I knew I could have turned around. There was nothing to keep me from lying on my other side. I could have closed the door. It wasn’t that cold.
Realizing that I actually liked having Nick around, hearing his soft, off-key singing in the shower, filled me with resentment.
I was back to lying with the pillow over my head when I heard another knock.
“Hey, Jess?”
“Mmm?”
“Are you awake?”
I sighed loudly, then peeked out. “Yes.”
“There’s something else I need to ask you.”
A really long pause followed. Then Nick said, “Do you think it’s dumb for us to sleep in separate rooms?”
I sat up in bed. My heart was thumping and my throat felt thick. But it was the buzzing in my head that made it so hard to think straight.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted it more than I could remember ever wanting anything in my life.
Even if Nick had staged this whole thing, using the break-in as an excuse, I no longer cared. I wanted him here. I loved having him here. The only thing that would have made it better would have been having him right next to me, in my bed.
But I knew there was only one answer to his question.
“Good night, Nick. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
I hugged the pillow tightly against my chest. It was the best way I could think of to protect my heart.
Chapter 17
“Histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends.”
—Alexander Pope
The good news was that we made it through the night, Nick on the couch, me behind a barricade of pillows and puppies.
The bad news was that I didn’t exactly sleep well. I tossed and turned until dawn. And Nick’s snoring had nothing to do with it.
Instead, I obsessed about Tommee Frack and our conclusion that Barbara Delmonico was guilty. True, she’d confessed to Claudia, telling her in no uncertain terms that she intended to kill him. The timing was perfect, she had powerful motivation, and she certainly had the opportunity.
The problem was, there were too many loose ends.
Like the way Pomonok Properties kept coming up. Not only had the firm left George Babcock to become Tommee’s client; Joe DeFeo had already established a relationship with Tommee long before the switch became official. Then there was the fact that at the beginning of November, a representative of the firm had approached the Athertons, trying to buy their land. The Athertons had said no—and a few days later, a dead body had shown up in their backyard.
But there was more. I’d been followed as I drove around Norfolk County, trying to learn as much about Tommee Frack as I could. My next-door neighbor had received a threatening phone call, warning me to mind my own business. I’d found a canary feather tucked conspicuously into my windshield wiper. My home had been broken into, even though whoever had gone to all that trouble clearly hadn’t been the least bit interested in my valuables.
Then there was Tommee himself. He’d known everybody. His picture hung in the offices of companies he didn’t even represent. Politicians flocked to his funeral. But when you came right down to it, all he was was a PR guy.
Then there were all the others I’d come to suspect, people who were at least as likely as Barbara to want Tommee Frack gone and buried. George Babcock, for example. He had more to gain from Frack’s death than anybody, whether he had known what was in Tommee’s will or not. If he hadn’t known, he could have wanted revenge. If he had known, he could have wanted what he thought was his due.
But there were other suspects, too, like Jonathan Havemeyer, whose loyalty Tommee had never fully appreciated. Even the employees of Tommee Frack & Associates could have had a vendetta against him. Brad O’Reilly, who seemed too good to be true. Wade Moscowitz, who had fled the public relations field and the entire business world after just a few months’ involvement with Tommee and his operation.
Then, of course, there was Merrilee. I couldn’t forget the altar to her ex she’d constructed in her spare room. I couldn’t forget how intense she was, either. Merrilee was a regular Miss Haversham, quietly raging as she waited for the return of the man everyone else knew would never come back.
Through all my ruminations in the silent darkness that night, I kept hearing Wade Moscowitz’s warning.
“My advice, Dr. Popper,” he’d said, “is to stay as far away from this as you can.”
Of course, Nick had told me the exact same thing. But this was different. Wade knew Tommee and he knew what he’d been involved in.
Wade’s warning was still playing in my head when the sun started to come up and I finally drifted off to sleep, too exhausted to think anymore.
When I woke up, I found myself facing another impossible situation. I could already hear Nick moving around in the living room, probably getting dressed. I considered lying low until I heard him leave. But I could hear Max scratching at the back door, his subtle way of telling me he needed to go out. So I pulled on a robe, then banged loudly on the wall before venturing out of my bedroom.
“It’s okay,” Nick called back. “I’m decent.”
As I peered around the corner, the irony of needing to be cautious wasn’t wasted on me. I saw that he had his pants on, although he was shirtless and sockless. The sight of him half-clothed—the muscles in his shoulders and back, his taut skin, even the way his khakis dipped down provocatively in front—jolted me awake.
“Sleep okay?” I asked casually.
“I guess so.” He caught my eye, then looked away. “All things considered.”
I didn’t dare ask what he meant. I was too afraid he’d compare this past night with the last time he’d slept here.
“Want some coffee?” I offered halfheartedly.
“No. I’m going. Suddenly, this whole thing seems like a really bad idea.”
“You may recall that I wasn’t the one who invited you.”
“Hey, you’re the one who keeps getting into situations where you need my help.”
“I don’t need your help! I don’t need anybody’s help!”
