by Ingrid Thoft
He looked at her. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Fina.”
She held his gaze. “I can’t do this if I don’t know the whole story.”
“You know everything you need to know to find Melanie.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“Just find your sister-in-law.”
“I will, but don’t tie my hands behind my back.”
Carl peered at her. “You saying you’re not up for the job?”
Fina exhaled loudly. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Aren’t you supposed to testify in the Craig case today?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Well, you look like crap. Go get cleaned up.”
Carl picked up a pen and starting writing on a legal pad.
She had been dismissed.
An ache radiated across Fina’s back when she got out of bed the next morning. In the bathroom, she washed down four Advil and stood under a hot shower for ten minutes. Breakfast was peanut butter spread on Ritz Crackers accompanied by a diet soda. She left a message for her insider at the phone company requesting information on the number Milloy had found in Melanie’s recipe box. Her contact was like a crooked government official; Fina had to hand over a lot of money and be satisfied with whatever she got, whenever she got it. The idea of waiting even a few hours for the information made her antsy, especially since the previous day had been eaten up by her court appearance, but she had no choice. In the meantime, she needed to figure out who had sent the goon.
Dante seemed like a good place to start—undisciplined enough to sic someone on her after a “friendly” conversation and green enough to hire someone who wasn’t really up to the job. She worked the phones for the next hour and got an address for Dante. She looked at the clock. If he was home at eight thirty A.M., he was probably asleep and hungover, which suited Fina just fine.
She threw on some cargo pants, a T-shirt, and flats, grabbed her gun, and headed to Allston. Once there, Fina parked outside a two-family house and climbed the front stairs. That small exertion, coupled with the humidity, gave rise to beads of sweat that stung the scratches on her face. Paint was peeling off the porch, and there was a stack of Yellow Pages in shrink-wrap next to the front door. Inside, four mailboxes were nestled in the wall, and a milk crate overflowed with flyers and junk mail. Fina continued down the hall and tried the knob on the last door on the left. It didn’t budge, so she pulled out her kit of lock picks and got to work.
Three minutes later, she was in, gun in hand. Cheap venetian blinds were lowered in all the windows of the living room, so she navigated with care through the dim room. Stacks of dirty dishes teetered on every surface in the small kitchen to the right, and beer bottles peeked out of the top of the trash can. The living room was equally messy—containers of Chinese food on the laminated wood coffee table oozed thick, brown liquid, and dirty clothes lay strewn along the back of the couch. A large flat-screen TV was pushed against the fireplace, flanked by enormous speakers. Fina peered into the bathroom and decided not to flip on the light. She didn’t need to see any more.
That left the bedroom.
The door was ajar. Fina gently pushed it open with the gun and crept into the room. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. A queen-size bed was pushed into one corner, and a large dresser sat against a wall across from it. There was nothing on the walls except for a Celtics poster and a pinup of a Playboy centerfold who was outfitted very practically in a cowboy hat, boots, and piece of straw. Fina tiptoed over to the dresser and leaned her butt against it. She studied the mass on the bed. Either Dante had grown or he wasn’t alone.
“This is not at all what I expected,” Fina proclaimed in a loud voice.
There was a flurry of activity under the duvet, and Dante’s head emerged. He was momentarily tangled, and when he freed himself, his gyrations revealed a smooth ass in a thong lying next to him.
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” Dante moved to get off the bed. He was naked except for a clingy pair of boxer briefs.
Fina held up the gun. She flicked on the light. “Get back in bed.”
The girl had emerged from the covers. Her dyed blond hair was a mess, and her smoky eye makeup looked like smudged ashes.
“You need to go,” Fina told her. She scampered off the bed and gathered her clothes before running out of the room.
“I’m disappointed in your living arrangement, Dante. I expected more from you.” Fina pinched a pair of briefs between two fingers and dropped them on the floor. “This does not match the up-and-coming pimp persona at all.”
“You’re that girl I met the other night,” Dante said, sitting up straighter. He kicked off the rest of the covers and spread his legs, giving Fina too much information.
“I’m a woman, actually, and yes, we met the other night.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know why I was jumped by some thug less than twenty-four hours after I talked to you.”
Dante curled his lip. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“I don’t believe you. Have you ever been shot?”
“Believe me, bitch, if I sent someone to mess you up, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”
“You didn’t answer my question; have you ever been shot?”
Dante flared his nostrils. “You don’t have the balls.”
Fina reached into her purse and took out a silencer. She started to screw it on the end of the gun.
Dante’s eyes bounced around the room nervously. “Are you fucking kidding me? I didn’t order a beat down.”
“I just don’t . . . I just don’t believe you.” Fina gave the silencer a final twist and started to raise the gun.
“I didn’t send anyone after you,” Dante said.
“I’m not going to be happy leaving here empty-handed.”
“You are one crazy bitch, you know that?”
