The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  “Did you see any mail when you were downstairs?” He’d summoned the energy to stand up.

  “No, come to think of it. But I wasn’t looking.”

  “I’m going down to see if I can find it.”

  “I’ll be right down. I’m going to turn off the lights first.” And I wanted something from her closet. I didn’t know why, but I wanted her running log. As Dan clopped loudly down the wooden stairs, I took one last look around the attic and the personal mementos box caught my eye again. It had neat handles cut into the sides, and when I picked it up, it wasn’t heavy. I decided to take it also because it didn’t belong in the place where she’d died.

  I carried the box and the running log to the bottom of the staircase and went back up to get the lights. Dan had not only left every light burning in every room he’d searched, he’d also left a couple of drawers open in Ellen’s desk along with the cassette door on the answering machine. Dan was right. Both of the tapes were missing. I had closed everything up and reached over to turn off the desk lamp when I noticed the red light on the fax machine. It was out of paper. According to the message window, there was a fax stored in memory. I knew Ellen would have paper nearby, and it didn’t take long to find it. I dropped it in the tray and waited. After a few beeps, the machine sprang to life, sucked one of the pages into the feeder, and started to turn it around, spitting it out, bit by tiny bit. With a surge of nervous anticipation I plucked it out. A second one started right behind it.

  It was written in cutout letters like a ransom note. It wasn’t addressed to me. It wasn’t meant for me, but it still made me shaky enough that I had to sit down. It said, “Ellen Shepard is proof that dogs fuck monkeys.” I sat in her chair and stared at it. It had to be from someone at the airport, from one of her employees, and how sick was that? Having to show up at work every day knowing that you might be glancing at or talking to or brushing past the person who wrote this? Thinking about harassment in the abstract was one thing. Holding it in your hands was another.

  Probably because I knew what was coming, the second one seemed to take even longer. This one was handwritten, the message scrawled diagonally. “Mind your own business, cunt.”

  And they kept coming, one after another, each more crude and disgusting than the last. As they rolled off, I checked the time and date stamps and the return fax number. They’d all been sent in the middle of the night from the fax machine in the admin office—my office. But at least they were old. At least there wasn’t someone at the other end right this minute feeding the stuff in as fast as I could pull it off. Real-time torment—that was a thought that made my stomach lurch, and it occurred to me that maybe she had left the paper tray empty for a reason.

  The last one to roll off was another one-liner, this one typed. “Regular place, regular time on Tuesday” was all it said. There was no name and no signature. According to the time stamp it had been sent at 2307 hours on Saturday, January 3—two days before she died—from a Sir Speedy in someplace called Nahant. It was from the snitch. Had to be. I put it in the pile, turned off the light, and was into the hallway when I heard it. It was so sudden and unexpected in the mostly dark, empty house that it was like an electric shock to my heart. It took a moment for me to calm down and realize that it was only the sound of the phone ringing. Ellen’s phone. It was a perfectly ordinary, everyday sound and it scared me stiff. That it rang only once and stopped was even more chilling. Right behind it came the sound of the fax machine powering up again in the dark office. It was a sound that was so common, so mundane, and it was one of the most frightening things I’d ever heard.

  I called for Dan. No answer. He could have been anywhere in the huge old house. The fax began to print and my pulse rate began to climb. I called again and then realized that even if he came, he wasn’t going to do anything for me that I couldn’t do for myself, right? It was just a fax machine, for God’s sake.

  I turned on the light and went back into the office, creeping up to the machine as if it was a rattlesnake. The page scrolled out slowly, leaving me to read it one word at a time. “We’re”…the machine seemed louder than before… “watch” …and slower… “ing” …and it took everything I had not to just rip it out before it was finished.“We’re watching you” is what it said and below that the number 1018.

  At first I couldn’t move, then I couldn’t move fast enough. I was out of there, banging off the hallway walls and down that grand staircase. I’m not sure my feet even touched the ground. I tried the front door. Locked. Trapped. Then I remembered the dead bolt…

  Dan, just coming up from the basement, took one look at my face. “What happened?”

  “I just got… there’s this message.” I started to show him, but there wasn’t time. “We have to go. Right now.”

  “All right. Just let me reset the alarm.”

  I had a hard time threading the key into the lock, and then again on the other side. When we were in the car, I showed him the last fax that had rolled off. He held it up to the light of the street lamp. “What’s this number, this 1018?”

  I cringed to even think about it. “It’s my hotel room.”

  “Those bastards,” he said. “I swear I’m gonna kill someone before this is over.”

  “Who exactly? What bastards? Who would know we were here unless they followed us? They could be watching right now.”

  “Let them watch.” He started the engine, but paused to turn on the dome light and look at the fax more closely. “It came from the airport. Fucking Big Pete. It’s starting all over again.”

  I reached up and turned off the light.

  “Calm down, Shanahan.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re just trying to scare you.”

  “Mission accomplished. Let’s get out of here, Dan. Right now.”

  As he pulled away from the curb and drove down the quiet street, I peered into every parked car, checked for movement behind every swaying tree. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel safe again.

