The White Carnation

by Susanne Matthews

  The Greens lived in a unit on the top floor of a renovated brownstone. As she walked toward the building that had practically been her second home, Faye tried to let go of her frustrations and think of the simpler, happier days when she’d lived just a few blocks away. That had been fifteen years ago; Faye had been sixteen when her life had changed forever. She’d been the fun-loving one, the one people sought when they were down.

  “Forgive me. I’m sorry.” God, she hated those words, the last ones her father had penned. She’d trusted him to love her and protect her, but he’d let her down. After one too many bad financial decisions, instead of sticking around and trying to fix things, Dad had taken the easy way out and left her and her mother to pick up the pieces. “Trust no one but yourself” was Faye’s mantra. Sadly, she’d forgotten it four years ago when she’d met Rob, and look at what had happened.

  Today, her career was on life support and her heart was broken into so many pieces, she doubted it would ever be whole again. Sometimes, the easy way out didn’t look so bad. Maybe she was more like her father than she thought. She’d certainly made a few bad decisions of her own.

  She brushed at a stain on her white blouse. It wasn’t that she hadn’t deserved a slap on the wrist. She should have known better than to print something without verifying her sources, even if that source had seemed rock solid. No one cared how much she’d lost, how much she’d been hurt in the process. The picture of Rob she’d glimpsed in the album earlier in the day floated before her eyes, and she batted her eyelashes to hold back the tears that suddenly formed. You never knew who was going to betray you.

  Mary’s parents lived in a three-bedroom condo, one she’d visited regularly all through her school years, even after she and her mother had been forced to leave their Beacon Hill home for more affordable accommodations. She’d come here a thousand times—spending more time at Mary’s than she had at home. Turning onto the walkway, she was halfway up the steps when a man in a dark hoodie barreled through the door, knocked her down a step, and yanked her purse from her shoulder, forcing the blossom out of her hand. By the time she grabbed the railing to steady herself, he’d reached the sidewalk, and all she could see was the logo from a popular bistro on his back.

  “Hey! Watch it,” she cried, but instead of stopping, the guy ran up the street. “Jerk!” she shouted after him. “I’m going to call your boss and get your sorry ass fired.”

  At least he didn’t rob me. She bent down to retrieve her favorite peacock-blue handbag, cursing when she saw the shoulder strap was broken. Grabbing the carnation off the cement stoop, she tucked the damaged bag securely under her arm and entered the lobby. As she crossed the foyer, she made a face at the ancient cage-style elevator that carried unwary passengers up to the next levels. She and Mary had spent seven hours trapped between floors when they were seventeen, and Faye had refused to get back in the death trap ever since. Even riding in elevators in modern buildings took an extra dose of courage.

  She checked her watch. It was almost half past five. Her message had said she’d be there after four. Well, she hadn’t lied, and if Mrs. Green wasn’t home, at least Faye’d had a nice walk down memory lane. Maybe she’d drive past her old house and rub a little more salt in her wounds.

  Faye crossed the foyer to the stairs. By the time she reached the third floor, she had to admit she was out of shape. She’d had to give up her gym membership months ago because of her reduction in pay.

  She opened the door to the third floor. Unlike some of the low rises she visited as a reporter, there were no lingering odors of garlic and fish in these pristine hallways. The floor was covered in a thick, taupe carpet to muffle the sound of footsteps, and the cream-colored paint on the walls was clean and fresh. There were six apartments in the building, two units per floor. The Greens occupied the left unit.

  Every hair on Faye’s body stood on end as she approached the oak door. It was open. Mrs. Green never left the door open. The woman double- and triple-locked everything. The last time she’d been here—was it really two years ago?—it had taken forever for the woman to undo the locks and let her in.

  “Mrs. Green, are you there? It’s Faye.” She pushed open the door and the unmistakable scent of blood—that slightly sour, coppery scent she’d never forget—greeted her. She swallowed a scream. The place was a disaster: furniture overturned, papers, books, CDs, and DVDs littering the floor. There, amidst the chaos, lay Mary’s mother, the jagged red line along her throat testifying to her death.

