Run for Your Life - James Patterson [61]
“I’m afraid it gets worse still,” I said, dropping the third and final bomb in my arsenal of grief—getting it over with as quickly as I could. “We believe they were shot by your son-in-law, Thomas Gladstone. And that he’s also responsible for the string of killings that have been going on around the city.”
Mrs. Blanchette’s tears stopped like a faucet, and now I could see nothing in her face except rage.
“I told you so!” she screamed at her husband. “I told you marrying that trash would be . . .” She collapsed again, unable to continue.
The billionaire hung his head, staring into the Oriental carpet between his sneakers as if trying to read something in the pattern.
“We had a falling-out,” he said.
He seemed to be talking to himself.
Chapter 64
“IT’S NOT FAIR, Henry,” Mrs. Blanchette wailed. “After all my. . . . What did we do to deserve this?”
I had a hard time believing what I heard. But people handle grief in strange ways.
“Is there someplace where your son-in-law could be hiding out?” I said. “Another apartment in the city? A vacation house, perhaps?”
“Another apartment! Do you have any idea how much we paid for the Locust Valley house we bought Erica?”
In her mind, clearly, somebody like me wouldn’t have an inkling about that sort of thing. I turned to her husband.
“What was the nature of the falling-out?” I asked.
Mrs. Blanchette rose from her chair like a boxer after the bell. “What possible business is that of yours?” she said, glaring at me.
“As you can see, my wife’s quite upset, Detective,” Mr. Blanchette said, without lifting his eyes from the carpet. “We both are. Could you question us later? Maybe after we’ve had a little while to . . .”
“Of course,” I said, leaving my card on the sideboard. “If you think of something that might help, or you want more information—anything I can do—please call, okay?”
As I stepped out of the elevator downstairs, I spotted the green-uniformed doorman talking Spanish with one of the maids, laughing and probably flirting.
They got quiet as I walked over to them and showed him my shield again.
“Detective Bennett, remember?” I said. “Can I ask you a few questions? Won’t take a minute.”
The maid edged away, and the doorman shrugged. “Sure. I’m Petie. What can I do for you?”
“You know Erica Gladstone?” I said.
“Ever since she was a little girl.”
“What happened between her and her parents?”
Petie suddenly looked as green as his jacket. “Ah, I never heard nothin’ about that, amigo,” he said. “You’d have to ask them, you know? I just work here.”
I put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Look, I understand the secret code—don’t talk about the tenants. Relax. I don’t need you to testify in open court. I need you to help me nail this nut job who’s going around shooting everybody. We think it’s Erica’s husband, Thomas Gladstone.”
“Chingao!” the doorman said, his eyes widening in shock. “Oh, my God! For real?”
“For real. Come on, Petie. Let’s get this guy.”
“Yeah, yeah, you bet,” he said. “Erica, okay, let’s see. She was a wild kid. Real wild. Drugs. A couple of rehabs. We’re talking before her sweet sixteen. When she’d come home from Sarah Lawrence, we had standing orders not to let her in if nobody else was home.
“Then she seemed to straighten out. She married some blue-blood kid from her daddy’s firm, had a couple of daughters. But all of a sudden, she got divorced and took up with the second husband, the Gladstone guy. He was the pilot on the father’s corporate jet, was what I heard. The parents went ballistic, especially the Lady of the Manor, as we call her. She got Gladstone fired, and cut Erica off at the root.” The doorman shook his head knowingly. “Shooting smack when you’re thirteen is one thing, but, by God, you sleep with the help, you’re dead meat.”
“Did Gladstone and Erica ever come here?” I said.
I could tell from his face that he wasn’t happy about answering this one, but he looked down at the gleaming marble chessboard lobby tile and nodded.
“One Thanksgiving. I don’t know, maybe three years ago. Them and the daughters