by Hy Conrad
“I don’t want to tell you your job, but isn’t it against the law for cops to lie to a suspect in order to get a confession?” asked Amy.
“Whose side are you on? No, it’s not against the law.”
“So it’s really over?” Amy couldn’t quite believe it.
Rawlings nodded. “The DA is arguing with the attorney general’s office in India, but in all likelihood we’ll get first crack. It’s the international concept of finders keepers.”
Really over. Amy wasn’t sure how she felt. It was what she’d wanted, of course, what everyone had risked their lives for, but . . . “What about his wife, Laila? Have you been in touch with her?”
“We have,” said Rawlings. “We told her Mr. Steinberg had to stay in New York for a few days to help the police with their investigation. I believe that’s a well-known euphemism for being a suspect. We haven’t yet told her about the confession. I thought you should be the first to know.”
“Thank you,” said Amy. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be with you when you make that call. Laila and Maury have a rocky marriage, but I don’t think it would be easy for any woman to hear that kind of news about her husband.”
“No problem.” Rawlings took another sip of the coffee and seemed to be getting used to the taste. “I have to say, I was pretty livid after our little excursion, until Marcus sent me that text. I was just sitting down with a cold beer, complaining to my wife about these goddamn amateurs. Emergency. Marry kidnapped funny. Being a police professional with some knowledge of AutoCorrect, it took me just a few seconds to figure it out.”
The lieutenant sat at the kitchen table for ten more minutes, chatting easily about AutoCorrect and families and gardens, and finally exchanging his coffee for a tall glass of ice water.
He wasn’t such a bad guy, Amy concluded reluctantly as she stood to shake his hand and as Fanny gave a hearty hug good-bye to the man who had put her in jail. Not that they would ever need to deal with him again, Amy thought. Most people went through an entire lifetime without ever having to deal with a homicide detective.
By 12:15 p.m., Amy and Fanny were walking out the new front door themselves, inspecting Paulie’s workmanship along the way. By 12:30, they were sitting down at the Cindilu Dairy, a neighborhood institution with weathered shingles, cats lounging in the window, and the best blueberry muffins in Greenwich Village.
Of the three messages left on Amy’s voice mail last night, two had been from Barbara Corns, asking to get together sometime soon. Amy had called her this morning and had arranged for a quick lunch.
Barbara had never heard of the Cindilu. Few people outside the West Village had. But the modest eatery had been Amy’s second home since childhood. It was a safe haven, perhaps not the perfect place to sit down with the widow of one of her clients, but better than any alternatives she could think of. Amy had brought along her mother for backup.
Barbara was in a back booth, the same one where Amy and her first real boyfriend had carved their initials in the tabletop fifteen years ago. Fanny slid in beside the waiting woman, just like an old friend.
“I’m so glad you came,” said Barbara, more to the mother than the daughter. Amy had long ago ceased to be amazed at Fanny’s gravitational pull.
The Abels had agreed not to bring up their late-night adventures. At some point everyone on the tour would find out about Maury Steinberg’s arrest. When that happened, they would pretend to be as clueless and as astonished as the others.
“How is the music box, dear?” asked Fanny, with a squeeze of Barbara’s hand. “It must be comforting, having it back.”
“Yes,” said Barbara. “It was a lifesaver. Emotionally, I mean. Evan always regretted that we gave it away.”
“Has there been any news?” asked Amy. “About Evan?” She felt she had to ask.
Barbara waited until Lou Halpern, the establishment’s co-owner, the “lu” of Cindilu, delivered the menus and glasses of water and walked away. Lou was an old friend, but he had a sixth sense about when to speak up and when to shut up. And there was something about the Abel women and their solemn-looking guest....
“As a matter of fact,” Barbara whispered as Lou vanished into the kitchen. “Almost all of yesterday I was going back and forth with the National Park Service and the Hawaii Police.” Taking a deep breath, she turned over the smartphone lying facedown on the wooden table, next to her menu. She pressed the screen a few times, used her fingers to enlarge whatever she’d just called up, and passed the phone across to Amy.
