“Yes! Will you? Oh please, please!”
Hudson made the mistake of looking into gray eyes that had turned misty and found his head was slowly nodding.
Dora’s face flashed relief seeing Loni, but quickly clouded over as Hudson came through the door carrying his colorful pillow. Loni’s front seat had been a pain Hudson wasn’t going to have repeated in a house that might only have hard chairs.
“Who’s this? Loni, you know better...”
Hudson, watching closely, could detect no sign of recognition. “It’s alright, Dora. This is Hudson Rogers. He’s a friend of Mr. Krestinski’s.”
“Who?”
“John Krestinski,” said Hudson. “Don’t you FBI people talk to each other?”
“Loni, what have you told him?”
“Nothing he didn’t already know,” replied the girl. “That you’re FBI, part of the protection program. So is he, sort of. His family was nearly killed protecting my father.”
Dora thawed a little. “Well, you’re here now. Might as well have some coffee. Then we’ll call to see what to do. Those of us in Witness Protection have no contact with the rest of the FBI.”
When they were seated with cups in front of them, she said, “Our identities are as carefully guarded as those we protect. Otherwise we’d be no good to them. I only have one contact at the office. Everything goes through him.”
The coffee tasted like they’d cooked onions in it, but at least it was hot. “Have you been with the FBI long?”
Dora looked curiously at Hudson. “If you’re as familiar with the Bureau as you say, you should know I can’t tell you anything about my job.”
“Sorry. I really don’t know much about it. I once visited John Krestinski at your offices in the Pru. That’s the complete extent of my knowledge.”
“He probably shouldn’t have let you see those.”
“It was a command appearance.” Hudson got to his feet. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall, second door. Are you alright?”
“Coffee acts like that in me. Particularly after missing breakfast. Back in a minute.” Down the hall he continued past the bath to an empty bedroom. He sat gingerly on the bed, taking several breaths. Then entered the FBI number in Boston - in Government Center, not the Prudential Building - asking for John Krestinski. Dora appeared at the door. There was a gun in her hand, which she pointed at Hudson’s head.
“Turn off the cell phone,” she ordered.
“I’m just...”
“Now!”
Hudson shut off his cell. “Don’t you think...?”
“I’m thinking, Mr. Roger, you look like you could use a good nap.”
Hudson stood up, and grabbed the bedside table to steady himself. The damn coffee! What a fool! He measured the distance between himself and Dora. She saw the look in his eyes and backed up a step.
“I know how to use this, and will.”
He took a stumbling step forward. And fell into darkness.
Chapter 21
The Onyx Club is one of the oldest in Boston, and the patrons in its high ceilinged dining room appeared to Wally - from his tender age of seventy-five - to be all founding members. True there were two ladies present, which would have appalled the gentlemen of 1813, but all in all the old boys had made out pretty well from the feminist movement of the eighties. After clamoring for years about their rights to be everywhere men were, women had discovered it wasn’t nearly as entertaining to join them in their cigar smoke rooms as it was to complain about it. Of the ten ladies Onyx had reluctantly permitted within its portals only three had persisted as members. They’d probably be gone soon enough, he thought, and the men could once more loosen their belts after dinner.
He looked in on the Assistant Manager, after a luncheon that put before him more food than he’d eat in a week.
“Preston Sturgis. When did he become a member?”
The Assistant, Hobart Lunke, looked through his records. “Nearly five years ago. That surprises me, that he’s been with us that long. We haven’t seen that much of Mr. Sturgis, not what you’d call an `active’ member.”
“He’ll be even less active in the future. He’s dead.”
“Oh, dear me.” Lunke turned a mournful face to Carver. “Dues aren’t paid this year.”
“Pity. I’d understood he’d been eating here regularly.”
“For a few weeks, I believe. But what is that in the scope of time?”
“Did he have a regular waiter?’
“Oh, no. It takes months before that special relationship can be acquired. You know, the analysis of preferences, the understanding of taste...”
“Did he eat alone, or with others?”
“Well, I think we should consult the Maitre d’ on that subject. Perhaps with his son-in-law.”
“Andre Adams? Was he a member?”
“Yes. Mr. Sturgis sponsored him a year ago.”
“You mean `future’ son-in-law. He and Loni weren’t married.”
“Of course they were! They lived at the same address. I have it right here.”
“Well that certainly confirms it.” The Club view of society hadn’t changed since it was founded. “Samuel Lockhart was an employee.”
“Yes. Poor Samuel, but then he would live in Everett.”
“What was his job here?”
“He was our cloak room attendant. Knew every member by name. He is sorely missed. His replacement doesn’t have quite the same...je ne sais quoi. It may seem to you to be a comparatively unimportant function - to greet members at the door and store their coats and parcels - but a warm and courteous mention of one’s name on arrival sets the tone for the rest of the visit.”
“Did you notice anything odd about him in the days before his death?”
“Certainly not. If he had had...difficulties, he wouldn’t have exhibited them here.”
“Can you think of anything connecting him with Mr. Sturgis?”
Lunke was taken aback. “Why, no. What could there have been?”
