by Archer Mayor
“We were just shaken, is all,” she added, crossing over to him and giving him a cool, firm handshake. “Lisbeth Jordan. Glad to meet you. Thanks for coming.”
“My pleasure,” Ron answered her, meaning it. “Ron Klesczewski.”
“We don’t know what might’ve been taken,” her husband broke in. “A place this size…”
“Some food,” she said, looking coolly at her husband. “Unless he took something of yours I don’t know about.”
“Crap,” he said angrily. “I checked my office, top to bottom. Doesn’t even look like he entered it. Nothing was touched. Probably bypassed it entirely.”
Ron thought that an interesting layering of denial. He turned to Mrs. Jordan. “The uniformed officers mentioned the food. What was it, exactly?”
She smiled slightly and turned on her bare heel. “I’ll show you.”
Both men followed her through a side door, down the length of a lavishly decorated dining room, and through a set of swinging doors into a restaurant-style kitchen. She led them to one of two steel-door fridges and pulled it open, exposing enough to feed a platoon of gourmands.
“You can’t really tell because of all the junk in here, but a jar of pickled herring was opened, and a small bottle of champagne. Both were put back where they belong, which is why I didn’t notice them at first.” She pointed to a counter beyond the butcher-block table in the room’s center. “We got distracted by the milk and cake.”
Ron saw the three-dimensional version of one of the crime scene photos he’d already studied, of a dirty glass and a small plate with the remains of some chocolate cake on its surface.
“The cake was left over from a party two nights ago,” Lisbeth Jordan explained without prompting. “It looks like he had a single slice.”
“Son of a bitch,” her husband growled. “Fucking eating our shit like he owned the place. I would love some time with this creep.”
“The eating is part of this man’s signature,” Ron explained, addressing mostly Mrs. Jordan, whom he considered the more rational of the two, simultaneously wondering what a background check on Lloyd might reveal. There seemed to be a lot of sweatshirt attitude under the yachting clothes. “We are asking all the victims to please keep that under their hats. We like to withhold something from public knowledge, in case we get an impostor claiming to be the crook. Happens sometimes with people needing attention.”
Lisbeth was nodding. “I’ve heard of that. Sure, we’ll play along.”
Lloyd was pacing the length of the kitchen. “Jesus, Liz, this isn’t one of your stupid cop shows. These guys have no clue what they’re doing. Holding back information isn’t going to get them or us diddly.”
Lisbeth smiled and gazed at Ron purposefully—he immediately sensed that she hated the name Liz. “We’ll keep quiet about the food. I promise.”
Lloyd stopped in midstride and demanded, “Why’re you here anyhow? You haven’t done anything too impressive so far.”
“Honey?” his wife inquired. “Didn’t you say you had to call Frank this morning? I can show Mr. Klesczewski the rest of the house.”
A telling silence followed the transparent ploy, but apparently they were both well used to reciting their lines. Lloyd obediently took his cue, nodded curtly, and headed for the door, announcing, “I’ll be in my office.”
Lisbeth made no apology after his departure, except to gesture a little wearily as she offered, “Would you like that tour?”
* * *
In many ways, despite its grandiosity, the house ended up lacking character, reminding Ron of a woman’s face veiled with too much makeup, or of Lloyd Jordan himself, with his white pants and ascot. Each room’s supposed treasures were displayed with the rhythmic dullness of the fancy photos in a high-society magazine. Extravagant, certainly, but reflective only of the bored interior designer who’d coordinated with the builder to stage it all properly—a builder, Ron suspected, who had in turn been working from an out-of-the-box starter castle kit. In fact, in the end, aside from a few photographs, vestiges of Lloyd and Lisbeth themselves were rarely visible. When it came time for them to leave this house, Ron fantasized their doing so in the smallest of moving vans, allowing the next inhabitants simply to fill the empty closets in order to call the place home.