It was a photo of a dark brown object, almost completely burned. But judging from the general shape . . . a shoe, perhaps? A man’s shoe? It was on a metal table, posing ominously under the glare of operating room–quality lights. Amy had never paid much attention to Evan Corns’s choices in footwear, but . . .
“Where did they find it?” she asked.
“Some student researchers from some organization . . . the Volcano Observatory, I think.” Barbara spoke calmly, enunciating each word, doing her best to keep her feelings in check. “They were collecting samples from inside the lip of the crater. Rappelling on ropes, something like rappelling. I’m fuzzy on the details. My mind at that moment . . . You can imagine.”
“A burned shoe,” said Fanny, with a reassuring shrug. “So what? I lose shoes all the time. That doesn’t mean there was a foot in it.”
“There was a foot in it,” said Barbara, enunciating even more. “At least part of a foot. They ran the DNA from that sample they took from Evan’s toothbrush.” Her expression finished the rest of the thought.
“Oh, Barbara,” Amy whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, no. It’s good. It’s good to have some confirmation. Better than not.” She let out a little burp of a sad chuckle, then covered her mouth. “You’re the first people I’ve told. When I break it to Evan’s family, it’ll become all too real. Too final. I think I’m going to miss having the hope.”
Mother and daughter nodded in unison. “At least you know he didn’t run away,” said Fanny, which seemed to Amy to be an odd thing to point out, rather insensitive, but hardly atypical for her mother.
“Yes, I have that,” said Barbara, taking no offense whatsoever. “And it wasn’t suicide, thank God. That’s what the forensic investigators told me. The scuff marks. Their photos of the rock slide. The placement and calculating the distance. I don’t know how they would know, but they’re calling it accidental.”
“Suicide would have been so much worse,” Fanny said. “Especially since there was no reason for him to commit suicide now—now that everything is working out. That would have been pointless. Such a waste.”
“Suicide is usually pointless,” said Amy.
“Yes, it is working out,” said Barbara, responding to Fanny and ignoring Amy. “And I’m so grateful to you.”
“Grateful for what?” Amy looked back and forth, from her mother’s face to Barbara’s, then back to her mother’s. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” Fanny said, perhaps a little too quickly.
“I mean, you’ve both been so nice to me,” explained Barbara, “throughout this whole ordeal.”
“That’s not what you meant.” The only thing Amy could guess was that Barbara’s gratitude had something to do with Paisley MacGregor’s apartment and the few minutes when Barbara and her mother had been alone together, before she’d walked in. Just a few minutes, and yet . . .
“Mother?” No response from anyone. “I’m never going to get the whole story, am I?”
“No dear.” Fanny and her newfound conspirator exchanged quick glances. “I don’t think you ever will.”
CHAPTER 45
“Was it something in the music box?”
“Better you don’t know. For your own good.”
“Mother, you’re not the CIA. Was it illegal? Is that why you won’t tell me?”
“Just a smidge.”
“How big a smidge?”
“If thi
s was Twenty Questions, your turn would be over.”
They’d been on this topic ever since they said good-bye to Barbara and walked out of the Cindilu. Now they were three blocks away and arriving at their new front door. Fanny pulled an envelope of keys out of her purse and handed a set to her daughter.
“That’s the outside key, the vestibule key, my front door, your front door. Don’t go handing out any copies to killers, okay?”
“I didn’t hand out copies to a killer,” said Amy.
“I didn’t say you did. Just don’t. No one needs a key but us.”
They both tried their keys on the front door and the vestibule door. The fits were perfect, snug and exact. Once inside, Amy fingered the key for her mother’s door, but it was already unlocked and open.
Fanny saw her reaction and waved it away. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s just Marcus. Marcus!” she called into the darkened house. “Yoo-hoo.”
“You gave him a key? Already? I thought it was just us.”
“And he’s one of us. Get that look off your face.”
“Fanny?” It was Marcus’s voice. “Hello. I’m back here.”
