The Lost Prince

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  To my dad, whom I miss …

  for giving New York its passion

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks and cheers to the folks who help me look better than I have any right to.

  Paul Stevens, Seth Kramer, Chris Cooper, Evan Gunter, Rayna Bourke, Tom Doherty, Ron Gwiazda, Amy Wagner, Alexis Nixon, Patty Garcia, Irene Gallo, Christian McGrath, Seth Lerner, John McClure.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Books by Edward Lazellari

  About the Author

  Copyright

  No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.

  —E. B. White, Here Is New York (1949)

  PROLOGUE

  ONE FATEFUL NIGHT

  1

  MALCOLM

  Malcolm sped his Porsche through the downpour in the dead of night, obsessed like a zealot in the midst of sacrilege. The sky was black. Drops of hard cold rain battered the windshield and the wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge. Every few seconds, the car hydroplaned, sliding along a kinetic sheen of water before it found asphalt again. The herky-jerky gusts buffeted the tiny roadster, threatening to slap it from the road. That Malcolm’s window was cracked slightly open, letting the storm in, only added to Scott’s anxiety.

  Mal pushed the car to 120 miles per hour at times, far from its maximum, but wholly unjustified for these conditions. The Long Island Expressway was not made for this kind of driving even on the best of days. Scott had never seen him like this: Was he hurrying toward something … or running away? A hard gust and a slide would jerk them back to eighty miles per hour, a virtual slow crawl, and then Mal would push it up all over again. Scott was certain he’d be sick all over the leather before they made it to their destination—assuming they didn’t crack up in a fiery jumble first.

  “Want to slow it down?” Scott asked. Malcolm ignored him just as he had since they left the mansion.

  The craziness began earlier that night. They were reading reports in their East Hampton home, dogs napping by a lit hearth against the backdrop of a dark ocean breaking on the shore. It was the type of moment they both cherished, private, peaceful, the type of serenity purchased by power and wealth. Scott was going over the coming week’s schedule—meetings with congressmen, senators, generals, parts suppliers, and anyone else who could expand Malcolm’s vast industrial empire. Then the seizure hit.

  Mal fell to his knees, clutching at his skull. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed. Scott grabbed a riding crop and jammed it in Malcolm’s mouth to keep him from swallowing his tongue. Their live-in maid, Rosita, rushed into the room to check—Scott told her to call an ambulance, then asked her to go back to her room … he didn’t want anyone to see Mal this way. The spasm subsided as quickly as it came on. Scott stroked his partner’s face. He removed the crop once he deemed it safe. White froth dotted Mal’s copper-hued beard like drops of cream; he feverishly mumbled the same phrase over and over.

  “And or what?” Scott asked him.

  Malcolm recovered quickly, brushed himself off, and took stock of the damage. He had a slight nosebleed and he rubbed the elbow that had taken the brunt of his fall.

  “Good thing you’re so close to the ground already,” Scott said, to lighten the mood. “Might have injured yourself, otherwise.”

  Malcolm stared at him as though seeing Scott for the first time. He walked away from his partner and locked himself in the study. Scott regretted his joke. The humor was more for his frazzled nerves than his partner, but that was no excuse for callousness. Here the man had nearly died and he cracked smart about his diminutive stature. But Mal had never been sensitive about his height; seldom had Scott met a person as comfortable in his or her own skin. Scott himself had only two inches on Mal, and their height had always been a good source of humor between them. Through the door, he heard his partner canceling the paramedics. Scott tried repeatedly to gain entrance to the study, but the door was solid mahogany, with solid brass knobs. That didn’t stop him from shouting that Mal should see a doctor and that he wouldn’t be able to help from this side of the door if Mal had another attack. The muffled tapping on the computer keyboard implied that Mal was on one of his obsessive streaks, tackling some new idea that had come to his brilliant mind … like the ideas that had made Malcolm Robbe America’s greatest weapons builder.

  “And or” had become Mal’s new mantra as he drove. It was something from his partner’s past, and they were hurtling toward it at breakneck speed.

  Two-thirds of Malcolm’s life was a complete mystery to him. He’d seen neurologists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and every other quack between Washington, DC, and Boston. He’d even resorted to the arcane, much to Scott’s disapproval. One charlatan explained that he was a former Christian missionary whose sins among native peoples were so heinous, he had blocked them from his memory. A gypsy woman claimed that he was not of this world, and that the memories he sought were from another plane of existence. The wealthier Malcolm had become, the more those con artists charged, but neither doctors or hacks had cracked his amnesia. The wall around his mind was as thick as the armor Malcolm built for America’s tanks.

  Scott had been sleeping on the leather couch outside the study when Mal finally emerged hours later.

  “I’m going into the city,” Malcolm said.

