by Ben Sanders
He told her about Frank Cifaretti and the smiley man, Marco Perrin, in the dark in the woods. She didn’t interject. She sat there pale and attentive, and when he was finished, she just sat there shaking her head, staring at him.
‘You told the police?’
‘I told them where to find them.’
He smiled. She didn’t. She said, ‘I’m so glad you’re OK. Oh my God.’ She tented her hands over her mouth and nose. ‘I’m so glad you’re all right.’
‘Like I say, I didn’t know whether to tell you about it or not.’
‘No, I mean …’ She was still shaking her head. She closed her eyes and went still. He figured the story alone would be a lot to take in, but then there were all the corollary issues that went with it. Like whether he was the sort of guy who was ultimately safe to be around. Hopefully it would be a few more days, maybe a few more weeks, before she seriously engaged with that question.
She said, ‘I’m just glad you’re OK.’
‘I think I am.’
‘And I’m glad you told me.’
‘That’s good.’
Quiet between them for a minute. Faint rain pattering on the roof. She said, ‘But were we right?’
‘About what?’
‘Was it D’Anton’s wife who hired him? Little Marco?’
Marshall nodded, told her about finding Renee Lewis and Mikey Langello, the ex-mob guy, up in Boston.
‘They say they hired Little Marco to stop Ray from tracking them down. They didn’t want D’Anton finding them.’
‘Fair enough in principle.’
‘Yes. Except Little Marco got carried away.’
She came over and sat down next to him, put an arm around his neck. ‘Carried away. I guess that’s one way to put it.’
‘Yeah.’
They listened to the rain for a while. She thrummed the fingers of the draped arm on his chest. She said, ‘So that’s it, then.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. That’s why I’m reading the Yellow Pages.’
She looked at him, turning to see him in profile, and he felt her breath on his cheek. She said, ‘What are you thinking?’
Marshall said, ‘I’m almost too scared to say.’
‘No you’re not.’
He didn’t answer.
She said, ‘Why?’
He spent a moment on that. Then he said, ‘I just want to be sure about it.’ He shut his eyes. ‘I really like this cuddle, though. It’s nice.’
‘Yeah. It’s pretty good, isn’t it?’
He leaned over and found her mouth and kissed her. She tasted pretty good, too.
But she broke away. ‘You need a shower first. You have sawdust in your hair. And … cobwebs, I think.’
‘I had to crawl under a house.’
‘Right. Well, it looks like it.’
He ran a hand through his hair. He said, ‘So as far as you’re concerned … would you say a shower is essential? Or just recommended at this stage?’
She studied him again. ‘I would say it’s absolutely imperative.’ Talking in his ear now. ‘If you want things to go any further.’
He went upstairs.
Tempting just to do a thirty-second rinse, but if he started granting himself concessions, there’d be no end to it. He’d descend into a life devoid of form and order. He unlocked the safe and took the Colt with him through to the bathroom, folded it in its protective towel on the edge of the sink while he showered. After a minute, Jordan came upstairs, stood there in the hallway looking in at him through the open door.
‘Interesting set-up. Most people go with the door-closed option.’
‘It’s a security precaution. I like to be able to see people coming.’
‘Right.’
He said, ‘On that note, I think there’s probably room for two in here.’
She appraised the layout. ‘Oh, do you think so?’
She started taking off her clothes, making it a show, both of them amused. She came toward him, down to her underwear now, working hard to keep a straight face, and then she paused and looked behind her, back down the stairs.
‘I can hear your phone.’
‘Damn. How’s that for timing.’
‘It’s not illegal to ignore it.’
‘Yeah. Exigent circumstances.’
He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist as he went back downstairs. The phone was still there on his desk, quivering on its back with the incoming call, screen alight in pulse-rhythm to its silenced ringtone.
He sat down at the desk and answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey. This is Larry, from Computers by Larry. I have some missed calls from you?’
Marshall said, ‘Yes. Thanks very much for getting back to me.’
