1 Through a Glass, Deadly

by Sarah Atwell

  She and I exchanged another wordless communication. Did I think this was related to dead Jack? I had to admit I did—it was too much of a coincidence otherwise. And I could tell that she did too. Cam watched both of us with clear bewilderment.

  “All right, then,” I said crisply, “we call the police.” I pulled out my cell phone and punched in 911. “I want to report a break-in at . . .” I looked at Allison and she repeated the address to me, and I passed it on to the operator. “No, there’s no one there now, but we haven’t gone inside. No, we won’t touch anything. We’ll wait right here for the police. Thank you.”

  “Can I at least see what it looks like?” Allison’s voice was plaintive.

  “Only if you can do it without touching anything. Door, light switch, you know.”

  Allison nodded and advanced timidly toward the door, Cam a scant foot behind her. He pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand, then gingerly pushed the already-open door wider. “There’s a switch?” he asked Allison.

  “Just inside the door,” she said.

  Cam reached in and flicked the switch, revealing the chaos of the interior of Allison’s humble studio apartment. Everything had been tossed somewhere and left to lie. Someone had slashed cushions and even the single mattress, and clumps of stuffing lay everywhere.

  “Oh, my,” Allison whispered, then wavered. Cam took her arm and guided her to one of the plastic chairs around the pool, then stayed beside her. I seized the opportunity to survey the mess myself, and one thought was abundantly clear: Someone had been looking for something.

  A police car pulled up at the curb, and Matt Lundgren stepped out.

  Chaper 10

  benchblow: process of blowing into the pipe, done by an assistant while the gaffer works seated at the bench (Edward T. Schmid, Beginning Glassblowing)

  Just what I didn’t need. And what the heck was the chief of police doing here, responding to a simple B and E call?

  He stood next to his car for a moment, surveying me, then Allison and Cam, and he shook his head. Then he walked over to where I was standing by the apartment door.

  “Hello, Em. Why am I not surprised?”

  “Matt, what the hell are you doing here?” The dogs at my feet were still as stone—probably waiting for a cue from me, and my body language was sending a very hostile signal.

  “Glad to see me, eh? I heard the address and put two and two together, so I said I’d handle it.”

  Cam had managed to tear himself away from Allison, and now came up to stand next to me. “Matt,” he said. His tone would freeze a woolly mammoth. He knew my history with Matt.

  “Cam. Long time,” Matt responded.

  The two men glared at each other for a total of three seconds, until Matt broke it off. He nodded toward Allison, watching from the safe distance of her chair. “Her place, right?”

  “Right. It’s been trashed. Tossed. Whatever you cop types call it.”

  “You haven’t been in?”

  I stood up a little straighter. “No, sir, and we haven’t touched anything. I watch enough cop shows on TV to know better.”

  “Very good.”

  Was he being sarcastic?

  He nodded toward Allison. “Ms. McBride?”

  Allison stood up and made her way unsteadily over to us. Cam shifted closer to her, and I was sure that Matt noticed.

  “This is your apartment?” Matt asked.

  “It is.”

  “What can you tell me about this?”

  “I left this morning about eight and rode my bike over to Em’s. I worked at her shop all day, and then we had dinner together. We came back here and saw the door open, and called the police immediately. That’s all.”

  Matt looked at me, then Cam, but didn’t bother to ask us if we agreed with Allison’s account. Then he moved to the door and stopped in the doorway, surveying the scene of destruction. “Was the light on when you arrived?”

  Oops, I’d forgotten that. “Oh, no, sorry. Cam turned it on, but he used a handkerchief, and none of us went any farther. Honest.”

  “I see,” Matt said.

  I immediately felt guilty. “Now what?”

  “Ms. McBride, can you come here and tell me if anything is missing? Television, electronic devices, any valuables?”

  Allison moved to stand next to him and looked around the room. It didn’t take long: It was a typical student studio, furnished, with bottom-of-the-line appliances. “No, I don’t see anything that’s gone. Not that I had much— mostly clothes, some books. Nothing worth any money. A few pieces of jewelry from my mother, but they weren’t valuable. Why would anyone go through my things?”