  “In this weather? Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “I’ll be at our suite at the Waldorf.”

  “What about tomorrow’s appointments?”

  “Cancel everything for the next few days. Tell them I’m n
ot feeling well.”

  “You’re not well,” Scott stressed. “You just had a grand mal seizure. Pun intended.”

  A smile cracked the industrialist’s dour veneer, and dissipated just as quickly. He put a hand on Scott’s shoulder indicating his thanks for Scott’s solidarity.

  Mal grabbed the car keys and his coat.

  “You’re not going alone,” Scott said, grabbing his jacket as well.

  The billionaire considered it a moment, and just when Scott thought he would argue the point, Mal said, “Suit yourself. But you’ve no idea what you’re getting into.”

  “Malcolm, what’s going on?”

  Leading toward the Porsche in the driveway, he said, “The gypsy was right.” It was the last thing Mal had said to Scott that night.

  Ahead loomed the Midtown Tunnel. Beyond it, the diffused lights of Manhattan eked through the dark, rainy mist.

  2

  ALLYN

  Michelle calculated the tithes in the back office as her husband pounded the pulpit out front with fervent oratory. The office’s hollow pine door was no match for the reverend’s passionate deep tenor. His voice commanded attention—he was, after all, God’s proxy on earth. Allyn worked his special appeal late into the night to help find two children who had gone missing from their community.

  Michelle clicked away at the adding machine under the watchful portrait of Jesus on the wall; the strip of paper snaked across the table and off the edge to the floor. She breathed a sigh of relief because the First Community Baptist Church of Raleigh, which was technically located in Garner, would be able to keep the heat and power on for another month. Not so certain were roof repairs, new tires for the church van, or the monthly donation to the regional NAACP chapter. Her husband had promised her a new computer and accounting program, but money was tight, with more parishioners unemployed each week and asking for help instead of donating funds. There was always someone in the community in desperate need.

  Michelle worried about their daughter, Rosemarie. Her college savings were underfunded relative to her scholastic aptitude. She knew the reverend loved his daughter, but it often seemed as though her needs came second to starving families or those who’d lost their homes. The Lord will provide, the reverend told his wife. Allyn Grey was as confident of that as he was that gravity would not let him fly off the earth.

  The reverend’s passion swept all before him into his fold. He had a resounding conviction that there was more to this universe than what they could see, such as his uncanny ability to heal people by laying on hands and praying. He succeeded often enough that many came from miles just for the chance at curing their diabetes, gout, or cancer. Allyn took his failures hard, blaming himself when he could not cure an ailment.

  “We are all connected,” Allyn’s voice boomed through the office walls. He told the story of old Agatha Crowe from their former congregation, who awoke in the middle of the night at the exact moment her son had been shot dead in Afghanistan. Her son came to her in a dream and said he was in a place surrounded by their ancestors. “A link that binds us all,” the reverend drove on. And it was in the spirit of that connectivity that he worked so hard on his parishioners’ behalf. Two of them, the Taylors, were in the midst of a tragedy—despondent over their children.

  The family had been carjacked that morning by robbers at the Piggly Wiggly, and the thieves took the children as insurance. The police retrieved the car at the edge of the Uwharrie National Forest and captured one of the men, but the children, a six-year-old boy and his younger sister, had run into the largest and most secluded part of the forest trying to escape. One of the thieves went after them, no doubt to retrieve his bargaining chip with the authorities. They were still lost in those woods. The reverend said that if the Taylor kids had been white, the media would be all over the story and the amount of help overwhelming.

  Allyn was trying to get the community to put pressure on the governor and the local stations to increase resources for the search. The sheriff and the state police were good men, but money and people were stretched tight all over. A hint of racism was still the best way to stir politicians to action—and it would be for as long as those who remembered segregation still lived. Rosemarie’s generation would know a different, better South. Michelle had just finished her calculations when Rosemarie rushed into the office.

  “Something’s wrong with dad,” she said frantically.

  “Wrong … What do you mean?” Michelle asked. She hadn’t realized that the reverend had stopped speaking.

  “He jus’ standin’ behind the pulpit with a blank expression.”

  “He’s just standing,” Michelle corrected. She hated the local dialect’s influence on Rosemarie. She rose from her desk, ignoring the pit of fear that planted itself in her stomach. “People with our skin don’t get into Duke talking that way,” she told her daughter, in a somewhat absent tone. The word “stroke” pushed other conscious thoughts to the rear of Michelle’s mind.

  “Whatever … you coming?” urged her daughter.

  A small crowd had gathered around the pulpit. Her husband was sitting on the floor looking older than his forty-one years; his yellow coloring took more of a beating in the southern sun than Michelle’s dusky russet tone. Gray strands that had woven their way into his short, tightly cropped head these past few years shone brighter beside the blank stare that had descended on him.

