All in One Piece

  It dawns on me. As Rory said, it is a yacht, an inside-out yacht in disguise. “How long is the Shanghai?”

  “Two hundred twenty-six feet.” Does my expression amuse her? “Seventy-two hundred horsepower. Twin screws.”

  “Amazing. I hear there’s a hot tub. And a grand piano too.”

  “And a Global Positioning System and full ocean electronics. And a reinforced steel hull.”

  I want to know, does anything here resemble a wooden log? If Steven partied on this vessel, the fact that he might have drowned is suddenly crucial. I can see it now: the hot tub could be a drowning place, or the sea itself in the autumn when the water’s getting colder. Suppose Steven was pushed overboard. His body could have been recovered and moved. I’ve got to contact Devaney. “And this wonderful leather—” I stroke it. “Is it kid?”

  Hailey smirks. “It’s the sheathing of marine mammal organs. You can guess which ones.” The smirk widens.

  My pen is out. “Hailey, if you wouldn’t mind, could you give me Mr. Wing’s first name?”

  “Sinclair.”

  It’s an Anglo name. No Cathay. No Ming dynasty. “Did you know Steven Damelin? I understand he was a frequent guest.”

  “We don’t disclose the names of guests.”

  “But he’s dead.”

  “Even so.”

  “I believe he cruised on the Shanghai out of… perhaps different ports.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “I could leave extra invitations in case other friends of Steven’s are on board.” Such as Alex Ribideau. Suppose he’s hiding below, ready to escape into Canada. Homicide has got to search this vessel immediately. “Steven had numerous friends,” I say. “Others might like to attend the service.”

  “We leave port in just a few hours. The Shanghai won’t be back for months.”

  “May I give this invitation to Mr. Wing?”

  “He’s not aboard.”

  I’m out of gambits. I cap the pen, hand her the envelope—and notice a mounted wood sculpture at the far end of this space. It freezes my blood. It’s an abstract carving, but cylindrical. It’s like a log. Yes, a log. Can I get close enough to touch it? I step that way, but get no psychic message. It’s ten feet away. Am I blocking my own sixth sense?

  “May I help you ashore?”

  “That wood sculpture… is it Brancusi?”

  “It’s African.”

  “I’d love to see it up close.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t give tours.” I’m desperate to make contact with the sculpture. No way. Hailey is at my elbow, ushering me out. I’m on the deck in the sharp wind when a second crewman appears, also in Levi’s and turtleneck, a broad-shouldered man. “Shawn, please escort Ms. Cutter ashore.”

  Down the gangplank, he says, “Watch your step, please, lady.”

  His l’s aren’t clearly spoken. “Please” comes out prease. I turn to say thank you—and see his face. It could be Japanese, maybe Korean or Thai. But if I’m right, Shawn’s is a face of China.

  Shawn? No, Xian. I’m sure of it. From my car, hands shaking, I call Devaney. Damn voice mail. Where is he? I leave a message saying that it’s urgent. I’m just back when Maglia shows up at my house. “Frank’s tied up. What can we do for you?”

  “Come in, Mr. Maglia. I’m so glad you’ve come.” We stand in my foyer. “A yacht—the Shanghai—leaves Long Wharf tonight. I’ve just learned Steven Damelin was a regular guest on it. It’s a tugboat.”

  “To clarify, Ms. Cutter, is it a tug or a yacht?”

  Slow it down, Reggie. “It’s an ocean salvage tugboat converted to a luxury vessel of over two hundred feet. I went aboard to deliver a memorial service invitation to the owner, Sinclair Wing. One of the crewmen is Chinese.”

  “And?”

  “And it could be a big break in the case. It links the murder with the blood marks on my door.”

  “Our forensic linguist—”

  “I remember Hugh Lee very well, but a contact of mine knows Chinese and says the marks on my door mean corpse or death trap.” Should I add pineapple? No, skip it. And slow it down, Reggie. “All that must be investigated, don’t you see?”

  “Not quite. Suppose you explain it to me.”

  “I believe Steven traveled on the Shanghai. My next-door neighbor verifies his departures. She saw him leave in taxicabs with luggage. So did his former landlady.”

