“I have to be at the warehouse in twenty minutes,” she told Pixie and rushed to get in the car.
“Hey, don’t forget you have to get me back to the office.” Pixie hastily hopped into the passenger side.
“No problem,” Grace said. It was an automatic response because she’d always refused to consider anything too big a problem. No matter what. Ever.
“I hope David’s inquisition is going well. He didn’t say anything about it. I forgot all about asking in my rush to tell him about poor dead Lester.” Grace bit her lip in remorse. Her hand itched to reach for the phone and call David again. But she had to get to the warehouse and finalize the hardware choices for the plumbers to start work on his bathrooms. She really should have told him about that too. Poor David’s bathrooms would be under construction for a week, and he’d need to make plans to stay somewhere else for the duration.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell David about the bathroom construction that’s scheduled to start tomorrow,” she admitted to Pixie as they pulled up to the curb right in front of their building. Pixie’s head snapped around and her mouth was open for a full five seconds before she uttered a word.
“You’re kidding. What were you thinking? Oh, I can’t wait for this—too bad I won’t be there to see the look on his face when he gets in from London to find he hasn’t got a loo.” Her hand poised on the door latch, Pixie leaned forward, ready to jump from the car. But the look of amusement on her face turned to concern and she stopped. Grace felt compelled to explain.
“I know, I know. I don’t know why I didn’t say a thing about it. It’s all the excitement of working on the murder case. I guess it must have distracted me,” Grace said. It was a lame excuse, she knew.
“No. That’s not it. You wanted to put David in a position where he’d have nowhere to go except to stay with you. That’s what you’re doing,” Pixie said with only a small amount of accusation and mostly an amused shake of her head.
“I could dream, but the truth is David has a million other places he could go—like Mabel’s or the chief’s. He wouldn’t be stuck at all.” She realized the acknowledgement bothered her. “You’re right, but I can do better. I’ll win David over because we’re right for each other. I don’t need to force him to stay at my apartment with me—although it would be a heavenly experience. All I need is time with him. Working with him and laughing with him.”
“You’ll have that. Speaking of Mabel—I wonder what Oscar is up to? Never mind. I have no business wondering that. I have to go,” Pixie said. She gave Grace a pat on the arm as the car came to a stop at their building. Then she flew out the door as if she really were a pixie.
David and his barrister, Roland, left the building through the front door but had to hurry as if they were butchers being chased by a pack of wild dogs. The mob of press had found them. David realized their mistake in not taking a rear exit from the Empress State Building. The commissioner thought that holding the proceedings at the administrative offices instead of at Ten Broadway where New Scotland Yard was located might allow them to avoid media attention, but no.
“Damn. I’ll handle the press until we catch a cab and get you to the hotel,” Roland said under his breath.
“How about if we take a walk to the Inspectors’ Pub down the street? Too late to duck the publicity.” David didn’t mean to rub it in, but Roland’s dramatic behavior at the inquisition had guaranteed they’d get every reporter on them the minute they walked out the door. It was big news that he’d blown up at the magistrates on the committee for browbeating his client. David chuckled at the memory.
“I know. I can’t say how sorry I am,” Roland apologized for the fiftieth time in twenty minutes.
“We may as well meet them head on.” David gave his friend a slap on his back for fortification. They walked down the steps, and the onslaught of questions began. David waved and smiled. Not all the questions were meant to skewer him, after all. He and Roland got to the bottom step and waved the cabbie away. Reporters and photographers followed, chattering more loudly in their excitement.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, if you all quiet down, I’ll make a statement now.” David turned to them on the sidewalk. There was quite a crowd gathered at this point, including curious bystanders as well as media and a news camera. David spied the CNN logo and maintained his affable smile in spite of the realization that the world was watching him. The Mayor of Boston and the city council may not be pleased, and he was already on precarious ground. That didn’t bother him. He’d solve his murder and smuggling case, and then none of them would mind so much about his influential in-laws trying to cast him as a rogue whose carelessness led to his wife’s murder.
No, what bothered him was that Grace might be watching—and then surely worrying, bless her beautiful heart. Bless her beautiful everything from head to toe, inside and out, he thought before dragging himself back to focus on the crowd at hand. It was time to fashion an image of himself for the world to see. He decided to play the role of a legendary Scotland Yard investigator who, after rising to the exalted rank of Chief Superintendent of the Flying Squad, had gone slightly rogue, but for good cause—to avenge his wife’s murder. He would be a consummate professional, yet with a rakish air. Then he’d disappear across the pond until the furor died down.
He asked the mob of work-a-day journalists, reminding himself that they were doing their jobs and how he often had relied on them in the past to do just that, “What is the burning question that you must get the answer to, and if you get a satisfactory answer, you’ll leave me alone for the duration of my short visit to London?” He recognized more than one face in the crowd. The most familiar face, Robby, decided to speak up first and play spokesperson.
“Are you guilty of cold-blooded murder?”
Chapter 13
DAVID’S gut reaction was to laugh at the play for melodrama, but instead he answered in his most commanding, unquestionable voice.
“No.”