‘Sure.’
‘I have a question about a laptop I’m looking to purchase. I understand you may have serviced it.’
‘Oh, sure. Do you happen to have the device serial number at hand?’ Sounding like the kind of guy who ran a business with a four-point-nine-star Google rating.
Marshall said, ‘Yes, I do. Sorry, give me second.’
Shit, he was dripping water all over his Pollock puzzle. He found the piece of paper, read out the long code to the guy, twenty or thirty characters.
‘It would’ve been around maybe ninth or tenth of August. Something like that.’
‘All right. Give me a sec.’
Keys tapping.
‘Uh, yeah. This looks to be it. Microsoft Surface. I ran a re-format and a Windows re-install.’
‘OK, great.’ He had to swallow. ‘Can you tell me who brought it in for you?’
Pause.
‘I, umm. What is this about exactly, sorry?’
Marshall waited.
The guy said, ‘It’s just … I really value confidentiality, and you know. Things like this, it can affect customer trust and confidence, and, well. That kind of thing, it translates to our general reputation and Google rating and all sorts. We have like four-point-eight stars.’
Marshall said, ‘Four-point-nine, I heard.’
‘Oh really? Well, yeah, there you go.’
He sat there for a moment.
‘Sir?’
So close.
Close enough he thought he could bend the bars of honesty a little, slip through to the other side of the mystery.
Marshall said, ‘I’m an investigator. I’ve been hired to look into the murder of a man called Ray Vialoux. You may have seen it in the news.’
Pause. Then: ‘I, uh … oh my God. Sure. I think maybe I have. The thing at the restaurant.’
‘That’s right. Anything you can tell me could be crucial.’
Silence.
Marshall said, ‘Larry,’ putting a little extra into it as he said the guy’s name. Making him part of the story, integral to progress. ‘Can you tell me who brought it in? The computer?’
The guy said, ‘I guess … I guess if it’s something that serious …’
He trailed off, and then he laughed: quiet, brief, slightly nervous, and yet somehow rich with implication. The sound people give when recalling something strange, or uncanny, or unsettling, and maybe they shouldn’t go into it.
The guy said, ‘Yeah. I remember.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Marshall called Nevins.
‘Yes?’
‘I said I’d call you when I solved it.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘This is the call.’
He told Nevins what he’d discovered.
Nevins said, ‘Don’t do anything.’
‘Well, that’s why I’m calling. I am going to do something.’
‘Please don’t.’
Marshall said, ‘It’s an ostensibly free society. I can go and talk to people if I like. I’m asking if you’d like to come with me.’
‘It needs more work.’
‘There’s nothing to be worked. The computer guy made the I.D. The evidence is all burned up in Vialoux’s office. All
there is to do is ask the question.’
Nevins swore. ‘I’m at the supermarket. Meet me … do you have a pen?’
‘Yes.’
Nevins gave him an address. Fourth Street, down in Kensington. Not far. He said, ‘I’ll be home in thirty minutes.’
They caught an Uber.
Nevins had a tidy but narrow three-story clapboard house that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a seaside town on the way up to Boston. Bluish-gray siding and white trim on the windowsills. A cockatoo weathervane way up at the third-story apex.
Marshall knocked, and a young guy of about thirty answered the door. Very fit and good-looking, very on-trend. Dark oversize spectacles, wavy hair combed just so, expensive tailored shirt belted into smoothly ironed chinos, rolled up to show a hint of ankle above polished loafers.
‘Hey. Is Floyd in?’
Inside it smelled like Mexican cooking, maybe chili con carne. The guy leaned away from the door and called, ‘Floyd? He’s here.’
Nevins came down the stairs in his suit, gun and badge on his belt. The young guy stood aside to make room.
‘Please be careful.’
Nevins said, ‘Always am.’
‘Please be extra, extra careful.’
Nevins said, ‘Please save me some chili.’
‘How long will you be?’
Nevins looked at Marshall. ‘God knows.’
