Willow Pond

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Chapter Thirteen

Later that afternoon, Erich covered a five alarm fire in Brooklyn. When he got back to the newsroom he walked into Daniel Spencer’s office, closed the door, and asked his editor for a couple of days off. Dan shook his head. He couldn’t be spared. Several reporters who’d been hired during the last six months had been laid off, and the entire newsroom staff had taken a ten percent cut in pay.

“How long am I going to be covering fires like some cub reporter?”

“Connelly’s mother died. Give the guy a break.” Dan took a sip of what Erich knew to be at least his fifth cup of coffee of the day. “Why do you need time off?”

“To do some investigating.”

“The Austin kidnapping? The trail’s cold.”

Erich propped his feet up in the same spot as always, nestled between the picture of Daniel’s nieces and nephews and his press club plaque. “The kidnappers rented a car from a place on Northern Boulevard. I thought I’d snoop around Bayside, see what I can find out.”

Dan squinted at him, tapping the end of his pencil against the desk. “Probably a waste of time.”

“Maybe so, maybe no. I’d like to try. Be quite a story if I turned up something the police haven’t.”

“All right. But I may have to pull you back in if things get hairy.”

***

Three mornings later, Erich left his apartment in the Bronx and headed to Queens. Spring was in full bloom, filling the air with the smells of freshly cut grass and budding flowers. He gazed up at the cloudy sky and spied a patch of blue. He smiled, hoping it was a good omen.

He found Walters Car Rental on Northern Boulevard and pulled his car into the parking lot. He sat for a few minutes, looking around. Then, instead of going inside, he headed down the street and started ringing doorbells. He’d developed a pretty good nose for figuring out who didn’t want to become involved and who really hadn’t seen anything. Out here people slammed doors in his face too fast to pick up anything. Obviously he was working ground the police had already strip-mined.

It was part of the job though, so he kept at it. He hit paydirt at about 9:30 when an elderly woman answered the doorbell. Her husband had been a reporter for the Daily News for thirty years. She was certain if he’d been around, he’d have been working on the kidnapping too, but he’d died a year earlier.

Erich expressed sorrow for her loss and said how much he appreciated her talking to him when so many others wouldn’t. She wanted him to know how angry the residents of Bayside were that the kidnapper had chosen their community as his hideout.

“We don’t like the publicity. Your being here just means we’re going to have more. What was your name again?”

“Erich Muller. From the Tribune.”

“Oh right,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “You’re the one who won the Pulitzer. Hmph. Well, I guess we can count on you to be accurate, anyway. But you’re looking in the wrong place, dear. The farm is on the other end of Bayside. Take Bell Boulevard to 32nd Avenue, make a left and keep going.”

He walked back to Walters Car Rental, situated between an empty lot and a Chinese restaurant. Erich had skipped breakfast and was hungry, so he thought he’d have an egg roll and some wonton soup when he was done. The owner of Walters Car Rental couldn’t slam the door in his face, but was either too reluctant to talk or just bored with the subject. He recited his answers as if he’d said them many times before.