Marina grimaced.
“The neighbor was home and she didn’t hear a thing, so I assume he used a silencer,” Miles added.
“Did she see anything unusual? Any cars out front, that kind of thing?”
Miles shook his head. “Not that evening. But she did say she’d seen a bright blue sedan circle the block a few times earlier that day. She claims to be a birdwatcher, but I think she actually likes to spy on her neighbors. She’s older. I think she’s basically homebound.”
“Did she happen to get a make or model?”
“She said it was a boxy-looking car, maybe a Kia. She got a partial plate.”
“Have you run it?”
“She got only the last three numbers: 434. Said it was a yellow plate. New York, maybe.”
“Or Maine. Was anything taken?”
“Not sure. You knew Duncan. Anything leap out at you as missing?”
Marina surveyed the room. Bookshelves held Duncan’s collection of first editions, some quite valuable. There was an antique gold clock on the mantelpiece and several rare maps on the walls. She stepped forward toward the desk. “May I?” she said.
Miles fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. “Put these on.”
Marina pulled on the gloves. She was careful to avoid the bloodstains on the carpet as she made her way over to the desk.
“Did you find his computer?” she asked, examining the desktop. There was nothing on it except for a leather cup of pens and a box of paper clips.
“No.”
“He had a computer up here. Also, he liked to handwrite notes on legal pads.”
“There are some blank ones in the top drawer.”
Marina shook her head. “Look here,” she said, pointing to a small but crisp L-shaped bloodstain on the desktop. Miles joined her, stooping to get a close look. “See that? It looks like blood splattered on a notepad. Or something with a corner, anyway. A book, maybe.”
Marina squatted down beside the chair. She pointed to a pen on the floor. “Maybe this dropped when he was shot. So that means he was taking notes. But the notepad on the desk was gone.”
“It could have been there before.”
“No. Duncan was a neat freak about his office.” Marina pointed to a pair of loafers, neatly lined up by the door. “He didn’t wear shoes in here. And look at the books. Organized by genre, and then alphabetically. He wouldn’t have left a stray pen on the floor, especially on such an expensive rug. He was writing when he died.”
“You’d be a good detective.” Miles nodded approvingly.
“I just happen to know a lot about this particular victim.” Marina pulled open the top desk drawer. Behind the stack of blank legal pads, she saw what she was looking for. A small, navy blue leather-bound diary. She pulled it out and held it up. In the lower right-hand corner, Duncan’s monogram, DST, was embossed in gold.
“He used this for everything. All his appointments. Notes on interviews,” she said. “I used to buy him a new one every year. His Christmas gift.”
Miles’s eyes lit up. He reached for the planner. “I assumed his calendar was on his computer.”
“No. Duncan was something of a technophobe. Always thought he was going to get his identity stolen or something.” Or hacked, she thought to herself. Now that she knew what Duncan had been working on, his obsessive concern about phone taps and email surveillance seemed justified.
“Do you know a Hunter Morse?” Miles asked. He pointed to a page in Duncan’s diary. “He had a call with him right before he died and was supposed to meet him in DC the next day. Look, he underlined his name twice.”
Marina frowned. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Was he working on a story? I thought he was on a sabbatical. That’s what the nosy neighbor told me, anyway.”
“He was technically on leave from Press. But Duncan was always working on a story.”
“Do you know what this one was about?”
Marina hesitated. On one hand, Miles had been completely forthcoming with her. He’d even let her see the crime scene. And the more people looking for Duncan’s killer, the more likely they were to catch a break.
But Marina didn’t like the sound of Chief Dobbs, Miles’s boss. It didn’t make sense to her that he would be lumping Duncan’s murder in with the recent slew of break-ins, unless he was either exceedingly lazy or attempting to cover up something. Miles might trust him, but Marina didn’t.
Anyway, Marina didn’t want anything to happen to Miles. He was just a local detective. This whole investigation was way above his pay grade. If Miles started poking around an offshore bank like CIB or Swiss United, he would most likely end up with a bullet between the eyes, just like Duncan.
“I don’t know. I can ask around. But listen, Duncan had a lot of enemies. He wrote stories that pissed people off. Off the top of my head, I could come up with a page-long list of people that might have wanted him dead.”
Miles sighed. “Yeah, I figured as much. The nosy neighbor hated him, too, by the way. Said on sunny days, he liked to read the paper on the porch in his underpants.”
“How would she know?” Marina laughed.
“Told you. She’s a ‘birdwatcher,’” Miles said, using air quotes.
“Talk to her again. Maybe she’ll remember some more details about that night. Or the Kia.”
Miles nodded. “On my list.”
“And let me see what I can find out about Hunter Morse.”
“Sounds good. Let me know.” He checked his watch. “Listen, I should head back to the station.”
“Thanks, Miles. I really appreciate your help.”
“Likewise. Let’s stay in touch, all right?”
Marina followed Miles out of the house and onto the driveway. The temperature had dropped and the sky was a threatening gray. Miles walked Marina to her car.
“Say hi to your mom for me,” Marina said, and reached up to give him a hug.
“Will do. How are your parents doing?”
“Okay. Getting older.”
