My skin prickles as Biscuit and I circle back around. Wrench in hand, the man fiddles with the radio buttons as if tuning in a station. Biscuit dawdles to sniff the tires, but I tug her leash and double-lock my door. Nightlong, I keep an eye on the station wagon, a hulk in the darkness on my block. The Oldsmobile is intrusive, as if it’s giving off bad energy, a feng shui violation. I look out my front window at midnight, then again at two, and finally in the predawn hour. It looks like a docked gunboat, and I sense someone inside it. The small dark man? The brown-haired one?
Could both men camp in the car to watch me? No, that’s nuts. A man who works on his car, he’s in the American tradition. He pulls up at a curb and uses his know-how with his own tools, even in Boston’s gentrified South End. His buddy lends a hand and tunes in to a Sox game. I saw the hammer, the wrench, the pad on the sidewalk.
That’s it, I realize, the source of my unease. From yesterday to today, no actual work seems in progress. The wrench and hammer look more like props.
If Tania’s right, Jeffrey Arnot is enraged enough to have me watched. Do the men track my whereabouts for Arnot? Is Carlo in on it?
Or do they work for Bernard Dempsey? Had he somehow found out that I went to Alan Tegier’s house? He could try to drive me frantic with crude intimidation. If Dempsey killed his wife and caused Alan Tegier’s death, who would stop him from coming after me?
* * *
The Olds station wagon is still there this morning at eight, and I decide to call Stark, who promises to come check it out. At nine, he’s still not here. I think about the two handguns in Jo’s file drawer. Should I get bullets?
I step into the study, pull down the blinds, and look at the guns. The Colt looks too John Wayne, a western period piece. The .38 revolver, though, looks usable. It seems ice-cold, the barrel a steel gray-blue. Biscuit whines as I pick it up. I’m just aiming it at the microwave when the door knocker sounds. I shove the gun in the drawer.
It’s Stark at the door. The dog is overjoyed. “Thanks for coming.” He roughs her belly. “It’s that Oldsmobile station wagon down the block. I think I’m being watched.” He scratches her ears. “Down there … down the block.” But it’s gone. There’s not a trace of it. We stand at the open door. “This morning I walked Biscuit past it. Maybe it dripped oil. We could go see.”
“Whatever you want.” Stark’s is the tone of voice people use with the mentally ill.
“No, really, Stark. Yesterday a brown-haired man seemed to work on it, and then a short dark man. Detective Devaney checked the car out. It’s not stolen or linked to a crime. I think the two men were here to watch me.”
“Who?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
“Guys work on cars.”
“Of course. Of course they do.”
“Guys like to install a fuel pump, put on a muffler. I do a lot of my own work on Fatso.”
“Yes.”
He jams his hands in his jeans. “You want me to hang around? You want a ride someplace?”
“Yes…I mean no.”
“How about if I take Biscuit for the day? You get some rest. I’ll bring her back anytime you say. You take it easy. Call me.” I watch him get the dog harness from the motorcycle saddlebag, strap the dog in, pull on his gloves and helmet, drop the visor, start the engine, wave, and ride off, with Biscuit’s eager little nose to the air.
On Barlow Square, a roofer is at work across the grassy median. A dry cleaner makes a pickup. Nobody else is outside. If I screamed, who would hear? Who would run to the rescue? Who safeguards me as I race against a killer’s clock?
Chapter Twenty-three
Arainy summer evening ought to feel nice. Open the windows, smell the wet earth, hear the muffled hum of the city. Instead, I watch the black VW Beetle that now circles Barlow Square every six to eight minutes, its driver a man or woman with a ponytail. I first noticed it while walking Biscuit after Stark brought her back and left. That was an hour ago. The slot occupied by the Olds is now filled by a sedan with a Boston College sticker, and the “mechanics” are nowhere in sight. But the VW is identical to my own car, eye-catching in the way one’s own possessions command attention. The driver seems to be circling for a parking spot.
In fact, Trudy Pfaeltz pulled out twenty minutes ago. I watch from my front window as the Beetle twice bypasses her huge vansize space. At 8:14 p.m., the Beetle circles for the third time this hour. Though it’s darkish gray outside, I haven’t switched on any lamps, instead watching the street in the vanishing light and counting reappearances from the window frame.