  Faye dropped the flower and damaged purse, some of the contents spilling out and landing in the pool of blood—a tube of lipstick, a pack of gum, a roll of breath mints—strange sprinkles on the deep red surface. The pristine white petals of the carnation soaked up the redness, adding to the eeriness. She ran to the powder room and threw herself on her knees barely in time to spew what was left of her cucumber and watercress sandwiches into the toilet. The pungent, sour aroma of vomit filled the room. Tears tracked down her cheeks. The gut wrenching heaves that followed brought up bile and left her exhausted. She sat back on her heels, trying to control her anguish. With a shaking hand, she pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed a familiar number.

  “Homicide, Rob Halliday.” The voice was tired, bored, resigned.

  “Rob, it’s Faye. She’s dead. Lucy Green’s dead. There’s so much blood. Someone’s murdered Mary’s mother.”

  “Where are you?” Rob was all business, as if there were no painful history between them. Deep down, she knew this no-nonsense, professional side of him was what she needed, why she’d called him and not 9-1-1.

  “Third floor, seventeen thirty-seven Marlborough. It’s in Beacon Hill.”

  “I know where the damn street is, Faye. Stay there, and don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Two

  “Tom,” Rob yelled across the bullpen as he ended the call. “Forget supper and grab a candy bar. Let’s go. We’ve got a possible homicide in Beacon Hill.”

  He lifted the phone handset on his desk and pushed two buttons. “It’s Halliday, badge number two three seven six. I need a bus at seventeen thirty-seven Marlborough. Send a black and white and a forensic team as well. The crime scene’s on the third floor. There’s a witness there, Faye Lewis. She found the body.” He hung up.

  He grabbed his Sig Sauer from the bottom drawer, placed it in his shoulder holster, and picked up his trench coat from the back of his chair. “Faye. Christ, how much worse can this week get? Thank God it’s Friday.”

  “I heard that.” Tom Adams approached the desk, dragging on his coat. “How long’s it been?”

  “Since I’ve seen her? Fourteen months, three weeks, and six days—but who’s counting?”

  He glared at his partner, daring him to comment, but the man was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Rob tossed him the keys. “You drive.”

  “You must be rattled,” Tom said, pressing the button for the garage on the elevator panel. “The last time you let me drive, you had the flu and couldn’t keep your eyes open. So what gives? I find it hard to believe the prospect of seeing the lovely Ms. Lewis is the only thing to blame.”

  “It’s Pierce and the Harvester. I don’t get it. The three of us have been working our asses off on that case for over a year now, and we’ve gotten nowhere. Pierce thinks maybe the Harvester moved on or found a better method of disposal—hell of a thing if he has. While you were in court today, I’ve been staring at those pictures again, and there’s something about them—something that’s important, but I just can’t see it. It’s as if my brain refuses to cooperate.”

  “If the Harvester’s moved on, he’ll be Pierce’s problem and not necessarily ours. We’ve got a backlog of cases to investigate. The Harvester isn’t the only sick son of a bitch in Boston. We did our job just fine before Pierce came along. I don’t like him. You can’t trust a man who doesn’t know how to iron a shirt,” Tom stated blandly as the elevator doors opened.

/>   Rob laughed at his partner and punched his arm. “That maxim probably includes us, tough guy. Fiona irons yours, and I have mine laundered. I’ll admit the guy’s strange and won’t make the cover of GQ, but he gets the job done.”

  “I know. I don’t have to like him, I just have to work with him, but there’s something about him that rubs me the wrong way. He’s a cocky bastard. So who are we going to see?”

  “Lucy Green. She was Faye’s friend’s mother. The woman was as nice as they come. I met her at our engagement party. She lived in one of the brownstones on Marlborough—not high society, but close. This is the last thing I need on my plate.”

  “Like my father used to say, you’re in it up to your eyeballs, and then someone dumps another load of shit on you.”

  “Do all of your dad’s sayings revolve around crap?”