Miles smiled. “Send them my best. They’re good folks.”
“The best,” Marina agreed. She watched as Miles loped off toward his pickup. She let him pull out of the driveway first. He turned to wave one last time before making a left onto Walnut Street.
Marina eased out of the driveway. Across the street, three houses down, she noticed a dark sedan parked by the side of the road. She turned right, driving as slowly as she could so that she could scope out the neighbor’s property. It was an old Victorian house, with a widow’s walk and wraparound porches. In the front window, she thought she saw the figure of a woman through gauzy white curtains.
She sped up after passing the house. She shot a glance at the sedan. In the front seat was a man in a Red Sox cap, reading a paper. When she reached the end of Walnut Street, she clicked on her blinker. The sedan, she noticed, was gone.
It wasn’t until she reached the highway exit that Marina saw the sedan again. It was two cars behind her, waiting at a red light. The driver’s baseball cap was unmistakable, as was the gold casing around the license plate. Marina sat up tall, trying to read the plate number in the rearview mirror. A New York plate, starting with FBY. Marina turned around, trying to catch the last few digits, but the light turned green and the driver behind her leaned on his horn.
As she pulled onto Route 44, the sedan followed suit. It remained two or three cars behind her, but Marina knew she was being followed. Her heart began to pound in her chest. When she saw the exit for Lakeville approaching on the left, she shifted into the right lane. The sedan did the same. She revved her engine as though she was going to fly by the exit, but instead she made a sharp left, cutting past two rows of traffic. An SUV honked angrily at her as it slammed on its brakes. Marina sailed past it, barely making the exit, and the seda
n continued down the freeway. As she pulled up to the light at the end of the turnoff, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A close call, but there was no one behind her. The sedan was gone.
Ten minutes later, Marina pulled into her parents’ driveway. She hadn’t planned on visiting them, and she didn’t really have time to do so now. But at least she had lost her tail for the time being.
Marina hadn’t seen Richard and Alice since her engagement party. She kept saying she’d visit, but between the wedding plans and her job and the social demands of the Ellis family, Marina felt as though she never had a minute’s rest. She half-heartedly invited them into the city for various events—the Ellis Foundation’s annual gala, The Nutcracker at the New York City Ballet—but she knew that they’d never come. Her parents hated the city. Ever since her father’s stroke, they had been less mobile than ever. As she walked to the front door, she noticed, with sadness, how their once manicured hedgerow looked decrepit, and the jaunty Persian blue paint that her mother so loved was peeling from the front door. Richard Tourneau was a man who prided himself on self-sufficiency. He hardly ever hired a handyman. The garage was filled with tools and paint and lawn equipment and fertilizer. Marina knew how much it must’ve bothered him to see the ragged edges of the hedgerow, the bare patches of dirt at the borders of the lawn. His health must have declined since she’d seen him last.
The joyous barking of her parents’ dog cheered her, though, and when her mother opened the door, the look on her face was one of sheer delight.
“Richard!” her mother shouted into the house. “Guess who’s here!”
Marina’s smile faded as her father appeared in the doorway. He was seated in a wheelchair, his left leg bound in a cast, and what appeared to be a nasty gash on his cheek was covered by surgical tape.
“Dad,” Marina gasped. “What happened?”
Her father waved her off. “Oh, nothing. It was silly. Come here! It’s so good to see you.”
“He fell in the shower,” Alice said. “Thank God I was home.”
“Is your leg broken? Oh, Dad. How do you get upstairs to the bedroom?”
“We’re sleeping in the den for now. It’s fine. It’s quite comfortable, really. And the morning light is lovely.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because you were in Paris, dear. We weren’t going to interrupt your trip. And then everything that happened with Duncan—”
“He could have hit his head or—”
“Well, he didn’t. Will you look at Henry? He’s so happy to see you. He’s such a good dog, Marina. After Tucker died, I never thought we’d adopt another dog, but this guy has really stolen my heart. Are you hungry? I can make lunch. Or maybe you’ll stay for dinner?”
“I can’t stay. I was just in Somerset and thought I’d come by and say hi.”
Marina noticed her parents exchange looks of disappointment. In the car, she had thought that a short visit was better than no visit at all. Perhaps that was a mistake. At least she’d shaken the sedan that had been trailing her. For that reason alone, the visit home had been worthwhile.
“Well, you’re here now,” Alice said. “So tell us—what were you doing in Somerset? Looking at wedding venues? They have that beautiful old estate over there—what’s it called, Richard? The Snowden House?”
“Why would she get married in Somerset?” Richard shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair. “Lakeville’s prettier. If you’re going to do a Connecticut wedding, why not right here at home?”
“At our house!” Alice exclaimed. “Oh, Richard, we can’t handle that kind of event here. The Ellises must have a million friends! I’m certain this is not what they were thinking for the wedding of their oldest son.”
“Not here, Alice. Just in Lakeville. The Interlochen Inn is nice. Or what about at Hotchkiss? That would be great. I can talk to the dean about it tomorrow.”