“Did you hunt down the infamous Bennett “The Rattler” Pingsley for the sole purpose of avenging your wife’s murder? And if so, how did you know he was actually guilty of her murder?” Robby continued with a more reasonable line of questioning.
The kind of questions that David could work with.
“Yes, I hunted him down to avenge my wife’s death. Fortunately for me, it also happened to be my job as a Scotland Yard professional to investigate crimes such as murder,” he said with not one speck of anything less than one-hundred-percent seriousness. He felt the corners of his mouth draw down in his most dire expression. His heartbeat picked up as he gathered himself to answer the second question, remembering the moment. “I knew Pingsley murdered my wife because he told me he did. With great relish, he shared with me every detail of his deed so there could be no doubt,” he said in a low and menacing voice, the kind used to tell the climax in a hair-raising story.
He was greeted with an abrupt silence. There was a complete lack of raucous follow-up questioning from the crowd. None of them moved even their pens. The red light of he CNN camera stayed steady in the distance, waiting.
“But I didn’t kill him to avenge my wife. I killed him because he left me no choice. I would have gladly dragged him in for trial to watch him slowly come to terms with the end of his life as he knew it.” He felt his barrister put his hand on his shoulder. There were a few murmured questions, and some notes and head nodding, but the questioning was over. All in all, he’d much rather suffer the questioning of the press than the Scotland Yard tribunal, if there’d ever been a choice. He and Roland turned to walk the remaining short distance along the cobblestones to the pub of choice for all the junior Sherlocks in London—and those visiting from out of town. He reminded himself as he pushed through the door to the dark interior that he was only visiting now.
His cell phone rang the minute he and Roland took a couple of seats at the bar. The others had started gathering around, and one familiar face ordered him a S
cotch. The bartender put it in front of him as he slipped the phone from his pocket, knowing it would be Dan.
“Is it your chief back in Boston?” Roland asked.
“The only question is whether or not he’s seen CNN yet or only heard about it from the mayor.” David put the phone to his ear. He was in a mood to multi-task, so while he said hello, he picked up his shot of Scotch and downed it while he listened to his oldest friend.
“How bad is it? I heard about the blow-up at the hearing—Scotland Yard is all over the news. The mayor is beside himself—so they say. I’ve been ignoring him.” Tension was clear in Dan’s voice.
“Relax and have a drink with me,” David said.
“Where are you?” The background noise must have just reached Dan’s overly anxious consciousness. “Are you at a bar?”
“A pub to be exact. The official pub for all Sherlock Holmes wannabees.” He motioned to the bartender to fill his glass again. Roland gave him a shake of the head and joined him in another drink while he eavesdropped.
“Good for you. I think I will join you as soon as I get home, but it’s a little earlier in the day here. So tell me, are they going to approve the exchange program after all the furor has died down?”
“If I were a betting man, and I am as you well know, I would say yes. This is all to show how thoroughly fair and evenhanded and above-board the Yard is with their own—it’s all to maintain their impeccable reputation.” He watched the bartender put another drink down in front of him and give him a wink. Roland raised his glass and David obliged, drinking the second down. As always the second one went down more smoothly until he felt as calm and cool as he sounded. But it could have been the fact that he was among friends.
“Besides, public sentiment is clearly on my side. I made sure of that with my latest impromptu press conference. How’s the real murder investigation going—to change to a more pertinent subject. I’ll be back home in Boston by morning.”
“Glad to hear it.” Dan paused and sighed. “Your Grace is making me nervous. She’s too involved and I can’t seem to extricate her from the case.” He sounded half disgruntled and half concerned.
David thought of Grace and his first inclination was to smile. He must be daft. “I know. She needs a keeper.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll watch out for her until you get back.”
“I’m relying on that.” David had no choice. “Did you check with I.C.E. on the information Oscar gave us?” David asked in a return-to-business tone. Roland ordered them another round but switched them to beer in true lawyerly fashion.
“They’ll get back to us. They mostly asked me a lot of questions about you and your connection to the case,” Dan said. “I’m counting on you to crack it.”
“I am indispensable after all. I contacted an Interpol friend and they gave me the same name as Oscar did—international football—soccer—star, apparently. Interpol says they’ve been trying to get something solid on him for years, but he’s untouchable and unpredictable—and suspected of killing or hiring locals to kill several key people—potential witnesses.”
“Sounds like a swell guy. Guess money and fame aren’t enough for him. Any idea where he is now?”
“Oscar said he’s going to take care of finding him. Since I was leaving town, I wasn’t in a position to turn down the offer. I’ll check in with you as soon as I get off the plane—first thing in the morning your time.”
“I’ll be waiting. I’m also lining up a celebration dinner for the settlement of your estate and the rest of the hoopla. Who cares what the in-laws dug up? Having it over will be good enough,” Dan said.
“I believe you’re right.” David smiled to himself. Roland and the bartender had slowed down their drink refills, he noticed, and it was a good thing or he might not even make it to the door, never mind the airport. “I think being notorious will lend a certain cachet to my credentials as Chief of the Scotland Yard Exchange Program at the Boston Police Department. What do you think?”