  “And so… you want us to investigate this tugboat which is a yacht, because Damelin was a guest and because he traveled? And because one crewman seems to be of Chinese extraction?” I see “crazy lady” in his eyes.

  “Suppose Alex Ribideau is aboard.”

  This gets his attention. “Do you have reason to think so?”

  “It just makes sense. He and Steven were longtime partners. If Steven was a frequent guest on the Shanghai, so was Alex. He had to be. Detective Devaney told me about the autopsy report—about the cause of death, the water in Steven’s lungs. The Shanghai has a hot tub.”

  “You imagine Damelin drowned in the tub?”

  “Or was pushed overboard. The boat sails for Nova Scotia tonight. There’s no time to lose. And there’s something else, a wood sculpture. It’s cylindrical. It might be a weapon used in Steven Damelin’s death.”

  He runs a thumb along his lacquered nails. “Ms. Cutter, when Damelin was killed, you agreed to help us out.”

  “Of course. That’s why I—”

  “But in the background. Behind the scenes. Isn’t that right?”

  “Of course. But—”

  “No buts. You’re working overtime on conjecture, Ms. Cutter. It gets the juices going. But the thing is, you can’t arrest anybody on it. You can’t arraign, try, convict, or sentence anybody to prison on it. And as for the Shanghai, you can’t—absolutely cannot—get a search warrant on conjecture.”

  “I’m only trying to help.”

  “Put ‘trying’ to good use, Ms. Cutter. Mind your business, maybe stay inside. A storm’s coming through tonight.” He points to the small yellow book on a far table. “Survival Handbook, right? How to escape from alligators? My wife bought me one of those books. It gave me a big laugh.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  With Jo’s old Rand McNally open on the kitchen table, fingers trembling, I trace the North American coast to Halifax, where the Shanghai is likely bound. It’s after 4:00 p.m., and the wind is whipping Barlow Square, nature’s own leaf blower. Maybe Sinclair Wing and guests are en route to the St. Lawrence Seaway. Foul weather is typical in the Canadian Maritimes this time of year, but maybe that doesn’t matter because it’s the very weather for which Shanghai was built.

  Where’s Devaney? I’ve put in two more calls. Has Maglia warned him off? Told him I’m meddling and delusional?

  I’ve googled Wing. He’s an entrepreneur and founder of White Way Parking Systems. I recognize the logo, Mr. Wing having pocketed plenty of my cash in garages over the years. The link to a Forbes article tells me he was twice married, long divorced, has grown children, is a skier and adventurer with wide-ranging investments. It’s the life my own ex idolized.

  Biscuit whimpers, doubtless reacting to the weather. The wind has intensified over the past hour. It whistles and whines from the southeast, and the rain has begun. And it’s cold, barely forty degrees with a windchill factor. With daylight savings time gone, it’s dark before 6:00 p.m. except for the gaslights on the square, where wet tree branches sway in the wind. I heat a veggie stew and feed Biscuit a couple potato chunks, which she adores. The rain now beats in sheets against the windows, yet the dog goes to the door and whines. “Okay, Biscuit, I hear you.” Nature calls, out we go.

  My raincoat is no match for the cold or this deluge, and the umbrella nearly blows inside out. We go to the corner and back in five minutes. Nobody’s outside. Devaney still hasn’t called. I towel the dog and hang my raincoat on the shower rod.

  What to do? Notch up the thermostat and pay a few bills? Phone Devaney yet again? No, h
e’ll surely think me overwrought. Restraint is the watchword, though my stomach grinds. I straighten the kitchen, toss out a few old magazines, water the plants, turn on another lamp. On its top shelf, QUART gleams as if beckoning me to the kitchen bar where the mill workers’ hopes and fears mix in language lost to Steven Damelin in another century.

  What if those workers could see the future? Suppose the Damelinskis could foresee that their quest for decent wages and respect—for bread and roses—would decay into cravings for mere money and status. What would they think? I turn away. The Shanghai is probably north of Cape Ann by now, whoever’s aboard having drinks and dinner. Did Steven lounge on those soft banquettes? Did he phone his Helping Hand victims from shipboard? Wasn’t Alice Collier one of them? And Jo?

