by Unknown
In a few moments, she said, “We better get out of here.”
“Yeah.” He stroked her hair. “Boston?”
“New Canaan … Connecticut.” She sat upright and wiped her eyes. “Thanks for giving me a few minutes. I just—” She started to sob again but got herself under control. “I went out of my way to hurt them, but I never lifted a handset to tell them I loved them.” She pulled a fresh tissue from a box under the dashboard. “I quit being angry years ago, but I never told them.”
“They knew.”
“How?”
“The hurting stopped.”
She sat still a long moment and then said, “Thank you.” Her smile hadn’t disappeared as deep as Evarts had feared. “I never told them in words, but you’re right, I told them in actions.” She lifted her chin. “Did you know that they stage the balloons for Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on their street?”
“Did you come every year?”
“Every year, since graduate school.” She straightened up in her own seat. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
“What’s in New Canaan?”
“My grandmother’s house.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Don’t worry, I haven’t been there in fifteen years, and I don’t want to go to the house anyway. She died many years ago. My parents used it as a weekend retreat away from the city. I want to go to the public library. My parents were considered locals, so the town newspaper will have articles about the accident.”
Evarts started the car. “Good idea. Sure no one will recognize you?”
“My parents’ friends don’t patronize public libraries.”
“Okay, tell me how to get the hell out of this city.”
Baldwin directed him back the way they had come to the Hudson Parkway and then through the transitions to the Merritt Parkway. Thick trees shielded both sides of the divided roadway, and stone overpasses gave the parkway a genteel, picturesque appearance.
“No wonder they call this a parkway,” Evarts said. “Nothing like this in L.A.”
She seemed distracted but said, “We have an ugly Los Angeles-style freeway just a few miles east of us. Anyone with sixteen wheels or in a sixteen percent tax bracket has to stay on I95.”
“You kidding?”
“Not about the sixteen wheels. The poor can sneak onto the Merritt, but we gouge them at the gas pump.”
They passed a scenic gas station nestled among thick trees in a wide grass median. The posted price was twenty cents higher than they had last paid in New Jersey. “Now, you’re serious.”
“Now, I’m serious.”
They exited at the New Canaan off-ramp. After a few miles of country road, a quaint town came into view, looking exactly the way Evarts imagined a New England village should look.
After they pulled into the library parking lot, Baldwin grabbed her overnight bag, which contained her regular clothes, and asked Evarts to start scanning local papers for articles about her parents’ accident while she cleaned up in the ladies room. He found six articles spread over three days.
When Baldwin returned, she had changed into her own clothes, but her freshly scrubbed face still showed raw eyes behind her regular glasses. “What did you find?”
“They died two days ago, here in New Canaan. Hit a tree at forty-five miles an hour in a vintage 1956 Porsche Roadster. No bumper, no airbags.”
“That car was my father’s pride and joy. He kept it in pristine condition and paid more to park it in the city than the payments would’ve been on a new luxury car.” She sat down. “He had the bumpers replaced with these little chrome bars.”
“The New Canaan police found no indications of foul play, but they haven’t closed the investigation.”
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t say, but I’ll get Lieutenant Clark to give them a call.” She grabbed one of the newspapers and started to read the article. Evarts interrupted her. “They were returning from a lunch engagement at the Roger Sherman Inn.”
“So it was probably midafternoon.”
“I meant, does the Roger Sherman Inn have any significance?”
Baldwin looked up as if a new thought had struck her. “That inn has always been part of the landscape in New Canaan. It never occurred to me that it might have implications for this.”
“Could it?”
“I don’t know. After we’re done here, let’s go see. I want to know how much they had to drink at lunch anyway.”
“Okay, you read the articles, and I’ll get out of these silly clothes and call Clark.”
Clark sounded unhappy to hear from Evarts again, but he agreed to call the New Canaan police. When he returned from the pay phone, Baldwin stood ready to go. “Anything more?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Let’s go.”
The Roger Sherman Inn sat back from the road, as picturesque as the town. The grounds had been groomed perfectly, and the white clapboard converted home looked like the kind of intimate inn where, in better days, he would’ve liked to bring Patricia Baldwin for a long weekend. A portrait of a stern-looking man with a big square face hung in the lobby. Evarts checked the plaque and saw that it read “Roger Sherman.”
“How many children did you say?”
“Fifteen, two different wives,” she answered.
“He looks passionless.”
She studied the portrait a moment. “John Adams said he was the opposite of grace … and Adams was a friend. Contemporaries universally described him as awkward and clumsy, but they also said he was brilliant and a savvy politician. Thomas Jefferson said Sherman never spoke a foolish sentence in his life. An odd man to propagate a family that has exerted such a strong influence on our nation and our lives.”
“Yeah.” Evarts glanced toward the dining area. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Let’s eat. By the way, we’re journalists following up on the death of a prominent New York couple.”
“Sounds good. Let’s say we’re from the New York Daily News. A tabloid would do a follow-up on this type of story.”
