Aphrodite w-3

by Russell Andrews

  "We're going to go now, Ken. But I want to make sure you're okay with this."

  "I'm okay," Kendall said.

  "Jay doesn't think we'll be away for long. And I'll call you every day."

  "Okay."

  "Kenny, it's okay to be upset. And it's okay to be scared. You don't have to pretend."

  "I'm not upset, Mom. And I'm not scared. Lizbeth said she's gonna take me shopping. And did you see the pool out back? She said I can swim every day. And they have a cook. We don't even have to go out for french fries-she said Annabelle can make french fries. I didn't even know real people could make french fries-I thought they were only in restaurants." She stopped suddenly. "I mean, not that I'm gonna eat french fries, Mom, because I'm gonna eat really healthy, you know, like normal."

  Deena leaned over and kissed her eight-year-old. "When I come back, try to pretend you're happy to see me, okay?"

  "Of course she's going to be happy," Lizbeth said. "Aren't you, Kenny?"

  Kendall cocked her head at her mother and grinned. "Can we get a cook when we go home, Mom?"

  "No, we cannot," Deena said.

  "Well, I'll still probably be glad to see you."

  Deena gave her one more kiss and another hug for good measure.

  "She'll be fine," Lizbeth said.

  "I know," Deena told her.

  "And so will you," Lizbeth added softly.

  Deena shrugged, then effortlessly rose to her feet in one fluid motion. "That one I'm not so sure about," she said. Roger Mallone had pulled his black Mercedes off to the side of the Westwood house, leaving it in the twelve-car parking area that had been added on several years ago. He strolled over there, got in the driver's seat, closed the door behind him. After one more solid yawn, he turned the key and started the engine. When the car got to the gate, he stopped, waited for the automatic doors to swing open, then cautiously pulled out onto the street. There was a silver Ford parked a quarter of a block away. The driver, a powerful-looking guy, had the aura of an ex-football player or a boxer. He was sipping coffee from a tall foam cup. Roger waved to the guy, a friendly good-morning wave, as he passed by, but the coffee drinker didn't wave back. Roger drove three blocks away, turned the corner, waited a few minutes, then got out of the car and opened the trunk.

  Roger leaned in, stuck his hands inside the trunk, and helped Deena Harper step out. When she was standing, he extended his hand toward Justin, who made it out, too, although a little less gracefully than Deena had. Justin reached back in and took the two large briefcases that Roger had brought over half an hour earlier.

  "You were right about the house being watched." He described the man drinking coffee in the car.

  "Rollins," Justin said.

  "Do you think Wanda told him?" Deena asked.

  "It's possible. But if she did, I don't think he would be waiting outside. He'd know for a fact we were inside and he would have come in."

  "To arrest you?" Roger said.

  "I have a feeling this guy's not here to make arrests," Justin told him.

  "Oh," Roger said. Then he realized the implication of Justin's words and repeated it, with emphasis. "Oh…well…the key's in the ignition. Maybe you should-you know-get the hell out of here."

  "One more thing."

  "What?"

  "You have a cell phone?"

  "Sure."

  "Can I take it? I'm sure they're not only tracking mine, they're tapping it. I can't risk it."

  "They can do that?" Roger asked. "They can tap cell phones?"

  "They can," Justin told him.

  Roger reached into his pocket, pulled out a small phone. "It's all yours."

  "I can't thank you enough."

  "Don't even think about it. There's got to be a promotion in this for me somewhere. And don't even worry about screwing up the car. If anything happens to it, I'll make your dad buy me a new one."

  They shook hands. Roger gave Deena an awkward hug. Then he wished them both luck, stepped back onto the sidewalk, and watched as Justin got behind the wheel of the Mercedes and drove away.

  29

  "They can really tap cell phones?" Deena asked.

  Justin nodded. "There's a device called a Trigger Fish. About the size of a briefcase. It can not only tap in so they can listen to conversations, they can triangulate off satellite sites so they can get a fix on our location. That's what I'm really worried about. Rhode Island's small enough to hide in without helping them out."