They found him in the kitchen, sitting at Amy’s end of the table, continuing to work on the piles of neglected mail.
“What are you doing?” Amy was annoyed. “I had a system.”
“I’m not interfering with your system, just trying to help.” He puckered and leaned up. Amy leaned down, meeting his lips more than halfway. “Did you read any of these letters from TravelWeb.com?”
“I hadn’t gotten that deep. Mom?”
Fanny shrugged her stubby shoulders. “Anything that looked legal or official, I threw in the drawer. TravelWeb?” She took one of the letters from Marcus. “I got a ton of e-mails from them, too. They’re just trying to sell me ad space. We don’t have the money to buy ad space.”
“Actually,” said Marcus, “I think they’re trying to buy ad space from you.”
“From me?”
“That’s what it seems like. Do you carry any ads on TrippyGirl?”
“I don’t think so,” said Fanny. “It’s just a blog that clicks through to our Web site.”
“Can you do me a favor?” asked Marcus. He got up and pulled out the chair in front of Fanny’s laptop. “Can you go to your blog’s management page and check exactly how many followers you have?”
“I don’t know offhand,” said Fanny as she lowered herself into the kitchen chair and nudged her machine out of hibernation. “All I know is they’re very insistent and chatty, which I don’t have the time or the inclination to deal with. I suppose if I was nicer and encouraged them, I’d have more fans. But to be honest, I’m not sure what it gets me, except a little traffic going to Amy’s Travel.” A few more screens flipped by. “Oh, here’s the number.” Her drawn-on eyebrows furrowed together. “Hmm, not as much as I thought.” She gave up trying to find her reading glasses and just squinted. “Five hundred and eighty-nine views of yesterday’s post. A small but loyal following.”
Marcus leaned in over her shoulder. “Five hundred and eighty-nine thousand.”
“What? Are you serious?” Amy was peering at the screen herself now, hovering over Fanny’s other shoulder. “I had no idea.” The comma and three zeros were clearly visible on the counter. “Mother?”
“Well, that’s more like it,” said Fanny, sitting up a little straighter in her chair. “Half a million? Half a million is pretty good, no?”
“With no publicity or support or tie-ins?” Marcus had to laugh. “Yes, I think that’s very good.”
Amy was not looking forward to her meeting with Peter Borg. Any kind of confrontation was unsettling for her, even though she knew it was often a good thing. Today’s confrontation, for instance, could be a very good thing, the two of them going over the details of his proposed buyout of Amy’s Travel. A good confrontation and a memorable moment in her life. It was certainly a necessary moment.
Taking the subway was not an exact science, Amy found. On this occasion, the F train pulled into the West Fourth Street station just as she was coming down the stairs to the platform. It deposited her at the Sixty-Third and Lexington stop in what seemed like record time. Eleven ten, according to her phone. Even with dawdling, she would be early for the eleven-thirty meeting, which Peter was probably hoping would spill over into a romantic lunch at an expensive bistro, something she was determined would not happen. Not today.
When Amy rounded the corner onto Sixty-Fourth, she was surprised to see Peter out on the curb in front of his polished storefront, hand raised as he tried to hail a cab. It wasn’t for him, she noted. It was for Herb Sands and David Pepper. The Pepper-Sands were a yard or so behind him on the sidewalk, in the midst of some sort of heated domestic tussle.
Amy ducked into the entryway shelter of the flower boutique on the corner and turned her back. Using the angled window as a makeshift mirror, she waited until a taxi slowed and stopped and the Pepper-Sands were safely inside the vehicle, before venturing back out onto the sidewalk. Peter saw her a few seconds later, and his expression turned from harried to happy.
“You’re early,” he said, making it sound not like an accusation but like she’d just given him a present.
“I warned you about the Pepper-Sands,” she said, crinkling her mouth.
“No you didn’t. You, in fact, encouraged me.” He leaned forward into an air-kiss, aimed first at one cheek, then the other. “We should get this merger done ASAP. Then I can turn their whole gala anniversary excursion over to you.”
