Denny objects, yields, slams the truck door, and pulls away. Carlo and the other man, Arnie, stand in place till the rig disappears. A metal door shuts as they go inside. Somewhere a cat howls. The sole noise now is the Mass Pike traffic. Stark stirs. He pulls sideways, knees bent. It’s a signal. He’ll hang over the back side of the wall and jump down, then stand against the wall as I hang over and guide my feet to his shoulders. We’ll reverse the climb.
But the pipe and Perk beckon me. We could drop to the Dumpster and then to the ground. Whatever Perk is, I can get a sample. I can swipe the hem of my sweater on the spill. It’ll take almost no time. It’ll be easy.
I signal Stark, but he’s already halfway down the back side of the wall. If I follow him, my chance is gone. I won’t get it back. It must be now. The instant is more reflex than decision, but I push off as from a pool edge.
My feet hit the Dumpster like thunder. I crouch down atop it, wait for Carlo to burst through the door.
He doesn’t come. A minute passes. Then two. The night holds still. The pitch-blackness continues. No Eldridge lights come on. How long before Carlo reactivates the surveillance system? Five minutes? Three?
Stark waits on the back side of the wall. He heard me land here. Will he follow? I can’t wait to find out.
I hang over the Dumpster edge and drop down. But my hand slips, and I land crooked. My left ankle twists, and pain zings to the knee. I yelp and kneel and curse the too-big sneakers. I get up and stagger forward, the pipe and spill just feet away. When I’m there, I grab the sweater hem and swipe the pipe and mop at the ground. I have not touched the liquid directly. The sample is secured.
I start to hobble back, but the steel door snaps open, and a flashlight catches my face. I’m frozen in the blazing white beam.
“Ah, ‘you have fared to this unhappy world, and yet arrive unpunished.’ ”
A black-gloved hand reaches out and grabs for me. Air swirls as I duck. I try to run, but my ankle won’t let me. I sink down.
“Yes. ‘Move on all fours along the dismal track.’ ”
I scuttle sideways on my knees, feeling faint, sick. Carlo laughs. “ ‘Distance can deceive the senses—so spur yourself a little more.’ ”
His light plays over my body, then back to my face. He’s toying with me. I want to vomit.
“ ‘Climb up toward me with cautious step… grapple the hair, as someone climbing would.’ Canto 34.”
I move my arms, and my elbow bumps something at my right side. It’s the holster. Under the sweater is a gun. I have to get it out. Turning just enough to keep my right side hidden in shadow, I use my left hand as a decoy. I move those left fingers like puppets. Meanwhile, my right thumb unsnaps the holster safety strap. I work the gun loose. The .38 is now in my hand, heavy, weighty. There’s only one chance. I rise and step back, weight on the right foot, and point at the light. Thumb steady, I pull back the hammer.
At the click, the flashlight shifts to my gun hand, then zigzags as Carlo reaches to his belt line for his own gun. He’s drawing. If he fires, he’s defending Eldridge. If I fire, it’s self-defense. Or is it murder?
The instant goes into slow motion. A cat howls in the darkness, and the howl becomes a crackle and roar. It’s an engine. I turn as a Cyclops of white light roars and blazes at me and at Carlo. He, too, stands frozen as the Harley bears down, slices between us, and brakes to a quick stop. I mount and grab Stark’s hips, gun in hand, as he throttles fast away from Eldridge, Fatso’s engine mixing with a pop-pop of the bullets that miss as Stark guides us off into the night.
Chapter Twenty-five
The phone rings at the fourth lap of the Ace bandage around my swollen ankle. “This is Tania. You need to come see me.”
“I can’t.”
“Regina, you can. You must. I’ll send a car.”
“I’m not feeling well.” This is the understatement of a day spent icing my ankle, mentally reliving the Inferno escape and Stark’s 4:00 a.m. blistering lecture on reckless handgun use. The black sweater is sealed in a Ziploc, ready for dispatch to a police lab. The gun is back in the cabinet. Stark spent the early morning hours making compresses for my ankle and keeping a lookout. He took Biscuit with him when he left at noon. On four hours’ sleep, I’m mobilized by coffee and Dr Pepper and an old malacca cane Jo once used to scatter pigeons from the rear fire escape. It’s now after 5:00 p.m. of a day on which this woman is thankful to be alive.
Tania’s laugh is acid. “Come anyway.”
