Dying Breath

by Heather Graham

  * * *

  George Ballantine was a big man, tall and fit, and customarily friendly but dignified.

  At the moment, he was anything but.

  The big man sobbed.

  “It was me,” he wailed. “It was me.”

  “You and a mistress did commit murder?” Barnes asked, completely thrown by the confession.

  “What? No, no. Murder—me? No, no, I just caused it all.”

  “George,” Griffin said, keeping his tone at a low, even keel. “You didn’t kill anyone, but you think you caused it all.”

  “Before the breakout—before Bertram Aldridge and Reginald Mason broke out of prison—I was part of a service club. You know, we’re the guys who wear the funny hats. There was a meeting because one of our members was an attorney who had been asked to do a write-up on the state of our prison system, the pros and cons of the death penalty, and so on. I wound up doing the main work on the letter to the parole board. In my summations, I quoted cases in which the death penalty might be a proper punishment—because our prisons seem incapable of keeping people in. Well, in the end, there were all these papers and write-ups flying through the state legislature. One of the prison wardens wrote a scathing return on how the system was completely capable of keeping men incarcerated.” Ballantine exhaled on a long breath. “You see?”

  “You think that Aldridge and Mason broke out—just to spite the man who wrote the rebuttal?” Jackson asked, frowning. He leaned forward. “Aldridge is a sick man. A serial killer. Ballantine, you didn’t turn him into a killer. Most men in prison dream of escape. The clever ones study every way possible and look for any chink or weak link in the system,” Griffin told him.

  “If you’re blaming yourself for Aldridge, Mr. Ballantine,” Jackson said quietly, “you’ve taken your assumed power of persuasion as far too great a burden, sir.”

  “Not even I hold you responsible for that,” Barnes muttered.

  “It’s more than that,” Ballantine said.

  “Did you put your wife into the pit in your basement, Mr. Ballantine?” Griffin asked him.

  “No! Oh, God, no!” Ballantine said.

  “Do you know who put your wife in the pit in your basement?” Jackson asked.

  “Of course,” Ballantine said, distracted.

  “Of course? Then who the hell was it?” Barnes demanded.

  “The Undertaker! Hell, we all know that. The Undertaker—or the Undertakers!”

  Griffin saw the weariness that shook Barnes and the frustration on his partner’s face.

  Yes, of course, they all knew that.

  “Mr. Ballantine,” Griffin said, “I’m finding it hard to believe your guilt is just over Aldridge’s escape. Your wife was nearly killed. She needs you, and, apparently, you disappear for hours. You don’t come home when you should.”

  Ballantine nodded. “Yeah, well, I sit in Boston Common,” he said.

  “Why the hell are you doing that?” Barnes demanded.

  Ballantine suddenly looked at Griffin. “I’m not having an affair. I didn’t kill anyone. But what happened to Chrissy was my fault. She could have died because of me. I’m sure as hell not having an affair now, but I was! It was a younger woman. There was all the talk about the dead women on the news. I was shaken up—couldn’t help but remember Aldridge, and from the beginning, his name was in the news, comparisons to the last such case to shake Boston and all. I don’t know what hit me. Midlife crisis? There’s an excuse that truly sucks. I love Chrissy. I’ve always loved her. And I adored Dylan, like I adore Noah now. I was out—I was out when Chrissy was attacked in our own home. And I’m the one who probably forgot to set the alarm, like I forgot to set it years ago when Aldridge was in the house. I don’t know what or why, and I don’t know how to ask for forgiveness. Maybe I can’t. She’s gone. She’s out of my life. I cut it off, but it didn’t matter—I think she was through with me, too. Got tired of her older man. Thing is, I was a wicked good liar when it was all going on, and now I can’t stand what I did, and maybe I was off with this woman—having forgotten to set the alarm—and caused Chrissy to be attacked. How low could a man be?”

  “You know we’ll have to check this all out,” Griffin told him. “What was the woman’s name?”

  “What?” Ballantine said.