Could this Beetle actually be my very own car? I’d parked two blocks over and, of course, locked up. I haven’t driven it since the night of Tania and the rafter cloth.
Would Dempsey try to terrorize me this way? Would Jeffrey Arnot? Or Carlo? And why? To lure me out into the street? Rattle me? Do me harm?
I want to walk the two blocks to find out whether a thief taunts me with my own automobile. But I linger in the safety of my own home. Well founded or absurd, fear is fear. The sounds of struggle that I heard May 3 could have been Alan Tegier’s death throes. So much for aiding Henry Faiser if I, too, end up in a barrel of beef fat.
Biscuit paces the floorboards, sensing my mood, puzzled by the darkening of the rooms. I scratch her neck, try to pick her up. She’s having none of it and takes shelter under the love seat.
I try to settle down by thinking of the lessons of my sixth sense. There’s my burning rib, my painful thumb, even the ice-cold message of the century-old rafter cloth. Signs and signals, every one, but coded. They may be linked or not. Their logic is veiled. There’s a Buddhist saying: the mind knows what the body feels.
What does my mind know? I stand here at the window on this rainy evening and sort the pieces. Start with Faiser, now serving a twenty-to-life sentence for a murder someone else might have committed. Henry, whose guilt or innocence is as much of a mystery today as on the morning Devaney showed up here with the leather notebook.
Then there’s Carlo. Do all roads lead to Carlo? The night manager of a condo high-rise is not the food chain’s biggest fish. Would that be Jeffrey Arnot? I’m betting the truck pulling out of Eldridge at midnight carried something illegal, that the condo high-rise is a shipping point. And who is Perk? Short for Perkins? If only I’d asked Big Doc. He linked Carlo to the Inferno, and his pothead ravings on sewers and parts-per-billion poison might have yielded a clue on Perk.
Biscuit whimpers, and the VW goes round again. I refuse to spend the night here at the window frame, so I creep along the wall back toward the kitchen, startled by the fridge light as I grab yogurt and an orange, then shut the door fast and wolf down the food. It feels like house arrest. I’m being held hostage.
No, I’m a woman exercising caution for self-preservation, a woman ready to fight another day. Tonight’s low profile guarantees my tomorrow.
At 6:00 a.m., I’m out inspecting my car. There’s no sign of the circling Beetle. The silk rose blooms in the bud vase. The Beetle is locked snug at the curb, yet several spaces up from where I’d parked it. Five or six spaces.
Inside the unlocked car, I turn the key and check the odometer but can’t recall my mileage. It’s the Goldilocks feeling that someone’s been inside. The seat seems to be moved back a notch or two. Biscuit jumps and sniffs a carnival of new odors.
I’m sliding out when I see daylight glint on a strand of hair, which is blond and very long, too long to be mine, and the wrong color too. I hold it up. It’s over a foot long. From the ponytail of the joyrider? Devaney would now ask, “Who’s been your passenger in the car these past weeks, Reggie?” Okay, Frank, the answer is the StyleSmart “models.” I pick up the hair between thumb and forefinger, wrap it in tissue, and drive to StyleSmart.
“So do you think it could be Monique’s?” I’m at the door when Nicole opens up. Her keys jangle on a big brass ring. “Monique’s hair was the longest of all the models who drove with me.”
; “Reggie, let me get the lights turned on and the coffee going. What’s this all about?”
“I want to know whether you think it could be Monique’s. She rode in my VW to the Newton show.”
Nicole holds the single strand to the window’s light. “Monique’s is russet blond, Reggie. This one here is more cornsilk. You ready to toss out this old hair?”
“Oh no. I need it.”
Nicole’s look is sly. “You find the hair close-up on a man’s collar?”
I force a chuckle, rewrap the hair, and tuck it in my purse. “Let’s just say that this single hair has me going round in circles. First thing, I want to check on the couture. The storage people are coming?”
“For pickup tomorrow. Everything’s ready.”
“Let me check anyway. Give me a moment.” Actually, I have a plan. In the back room, all by myself, I want to touch Sylvia Dempsey’s Chanel suit. I’m thankful to hear a customer come in. Nicole will be distracted. Good.
