The Abduction of Margaret O’Shea
A Kenneth Hall Mystery
 

 by: Hankster

© 2018 by the author

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

hankster@tickiestories.us

Chapter 1

Cold and blustery weather conditions descended prematurely on New York City, chilling its residents to their bones.  They were unprepared for the frigid conditions, and most of them even had difficulty warming their homes.  It was a week before Thanksgiving.  The thermometer should not be so much below normal for this time of year.  Freezing winter weather did not usually strike the area until mid-December, and snow rarely happened before Christmas.

New York City police detective, Kenneth Hall, could not wait to get home and warm up.  Nothing terrible had happened at work today; no murders, rapes, or grand thefts.  The lack of a major disaster made him feel pretty good, but he feared that he would freeze to death if he didn’t get indoors quickly.

He noisily entered his house, and slammed the door behind him.  It was his intention to keep the cold outside where it belonged.  His husband, Joseph Vincente, ran to the front hall to see why there was so much noise.

“What’s wrong?” Joe asked.

“I’m freezing.  That’s what’s wrong.”

Joe started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Ken asked.

“Your nose is so red, you look like a clown.  But I know just how to warm you up.”  He embraced Ken and started to kiss him, offering him lots of tongue.

“You better stop,” Ken advised.  “I’m melting and I don’t want to flood the front hall.”

“Why don’t you change clothes?  I’ll make you a drink, and Mattie has dinner almost ready for us.”

Mattie, their cook and head housekeeper, ruled the household more tyrannically than any dictator.  The four men who lived there played by her rules, or risked her wrath.  No matter.  Everything she did was for their good, and they loved her dearly.

When Ken made himself comfortable, he joined Joe in the library for his pre-dinner cocktail.  Joe handed him a scotch and water.

“The boys called me about an hour ago,” Joe said.  “They’re leaving Binghamton after their last class on Tuesday, and expect to be home by 9 PM.”

“That’s great,” Ken said.  “I miss those two kids so much.”

Ken and Joe first had guardianship of Tom and George from the time the boys were in middle school, and officially adopted them while they were in high school.  The boys were the same age, and both were now sophomores at SUNY Binghamton.  No two students were better looking than they were.  Tom had a boyish charm, and George had a man-of-the-world demeanor.

“I’m worried about them,” Joe said.

“Why’s that?”

“That car I gave them when they went to college is barely highway worthy, and in this weather, I feel uneasy,” Joe said.  “I think I’ll buy them a better car during winter break.”

“There’s nothing wrong with buying them a new car but the mechanic, who services all the police cars down at the precinct, gave it a clean bill of health, so stop worrying.”

“Oh,” Joe said.  “I almost forgot.  You received a certified letter this afternoon.  I signed for it.  It’s on the front hall table.  I’ll go get it, and I’ll be right back”

As Joe returned with the letter, he was studying the envelope.  “It’s from someone named Margaret O’Shea,” he said.  “Do you know her?”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell.  I’ll open it up after we eat.  Certified mail scares me, and I don’t want it to spoil my dinner.”

“Okay,” Joe said.  He placed the letter down on a small desk in the library.  Frankly, Ken’s admission of the fear of certified mail amused him.  The man faced guns aimed at him with less fright, if any.

Because of his harmless phobia, Ken purposely put the letter out of his mind, and forgot all about it.  He and Joe made passionate and kinky love that evening, and that helped him to further forget about the letter.  It wasn’t until two days later, on Friday, that Joe remembered the unread letter.  He called Ken at work, and asked him if he should open it.

“No thanks,” Ken said.  “If it’s bad news, I’d rather read it with you around.  Remind me about it when I get home tonight.”

Ken did not get home that night.  He arrived home the next morning at 2 AM.  A murder investigation had thoroughly occupied his evening and night.  Joe was fast asleep when Ken came home.  He made as little noise as possible and slipped into bed.  He and Joe hunkered up to each other and he fell fast asleep.  He didn’t think once about the letter.

