Well, he was right to use the P.O. box, Sully decided. He was a realist and too suspicious to offer his home address. If he really sent this, it was hard to predict who might get hold of it and respond.
But he was going to send it. With a faint curl of a smile, he stood, circled the desk, went to a bookshelf and lifted an intriguing bottle he’d found in a junk shop during one of his lunchtime strolls through Greenwich Village.
“A genie bottle,” Sully had pronounced, taking in the pale amber glass, round design and squat neck. He’d been thinking, as he often did, that he should start building ships again, and that this bottle would be perfect.
“Old,” the shopkeeper had said, stopping to talk. “But not as uncommon as you might be guessing. I usually have one or two around the shop.”
When he blew off a layer of dust, Sully imagined a trail of smoke rising from the bottle, as it might from a genie’s lamp. Chuckling softly, he imagined the dust materializing into a woman. “Maybe it will,” he murmured.
Rolling the letter, he inserted it and tightly stoppered the bottle with its cork. Returning to the desk, he lifted his jacket from the chair back, then headed for the door.
“McFee,” he said to Nat as he passed the desk right outside his door, “I’m going for that walk you suggested.”
“Anyplace special?”
Sully shrugged. He was the central player in this busy, West Village precinct, and it was rare he took time for himself when he was on the job. Still, no one needed to know he was strolling toward the banks of the Hudson. Already, he saw himself jogging toward the end of the Perry Street pier, drawing back his arm and swinging it in a wide arc. He saw the bottle fly from his hand, sail through the air and splash down into the choppy, brackish water. It would float a moment, then slowly sink, and once swallowed by the dark water, it would be caught in strong tidal currents and swept out to sea. Maybe a foreign woman would find it, someone as far away as Australia or China. Someone destiny would choose….
Before returning his mind to more pressing matters, namely his father, Sully tilted his head and considered. Wouldn’t it be strange, he thought, if a woman really did find his message in a bottle and write him back?
2
The Present…
SITTING IN the underground parking garage, not wanting to leave her city-issue car for the sweltering August heat, Judith glanced at the blue suit jacket she’d folded beside her on the passenger seat, then stared murderously toward a glassed-in attendant’s booth and a fire door leading from the garage into Sullivan Steele’s workplace.
“The Great Protector,” she muttered, turning off the ignition. “Yeah, right.”
If Sullivan Steele had any urges to protect his fellow man, it was probably because he anticipated having those people cover for him if he ever got into trouble himself. Not that the Steeles didn’t have stellar reputations. Around New York precincts, the men were legendary. The father had been in law enforcement for years, and all the sons were cops. Nevertheless, Judith had noted that good reputations often put a glossy finish on far less savory realities.
It was amazing what people got away with. Stable-looking homes with white picket fences often hid a world of trouble. That was the case, Judith supposed, with the Steeles. Sullivan had risen up through the ranks—with suspicious ease, in her opinion—to become the youngest precinct captain in Manhattan, so swiftly that it was rumored he was going to wind up in city government, maybe even mayor.
Oh, he was good at his job, but it was Judith’s responsibility to make sure he hadn’t greased any palms on his relentless climb. And while she had to admit he’d earned his position on merit, the family connections had to have helped. Somebody probably owed somebody a favor….
It was how these things worked. Still, she grudgingly had to admit that his men seemed to trust him. Why? she wondered, when it was so obvious he was protecting his father. She shook her head angrily. It took so little to make New York cops turn and look the other way. In fact, most people could be coerced to overlook wrongdoing.
No one wanted to snitch. The public moral code was to mind your own business. She sighed. At least the media wasn’t making much of Augustus’s theft—yet.
Vaguely, she wondered if Sullivan was right about her being too cold. But if she was suspicious, she had good reasons.
And she had called Sullivan practically every day during her stay on Seduction Island, as well as visited him during her overnights in Manhattan, hadn’t she? Despite her show of goodwill, he hadn’t been the least appreciative. As far as she could tell, it never had occurred to Sullivan that she’d phone him instead of using her scant free time to explore the peaceful idyllic island. But she shook her head. Given how close a clan the Steeles were, Judith wouldn’t be surprised if he never talked. Whatever had happened, she was fairly sure he believed in his father’s innocence. That, or Sullivan Steele was an accomplished liar, which, of course, some men were.
She cursed softly under her breath. Every time she thought of Sullivan, she felt tied up in knots. She wanted to believe he knew nothing about his father’s disappearance, but she also knew she was on a case and couldn’t trust him….
The middle brother, Rex, hadn’t been any help, either. Her first day on Seduction Island, she’d threatened to prosecute if he continued interfering with the investigation. Then she hadn’t seen him again until yesterday, when she was preparing to come back to Manhattan. Even though he’d pretended otherwise, she was sure Rex had remained on the island, searching for his father. Had Augustus been there? Had Rex found him? At some point, had the missing money been hidden on the island, as Judith now suspected?
She shot a rueful smile through the windshield, as if it were a crystal ball. Well, even if the money had been on the island, it no longer was. She hadn’t told anyone, not even her boss, Joe Gregory, but she’d finally found it.
Her best guess was that Sullivan’s father had withdrawn the money, then hidden it on Seduction Island. After a few weeks, Augustus had gotten paranoid, as criminals always did. Fearing the money would be discovered, he’d retrieved it and returned it to Manhattan. Judith had found it tucked away in a Manhattan savings and loan—in Augustus’s wife’s name, no less. Possibly, Augustus had blown up the Destiny himself, so people would think he was dead. That way, no one would look for him.
Complicated, yes. But like any knotted thing, the trail could be untangled. Over the past few weeks, Judith had slowly, painstakingly been working at the slippery strands. Now she was beginning to think Augustus Steele really was dead—not that she’d tell Sullivan that. But Augustus had been aboard a boat that exploded, after all, and then he’d simply vanished. What if he’d meant to fake his death, but had actually died in the process?
“Unbelievable,” she whispered now. Her head was starting to ache from thinking too much. Apparently Augustus had stolen far more than seven million, since the account in Sheila Steele’s name had recently swollen to more than double the sum missing from the Citizens Action Committee fund.
“Fifteen million dollars,” Judith whispered.
Who knew how long Augustus had been skimming public money off the top? “A hundred grand here, a hundred grand there,” she murmured. All nicely invested over the years—until Augustus’s retirement neared and he decided to make a final heist and grab seven big ones—and more.
All this time, Judith’s boss, Joe Gregory, had been suggesting she explore more intricate ways Augustus might have hidden the money. The idea that he’d simply rebanked it in his wife’s name had never been considered. No law enforcement officer would do something so stupid.
Which was why it had