The back room is fragrant with a mixture of scents from the designer clothes in the garment bags—Boucheron, L’Or, Escada. Moving down the rack, I unzipper each bag and peek until I find the Sylvia collection.
I prepare myself. First, relax the shoulders. Take note of Nicole’s voice in the distance, her lilting words entwined with the customer’s own. Let their voices fall away. Let the moment be clear and open. Let the mind be receptive. Now reach for the clothing, which Sylvia once wore. Take hold of the sleeve of the pink suit. Feel the connection. Open both mind and body and let the moment speak.
My palms dampen against the fabric. In the distance, I hear Nicole say, “Let’s try you in a fourteen.” The fluorescent light buzzes. The moment empties. Then something stirs. It’s a faint hum, a light flutter on the surface of my skin. Will it crescendo? Will I next feel turmoil and the violence of her death, the bludgeoning? My legs tense, toes grip. I prepare for this as a certain sensation rises in my chest…in my breast. My nipples prickle. A great warmth surges, a liquid thickness, then a driving wink between my thighs. This throbbing…it’s sex. It’s lust. Not fear or murder, but lust. This is Sylvia Dempsey’s message— hot pink, hot sex. Her lingerie drawer so chaste, but the Chanel suit a pulsating cry of sex. For sex.
I let go of the sleeve. I struggle to contain the pulse and pounding throb. The room whirls. I’m panting. My God…I am flushed with arousal, weak, my vision blurry. Ground yourself, Reggie. Pull out of this. Breathe deep. Center yourself.
“Reggie, you okay in there?”
“Fine, Nicole. I’m fine. Be right out.”
Lie. My shirt is wet, knees buckling. I stand here for what seems eternity. Sylvia’s partly unzipped garment bag gapes, but I won’t touch it. Every fiber of the pink suit throbs. I turn away, run a hand through my hair, straighten my collar, freshen my lipstick. Shoulders back, I exit this back room as though my life depends on it.
Breathless from brisk walking in the darkness, I linger in the shadows at the Eldridge Place entrance until a car clears the security gate and disappears into the garage. I parked two blocks away and wasn’t followed—not noticeably—but I still feel exposed. It’s two hours before Carlo begins his shift, a two-hour window of opportunity. High in the night sky, a bird cries. A crow? A jackal? I press the front door buzzer and hope against hope the night staff is the navy retiree with the thatchy gray hair and thick glasses.
When he comes, I’ll say, “Good evening. I’m Regina Cutter. I believe we met a few weeks ago.” Through the glass doors, he’ll face a woman in a black linen pantsuit with pearls. How can he possibly not let me in? I’ll ask certain pointed questions. I have an agenda.
Here comes someone, squinting, peering. It’s him, but he reaches for his pager to summon help. I flash my brightest smile, and he pockets the pager and taps a remote. The electronic lock releases, and I open the door. “Hello again. It’s Walt, isn’t it?”
“Walt Kane.”
“I’m Regina Cutter.” My fib is on the tip of my tongue. “I’m expecting Mr. Albritten from the realty company. He’s showing me a two-bedroom unit.”
“Nobody told me.”
“It’s a late-night appointment, just like the last time. Mr. Albritten is so nice about my impossible schedule. Surely you remember me, the night owl? I helped you with your puzzle.” Bat your eyelashes, Reggie, and hold that smile. “I’ll just wait here in the lobby, okay?”
“Our guests park in the garage.” He stares at me through the yellowish lenses.
“I took a taxi. Mr. Albritten will be here any moment.”
“They’re supposed to notify me.”
“No doubt a tiny slipup.” I saunter toward the desk to appear casual, then lean to see a book of crossword puzzles lying open on the desktop, and supermarket tabloids too. The eight surveillance monitors glow gray. “Well, I see you’re doing crosswords once again.” My smile muscles strain. On one monitor, a car is shown parking in a lower-level garage slot on level D, and a couple gets out and walks to the elevator. A second monitor shows them inside the elevator. Walt Kane sits down at his console. “Tell me, Mr. Kane, did you work crosswords in the navy?”
“You remember I’m a navy man?”
“Navy chief, right?”