“Sorry, I have plans.”
“Cancel them. There’s somebody here who wants to talk to you. It’s important.”
Jeffrey. Of course, she’s calling for Jeffrey. Carlo told him everything. It’s a trap. Tania is baiting me, and the timing is terrible because Devaney’s at the prison convention in Orlando. Till he returns, I won’t budge. My doors are locked, blinds closed. Go back again to the Marlborough house? How stupid do they think I am?
“Regina, let me assure you the coast is clear. Jeffrey is out of town. I’m by myself.”
“What about the Eldridge guards who don’t let you out of their sight?”
“There’s only one. He’s at the corner. You can come through the back alleyway. There’s a parking space right beside my SUV. He won’t see you. I’ll close the draperies. Believe me, Regina, it’s just me here by myself… and a special person who has new information.” I say nothing. “Don’t you want to know who it is?”
“Tania, this won’t work.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Maybe another time.”
“It’s Brenda Holstetter.”
“Brenda—”
“From Ambrosia Catering. She talked to you at a restaurant days ago. She’s ready to talk to you again.”
“We spoke twice.”
“That was different. She’s ready to say much more. Her troubled conscience brought her here. I counseled her. She has secrets to tell. One secret especially… you’ll never guess.”
“Probably not.”
“About a prisoner you’re interested in?” My heart leaps. “What prisoner?”
“Serving a murder sentence in Norfolk.”
“How do you kn—I mean, what does Brenda say? Put her on the phone. Please put Brenda on the phone.”
“Regina, that’s the very last thing we’d want to do. She’s finally calmed down. She arrived in a silly uniform with a brocade vest and pantaloons. I gave her a spa robe and chamomile tea in my majolica pot. She’s resting on a chaise in the sunporch. She’ll be receptive if you simply arrive. Otherwise, I can’t predict her mental state. I can’t promise she’ll tell her secrets tomorrow or next week. She’s ready today, right now. You needn’t worry about Jeffrey. He’s in New York for a two-day meeting. He’s a partner of a developer named Bevington. Frankly, it’s peaceful here.”
“I sprained my ankle.”
“I’m on tiptoe myself. The quiet is comforting. It centers oneself. I may have a Zen meditation room installed. Why don’t you let me call my driver? I’ll send the Town Car.”
I draw the line at Tania’s car. “Let me think it over. If I’m not there by six, don’t expect me.” We hang up.
“Quandary” puts it mildly. What could Brenda know about Henry Faiser? How could she know? From Alan? But how? What if Brenda appeared at the Marlborough house, and Tania seized the chance to dramatize, to whip the waitress into flights of dark fantasy? I could be sandwiched between two hysterics, Brenda and Tania. And Tania would hover, sucking up every word. Resolved to keep silent, she’d sooner or later spew everything to Jeffrey, fact or fiction. But I’m the one he’d target.
Yet something brought Brenda to the Arnots’ doorstep. What is it?
How much risk to find out? Last night I could have died, my body disposed of before dawn, vanished forever. I swore to Stark that I’d hunker down here in the house until Devaney gets back.
I peek outside, where today’s weather is bright and sunny, one of the longest
days of the year, a mockery of my seclusion. If I go to Marlborough, I can be back long before dusk. Plus, Barlow Square looks clear, and my car is at the curb. I can manage with this cane. Hobbling around the condo all day, I’ve learned some maneuvers. If Brenda Holstetter has important information, perhaps she’ll come back with me. Maybe we’ll go directly to the police this very evening. Daylight is an ally.
I call Stark to let him know where I’m going, but his cell phone is off. I leave him a message and toy briefly with the idea of buckling on the .38. No, not after his Marine Corps ultimatum on guns and amateurs. In slacks and a blue shirt, car key in hand, gripping the cane, I head out.
On Marlborough, I turn my black Beetle into the rear alleyway, which is rutted and full of “Private, No Parking, Tow Away Zone” signs. Behind the Arnot house sits a Cadillac SUV— Tania’s—and an empty space. Nobody’s in sight. I pull in and press a bell marked “Deliveries.”
The first impression as I enter the kitchen is that Tania’s lipstick is crooked, like an elderly woman who misses the lip line. “Regina,” she says, “here you are, with a walking cane.” She’s in a tangerine shirt, black wrap skirt, and espadrilles. Her hair is pulled back and held with a clip. Her voice is strangely flat, a strained monotone. “I doubted you’d come. I’d bet you wouldn’t. I counted on it.”
