Cold Steal: BOONE-BELL, #9

By Frederic W. Burr

Boone takes a call from a client seeking help locating a missing person. And not just any missing person. Frank Boland wants Boone to find his father, who abandoned his family on Frank's fifth birthday some fifty years  earlier.

Boone thinks about his own father, who abandoned Boone's mother and infant Boone. Worse, this case dredges up memories of Boone's childhood, memories that he would rather forget, and his own guilt over his son's estrangement. He takes the case, having  no way of knowing this will put him on a trail more convoluted than anything he has faced before. At the same time, Marianne is retained by Sara Bixby, an insurance adjuster for Mutual of New York and past client of the agency. A dealership in rare luxury automobiles has filed a claim for $3 Million Dollars over the loss of a one of a kind Bugatti in a freak accident. Marianne jokes with Sara about an earlier insurance fraud case that resulted in her being shot. Neither of them can possibly foresee how her jest will impact them both, especially Sara.

Boone finds himself in one dead-end after another, with a client who seems to be after something very different from finding his father. Marianne's skills in dark web research are tested to the limit, only to reveal a nexus between Boone's search and Marianne's investigation, exposing them both to possible danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederic W. Burr
• Release date: Mar 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224787005

Frederic W. Burr

A native of Cincinnati, Ohio, Fred enlisted in the Navy at the age of seventeen, and retired in the rank of Commander in the surface warfare community. He is a graduate of the University of Louisville and the Albany Law School of Union University. Retiring from the private practice of law in upstate New York, Pennsylvania and Kentucky after thirty-six years, he considers himself a fully recovered attorney. Fred and his wife Donna (who also writes) make their home in Kentucky.

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Prologue

THE S ATURDAY MORNING online edition of the Albany Times-Union carried the following article:

Cohoes man found dead after fire tears through a home on Fonda Drive

Firefighters tried to rescue a person trapped in the house

COHOES—A man is dead after a fire on Thursday night burned through a home on Fonda Drive, eventually causing medicinal oxygen cylinders to explode and collapse most of the structure.

State Police are investigating the cause of death and the fire, though it appears to have started accidentally, according to the Public Information Officer.

The man who died, Harold Brown, was 47 years old, according to State Police. Millicent Fenwick, a neighbor, was at the scene Friday afternoon. She told the Times Union that Brown’s body had been taken by the Albany County Medical Examiner. Fenwick described Brown as a techno-geek with emphysema who lived alone and loved technology and what she described as ‘gadgets.’

The home at 125 Fonda Road was built in the late 1970s, and Brown was the owner, according to Albany County land records.

By 10:30 p.m. Thursday night, when firefighters responded to the call, flames had spread through the rear of the structure according to the Cohoes Fire Department.

The first firefighters on the scene believed a person might have been trapped on the ground floor, according to the initial call-in. While additional units from the Boght Community Fire District were en route to the scene, firefighters tried to enter the structure to look for Brown, but the fire had too much of a head start. The senior officer ordered their withdrawal for fear of becoming trapped by the flames. The last man out had to escape by climbing through a window.

Before the call reporting the fire, there was a nine-one-one call from a phone at the Fonda Drive address, but the operator says the line went dead almost immediately. Subsequent attempts to reach the caller were unsuccessful.

Chapter One

SMALL YET PERSISTENT specks of snow swirl through the frozen air. I skedaddle up to the front door of our building, hearing the slowing ticks of my car’s engine as it yields to the frigid outside temperature.

All the trees stand bare, black skeletal limbs reaching into a battleship sky. I’m shivering inside my insulated leather bomber jacket. At least my bullets are warm, tucked into my shoulder rig between my left arm and chest. Nothing else seems to be.

Once inside the atrium, I stand for a moment under the heater until my nose thaws out. Sniveling, I head for the stairs, taking them slowly with stiff knees up to the second floor where the offices of Boone & Bell, LLP are located.

It's coming up on eight-thirty, so someone will have put on the first pot of coffee, and I’m ready for a cup. At the door to the office, I code my way in to find Marianne standing in front of Barb’s desk, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee.

I saw you parking, Marianne says, and figured you’d like some coffee.

Her green eyes are bright, and I notice her dark brown hair, still trimmed in her trademark bob, no longer shows the gray strands I used to try to ignore. Her smile is infectious, and she looks better than she has in a long time. I have to resist the urge to hug her. It’s been a year and a half since her son Caden was born three months early in an emergency Caesarian, and just over a year since he lost his struggle.

From all accounts, her marriage to Luke is strong despite their loss. She has let slip that they are trying for another baby, and I believe she’s suffered one miscarriage since losing Caden, but I don’t pry. Deborah tells me that Marianne’s window on a second pregnancy is closing, her having passed her thirty-ninth birthday.

I take the cup from my partner’s hands and thank her.