“I’m sure.” He tugged on his shirt. “You’re completely self-sufficient, right?”
“You got it.”
“You can manage anything that comes up totally on your own. You don’t need anyone.”
“Exactly.”
“And you certainly don’t need me.”
I didn’t have an answer. At least, not a quick, uncomplicated one.
I didn’t think I needed Nick. But that didn’t mean I’d ever stopped wanting him.
Damn! I raged. Why does everything have to be so convoluted where Nick Burby is concerned?
“You don’t have to answer,” he said softly. “I already know what you’re thinking.”
He grabbed his socks, slipped his bare feet into his shoes and headed for the door.
“Wait!” I cried.
He turned. A look of hope flickered across his face.
“Do me a favor, Nick. Don’t talk to Harned. Not yet.”
“Excuse me?”
“Now that I’ve had a chance to sleep on it, I’m not so sure Barbara is our murderer.”
“What?”
“I mean, I know she told Claudia she wanted to kill him, but that doesn’t mean she actually went through with it. Besides, there’s so much more to Tommee Frack. I realize there’s somebody I need to talk to again.” I shrugged. “The bottom line is that I need more time.”
“Whatever.” He cast me a look of complete exasperation, then disappeared out the door.
I could have dwelled on the fact that the house suddenly seemed profoundly empty once again. Instead, I put on a pot of coffee and got into the hottest shower I could bear.
I still had work to do, and for once I wasn’t going to let my confusion over Nick stand in my way.
By the time the dogs were walked, all the animals fed, my hair dried, and three cups of coffee consumed, I was a new woman. I was ready for a
full day of calls. But I was really looking forward to what I had planned for after my day’s calls: a meeting that I hoped would give me some crucial answers.
As I was about to leave, I checked to make sure I had everything I needed. Appointment book, maps, cell phone, notebook . . .
It wasn’t there.
I rummaged through my purse, checked every tote bag I owned and looked through the clutter on the table. I couldn’t find my notebook anywhere.
I searched the cottage, figuring I might have left it someplace unusual. The table next to my bed, the kitchen counter, the bathroom . . . the notebook wasn’t in any of those places. Max and Lou pranced around beside me, barking happily as they made their usual assumption that we were embarking on some exciting new game.
“Not now,” I told them. “This is serious.”
I checked my car, performing acrobatics in order to get a good look under the seats. Then I ransacked the van. Finally, I went back into the house.
All my clues, all my phone numbers, all the pieces of the puzzle that had consumed me for the past two and a half weeks. All missing.
“Damn!” I said aloud, cursing my carelessness.
“Awk!” Prometheus chimed in. “Damn you, Nick Burby! Damn you!”
When was the last time I’d seen the notebook? I was positive I hadn’t brought it to the Silk ’N’ Satin the night before because I’d known I wouldn’t have a chance to jot down any notes until I got home. And by then it was late, and when I’d walked in the door I’d discovered that someone had broken in . . .
An unpleasant warmth swept over me. Was it possible that whoever had been in my house had stumbled upon my notebook, realized what it was and taken it?
I told myself I was taking this paranoia thing a bit too far.
It has to be somewhere, I thought. Chances are I’m the one who lost it. Sooner or later, it’ll turn up.
These things always do.
When I walked into Dream Catcher amidst a wind chime fanfare, Wade looked up from the copper bracelets he was patiently arranging in a cardboard display unit. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me.
“Dr. Popper. I had a feeling you’d be back.”
I glanced around, checking for his sidekick, the girl with the golden locks and the empty smile. From the looks of things, he was alone.
“You have to tell me what you know,” I demanded. “Last night, someone broke into my house. I’m sure I’m being followed. I recently found out that just before his murder, Tommee’s newest client, Pomonok Properties, tried to buy the Atherton Farm, where his body was dumped, and had the door slammed in their face. Somebody left a canary feather on my car—and when Tommee’s body was found, a canary was buried a few feet away. And a couple of weeks ago, my next-door neighbor, a woman in her seventies who wouldn’t hurt a fly, got a threatening phone call late one night, warning me to mind my own business.”
He looked stricken. “And I take it it’s too late for that.”
“It’s way beyond too late, Wade. I need answers. For all I know, other people’s lives are at stake here.”
“Let’s talk in back,” he said. “Summer will be here soon.”
It took me a few seconds to realize that Summer was his employee, not a season. I followed him into the room with the chair shaped like a big hand.
He sat down on the futon. “Why don’t I tell you a story?”
“A story?”
“A story that may be true . . . or it may be nothing but a story. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”
I was catching on. “Okay.”
“Once upon a time, there was a man named . . . let’s call him Tommee. Ever since he was a little boy, Tommee wanted to be at the center of things. He wasn’t accomplished at music or science or even business—and he certainly wasn’t what you’d call popular.
“But he discovered he had a special ability. He was what you’d call a people person. He was good at making other people feel important.
“He was also good at getting their names in the paper, because he had a genuine knack for infusing others with the same enthusiasm he felt. This ability endeared these people to him, though they didn’t really care about him; they cared about what he could do for them.