“Where’s Brenda?”
“Now it’s too late.”
“She’s gone?”
“Late, late, late.”
“But it’s not six. I said by six. Since she’s not here, I’ll leave right now.”
A man suddenly emerges from the butler’s pantry holding a meat cleaver. He looks familiar. That thick brown hair…it’s the man who worked on the Olds, who followed me to the library. Silently, he stands in front of the kitchen back door, blocking it.
“I’m leaving, Tania. Excuse me.” He doesn’t move a muscle. “Come into the front room, Regina. You must.”
Plan B: I’ll go straight to the front door and out into the street and flag down a vehicle. It’ll take a cool head and two minutes’ time. Carefully, I clear the cane tip in the thick hallway carpeting. My ankle hurts. Tania doesn’t look well herself. The woman who pranced in platforms at the fund-raiser now trudges as if dejected, her shoulders hunched.
At the archway to the front room, there’s a clear view of the front door. I lengthen my stride to make a beeline. I’ve fifteen feet to go when a figure suddenly stirs from a sofa and rises—a short, wiry man in a double-breasted suit, no tie, his shirt open. It’s Jeffrey Arnot.
“Ms. Cutter, welcome. Sit down. You too, Tania. Both of you, sit.”
“Jeffrey, you promised—”
“Shut up, Tania. Behave yourself.”
So Tania followed her husband’s orders to lure me here. “I collect single-malt scotches, Ms. Cutter,” Jeffrey says. “Let me offer you a drink.”
“No thank you.” I perch on a Sheridan chair about twelve feet from the front door. The draperies are drawn, and the mounted armor plates are silhouetted in the gloom. The blades of the chandelier glint as if greased.
“Tania, pour our guest a drink.” Tania reaches for the cut crystal and pours me a glass nearly brimming with scotch. Jeffrey leans against the archway, still standing. If I splash scotch at his face, can I make it to the door?
“To your health, Ms. Cutter. I see you’re hurt. How did that happen?”
“I fell near my home.”
“In daytime?”
“Early this morning.”
“Too bad. Drink up, Ms. Cutter. I insist.” It’s an order. I comply, and fiery whisky streaks from throat to navel. “You must be tired. The dead of night is no time for a scavenger hunt. A person can wind up where it’s none of their business. A person can injure himself—or herself. That’s why a property has walls, for protection. Do drink up.”
I sip again and endure the burn. Tania sits slumped on an Empire sofa, eyes on her husband, who rocks back on his heels. The wall-mounted armor casts a sickly sheen. “My lawyers, Ms. Cutter, tell me that criminal trespass is a punishable offense. And then there’s property theft.”
“Theft?”
“Anything stolen from private property.”
The sample I swiped on the sweater, what else could he mean? And what does he want from this prolonged cat-and-mouse game? Me pleading for my life? “A dab of Perk,” I say with a staged shrug. “It’s hardly grand theft.”
He laughs. “Ah, our good friend perchlorate. Perch.”
“Perchlorate?”
“A business opportunity, waste disposal of perchlorate. And it’s patriotic. Did you know that, Ms. Cutter? Did you know it’s red, white, and blue?”
“No.”
“Indeed. The disposal project assists our nation’s defense industry. NASA, the air force, all the military branches—perch is the crap in their diaper. Every rocket they fired for the last fifty years, the leftover shit is perchlorate. Science says it’s contaminated the lettuce fields all over America, gives us cancer salads. The problem is hushed up in Washington, of course, so we’re really doing the government a favor. Perch is all over Cape Cod, in case you didn’t know. It drives the eco freaks crazy. The trial lawyers would love it, but perch won’t pad their wallets. Not when it’s disposed of. Customers count on us for disposal.”
“In the Eldridge drainpipe.”
“Wherever. As a businessman, Ms. Cutter, I jump at new ventures but take care of the old ones too. If it’s making money and not broke, we don’t fix it. We stay in for the long haul.”
What long haul? The days of B&B Auto up to now? The days of Big Doc’s cult house and his ravings on sewers, toxins, and parts per billion? Living on-site before the fire, Doc knew about the toxic waste disposal. Did Henry Faiser know too, because he was in and out of B&B Auto hawking his stolen watches and shoes?
