Dead Heat

by Linda Barnes

  Eichenhorn swallowed. “Yes.”

  Spraggue rang the buzzer on the desk. “Pierce will show you out as soon as you’ve written down the timetable for Sunday and the names of Donagher’s staff workers.”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “I won’t say anything to the press for now. Not today. The election is still a long way off.”

  It took ten minutes for Eichenhorn to write out the lists, five more to relay instructions to Aunt Mary, shake hands with a puzzled Heineman, kiss Sharon on the cheek in a manner far more brotherly than he felt. At ten fifteen, Spraggue left the house.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The Porsche was where he’d left it, but Mary’s chauffeur had polished it until it gleamed. Might as well have smacked a steal-me-first sign across the front bumper. The windshield sparkled so brightly he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to see out of it. The gas tank, close to empty when he’d careened up the driveway in cold anger, had been filled. He wondered if the parking tickets in the dash compartment had been laundered.

  Half a mile from the house, where the twisty driveway looped in front of the stone gatehouse, he pulled the car over and stopped.

  He couldn’t have stayed ten minutes longer at the mansion. Already childhood memories were closing in: the sensation of unseen wheels turning, of unheard oiled machinery grinding relentlessly away. His shoes had been polished, his rumpled, sooty clothes removed while he slept. Life under great-grandfather Davison Spraggue’s slate roof was lived in the old man’s shadow. It had a rhythm foreign to this generation’s renegade Spraggue, a seductive and hateful rhythm.

  The windows of the gatehouse were dark and bare. Mary had probably done her worst and fired the gardener. Spraggue slid across the seat and out the passenger door, walked up the flagged pathway, peeked in the half-glassed door. Empty. He could move his things temporarily to the gatehouse, whatever things he had left. Aunt Mary wouldn’t like it. Well, she didn’t have to face the ghosts in the tower room.

  He walked back to the car, got in.

  What would he have left to put in the gatehouse? His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Furniture he didn’t give a damn about; he hadn’t had any furniture to speak of on Fayerweather Street. He’d had a drawerful of yellowing theatrical programs, some photographs, a few trifling oddball gifts … Kate’s letters. Visible, tangible backups for wayward memory, physical evidence of the fine-drawn threads that webbed him to others. The two paintings his mother had loved …

  Why fire? He flexed his shoulders, loosened his hands on the wheel and let them drop forward into his lap, forced himself to consider the fire dispassionately, from a distance. To warn him off? Off of what? To destroy? Destroy what? The files he’d brought in from Pete’s house that very day, possibly under the nose of secret watcher? He hadn’t noticed, had hardly shot so much as a glance out the cab’s rear window. The reckless between-lanes driving of the cabbie, the memory of Sharon Collatos’ shower-damp face, had occupied his thoughts much too completely. Was the object to be destroyed the envelope Sharon had brought, the one that he’d pocketed at the time of the fire, the one that he’d transferred to this new stiff jacket?

  Had the arsonist meant to kill? Had he waited, shivering in the bushes, for homecoming footfalls on the concrete path, for lights to blossom in the upstairs windows?

  Mary, he knew, would understand his need to escape, realize that he wouldn’t feel up to any social banter with the rage still in him, compounded by the distaste he felt at his role of inquisitor. Hadn’t taken much to get poor Eichenhorn quivering. Maybe he should audition for nastier parts: Reverend Parris in The Crucible, Iago, Richard III.

  Mary would begin to unravel one end of the ball of yarn. Mary understood what had to be done.

  God, that it were as simple as picking at a ball of yarn until the one lost end came free. It was more like probing a tangled skein of writhing serpents knotted on the floor, trying, barehanded, to isolate three, possibly four, poisonous heads, before one rose to strike.

  He jammed a clenched fist into his palm. He needed activity to ease the rage, needed some physical release. He thought about jumping out of the car, racing madly three times around the gatehouse, and the absurdity of the image almost made him smile. He had to keep everything clear, everything under control, especially now, with the goal so near, with the serpents’ heads in view.

