say there were no ransom demands or threats, nothing." "Strange. Especially over there. Kidnapping's quite a popular sport in Europe, I understand." "Yes, it is." "How old is the girl, John?" "She was nine when she disappeared but had a birthday only last wee. She's been gone over six month now." "I've seen pictures of her mother. She's a beautiful woman." "Yes. Yes, she is lovely. Quite lovely." Scribbling on a pad on my desk, I said, "Of course I'll do what I can, but it happened in Europe, and really there's not a hell of a lot I can do over there. What do the European authorities say?" "At this point very little. They've done all they could, from what I understand, but they've come up with nothing. A zero." He was silent. And then John Lopez, who is considered, and rightly so, one of the finest criminal attorneys in the country, told me, "But something happened just yesterday; and it's changed the complexion of everything. Frank, can you hold a moment, please?" "Yeah, sure." He clicked off. I doodled some more on my pad. He came back. "As I was saying," he said, "yesterday the family received a magazine in the mail, which I saw just a little while ago, and it's a horrible thing, really horrible! This piece of filth was published in Holland, and most of what's written in it is either Dutch or German, but there are pictures! Pictures of children, just kids, having relations. And I mean very explicit stuff. And some of the children could not be more than six or so! I'll tell you, the goddamn thing sickened me! "...And Frank, there were photographs of Valerie Sommers in it!" Here his voice trailed off. He took another long, slow, angry breath. He waited for me to say something. I didn't know what to say. He said, "They are bad, Frank, really bad," and I could picture the muscles in his face, his lips drawn into colorless, severe lines, his eyes narrowing angrily. "The envelope was addressed to Walter," he continued, "and when he saw his granddaughter in this filth he had a mild kind of stroke, something called a transient ischemic attack. He's at New York Hospital right now. He's had a history of high blood pressure and this thing did the trick." "That's be a hell of a pill for anyone to swallow! Christ! Was it postmarked from Europe?" "No. New York." "Strange!" "Yes, I know." "Any kind of ransom demand, threats? Anything like that?" "No...nothing." "Has the NYPD been called?" "Not yet. The family does not want this in the press. They feel, and rightly so, if the New York police found out about it it'd be in the papers the following day, and the trash newspapers all over the world would have a field day with it. And that's where you come in, Frank, why I'm calling. That can't happen! And this is the first lead the family has gotten since she disappeared." "And you say it was postmarked in New York?" "Yes. In fact, Manhattan." "Can I see it?" "Of course. I'll have it sent over right away." I thought about fingerprints but knew that by now the magazine had to have been handed by too many nervous hands and I let that idea take a nap. He said, "I'd like you to meet with the mother. I've already given her your number and suggested she call...I should tell you, she's taken this badly, very hard; she's really gone to pieces." "Understandable." "Yes, yes it is. She blames herself." "That's to be expected," I said. "I guess so," he said, and we said goodbye after talking a couple more minutes, and I sat there a while more, mulling over what he'd just told me. * I didn't feel like running anymore; it was probably too hot outside anyway. I got up and went to take a shower instead. In the bathroom I slipped out of my shorts and running shoes and got into the shower stall. I turned on the cold water but it didn't get cold, it just stayed lukewarm, and that's how the Sommers case began. Two My office and apartment are in a five-story brownstone on West Eighty-seventh Street, just off Central Park West. The office takes up the two front apartments and my place the two rear ones. My name is Frank De Nardo. I'm a private investigator. When I got out of the shower, I went into the kitchen, made espresso, toast, cut up a papaya. Now the typewriter in the office was clicking away; Louise had arrived. My place has a garden out back, and I went out there wearing just a towel and sat in the shade of an umbrellaed table and ate slowly. There were some sparrows singing to one another in a tree that grows over the yard. The tree was thick with waxy green leaves, and the sky through the lattice of leaves was a rich summer blue, and I could not see the birds. But their chirping lent a cheerfulness to the morning, a cheerfulness very much in contrast to the story John Lopez had just told me. I ate slowly. It was very warm, but with just the towel on it was pleasant enough. Someone in the brownstone opposite me began practicing on a saxophone. Finished, I got up and went inside, wondering how I would feel if a child of mine had met the fate of the Sommers girl. Jesus! how could I feel? How could anyone feel? Terrible, like it would be the end-of-the-world terrible. I do not have any children, but it does not