  "Come on. They can tell exactly where we are?"

  "Maybe not exactly. But within about a block. And if they get that close, we wouldn't be too hard to find."

  "I don't think I like the twenty-first century."

  For the next half hour they rode in silence. Then Deena mentioned that she had never driven a Mercedes before and she asked if she could give it a shot. Justin said, "Why not?" He pulled over and, as they were switching seats, she said, "Oh, damn. I forgot. Your father told me to give you something after we left." She reached into her bag, pulled out an envelope. She watched as he opened it, saw his lips curl up in the faintest of smiles.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "Something we need," he told her. "Something I guess he didn't think I'd take from him directly." He held the envelope out for her to see. It held about ten thousand dollars in cash.

  "I'm starting to like your father," she said.

  Deena drove the rest of the way into Newport. When they were approaching the city, Justin pulled out Mallone's phone and made a call to Billy DiPezio.

  "Did you get it?" he said into the phone. Then he listened for a minute, said, "Okay, thanks," and hung up. Deena glanced at him quizzically, but all he said was, "A little favor from Billy. Nothing essential."

  She was hurt by his evasive answer, but she didn't want to say so. Too petty, she decided. But she sulked for the rest of the drive. Justin didn't seem to notice, though; he was lost in thought. Deena could practically hear the wheels spinning in his head as he tried to put the pieces of the inexplicable puzzle together.

  She forgot all about her hurt when they arrived in Newport. She was too stunned to sulk anymore. This was a town that reeked of money. Money, snobbery, and faded grandeur. As they drove past manor after manor, the sea air misting over the city, she felt as though she were stepping back into a Gatsby-like past that never really existed and yet still managed to dominate the present. She felt as though everyone on the street should be wearing smoking jackets and sipping tea out of china cups.

  Justin directed her toward the waterfront; she pulled up in front of the gates of a mansion and he hopped out of the car. Deena was proud of herself that she didn't gape or go, "Oh my God!" because this house dwarfed the Westwood home in Providence. She didn't know houses came in this size.

  Justin punched the security code into the enormous gates, watched as they swung out, then waved her through. He hopped back in-she watched as the gates closed automatically behind them-and she drove up the quarter-mile road that twisted its way to the main house. Once there, Justin walked about ten feet to the left of the front door, picked up one flowerpot in the midst of several, and lifted a key from beneath it. He used the key to open the door. As soon as he was inside, he raced to a green glass vase that sat on a landing by the stairway, took a key from beneath that vase, then ran back toward the front door. He inserted the key into a small silver-metal box on the wall. When the door to the box swung open, he punched in another series of numbers. Then he turned to her and said, "Come on in. All security systems are off."

  He led her upstairs, put their one small bag in a bedroom, and dropped Mallone's briefcases in the middle of an enormous king-size bed.

  "Ready to start work?" he asked.

  She nodded and he pulled her onto the bed. They both kicked off their shoes, turned on the table lamps to the side of their respective pillows, nestled back against the headboard, made themselves as comfortable as possible, and began reading. After four hours with hardly a word being spoken, D
eena finally dropped one of her files on the floor and said, "How about some coffee?"

  He mumbled a reply, never looking up from his report, and she hopped off the bed and meandered her way downstairs. She poked around the kitchen, opening up cabinets and the fridge, checking out the well-stocked pantry. She called upstairs, "Any idea where your mother keeps the coffee?"

  He called back down to her. "Yup. In the house next door."

  She decided this was worth climbing back up the stairs for. When she stood in front of him, hands on her hips, she said, "Your parents own two houses here?"

  Justin shook his head. "Uh-uh. Just one."

  "Then why would she keep her coffee next door?"

  "Because that's the one they own."

  Deena's brow furrowed and she cocked her head to the side. "Then whose house is this?"