  “Probably.” Tom chuckled. “My old man worked on Boston’s sewage system. What do you expect?”

  Rob shook his head. The blaring siren did nothing to stop his mind from going into overdrive. The last time he’d seen Faye, they’d had a hell of an argument, and she’d thrown her diamond ring in his face. He fingered the small scar on his chin where the stone had cut him.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, the unmarked police sedan pulled up behind the black and white outside the brownstone. The paramedics were parked farther along the street, just ahead of the police car, reducing traffic to a single lane. The coroner’s van pulled up behind them. Rob got out and approached the coroner.

  “Amos, I didn’t expect to see you here so soon. I called for a bus, not the meat wagon.”

  “Paramedics were nearby so Logan got here quickly. He radioed in—exsanguination due to a lacerated throat. He’s still up there. Nothing he can do for the victim, but your fiancée is taking it hard.”

  “The victim was like a second mother to her.”

  Your fiancée—Amos’s words were true once, but never again. There was no way Rob would hitch his wagon to a woman who could believe he’d betray her like that, a woman who’d put her job so far ahead of him, he’d barely been on her radar at times. The sex had been great, but love was supposed to be more than that. Still, she’d reached out to him. He took the stairs to the brownstone two at a time, his lean, muscular body having no problem with the climb. He flashed his badge at the officer who stood guarding the door. “Anyone showing any interest?”

  “No, Detective. According to the concierge, the people in number five are in Europe, and I don’t think the rest of the residents are home from work yet. Looks like a robbery—the place has been tossed pretty good—and there’s no damage to the door, so she must have let them in. Logan says her throat’s been slit from behind.”

  “Where’s Ms. Lewis?”

  “In the living room with Logan. He wanted to take her to the ER—claims she’s in shock. I told him she had to stay put until you arrived. He’s pissed at me. Says I’m interfering with his job. He seems pretty friendly with her. I heard she’s some big shot investigative reporter.” He chuckled. “Some crime reporter—she’s puked a couple of times already.” He continued to laugh. Rob’s face must have reflected the anger moving to the surface because the guard choked it off.

  “Rick Logan is one of the best paramedics we have. For the record, McMillan,” Rob read the nameplate on the policeman’s uniform, “the next time he says someone has to go the ER, you’d better damn well listen to him. And as for Ms. Lewis, the victim was a personal friend. It’s different when the victim’s someone you know.” His voice was clipped, his displeasure obvious.

  Rob turned and entered the apartment. He’d learned the need to remain objective in order to do the job properly, but as he’d told the young officer, it was different when it was personal. Not only had the victim been an acquaintance, Faye was in there. He swallowed and tried to find the emotional distance he needed.

  The place was a mess, just as the officer had said. He looked around quickly, his trained eye taking in everything in an instant—the wallet on the table, money on the floor mixed with the victim’s blood, the take-out bag, Faye’s purse and its scattered contents. Whatever this had been, it hadn’t been a routine robbery. Someone had been looking for something other than the usual snatch and grab items, so what were they after? What could Mrs. Green have that was worth dying for?

  He found Faye sitting on the living-room sofa with Logan. Her face was red and blotchy, her blue-green eyes mascara-rimmed from her tears, and her clothing disheveled and covered in blood. She stood and moved forward, stopping before she reached him. Wrapping her arms around herself, she looked young and vulnerable, not a bit like the bitter, angry woman she’d been the last time he’d seen her.

  “I’ll take it from here, Logan. Thanks for staying with her.” Rob’s voice was strong and steady, completely the opposite of the way he felt. Seeing her like this shook him to the core.

  “No problem. Get her out of here as soon as you can. Don’t be too hard on her tonight. I know you need answers, but …” Logan shrugged and went into the other room.

  “Are you okay?” Rob asked.

  Faye closed the distance between them quickly, surprising him with the violence of her action as she shoved him back.