The host sat them on a cozy patio with trees overhead, shrubs along every sight line, and brightly colored flowers at their feet. The fine china and three glasses per place setting made the small, cloth-covered tables look crowded. While Evarts studied the menu, it occurred to him that the hamburgers in Westwood Village now appeared reasonably priced.
After they had ordered, Evarts asked to see the host. The young man who approached their table possessed the élan of the well-to-do and asked how he could help.
“We’re reporters doing a follow-up story on the tragic Baldwin accident. We understand they ate lunch here just before the incident.”
“Yes, they did.”
“Did they drink alcoholic beverages with lunch,” Baldwin asked.
“I’m sorry ma’am; we try to protect the privacy of our guests.”
Baldwin waved her arm around the half-empty patio. “A mention of your fine restaurant in our paper could fill these tables.”
“Perhaps you should talk to Mrs. Greene.”
“Mrs. Greene?”
“She and her husband had lunch with the Baldwins that day. They’re the inn managers.”
“Could you get her for us?”
“And Mr. Greene, if he’s available,” Evarts added.
“I’m afraid Mr. Greene took a business trip to Omaha, but I’ll see if Mrs. Greene is available.”
A few minutes later, a sophisticated older woman started toward their table but made an abrupt stop when she spotted them. She immediately retraced her steps.
“Did she recognize you?” Evarts asked.
“I can’t imagine how. It’s been fifteen years since I’ve eaten here.”
The woman didn’t reappear before their food arrived. Evarts was famished, so he took three quick bites and then said, “I’m going to go find out what’s keeping her.”
Just as he entered the inn, the host came up
to him. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Greene had to leave suddenly.”
“I insist on seeing her.”
“That would be impossible. She left five minutes ago. She did leave this for your companion.” He handed Evarts a sealed envelope. In exquisite penmanship, the envelope had three words written on it that stunned Evarts: Miss Patricia Baldwin.
Evarts walked back to the table and handed the envelope to Baldwin. “We’re blown.”
“Good god,” she said as she ripped open the envelope. She read it at least three times before she handed it over to Evarts.
Dear Patricia,
You have my sincerest condolences for your parents. They were good friends. I assume that is Greg Evarts with you. I don’t know what you are doing here, but they told us you would fight the union.
Please forgive me, but I must leave. Don’t try to contact me. I’m far gone.
Nancy Greene
“Fight the union,” Evarts said. “That’s odd wording.”
Baldwin looked around nervously. “I think we should get out of here ourselves.”
Evarts got up and threw two twenties on the table. “Right now.”
Chapter 19
“Pull over and let me drive,” Baldwin said.
Evarts had just pulled off the Massachusetts Turnpike onto Boston surface streets. Baldwin had been unusually quiet on the four-hour drive, but that seemed normal considering the circumstances.
“Why? We’re almost there.”
“This is the worst driving city in America. All one-ways with tiny street signs you can’t read until you’ve committed yourself to go straight. Bostonians don’t believe you should be driving here unless you’re a local.”
Evarts didn’t argue. He hated being lost. After they switched seats, he was glad that she had gotten behind the wheel. Even with her knowing the city, it seemed like they drove in circles. Eventually, they reached a road that passed through a park, and she explained that the Boston Commons were to the right and the Public Gardens were to the left.
When they stopped at a red light, she pointed ahead. “The apartment’s just off Charles Street up ahead.”
“The street with all the oncoming traffic?”
“Yes. It’s one-way on the other side of this signal. We need to go around Beacon Hill and approach it from the other side.”
Evarts thought it odd to have a two-way road suddenly turn one-way, but they had already encountered three of these marvels of civic engineering. After they turned right, four- and five-story brick townhouses faced the Commons in tight formation. Baldwin explained that early settlers had established the Commons in 1634, and that public hangings had occurred in the park until 1817. In the early days, women convicted of witchcraft had their death sentences carried out in the Commons so everyone could witness the penalty for consorting with the devil.
When they reached a gold-domed edifice on the left, Baldwin said, “That’s the new statehouse … built in 1798.”
“New?”
“We’ll see the old one later. They built it in 1713.”
“In Los Angeles, we tear down anything over fifty years old.”
“Try that in Boston, and they’ll probably reinstate hangings in the Commons.”
They drove around the periphery of Beacon Hill and entered Charles Street from the north side. Evarts couldn’t believe the audacity of the pedestrians. In California, cops ticketed jaywalkers, but in Boston anyone waiting for a green walk sign would feel foolish as people brushed past them into the street against the red light. To successfully navigate the slalom course between the dashing pedestrians required a driver’s full attention.
“How many pedestrians do Bostonians kill each year?”
“No one knows. They just brush them aside so the street cleaners can pick them up in the wee hours.”
When they reached mid-block, Baldwin stopped and put on the flashers. As she opened the Explorer door, she said, “I’ll run in and get the key.”
“Wait. Do you have to show ID?”
“No, just whisper the secret password.”
“What secret password? What are you talking about?”
She nodded toward a real estate office. “My dad set up a system with these people. They give the keys to anyone that asks for them and says they’re with the S&M League. I thought it sounded kind of kinky at the time.”
“Trish?”
“What?”