Throughout the tour, Lisbeth answered questions relating to their friends and their general habits, their comings and goings. Some of these inquiries had already been addressed by Ron’s predecessors, others were stimulated by the conversation. The lifestyle that emerged struck Ron as foreign and unenviable.
The last stop was the master bedroom, the most personalized spot in the whole house. The enormous bed was still unmade, its center tellingly undisturbed while both edges revealed where each had swept back the covers to get up that morning. Ron pictured that middle swath as a domestic DMZ, providing privacy as much as extra room for playful wrestling. He was happier with the far more intimate double bed he shared with his wife.
Keeping to business, however, he stepped up to Lisbeth’s side of the mattress and looked down at the night table.
“The Post-it was stuck here somewhere?” he asked.
She sidled up to him and quietly removed the small bottle of lubricant. “Yes. I didn’t even notice it until I sat on the edge of the bed to put on my jeans, after my workout and my shower.”
She reached out and flipped the blanket over the exposed bottom sheet, as if covering herself. “Sorry,” she said softly. “The maid doesn’t come till tomorrow. She had a crisis in the family.”
Ron glanced at his ever-ready notepad. “That’s Grace Duquoin? She have a key?”
Lisbeth looked up at him, surprised. “Yes. Well, of course.”
“You told the others only Nick Penney had access.” Lloyd had described Penney as his “estate manager” to the uniformed team, a euphemism for a subgroup of locals who moonlighted as property caretakers when homeowners were out of town, which among this set was often for months at a time.
She nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I forgot about Grace. She’s almost like family, she’s here so often.” She looked around. “It’s such a big place.”
For the first time, Ron wondered how long she’d been married to Lloyd, and under what circumstances. He wandered over to a dresser beside the love seat under the broad window. Scattered messily across its surface were cuff links, two expensive watches, a wallet … all belonging to Lloyd. Two framed photographs showed a couple of children.
Already knowing the answer, he cast a glance her way and pointed at the photos. “Nice-looking kids. Yours?”
Her expression didn’t change. “Lloyd’s grandchildren. I’m his second wife. We don’t have any children. We don’t even see those two very often,” she added.
He nodded and moved to an open closet door. The light was on inside, revealing an area the size of a small bedroom, lined with racks, shelves, and hanger space, all stuffed with belongings. It seemed that neither Lloyd nor Lisbeth was overly neat. Thank God for Grace, Ron thought, and the money to keep her.
“That’s a little embarrassing,” she said from behind him.
He turned. “The mess?”
She was faintly taken aback. “No. I meant the sheer mass of it all. I never actually thought I was that much into clothes. Lloyd keeps pushing me to buy more.”
He saw her dilemma, if without much sympathy. “It can be a balancing act, all right,” he said vaguely. “But nothing was disturbed in here, that you know of.” He was thinking of Willy’s disgusting suggestion of at least one of the Tag Man’s possible interests.
“No,” she told him. “I checked.”
He resisted looking for her underwear drawer and instead moved back to the master bedroom. As he stood there, taking it in as a whole once more, his eyes fell to the coffee table before the love seat. Given the room’s general disorder, the coffee table’s surface was perfection—from magazines to a small tasteful vase to an antique art deco ashtray—every item
neatly placed and squared away. It looked as if a highly efficient maid had applied her talents to this one spot only.
He pointed to the far wall’s doorway. “Bathroom?” he asked.
She smiled ruefully. “If you thought the closet was messy…” She nodded in its direction before adding, “Plus, we’ve both used it since your men came. They did take photographs. Even fingerprinted the toilet toggle thing.”
He knew that. They’d outdone themselves, spending excess time here, no doubt enjoying the combination of low-level crime and high-end environment—a rarity for any of them.
He addressed her embarrassment. “That they did. No need for me to intrude any more, Mrs. Jordan. I’ll get out of your hair right after I have a final chat with Mr. Jordan.” To indicate his intention to do the latter alone, he thrust out his hand for another pleasant shake, adding, “I can’t say your husband is wrong to be pessimistic. We don’t have much to go on, even though this guy has hit so many places. On the other hand, that may be how we get him in the long run—it doesn’t look like he knows how to stop, meaning he’ll screw up sooner than later.”