  “You might want to do one thing,” he said, after we’d gone a few blocks in silence.

  “What?”

  “Change hotel rooms.”

  “Hotel rooms? I might want to change cities.”

  Chapter Eleven

  When I arrived at the airport Monday morning, Molly was already bent over her desk in the quiet office, lost in deep concentration.

  “You’re in early,” I said.

  Her head snapped up as she swung around in her squealing chair. I flinched and, trying not to spill my tea, dropped my keys.

  “Ohmygod… don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware I was sneaking.” I reached down for the keys. “What are you doing here? It’s not even seven o’clock.”

  Hand to her chest, she drew a couple of theatrical breaths. “It’s time for invoices. I save them up and do them once a month. And I’m going to need signatures, so don’t go too far. Here—” she handed me my morning mail—“this should keep you busy.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Come in when you’re ready.” As she turned back to her work, I unlocked the door and fled to the sanctity of my own office, where I could continue to unravel in private.

  I was still unhinged from Friday night. I was supposed to have spent the weekend apartment hunting. Instead, I’d holed up in my hotel room eating room-service food and watching pay-per-view movies. The only times I’d gone out were to run, and every time I had, I’d looked over my shoulder at least once and resented it.

  With my coat off, my tea in hand, and the mail in front of me, I tried to go through my morning routine. But the normal routine did not include standing up to adjust the blinds three times, or rearranging the chairs in front of my desk, or straightening all the pencils in my drawer. It seemed that Ellen had already done that, anyway.

  After not having looked all weekend, I finally gave in and pulled the faxes out of my briefcase. Nothing about them had changed since Friday, and they were just as offe
nsive in the light of day. I still felt that scraping in the pit of my stomach when I looked at them, but I couldn’t stop looking at them. Molly arrived, giving me a good reason to put them aside. Facedown.

  She pushed through the door with a heavy ledger, an accordion file, and a large-key calculator, all of which she arranged methodically on her side of my desk.

  “All you need is a green eyeshade,” I said.

  “Never mind what I need. I’ve got a system, and it’s worked fine for some twenty-two years. The bills get paid on time, we don’t pay them twice, and the auditors are happy.”

  “Before we start, I have a question for you,” I said. “Do you know where I can rent a VCR for my hotel room?”

  “Are we boring you already?”

  “I’ve watched every pay-per-view movie offered this month, some twice. I need something fresh.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. One of the agents’ husbands repairs TVs. I’ll bet I can get you a deal.”

  “I’ll bet you can.”

  She handed me a ticket envelope. “Sign this first.” I opened it and looked inside, trying to decipher her loopy handwriting. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a pass.”

  “I know it’s a pass,” I said, signing. “But who is Our Lady of the Airwaves? Patron saint of radio broadcasts? Sister Mary Megahertz?”

  “Airways,” she said, snatching it back, “not waves. It’s the chapel here at the airport. They have an auction every year and we always donate a pass.”

  “Ah.” Ellen’s frequent-flier travel popped into my mind. “Did you ever request any passes for Ellen on United?”

  “I never requested any passes for her, period. She spent all her time here at the airport. Weekends, too.”

  “So you didn’t know she was buying tickets on United.”

  “She was most certainly not doing that. I would have known.”

  She gave me the first invoice. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars for three hundred barrels of deicing fluid, a reminder that I was in a true cold-weather station for the first time in my career. “How many of these will I sign this winter?”

  “Could be two, could be ten. Depends on the weather.”

  “That narrows it down.” I signed and passed it back. “I found a frequent-flier card in the desk. Ellen flew at least five times on United that we know about. Dan’s finding out if there were more.”

  She handed me the next invoice without a word. It was to reimburse a passenger whose coat had caught in the conveyor belt at the security checkpoint, and it was almost a hundred bucks.

  “This is pretty expensive dry cleaning,” I said.

  “It was a suede coat.”

  “Was the belt malfunctioning?”

  “No. In fact, the checkpoint supervisor thinks the passenger might have done it on purpose trying to get a new coat.”

  I signed it and handed it back. “Wouldn’t be the first time. What about Ellen’s travel?”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. You’ll have to prove it to me.”

  “All right. Dan’s got the card. He can prove it to you.”

  The next invoice was for ticket stock, and the one after that for snow plowing in the employee parking lot. I signed them all. “Molly?”

  “Ummmm…” She was busy shuffling papers.

  “I found something in Ellen’s suspense file the other night, and I don’t know what to do with it. It was a copy of an old invoice from 1992. It had no notes or instructions. Any idea why she may have had it?”

  “Let me see it.”

  The mystery invoice from Crescent had popped out of suspense and was in my in-box again. I dug it out and gave it to her. “Did she ask you to pull it for her?”

  “No. Means nothing to me.”

  “Do you know the company?”

  “Sure. Crescent Security. They’ve done some work for us, nickel-and-dime stuff like background checks, but I haven’t heard anything about them for a few years. Do you want me to do anything with it?”

  “Stick it back in follow-up for next week. If nothing comes up by then, toss it.”

