“We wanted to ask you some more questions about your wife,” Wright said. “Did anyone in the few days before your wife’s murder seem upset with you or antagonistic toward you?”
“Toward me?” Barnes had no idea. “I can’t think of anyone, but I don’t remember much from around that time . . .” For a moment he tried to clear his thoughts, to see whether that might help him recall any events, but the only thing to come to mind was an image of Elizabeth dead in their bedroom. “How did you say Elizabeth died?”
“We didn’t,” replied Gould. “But if you want to know, she was shot point-blank with a 9mm handgun. So was your dog. You want more details?”
He didn’t, but he needed to know. “Yeah, everything.”
“The perp put three bullets in your wife’s chest, then two in the dog.”
“It happened in the front hallway,” said Wright. “She may have been heading for the keypad or the front door. If she heard the intruder come through the dining room window, it would make sense that she’d try to get to the panic button. If the intruder came around the other side of the foyer, he could have gotten to her first.”
Barnes repeated that into his recorder.
“Why are you taping these things?” asked Gould. “Is it so you’ll know what to say the next time you get questioned?”
“No, it’s so I can figure out what happened.”
“How do you expect to do that? You know something we don’t?”
“I know a lot you don’t. I know Elizabeth and her friends and colleagues. I know the people she associated with and projects she was involved in at the hospital.”
“Yeah, but you can’t seem to remember anything important.”
“All right,” interjected Wright. “We’re all on the same side here. Dr. Barnes, any information you can provide us would be helpful, and we’d appreciate it if you’d call us if you think of anything later. We’ll give you both our cards. Now, I’d like to go over just a few more things.”
Twenty minutes later Detective Wright escorted Barnes to his car. The wind had picked up, churning a frenzy of snowflakes that forced the men to squint.
“You know, there’s one other thing we should think about,” Wright said, shivering in the cold.
“What’s that?” Barnes asked.
“You,” said Detective Wright. “Someone may have killed your wife assuming you were going to be dead in a few days, and now that you’re back, they may have a problem with that. Whatever motivated them to kill your wife may motivate them to come after you. I’d strongly recommend a patrol car outside your house.”
“No.” Barnes shook his head. “What’s the point? I’ve got brain damage, and my wife is dead. I don’t think I have a lot to lose.”
They arrived at the Mercedes and stopped on the passenger side, where the car partially shielded them from the wind. Nearby, two spindly trees scratched the sky. To Barnes, they looked like lungs without air sacs, missing the basic elements crucial to function. But in a few months, they would sprout buds and their function would be restored. He wondered whether his ever would be.
“Well, call us if you change your mind,” said Wright.
Barnes walked around to the driver’s side of his car.
“Or if you think of anything that might give us a lead,” Wright added. “We’ll be in touch.”
Barnes didn’t say anything. He’d shifted his thoughts to trying to remember the details of Elizabeth’s murder that were already slipping away. He opened the car door. Before the detective walked away, Barnes said to him, “I’d appreciate it if you’d notify me when you get a suspect.”
Wright seemed to ponder that for a moment. “We’ll keep you informed,” he said.
Barnes doubted it.
Chapter 19
From the police station, Barnes headed home in rush-hour traffic. Horns blared, and cars cut in front of one another in attempts to gain ground. Barnes wanted no part of that. He called Denny from the road, and they decided to meet for a drink at the Ritz-Carlton. An old luxury hotel situated between Commonwealth Avenue and Newbury Street on the edge of the Boston Public Garden, the Ritz had an air of grandeur, complete with a venerable doorman dressed in a blue uniform and top hat. The bar at the hotel was the perfect place to escape the chaos of rush hour.
Leaving his car, Barnes looked east across Arlington Street, at the Public Garden. Even in the bleakness of December, the Garden beckoned to him, whispering promises it couldn’t keep. The Garden held memories of Elizabeth—sitting under a weeping willow and feeding crushed crackers to ducks and pigeons, and walking at his side along the paved path, around the large pond with its paddle-driven swan boats. In the fading light, he imagined her seated on one of the empty benches. But he couldn’t bring himself to cross the street and confront his sorrow. He turned his back to it and entered the hotel.
The bar was crowded, mostly with middle-aged men in sport coats, but Barnes found a small table near one wall. The pub had a staid quality, with antique sconces and dark wood. Denny was nowhere to be seen, so Barnes passed the time reviewing his list and trying to remember the events of the day. He pulled out the tape recorder and, holding it to his ear with the volume on low, listened to what he’d recorded from the police interrogation.
When Houston arrived, Barnes wasted no time in bringing up Elizabeth.
“Have you heard anything about her murder?” he asked.
“Just from the news.” Houston snapped his fingers at a waitress to get her to take their drink order.
“I wonder if it had something to do with both her and me,” Barnes said.
“I’m not sure I follow you, buddy.”
At that point the waitress came over. After she left with their order, Barnes continued. “I wonder whether it’s possible Elizabeth was killed because whoever did it thought I wasn’t going to pull through and wanted both of us out of the way.”
“Anything’s possible.” Houston ate some peanuts.