  Matt didn’t answer immediately, and I could almost see the gears turning in his head. “Ms. McBride, I don’t know. But I think, in light of . . . other recent events, that we should treat this quite seriously. I’m going to call in the forensic team and see if your perpetrator was stupid enough to leave any fingerprints behind. Is there someplace you can stay tonight? I don’t know when we’ll be able to release the scene.”

  “She can come home with me,” I volunteered without thinking. But thinking wouldn’t have changed my response. Whatever weird chemical reaction was going on between Allison and Cam, Allison was in trouble (again? still?), and I wanted to help. The rest would be sorted out in the wash. “Do you need her any longer?”

  “I don’t think so. She’ll be at your place? Are you still at the same address?”

  “I am.” And he knew quite well where that was. “Then we’ll be going, and you can reach us there if you need us.” With that, I turned on my heel and marched toward Cam’s car, hoping that he and Allison would follow. Luckily they did, if more slowly. Wordlessly we climbed back into the car, and Cam drove back to my place. Wordlessly he parked, and we climbed the stairs. It was not until we had all made it into my living space, and the door was shut behind us, that he demanded, “What the hell is going on?”

  I sighed. “I was going to explain. . . . Listen, anyone want something to drink?”

  “Em, you’re stalling. Yes, I’ll have a beer, and then you two are going to explain . . . a whole lot of things.” Cam dropped into a chair and glared at us.

  “Right.” I retrieved three cold bottles from the refrigerator and distributed them, then Allison and I sat on the settee facing Cam, like schoolgirls before the headmaster. I looked briefly at her, but she had reverted to frozen-rabbit mode again. It was up to me. “Well, let’s see—today’s Friday, right? Um, late Wednesday night I heard what I thought were prowlers downstairs, or, no—I guess the dogs heard something first. Then I did. Some thumps and stuff. So I called 911—no, Cam, don’t give me dirty looks. I’m not stupid. I called the police first, and then I put on some pants and came downstairs to check things out. The shop was fine, but when I went into the studio and turned on the light . . .” I had to swallow, reliving that awful moment again. “I saw there was a man with his head stuffed into my furnace. Or maybe I mean the body of a man, because he was pretty dead.”

  Cam’s expression finally softened. “Oh, Em—that’s awful. What happened?”

  I shrugged. “Nobody knows yet. But then Allison showed up. Oh, wait, back up—Allison came by and watched a class last week, and she said she was interested in learning about glasswork, but she didn’t have much money, and I thought maybe we could work out a way for her to work off the cost of lessons. Then we had dinner, and I took her home, but she came back—”

  “Em, slow down. You’re dithering.” Cam’s voice sliced through my rambling monologue. He was right—I was dancing around the next big thing: the dead man’s identity.

  “Yeah, all right. So she came back not long after the police had arrived, and—”

  Allison interrupted. “The man was my husband. Former husband. We hadn’t been together for almost two years, and I hadn’t seen him in all that time.”

  The progression of expressions passing across Cam’s countenance was something to watch,
but I couldn’t enjoy it because I could see his pretty castles in the air crumbling before my eyes. Shock, sympathy, anger, then comprehension, as the meaning of Allison’s words sank in. His fragile damsel in distress had a husband. Had had. The husband was dead. Good or bad? He was having trouble processing things fast enough.

  I decided I’d better move the discussion forward. “So once Allison announced that, the cops took her to police headquarters to get a full statement, and I followed as soon as I could. That’s when I ran into Matt, and I asked him why he had been dragged into this case, but it was pretty clear when this smarmy FBI agent showed up and wanted to talk to Allison.”

  Cam silently held up a hand, and I stopped talking. “Let me get this straight. You found the body of a dead man in your furnace, and he turns out to be Allison’s husband, and the FBI is interested?”

  I beamed at him. He always had been a smart boy. “Bingo.”

