Six Years
Page 61
Many are wondering why Archer Minor, who had recently denounced his father, Maxwell Minor, and his reputed organized-crime syndicate known as MM, was not placed in protective custody. “It was at his request,” Olsen said. A source close to Minor’s widow said that her husband had worked his whole life to make up for his father’s crimes. “Archer started out just wanting to get a good education and go straight,” the source said, “but no matter how fast he ran, Archer could never do enough to escape that horrible shadow.”
It was not for a lack of trying. Archer Minor was a vocal advocate for crime-victims’ rights. After attending Columbia Law School, he worked closely with law enforcement officials. He represented victims of violent crimes, trying to get lengthier sentences for those convicted and restitution for his clients’ suffering.
The NYPD would not speculate, but one popular albeit shocking theory of the crime is that Maxwell Minor put out a hit on his own son. Maxwell Minor has not directly denied the charge, but he did release the following brief statement: “My family and I are devastated by the death of my son Archer. I ask the media to allow my family to mourn in private.”
I licked my lips and hit the “next page” link. When I saw the photograph of Maxwell Minor, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. It was the man with the thin mustache from Otto Devereaux’s funeral.
It was coming together now.
I realized that I’d been holding my breath. I sat back and tried to relax for a moment. I put my hands behind my head and closed my eyes. My mental timeline/connection sheet had all kinds of new little lines on it. Natalie had been there the night of Archer Minor’s high-profile murder. She had, I theorized, witnessed the crime. At some point, the NYPD realized it was Natalie in that surveillance video. Natalie, fearing for her life, decided to hide.
I would continue to check, but it was a pretty safe bet that no one had ever been convicted of Archer Minor’s murder. That was why the NYPD, all these years later, was still looking for Natalie.
So what happened next?
Natalie hooked up with Fresh Start. How did that happen? I had no idea. But, really, how did anyone hook up with Fresh Start? The organization kept an eye out, I supposed. Like with Benedict né Jamal. They approached those they felt needed and deserved their help.
Anyway, Natalie was sent up to the Creative Recharge Colony, which was, at least in part, a front for the organization. A brilliant one, I might add. Perhaps some of the attendees were really there for artistic reasons. Certainly Natalie was able to do both. Talk about hiding in plain sight. Natalie was probably told to hide there until they saw how the Archer Minor case played out. Maybe the cops would be able to make an arrest without her, and then she could return to her normal life. Maybe the NYPD wouldn’t, or at least hadn’t yet been able to, identify the woman in the photograph. Whatever. I was guessing here, but I was probably close.
At some point, reality reared its ugly head, crashing in and killing any hope of staying put with her new boyfriend. The choice became clear: Vanish or die.
So she vanished.
I read a few more articles on the case, but there wasn’t much new. Archer Minor was portrayed as something of a heroic enigma. He’d been raised to be the baddest of bad guys. His older brother had been executed “gangland style” as the papers called it, while Archer was still in college. Archer was then supposed to take over the family business. It almost reminded me of The Godfather movie, except this particular good son never caved. Archer Minor not only flat-out refused to join MM, he worked tirelessly to take it down.
Again I wondered what would have led my sweet Natalie to be in that law office late at night. She could have been a client, I supposed, but that wouldn’t explain being there so late. She may have known Archer Minor, but I had no clue how. I was just about to give up on that, chalk up her visit to random chance, when I read a small, colorless obituary.
What the . . . ?
I actually had to close my eyes, rub them, and then read the obituary from the top again. Because this couldn’t be. Just when things had been starting to make sense—just when I thought I was making some progress—I once again got smacked down from my blind side:
Archer Minor, age 41, of Manhattan, formerly of Flushing, Queens, New York. Mr. Minor was a senior partner at the law firm of Pashaian, Dressner and Rosenburgh, located in the Lock-Horne Building at 245 Park Avenue in New York City. Archer received many awards and citations for his charitable work. He attended Saint Francis Prep and was graduated summa cum laude from Lanford College . . .
Chapter 30
Through the phone line, I heard Mrs. Dinsmore sigh. “Aren’t you supposed to be on suspension?”
“You miss me. Admit it.”
Even in the midst of this ever-growing combination of horror and confusion, Mrs. Dinsmore made me feel grounded. There were few constants. Messing around with Mrs. Dinsmore was one of them. It was comforting to hold on to my own version of ritual while the rest of the world spun madly on.
“Suspension probably includes calling college support staff,” Mrs. Dinsmore said.
“Even if it’s just for phone sex?”
I could feel her disapproving glare from 160 miles away. “What do you want, funny man?”
“I need a huge favor,” I said.
“And in return?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said about phone sex?”
“Jake?”
I don’t think she had ever called me by my first name.
“Yes?”
Her voice was suddenly tender. “What’s wrong? Getting suspended is not like you. You’re a role model here.”
“It’s a really long story.”
“You were asking me about Professor Kleiner’s daughter. The one you’re in love with.”
“Yes.”
“Are you still looking for her?”
“Yes.”
“Does your suspension have something to do with that?”
“It does.”
Silence. Then Mrs. Dinsmore cleared her throat.
“What do you need, Professor Fisher?”