That’s the Carlo connection. It has to be Carlo who made certain the chop shop drain stayed in place when the deluxe high-rise was built. He worked construction then. What did Devaney call him? A model employee.
I have to get out of here. “My wife told you there’s someone special here to see you.”
“Jeffrey, I’m going upstairs—”
“Hell you are. You sit still and keep your mouth shut. Next time you’ll follow orders and do what you’re told.” Jeffrey snaps his fingers toward the shadows of the dining room. A gangly man steps forward. He has long blond hair in a ponytail. He stands with his back to the front door, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with the very man who circled Barlow Square days ago in my car. Now he barricades the Arnots’ front door.
“This is the man I’m going to meet?”
“Oh no, I can do much better than that. Much better.”
Then it’s Carlo. The Inferno fanatic lurks somewhere in this house, waiting for Jeffrey’s signal. My ankle throbs, my left hand is sweaty on the cane.
Jeffrey calls out, “We’re ready. Come down, please.” He sounds oddly deferential. Then I understand why. The man who’s coming down the stairway is recognizable from the jutting jaw, the blazing white teeth of the smile. It’s the face I’ve seen on TV, the face I saw up close in this very house.
It’s Senator Jordan Wald.
Chapter Twenty-six
Regina Cutter, I believe we’ve met before.” In a navy blazer, khakis, and running shoes, Wald bounds forward boyishly. Then, my God, we are shaking hands. For the second time, I feel the strangeness of his handshake.
“Drink, Jordan?”
“Mineral water sounds good. A runner has to stay in training.” Tania jumps to the bar, grabbing ice cubes with silver claw tongs. The water fizzes. “Tania, my dear, thank you.” Tania sits back down, still grasping the tongs. Wald flashes his smile and faces me. “Jeff and Tania are the motor of the Carney-Wald campaign. They’ve been on board from the beginning. They’re charter members of the Green Circle, our most valued supporters. Did you know that, Ms. Cutter?”
“Not until now.”
“Ope
ning one’s home repeatedly takes very special people. The best.” Wald lifts his glass to toast the Arnots. Jeffrey nods. A pale Tania clutches the tongs. Wald seems perfectly cheerful, as if the room were now buzzing with political supporters, wine, and the riffs of the jazz trio. He looks like a man ready to collect campaign checks.
He conspicuously ignores the ponytailed man who stares out into the middle distance, unmoving as a figure from a wax museum.
“So, Ms. Cutter—or may I call you Regina? Reggie? Which do you prefer? Or is it Gina Baynes?”
My heart stops. “I don’t answer to ‘Gina’ anymore. Or ‘Baynes.’ ”
“Not since moving to Boston? That was last winter, wasn’t it?”
“February.” The word sounds choked. “And before that, Chicago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” My smallest voice.
He laughs. “We politicians need to know our constituents’ backgrounds. How else can we serve the Commonwealth? Am I right, Jeff?” Arnot grins. “Don’t worry, Regina, your private life is safe with me. But you’ll see our Boston families enjoy nothing more than family history. For us, genealogy is, well, it’s either our tic or our trademark. Your choice.”
He winks at me, actually winks. I feel rigid as wood. Could a front window provide escape? Could I smash a big pane and get out?
“Here’s a little surprise I’ve been saving for Jeff and Tania. There’s a Wald family connection to the Arnots’ house, a true fact I’ve learned lately. And, Tania, you’ll be interested to hear this, with all your fine antiques.”
Tania looks up. Jeffrey frowns and looks wary. All eyes are on Wald. “Here it is. My great-great-great-grandfather was an architect. He designed a number of Boston houses, particularly here in the Back Bay. Yours, I understand, is one of them.”
My God, that’s Dehmer. Dehmer, who married Clara Eddington. I sit stock-still. Is this a trick? Jeffrey grunts. Tania murmurs something unintelligible.
“Yes, indeed, I’m descended from Charles Dehmer, who lived on Beacon Hill, though unfortunately, my great-great-great-grandfather died in a carriage accident. But on my mother’s side, I am a Dehmer. That makes me kin to this house. Here’s to all of us.” He drains his glass and gives it to Tania, whose hand is shaking. Wald seems oblivious. It seems that he knows nothing about the breakage and nighttime mayhem. Or Edmund Wight. Or his calamitous courtship of Clara Eddington.
Now You See Her Page 24