  Aunt Mary, Pierce, Sharon, Heineman had two assignments between the four of them. Mary had already begun; by the time he’d consumed breakfast, she’d had the contents of both cardboard boxes—all the files that had escaped the police search of Pete’s apartment, the fire, the fall to the ground, the rocky ride in the trunk of the Porsche—spread out across acres of vast dining room table. She would have an eager aide in Sharon, a reliable one in Pierce. Heineman had invaluable sources of information. And Heineman had agreed to help, knowing the results might affect Lila Donagher. Spraggue wondered how the newsman would react if the facts tended to show Lila in a less than favorable light.

  If Pete had been killed by a double dose of poison, one or more hits of nonlethal Parnate coupled with one hit of nonlethal speed, the origin of the more exotic drug was vital. That was the second item Mary and company would have to discover. After the mammoth task of reading, sorting, making some semblance of sense of the police files, they’d have to sift through medical histories, lie to doctors and pharmacists, check newspaper files. Another monumental chore that might come to nothing, might wind up smashed against a rock of medical ethics.

  He pulled the list of Donagher’s Sunday appointments out of his pocket and smoothed it on one knee. The third serpent head belonged to him.

  10:00 A.M.

  Mass at St. Columbkille’s with wife and kids

  11:30

  Handshaking at Dunkin’ Donuts, Market and North Beacon Street

  12:00

  Lunch at home; meeting with staffers

  1:30 P.M.

  Running (Location?)

  4:00

  Televised interview with Edward Heineman, Channel 4

  5:30

  Eliot Lounge

  7:30

  Pre-Marathon dinner party at home

  Assuming that Pete had tagged along like the faithful bodyguard he was, assuming that he’d stayed with Senator Donagher like a shadow, one of those locales was the key. At one of those places, Pete had turned up the missing envelope, along with a typewriter that matched. And at one of those locales, had Pete’s assassin found him, slipped him a drug in a drink?

  Spraggue closed his eyes. They felt like they’d been rolled in grit. How long before the race would the drug have had to be administered? He’d have to check that out, have Mary check that out.…

  He heard the click of the car door opening on the passenger side and jumped.

  Sharon Collatos turned her back to him to sit down, drew her legs in, and swiveled on the seat to face front. “You can go now,” she said.

  “Wait a minute—”

  “Your aunt said I’d probably find you here, pulled over by the gatehouse, thinking or asleep.”

  “She was supposed to—”

  “Keep me nice and safe and close to home while you went out and had the fun. Well, they’ve got plenty of researchers back there, believe me. That Heineman guy has got sources you wouldn’t believe. He’s plugged into everything. And what he isn’t plugged into, your aunt’s got covered. So they don’t need me to hunt and fetch.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Oh yes you do. A man asking questions alone is conspicuous. A man with a woman is casual. A woman can ask questions and get answers a man can’t. You’ll see.”

  “Did my aunt rehearse you?”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “Last night was bad enough. I’m not setting you up for target practice.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t the other way around? That I didn’t put you in danger? That whoever set the fire wasn’t following me, not you? Are you alway
s this self-centered?”

  “Which question do you want me to answer first?”

  “Where are we going?”

  He pointed at the top of the list. “Church.”

  She smiled and said, “But I didn’t bring a hat.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  The priest at St. Columbkille’s Church was averse to discussing the affairs of his most illustrious parishioner with individuals he strongly suspected of being undercover reporters for the heathen press. The rectory next door had two typewriters—one ancient manual, one electric—neither of which proved to be the one Pete Collatos had used to type his sister’s address.

  Dunkin’ Donuts had a smiling, cooperative waitress, and strong, hot coffee, but no typewriters. The lady behind the counter remembered Donagher’s Sunday visit, thought he was just about as handsome as a movie star, and was definitely going to vote for him.

