As he turned onto South Shore Drive, something snagged him like a hangnail on a sweater. The spotless garage, as far as he could tell, had never seen a car, but at the beach, always changing, traffic could be coming and going and you’d never know. The thought that sent a chill through him, causing him to pull over to reach for his cellphone, was the boat—the trolling fisherman.
“Vertesi, get over to the beach house. Check the shoreline for any hull marks in the sand that would indicate a boat—maybe a sixteen- or eighteen-foot runabout—being pulled up on shore.”
“You thinking about the troller, Mac?”
“That and about how the girl got to the beach house. Go to every cottage around the lake and find out if anyone was out fishing in the early hours of the morning or if they saw anyone on the lake. There are two marinas nearby; see if either of them rented a boat to someone. And ask Aziz to give me a call.”
MacNeice just had time to open his notebook before his cell rang. “Aziz, I’m about twenty minutes away from Ferguson and I haven’t spoken to Betty yet. Please see what she’s got.”
“Okay. Vertesi just shot out of here—is this something to do with that?”
“He’s gone to see a guy about a boat. What if someone took her on a boat ride? A bottle of Champagne, two flutes, a moonlit lake in June …”
“After I call Betty, I’ll get down to Forensics and see if there’s any sand, grass or marks on that gown or on her shoes. Of course, if it was really romantic, he might have carried her to and from the boat.”
“Or if she was asleep. I checked her shoes at the scene and didn’t see any sand, but they may have found something.”
“Right.”
MACNEICE PULLED INTO Ferguson Engineering, parking next to a fading burgundy Jaguar with a small plate on the back that read RIGHT-HAND DRIVE. As he paused for a moment, peering inside to admire its worn tan leather seats, he heard Ferguson’s chipper voice. “It was my father’s pride and joy. When he died, twenty years ago now, he left it to me. It sat in a rented garage in Pelham until I had enough money to bring it over.”
“It’s a beauty. It truly is.”
“Yes, it is, but it’s a heavy responsibility too. The electrics particularly, but I’ve rewired everything from stem to stern and I can’t complain about her now. It’s good to see you again, Detective MacNeice. Come back into the shop, where we can chat. The kettle’s on—would you join me for a cup of tea?”
“I’d like that.”
They walked by the kitchen window of the house, where a woman appeared to be washing vegetables. Ferguson nodded towards her and said, “The missus. We won’t disturb her, though; she’s preparing dinner for the grandchildren. I think I actually make better tea in the shop.”
MacNeice met the eyes of the woman in the window and nodded to her. He followed Ferguson to a garage that he’d doubled in length and skylit so that inside it seemed almost brighter than outdoors. A desk, several filing cabinets and a bookshelf were next to a window that looked out onto the garden. The window was a security marvel, likely made of Lucite and trimmed with security tape.
He took his seat opposite Ferguson’s chair and used the time while Ferguson was making tea to check out the other security measures. The skylights were rimmed with the same silver tape, and at several points along the walls infrared sensors were mounted that when activated would crisscross the workshop’s interior.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Only milk, thanks.”
“You’re wondering, no doubt, why all this security? And there’s more than what meets the eye too.” Ferguson handed him a cup and sat down.
“I was actually wondering what there is to steal.”
“Ideas. Ideas are worth more than the equipment I have in here. I enjoy the reputation I have with my neighbours—as old Donny who likes to putter around in his tool shop—but there are others who’d love to have a go at this place. What brings you here today?”
MacNeice took the snapshot of the girl on the beach out of his notebook and handed it across the desk. “Late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning, this young woman was killed by someone with a hypodermic. The needle was inserted in her left ear and pushed through the canal into her brain. Then the killer injected sulphuric acid. When I arrived, there was no indication of any trauma to the body, and only a faint acrid smell to indicate that anything had happened to her.”
“For the love of God.” Ferguson put the photograph down, staring at it a moment longer before looking up at him.
“It would take skill to do that, and a precision instrument. No plastics, and no small-gauge needle either, given the density of the acid.”
“The needle was eighteen gauge, I’m told. What I’d dearly love to know is what it was made of, and where in the world—or rather, who in the world could make it.”
Ferguson moved his teacup to one side of his green desk pad and took out several sheets of tracing paper, retrieving a mechanical pencil from a cup where it was nestled among pencils and pens of different shapes and sizes. He inserted a graphite lead and began rotating it in a small sharpener as he looked out the window. “Here’s the problem: The acid, as you can imagine, will eat away anything that isn’t steel, so stainless steel was likely used. The shaft must be long enough not only to hold the acid but also to allow him—we’ll assume it’s a male—leverage for the task of plunging it into the brain. Given the average male hand, the shaft would need to be four or five inches long.”
He was now drawing as if he were at a seance producing names on a Ouija board—shaft, plunger, needle. “The interesting thing about the vial, or canister, is how he’d seal it. After it’s sealed it’s much easier to imagine puncturing for the kill, so to speak, but filling it—I think he’d have to do that on the spot. Your other question, about who could have made it, is also interesting.”
“Could the fabricator be someone from Eastern Europe?”