“I’m not crazy; I’m extremely efficient. I could spend a lot of time following you and trying to convince you to cooperate, and that would be a colossal waste of time. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“You’re going to pay for this,” he sneered.
“Well, be that as it may . . .”
Dante breathed heavily.
“Really? You’re going to make me count?” Fina asked. “Ten, nine, eight—”
“I don’t know anything about some goon or that other lady.”
“—seven, six, five—”
“But I know the girl,” he blurted out.
Fina tilted her head and peered at him. “What girl?”
“The one in the picture.”
Fina took a small step back. She reached into her purse and pulled out the photo of Rand, Melanie, and Haley. She held it up for Dante to see. “You mean this girl?”
Dante’s eyes darted between Fina and the photo. “Yeah, her.”
“How do you know her?”
“I don’t really know her, but I’ve seen her around.”
“Where?”
“I don’t remember.”
Fina pulled the trigger, and a confetti of feathers floated up from Dante’s pillow.
Dante scuttled toward the foot of the bed. “I’ve seen her at Crystal and another club hanging out with some other girls. There’s one named Brianna. Talk to her.”
“Where do I find Brianna?”
“I don’t know where she lives, but she’s at the club most nights.”
“You’d better not be jerking me around, and you’d better keep your mouth shut about our little talk,” Fina said as she backed away from the bed. “And if you see the girl in the picture, don’t you lay a goddamn hand on her. If you do, I will come back and shoot off your balls, one at a time.”
“You’re a fucking ch
armer, you know that?” Dante called out as she left the room.
“I know!” Fina hollered over her shoulder.
Connor rolled over and faced the wall. He stared at the floral garlands snaking across the wallpaper. Seen from across the room, the pattern was dizzying, but up close, he could isolate each flower and vine. He reached out and traced a rosebud with his finger. Footsteps passed by the closed door, and he heard activity in the living room. The view of the wall was preferable to the piles of medical supplies on the bureau. He spent his life in hospitals, but there was something about seeing supplies related to his own parent that made him queasy.
When he’d arrived, having survived the flight from Cincinnati with the help of two gin and tonics, he was newly shocked by his father’s condition. It wasn’t any different from his last visit, but seeing him in the bed, shrunken and helpless, was a sight Connor would never get used to. He braced himself each visit, and yet he always felt rocked when he walked in the room. Where was his dispassionate detachment when he needed it the most?
There was a rap on the door. Connor rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.
“Sugar? Are you awake?”
“Come on in, Mom.”
The door opened and Bev stepped into the room. She was dressed in black pants, a floral blouse, and a yellow jacket with a round neckline and bracelet sleeves. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and large pearl earrings were nestled in her lobes.
“Did you sleep okay, honey?” she asked, standing over him.
“I slept fine. How’s Dad?”
“The same.” Bev leaned down and straightened the duvet cover. “I made some breakfast, that creamy hash brown casserole you love.”
Connor groaned. “Mom, you’re going to give me heart disease.”
She mussed his rumpled hair. “Oh, come on. Live a little.”
“It’s not good for you, either. When’s the last time you had a physical?”
“I’m fit as a fiddle. Don’t you worry about me. I can take care of myself and the rest of this family.”
Connor knew that he should protest, that a grown man shouldn’t expect his mother to take care of him, but he wasn’t particularly interested in taking care of himself these days. The idea of letting his mom take charge had serious appeal. Connor closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
“You still tired, darling? Go back to sleep. I’ve got some business to take care of, but I’ll be back this afternoon.”
Connor burrowed under the covers, and Bev walked to the door.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I know you may not believe this, Connor, but things are going to get better. Just you wait.”
She pulled the door closed behind her.
Fina’s next stop was 326 Forest Road, the site of Mark Lamont’s new house in Wellesley. Mark wasn’t someone who liked drop-ins, but she didn’t have the time to follow the usual protocol. Every hour that went by was another hour that Melanie was missing, another hour that Rand was under suspicion, and another hour that Fina’s attacker was possibly planning his next move.
Forest Road wasn’t a complete misnomer; there were actually trees swaying in the light breeze. Fina drove between two large stone pillars and pulled around the circular driveway to the front door. The house was set back enough from the street to provide some privacy, but still in full view so it could be admired by all. Fina supposed the enormous dwelling would be characterized as Nantucket-style, given its stone-and-shingle exterior, but it struck her as one of those made-up styles, generated by developers whose wives dressed them.
A crew of sweaty guys was laying sod in the front yard area. They checked her out as Fina bypassed the elaborate stone wall separating the front flagstone patio from the driveway, and she walked into one of the four open garage bays. At the door leading to the house, she grabbed a pair of protective booties from a box, pulled them on, and then walked through a succession of large, empty rooms with floors that shone like mirrors. She found Mark in the powder room just off the kitchen. He was arguing with a man about the walnut vanity.
“It’s supposed to be a rooster,” Mark said, gesturing at a bird painted on the vanity door.