“League is a synonym for society.”
She looked irritated for a moment until she made the connection. “Damn, the thought never occurred to me. My brain must be addled. I keep worrying instead of thinking.”
“Run in and get the key before a cop tickets us for double parking.”
“Don’t worry about that. I put the flashers on.”
“That makes it legal?”
“In Boston, custom overrules law.” She bounded out of the car and disappeared into the real estate office.
Evarts kept an eye on the street. The heavy foot traffic and the approaching dusk made it difficult to isolate individuals, but he spotted no one watching the real estate office. Charles Street looked like an incongruous mishmash. The quaint red brick storefronts, narrow gas-lit street, and undulating brick sidewalks made Charles Street look like a tourist destination; except nestled between the antique stores, art galleries, and fine restaurants were coin Laundromats, video rental stores, pizza joints, and a grocery store so cramped that it probably also had one-way aisles. Most pedestrians looked like tourists browsing one of the oldest mercantile districts in America, but a few appeared to be harried residents running into a neighborhood establishment to complete some errand before heading home for the evening.
Baldwin returned in less than five minutes dangling a set of keys in an outstretched hand. After she slammed the door, she said, “Now for one more tour around Beacon Hill.”
“Excuse me?”
“The apartment’s on Pinckney Street, behind us. One-ways, remember.”
“This is so convoluted; no one’ll ever find us.”
“That’s the idea. It’s on the west side of Charles, which, metaphorically speaking, is on the wrong side of the tracks.” She pointed to the left. “The rich live east of Charles on Beacon Hill.”
“Parking?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. After we unload, we need to find a garage.”
Evarts thought about his shotgun and other specialized gear he had thrown in his van before they left his house. “Quiet neighborhood?”
“Extremely. The street dead-ends at the Charles River just a half block away, and it’s off the tourist footpaths. The street’s central but, at the same time, almost completely isolated.”
“Let’s get unloaded quick, and I’ll run the car over to long-term parking at the airport. Is it far?”
“No, but I better take it. The route’s tricky.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Evarts turned around to check the traffic behind them but saw no one suspicious. “We either go together or I take it.”
“I can handle it.”
“I’m not letting you wander this city alone.”
She gave him a nasty look. “Then together.” She double-parked, threw the car in park, and flipped off the ignition with a sharp movement.
Before she opened the car door, Evarts said, “Hold a sec.” After he inspected the street and the windows, he asked, “Which one?”
“That door over there. It gives access to a second-floor apartment.”
Evarts saw a plain door at the extreme edge of a two-story brick house. The building had been a single residence at one time, and sometime in the past, an enclosed staircase had been built on the side of the building to provide a private entrance to the second floor.
“Okay, let’s check it out.”
They both got out of the car. Baldwin had her hand in her purse, and Evarts guessed her fingers didn’t clutch the keys. The commercial-grade lock turned easily when she inserted the key. As she opened the
door, Evarts nudged her aside and had his hand on his own gun. The open door revealed only blackness. She reached around him and fumbled against the wall with her hand until she found a light switch. Three bright bare bulbs came on to illuminate a narrow staircase painted a dull brown. Evarts checked the street and buildings one more time and then started up the stairs.
“Wait,” she said. “The door at the top is locked as well.” She handed him the keys, and when he had moved up a few steps, she closed the street door behind them and twisted the lock closed.
Evarts felt trapped in the staircase, so he hurdled up the steps two at a time. At the top, it took him awhile to find the right key on the ring, but when he did, he felt the heavy-duty deadbolt slide free. He opened the door a crack and reached his left hand inside until he found a light switch. After pulling out the SIG, he motioned for Baldwin to stay down a few steps. He noticed she had her Glock out, and more important, she had it pointed straight up with her trigger finger extended along the barrel. Evidently, her ex-boyfriend had taught her good gun safety.
Evarts bent into a crouch, flung the door open, and swung the automatic from side to side. Nothing but draped furniture. He entered the room and wished he had backup that understood the proper procedure to clear a series of rooms. He glanced back and saw that Baldwin had stayed about two steps down the staircase and had assumed a shooting posture, but with her gun still in the air. He was going to have to ask her about her ex-boyfriend.
In less than a minute, Evarts had cleared the one-bedroom apartment and signaled Baldwin to come in.
“That was scary,” she said.
“Cops hate clearing rooms.” Evarts smiled, partly from relief. “You did good. Was your old boyfriend a cop?”
“Drug enforcement. How’d you guess?”
“Because he taught you more than how to shoot.” He moved toward the door. “Let’s get our stuff up here.”
In a little over an hour, they had hauled their few belongings up the stairs, stashed the car at an airport off-site lot, and taken a taxi back into the city. Inside again, Evarts checked out the place more carefully. He found it odd that the hardwood door at the top of the stairs would give a police ram trouble and that the windows had blackout curtains. Checking the windows, he discovered a fire escape that provided a quick exit to a rear alley. He opened the window and checked out the drop ladder on the fire escape. Someone had used a spring-loaded C-clamp to lock it in the up position so someone from below couldn’t pull it down.