She frowned at that. “All he ever took was food?”
“That’s all we’ve been told, from people just like you.”
“And he never came back to the same place twice?”
He saw her concern. “Again,” he stressed, “not that we know of. He seems to like the novelty of a new place every time. That being said, you might want to change your locks and maybe have your security looked at.”
She nodded seriously. “I’ll do that. You remember where Lloyd’s office is?”
Ron laughed. “Barely, but yeah. I’ll find it on my own. Thanks for your help and I am sorry we met under these circumstances.”
He took his leave, alone for the first time. As he traveled the balcony, the staircase, the rooms and hallways on the ground floor, heading to the office, he tried imagining the Tag Man doing the same thing hours earlier. For Ron was confident that he’d taken thorough stock of the entire house, not just its fridge. Whoever he was and whatever his motives, Tag Man was a collector of sorts. Ron was sure of it.
He just wasn’t sure of anything else.
The door to the office was closed, but rather than knock, Ron simply turned the knob and entered. Lloyd Jordan was sitting at his oversized desk, his hands in his lap, his features speaking of worse news than he was admitting.
He raised his eyes as Ron entered, neither surprised nor angered by the latter’s presumptuousness. “You still here?” he asked tonelessly.
Ron closed the door behind him. “So what did you lose?” he asked quietly.
Jordan glared at him. “Nothing. I told you.”
“Your body language says otherwise.” Ron closed the distance between them and made himself comfortable in a leather guest chair.
“You a shrink, too?”
Ron took a calculated guess. “Enough to know you’re missing something you’re worried’ll come back to bite you in the ass.”
Jordan let slip a regretful half smile, and for that split second, Ron thought he’d get what he was after—and what by now he was convinced existed.
But the other man wouldn’t play. He straightened slightly in his seat and said, “Well, that’s for me to know and for you to find out, along with the bastard who broke into my home. Just stick to that and I’ll worry about whatever I may have misplaced here.”
Ron could recognize a stone wall when he saw it, but it was early yet. He’d have time to dig up Jordan’s little secret.
He rose and looked down at the hodgepodge covering the desktop—not unlike the clutter crowning the dresser upstairs. Except for a small trio of objects located high and center, where most business managers usually keep their nameplates. There, an antique clock, a pen holder, and an expensive Brookstone weather-instrument cluster all stood neatly ranked, side by side, as if on parade. The striking orderliness of it reminded him of the bedroom coffee-table array earlier.
“Nice toys,” Ron said blandly.
Jordan dropped his gaze to the collection, then instinctively reached out and moved the pen holder out of place, putting it closer by. “Too much crap,” he grumbled, adding, “Are we done? Can I get back to work now?”
“Absolutely,” Ron conceded, not bothering to extend a hand, walking to the door instead. “We’ll be in touch.”
He didn’t look back to see the expression he already knew would be there.
CHAPTER THREE
Sammie Martens sat in a rocking chair by the window, her baby daughter asleep in her arms. The window was open, the air soft and soothing. She was feeling more settled than she had in a lifetime.
She knew the consensus among her friends and colleagues—that she was ill-suited to motherhood, too driven, and her job too unpredictable, not to mention too violent. And, naturally, the never-ending complaint: that her choice of partner in Willy Kunkle proved that she was emotionally self-destructive.
But she didn’t care. What she had snuggled up against her breast disposed of it all, reducing all protest to a murmur.
Besides, she wasn’t a complete idiot. She’d been among the first to recognize Willy as a loose cannon and a fierce moral force—she and Joe Gunther, of course. In fact, it had been Joe’s steadfast acceptance of Willy’s careening eccentricity that had helped her to see past the stinging smokescreen of Willy’s public persona.