  “One more.” The last invoice she gave me covered the cost of a new windshield for one of the tugs on the ramp. It was attached to a requisition, which had been approved by Ellen.

  I read the explanation. “Wear and tear?”

  “With a baseball bat. The boys on the ramp were upset about the last bid.” She started to collect her files, then glanced over matter-of-factly. “So, what did you two find up in Marblehead? Anything?”

  “What?”

  “You and Danny were up there on Friday, weren’t you?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Everyone in the station knew.”

  Catching my reaction, she stopped sorting the files. “Oh, please. It’s not like you can sneak around. You have four hundred people working for you, and every single one feels entitled to know what you’re up to at all times, especially if it has to do with Ellen.”

  I turned the faxes over and slid them across the desk to her, keeping the one from the snitch and the one to me aside. “I found these.”

  She paged through the stack, no more affected than if she had been flipping through wallpaper samples.

  “These are nothing,” she said with a dry chuckle. “You should see what they wrote about her in the bellies of airplanes.”

  “Is this amusing?”

  She shifted all the way back in her chair, looking more surprised than angry. But then her neck stiffened, and so did her backbone. “What do you want me to say? Yes, it’s horrible. And yes, it offends me. But it doesn’t surprise me. You work around here long enough and you get used to it. That’s the way it is.”

  “This is not nothing.” I snatched the faxes from the desk and held them up, surprised at my own angry reaction. But I couldn’t help it. It was all starting to get to me. “How can anyone ever get used to this?”

  Her trademark red lips seemed to grow more vibrant. Then I realized it was really her face growing more pale. “I don’t believe I like your tone.”

  She stood up and huffed out, leaving all her files on my desk and me staring at the spot in the chair where she had just been. The lemon had been floating in my tea too long, and it tasted bitter when I drew one last sip. I slammed the cup into the trash, then sat by myself and tried to figure out whom exactly I was mad at.

  “Molly?”

  She must not have gone far because she was back instantly, standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.

  “I’m sorry, Molly, that was uncalled for.”

  “Why are you yelling at me?” she demanded. “Why are you yelling at all?”

  “Come back in and I’ll show you.”

  “Can I bring my cigarettes?”

  “Yes.”

  When she was good and ready, she strolled back in and sat down, closing the door behind her. In my entire career with Majestic, I’d never spent so much time with the door closed. I pulled the “We’re watching you” fax out and showed it to her. “This came to me Friday night at Ellen’s house. I was standing right there and the thing just rolled off.” I pointed at the number. “That’s my hotel room.” Remembering the sound of the machine in that silent house set off a shiver. “It scared the shit out of me.”

  She shook her head and resumed her seen-it-all attitude, sticking a cigarette between her lips and talking around it. “I’ve got to admit, that would be upsetting, but it doesn’t mean someone followed you. I told you, all the agents at the counter were chattering like magpies about how you and Danny were going up to Marblehead to find Ellen’s ‘murderer.’” She rolled her eyes as she fired up.

  “How do people know these things?”

  “As far as the hotel room, that’s easy. Someone probably knows someone who knows someone at the Hyatt. Otherwise, they eavesdrop. They read the mail when it comes in. They listen in on phone conversations. They have friends and cousins and brothers and sisters who work around town. They compa
re notes and put two and two together. That’s why we always close the door.”

  I thought back to last week. The door had indeed been open when Dan and I talked about getting the power of attorney and going up to Marblehead.

  Molly was perched on the edge of her chair watching me, her small, manicured hands dangling off the ends of the armrests. “Molly, do you believe Ellen was murdered?”

  She shook her head. “It makes for good gossip, but it just doesn’t fit with the facts. I’m sorry.”

  I wasn’t, and for the first time since I’d gone to Ellen’s house, my shoulders came down from around my ears. “Help me understand what’s going on around here.”

  She nodded as she drew deeply on the cigarette, letting her eyes close and leaving a bright red ring around the white filter. “About three months ago Ellen changed the manning on the ramp. There’s nothing wrong with what she did. In fact, it was probably overdue. But bottom line, it made for fewer fulltime union jobs and a lot of favorite shifts being moved or going away. She also cut the overtime, which to some was worth as much as their salary. And, she cracked down on sick-time abuse, vandalism, theft and pilferage.”

  “In other words, she was doing her job.”

  “If this were anyplace but Boston, I’d agree with you.” She spoke with great patience and tolerance, making the most of her role as station historian. “But here you have to take history into consideration, and management has a history of looking at these problems with a wink. Either that or a blind eye. When Lenny ran the place, he winked a lot. Dickie Flynn was blind. Blind drunk.”

  “And Ellen was neither one.”

  “That is a true statement.”

  “Dan told me about Dickie.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That his wife and kids left him and he went into the tank.”

  “He would say that.” She took a drag and stared out the window for a long time, lost in her own thoughts. “Like oil and water, those two. Danny always resented covering for Dickie, and Dickie was usually threatening to fire Danny for one reason or another. As if he could. The place would have run into the ground without Danny.”