  It’s still evening, but I give Biscuit a new chew toy and decide to turn in and read. I lock up, wash, undress, put on nightclothes and a robe, arrange a bank of pillows against the headboard, and pick up a new novel. But there’s a certain scratching noise. It’s off and on, scratch… scratch. I start reading my book. Scratch.

  What is it?

  With my book set aside, I peer through the slats of the blinds of every window, but see no branches touching the house. There’s nothing but thick rain. Back onto the bed, I turn up the lamp—

  And just then the power fails. It’s that sickening shutdown of lights, fridge, every appliance dying. You flip the switches both in futility and hope. Where’s a flashlight? I look outdoors. Except for the gaslights, the whole square is dark. I feel my way to the kitchen, strike a match, fumble for a candle.

  What is that scratching noise? Yes, Biscuit is crunching her toy, but behind the canine teeth, the sound of… clawing. It’s like raking.

  What is it?

  Biscuit whines in a tone I have not heard. It’s as though she feels gagged. “What is it, girl?”

  I go room to room, patrolling in pitch-darkness. Biscuit stays at my ankles. Back in the bedroom, I start for the bed but go to the window.

  I’m stopped dead. Before me just outside the windowpane, there’s a wire—no, a rope. A pale rope is dangling in front of my bedroom window.

  It snakes left, snakes right. I’m frozen, watching. Side to side it snakes.

  Biscuit’s fur is rising. She growls low, then whines like a banshee. Someone… someone is climbing down that rope. Climbing down from Steven’s apartment above.

  The cell phone is in my purse on the kitchen counter. Biscuit is rooted, trembling from head to haunches. She howls like a maniac. “Biscuit,” I say softly, but she’s beyond timid plaints. What to do? By feeling my way along the wall in the darkness, I could go to the kitchen for the phone… or else go to my closet, the closet here in the bedroom where I stashed the handguns. It’s a split-second decision. I step sideways, feel the clothes hangers, and reach high onto the closet shelf. Shoe boxes tumble at my touch, a cascade of shoes. The rope snakes as I paw at toes, heels. Here it is—

  The gun. The Taurus .38.

  “Biscuit, shhh.”

  The rope—through the slats of the blinds, I now see a pair of shoes on the rope. They’re like water shoes, rubber shoes, at the top of my window and descending. Crossed at the ankle, they’re coming down the rope—they’re dance shoes.

  I feel the barrel and the handle of the gun. My fingers wrap around the grips.

  Now the dance shoes settle on my window ledge. And there’s a club, or a bar. It swings hard—bam against my window. Bam, smash. The pane shatters. Blades of glass cascade inside with the wind and rain. Biscuit yowls. She’s showered in glass, and my feet are bare. One step, I’ll be lacerated. The shoes are planted on my window ledge—and the club is a crowbar. A crowbar broke the glass. Now it’s poking inside the window. A black-gloved hand with a crowbar starts to reach inside.

  “Stop—”

  Inside my room.

  “Biscuit—”

  The dog is braced to spring. The crowbar is raised to strike my dog.

  Arm straight out, gun hammer cocked, I shout, “Stop or I’ll—” The crowbar is raised.

  “Stop—”

  Brace your right arm, Reggie. Lock your right thumb free of the hammer, aim, squeeze the trigger at the shoes and the storm and the rope. Steady squeeze . . .

  Until the room explodes.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Did you catch him? Did you?” It’s my voice shouting from the bunker of my own head. I hear a terrible ringing in both ears. The cops seem to keep saying “Gravel and hook.” Biscuit shakes like a leaf in a gale. This is a gale. I hug her closer. Through the broken window, I see two more patrol cars enter the alley below. The power came back on a few minutes ago, so the water and glass glint and shine in the household light.

  The uniformed police officers do not know that I fired a gun. The Taurus is back on the closet shelf in a shoe box. The barrel was hot to the touch, but I boxed the .38 before the cops got here. I pick another glass shard from Biscuit’s fur. Will a twenty-four-hour glass repair service fix my window in the middle of the night? What about a vet?

  “Reggie,” says a familiar voice.

  “Frank,” I say. At last, it’s Devaney, who arrives rumpled in a bulky coat with soaked trouser cuffs. I want to hug him. I’m in loafers and my ankle-length fur for warmth. I’ve spread towels over the floor, but it’s a mess.