take much imagination to put yourself in those people's shoes. I sighed and brought the dishes into the kitchen and rinsed them. I went into the closet and put on worn jeans and a red T-shirt. I walked down the corridor that connects my apartment with the office up front. Louise was sitting at her desk, back rigid, still typing. She looked up and smiled. "Morning, Frank," she said. "Morning yourself." "What's wrong? Why the long face?" "Aah...just heard a sad story." I did not continue and she did not ask any more questions. I asked her to get in touch with Newsweek for a cover article of theirs I had read a couple of months back—an article that described how children from cities all over the world were being bought and kidnapped for the purpose of sexual exploitation and abuse—and to dig up whatever information she could on the Sommers family. Louise had been with me since I started the business, about three years. She is efficient, tall and curvy, full-breasted, with a narrow face and dark, elongated eyes. Her arms are long and graceful, and without them I couldn't find half the things in the office. I watched her flipping through a Rolodex thinking maybe it was time to give her a raise. For the last year or so business has been pretty good and she does deserve more bread. I decided maybe next month. She dialed the phone and I started down the staircase to my office but the doorbell stopped me. Louise pressed the hold button and stood. She was wearing baggy white shorts. Her legs are long and well-shaped and very tan. "I'll get it," I said, and she sat down. I buzzed the buzzer and stuck my head into the hallway, and there was a delivery boy out there, short and with beet red cheeks and freckles, chewing gum like he was in a fast gum-chewing contest. I took the package, tipped him a dollar, closed the door, and continued down to my office. It was the magazine John Lopez had told me about; I recognized his childlike script on the package. Downstairs, I put on Vivaldi and began to open the package. The intercom buzzed. I picked up the phone. "Yes?" "There's a Michelle Sommers on the line, Frank. Do you want the call? I said I did and pushed the blinking hold button and said hello. "John Lopez gave me your number, Mr. De Nardo," she said, her voice small and hurt. "Yes," I said. "I've been expecting your call." "Mr. De Nardo, can I see you? Is it possible I can see you—today?" "Of course. Yes." "I'm really...it's hard for me to go out. Would it be too much to ask you to come here?" she just about whispered. I told her it would not be, and she gave me an upper Fifth Avenue address, an apartment number, and hung up after a weak thank you and goodbye. The address was 3131, which is two thirteens, my lucky number, reversed. I wondered about that, but not long. There was a lot of strain in Michele Sommers's voice. It was the kind of strain that lives deep inside people, where the pain we have to suffer in this world sets up residence and refused to pay any rent and you cannot evict it. I stood up and walked around the office, a space about twenty feet, with my desk, a couple of primitive paintings on the wall opposite my desk, crowded bookshelves, a once-shining parquet floor. Next to the desk are three chest-high office files. That's it. One of the paintings is of a black panther in a green jungle. It looks like a Rousseau, but it's not. Michelle Sommers's voice had a haunting, slow motion kind of pain in it and I could still hear it in my head. I picked up the package John had sent over and cut through thick brown paper and held a magazine in my hand. On the cover, a thick, glossy paper, it said Nymphette. And under this Nymphette, which was in yellow block letters, there was a picture of a girl. A pretty blond girl with stick-straight hair touching her shoulders, blue eyes, wide, well-set cheekbones, and a pug nose. She looked Scandinavian. She was sitting down and lifting up her dress and pulling her underwear over to the right, and she could not have been more than eight or nine. I had heard about these things—we all have—but had never seen one, and it unsettled me. But in my line of work, I've seen a lot—maybe too much—of the not-so-wonderful things people in this world are capable of, relish, take on festive picnics with them. I sat down and turned on a reading lamp. There were two copper metal clips stuck into the middle. I turned to them and there was a note from John Lopez. It said the next four pages were Valerie Sommers and I pulled the note away, still hearing that woman's sadness, and I took one long look at the first picture, and my stomach tightened, and the muscles in my jaw tightened, and there was this sudden bad taste in my mouth. I though about having a drink, but knew it wouldn't help. "No wonder her grandfather had a stroke. Christ!" I said to the walls, but they didn't answer me. I stood up and walked around the room some more, sat down again and turned the page. It was unbelievable. To think of a mother seeing this happen to her child. It was too much! The first picture showed Valerie sitting in a yellow leather chair, a sad expression on her face. The second