by Sandra Balzo
Almost like Bobby and Kathleen were a diversion, designed to keep AnnaLise off the trail of the real perpetrator. But why?
The obvious choice — Daisy as stone-killer — didn't merit thinking about. Still, as AnnaLise left the house, she'd paused on the landing to give the door of the cabinet that housed her father's old deer rifles a half-hearted tug.
Locked. But how much weight did that carry if Daisy still had the key in a drawer in her bedroom? Had she ever fired guns? Most locals had, almost a rite of passage in the High Country. Though, come to think of it, knowing how to swim would seem a requisite of lakeside life, and Daisy couldn't do that.
AnnaLise felt sick. Sick to be thinking such things about her own mother. Even sicker to be wishing the crimes on innocent friends, instead.
The more you looked at it, in fact, the sicker the whole scenario had become.
Daisy Griggs had no reason to shoot Rance Smoaks or Dickens Hart, AnnaLise told herself as she crossed the bridge to Hart's Landing and parked. And Ichiro Katou? How in the world did he fit in? Anywhere?
Tucker Stanton was waiting for AnnaLise at the door that had stymied her on the last visit. Not that it ended up mattering much. By that time, Katou was already dead.
'So, what are we looking for?' Tucker asked as he opened the lobby door and moved aside for her to enter.
'I'm not sure,' AnnaLise answered honestly. 'Maybe some sort of connection between Ichiro's death and the other events.'
'Events?' Tucker was unlocking one of the small mailboxes lined up on the facing wall. Very few label spaces had names on them.
'You know, the two shootings?' Could Tucker really be so dense? 'One fatal, one not?'
'Oh, yeah. Yeah, sorry.' The young man turned away, three white envelopes in his hand. 'I've been a little preoccupied with Torch.'
Apparently. 'What are those?' AnnaLise pointed at the mail.
'My dad asked me to check the mailbox.'
'Ichiro's? Anything interesting?'
Tucker started to hold out the letters, but then snatched them back. 'Hey, wait. Sharing these could be a federal crime, right?'
'For you to show me the envelopes that were in the mailbox for the condo you and your father own?'
'Well, when you put it that way.' He held them out again.
AnnaLise extended her hand to receive, but Tucker withdrew once more..
'Wait. Ichiro paid the rent. I think according to tenant law or whatever, that means he has the right to expect privacy.'
'Except he's dead.' AnnaLise grabbed the envelopes and read aloud, 'Resident, resident, current resident.' She handed them back. 'Fat lot of good that'll do us.'
Tucker shrugged and pushed a button between two sets of double doors.
AnnaLise looked up and around the lobby. 'An elevator?'
'It is a four-story building,' Tucker pointed out.
'I suppose.' After a minute: 'But would it kill people to walk? Get a little exercise?'
'Wow, what made you Miss Crabby today?' The doors opened and Tucker stepped into the car.
AnnaLise followed suit, torn between reacting to being called 'Miss Crabby' by someone a decade younger or acting like an adult.
She chose the latter because, after all, Tucker was doing her a favor. 'Sorry. I hurt my shoulder last night and didn't get much sleep.'
'What'd you do to it?'
The car stopped on the second floor. AnnaLise could have crawled up the stairs faster. 'Problem with my mother's garage door. Which is the condo Ichiro rented from your father?'
AnnaLise hoped not to get into another discussion of tenants' rights.
'That one,' Tucker said, pointing at the sign on the door that spelled out the word 'Three' in scripted, individual brass letters. No plain-Jane, Arabic numerals for the fabulous Hart's Landing, no siree.
AnnaLise knocked on the door.
'Who are you expecting?' Tucker asked, elbowing her aside and putting his key in the lock. 'A ghost?'
'I don't know,' AnnaLise said. 'It just seemed polite. Like knocking on a bathroom door when it's closed.'
'You knock on bathroom doors, too?' Tucker clicked open the deadbolt and stepped in. 'Or, close them in the first place?'
AnnaLise followed, thinking how glad she was that her life hadn't been burdened by brothers.
A so-called 'great room' combination of living, dining and kitchen awaited them as they stepped in. To the right was the living end, which had a planked floor and thick area rug between the couch and the fieldstone fireplace, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows.