Ken rarely went to work on the weekend, so he slept in on Saturday morning.  Joe knew what time Ken had come home that morning, and he let him sleep.  When he felt that Ken had malingered long enough, he served him breakfast in bed.  The letter was on the tray.

Ken saw the letter and groaned.  “I’ll open it after I eat,” he announced.

“You’d better.  If you don’t, I’ll open it,” Joe said as he left the room.

After a while, Mattie came around to collect the tray with the dirty dishes.  The letter was still on the tray.

Ken jumped out of bed.  He shit, shaved and showered.  With his morning hygiene completed, he dressed casually, and went downstairs to join Joe.

Joe looked at him in exasperation.  “Here’s the letter,” he said.  “You left it on your tray.  Mattie just handed it to me.  If you don’t open it immediately, you won’t get any sex for a month.”

Not only did Joe hand Ken the letter, but he handed him a letter opener as well.

“Why the letter opener?” Ken asked.

“There’s a return address on the envelope.  I don’t want you to accidently destroy it.”

Ken slit the envelope slowly and very carefully.  As he began to read, his eyes grew twice as wide, and his jaw dropped to the middle of his chest.

“For God’s sake, what does it say?” Joe pleaded.

Ken couldn’t talk so he handed the letter to Joe, who began to read it out loud.

Dear Mr. Hall:

We don’t know each other, but I have reason to believe that we are related.  In fact, I think that I am your daughter.  Let me explain.

To begin with, don’t cry for me.  I was raised by two great parents, and I had a wonderful childhood.  I am twenty-five now.  I have my own apartment, a good job as a paralegal, and a handsome fiancé.

Out of sheer curiosity, I recently sent my DNA to one of those companies that trace your ancestry through DNA analysis.  When I got the results, your name and address were listed as a strong possibility of being my father.  You can imagine my shock.  I already had a father, for twenty years in fact. He died five years ago.

I was afraid to ask my mother, Iris, about it, but I finally screwed up my courage and showed her the results of the DNA test.  She told me that now that my father was dead, she could reveal the truth to me. She and my dad could not conceive a child, so she went to a sperm bank without his knowledge, and was inseminated.  It cost her a hefty sum of money, which she borrowed from my grandfather. She kept it a secret from her husband until he died.

I know that men who contribute to a sperm bank are assured of complete anonymity but in this age of technology that’s no longer possible. I hope this won’t deter men from donating.

In order for the company to have made your match with mine, you must either have had the same curiosity I had, or your DNA is recorded somewhere like in military or civic employment records.

You may not wish to meet me, but I am anxious to meet you.  I swear, I don’t want anything from you, and I certainly don’t want to disrupt your life, but I sure would like to meet you.  Do I have any brothers or sisters?  I was raised as an only child, and I’ve always wanted siblings.

I don’t have great expectations that you will answer this letter, but please give it a good deal of thought.  If I am your daughter, you would make me so happy to let me meet you, my father.  The best number to reach me at is 212-555-1050.

Expectantly yours,

Maggie O’Shea

By the time Joe finished reading the letter, both he and Ken were trembling.

“Where did that company get your DNA?” Joe asked.

“The DNA of the entire NYPD is on file and available to companies just like this one.”

“Did you ever donate spunk to a sperm bank?”

“When I was in college, I donated six times for fifty dollars a pop.  Unfortunately, that was the maximum allowed.  They wanted to keep down the possibility that a brother and sister might get it on years later.  Fifty dollars for jerking off was big money for a college student.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Joe asked.

“Nothing right now.  I want to consider my options.  I’m glad Maggie told me that her mother was inseminated. I’ve never slept with a woman in my life.  I’d hate to think that I knocked up her mother while I was too drunk to remember.”

“Consider your options all you want to, but don’t wait too long.  Maggie is anxious for an answer.”

To be continued...

Posted: 11/02/18