  By the time they’d blitzed down Eichenhorn’s list as far as the Eliot Lounge, both of them needed a drink. Spraggue pulled one of the backless imitation red leather stools away from the pale oak bar and Sharon slid onto it with a sigh. As he sat on the next stool over, Spraggue heard a thunk and looked down. Sharon’s shoes lay on the red tile floor. Her stockinged feet rested on the brass rail at the base of the bar.

  “Tired?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Your aunt said her secretary had the same size feet I did, but she didn’t warn me about the woman’s devotion to style. These things are torture traps. The heels must be four inches high.”

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

  It was only three thirty, but the lounge had a healthy sprinkling of customers. Three men fed quarters into the video games on the lower level. A middle-aged couple held hands across one of the small round tables against the far wall, underneath a collage of framed photographs of famous runners: Bill Rodgers, arms raised in victory, laurel wreath encircling his brow; Alberto Salazar, collapsing into the arms of another runner. Two men sat at the bar, one young, one old, one stool between them, marking their separateness. They had the remote look of businessmen a long way from home.

  “Wine,” said Spraggue. “Red. Not chilled.”

  “White,” said Sharon. “Cold.”

  To the right of the bar, a sign read: Only 353 days until the Marathon. At the Eliot, the watering hole for Boston’s elite runners, the site of the annual postrace bash, they took their marathon seriously.

  To the left of the bar, a TV set droned. The two businessmen glanced at it every once in awhile.

  “You’re not a drinking man,” said Sharon.

  “Not hard liquor. A confirmed wino.”

  “I never know what to order in a bar. I’m not fond of beer and most hard stuff tastes like the medicine I hated when I was a kid. And if you order one of those sweet drinks—you know, Brandy Alexanders, and stuff like that—the bartender gives you that look, that isn’t-that-just-like-a-woman look.” Her smile twisted ruefully. “On the whole, I stay out of bars.”

  “I’d make a rotten bar fly, too.”

  “You make a good investigator,” she said, shrugging her shoulders in her too large suit jacket. “You’re relentless.” Spraggue wondered whether the gray suit had come from the same secretary. It was certainly more appropriate for the work they’d been doing than last night’s coral dress. Ah, that coral dress.

  “Spraggue?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where were you?”

  “Someday I’ll tell you. I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  She took a careful sip from her too full wineglass. “The bartender doesn’t look too friendly.”

  “That’s because we ordered wine. Scotch is a good bar drink. Bourbon. A shot of rye. A beer. Look, I’ll talk to the bartender and you call my aunt, all right? See if she’s turned up anything and tell her our next location will be Channel 4, over on Soldiers Field Road. She can reach us there if disaster strikes. Or inspiration.”

  “Okay.”

  The bartender, whose name was Johnny, didn’t like answering questions; he went as far as asking to see Spraggue’s investigator’s license. He didn’t get into reading the fine print, like the expiration date. He didn’t have access to a typewriter. He said, with a wry twist of his mustached mouth, that his patrons rarely required one. Didn’t keep a notary in his back pocket either. He did recall seeing Senator Donagher and Pete Collatos the Sunday before the big race. He remembered them complaining about the crowds out running earlier that afternoon.

  “Where was that?” Spraggue asked.

  “Got me. My guess is they were running a track. Wouldn’t complain about crowds on some random street. Complain about traffic on the streets, let me tell you. Some of those cars, man, they aim right at you, try to give you a thrill. I’d rather run a track. Level, too.”

  One of the men from downstairs requested change for a dollar, fodder for the insatiable video game. As he passed a crumpled bill over Spraggue’s shoulder, he joined in the conversation.

  “You want to know where the senator ran the day before the race?”

  “Hey, Joey,” the bartender said, beaming a welcoming grin at the stringy pale-faced Pac-Man addict. “How are ya? Yeah, man, Joey was here. All the guys were here.”

  “Give Joey a drink,” Spraggue said.

  “Just a beer,” Joey said. “Thanks, man.”