'God,' AnnaLise said, gazing out across the lake toward Main Street. 'This place is beautiful. Can I live here?'
'Sure. Just pay our condo fees, taxes, and a little profit, and it's yours on a long-term lease.'
'Something tells me I can't afford any, much less all three.' Believing she was oriented, AnnaLise turned toward the kitchen at the opposite end of the room. Slate tile floor, beech cabinets, granite countertops and a breakfast nook looking north toward the mountains.
It was like AnnaLise had died and gone to heaven. But also an uncomfortable reminder of Ichiro, the dead man whose apartment she was coveting.
'This condo, my father's and mine are the only occupied units in the building — you can do the math on the monthly maintenance.'
'Well, somebody has to pay for the elevator and highfalutin' brass numbers,' AnnaLise said, catching sight of a desk tucked into a corner.
Tucker slid open the window over the table — the one Ichiro had talked to them through just three days earlier. Beginning in September, the Carolina mountains provided their own, natural air conditioning.
'Exactly what are we looking for?' the doctor's son asked, turning. 'The police have probably already snapped up any smoking guns.'
'More like a smoking cane, in Ichiro's case,' AnnaLise said. 'But you're right, they would have taken anything obviously connected to his death. What I'm trying to do is link Ichiro to Dickens Hart and Rance Smoaks.'
'The trifecta: a Japanese guy, a rich guy and a drunk guy. That shouldn't be hard.'
'I sense sarcasm.' AnnaLise was sorting through a pile of maps and tourist information on the top of the desk.
'I would have said facetiousness,' Tucker said, 'but I'll bow to your greater mind-span as a wordsmith.'
'I just find facetiousness both kinder and gentler than sarcasm. But you're the one speaking, so you're the best judge of intent.'
'Perhaps I was trying for... ironic?'
'I think not.' AnnaLise set aside the Chamber of Commerce propaganda and opened a desk drawer.
'So you believe all three men were attacked by the same person? But two were shot and one... well, clubbed. I thought most killers stuck with the same weapon?'
Tucker seemed to be warming to the task, though going through the refrigerator probably wasn't going to help them much.
'On television,' said AnnaLise, 'but in real life? I don't know. Besides, we're not talking about a serial killer here.'
'Two people dead and another shot? What constitutes "serial"?' Tucker had found a Diet Coke and was sitting on the couch.
'You have a point,' AnnaLise admitted, pulling out a stack of rubber-banded letters. 'But I guess I think of a serial killer as being random in the choice of victims even if consistent in the method. In this case, though, the attacker seems to take advantage of whatever's convenient.'
Like a garage door, for instance.
'What do you have there?' Tucker asked, using a hinged photo frame he'd picked up to gesture at the envelopes in her hand.
She waved the packet. 'Letters from home — in Japanese.'
'Go figure, him being Japanese and all.' He recited: 'Missives from Japan To mountains one did carry Til with leaves, he fell.'
'Beautiful, if sad,' AnnaLise said. 'That's haiku, right?' And this time rated PG, in contrast to the one accompanied with bongos she'd witnessed upon arrival at Torch.
'It is,' Tucker said. 'I really
enjoy the form, though I have to "blue" up the lines to get any of our clientele to actually listen to the lyrics.'
'Take the blue out, and I'll listen anytime.' She held up the letters. 'I don't suppose you can read Japanese?'
'Not yet,' he said.
AnnaLise wouldn't underestimate him. 'What's with the frame?'
He brought it to her. 'Trade you.'
Tucker accepted the letters as AnnaLise examined the photos. The one to the left was of a gray-haired man — likely the grandfather — and a boy maybe ten or eleven, sporting a distinct resemblance to Ichiro. The photograph in the right side of the gold frame was older, its colors faded.
'Looks like an Asian June Cleaver,' Tucker said, cheating over AnnaLise's shoulder.
The classic TV buff was right. Despite the fact the pretty woman pictured appeared to be Japanese, she was wearing the classic shirtwaist dress and string of pearls popularized by Barbara Billingsley in Leave it to Beaver. The sitcom had run in the late fifties and early sixties, overlapping with another Tucker favorite, Dobie Gillis.
This kid had to get out more.