“Right as rain. I started as a bosun’s mate at seventeen and worked up. If my country ever needs me again, I’m ready. Say, would you happen to know who in ancient history first used the horse in battle? The third and fourth letters are t’s.”
“Try the Hittites.” The couple now exits the elevator. Another screen shows them in a hallway. “I’ve been thinking, Walt, about how much services matter in a high-rise residence. For instance, window cleaning.”
“Twice a year, spring and fall, like clockwork. They’re pros. Hittites it is!”
“And carpets? How about rugs and carpets? Who cleans them?”
“Well, an outside team does the Orientals here in the lobby. The hallway carpets, though, we take care of that ourselves.”
“And residents can make a request for their own rugs to be cleaned too? If I move in, I can arrange carpet cleaning?”
He puts down the crossword. “If you want to. The night manager sees to it.”
“Carlo Feggiotti. I met him. Actually, a Realtor told me the man to call for carpets is… let’s see, I jotted it down. It’s Alan Tegier.”
The watery eyes remain opaque, unblinking. “Al, that’s Pompadour Al. Hardworking young guy, a jack-of-all-trades.”
Is it possible Walt Kane does not know that Alan is dead? “So you know him?”
He nods. “Carlo took him under his wing. He was with us for the better part of a year.”
“But he doesn’t work here now?”
“Not now.” Walt shakes his head as if Alan Tegier has simply left the payroll. He’s missed the local news story—by cocooning himself in national tabloids? “Young Al had some kind of falling-out with Carlo. Believe me, you never want to cross Carlo. It’s too bad because the kid liked the night shift. He worked the check times too.”
“Check times?”
“Part of our security.” He falls silent and reaches for the puzzle. “You seem to have a marvelous security system.”
“The best. The perimeter, the premises, it’s state-of-the-art. You move in here, you can set your mind at ease.”
“Twenty-four/seven?”
“Yep. Except for check times.”
“And what are those check times?”
“Nothing to worry about. Carlo and the boys cover everything.”
“I don’t believe Mr. Feggiotti or Mr. Albritten told me about them.”
“A Realtor wouldn’t know. A good many of the residents don’t know.”
I lean toward him. “Believe me, Walt, if I’m going to move into Eldridge Place, I want to know everything.”
“How about a talking machine, eleven letters?”
“Try Graphophone. See, if I move in, you can count on me. Carlo’s check time, please explain that.”
“
A safety feature. He shuts down the whole system to check it out.”
“The surveillance system?”
“Surveillance and alarms, twice a week between two and three a.m. It takes about an hour. Say, Graphophone works. You’re a big help.”
“So your monitors go blank?”
“The alarm system too, every Tuesday and Thursday night. But don’t worry, Carlo’s in charge. The security crew on duty, they’re cream of the crop.”
“Perk too?”
He looks up and squints. “Who’s Perk?”
“Maybe it’s Perkins?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Anyway, it sounds like twice a week you can count on a long break in the wee hours.”
He squares his shoulders as if to salute. “No, ma’am, I man my station here at the door. It’s a drill. If the power ever goes out, we have a procedure. Carlo’s my commander. I’m under orders to man the front door every minute.”
“Well, that’s impressive. I’ve heard so many good things from Mr. Arnot too. Perhaps you’ve met Mr. Jeffrey Arnot?”
“The African-American gentleman? Yes, he’s here sometimes. He’s like the rear admiral. Say, where’s that real estate man of yours?”
I look at my watch and pretend surprise. “Golly, it’s twenty after. Perhaps I should call.” Cell phone out, I fake the call and a message. “He must be on his way. I see you read the National Enquirer and the Star. I do too.”
“I like to follow Lisa Marie and the Kennedys.”
“Anything on Elvis or Princess Di, I can’t resist.”
He licks his lips. “You know, the fact is, we have Enquirer material right here at Eldridge Place.”
“Really?”
“If you move in, you’ll find out.”
“Ooh, interesting.” Bat those lashes, Reggie. “I imagine nothing slips by you, Walt. A navy chief knows the score.”
He sucks in his stomach and puffs out his chest. “Some think I’m the old guy at the night desk. They’d be surprised what I see. The goings-on, I’m not fooled.”
Now You See Her Page 22