by Ingrid Thoft
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2015 by Ingrid Thoft
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Thoft, Ingrid. Brutality / Ingrid Thoft.
p. cm. — (A Fina Ludlow novel ; 3)
ISBN 978-0-698-16455-0
1. Women private investigators—Fiction. 2. Women—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Criminal investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.H58B78 2015 2015002565
813'.6—dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Doug Berrett and Judith Stone Thoft and in loving memory of Richard A. Thoft, M.D.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
Liz Barone had come to the conclusion that if her illness didn’t kill her, the medical and legal bills just might. She tore open the latest invoice from her attorney and unfolded the piece of paper inside. Compared to the lawyers in downtown Boston, his fees were reasonable, but reasonable didn’t mean cheap. She smoothed the latest onto a stack with the others and rested her head in her hands. Where was she going to find an extra thirty-seven hundred dollars? There was also the three-hundred-dollar bill for lab tests that the insurance company was refusing to pay. Add to that their usual expenses, and Liz felt they were rolling downhill without brakes, picking up speed with each passing moment.
The day had started badly: She’d woken with a dull, heavy ache in her head, and it had only intensified. It was too soon to take another pill, but if she didn’t, there was no way she’d get through her to-do list: cook dinner, bathe children, pack lunches, review the reports from work, gather materials for the lawyer, choose a birthday gift for her mother. It was a list that any parent could relate to, but Liz had to do it all while contending with what felt like a vise on her skull.
Her options were either to cry or soldier on. She’d never been one to cry and soldier on, so she pushed her chair back from the table and went to the cabinet above the stove. She took down a bottle of Tylenol, fished out two pills, and filled a glass at the sink to wash them down. The January sun had already set, and the backyard was cloaked in darkness, the window providing an unwelcome mirror.
How had she gotten here? Of all the futures Liz had imagined for herself, she’d never imagined this one. She sighed. That’s how life works: You worried about a hundred different scenarios and outcomes, but it was the one you never imagined that was your downfall. Life didn’t just exceed your wildest dreams; it also exceeded your wildest nightmares.
Liz detected movement on the other side of the window and took a step just as there was a knock on the back door. Jamie and the kids weren’t due home for at least another hour, and she really wasn’t in the mood for a visitor, but whoever it was had already seen her. Too late to pretend she wasn’t home.
She unlocked and opened the door.
“This is a surprise,” she said. Liz opened the door wider, letting in her visitor and a blast of frigid air.
She was puzzled, but once again, her imagination failed her.
She never could have predicted that ten minutes later she would be lying on her kitchen floor in a pool of blood.
1.
“I can’t believe Haley is missing this,” Fina Ludlow said, crumpled in a ball in a snowbank. “You all right, buddy?” she asked her youngest nephew, Chandler, as he burrowed out from underneath her.
“That was awesome! Let’s go again!” He grabbed her hand as she struggled to her feet. A chunk of snow had wormed its way up her parka and into the small of her back. Fina looped the rope attached to the toboggan around her free wrist and struggled to fish the snow out. Some had already melted and was making a cold, wet trail down her butt. She was having fun, moving into the hot and cold sweaty phase that marked any good sledding excursion.
Back at the top of the hill, her brothers Scotty and Matthew were prepping for another run. Scotty had his middle son tucked between his legs. Matthew was lying chest-down on the sled, headfirst. Scotty’s eldest son was lying on top of him in the same position.
“You’re going to allow that?” Fina asked Scotty. “Patty would not approve.” Scotty’s wife had married into the Ludlow family, thereby rendering her the rare voice of reason. Patty had opted to stay home with their niece, Haley.
“She won’t know,” Scotty said.
“Not until you call her from the ER,” Fina commented. “Did you guys bring any business cards? There must be a market for sledding-related lawsuits.”
Her brothers grinned.
“Don’t spoil our fun,” Matthew said, pushing off, his nephew clinging to his back like a tortoise’s shell.
It was a rare day that the Ludlows had a couple of free hours together, when the demands of the family firm, Ludlow and Associates, didn’t take priority. Winter had been a bitch so far, dumping snow and caking ice on every surface, prompting the governor to close down government offices and delay court business for days. Fina’s father, Carl, had grumbled about the loss of billable hours, but his children and grandchildren were happy to have a brief reprieve from the daily grind.
Fina sat down behind Chandler and shoved off the icy surface and over the crest of the hill. Their ride was fast and bumpy, the boy hollering all the way down. As they approached the bottom of the hill, Fina tipped to the side; rather than let the ride peter out, they rolled over and off the sled in a dramatic wipeout. Chandler was elated.