  “You okay? Dog too?”

  “I think so.”

  He sniffs. “An officer discharged a weapon in here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir.”

  He looks from one officer to the other. “Okay, what have you got?”

  The first patrol cop says rope and descend, then the mantra, gravel and hook.

  “Let’s check it out.”

  The three troop out, and I try, without success, to tape a plastic sheet over the broken window. In moments, Devaney and the blues come back with the dripping rope, like a lasso. At one end is an octopus of steel hooks.

  He says to me, “A grappling hook.”

  Grappling. Not gravel, but a grappling hook. “Officers,” he asks the cops, “can you find a piece of board for that window?” They stiffen. It’s not in their job description. “In the interest of the crime scene, if you will.”

  They will.

  “Upstairs too.”

  “Upstairs? Frank, my God, did he break into Steven’s too? It’s empty. There’s only a sofa. Why—?” I fight hot tears.

  “Sit down, Reggie. Let’s sit down and debrief.”

  “Why upstairs? Why me?”

  He guides me to a kitchen chair and sits opposite. Biscuit’s in my lap, and I describe her banshee whine. “They were lightweight shoes, Frank. I could see the toes and arches flex, like dance shoes.” His eyes narrow. “I know who you’re thinking of.” Neither of us needs to say Alex. So he wasn’t on the Shanghai. “But how did he get to an upper floor? The whole house was locked.”

  “The assailant used a grappling hook. From the back alley, it was pitched up over the fire escape rail. The assailant climbed the rope.”

  “But I saw him climb down. Feet first, the shoes—”

  “Sure, he climbed up the back wall of the house, then got onto the fire escape and broke the upstairs apartment window.”

  “Steven’s window.”

  “And went inside. The floor is tracked up, and we traced the wet footsteps in every room. Then he climbed back out, moved the hook over, then lowered himself down to your window. It’s easier to wield the crowbar with feet braced on the window ledge. You’re pretty sure it was a crowbar?”

  “Definitely. He smashed out the window and was about to hit Biscuit with it. It was dark, but I could see the shoes, the crowbar, and a dark-gloved hand.”

  “Then what happened? He lost his grip, is that it? Lost his grip and fell down to the alley?” That hawk glint in Devaney’s eye says he knows there’s more to it. His coat has a bulky zip-in lining. And me across from him in the heavy fur. We’re two fat suits. Devaney prompts m
e. “You think he fell?”

  “Frank… I may have shot him. Jo had… I found two handguns in a box in the kitchen when I moved in.”

  “Guns in Jo’s kitchen? Here, in Jo’s?” He tries to conceal his surprise. “Were they loaded?”

  I avoid the question. “There’s a Colt .44, like an Old West gun, and a Taurus .38. Jo never told me about them. I don’t even know whether they were hers.”

  “You used the .38?” I nod. “You loaded and fired it tonight?”

  “It was already loaded. I braced my arm like on television. Like this—” Furry arms out, I pull my trigger finger.

  “Did you hear a cry? Any sounds?”

  “The whole room exploded. My ears are still ringing. I’m worried about Biscuit. Her coat was full of glass.”

  He pats the dog, who licks his fingers. “She looks okay. Let’s see the gun.” Holding Biscuit, I get the shoe box. Devaney lifts the lid, leans close, and sniffs. Then he gives me a reproachful, lingering look, which lets him control the situation.

  “I suppose you’re going to confiscate it,” I say.

  “We’ll need to check it out. For ballistics.”

  “Frank, without that gun, I could be dead.”

  “Reggie, did it occur to you that this gun could be the reason for the break-in? Suppose somebody used it in a crime and wants it back? When you found guns in Jo’s apartment after she died, didn’t that set off alarm bells? Didn’t it?”

  “Frank, my life is nothing but alarms—starting when a blue car tried to run me down the day before Steven was murdered. It felt deliberate.” I tell him about the Survival Handbook and show him the torn-off paper with “You’re going to need this.” I set the book and note on the table in front of him. Biscuit wriggles in my arms.

  “You have no idea who sent this? No guesses?”

  “No.”

  But he takes this seriously because his eyes get that faraway filmy look, like fish on ice.