So, what’s up, Coach? I ask her, and she responds with her usual, Why do you always call me Coach?

We say the punch line together, Because it’s less oppressive than ‘Babe!’ A holdover from our early days together in our old Swan Street offices.

As we walk together to my office, I ask, "So, what is up? Anything new?"

She gives me the side-eye. You mean since Friday afternoon?

You never know, I say.

Nothing, she says, and a whole lot of it.

Just as we pass Barbara, she presses the hold button on her console and says, There’s a Mister Boland on line one, and he says he’ll talk to whoever’s got time for him.

I elbow Marianne, and whisper, Told you, before asking Barb, Any idea what it’s about?

He didn’t say, she answers.

I look at my partner. You want it?

She shakes her head. I’m finishing up a final report on that child custody case. Can you at least talk to him to see what he wants?

Sure, I tell her. I’ll go see what Mr. Boland wants to talk to us about.

She heads for her office as I step into mine. After hanging my jacket on the back of my chair, I slip out of my shoulder rig to stow it in the top right-hand desk drawer. I sit down, pick up the handset and press the button for line one.

Boone here.

Mr. Boone?

Yes, how can I help you?

Mr. Boone, my name is Boland. Frank Boland. I got your number from my lawyer, Clive Townsend. Well, I guess I should say my former lawyer, since he’s retired. In his words, you’re the best private dick in the business.

Yes, I think Clive would say that, at least the ‘dick’ part. A real comedian, that Clive.

That’s nice to hear, I say. So, how can I help you?

Can you help me find my father?

Everything, and I mean everything, stops. It takes more than a few seconds before I can breathe and remember there is someone on the phone waiting for an answer. I had given up looking for my own father so many years ago. This request stuns me, even as it raises long buried emotions.

We can try, I tell him. Search tools have come a long way since . . . I catch myself before sharing my story with him.

I might have some information that could help, Boland says.

Look, I think it best if you bring whatever you have to the office, and we talk, I suggest. Do you have any free time later today?

Four-thirty work for you? Boland asks me. I coach basketball two afternoons a week at the Arbor Hill Rec Center, but I should be able to make it to your office by then.

That’s fine, I say. If he’s willing to coach young men in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Albany, Boland sounds like an interesting character. I look forward to meeting him.

After we hang up, I swivel around in my desk chair and look out the bank of windows at Southwoods Boulevard. What the weather folks call ‘diamond dust crystals’ are accumulating on the grounds, but not on the cars parked outside, at least not so far.

I think about my father, Carl Michael Boone, Sr. Once I understood his absence in my life, I dropped the ‘Junior.’

When I was born, my father was in the Air Force, stationed in Germany. According to my mother, the Red Cross notified him of my birth two days later. Barely six weeks after learning of my arrival, he informed my mother of his plans to divorce her as soon as his stateside lawyer could make the arrangements. He never saw me, and, as far as I know, never considered supporting his young wife and newborn son.

Because of his betrayal, my childhood can be best described in one word: Dickensian. It’s been a long time since I reflected on those years. Suppressed emotions, and memories of things that were done to me, things I would rather not remember, make it difficult if not impossible to think about anything else.

WHILE CARL IS ON THE phone with Boland, Marianne is wrapping up her file for one Greg Kemp, a father seeking custody of his three-year-old daughter from his former wife. After three weeks of surveillance, agency subcontractors developed proof that the former Mrs. Kemp was engaging in acts of prostitution and drug sales at her residence. After notifying the Albany PD, resulting in the arrest of Greg’s ex-wife, Marianne is drafting a final report on the file to support his custody proceeding.

Just as she is sending her report to the printer, Barb comes up on the intercom.

Marianne? Sara Bixby from Mutual of New York is on line two. Can you take her call?

You bet, Marianne answers, knowing Bixby is an adjuster for MONY, with an office around the corner from the agency, and a good client.

Marianne Bell speaking.

Hello, Ms. Bell. My name is Sara Bixby with Mutual of New York. We’ve used your office in the past to good effect. I have a claim than needs your attention. Do you have time to stop by at some point today or tomorrow? And please call me Sara.

Of course, Sara. And please call me Marianne. Is tomorrow morning good for you?

Whatever works for you is fine with me. See you then.

THAT AFTERNOON, BOLAND arrives just before five, as I am about to put on my jacket and leave for the day. I had been guessing he’ll probably call tomorrow to reschedule when Barb buzzes me to tell me my 4:30 has arrived. Sometimes, Mondays seem to take forever to be done with. I tell her to show him to my office.

After two soft knocks on my door, Barbara opens it to let Frank in, announcing, Mr. Boland for you, Mr. Boone.

I stand up and extend my hand for him to shake, which he does. Obviously, Frank can not only palm a basketball, but he can also deflate it with one hand. Bald and a little pudgy around the middle, at six foot four, he still looks like he knows his way around a basketball court.