“Denny, I cheated on her.”
“No point in agonizing over it—nothing you can do about it now.”
Barnes felt the need to confess, even though Denny didn’t seem to want to hear it. “I’ve never done that before, and you know I’ve had opportunities.”
Nurses and other women flirted with him more than he cared to admit. It was always a strange feeling—both pleasing and distasteful—like a puppy licking your face. It had always been harmless. Until Cheryl.
“In the big scheme of things,” said Denny, “the two of you loved each other. That’s more than can be said about most couples, and that’s what matters.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I met this woman I hadn’t seen in a year, another cardiothoracic surgeon, and—”
“What’s done is done. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“I can’t help it. My mind’s a train wreck. I still can’t remember much of anything from the week before the conference, except parts of dinner with Cheryl, the woman I . . .”
“The woman you fucked.”
“Yeah. It seems I fucked both of us.”
“She must be one hell of a piece of eye candy if she’s the only thing you remember from that whole week.”
Barnes shook his head. “It figures the one thing I do want to forget sticks with me like a botched surgery.”
“Shit happens. Forget it.”
“Actually, I don’t remember all of it. I remember being in bed with her afterwards, but I don’t remember the sex. For whatever reason, I’ve blocked that out. Maybe that’s for the best. I don’t know why I did it. I . . . maybe I was just trying to fill some void.”
“Yeah. The void between her legs.”
Leave it to Denny to turn a philosophical comment into something lewd. “Anyway, I can’t stop thinking about it. And about Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth was a damn good catch. No doubt about that.”
The waitress returned with their drinks. Barnes had ordered a club soda, afraid alcohol might kill of
f his few remaining brain cells. Also he didn’t want to risk losing count and drinking more scotch than he could handle.
“Here’s to having you back,” said Houston, raising his bourbon.
“Just like old times.” Barnes picked up the club soda. He took a swig, and it fizzed unpleasantly in his mouth, then in the back of his throat. He’d never cared for club soda. “How’s our research coming along?”
“The atherosclerosis study?” They’d been doing research with an antiarthritis compound that had unexpectedly been found to prevent the buildup of plaque in coronary arteries. Jarrell Pharmaceuticals was the manufacturer, and the FDA had approved the drug that past summer for the treatment of osteoarthritis. Now there seemed to be a huge new market for the drug, to prevent atherosclerosis, and if the results of their study showed what they expected, Barnes and Houston would share in the profits.
“Yeah,” said Barnes. “Did you put it on hold while I was gone?”
Houston shifted in his chair. “It’s going fine.” He took a gulp of bourbon. “Let’s talk about that in the office when I can show you the charts. What do you say we turn our attention to those two little ladies over there?” He motioned to two women sitting by themselves, sipping drinks. They appeared to be in their twenties, dressed in business suits. “Bet they’ll take your mind off your troubles.” Houston waved at them, and they smiled coyly.
“Some other time.” Leave it to Denny to prioritize chasing skirts above discussing research.
“I’ll bet they’re regulars.” Houston turned to Barnes. “You remember seeing them the week before your conference?”
Barnes took another drink of club soda. “No. Why would I? You and I were here then?”
“You moved here, buddy.”
Barnes set his drink on the table before he spilled it.
“Shit.” Denny downed his bourbon. “You don’t remember.”
“No . . . I moved here by myself?”
“Yeah, buddy. By yourself.”
“So Elizabeth and I were separated?” A wave of nausea came over him.
“Yeah. Sorry to bring it up. I thought you knew. I mean, why wouldn’t you? You’re the one who moved out.”
Barnes wished he had a scotch in front of him. “How long did I live here?”
“Not long. Less than a week.”
“Did I tell you why?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. You know me. I figured it would blow over. You and Elizabeth—I didn’t see that ending.”
Barnes figured he’d probably checked out of the hotel before the conference. He jotted a note to verify that at the reception desk. But the real question was, why had he checked in? One way or another, he would have to find out.
What had Elizabeth done to make him want to leave her? Somebody must know the answer to that. But then another thought came to mind—perhaps she hadn’t done anything.
Maybe it was the other way around.
Chapter 20
From the Ritz, Barnes drove west, heading home to an empty house. A house without Elizabeth. The familiar streets of Copley Square offered little comfort, although the massive insurance buildings did lend a sense of permanence. His world might be collapsing around him, but nothing could budge the towering Hancock building, or even its brick predecessor reflected in the lower windows of the skyscraper, not to mention the nearby Prudential building with its rooftop lounge that offered the second highest view in the city. On a clear day, the Pru and the Hancock could be seen from as far away as the mountains of New Hampshire. Now, ironically, he was too close for a good view.
The fat antenna on top of the old Hancock building was illuminated in a blue strip, signaling clear skies. The light could shine blue or red and solid or flashing, signaling the weather to those familiar with the code.
Barnes took a detour and headed down Stoneholm Street, a short road off Boylston Street in Back Bay. Many years ago, he’d lived there, at 12 Stoneholm Street. That had been long before he’d met Elizabeth. Now he wondered whether the neighborhood had remained the same, like so much of the city. Gingko trees had lined the street . . . and there they stood, taller than he remembered but still slender, without leaves, poking sharp branches into the night. In late fall the trees turned a brilliant yellow, their leaves as bright as sunflowers. Now they looked like metal-and-wire sculptures.
