“What does the FBI know about the suitcase?”
“Nothing. With the monogram and crest, they’ve concluded that it’s mine.”
“You didn’t tell them—?”
I make a face. “Of course not.”
“So, wait, are you a suspect?”
I shrug.
“When they figure out the suitcase’s real significance,” Patricia begins.
“We will both be suspects, yes.”
* * *
My cousin, for those who haven’t already guessed, is the Patricia Lockwood.
You’ve probably seen her story on 60 Minutes or the like, but for those somehow not in the know, Patricia Lockwood runs the Abeona Shelters for abused and homeless girls or teens or young women or whatever the current correct terminology may be. She is the heart, the soul, the drive, and the telegenic face of one of the country’s highest-graded charities. She has deservedly won dozens of humanitarian awards.
So where to start?
I won’t go into the family split, how her father and mine had a falling-out, how the two brothers battled, how my father, Windsor the Second, won and vanquished his sibling, because, in truth, I think my father and my uncle would have eventually reconciled. Our family, like many both rich and poor, has a history of fissure and repair.
There is no bond like blood, but there is no compound as volatile either.
What stopped the potential repair was the great finalizer—death.
I will state what happened as unemotionally as possible:
Twenty-four years ago, two men in ski masks murdered my uncle Aldrich Powers Lockwood and kidnapped my eighteen-year-old cousin Patricia. For a while, there were sightings of her—a bit like with the paintings, now that I think about it—but they all led to dead ends. There was one ransom note, but it was quickly exposed as a money scam.
It was as though the earth had swallowed my cousin whole.
Five months after the kidnapping, campers near the Glen Onoko Falls heard the hysterical screams of a young woman. A few moments later, Patricia sprinted out of the woods and toward their tent.
She was naked and covered in filth.
Five. Months.
It took law enforcement a week to locate the small resin storage shed, the sort you’d buy at a chain hardware store, where Patricia had been held prisoner. The shattered manacle she’d managed to break with a rock was still on the dirt floor. So too a bucket for her waste. That was all. The shed was seven feet by seven feet, the door secured with a padlock. The exterior was forest green and thus nearly impossible to spot—a dog from the FBI’s canine unit found it.
The storage shed earned the headline “Hut of Horrors,” especially after the crime lab located DNA for nine more young women/teens/girls, ranging in age from sixteen to twenty. Only six of the bodies have been found to this day, all buried nearby.
The perpetrators were never caught. They were never identified. They simply disappeared.
Physically, Patricia seemed as okay as one could hope. Her nose and ribs had shown signs of past breakage—the abduction had been violent—but those had healed well enough. Still, it took time to recuperate. When Patricia re-engaged with the world, she did so with a vengeance. She channeled that trauma into a cause. Her passion for her fellow females, those who’d been abused and abandoned with no hope, became a living, breathing, palpable thing.
Cousin Patricia and I have never spoken about those five months.
She has never raised it, and I’m not the kind of person who invites people to open up to them.
Patricia begins to pace the parlor. “Let’s step back and try to look at this rationally.”
I wait, let her gather herself.
“When exactly was the painting stolen?”
I tell her September eighteenth and the year.
“That’s, what, seven months before…” She still paces. “Before Dad was murdered.”
“Closer to eight.”
I had done the math on the helicopter.
She stops pacing and throws up her hands. “What the hell, Win?”
I shrug.
“Are you saying the same guys who stole the paintings came back, murdered Dad, and kidnapped me?”
I shrug again. I shrug a lot, but I shrug with a certain panache.
“Win?”
“Walk me through it,” I say.
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“I don’t want to,” Patricia says in a small voice that is so unlike her. “I’ve spent the last twenty-four years avoiding it.”
I say nothing.
“Do you understand?”
I still say nothing.
“Don’t give me the silent man-of-mystery act, okay?”
“The FBI will want to see whether you can identify the murdered hoarder.”
“I can’t. I told you. And what’s the difference now? He’s dead, right? Let’s say he was this old bald guy. He’s gone. It’s over.”
“How many men broke in, the night of your abduction?” I ask.
She closes her eyes. “Two.”
When Patricia opens her eyes again, I offer up another shrug.
“Shit,” she says.
CHAPTER 4
We decide to do nothing for the moment. In truth, Cousin Patricia decides—it is her life that will be turned upside down, not mine—but I concur. She wants to think about it and see what else we can learn first. Once we open this particular door, there is no way to close it again.
I look in on my father, but he is still resting. I don’t disturb him. Most days he is lucid. Some he is not. I climb back into the helicopter and leave Lockwood. I set up a rendezvous with a woman on my app. We decide to meet at nine p.m. She uses the code name Amanda. I use the code name Myron because he finds this app so repulsive. I asked him to explain why. Myron started with the deeper meaning of love, of connection, of being as one, of waking up and making someone else a part of your life.
My eyes glazed over.
Myron shook his head. “Explaining romantic love to you is like teaching a lion to read: It isn’t going to happen, and someone might get hurt.”
I like that.
You don’t have this app, by the way. You can’t get this app.
An hour later, I enter my office. Kabir, my assistant, is there. Kabir is a twenty-eight-year-old Sikh American. He has a long beard. He wears a turban. I probably should not mention any of this because he was born in this country and acts more like a stereotypical American than anyone I know, but as Kabir puts it, “The turban. You always gotta explain the turban.”
“Messages?” I ask him.
“A ton.”
“Any pressing?”
“Yes.”
“Give me an hour then.”
Kabir nods and hands me a water bottle. It is a cold beverage with the latest NAD molecules, which help slow down aging. I am provided the latest compound from a longevity doctor at Harvard. The elevator takes me down to the private workout room in the basement. There are free weights, a boxing heavy bag, a speed bag, a grappling dummy, wooden practice swords (bokkens), rubber handguns, a Wing Chun dummy with hardwood arms and legs, you get the idea.
I train every day.
I have worked with some of the best fighting instructors in the world. I have practiced all the fighting techniques you know—karate, kung fu, taekwondo, krav maga, jujitsu of various stripes—and many you don’t. I spent a year in Siem Reap studying the Khmer fighting technique of Bokator, which roughly though aptly translated means “pounding a lion.” I spent two college summers outside of Jinhae in South Korea with a reclusive Soo Bahk Do master. I study strikes, takedowns, submissions, joint locks (though I don’t like them), pressure points (not really useful in a true battle), one-on-one combat, group attacks, weaponry of all kinds. I am an expert marksman with a handgun (I am proficient with a rifle, but I rarely find a need for it). I’ve worked with knives, swords, and blades of all sorts, and while I greatly admire the Filipino form of Kali Eskrima, I’ve learned more from our Delta Force’s elite blend of styles.