“You said he lived in Everett. Any family?”
“I believe a niece.”
Wally took down the address. At the end of lunch service he got the Maitre d’ aside. “Whom did Mr. Sturgis eat with, other than Andre Adams?” They’d already commiserated on the demise of the former member.
“Oh he didn’t dine with Mr. Adams. Perhaps just once or twice.”
“Oh?” Carver raised eyebrows.
The Maitre d’ shifted uneasily. “Mr. Adams is...an ambitious young man. He uses us...for commercial purposes.” Said as though he’d sold them into slavery.
“Makes contacts with the other members for business purposes?”
“Yes!”
“Nothing in the rules about that, is there?”
“No, no. Not actually written...”
“Sturgis. How about him?”
“Oh, Mr. Sturgis was cut from quite a different cloth. We didn’t see that much of him, but he always maintained a respectable reserve.” He raised his eyes in thought. “I can’t think of any particular dining companions. As a matter of fact, I believe he savored his own company much of the time. Though...”
“Go on.”
The Maitre d’ looked pained. “It was only a memory lapse, I’m sure.”
“What was?”
The dining room general squeezed himself as though toothpaste would come out his top. “Members are permitted one guest a month; it was thus most awkward when Mr. Sturgis was observed with the same gentleman twice in two weeks.”
“Who was he?”
“A Mr. Cabral. None of us knew him.”
“When was this?”
“The second visit was three weeks ago.”
“Did you scold old Preston?”
Mr. Lunke joined them to hear this last. “I had a word with Mr. Sturgis. That was all that was required.”
“Sturgis nervous about anything recently?”
“I beg your pardon.”
>
“Concerned. In fear of anything.”
He turned disapproving eyes on Carver. “Our gentlemen...” He bit his lip. “And ladies, come to this oasis of civilization precisely to leave behind the depravity of the outside world. What on earth would Mr. Sturgis be fearful of in the Club?”
Wally decided he wouldn’t alarm the Assistant Manager by mentioning that he, Carver, would shortly be exposing himself to the depravity of Everett, Massachusetts.
Chapter 22
Great Haystack was having one of its busier periods, though Canadian holiday week didn’t have the punch of former years. Cilla knew that in the nineteen-eighties and early nineties more French than English might be heard in the base lodge during that vacation week, with the huge influx of skiers from Quebec.
Cilla’s mind was organized in a way her desk never revealed, and since childhood she’d been able to shut off compartments with things she didn’t want to think about. Her desk had begun to reflect another’s mind. Frances Ingalls, set up just outside Cilla’s office, arranged for every paper to go through her hands into a new file drawer and onto a tape from a computer that had been up to then only used for monthly financial reports. In order to find anything, Cilla, who had never worked with computers, was forced to get better acquainted with a new keyboard, which, though much like that of the old Remington typewriter she’d used for school, had whole new sets of keys, and changes on those that should have been familiar. Unable to sleep anyway, she spent most of one night committing the keyboard and the functions of each of the keys to memory.
The sight of her own bare desk was somehow unsettling to Cilla, who scattered papers on it when Frances wasn’t watching. When the FBI woman gathered them up for filing, Cilla gave her the patient smile of a mother with incorrigible children.
There was little opportunity for examination of where her relations with Kurt Britton stood. With the latest snowstorm - which settled eight inches on the slopes and trails before heading eastward - snowmaking equipment had been shut down for the season. It was well into March, and end of season was scheduled for the first of April. Barring a weeklong tropical blast, there was enough snow to coast into closing. But by then, coasting, and other winter sports, were sliding into second place. Golf courses were opening in Massachusetts, and summer sports were capturing skiers’ attention. So April 1 was it. And the snow they had would be worked to produce the best skiing possible. Kurt turned his attention to that. As any skier knows, spring skiing is a different animal than the product of New England winters. Hard and fast in early morning, the snow softens under stronger sun, and mid-morning produces a turn-anywhere surface that matches that of the finest winter grooming. By mid-afternoon it is mush, so spring skiers start and end their days early. Nighttime temperatures freeze the surface into miniature cliffs and valleys that must be churned into loose marbles. With the stated purpose of saving payroll, Kurt took over the operation of one of the snow harvesting vehicles, and his appearances during daylight hours became rare and sporadic. His meetings with Cilla were businesslike and brief, and no mention was made of the battle of Bale Out.
It was just after eight when Frances came in. Her eyes held concern.
“You haven’t heard anything from Hudson have you?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“Nobody’s seen him for two days. Is he the type to go off on a drunk?”
“What do you mean no one’s seen him? Isn’t he at Carver’s?”
“No.”
“Aren’t your people guarding him?”
“We have agents stationed around the house, but he hasn’t been there.”
Cilla rose with fire in her eyes. “What the hell are they doing guarding a house? I thought it’s the people they’re supposed to be protecting! There are only two of them in that house. Can’t they keep track of that many?”
Frances backed up a step. “The agents don’t live at the Carver house, Cilla. They weren’t aware he wasn’t there until just this morning.”