Nice to meet you, I say, doing my best not to wince. Have a seat. I indicate the chairs in front of my desk with my one working hand.

He sits down and lays a letter-sized manila envelope on my desk. Thanks for seeing me, he says. Sorry I’m late. Is that a problem?

No, I say. Pointing at the envelope, I ask, Is that for me?

Yes. It’s my father’s birth certificate, a copy of my parents’ wedding license, and a few addresses I turned up trying to do my own search. They’re probably worthless, but that’s all I have.

I nod. Feeling in my right hand having returned somewhat, I pick up my pen and ask, Do you mind if I take notes while we talk?

No, he says, so long as you don’t mind me recording this on my phone.

I put my pen down and lean back in my chair. In the past, I have surreptitiously recorded people I’m speaking with, and frequently. But after all, I am a private investigator, and sneaky is our middle name. Having a potential client tell me up front he’s recording me is not something I’m used to.

New York is a one-party state for recording conversations, so I have no legal right to object, I tell him. But I have to ask why you feel the need to record our conversation?

No offense, he says, but I’ve been scammed before by people I would never have expected to take advantage of me.

Well, okay then, I say. How about I have my secretary transcribe your recording for the file when we’re done?

His eyes widen a bit as he leans back in his chair. Won’t that take a long time?

I shrug. Depends on how long this interview takes.

Okay, he says. Forget about it.

It’s up to you, I say. Shall we get started?

What do you need to know?

Let’s start with you. Your date of birth?

And we’re off to the races. Frank is a few years younger than my fifty-eight years. Divorced, he lives in the former marital residence in the New Scotland-Woodlawn neighborhood. His six-year-old daughter lives with his ex in Burnt Hills. He is a welfare examiner for the Albany County Department of Social Services.

Born to Elsie and Donald Boland, Frank lived for his first five years with his parents in Glenville, a Schenectady County township. He never knew his paternal grandparents, and both of Elsie’s parents are deceased. Elsie now lives in the Glendale Home in Schenectady County and suffers from severe dementia due to Alzheimer’s disease.

All Frank remembers from his childhood is the family moving to a much larger house in Niskayuna before his fourth birthday. His parents seemed happy. Before then, his father was a plumber who went to work with a metal tool basket and wore collarless shirts under bib overalls. The family car was a rattly old Ford pickup. But just before moving to the new home, his father began wearing nice looking suits to work, and drove a Cadillac.

Then, a few days before his fifth birthday, Donald Boland got up from the breakfast table, announced he was off to work for the day, and was not seen or heard from since. Shortly after that, Frank and his mother moved into an apartment in Schenectady, and she went to work in the county public library. She never spoke of his father, or why their circumstances had changed so drastically.

I asked Frank what it was like growing up without a father. He told me it wasn’t all that bad. His mother’s brother, Bill Walker, was married and had a son about Frank’s age. Uncle Willy, as Frank knew him, had the boy over for weekends at his house to play with the younger Bill, who went by ‘Junior.’ In the summers, his uncle would occasionally take the boys on a day trip to watch the Syracuse Chiefs, a Yankees minor league team at a home game.

I put my pen down and picked up the envelope to look over the contents. Frank raises his hand to interrupt and says, Before you look at that stuff, I have to ask what all this is going to cost?

I put the envelope down. Not sure, I tell him. Normally, we ask for a retainer to work against. We bill by time spent, plus expenses. But in this case, I’d like to just do an online search to see if we turn up any relevant information. That will affect our retainer.

And the online search? he asks.

Less than a hundred dollars, I tell him, thinking Marianne might find the elder Boland in ten minutes or less, if he can be easily located.

So, what do we do now?

After giving him our standard form agreement to look over, I glance up at the wall clock and realize it’s coming up on six.

I haven’t called Deborah to let her know I might be late. I really need to think about getting home, I say. Why don’t I give you a call on Monday, and we’ll go from there.

Sounds good, he says.

We shake hands again, and I walk him to the door to see him out. Then I rush back to my office to call home and grab my jacket. Everyone else has left for the day.

The Friday evening rush hour is in full swing by the time I get on the Interstate, and my ten or twelve minute drive will be at least another thirty minutes. If I’m lucky.

That gives me time to think, and to compare my own unstable and fragmented childhood with Frank Boland’s. My mother had a brother, but he was a drunk as well as a kleptomaniac, and would rather spend his time with heavily made up older women with a coarseness that I found unsettling. Having nothing of value, I was a waste of my uncle’s time. Frank Boland and I have but one thing in common. Our fathers were dishonorable cowards.

Chapter Two

TUESDAY MORNING, M ARIANNE takes a short walk over to Sara Bixby’s office at 20 Corporate Woods Drive, close by Boone & Bell, LLP. The weather is brisk, but not as cold as the