They rode in Nevins’ car: Nevins driving, Jordan up front beside him, Marshall in back.
Nevins looked at him in the mirror. ‘Don’t try and sell it to me.’
‘I’m not. All I said was you can come along if you like. And here you are. So I obviously sold you on that.’
The Boynes’ street had no curb space. Nevins double-parked. They went up the Boynes’ front steps, and Marshall knocked, and the three of them stood quietly in the cold. Just on seven p.m. Sky pitch-black with the cloud cover, and the street shiny with rain and car-gleam under the streetlights.
The door opened.
Ginny Boyne looked out at them through the gap, eye jumping to take in the trio one at a time.
Marshall said, ‘Sorry. Me again. We were hoping to speak to Martin.’
She let them in, but she didn’t offer them a seat. They stood in the narrow entry hall, and with brow furrowed and gaze downcast, Ginny Boyne called to her husband. Footsteps in the upper hallway, and then Martin appeared. Halfway down the stairs, he hesitated, taking in the four of them. Then he descended the last few treads. Quiet in the house. A TV playing faintly. Martin Boyne stood performing slow but complicated re-arrangements of his clasped and white-knuckled hands.
Marshall said, ‘Evening, Martin.’
‘Hello.’
Marshall said, ‘Why did you delete the contents of your daughter’s computer?’
The hands went still. The head swiveled to look at him. ‘Excuse me?’
‘The day after your daughter died, you took her laptop computer to a service center on Newkirk Avenue, and had the hard disk wiped, and the operating system reinstalled. Why would you do that?’
Silence.
‘What did you think was on her computer? What was so important that it had to be deleted immediately?’
A long pause. Martin Boyne licked his lips.
Ginny said, ‘Mart, what’s he talking about?’
Martin Boyne’s eyes were still on Marshall, a faint and not-unkind smile on his face, like this was all a regrettable misunderstanding, albeit with a funny side.
He said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what he’s talking about, sweetheart.’ A whisper.
Marshall said, ‘I think you do. On August tenth, the day after Jennifer died, you took her computer to have the contents of the hard disk erased and the operating system reinstalled. Why was it so urgent that you did that? What did you think might be on the computer? What did you think she may have recorded about what was happening to her?’
‘Mart, what is this nonsense?’
‘And what was on the second hard drive?’ He looked now at Ginny. ‘You found a hard drive last week, and you gave it to Ella Vialoux. That’s right, isn’t it?’
The information seemed to startle her. She leaned away from him. ‘I … what does this—’
‘Yes or no? You found a hard drive, and you gave it to Ella to pass on to Ray to examine.’
‘What does this—’
‘Please answer the question.’
‘Yes! For goodness’ sake. What does this—’
‘Thank you.’ He looked now at Martin. ‘So I ask you again. What was on that drive that you didn’t want found?’
‘Mart, for goodness’ sake. What is going on?’
Marshall said, ‘It was your hard drive, wasn’t it? The computer was hers, but the hard drive was yours. And what was on it, Martin? What was on it that you didn’t want found? That nobody could ever see?’
Martin was looking agitated now, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He said, ‘I … this is nonsense. This is rubbish. Absolute rubbish.’
He turned and began to ascend the stairs.
Marshall drew a breath, and shouted, ‘Martin!’
Giving it everything, a house-shaking blast, the vocal equivalent of a phonebook smashed against a table, and he saw the four others jump visibly.
Martin stopped. He turned and looked at him. Two steps from the bottom, and eye-level now with Marshall. More confident with the added height.
He said it again: ‘This is rubbish.’
‘Are you going to have the courage to tell the truth?’
No answer. Just faint TV noise.
Marshall said, ‘Ray Vialoux had your secret hard drive, and you had to get it back. Is that right? It was essential that you got it back, or destroyed it. So you called the man you saw following him. Didn’t you? The night Ray came to the house, you saw the smiley man following him. He looked devilish. You remember telling me that? He looked like the devil. But then you had a crisis, and you thought maybe you should call him. Frank’s Flowers. It was right there on the van, wasn’t it? Call the devil and ask if he could help.’