picture, on the opposite page, showed her sitting in the same chair, but in this picture there was a man standing over her and he was as a man should absolutely not be with a child and if that had been my daughter I would not have had a second thought, the slightest compunction, about putting a bullet in that guy's head. Now I knew why Michelle Sommers, this girl's mother, sounded the way she did. It upset me deeply. But I knew that wouldn't help and I looked at the pictures carefully, coldly, trying to see what was on Valerie's face, in her eyes, what was happening inside her, to learn whatever I could. I wondered if they were using drugs on her. I had heard they do that. Maybe I should not tell you what I was seeing, but eventually men lost there lives because of it, and you should know the truth, but if it's hard for you, skip these next few paragraphs. In the third picture her eyes were closed and her face distorted. It looked like she was gagging. Her hands were at her sides, the fingers curled and tense. Both her large toes were bent forward and there were just perceptible circles around her wrists and ankles, and they were the kind of marks made by bindings. The fourth picture, opposite this one...I think maybe I'd better spare the graphics, but it was unnatural and shameful, and I began to wonder if maybe this was one of those days I should have stayed in bed to begin with. Looking at this and then remembering Michelle Sommers's voice numbed me and unsettled me, and I sat there with this strong anger and pity pulsating in me like a thing alive. For the next hour I looked through the magazine, studied it, tried to understand it. There were thirty-three pictures in all, and they each depicted children with other children and children with adults. There were also some short stories, but they were all in German and I do not read German. In the back of the magazine there were personals and some of these were in English; however, most were in either Dutch or German. I buzzed Louise and asked her to get someone over to the office to translate Dutch and German into English. But the ones that were written in English, which I could understand—here are a few of them verbatim; see for yourself what's going on, on this lovely planet we call home. GERMAN male, father, travels extensively, wishes to view sexually explicit films of young girls. Willing to pay for club memberships, etc. 624X HANDSOME FATHER in late 30s with beautiful young daughters interested in meeting others interested in sex education. Discreet. 602T WOULD like to correspond in English with parents of girls ages 5-10. Am interested in establishing long-term sexual liaison. 578T HANDSOME Spanish man, 45 years of age, willing to pay $3000 to parents of pre-teen children who will pose and have sex at my estate in Spain. 487W UNMARRIED woman in late 40s is looking for a partner who also loves having sex with young children. Wants a lasting relationship. Please send photo. 518L AMERICAN male, early 30s, with young daughter willing to have sex
with like-minded men. If interested in meeting us, write 614 T. FRENCH male, 45, willing to pay top dollar to spend a week with your pre-teen daughter. Please include photo. 511X. AMERICAN gentleman with extensive film library of pre-teen girls would like to hear from anyone interested in viewing my rare collection. 638T SUBMISSIVE pre-teen and her uncle seek meetings with older men. Please reply with detailed letter and photo to Box 670X 40-YEAR-OLD Swedish man wished contact with parents of daughter age 4-10. Will pay $3500. 401W GOOD-LOOKING Canadian man in early 30s would like to have sex with Oriental pre-teen children. 600X I picked up the phone. There are a few heavies I know in the porno business and I figured I could use their help. I made a phone call. That done, I sat there and thought. I was still thinking when Louise buzzed down and told me that she'd gotten information I asked for and that a translator was on his way over. I asked her to come downstairs and watched her step into the spiral stairwell and begin her way down. Like I said, Louise has a fine pair of legs, but now they were just legs. I usually admire them, long and muscular, when she's coming down the stairs, but now they were only things to be used to get from here to there. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. If you know of an exploited or abused child—or if you recognize a missing child—you can get help right away by telephoning or writing to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, 1-800-843-5678 or 202-634-9821. The address of the Center is Suite 700, 1835 K Street, N.W., Washington, DC 20006. POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020 Copyright (c)1986 by Philip Carlo Published by arrangement with E.P. DUTTON, All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, write to E.P. DUTTON, A Division of NAL Penguin Inc., 2 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10016 ISBN: 0-671-64862-4 First Pocket Books printing February 1988 POCKET and colophone are trademarks of Printed in the U.S.A. |
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