  "It belongs to the Rutherfords," he said. "Jane and Brandon. Old family friends."

  "And where are they?"

  "In Europe. I asked my father if they were around. He told me they were in the south of France for the month. Hotel du Cap, to be exact. I practically lived here in the summers when I was a kid. Their daughter and I used to date."

  "And they just let you stay here?" she asked incredulously.

  "Well… no," he said. "Technically, we're breaking and entering."

  She moved to the bed and snatched the report out of his hands. "Okay. Tell me what's going on."

  "It's pretty simple, really. My parents live next door. I figure that if all the various people who are now looking for us can deduce that I might have gone to Providence, eventually they'll also realize that I might come here."

  "So we came here, what, so they could just find us?"

  "We didn't come here," he said. "We came next door to here. Or rather, we're here, next door to where they're going to come. This way we can see who they are and maybe find out what they want."

  "And you don't think they'll come all the way next door to see if we're here?"

  "No, I don't. Would you?"

  Her mouth opened, then clapped shut. "No," she said. "I wouldn't. I'd think that we're just a couple of normal neighbors who don't have a clue what's going on." She frowned now, something else on her mind. "How is anyone supposed to reach us? With the information you want. Does everyone know we're here? Or do they all have Roger's cell number?"

  "No. Too risky."

  "So if Rollins is using this Rifle Trout or whatever it is…"

  "Trigger Fish."

  "Whatever…to track your cell phone, how can anybody call you without the FBI knowing?"

  "Nobody in law enforcement is going to think I'm stupid enough to go back to East End Harbor. I'd have to be insane."

  "So?"

  "So I guarantee you that nobody's paying any attention to what's happening at my house there."

  "What is happening at your house?"

  "I told Wanda and my parents and Roger to call my East End number if they want to reach me. I told them someone there would tell them the next step to take."

  "Who?"

  "There is nobody. I call-forwarded that number to here. It won't fool them forever, but it will for a while. Even if somebody gives us up and they send someone to the house, it'll take them a little bit to figure out the phone."

  He smiled at her and she said, "Is this what you were like as a homicide cop? This devious?"

  He nodded.

  Still frowning, she asked, "How'd you know their security codes here?"

  "I didn't. Billy's the only one who knows where we are and I got them from him. He called in a favor. The police force has access, in case they've got to get into the house when the owners aren't here."

  "Some favor. Since I met you, I don't think I like the idea of the police force knowing anything about me."

  "You might have a point."

  She stood with her hands on her hips, trying to express some other form of disapproval. Finally, she just shook her head and said, "Well, do you have any idea where Mrs. Rutherford keeps her coffee?"

  "Try the freezer," he told her. Then he went back to reading his report.

  A minute later, he heard her call up: "How'd you know that? Who the hell keeps coffee in the freezer?" They kept reading until two o'clock in the morning. Justin had pages and pages of his handwritten notes: scribbles, facts, diagrams, links between companies and employees. Deena was concentrating on any personal material about Douglas Kransten and Louise Marshall. She'd pored over magazine profiles and newspaper stories and sifted through various corporate reports, focusing on personal information that might be gleaned from them. Justin had asked her to keep a chronology of the couple's lives together, starting from their births, keeping track of all major events. "It's not always business or money," he told her. "Sometimes the answer you're looking for comes from something totally unexpected."

  At two, he tossed the business report he was reading onto the floor. He reached over, began rubbing her shoulders. She instantly melted.

  "Excuse me," he said as he kept rubbing, "are you purring?"

  "Mmmmm," she said. "Mmmmmm. That feels good."

  "So does anything strike you?" he asked.

  "Uh-huh. You should use your thumb a little bit more. Not your knuckles. Did I tell you that I used to be a masseuse? Before I started teaching yoga?"

  "No, you didn't. But I was referring to what you've read, not my technique."

  "Mmmmmm. One thing. It's nothing, really. But it's strange. Mmmm… ohhhhhh. Up a little bit on my neck would be good."