Barnes passed by his old building, a renovated parking garage that had been converted to small but architecturally unique apartments with high ceilings and not-so-high rent. Seeing it was like visiting a simpler time, but it did little to ease the apprehension of his homecoming.
What are you doing here? he thought. The answer was obvious—postponing the inevitable. “Just go home,” he said out loud, as if that would make the drive easier. Yet he couldn’t help but think, Home to what?
Having made up his mind, he drove quickly. He lived in Brookline, on the east side of the suburb, near Harvard Street. From the road, his Tudor house looked dark and looming, almost like an abandoned building. Pulling into the garage, he felt a knot in his throat at the sight of Elizabeth’s car. Her car in the garage meant she should be in the house, and he wanted more than anything to find her there. Maybe his memory was playing tricks on him, fooling him into believing she’d been murdered because a bizarre idea or dream had taken root and convinced him of a false reality. That was possible. Anything was possible. Yet he knew the truth, knew it even without reading through his notes. The thought of viewing the site of the slaying made his stomach turn.
Hesitantly he entered the house, stepping into the family room from the garage. He felt as though he’d been gone for years, and the place seemed eerily quiet without Rex barking and scrambling to greet him. Even the burglar alarm was silent.
Closing the door behind him, he imagined Elizabeth working in her office or cooking in the kitchen. From there she would call out to him in her British accent. But not tonight.
He hung his overcoat in the hall closet. It still held more of Elizabeth’s coats than his, and he wondered which she had worn last.
In the kitchen he played back his telephone messages. The machine flashed the number 57. The tape had run to the end, and there was no telling how many messages had been cut off.
He pushed the “Announce” button and listened to Elizabeth’s voice: “Hello, this is 555-1445. We aren’t available at the moment, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message after the tone, we’ll ring you as soon as we can. Thank you.”
He replayed the announcement and envisioned Elizabeth as she had recorded it. He had come up behind her and kissed the side of her neck, trying to distract her and make her laugh. She’d tilted her head back, allowing him access to her throat, but at the same time, she’d remained focused, even when he pulled her blouse out of her skirt and ran his hands across the smooth flesh of her abdomen.
She had almost started laughing at the “we’ll ring you”—when Chris blew into her ear—but she managed to retain her composure until after releasing the “Record” button. Then she pounced on him, and they made love right there in the kitchen, on a throw rug near the sink.
Barnes played the announcement a third time. It was the closest he would ever get to hearing Elizabeth again.
He looked at his watch: Examinez votre poche droite. Right pocket. That led him to the list. Item ten on the list led him to the tape recorder. He pushed the “Play” button.
His own voice came from the small speaker, but it was like listening to someone else. This was a dictation taken during a police interrogation. At a police station! When had he been there, and where else had he gone? The fire department? The zoo? The space shuttle? This was ridiculous. He had forgotten the entire event. How can you forget a police interrogation? He’d have to start taking better notes, and he’d have to review them more frequently.
On a clean sheet of paper, he transcribed the tape, relearning the unsettling news about Elizabeth’s affair with a mystery lover, and relearning that she’d been pregnant
. Had her lover been the father? Most likely. At some point he would have to find and confront the son of a bitch. Who knows where that might lead? Maybe to Elizabeth’s killer.
He turned his attention to the fifty-seven messages on his answering machine. With a little luck, one of them would offer some insight into what had happened. He began listening to them, or at least to parts of all of them. Salesmen pitching products, colleagues and relatives sending condolences, even a couple of wrong numbers. Those messages that merited a reply, he jotted down on a piece of paper. Many of the names he recognized, including Shirley Collins and Claire Simmons. Friends of Elizabeth’s.
Shirley had a PhD in medical microbiology and immunology and had recently been promoted to associate professor in that department. Barnes didn’t know her well, but he knew she and Elizabeth had worked together and had been friends for years. They often met for lunch, and the two had planned to share royalties on a patent involving specially coated screws in orthopedic surgery. The screws promoted rapid healing of damaged bone around sites where they were used to hold plates or rods in place. Fractures healed in as little as half the usual time, thanks to the coating—a solution of gallium, a bisphosphonate, and fluoride, or GBF-complex. Shirley had proposed the initial research and had included Elizabeth on the patent because Elizabeth had coordinated and helped conduct the clinical trials required for FDA approval. The results of their studies had been so compelling that GBF-complex coating would likely soon become the treatment of choice for all orthopedic procedures involving the placement of plates, rods, and other foreign objects for the stabilization of fractures. With that, of course, would come both prestige and money. Elizabeth would still get the prestige, but now her half of the money would go to him.
At the moment, money seemed unimportant. Barnes would have traded any amount, even his house, just to spend a few minutes with Elizabeth. Instead, he would have to settle for her friends. They would be a poor substitute but worth contacting, if for no other reason than to learn more about Elizabeth.
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