“You’re imagining the remnants of the KGB, the chaps who offed the fellow in London with the poison-tipped umbrella.… Yes, I’d say that’s a possibility.” He kept refining his drawing, giving the device form and shading, even marking the dimensions. “And finally, since there were no outward signs of violence, he’d have to allow for, you know, filling the hole once the job was done.” Ferguson looked up at MacNeice.
“He did. There was a small metal plug made of stainless steel.”
“It would only be a stopgap, of course, because the acid would eventually erode everything around it.” Ferguson was now drawing a plug that looked vaguely like the one MacNeice had seen.
“It was more like a nipple than a cone.”
“I see. Well, yes, with some force and speed, I can see that might do the trick. But back to the whodunnit. The former Soviet Union had several people who could pull this off, but they’ve either scattered to the winds or remained in the employ of their various governments and are likely still active over there.” He put his pencil down and looked up at MacNeice again. “I can do this for you: I’ll enquire with friends abroad, and through a nephew I have in MI6, about who is active and where. It may not produce results, and certainly won’t overnight. One other thing I know—or believe I do—is the quality of the metal and who might supply it, so I’ll make some discreet enquiries there. Until then, you’re welcome to my sketch.” He began rolling up the drawing.
MacNeice picked up a pencil and scribbled down his number on a scrap of paper. “Here’s my cell. Call whenever you get something.” He drained his cup and took the rolled-up drawing from Ferguson. As he stood up, he said, “Damn fine tea, Donald. Thank you.”
“I’ll tell my wife you said so—she thinks I make terrible tea. But when I mention your last name, I’m certain she’ll say, ‘A Scot. What does a Scotsman know about tea?’ She can be prickly, my girl. Funny thing is, she’s from Edinburgh.” With that he laughed heartily, and together they walked down the driveway to the car.
STOPPED AT A TRAFFIC LIGHT, MacNeice checked the t
ime on his cellphone—3:37 p.m. He speed-dialled the office. “Aziz, have you got anything for me?”
“How far away are you?”
“Seventeen minutes, maybe a bit less. Why?”
“Let’s not talk over your cell. Come as quickly as you can. It’s all good.”
He drove with the lights, which were timed to keep traffic flowing east along Main Street—one of the more intelligent initiatives brought forward by the city’s engineers—and arrived in sixteen minutes. He walked briskly to the stairwell, inhaled deeply and bolted up the staircase two steps at a time, almost bursting through the second-floor door. He checked his watch: twenty steps in seven seconds. He exhaled and walked to the cubicle where Aziz was waiting for him, smiling.
“Betty came through,” she said. “Lydia Petrescu, twenty-four, just graduated from the professional program of the Conservatory. Her father is Antonin Petrescu. He deals in European rare papers—diaries and letters mostly—and fine antiques in the Biedermeier style. There’s apparently more about his shop on the Web, but Betty did all she had time for. I was going to get onto it but I haven’t had a chance yet.”
“I assume we haven’t had any missing-person calls for a Lydia Petrescu?”
“I checked—not yet. I did look up the number of Petrescu’s shop and called it from the payphone downstairs so he wouldn’t pick up a caller ID, but I got a recording—a male voice—‘Petrescu. Leave a message if you wish.’ In the background was a violin playing something lovely. I rang off.”
“If she were my kid I’d be using her for phone messages too.”
“But there’s more. The nerd in Forensics who checked the dress for me said it was a rental. When I asked how he knew, he said, ‘It says so. Oscar de la Renta.’ When I asked him what he meant, he said, ‘Like, Oscar of the Rental,’ as if it should be obvious to anyone with a modicum of language skills.”
MacNeice appreciated the humour. “A designer label. That’s got to be what, a few thousand?”
“Well, I haven’t had the pleasure personally, but I’d be surprised if it cost less than five or six thousand.”
“At least she graduated in style. Anything else?”
“You were right, there was no sand on the shoes. But they found a very small smear of something silvery on the dress around hip level. That’s with Toxicology now, but they think it could be bait.”
“Bait?”
“Yes, like fish bait. The little fish you use to catch big—”
“Funny, Aziz. Yes, I get it—bait. From the seat of the boat.”
“And last of all, there’s this.” Aziz sat down and woke up her computer screen, which revealed a photograph of a flower showing leaves and a partial stem. “Valerian.”
“The stuff you use to go to sleep—if you don’t use grappa.”
“The very same, but the flutes revealed a strain of valerian stronger than anything you’d find in North America, but still not strong enough to knock her out. There was something else in there that they haven’t identified, which, it appears, acted as an agent to fuse the Champagne and the valerian into something much more potent. They think she wouldn’t have detected it because it wasn’t dissolved in the Champagne; it was in a transparent coating on both flutes. The bottle was clean.”
“Both flutes?”
“Yes.”
Aziz looked up at MacNeice to confirm that the same switches had been thrown for him as for her.
“Eastern European,” MacNeice said softly.
“All the way, in my opinion.” Aziz printed out the valerian image and took it to the whiteboard. When she’d finished taping it up, MacNeice handed her the tracing and said, “While you’re at it, you can put this up too.”
She unrolled it and looked at the sketch and then back at MacNeice.