“But Tommee had one more talent. He was great at bringing people together, then standing on the sidelines and letting them do what they did best. Making deals, trading favors, networking. Over the years, Tommee’s reputation grew. As word got around, more and more people began to notice. People who realized they could benefit from Tommee’s very special talents.” He hesitated. “People who realized he could do even more for them than get their names on TV or in the newspaper.”
“Go on,” I prompted, hanging on to every word.
“One day, a few of these people approached Tommee. They made him an offer. They told him they would set him up in business with more clients than he ever dreamed of. All they asked in return was one small favor.”
“Which was?” My mouth was so dry I could barely get the question out.
“In addition to providing public relations services, which he loved and was truly good at, he was to act as a middle man. A central point. His role would be to collect money from people and organizations who needed things, then pass that money along to people and organizations who could provide the things they needed. Maybe money can’t buy happiness, but it can sure buy a lot of other useful things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“All kinds. For example, a generous contribution to the highway department can get the road in front of your restaurant or your condominium complex repaved—or plowed first thing in the morning after a big snowstorm. Regular payments to your friendly police department can ensure that your place of business gets special protection. A few dollars to the health department can make a few code violations go unnoticed. Even not-for-profits stand to benefit, since the government provides funding to various organizations but there’s only so much grant money to go around. It’s up to government officials to decide who gets it. That holds for private contractors, too. Say a construction company is hoping to get the contract on a new government building. There’s a lot of competition out there. Enter, Tommee Frack.”
“Payoffs,” I said breathlessly.
“Personally, I like the term ‘favor broker,’ ” Wade replied. “Say a land developer wanted to build a strip mall in an area that wasn’t zoned for retail space. In that case, what he needed was a zoning change, even if it was the kind of thing the rest of the community would hate. Tommee would take the developer’s monthly payment for public relations services and . . . shall we say, pass it along to the zoning board. Voila! The zoning change would be made, and everyone involved would be happy. For the people on the zoning board, it meant a new Jacuzzi or a second Mercedes. For the developer, the money he paid out was nothing compared to what he’d make on his investment.
“And no one would ever be the wiser. Not only was paying a public relations firm a legitimate business expense; it was even tax deductible. Of course, the members of the community might not be thrilled, but they weren’t part of the loop. Worrying about them didn’t serve either the government or the developer.”
“Pomonok Properties.” I practically exhaled the words. “They were one of the companies sending monthly checks to Tommee Frack & Associates, even though The Babcock Group was their real public relations firm. That’s why Joe DeFeo and Tommee were such good pals, posing for pictures with all those political bigwigs. But why did Pomonok Properties drop Babcock as its PR firm? According to George, they officially became a client of Tommee’s a few weeks ago.”
“Pomonok had a major project in the works, the biggest they’ve ever undertaken,” Wade told me. “DeFeo’s had his eye on Atherton Farm for a long time. It’s a prime piece of real estate, forty-plus acres in one of Long Island’s most desirable areas. DeFeo had his heart set on building a tremendous complex of luxury town houses there. He hadn’t gotten the Athertons to ag
ree, but he’d barely gotten started working on them. Joey is fond of saying he’s never met anybody who wouldn’t sell if the offer got high enough. As for the town’s zoning board, Tommee was sure he’d be able to take care of that end of things, even though the neighbors and the local civic associations were bound to fight the idea tooth and nail. In the end, the government’s decision always prevails.
“There was no question that DeFeo would get his way. That was why Frack & Associates existed in the first place, to make sure that the right palms got greased. But for the sake of appearances, it was crucial that Pomonok align themselves with Tommee. Tommee and Joey needed a foolproof reason to be working together. Making Pomonok Properties Tommee’s client was ideal.”
“I understand that the people who set Tommee up in the first place wanted him gone, once he let on that he was going to spill the beans. But why do you suppose his body was left at Atherton Farm?”
“As a warning, no doubt.”
“To the Athertons? In their mind, there was never any link between Pomonok’s interest in their property and the body that turned up in their woods.”
“No, but I can assure you that there were plenty of others who made the connection instantly. Don’t forget; this was a system that had been firmly in place for years. One that worked well for a lot of people, most of them heavy hitters. They were all one big happy family, and they had no intention of changing the status quo. They had to leave Tommee’s body somewhere, and the fact that Pomonok Properties was interested in Atherton Farm was pretty well known. So why not really drive home the message to anybody else who might be considering getting in their way?”
I nodded. It all made perfect sense. Chillingly perfect sense. And I now understood the significance of the canary. I’d been correct when I’d pointed out to Nick that canaries were the symbol of “singing.” Tommee had been on the verge of singing, all right, and his voice would have been heard loud and clear.
“How did the money move out of Tommee’s organization and into the hands of the people granting these ‘favors’?” I asked.
“Political contributions, mainly, but of course there’s nothing like cold hard cash. I’m sure there was a small army of ‘soldiers’ who made sure all the transactions proceeded smoothly.”
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