  “Allyn?” Michelle said, pushing through the crowd. “Everyone back. Please give him air.”

  Someone in the assembly shouted, “His eyes rolled back.”

  “We thought he havin’ a heart attack,” a blue-haired old lady said.

  Blood and drool pooled at the corner of Allyn’s lip and trickled down his chin. He had bit his tongue. His large brown eyes were moist and stared blankly ahead. His breath came quickly, short, and shallow.

  “Allyn, say something?” Michelle asked. She turned his head to face her. He looked at her with accusing eyes. He shook ever so slightly as though someone were walking on his grave. Rosemarie handed Michelle a paper towel to wipe the blood from his chin.

  “I’m okay,” Allyn responded in a coarse whisper. “It hurt for a moment, but I’m okay.”

  “What hurt? Why are you sitting here like this?” she asked. “We need to get you to the emergency room.”

  “No,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “No doctors. Doctors won’t know what to do.”

  Michelle was confused. She was at a loss as to what to do next.

  Allyn started to weep, which scared Michelle more. She wanted all the eyes in the church to go away.

  “Everyone, please go home,” Michelle ordered. “Thank you for coming out tonight. Remember to call the governor’s office and the TV and radio stations to help find the Taylor kids tomorrow morning. We need help now. The forecast said a cold front is coming day after tomorrow … we don’t have long.”

  She beckoned to the janitor to help. “Randy, please…”

  Randy began herding the congregation. They looked back over their shoulders with concern as he shuffled them out. Allyn was the church’s rock. They drew strength from their minister. They had never seen him cry … never seen him afraid.

  “Let’s get you to the hospital,” Michelle said.

  “I am not ill,” Allyn insisted.

  “Well, then what are you? You are certainly not well.”

  “No. I am not well,” he acquiesced. “I am overwhelmed. I am … sad.”

  “Why?” Michelle asked. Her first thought was about the Taylor children. “Allyn, did—did you get news about … Did someone die?”

  Allyn thought about it a moment, and upon reaching a conclusion said, “Yes.”

  “Who?” Michelle asked.

  “Me.”

  “Daddy, you’re not making sense,” Rosemarie interjected. Her tone was anxious.

  “My darling Rose, it’s very hard to explain,” he said. Michelle recognized Allyn’s teaching tone. The man believed that every moment of l
ife was a learning moment. “When we are happy we forget God’s grace because we are living in the pleasure He has bestowed on us. Sorrow, however, brings us closer to Him.” He took the paper towel from his wife and patted his mouth. “In grief we seek out God,” he continued. “We need Him to lighten our burdens.” Allyn stopped. He made a fist and clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to weep. “But I have found a new thing in my soul,” he told them both.

  “What thing?” Michelle asked.

  “It pollutes me, like the fruit Eve gave Adam—it separates me from His grace.”

  Allyn shivered. Michelle put her arm around him.

  “Allyn, it’s okay. You’ve been pushing yourself so hard to help the community…”

  “I am in the depths of a sorrow from which I know not how to ascend,” he said. “From which none of the gods can save me.”

  Michelle’s fear escalated. Did the seizure cause damage to his brain? He wasn’t making sense. “Allyn, there is only one God,” she said, struggling to remain calm.

  Allyn held her gaze like a lifeline on a stormy sea.

  “In this universe,” he said.

  3

  TIMIAN

  Babies Ate My Dingo performed their hit on the main stage at Madison Square Garden. They were the opening act for Bon Jovi, a huge break that had catapulted their song “Karma to Burn” to the iTunes Top 10. The logo that Clarisse had designed, happy vampire infants chomping on the remains of a dog, was prominently centered behind the drummer on a huge banner in dual-toned red and black. Clarisse was in awe of how far the band had come in a few short months. Sales on the song had already paid for the home in La Jolla she shared with lead guitarist Timothy Mann, and the tour would set them up for a good long time. Tim’s stage presence was magical—almost unworldly—as he rocked lead guitar in front of twenty-five thousand fans. Life was great.

  She snapped away with her Nikon, collecting her favorite shots, the ones from behind the band with the crowds in front of them. That composition would throw a light halo around the band members and give them an angelic vibe. The band had finished the second chorus and was about to start the bridge when the song fell flat. She put down the camera and searched for the cause. At first she thought the power had gone out, but it soon became clear that Tim had completely blanked. The band recovered well, revving up the lead-in to the bridge a second time, but Tim missed his solo again. He stared out blankly at the audience who, knowing the song intimately, could tell something was wrong. One of the stagehands whispered, “Drugs,” but Clarisse knew better. They only smoked the occasional grass.