Fina was cleaning snow out of her boot laces when her phone rang from the inner pocket of her parka. If she were in a different line of work she might ignore the call, but as a private investigator, she never knew who might be on the other end of the line. Fina had to welcome every potential job and every potential lead, even if nine times out of ten it was a telemarketer tryi
ng to sell her aluminum siding.
“Fina Ludlow,” she said, wiping at her runny nose. She listened to the caller and made a few comments before hanging up.
The reprieve was over.
—
Although most of Fina’s cases came through Ludlow and Associates, she didn’t have a dedicated space at the firm. She used conference rooms and empty offices on the premises as needed, but she preferred to meet clients—especially potential clients—on their own turf or at least a turf of their choosing. She learned a lot about people from their environments and how they interacted with them. That’s why she was happy to meet her caller from the day before at Mass General Hospital, despite her general dislike of hospitals.
At the ICU reception desk, she encountered an administrator who could have blocked for the Patriots, so advanced were her skills.
“Who are you here to see?” She peered at Fina.
“Liz Barone.” That wasn’t strictly the truth, but oh, well.
“Are you family?”
“I’m her cousin.” That definitely wasn’t the truth.
The receptionist printed out an ID badge, which Fina affixed to her jacket. She gave Fina a stern lecture that cell phone use was not allowed and pointed her to a small waiting room.
The space overlooked an inner courtyard, and although the windows promised natural light, it was nearly impossible to see the sky given the size of the building. Across the courtyard, hallways and rooms were brightly illuminated, offering a montage of hospital life.
Fina took off her coat, stuffing her gloves and scarf into her pockets before taking a seat in a straight-backed chair. A woman of about forty was lying on a sofa wrapped in a thin blanket. She appeared to be sleeping, but every couple of minutes, she would toss and turn on the unforgiving couch. A Japanese family occupied the chairs opposite Fina. They were deep in conversation, their voices low but insistent.
Rather than contemplate the personal disasters that had brought her roommates to this place, Fina scanned the landscape across the way. In one room, a man sat up in bed, eating off a tray, his eyes trained on the TV mounted on the wall. A woman sat in a chair next to him, flipping through a magazine. Another room held half a dozen people, their smiling faces amongst a sea of flowers and balloons. Fina pondered the vista offered by the waiting room. It seemed cruel to force devastated family members to gaze upon others’ more mundane or joyful recoveries.
Fifteen minutes later, Fina was thoroughly engrossed in a CNN story about National Tortilla Chip Day when a woman entered the room. She was dressed in street clothes rather than medical attire.
“Ms. Ludlow?”
Fina stood and offered her hand. “Yes. Are you Mrs. Barone?”
“Call me Bobbi.” Her handshake was firm, and her skin felt dry. “There’s a meeting room that we can use.”
Fina followed her down the hallway, trying not to stare at the occupants of the glass-fronted rooms. In some cases, it was difficult to even see the patients amidst the medical equipment. Machines and endless tubes and cords snaked around the beds that seemed as large and as complicated as luxury sedans. Each room boasted a dedicated nursing station right outside its door. The level of care and attention was extraordinary. If you had to be in critical condition, this was the place to do it. In the hallway, a uniformed Boston Police officer sat on a chair, flipping through the Herald.
Bobbi led her to a small nondescript room with a round table and four chairs. There was a poster on the wall about patients’ rights and another extolling the virtues of hand washing, but little attempt had been made to decorate or warm up the space. If you were sitting in this room meeting with doctors, the life of your loved one was in serious peril. No one was going to pretend otherwise.
“Do you want some coffee? Water?” Bobbi asked.
“No, thank you, but can I get you something?” Fina sat down across from her. “I should have offered to bring in some food. I know that hospital food can get old fast.”
“I haven’t felt like eating. This is the most successful diet I’ve ever been on.” She gave a wan smile. Bobbi Barone looked to be in her sixties, with short, dark brown hair, and a complexion that was more olive than fair. She was very attractive, with smooth skin and lovely teeth. Her face was round, but not chubby, and her features were delicate. Fina guessed she was about five feet five inches and carried a bit of extra weight evenly throughout her body. A modest diamond ring and wedding band encircled her left ring finger.
“Is Liz’s husband going to join us?” Fina asked.
“He’s getting some air, but we can start without him.” Bobbi squeezed her hands together as if trying to warm them. The ICU was chilly, which brought to Fina’s mind a morgue.