“A student file.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“You need the student’s permission,” Mrs. Dinsmore said. “I told you that last time.”
“And like last time, the student is dead.”
“Oh,” she said. “What’s his name?”
“Archer Minor.”
There was a pause.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
It was not for a lack of trying. Archer Minor was a vocal advocate for crime-victims’ rights. After attending Columbia Law School, he worked closely with law enforcement officials. He represented victims of violent crimes, trying to get lengthier sentences for those convicted and restitution for his clients’ suffering.
The NYPD would not speculate, but one popular albeit shocking theory of the crime is that Maxwell Minor put out a hit on his own son. Maxwell Minor has not directly denied the charge, but he did release the following brief statement: “My family and I are devastated by the death of my son Archer. I ask the media to allow my family to mourn in private.”
I licked my lips and hit the “next page” link. When I saw the photograph of Maxwell Minor, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. It was the man with the thin mustache from Otto Devereaux’s funeral.
It was coming together now.
I realized that I’d been holding my breath. I sat back and tried to relax for a moment. I put my hands behind my head and closed my eyes. My mental timeline/connection sheet had all kinds of new little lines on it. Natalie had been there the night of Archer Minor’s high-profile murder. She had, I theorized, witnessed the crime. At some point, the NYPD realized it was Natalie in that surveillance video. Natalie, fearing for her life, decided to hide.
I would continue to check, but it was a pretty safe bet that no one had ever been convicted of Archer Minor’s murder. That was why the NYPD, all these years later, was still looking for Natalie.
So what happened next?
Natalie hooked up with Fresh Start. How did that happen? I had no idea. But, really, how did anyone hook up with Fresh Start? The organization kept an eye out, I supposed. Like with Benedict né Jamal. They approached those they felt needed and deserved their help.
Anyway, Natalie was sent up to the Creative Recharge Colony, which was, at least in part, a front for the organization. A brilliant one, I might add. Perhaps some of the attendees were really there for artistic reasons. Certainly Natalie was able to do both. Talk about hiding in plain sight. Natalie was probably told to hide there until they saw how the Archer Minor case played out. Maybe the cops would be able to make an arrest without her, and then she could return to her normal life. Maybe the NYPD wouldn’t, or at least hadn’t yet been able to, identify the woman in the photograph. Whatever. I was guessing here, but I was probably close.
At some point, reality reared its ugly head, crashing in and killing any hope of staying put with her new boyfriend. The choice became clear: Vanish or die.
So she vanished.
I read a few more articles on the case, but there wasn’t much new. Archer Minor was portrayed as something of a heroic enigma. He’d been raised to be the baddest of bad guys. His older brother had been executed “gangland style” as the papers called it, while Archer was still in college. Archer was then supposed to take over the family business. It almost reminded me of The Godfather movie, except this particular good son never caved. Archer Minor not only flat-out refused to join MM, he worked tirelessly to take it down.
Again I wondered what would have led my sweet Natalie to be in that law office late at night. She could have been a client, I supposed, but that wouldn’t explain being there so late. She may have known Archer Minor, but I had no clue how. I was just about to give up on that, chalk up her visit to random chance, when I read a small, colorless obituary.
What the . . . ?
I actually had to close my eyes, rub them, and then read the obituary from the top again. Because this couldn’t be. Just when things had been starting to make sense—just when I thought I was making some progress—I once again got smacked down from my blind side:
Archer Minor, age 41, of Manhattan, formerly of Flushing, Queens, New York. Mr. Minor was a senior partner at the law firm of Pashaian, Dressner and Rosenburgh, located in the Lock-Horne Building at 245 Park Avenue in New York City. Archer received many awards and citations for his charitable work. He attended Saint Francis Prep and was graduated summa cum laude from Lanford College . . .
Chapter 30
Through the phone line, I heard Mrs. Dinsmore sigh. “Aren’t you supposed to be on suspension?”
“You miss me. Admit it.”
Even in the midst of this ever-growing combination of horror and confusion, Mrs. Dinsmore made me feel grounded. There were few constants. Messing around with Mrs. Dinsmore was one of them. It was comforting to hold on to my own version of ritual while the rest of the world spun madly on.
“Suspension probably includes calling college support staff,” Mrs. Dinsmore said.
“Even if it’s just for phone sex?”
I could feel her disapproving glare from 160 miles away. “What do you want, funny man?”
“I need a huge favor,” I said.
“And in return?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said about phone sex?”
“Jake?”
I don’t think she had ever called me by my first name.
“Yes?”
Her voice was suddenly tender. “What’s wrong? Getting suspended is not like you. You’re a role model here.”
“It’s a really long story.”
“You were asking me about Professor Kleiner’s daughter. The one you’re in love with.”
“Yes.”
“Are you still looking for her?”
“Yes.”
“Does your suspension have something to do with that?”
“It does.”
Silence. Then Mrs. Dinsmore cleared her throat.
“What do you need, Professor Fisher?”
“A student file.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“You need the student’s permission,” Mrs. Dinsmore said. “I told you that last time.”
“And like last time, the student is dead.”
“Oh,” she said. “What’s his name?”
“Archer Minor.”
There was a pause.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