‘Martin, what is this nonsense?’ Ginny Boyne looking desperately between Marshall and her husband.
Marshall said it again: ‘Are you going to have the courage to tell the truth?’
Martin licked his lips, dipped his head. ‘Well, yes I am. This is … this is crazy talk.’
Marshall said, ‘Did you get what you wanted? Is that what you asked him to do? Kill Vialoux, and torch his office? Or did things get out of hand?’
He saw a flicker in his eye, saw for a second the man’s desire to tell him the same thing Renee Lewis had: that no one was supposed to die. That the smiley man started, and just didn’t stop. Because evil doesn’t have a leash on it. But maybe that was a lesson Martin Boyne knew well enough for himself.
He said, ‘Leave now. All three of you. This is obscene. You come in here … this is obscene.’
He turned and continued up the stairs, and his decisiveness seemed to give his wife some strength, too.
‘Yes, please leave. This is …’ Her mouth quavered. ‘This is disgusting. Truly disgusting.’
She spread her arms, ushering them toward the door, and from upstairs Martin shouted, ‘I’m calling the police.’
Calling the police.
The phrase touched something in Marshall’s memory, some dim connection, and then he saw Ginny Boyne’s look of confusion, and that was enough: Marshall pushed past her, shoved Nevins aside, sprinted up the stairs three at a time.
Light and shadow through an open doorway – an office – and he entered the room to see Martin Boyne standing in profile: eyes shut, hands clasped below his chin, lips moving in whispered recital. Prayer, or preparation. Farewell to this world, and a petition to the next, maybe: In his hands was a revolver, the hammer pulled back.
Marshall crossed the room in two frantic strides and saw Boyne’s eyes open in bloodshot panic as Marshall slappe
d the gun away from the underside of his jaw. The shot went through a wall with a bang and a plume of gypsum dust, and Marshall grabbed the gun two-handed and shouted for Nevins.
But that was it.
Boyne didn’t have the strength. He released the weapon and fell limply to his knees, panting quietly, hunched as if rubber-limbed. Marshall could hear Ginny screaming, and he called, ‘Clear. We’re clear.’
Nevins was in the room now. He looked at Marshall, and in that glance was the certainty that he had the whole story. Gut-instinct proof: more persuasive and conclusive than anything logged as formal evidence. Certainly Ginny Boyne interpreted the same message. She stood in the doorway and screamed, hands covering her ears, as if protecting herself from the pitch of her own anguish.
‘What did you do? What did you do to her? Martin? What did you do …’
Then Jordan was there too, an arm around Ginny’s shoulders and whispering in her ear, pulling her gently away from the room and back along the hallway.
Marshall dumped the shells from the gun as Nevins handcuffed Martin Boyne. He didn’t resist. He remained kneeling, shoulders heaving as he breathed. Marshall crouched in front of him as Nevins called 911.
‘Are you going to tell me what happened? Are you finally going to have some courage?’
Nothing. He sat quietly breathing. He licked his lips. The same expression of placid curiosity that he’d seen on Little Marco as he died in the woods. The truth was right there behind his eyes, deep in the mis-wired circuitry of his wretched head, and Marshall had the strange and awful impulse to break open the man’s skull, as if it might yield the facts of the matter. He looked up and saw Nevins looking back, almost like he’d read his mind, or maybe shared that same thought. A crazy notion reserved for the sane. Marshall got up and went back downstairs. Ginny Boyne and Jordan were in the living room, Ginny in an armchair in the corner, and Jordan crouching beside her. The model landscape still center-stage. Ginny shaking with grief, face in her hands. He wondered if this was all a total revelation to her, or if her life had been a long campaign of denial, erroneous self-counsel: No, it can’t be happening.
He crouched in front of her. ‘Ginny …’
She looked up, tear-streaked.
‘Can you tell me what’s been going on?’