'Probably Ichiro's mother,' AnnaLise said. 'Or maybe grandmother. It's hard to tell her age from the photo.' She held it out to him. 'Anything else?'
'Not that I saw.' Tucker was looking out the window he'd opened.
With a sigh, AnnaLise put the framed photos down and resumed her search of Ichiro's desk. Her head was halfway stuck in the lower file drawer when she heard a car door slam.
'Uh-oh,' Tucker said, sliding the window closed quietly just as Ichiro had done on Saturday, fearing he was 'overdropping.'
'Uh-oh, what? Who is it?' Digging through as rapidly as she could with one good arm, AnnaLise found the folder she wanted and pulled it out, suffering a paper cut in the process.
'Shit,' she said, as her blood dripped onto the other half dozen files in the cabinet.
'What?' Tucker asked.
'Manila folder-cut, damn it.' She sucked on her thumb to staunch the bleeding. 'But I asked you first — who's out there?'
'Jim Duende.' Tucker pointed at the droplets in the drawer. 'Aren't you worried about DNA?'
'I am, but not in the context you're talking about.'
'You mean you're not afraid they're going to... finger you?' He pointed at her paper cut.
'Cute, but it's my thumb.'
'Still a finger.' Tucker said defensively.
'Sorry, but I consider it a digit. The thumb opposes the fingers.'
'Oooh, I'm impressed.' Tucker raised his eyebrows. 'Now that's sarcasm.'
'Agreed. But, did you say Jim Duende is downstairs? Sheree told me he'd disappeared.'
'Nah, the guy was just off on assignment.'
'Assignment?' AnnaLise had gingerly picked up the file folder to show Tucker and now she stopped. 'He's a reporter?'
'More freelance writer. Hart wanted him to do his autobiography or some crap, but then the big guy changed his mind.'
'And hired me,' AnnaLise said.
'Hart hired... you? Why would he do that?'
AnnaLise's turn at defensive. 'I'm a good writer.'
'Sure you are,' Tucker said. 'But Jim is a big-time ghostwriter. That's what "duende" means in Spanish, by the way. Ghost.'
'I think the gist is more like "spirit".'
'Hey, Ms. Know-it-all, will you lay off? I took high school Spanish, too. And a whole lot more recently than you did.'
AnnaLise couldn't argue with that. Or her being a pain in the ass, as Joy had put it. 'It is clever, though. Do you know what books he's ghosted?'
'No, but lots of them. For a bunch of famous people.'
Abandoning any hope of getting specifics from Tucker, AnnaLise held up the folder. 'You were talking about DNA. Look what I found.'
'"Genome"?'
'It's the name of the project, but it boils down to DNA testing.'
'Ichiro was doing that? Cool.' Tucker looked around. 'Where's the equipment?'
'He wasn't doing the actual lab work,' AnnaLise said. 'He had his own DNA tested as part of a worldwide project. Bobby Bradenham was doing the same.'
'And all that means...?' Tucker held out both hands, palms up.
'Well, I'm not sure,' AnnaLise said. 'I guess I'm hoping it'll tell us something.'
'What? You think they're related? Now that would be awesome. Maybe they're brothers and Bobby killed him so he wouldn't have to share some inheritance.'
'From Hart?' Geez, did everyone know about the 'Little Dickens' rumor?
'Dickens Hart?' Tucker stared at AnnaLise, his eyes widening. 'Holy shit! Are you saying Bobby Bradenham is his love child?'
Tucker started a little dance — half-strut, half-beatnik. 'And Ichiro, too? Wow, I betcha Hart was in Japan. Hey, with all his money, why not? That is so cool. No, double cool. Maybe even triple cool. That's―'
'No, no,' AnnaLise said, waving her arms — or, at least, the good one. 'I didn't mean...'
A knock at the door. Tucker and AnnaLise looked at each other.
'Uh-oh,' Tucker said.
'You said that before,' AnnaLise whispered. 'Duende?'
Tucker shrugged. 'Probably. I know he asked my dad if it was OK for him to come by sometime and look around. I guess he wants to do an article.'
'An article?' AnnaLise squeaked. 'You mean for a magazine or newspaper?'
'Yeah, like I said, he freelances. Or else he's a stringer, now I'm not sure. For the Times or something.'