  He turned to Allison and said in a plaintive voice, “Do you know what’s going on?”

  Allison turned her huge gray eyes on him and shook her head emphatically. “I do not! Jack told me very little about his life outside our home, and we had other problems. . . . I left him. But I never saw the law at our door, nor the FBI.”

  Cam’s expression softened. “I believe you. But did they tell you anything?”

  “Ha!” I said. “They sent me home, and then they let Allison go because they didn’t have anything like evidence against her, and that was that—until we saw her apartment tonight.”

  “I see,” he answered. He probably did—or at least as much as I did.

  “Oh, and I poked around on the Internet a little, and I’m wondering if maybe Jack had Mob connections. Irish or Italian, or a little of each.”

  Cam cocked an eyebrow at me. “That’s not the answer to everything, you know. What led you to that conclusion?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, a hint here and there—you know how those newspaper articles say things without really saying them? I was reading between the lines, kind of. But anyway, I think he was into something illegal. Why else would he be dead?”

  “I think that’s circular reasoning. He’s dead because he’s a crook; he’s a crook because he’s dead. You sure it wasn’t suicide? Or an accident?”

  Sure, people broke in to jump into my furnace all the time. “If you’d seen him, you wouldn’t ask.”

  We all fell silent, studying our own navels, figuratively. I had no idea what the next step should be. On the other hand, I’d invited Allison to stay here. Which might be safer for her. Or it might make things more dangerous for me. But not as long as Cam was here. But he’d be leaving on Sunday. I shook my head, trying to clear it. I was tired, I was confused, and I had no answers.

  There was a brisk rapping on my outside door. Damn—I hadn’t heard anyone approaching. But then, neither had the dogs. The brilliant conclusion I drew was that the person or persons now outside my door had made a deliberate effort to avoid being heard. And done a good job of it.

  I looked at Allison and Cam, who each looked as bewildered as I felt. For a moment I wondered if we were all supposed to scurry around the room looking for hiding places, but then I remembered that we were all responsible grown-ups. I stood up and made sure my cell phone was in my pocket—just in case—and then I crossed to the door and opened it.

  I was confronted by the stony visage of Agent Price. After that sank in, I realized that Matt was lurking behind him, a step or two below.

  “May we come in?” Agent Price asked, I swear through a clenched jaw. Being polite seemed to hurt him.

  I stepped back and swung the door wide. “Please. It looks like we’re having a party tonight—the more, the merrier.”

  My humor didn’t faze Agent Price, who stalked in and took stock of the crowd. Cam had risen to his feet, on the alert. Fred and Gloria gathered behind my legs, growling low in their throats. They didn’t like Agent Price. Smart dogs.

  Matt followed the FBI agent into the room and gave me a rueful smile in passing. This was the agent’s show, not his, he seemed to be saying. I brought up the rear—or rather, the dogs did, and then they arrayed themselves with Allison and Cam.

  “Should I make coffee or tea? Or would you prefer something cold?” Ever the perfect hostess, I was. Maybe they’d like leftover mac and cheese.

  “Nothing for me,” said Agent Price. Why was I not surprised?

  “You have any juice?” Matt asked. I nodded and went to fetch some, and added a glass for myself. Then I filled a pitcher with ice water and grabbed some more glasses. When I returned to the action, Agent Price and Cam were face-to-face.

  “You’re the brother?” Agent Price demanded.

  “Cameron Dowell. San Diego.” I almost laughed at Cam’s serious tone and curt speech.

  I set the pitcher on the low table, then straightened up. “All right, everybody knows everybody else. Why are you here, Agent Price?”

  “May I sit?” Without waiting for an answer, he dragged one of the chairs from around the table and placed it to face the couch and chair. Matt, I noticed from the corner of my eye, retreated to lean against a wall, watchful. “Ms. McBride, it appears as though nothing was taken from your apartment, although it was very thoroughly searched. Do you have any idea what anyone might have been looking for?”

  Allison shook her head. “No. I told Chief Lundgren, I don’t have much of anything. Certainly nothing that anyone else might want.”