  Sharon returned, slipped unobtrusively back onto her barstool. She hadn’t put her shoes on to go to the phone. Her bare feet combined with her too large suit made her look like she’d been caught dressing up in her mother’s clothes.

  “Sure,” Joey said, bragging a bit, caught up in the importance the others gave his words, “I know where the senator ran. Cause I kidded him about running the day before, you know, the day you’re supposed to rest up, and he said, hell, a couple of times around 1.8 wasn’t gonna kill him.”

  “1.8?” Spraggue said.

  “Yeah, man. 1.8 miles. The Chestnut Hill Reservoir.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Porsche sported a glowing red-orange parking violation ticket stuck under the windshield wiper. Spraggue stuffed it in the glove compartment. Sharon gaped at the number of relatives it joined.

  “Dear God,” she said. “Is that your hobby?”

  Spraggue shrugged.

  “Don’t you fear the Denver Boot?”

  “It’s a game I play with the city of Boston. See, sooner or later, this car is going to disappear; every other decent car I’ve owned has been stolen while legally parked in Boston. Whoever rips off this one is going to get a bonus: a lifetime supply of parking violations. Can’t you just see some joyriding son-of-a-bitch coming out of the package store half-drunk to find his newly stolen chariot wearing the boot? I look on it as an experiment; I want to see who gets the car first: the crooks or the cops. I’m betting on the thieves.”

  He could have taken Commonwealth Avenue all the way to the reservoir, but a line of sullen drivers crawled along, honking at left-turners and parking place scouts, so he turned right and got onto Storrow Drive, traced that all the way to Parsons Street, then zigzagged through Brighton back to Commonwealth. He parked in a tow zone and Sharon shook her head reproachfully.

  The afternoon had turned gray and chilly. A low-hanging layer of clouds blotted out the sun and a sharp breeze belied the season. The reservoir trail was almost deserted. Spraggue hoped the absence of runners was due to the promised rain, not the fear of a random sniper. He stopped a few panting college students to ask if they’d been out the day before the marathon. Faint hope. No takers. He and Sharon circled the reservoir once. She shivered.

  “Want to wait in the car?”

  Her temper flared. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but if you’re doing it, I’ll go along.”

  “Did my aunt hire you to be my bodyguard?”

  “Nobody hired me to do anything. Nobody hired you either, so I’m told.”

  “I’m working for myself.”

  “I cou
ld pay you—”

  “Forget it.”

  . “I can’t forget it. Michael, look at me. Are you doing this because of what I said at the funeral? Are you doing it for me?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not a reward.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve kissed you; you’ve kissed me. Once I think it was desperation and once relief. I like you. I do. But I don’t want to have that hanging over me. The idea that you would do something like this, something dangerous, so that I would—Well, just don’t play knight in shining armor on my account.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Too uncomfortable.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Me, too. I learned a long time ago never to confuse women with trophies.”

  “Well, I’m no prize, believe me. I’m an over-the-hill, dumpy, divorced schoolteacher—”

  “Go sit in the car. It’s not locked. You’re a beautiful woman in a foul mood. Either that or your feet are killing you—”

  “And I haven’t noticed any typewriters in the goddam bushes,” she said, ignoring his protest, making no move to leave.

  “Neither have I.”

  “Then what are we doing here? Your poor aunt thinks we’re at Channel 4. She said she might pack everything up and go over there. Heineman’s got some files he’s anxious to look at, and they’d be able to check out all the typewriters while they keep on with their research.”

  “She’ll wait for us.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Your brother went here; we go here.”

  “And what do we do?”

  “What investigators generally do. Wait. Listen. Absorb. Waste time. Hope for divine guidance.”

  “How long do they generally wait? On a cold day?”

  “Want my jacket?”

  “No.” The response was automatic, a reflex of independent stubbornness that made Spraggue smile. He stopped and stripped off his windbreaker.

  “All right,” she said, reluctantly. “Yes. I do.”