“You try that, and it’s a deal breaker,” said Amy. “I’ll write it into our contract.”
“They have me doing their invitations,” moaned Peter. “They wanted them to be handwritten in gold ink on black envelopes. But I checked with the post office, and that’s a no-no. Their computerized sorters can’t read gold on black. So it’s back to the drawing board. Or should I call it the bloody, acrimonious, name-calling fight board?”
“And that’s just the invitations.”
“Exactly.”
The two travel agents continued their banter back into the airy confines of Peter Borg Travel. Peter led the way past Claire, his young, smiling, and imposingly perfect assistant, and back into his private office. Amy wondered if she could somehow get a young, smiling, and imposingly perfect male assistant for her own storefront. Instead of Fanny? Hmm. That would take some doing.
“Here it is.” Peter was pointing to his mahogany desktop and the two manila folders, the one centered in front of his chair and the other in front of the client chair, both chairs in brown leather. He pulled out the client chair, and Amy accepted. “We’ll go through the details as much as you want. But, of course, you should have your own lawyer look things over. I want you to be comfortable with this, Amy. I really do.” His sincerity seemed genuine, which Amy found more than slightly annoying.
The document in Amy’s folder looked tightly spaced, with small print. Fairly daunting, although it was probably less than twenty pages long. She had been prepared to go through it line by line with Peter, saving her question, her big question, for the appropriate moment. But suddenly she felt she didn’t have the heart or the patience. She barely waited until Peter had settled in and opened his own folder.
“Is TrippyGirl part of the deal? The reason I’m asking . . .” She rolled her eyes. “Mom says she’s getting tired of it, so I’m thinking we may just discontinue. There doesn’t seem to be much point.”
Peter frowned. “Oh, that’s too bad. I love TrippyGirl.”
Amy adopted a helpless smile. “You know Mom. A woman of enthusiasms. Once her enthusiasm cools . . .”
“Are you sure? You should talk to her. Seriously. I think the fans . . .” Peter stopped and took a breath. “I mean, it doesn’t completely fit the Peter Borg image, but with some work, we can totally make TrippyGirl a part of the brand. Let’s keep it in there for now.”
“Even if Mom doesn’t want to write it?”
&
nbsp; “Well, we can’t force her, I suppose.” He said this with some reluctance. “But if worse comes to worst, we’ll hire a ghostwriter. Continue with the TrippyGirl style, which, like your lovely mother, is totally unique. After all, TrippyGirl is part of your company, and we’re merging. Right?”
“Peter, it’s just a blog.”
“I know, but I’m going to have to insist.”
“Insist?”
“Yes.” His gaze was level and serious. “We need to merge everything, even her little blog.”
“So that’s it.” Amy pulled her lips tight and nodded slowly. “Marcus was right. It’s all about TrippyGirl, isn’t it?”
Peter cocked his head, all innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Marcus kept saying there had to be something else, something other than my business sense and incredible good looks.”
“You’re an incredible-looking woman.” Peter extended a hand across his desk. Amy didn’t move. “Don’t be like that. We’ll make a great team, you and me. And let’s face it. You need me.”
“No, I don’t,” she countered, keeping her voice low and calm. “The online travel segment is huge. Businesses are looking for all kinds of click-throughs and Facebook content. Not to mention ads. TrippyGirl has six hundred thousand fans without even trying, all word of mouth. Did you know that? Of course you did. Marcus and I made a few calls, one of them to a literary agent who’s been trying to get in touch with us for two weeks. Fanny could have a book deal.”
“I thought she was tired of writing.”
“Peter!”
“What?”
“You knew it all the time. All the time I thought you were after me, you were really after my mother. It would be funny if it weren’t quite so weird.”
“No,” he protested, then leaned forward, doubling down on his sincerity. “The merger was Fanny’s idea. She approached me, right here in this office. It was a chance for us to work together. I love working with you. Sure, I did a little independent checking. I’d be stupid not to.”