  “Have you received anything from your husband in the past year or so?”

  “No! He didn’t know where I was, or at least, that’s what I hoped.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!” There was a shrill note of hysteria in Allison’s voice, and I didn’t blame her.

  It was Cam who stepped in. “She’s already told you she hasn’t heard from him. What is it you’re looking for?”

  Agent Price regarded Cam as though he were a rather unpleasant bug. He tried the silent approach, but when Cam didn’t back down, finally he said, “I don’t know.”

  Wow. Send out a press release: The all-seeing Agent Warren Price had admitted there was something he didn’t know. Before he could slam shut the gates again, I interrupted. “Agent Price, why were you interested in John Flannery?”

  Before he answered, Price looked at Matt. Matt shrugged slightly, then nodded. Gee, thanks, Matt—you think I can be trusted? But I didn’t have time to dwell on that, because Agent Price had begun talking again.

  “John Flannery was arrested in Chicago last year and was going to go to trial soon. We lost sight of him, but we didn’t think much of it until lately. Then we started hearing rumors from our informants that he had dropped out of sight deliberately, maybe even left town.”

  “You lost him,” I said bluntly.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Having wrung this admission from him, I thought I should change tactics quickly. “Why were you interested in him to begin with? I assume he was involved in some sort of illegal activity—but what?”

  “Jack Flannery was a low- to midlevel, uh, shall we say ‘wiseguy,’ for the Irish Mob in Chicago.”

  “Hold on—there’s an Irish Mob in Chicago?”

  Price nodded. “We picked him up in a sweep—he wasn’t involved in anything major. Then he left—and rumor had it that he’d taken some money with him that didn’t belong to him.”

  “Ah.” I digested the implications of that, as best I could, given that my brain had turned to mush. “So you think some of his buddies from Chicago caught up with him and killed him?”

  “There is no evidence to suggest any presence of Chicago colleagues in Tucson at the moment.”

  Was that a “no”? Couldn’t this man speak in simple sentences? “So if they didn’t kill him, who did?”

  “I can’t say.”

  All right, a declarative statement—but no help at all. “Do you know where the money is? It wasn’t on him, right?”

  “We
have no record of where the money might be.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “On the order of five hundred thousand dollars.”

  Next to me, Allison gasped. I echoed her sentiments. “You think his, uh, pursuers found what they were looking for?”

  Agent Price sighed, almost imperceptibly. “I would have been happy to entertain that possibility—until tonight, when someone ransacked Ms. McBride’s home.” He looked at everyone in turn before going on. “The FBI does not know what Jack Flannery was doing in Tucson. Having now learned of your existence, Ms. McBride, I think we have to assume that he was looking for you. He found you, and then he died. Either you had something he wanted, or he wanted to give you something to hold for him, presumably to keep it out of the hands of his pursuers. If I believe what you tell me, that he didn’t manage to contact you before he was killed, then perhaps he left something at your place, or at least we may assume that his pursuers embraced that assumption. Those who were following him may or may not have found whatever might or might not have been there. If nothing further happens, we will have to operate under the theory that the search was successful.”

  When the meaning of that substance hit home, I couldn’t sit still, and bounced to my feet, setting off a frenzied round of barking from Fred and Gloria. “And if they didn’t find what they wanted—what then? They’re going to come after Allison again? Or me? What do you plan to do about that, Mr. High-and-Mighty Agent?”

  “I volunteered to help keep an eye on you.” Ah—silent Matt had finally made a contribution to this fascinating discussion.

  His addition did not make me happy. “Gee, thanks,” I snapped. “Just what I wanted. I do hope you won’t be wasting your own precious time watching my back.”

  If Cam had had feathers, they would definitely be ruffled by now. “I can stay with Em, keep an eye on things.”

  I would have been touched by his sweet gesture, except that I knew in some dark corner of his mind he recognized that by staying, he could hang around Allison, who would also be staying here—all very convenient. Besides which, as protection against murderous thugs, Cam’s about as useful as a potted plant.