“So what can I do for you?” Fina asked, pulling a notebook out of her bag. She had a tablet computer with her, but she still liked pen and paper when conducting interviews.
Bobbi took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’ve been reading the papers, but my daughter was attacked a couple of days ago.”
“I did see that.” Fina had only glanced at the item in Friday’s paper, but had gone back and read all the coverage after Bobbi called her. Liz Barone, a thirty-eight-year-old married mother of two, was attacked in her home in Hyde Park. She’d suffered a major head injury, and her prognosis was uncertain. “How is she?”
“She’s in bad shape. She suffered a subdural hematoma”—Bobbi gestured toward her head—“and there’s a lot of bleeding in the brain.”
“Is there anything they can do?”
“They’re considering surgery to relieve the pressure, but we’ll have to see.”
“I’m so sorry,” Fina said. “How can I help?”
“Well,” Bobbi said, “I want to know who did it.”
“Of course.” Fina paused. “I assume the police are investigating?”
Bobbi nodded.
“Which division is handling the case?” Fina asked.
“Major Crimes.”
Fina felt a mixture of relief and dread. Lieutenant Marcy Pitney was the head of Major Crimes and Fina’s sometime nemesis. Detective Cristian Menendez was also a member of the unit. He was Fina’s good friend and sometime date.
“Lieutenant Pitney?” Fina asked.
“Yes. Do you know her?” Bobbi looked searchingly at Fina. The woman was desperate for a shred of hope.
“I do, and she’s an excellent detective, as are her colleagues, particularly Detective Menendez. I’m not sure what I can do for you that they can’t.”
“I don’t mean to question their skills, but there are only so many hours in the day, and they have so many cases. I want someone who’s focused only on Liz.”
Fina had heard this before. Clients generally trusted the police, but they couldn’t accept their limited resources in terms of manpower. Like most things, if you were willing to throw money at a problem, you got more—though not necessarily better—results.
“Okay. Well, tell me about your daughter.”
“She’s married with two kids and works in a lab at New England University.”
“Has anything unusual happened in her life recently? Has anyone threatened her or has she been engaged in any conflict you can think of?”
Bobbi shook her head. “The only thing that’s different is the lawsuit, but I can’t imagine that has anything to do with it.”
“What lawsuit?” Fina asked just as the door swung open. A man in faded jeans and a black pullover sweater walked in and dropped down into a chair. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“This is Liz’s husband,” Bobbi said. “Jamie Gottlieb.”
Fina extended her hand. “Sorry to meet under such difficult circumstances.”
“I was just telling Fina about the lawsuit,” Bobbi explained.
Jamie made a gesture indicating she should continue
. Fina listened and studied him at the same time.
She’d done some preliminary research on Jamie in preparation for the meeting. He was a project manager at a local interactive firm, but most of the information Fina found online was related to his band. Jamie was the guitarist for the group, which had enjoyed modest success in the nineties, but seemed largely inactive these days. They were called Wells Missionary, a name that made no sense to Fina, but was probably an ironic reference to art and the capitalist machinery. Jamie was trim with longish brown hair that dipped down toward his eyes. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, but with his square jaw and hazel eyes, he looked slightly tortured, which for some reason was often a draw to the opposite sex. Sitting across from him, Fina could imagine he attracted the ladies when armed with a guitar.
“Liz was working with an attorney,” Bobbi continued. “She was going to sue New England University.”
“Why?” Fina asked.
Jamie studied his fingernails.
“She played soccer there when she was a student, and she’s developed health problems. She thinks they’re related to her time on the team.”
“What kind of problems?” Fina thought she knew what was coming next, but she wanted to hear it from Bobbi.
“Cognitive health issues. MCI, to be exact.”
MCI was mild cognitive impairment, the diagnosis most often given to athletes who suffered sports-related concussions. It was the affliction that so many NFL players were contending with, and although mild was part of the name, the impairment could be devastating.
“I’m familiar with MCI. What sort of symptoms was she experiencing?”
“I don’t see how this is relevant,” Jamie interjected. He bared his teeth in a look between a smile and a grimace. “This has nothing to do with her current situation.”
“We don’t know that, Jamie,” his mother-in-law insisted.
“This is a waste of time, Bobbi. No offense,” he said to Fina.
“None taken. What do you think happened?”
“I have no idea, but the world is full of crazy people. Liz didn’t have any enemies. This had to have been random. She probably opened the door to the wrong person.”