  “The young woman you were seeing. What is her name?” Jackson said.

  “Oh. June. June Jensen.”

  “Where does she work? What does she do?”

  “She’s an artist. I met her sketching in the park,” he said.

  “And where does she live?” Barnes asked.

  “I—I don’t know. We met at a hotel off of Beacon Hill,” Ballantine said.

  “Do you believe this shit? I don’t think I believe this shit,” Barnes said.

  Ballantine just shook his head. “I don’t care what you believe. I can only imagine what Chrissy believes. And Noah... I don’t know what happened. Honest to God, I just don’t know what happened. I never even thought of straying before.”

  Barnes shoved a notepad toward Ballantine. “Hotel name, dates and times you met—and a description of June Jensen. Her phone number, please.”

  Ballantine wrote it all down. Jackson stepped aside, took out his phone, and dialed the number that Ballantine wrote down.

  Griffin looked at him as Jackson waited. He hung up without speaking.

  “No connection—pay-as-you-go phone. We can put the techs on it, but...”

  “It’s been tossed. It’s going to be in a Dumpster somewhere,” Griffin said.

  “What? She’s real, I’m telling you—June Jensen is real,” Ballantine said.

  “She is—and somehow, Mr. Ballantine, she was using you. We really do have to find her,” Griffin said.

  He didn’t add that if they did...

  They might be on their way to solving the puzzle.

  June Jensen could be just a woman who had chosen to indulge in an affair, using a throwaway phone and what idle time she had. Maybe she was in a bad marriage, maybe she’d gotten out of a bad affair.

  And maybe she was one of the Undertakers, and she had used Ballantine. She had gotten to know him; she knew when he was out, when he worked...

  And maybe she even knew he always forgot to set the alarm.

  And just when his wife might be alone.

  * * *

  Pasta Fagioli was busy, but Mario greeted Vickie at the door. He had never actually met Chrissy Ballantine, but he was great with her, not betraying in the least that, of course, he’d heard of her—she’d been all over the news several times.

  Mario found a table for Chrissy and Vickie.

  And he found a strategic spot for Donald Baugh and their cop, as well. Chrissy wasn’t worried in the restaurant; the Undertakers snuck up on people. They took them by surprise.

  Like old friends kissing in the street.

  The problem was, of course, she didn’t get a minute to speak with Mario alone. Maybe by the time they left, the lunch crowd would thin out.

  “This is one of the best Italian restaurants in Boston, I swear,” Vickie told Chrissy. “I think Mario’s dad was born here, but all four of his grandparents were born in Italy, different regions, and so the restaurant offers specialties from Rome, Naples, Tuscany, and so on.”

  “How nice.”

  “All the pastas are homemade,” Vickie told her.

  “Do you think my husband has come here without me?” Chrissy asked.

  “I have no idea,” Vickie said flatly.

  There was a couple at a window table; the man was older, the woman much younger—by at least twenty years. Chrissy was staring at them.

  “I’ll bet he’s someone’s husband. And she’s just after his money,” Chrissy said.

  “They
could be father and daughter, Chrissy,” Vickie protested.

  The man gave the young woman a box. She opened it and looked up at him with shimmering eyes of delight.

  “See,” Chrissy said.

  “A present for a daughter, Chrissy. It happens. I go out with my dad. He’s bought me great presents over the years.

  “Sure.”

  The young woman leaned forward; she kissed the man.

  “That kiss is on the lips,” Chrissy said. “Oh, and will you look at that? Lots of tongue going there with that kiss, too. Father and daughter?” she asked Vickie.

  “I certainly hope not,” Vickie said.

  Taking Chrissy out to lunch was not proving useful.

  But then the door out to the street opened; Hank Fremont walked in. He was alone.

  “Isn’t that the guy you were dating in high school, Vickie?” Chrissy asked. “He really was so good-looking back then. He’s matured okay, but he’s young for all that puffiness in his face...kind of drawn-looking and all. Sorry. Guess I’m in a bitter mood.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Your other friend Mario seems to be asking him to wait...there are no tables now. Why don’t you ask him over here?” Chrissy suggested.