And she and little Emma were now the beneficiaries of that effort. It didn’t mean that Willy had lightened up much. He could still be jarringly blunt and dismissive with people. But he and Sam had developed their own language there, none of which applied to Emma, with whom he was as soft and gentle as he wasn’t with everyone else.
She heard a car coming up the street and glanced out the window to see a familiar vehicle pull into the driveway. The three of them now lived on the edge of Brattleboro, at the bottom of a cul-de-sac in a quiet, barely noticed neighborhood. The house had originally been Willy’s alone, chosen to address his suspicious nature. It was screened from the houses on either side, had a full view of all approaches, and was unobtrusively wired with alarms and cameras. It was also peaceful, quiet, modest, tidy, and attractive—without a doubt the most embracing home Sam had ever known.
She watched fondly as Joe Gunther slowly climbed out of the car, preparing to drop by as had become his almost weekly habit. Herself the product of a neglectful and chaotic childhood, Sam viewed this man unabashedly as a father figure. When they’d first met, she a young woman out of military service and new to police work, her affection had been more romantic, if unrequited, but it had quickly found its proper place, and had strengthened there ever since.
In her eyes, this was a remarkable man heading deliberately up her walkway, his shoulders slightly bowed and his brow somber. Thoughtful, deliberate, steady, and loyal, he was no life of the party. He didn’t tell stories, didn’t participate in practical jokes, wasn’t good at idle banter, and usually stood alone at social functions with his back against the wall and a Coke in his hand. But he was the proverbial rock—the man you needed when you were having doubts, and the one to have at your back in a fight.
He was also a man in trouble. Several months ago, Lyn Silva, with whom he’d been in love, had been killed in an assassination attempt aimed at Gail Zigman, Joe’s previous long-term companion. But the shooter hadn’t known about the recent change in Joe’s love life. In fact, it wouldn’t have mattered—Joe would have been devastated in any case. But the irony of this misdirected bullet hitting precisely the right target only added to the pain.
Sam regretted that her own unanticipated motherhood had come to bring her joy just as her mentor had been brought so low.
“Hey, stranger,” she called out softly through the window as he drew near, heading for the front door.
He stopped and looked up, scrutinizing the house before he saw her against the sun’s glare off the white clapboards. His face was creased with a sudden smile, sad but genuin
e.
“Hey yourself, little mother. You two enjoying the sunshine?”
Sam laughed quietly. “One of us is. Emma’s in La-la Land. Come on in. The door’s unlocked.”
The older man chuckled. “That’s got to mean Willy’s not around.”
She joined him. “And don’t you tell him, either.”
“No loose lips, Sam. Count on me.”
Joe continued on in. Sam heard him enter the house, carefully closing the door behind him to at least pay tribute to Willy’s sense of security.
Moments later, he stepped into her living room, crossed over, and kissed her and the baby’s forehead before settling into an armchair opposite the rocker.
“How’re you two doing?” he asked.
“Fine,” she answered, adding, “You look tired.”
He nodded without comment.
“Feeling any better?”
“Not really,” he answered. “It shifts around inside my head too much, like a dog looking for a place to lie down. I keep thinking ‘what if?’ What if I’d done this or that? What if I’d said one thing or the other? Or not? If Lyn had crashed in a plane visiting friends in Omaha, I would have been heartbroken, but I wouldn’t be feeling so guilty. I know that sounds self-centered,” he added as Sam held up her hand to stop him, embarrassed by such vulnerability in someone usually so stolid.
“Still,” he said, “I feel totally responsible.”
She’d known him to make mistakes in the past, and to suitably atone for them. But this ran outside any behavior she’d witnessed before in him. It was uncharted territory and, given her current calm and serenity, a little frightening.
“You know none of that’s true,” she tried.
He didn’t argue. “I know. But just because it’s irrational doesn’t make it less real.”
That didn’t give her much room, and she wasn’t skillful at this kind of conversation anyhow. That was Joe’s strength, sadly. He was the one they trusted to see clearly into a troubled psyche.
Fortunately, he seemed to realize that now, and changed the subject to get her off the hook.