'The Times?' AnnaLise repeated. The New York Times? 'The last thing we need is him to find us poking around...'
'Don't worry,' Tucker said. 'He can't get in without a key and this — ' he twirled one — 'is it.'
'Then how did Duende get into the lobby downstairs?' AnnaLise demanded. 'Your father would have more than one key.'
'So if the dude has a key, why would he knock?'
'He's being polite,' AnnaLise hissed. 'Like I was. And you're not. Is there another way out of this apartment?'
'Sure. Off the bedroom.'
As AnnaLise followed him, she heard a key clitter and turn the unit's deadbolt lock.
Tucker stealthily slid open the glass patio door in the bedroom and they stepped onto its deck.
'We're on the second floor,' AnnaLise said.
'Hello? Remember the elevator?' Tucker swung a leg over the railing.
'But I have a bum shoulder. And a file folder.' She held up the latter. What panic she was feeling was way out of proportion to the situation. So what if James Duende found them there? She'd tell him that... that she was looking at the apartment, maybe going to rent it. Sure, she'd...
'Hello? Is someone here?'
Tucker dropped over the deck rail.
'How's it going to look now?' AnnaLise whispered toward the ground. 'The real estate agent down there and me up here?'
'Real estate agent?' Tucker said, getting to his feet. 'Are you on crack? Jump, and I'll catch you!' He held out his arms.
'But my shoulder...'
Then she heard a second voice join the first in the condo behind her. 'What's wrong? Did you hear something?'
Chuck. As in Chief of Police Greystone.
In one impulsive movement, AnnaLise rolled up the folder, stuck it in the waistband of her pants and, bum wing forgotten, did a one-handed vault over the railing.
Chapter Twenty-One
'Agghh.'
AnnaLise rolled off Tucker. 'Are you OK?'
He groaned.
'Truly,' she repeated. 'Are you hurt?'
Another groan, but at least this one was closer to a real word.
'I'm really, really sorry,' she said. 'Should I call your father? Or an ambulance?' Though, come to think of it, either would be impossible. AnnaLise had left her cellphone charging in Daisy's kitchen.
Happily, it didn't become an issue.
Tucker sat up partially, holding his chest. 'Just... trying... to catch... my breath. You knocked the... wind out of me.'
'I am so sorry,' AnnaLise said
again. 'But I thought you were going to catch me.'
'And I thought you were going to drop straight down like I did, not launch yourself over the railing like some lunatic gymnastics chick.'
Tucker got to his feet, albeit unsteadily.
AnnaLise stood, too. 'I am so―'
'I know, I know. You're sorry.' He was checking his body parts for injuries. When he got to the back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out a crumpled packet. 'Here.'
AnnaLise took it and brushed off the dirt. 'Ichiro's letters? Why did you take them?' Perhaps he intended to learn Japanese quicker than AnnaLise had thought.
'I didn't mean to. I just stuck them in my pocket when I closed the kitchen window.'
'Which reminds me,' AnnaLise said. 'Your Coke is still sitting on the coffee table.' Probably making a ring, to add insult to injury.
'He'll think the can's been there forever.'
'They. Duende has Chief Greystone with him.'
'Huh.' Tucker rubbed the back of his head, then checked his hand for blood. 'Even so, my point stands. They will assume the Coke belonged to Ichiro.'
'Except that it's cold.'
'Oh.' Tucker was in full, re-trenching denial. 'Well, then, they won't know whose it is.'
'Unless they do a DNA check.'
His head jerked up. 'You think...'
'No, I don't,' AnnaLise said, letting him off the hook. 'Besides, you have a right to be there. If anything, it's my blood in the file drawer they'd worry about.'
'If anything,' Tucker echoed.
AnnaLise was looking at the building. The bedroom and therefore the deck off it faced the lake, just as the big windows in the living room did. That combination had the added advantage of situating the plumbing in the kitchen and bathroom back-to-back in the same wall to save contractor and maintenance costs.
All that meant nothing to AnnaLise against the fact that the layout had allowed them to land on the grassy slope leading to the water.
'Good thing that deck faces the back rather than the building entrance,' she said.
'You're not kidding,' Tucker said. 'If I'd been standing on that unforgiving sidewalk when you landed on me, they'd be scraping up Tucker Stanton with putty knives.'