“Ferguson drew it for me over tea. He’s more or less certain the device we’re looking for will be similar. He says he doesn’t know anyone who could do it but he does know people who might know. And keep this one close. Ferguson won’t want his involvement getting out.”
“Does he agree with the theory, though?”
“He does, which is probably why he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s involved.” MacNeice sat down on the edge of Vertesi’s desk. “Have you heard anything from Vertesi?”
“No. He was going to call after he checked the beach.”
“Last question, Aziz: Petrescu—that’s Romanian, isn’t it?”
“I believe so, but I’ll confirm that. And Property Records have promised to get us his home address within the next two hours.”
“If they do, we’ll go tonight. It’s hard to imagine Lydia Petrescu not being missed by someone.”
“They said their server was down and the technician has to come in from Toronto, but that he was on his way. I’ll let you know.”
“Romanian. Eastern European.”
“Before you go, I found out who at the Conservatory is responsible for the graduation ceremonies. Apparently there was a graduating class performance schedule with a list of invitees. I tried to call but the office is closed. It’s on my to-do list for the morning.”
SIX
—
VERTESI ARRIVED AT THE beach house at 3:10 p.m. The patrol car and the abundance of yellow tape stretched across the driveway made it easy to find. Parking behind the cruiser, he took his digital camera and notebook from the glove compartment. As he was closing the door of the grey Chevy, he heard the power window up ahead whir down and then the familiar voice of Peter Stankovics. “Ciao, Vertesi. Come sta?”
“Hey, Stinky, how’d you pull this one?”
“I’m in the shithouse for using excessive force two months ago with Danny Roberts. You remember him?”
“Yeah, mangia-cake. Always talkin’ a better game than he played.”
“The very same. He punched his old lady in the face, broke her nose. One of the kids called the cops, and I had to be the first fucker through the door.”
“I remember now. You and him had a thing for Beth Kemp, that English girl who came in our last year at Central High. You put Atom Balm in his jockstrap just before a game. What a fuckin’ great moment in sport that was.”
“And now he sucker-punches me right there on Barton Avenue. I took a lot of abuse getting him into the cruiser. I had Lucy Tomassi with me—she was ready to pop him—but the real shit began when we got to the station.”
On the seat next to Stankovics was a half-empty box of mini-doughnuts and two extra-large coffee cups, one empty and lying on his daily report binder. His radio barked to life with a flow of static, and he reached over and turned it off before continuing.
“Lucy’s opening the door to the station. I’m pulling Danny out of the car—he’s all ‘fuck you, you piece of shit’—when suddenly he spits at me. Catches me right on the cheek.” He put his meaty paw on the spot where it had happened, as if nursing a bruise. “A big phlegmy goober, right here.”
Vertesi’s face screwed up at the thought of it.
“Exactly!” said Stankovics. “So I head-butted him and split his nose wide open. Apparently I said something like, ‘You’ve always been a snotty piece of shit, Roberts, but that should help your head cold.’ Anyway, I shove him, all bloodied up, through the door, and I look up and the shift sergeant’s standing there with a slice of pizza and a Coke. He saw the whole thing.”
“Is the cake suing?”
“No. Apparently his wife gets wind of this and says to him, ‘I’ll drop the assault charge against you if you drop yours against Stinky.’ It was a classy thing to do, even if it doesn’t help her in the long run, but the sergeant put me on a three-month rotation of shit details anyway. I got five weeks to go. Luce has been amazing, though. She’s been getting guys to swing by with doughnuts and caffeine, so I’m set.”
“What’s happening here, anything?”
“Forensics guys just left, media vans were here earlier, but other than that, nothin’.”
“Anyone been down to the
beach lookin’ around?”
“Nope. We restricted the news teams to the road above. I’ve been taking my leaks in the bushes, but the whole area seems quiet. You goin’ in?”
“No, just want to see the beach.”
“Well, you came at a good time. Shit, you could strip off and take a swim with the weather up here. Been tempted to myself, but I’d probably come out and find the sergeant standin’ there with my uniform.”
“Stink, I’ll catch you later.”
VERTESI CLIMBED OVER THE TAPE and walked through the breezeway to the deck. He turned to look inside the cottage; everything was just as MacNeice had described it, except of course that the girl and the Seabreeze were gone.
The call of a gull pulled his attention back to the beach and the lake. For a moment he couldn’t help imagining himself as the owner, surveying all that’s lovely about the world. Then he snapped out of it; this would never be the life he’d have. Looking to the left, he could see the leading edge of the neighbouring cottage; to the right was a dock with a small, red-hulled sailboat moored at the end. “Beautiful. Like he said, a hundred yards in either direction.”
He sat on the bottom step, untied his shoes, took his socks off and rolled up his pant legs. He folded the socks, put them in the shoes and set them on the step. Retrieving his camera and notebook from his pocket, he took off his jacket and folded it neatly, then set it on the shoes and placed his notebook on top. Picking up a branch that had fallen from one of the birch trees, he stepped over the yellow tape and walked towards the water. The grass was cool under his feet, and the transition to warm sand made him pause for a moment, then shimmy his feet deeper into the sand.
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