  “That’s okay—”

  “Really. Ask him over. You don’t want to see him just standing there, do you? Ohhhh! Especially because, look now. Mario is pointing us out to him.”

  And Mario was. Mario waved to her, and then Hank, looking hopeful, waved to her, too.

  She waved back.

  Chrissy smiled and waved, making a motion to indicate that he should come over to him.

  Hank did, thanking Mario before weaving his way through tables filled with diners to reach them.

  “Ladies, good afternoon.”

  “Hank, you remember—”

  “Mrs. Ballantine, of course. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  He didn’t ask her how she’d been doing. Maybe he didn’t want the answer.

  “And you, too, Hank. Have a seat,” Chrissy said.

  “Thank you. It’s really kind of you to share your table,” he said, drawing out the chair between them at the four-top to join them. “Mario has been doing great things with this place. I believe it has raves in all the tour books—great for business, hard on locals and friends!”

  “I haven’t been in here before,” Chrissy said. “But Vickie says it’s wonderful.”

  “How’s everything with you, Hank?” Vickie asked. She realized that Hank, too, was staring at the couple by the window, the older man, the younger woman. “Tell Chrissy about what brought you back to Boston.”

  Hank drew his attention from them to look at Vickie. He smiled. “I’m working for a relatively new and small company called Great Organics. I believe in the product. I’ve been out to some of the local farms. Yes, we in Massachusetts can have wicked bad winters, but we have really lush earth, too—pristine forests, though that doesn’t really help me a lot—but some great growing conditions. I’m happy.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Chrissy said. “No pesticides, right?”

  “No chemicals—great scarecrows. Kind of fitting with New England, too, right?”

  They were chatting with one another—and glancing at the couple by the window now and then.

  For a moment, Vickie thought something tensed in Hank’s face; as if he experienced a moment of true anger—but quickly got it under control.

  “They’re something, huh?” Chrissy whispered, seeing where Hank’s attention had been.

  Hank gave a little shiver, shaking his head and turning away completely.

  “Ugh, right?” Chrissy said, possibly thinking George Ballantine was out somewhere, looking much like the older man here—not so great with eye candy on his arm, but rather sad as people around him wondered just how much money he had in his bank account.

  “Yeah, sorry, who am I to judge?” Hank said.

  Chrissy gave him a brilliant smile. “Sometimes we can’t help it, right?”

  “I think your ‘ugh’ kind of summed it all up,” Hank said. “Maybe it’s not the age difference. I think it’s just obvious... I mean, that’s prostitution, really. Sex for money or gifts or power or whatever. I’m sure I’ve known people with large age differences who are really in love. I just don’t think that’s the case.”

  “So, what do you think he does for a living?” Chrissy asked. “And where do you think he’s from? I don’t think he’s local. White area where his wedding band should be. He’s probably a salesman.”

  “I beg you, don’t judge all salesmen harshly,” Hank said.

  The two of them seemed to be enjoying themselves, playing their create-a-scenario game. Vickie interrupted to ask them to order the eggplant parmesan for her, and then she slipped from her seat, heading toward the host stand.

  She didn’t see Mario at first; he was in the hallway to the kitchen, leaning against the wall. He saw her and flashed a smile. “You doing okay, Vickie?”

  “Fine, how about you?”

  “I need a breather. No, a smoke. I should have quit. I’ve mostly quit. Is there such a thing? Anyway, come with me, if you can. I want to step out for a cigarette.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  She stopped by the table Donald Baugh and the cop were sharing to point just outside. The cop said he was trying to quit, too, but maybe he’d have a cigarette.

  “Don’t make guarding me cause you to pick up a bad habit again!” Vickie begged.

  “Wish I could blame it on you,” the young cop said, grinning. “I can use the air. Donald will order for me and watch over your table.” He grew serious. “You do know the man who just joined you?”