  "What is it?"

  She reached for her notepad, flipped over to the second page. "They're a fascinating couple, really. Scary because there's so little about them that doesn't revolve around their businesses. When you read about their marriage, even their courtship, it's always discussed in business terms. They merged more than they got married."

  "That's what's strange? I think that's fairly common in their world."

  "No. What's strange is that there was one personal thing that seems unresolved. They had a child. Well, I don't know if they had a child. But she was pregnant. Louise, I mean."

  "You're on a first-name basis now?"

  She swung her eyes over at him, looked a little sheepish. "Well, yeah, I guess I feel like I know them both"-she pointed to the stack of reading material-"after all this."

  "That's good," he said. "I was just teasing. It's what happens to cops, too. When we're studying a potential perp, it becomes very personal. You really do feel like you know them. You have to. It's the only way you can get into their heads."

  "So, anyway…Ohhh, just a drop lower… ohhh yeahhhh… ohhhhhh…there's a mention about Louise getting pregnant." She looked down at her notes. "Here it is. There's a reference to it in Time magazine in 1974. She's eight months' pregnant. April, 'seventy-four."

  "So?"

  "There's no mention of a child anywhere else."

  "Maybe they're protective parents, worried about the kid's privacy."

  "No, no, no. No way. Too rich, too famous. Too visible. It would be like Donald Trump's kid, whether they wanted it to be or not. Page six, the whole deal. No way."

  "Maybe Louise miscarried."

  "She made it through eight months. Seems unlikely. There were no stories to indicate she was ill or having a tough time."

  "Then maybe the kid died at birth."

  "Maybe. Could be. But I don't think so," Deena said. "There's some reference-hold on-in an interview in Parade… here. In 'ninety-five. So, twenty years later. The reporter asks her about children and Louise says, 'Well, you know, our daughter died. And after that, we never felt up to having another child.'"

  "The daughter still could have died in childbirth."

  "I don't know. It's just a funny way of putting it. 'Our daughter.' It makes her sound like she was alive. More than that. Part of the family."

  "That's it?" Justin asked.

  Deena stiffened. "You told me to note anything that seemed odd. Well, that seems odd to me
. If there's anything that can change or define a parent, it's losing a-" She saw his head snap back as if he'd been slapped. She reached out for him. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Jay. I didn't think. I wasn't thinking about you at all. I'm sorry."

  He cleared his throat, let the tension in his shoulders relax. "No, no," he said. "It's fine. You're right, though. There isn't anything quite like it. And it's worth checking out." He reached for the phone.

  "Who are you calling?" Deena asked.

  "Billy DiPezio."

  "It's two-fifteen."

  "He's just getting started." She heard the phone ring, then someone pick up on the other end. "It's Jay," he said into the receiver. "Where are you?… Nice. Does your wife ever mind that you never come home?… I'd like you to check something else out. I want to know if there's a birth certificate for Douglas Kransten's and Louise Marshall's baby. Should have been born in April or May of 'seventy-four. Not sure. If I had to guess, I'd say New York. I also want to see if there's a record of the kid's death…Billy, let me ask you something. I'm stone-cold sober and I'm barely going to remember talking to you tomorrow. You're in a strip club, on what, your sixth scotch-okay, seventh: How the hell are you going to remember every detail of this conversation?… Yeah, I know you always do. I just want to know your secret…Oh, okay. Thanks. You know where I am." Justin hung up, turned to Deena.

  "So what's his secret?" she asked.

  "Dirty living, he said."

  She nodded at the large bed. "Think the Rutherfords'll mind if we join him?"

  Justin smiled. "You don't know the Rutherfords," he told her. "They're going to want pictures." The phone woke them up at seven o'clock.

  "Jay?"

  He coughed out a half-asleep response.

  "It's Wanda. I…I didn't think I'd get you directly."

  "Life's full of surprises. What's up?"