“Well God damn it!” She picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
“Wally, this is Cilla. Where’s Hudson?”
“Why?”
The old fart was going to make this as difficult as possible. “They tell me he’s been missing for two days.”
“He had to go out of town.”
“Where?”
No response.
“Damn it, Wally, where did he go?”
“He went to a funeral.”
“Whose funeral?”
“Sturgis’s. In Marblehead.”
“He went to a funeral two days ago and hasn’t returned?”
“Yes.”
“Hasn’t he called?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you even a little concerned?”
“Hudson can take care of himself.”
“Damn male ego! Don’t you move. I’m coming over.” She slammed the phone down. “And as for you, Frances Ingalls, you get on the phone and tell John Krestinski to call me at the Carver house. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
It was scarcely eight-thirty when she burst through the Carver door. Wally was at his hand-carved mahogany desk.
“What’s the name of that funeral home?”
“O’Connor.”
“Have you called them?”
“To say what?”
“To find out what happened to Hudson, of course!”
“The funeral was two days ago. I very much doubt they’d tell us a man answering Hudson’s description was still there keeping company with an urn of ashes.”
“Sturgis was cremated?”
“Yes.”
“Where were the ashes going to go?”
“Unknown.”
The muscles around Cilla’s eyes tightened. “Wallace Carver, stop playing monosyllabic games with me. Why did Hudson go to Sturgis’ funeral?”
The old man drummed fingers on his desk. “He thought Sturgis’ daughter Loni might show. He wanted to talk with her.”
“And you don’t know if she did.”
“No.”
Cilla searched Carver’s face, but it was devoid of expression. “And you have heard nothing from Hudson since.”
“No.”
Cilla picked up Wally’s phone. “I suppose you haven’t called his cell phone either.” She punched in a number, listened and hung up. “Not even a message,” she said half to herself. Then to Carver, “You know Marblehead. Where is the O’Connor home?”
“You intend to go there?” He was unbelieving.
“Yes.”
“What on earth for?”
“To find Hudson of course.”
The old man was exasperated. “Young lady, in case you are unaware or have for your own reasons chosen to forget, Hudson Rogers has one of the finest minds I have had the privilege of knowing...”
Cilla broke in, “Don’t preach to me, Wally.”
Carver continued as though she’d said nothing. “...who obviously has found a lead and is following it up, leaving the funeral home two days ago.”
“Are you through?”
“No, damnit! Aren’t you listening? There is absolutely no way you can duplicate Hudson’s reasoning and follow a trail two days cold.”
Cilla looked at him coldly. “I can try.”
“Why?”
The temperature dropped still lower. “I’m his wife.”
“And what about the FBI people? Loni is in the witness protection program. Hudson had to make this trip to Marblehead because they wouldn’t tell him where she’s being hidden.”
Cilla chewed her lip. “Frances is having John Krestinski call me. How come the FBI hasn’t noticed Hudson’s gone?”
“They’re guarding the house not imprisoning us here.”
“But they must have noticed his absence.” She turned to him. “Unless you...”
“There has been...some pretense.”
“Well, there’s about to be more. When John calls tell him you don’t know w
here I am.”
“When Mr. Krestinski calls he’ll get no answer.”
“You won’t be here?”
“No. I’m coming with you.”
Chapter 23
Josiah O’Connor shifted uneasily in his padded leather chair. “Everything was in order. We originally received instructions that the ashes would be kept here until an unspecified future date. Not at all unusual. Often loved ones after a cremation are uncertain what to do with the urn; our clientele is somewhat conservative and unused to having such a decision thrust on them. With a burial they always know where the loved one has gone, at least the physical remains. They’re not used to...ah, the portability.”
“Get on with it,” growled Wally. “What did happen?”
Josiah O’Connor was pained. “We received a call from a Miss Dora Fender saying she was representing Mr. Sturgis’ daughter, whom I have known for years, and that she would be bringing the urn to Alexandra.” He peered at Cilla. “As a matter of fact, I thought you were Alexandra when you walked in. A remarkable resemblance.”
“And did she? Pick up the urn?” asked Cilla.
“Yes. She brought a letter from Miss Sturgis authorizing her to do so.”
“Was Mr. Sturgis’ executor, Hudson Rogers, present for the service?” The funeral director changed positions again under Wally’s have-we-a-legal-infraction-here stare.
“Well, yes and no. You see Miss Fender asked us to move the service up a half hour, to nine-thirty. Mr. Rogers arrived a few minutes before ten, just as it was ending. But was coming to take care of the bill, he didn’t let me know he was coming for the service, or...”
“Did he arrive before the Fender woman left?”
“Just before. He...ah, went out quickly after her.”
“Who made the arrangements for the funeral?”
“A federal office.”
“The FBI?” Cilla and Wally were alternating rapid-fire questions that pummeled O’Connor like an artillery barrage.
“You...ah, obviously know the answer to that question.”
“What reason did the Fender woman give for changing the time?”
“She was on a tight schedule. I believe she said she had to catch a plane.”
“A plane for where?”
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