  “Old high school friend,” she said.

  Did she know him? Not really, it had been years.

  She knew he was a liar.

  Mario was waiting for her by the door. She slipped out to join him.

  “Thanks for the company,” he told her.

  “You must be wiped out all the time. The restaurant is crazy busy.”

  “Yeah, I done good, huh?” he said lightly. “I always wanted to be in the business, too. I love going back in the kitchen when we need a cook. I remember thinking once the only thing I wanted to do was get away—be somewhere new and cool, be someone else, maybe. You know, I majored in this, right? I hadn’t even known you could major in being a glorified host, really.”

  “School of hospitality, down at FIU, right?” Vickie told him. “And, yeah, you done good. It seems now most of us are, at the least, still standing, which is good. I had a roommate from an inner-city school who had lost ten of her classmates to gun violence, drugs and alcohol, or vehicular accidents before her first day of college. I know Roxanne’s ex, Trent, is doing time, but hey, look, Hank never did time, and now he’s back—thrilled with his job.”

  “Yeah, and the stuff he’s selling—it’s just prime!” Mario said.

  “You did check out his business, right?”

  “Locally owned,” Mario told her. “And the company doesn’t discriminate against Rhode Island, Connecticut, New Hampshire or any other state. But they really work to provide the freshest, cleanest produce from the state of Massachusetts.”

  “That’s nice. I’m glad he’s happy. What about this June Jensen he’s dating?”

  “I think I saw her once,” Mario said. “Actually, I think he was trying to get her to come in here for lunch. She ran off on him.”

  “Ah, so she is real!”

  “Did you think she wasn’t?” Mario asked, and then laughed softly. “Forgot what a thing you two had been. Yeah, I guess he’ll always have a thing for you. But no, I think he really is seeing a pretty young woman.”

  She’d gotten nowhere, Vickie thought.
/>   “I’d always thought, now that Hank is so on the up-and-up of life, I kind of thought it would be cute if he and Roxanne got together. They’d make a gorgeous couple,” she said.

  “I guess they would. A blonde goddess for a blond god.” Mario grinned. “Maybe it will happen. Who knows—you’re right. It might be great for both of them. If, of course, Hank is the right guy, now. Roxanne is such a great person. I guess we have to sit there like a pair of yentas and hope that they see it, figure it out—and that it is right!”

  Mario walked away to crush his cigarette out by the Dumpster behind the restaurant. Vickie waited for him. He grinned, took her arm and told her, “Thanks, Vickie. Thanks for the support. We’ve been written about for helping out with Grown Ups. We wouldn’t have been involved, if it weren’t for you. Not that our food isn’t great—it is. But hey, that’s life. Publicity and name recognition—name of the game. So thanks.”

  “Absolutely, my pleasure.”

  “Might want to wave to your cop—let him know we’re going in.”

  Vickie waved.

  When she returned to the table, their food had been served.

  Hank and Chrissy were talking away as if they were very old friends.

  Maybe they were closer than Chrissy knew. Maybe Hank had slipped into the Ballantine house with his accomplice—the mysterious June Jensen, or Roxanne? He had strength. He could easily have knocked her out and dragged her around, buried her.

  And maybe...

  God, no. Not Roxanne. Roxanne had been her friend as long as she could remember.

  Then June Jensen.

  Thing was, what was up? Was Hank cheating on June with Roxanne...

  Or cheating on Roxanne with June, or was it all part of a plan that was yet to be fathomed?

  And maybe it was all totally innocent.

  Vickie knew that Chrissy and Hank both seemed to be happy through the meal. She was pretty sure she smiled and replied and spoke at the proper moments.

  Finally, they were handed a check. Hank insisted on getting it.

  They rose to leave.

  Donald Baugh and the BPD cop rose to leave.

  They all said goodbye to Mario. As they stood on the street—the cop nearby as Baugh went for his car—Hank looked back toward the restaurant.