“Sure. We’ll be notorious as a haven for all the notorious blokes at Scotland Yard,” Dan said.
“You know it can go both ways—you send all your hot potatoes from the BPD to London.”
“Sounds perfect.” Dan sounded serious.
They ended the call and David slipped his phone back in his pocket. He would’ve liked to call Grace, but resisted the urge.
“You’ve been loads of fun,” Roland said, finally putting down his glass and waving off the bartender when he would have refilled it. David chuckled.
“Might as well have never left the States. With the bloody cell phone calls, can’t get away anyway.” David pretended he was glad to get away to London.
“Who are you kidding? You’ve returned home—to your true home in Boston after all these years. I never wanted to mention this before, but in spite of your British heritage, you connections with your father in the diplomatic service and your lofty position in the Yard, you’ve never truly been one of us. We’ve all always known you were a Yank through and through.” Roland toasted him.
“Bad to the bone, as they say.” David drained the last few drops, then slipped his wallet from his jacket and opened it, only to find it stuffed with US dollars as if to prove his friend’s observation.
Roland spied the contents and laughed. “I close my case. Don’t worry,” he said, pulling his wallet out. “I’ll throw it onto your bill.” They both laughed at that. David reminded himself he could afford it—a drop in the mighty bucket of his lost wife’s fortune. He’d discuss the estate with Roland another time. He didn’t need his wife’s money—never had. He had his own family fortune, even if it wasn’t as large. And then he’d never touched that because he’d made his own living all his life, and done quite well without all the bloody ancestors.
They rose from their barstools simultaneously and headed for the door. David gave a farewell to the group and they left, catching a cab out front.
“I’ll be in touch as soon as I get the official word on the estate. Won’t be long now that they’ve got their pound of flesh. It’s in the news and the weight is on your side so they’ll do the right thing.” Roland said goodbye, and David got into the cab and headed to the airport.
He’d never even changed his clothes and realized he’d have to go home before showing up at police HQ in Boston like this. He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his face and thought of Grace. An odd reminder. Then his phone rang as he was disembarking from the cab and he knew it was her. He hurled some US money at the driver, hoping he wouldn’t squawk. He didn’t. Then David slipped the phone from his jacket and composed himself as he walked toward Heathrow’s International Terminal.
“Hello, Grace.” He made sure his tone was evenly modulated and not too heavy from his hurried steps.
“You knew it was me.” She sounded breathless herself. He grinned as he felt the energy from her enthusiasm run through his bloodstream like a powerful drug. He’d never felt anything like it before he’d met her. If he could bottle it, he’d put every energy drink company out of business instantly, and most of the coffee people too.
“I was thinking to call you myself. You’re staying out of trouble as promised, I presume?” He couldn’t help the slight worry.
“What else could happen? It’s hard to believe Lester is dead. It’s harder to believe we found his body.”
He could believe it with no problem. “I’m sorry you had to find his body, and I’m very sorry you lost your friend, Grace.”
“I’m so sorry about everything—mostly that I didn’t get there sooner, but…” Her teary voice tore at him.
“You did all you could.” He didn’t want to think what would have happened if she’d gotten there sooner. “You’ve been very, uh, helpful—what with finding bodies and smuggled artifacts and all. But, Grace, now we have to find the killer, and that’s where police experience and training comes in. You’ll have to leave that to the professionals—Dan and me. Some very dangerous people ar
e involved, and I want you have nothing more to do with this case.” David hoped she was convinced.
“I suppose you’re right…” Her words were still weak with sadness.
He was going to go through security soon. The line was short in front of him, so he had to make the conversation shorter.
“Listen to me. You need to take care of yourself. Until the case is resolved, don’t go anywhere alone. Promise me. And when I get back to Boston, I’ll meet you as soon as I can, okay?”
“Yes, that would be wonderful. I miss you and I can’t wait to see you.” Her voice brightened.
He felt taller somehow. “I’ll see you very soon.” He hung up, wrung out. He kept the déjà vu feelings at bay because it was, realistically speaking, not the same circumstances as his wife’s murder at all. And yet the sense of needing to protect Grace from certain danger hung with him like the malodorous smell of a skunk.
He sounded so protective and determined, she thought, and concerned for her. That was a sure sign that he cared, no matter how misplaced his worry was.
But the case was important, and she was here and he was there. She’d have to see how helpful she might or might not be in finding the killer. Tomorrow morning first thing she’d go over to Theresa and Rick’s loft and look for clues while she helped Theresa redecorate. Grace only felt moderately guilty that she should be working on David’s townhouse. The plumbers would be there tomorrow and she needed to make sure they were on track and out of there as soon as possible.
“Oh no!” she said out loud. She was sitting at her desk at the office and most other people had left, but her Pixie was still there and poked her head in the open door.
“What now? Another dead body?”
“Not unless you count mine—soon to be killed by Batman himself.” She chewed her lip and thought of calling him again. Pixie gave her the quizzical look.
“I forgot to tell David that the plumbers will be at his townhouse tomorrow. Again,” she admitted.
The Throwbacks Page 16