“It is a rooster!” exclaimed the man in paint-splattered Dickies.
“It’s a fucking hen!” Mark said. “For crying out loud, just make my wife happy. Whatever she wants. She wants a dick on the damn bird, paint one on!”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Fina said, and studied the bird in question. Rooster? Hen? What does fowl have to do with the powder room? she thought.
“Fina, I didn’t expect to see you.” Mark squeezed past the painter and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“I’m really sorry to just show up, but I was wondering if you have a few minutes. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“Of course. I need to take a look downstairs. Come with me.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “What happened to your face?”
Fina waved her hand. “It’s fine. No biggie.”
He led her to a staircase, and she followed him down.
The house was like Rand’s in that the lower level was actually on the same level as the backyard. She could see a tennis court and pool out back, and a small army of men moving earth in the hot sun. Fina trailed behind Mark as he gave her the tour: a small kitchen, home gym, changing room, hair salon, meditation room, and family room. He took a seat in one of the large recliners in the screening room and gestured for her to sit next to him.
“Any word on Melanie?” he asked.
“Nope, but things are heating up for Rand. The police have searched his house and boat.”
“Pain in the ass cops. I’ve been asking around, but nothing’s come up.”
“I’ve been asking around, too, and apparently I’ve pissed someone off.” Fina touched her hand to her scratched face. “I was jumped the other night and told to mind my own business.”
“That’s what happened to your face,” Mark stated rather than asked. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“Nah, I’m fine, but any guesses who might be responsible?”
Mark leaned back into the seat and put his arms on the armrests. He caressed the leather. “Italian leather. I had it flown in special from Milan.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Mark gestured toward Fina’s face. “Nobody comes to mind. Since we talked, I’ve put out some feelers, but I haven’t heard anything. If my poking around set this in motion . . .” Mark gripped the armrests.
“I’m sure that’s not what happened. I’m just trying to cover all the bases.” Fina stood up and looked around the room. “Furnished basements bring back a lot of memories.”
In high school, Fina, her brothers, and all their friends were a tribe of nomads moving from one rec room to another, drinking, getting high, and hooking up. They were like street peddlers: If a parent got wise to their activities, they just packed up and moved to the next location. Mark was often a part of these gatherings.
“Don’t remind me. My kids better not do that.” Mark stood up.
“Good luck with that,” Fina said, and followed him out of the room.
He walked her out to her car and stood in the open door as she got in. “I’m going to talk to some more people,” he said. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to dig up some useful information.”
“Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it.”
Fina started her car. Before turning out of the driveway, she looked in her rearview mirror. Mark stood on the flagstone patio, his hands deep in his pockets, watching her leave.
Fina got chicken nuggets at a drive-thru and sat in the parking lot eating her lunch. She called Haley and left a message on her voice mail. Dante’s claim about seeing her at the club was not good. Haley didn’t do particularly well around booze and bad people; her impulse control and decision-making skills were poor to non
existent under the best of circumstances. Fina needed to get a handle on the situation, pronto.
Milloy wasn’t picking up, either, nor was Cristian. She was dialing Rand when her phone beeped. Her phone company contact had tracked down the mystery number from Melanie’s kitchen, but it was going to cost her double. Did Fina still want it?
“Yes, I want it. Goddamnit, Shirley. I hate it when you screw me like this.” Fina sucked on her diet soda.
“Oh honey, it’s not me, it’s the marketplace.”
“Fine. What’s the address?”
The number was a business listing in Framingham for Zyxco, Inc. Fina popped the last nugget in her mouth, plugged the address into her GPS, and headed west.
It only took her fifteen minutes to find the right street, but another ten to find the actual office park. The low-slung buildings made of brick and concrete hugged the swell of the small hills on which they sat. There were intermittent signs that gave little hint to the business conducted inside; Sharwin Associates, TBK United, American Metrics. The building numbers weren’t sequential, but after a few minutes of searching, Fina found herself in the parking lot farthest from the road in front of a building with the number matching Zyxco.
This building was two stories and seemed to have five separate entrances. A machine shop anchored one end of the complex, with large garage doors open to a two-story bay full of machinery and sweaty men. An outside area demarcated by a chain-link fence was crammed with an assortment of machines and parts.
Fina pulled her car into a space so she was facing the entrance. Her cell earpiece provided a good cover if anyone wondered why she was hanging around, and she pulled a map out of the glove compartment to complete the look. Fina scanned the numbers painted on the awnings. There was no sign for Zyxco under the awning matching the number; instead, the door with the correct number said MODE ACCESSORIES in black letters.
Fina trained her gaze on that door and sat and waited. Most people didn’t realize that the average private investigator spends an inordinate amount of time sitting around, watching and waiting. You couldn’t read or do a crossword or even talk on the phone when you were on surveillance. You had to focus on the absence of action and hope that something would relieve the boredom. Fina didn’t plan to sit there all day, but she wanted to gather a little more information before she made a move.