  “Am I okay?” she shouted. “You can stand there and ask me that with my friend’s mother dead in the other room?” She punctuated her words with a shove. “No, I am not okay. I am most definitely not okay.” Fresh tears ran down her cheeks, and Rob instinctively reached for her to offer what comfort he could. She held herself stiffly for a few seconds before relaxing into his shoulder.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, feeling like a fool. Holding her like this felt awkward and yet familiar. “I’m sorry for your loss.” His hand rubbed small circles on her back as he’d done many times before. “Home invasions don’t always make sense. There’s no sign of forced entry, so she must have let him in.”

  Faye pushed away, her anger palpable.

  “Seriously? Home invasion, my ass. Look around, Sherlock. Home invasions usually involve some kind of theft. Do you see anything worth stealing? The television is twenty years old, and it’s still here. The silverware is scattered all over, and she’s still wearing her rings. There’s money on the table. She had nothing worth taking. Nothing they wanted. Nothing worth dying for.”

  Faye’s crying increased, fueled by her frustrated rage, making it almost impossible for him to understand her words. He tried to pull her back into his arms, but she refused to let him hold her. Admitting defeat, he put his arm across her shoulders and led her out of the room.

  “Come on. Let’s get you out of here. There’s nothing more you can do. Amos and Logan need to get the body ready for transfer, and the lab guys are on their way up.”

  He hurried her out of the apartment and down the stairs, remembering her phobia of that particular elevator. They walked out to the street where the crowds were beginning to form. It was early evening in Beacon Hill on a Friday night. Many of her residents wouldn’t make it home for hours yet.

  “Tom, get a ride back with the black and white,” he yelled at his partner, who was questioning the concierge. That guy would probably be looking for a new job come Monday. The rest of the condo owners wouldn’t be impressed with a home invasion and a death on his watch. Rob opened the sedan’s passenger door and helped her in. Faye automatically buckled her seat belt, as the tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Rob walked around the vehicle and got in behind the wheel.

  “Where are you taking me?” From her tone, he could tell she didn’t really care. She knew he’d have questions, and she was probably grateful he’d chosen to ask them elsewhere. But she’d never admit it. Her color wasn’t good, and she shivered. He turned on the heater even though the temperature outside was in the mid-sixties. Despite what the officer on the door had said, for a crime reporter, she’d never had much of a stomach, and seeing Lucy that way would have been a shock.

  “H
ome. I should probably take you to the ER, but knowing how much you hate hospitals, there isn’t any point in making things worse for you. You can answer my questions in the comfort of your own living room, sitting on that god-awful buttercream leather sofa you love so much. By the way, you haven’t moved, have you?”

  He recognized bitterness in her chuckle.

  “No, my career may be in flames, my finances worse, but my real estate is sound. The couch is gone.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her words but didn’t comment. Things must be bad if she’d parted with that damn custom-made couch. “Where’d you park the Camaro?”

  “It’s gone, too. My Ford’s a half block down.”

  “I won’t miss the couch, but that Camaro was your baby. Why get rid of it?”

  “It didn’t match my shoes,” she spat out bitterly.

  “Don’t chew my head off. You called me, remember?”

  Faye nodded, gave him the license plate number, and he radioed it in, making arrangements to have her vehicle towed to the police station for collection tomorrow.

  The only sound she made during their twenty-minute ride to her East Cambridge condo was the sup-sup hiccupping he expected from someone who’d wept the way she had. Rob tried to ignore the wretched sound tearing at him. He wanted to curse and swear at her for all the pain she’d caused him, ask her how she could’ve believed he’d do something so despicable. But seeing her like this, broken and bereft, the way she’d been the night they’d met, touched a small corner of his heart he didn’t know still existed. You didn’t kick someone when they were down no matter how angry you were. This was the woman he’d loved, the one he’d planned to spend his life with. That dream might’ve been shattered, but he’d still find the man who’d done this and make him pay.

  Rob drove down the ramp into the underground parking lot for the converted factory that housed half a dozen lofts and a few shops on the ground level and parked in a visitors’ spot. Together, they climbed the two flights of stairs to her condo. He waited as she unlocked the door and preceded him inside.