“The chapel is lovely,” Alice agreed. “Where would the reception be? The Boathouse, maybe? Or—”
“You guys.” Marina’s parents looked up, as though they had forgotten she was there. “It’s already decided. We’re getting married at the Ellises’ house in Southampton.”
The silence was brief but deadening.
“I see,” Alice said finally, her voice prim. Marina knew exactly what she was thinking: In my day, it was the bride’s family who hosted the wedding. “Have you picked a date?”
“Well, originally we were thinking this summer, but I think the summer following is probably more realistic.”
“What?” her parents exclaimed together.
“Marina! That’s nearly two years away!”
“A long engagement isn’t healthy, Marina,” Alice chided. “Your father and I were engaged for eight months and it was far too long, in my opinion.”
“Is one of you having cold feet? What is this about?” Richard peered at her over the top of his reading glasses.
“There’s still ample time to get married this summer, dear. We’d have to get started now, of course, but—”
“Stop!” Marina took a deep breath. “It’s not cold feet or anything like that. It’s just . . .” She trailed off for a moment. She hadn’t wanted to go down this rabbit hole with her parents, but it seemed inevitable now. “Grant’s father is running for office,” she said finally. “He’s going to declare his candidacy soon. And if he wins the Democratic nomination—”
“For president?” Alice looked aghast.
“Yes, Mother. For president.”
“But, but—he’s a developer! He’s a billionaire! I heard rumors, of course, but I really didn’t think he would go through with it. Why on earth—”
“Because he’s a smart man and he’s not in the pocket of special interests. He’s consulted a number of advisors and there’s a lot of momentum behind him at this point. Frankly, everyone he’s talked to thinks he has a decent shot to win.”
For a moment, they all stared at the floor. Marina knew her parents loved Grant. How could they not? He was articulate, thoughtful, well educated. He doted on her. He was everything one could hope for in a son-in-law. His parents, however, were another story. Her parents had never said one negative word about the Ellises. But she knew Richard and Alice, and Richard and Alice were not fans of showy people. And the Ellises, tasteful as they were, were about as showy as people could be.
“Are they even really Democrats?” Alice whispered. To be anything but was, in Alice’s book, a great failing of character.
“Yes, they’re really Democrats. Look, I didn’t come here to fight with you. Certainly not about politics. Or the wedding.”
“Of course not.” Alice ran a hand through her sensibly short silver hair. “I’m sorry. Let’s go sit in the den. Your father is more comfortable in his armchair.”
After they were settled—Marina on the old tweed sofa with a Hotchkiss blanket over her lap, her father in front of the fire with his leg propped up on an ottoman—her mother bustled off into the kitchen to fetch a snack. Whenever Marina came home, Alice saw to it that she ate. Alice always clucked disapprovingly that Marina was “wasting away” or that she “looked thinner than usual” at least once during every visit. Marina was surprised she hadn’t said something yet. Ever since Duncan’s death, she had lost her appetite. Her jeans hung loose on her frame; her cheekbones were razor-sharp. For the first time in her life, Marina had lost weight without trying at all.
“Here we are,” Alice said, bearing a platter of brownies. “Just a little something. You’re looking awfully skinny for someone who was just in Paris.”
“I was only there for a few days.”
“Honey, we’re so sorry about Duncan Sander’s passing,” her father said. “I know you two were close. That must’ve been very hard to hear.”
“Tragic story.” Alice shook her head. “One of several break-ins in the area
, you know. We’ve never locked the door before, but we do now. Can’t be too careful these days.”
“Did you go to the funeral, sweetheart?”
“Yes, of course. I cut the trip short so I could be there.”
“Was everyone from the magazine there?”
“Yes, everyone.”
“Was Duncan still working there? I didn’t realize that. For some reason I thought he’d left.”
“He was on a sabbatical.”
“I remember chatting with him at your engagement party,” Alice said. “Remember that, Richard? What was that story he said he was working on?”
“I don’t know. I think he’d been overserved.”
“Well, that’s not a nice thing to say,” Alice reprimanded.
Richard sighed. “I’m just being honest. I never liked the guy. I didn’t like the way he treated Marina. The way he treated anyone, really. He was very entitled.”
“He was a great mentor and a terrific journalist, Dad.”
“Well, I thought he was very rude at your engagement party.”
Marina frowned. She was aware of her father’s dislike for Duncan Sander, but she didn’t really feel like discussing it now that he was dead. “What did he do at my engagement party?” She did vaguely remember a scene toward the end that resulted in James Ellis calling Duncan a cab.
“He was drunk as a skunk!” Richard said, his eyes wide. “Don’t you remember? And he was chewing James Ellis’s ear off about Morty Reiss, and how the guy had his money stashed in a Swiss bank, and how he finally was going to prove it.”
Marina tried to contain her surprise. “Are you sure it was a Swiss bank?” she said carefully. “Or was he talking about that interview he did six months ago, when he tried to prove that Reiss had his money at a Cayman Islands bank?”
Richard shook his head. “No, no. He wasn’t talking about that interview. Though, good God, you would have thought the man would have stopped drinking after that. No. He was saying the money was at a Swiss bank now. It sounded like nonsense, honestly. The Ellises were embarrassed.”
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