A Crack in Everything Read online

  Michael handed me the car keys. “Your, uh, vehicle needs a tune-up.”

  “Or a miracle.” Though, if the gods were grudging, having Michael back in my life was miracle enough. I could get by without a reliable car.

  As we headed down the driveway, the security lamp snapped on, spreading light like smoke through the drizzle. Michael squatted by the side door and touched an invisible spot on the wet pavement. My blood? I rubbed my arms to keep the goose bumps down.

  Michael blotted his fingers on a tissue and stood up. “The ER physician thinks your attacker used something extremely fine-edged. A precision razor.”

  Precision razor…knives, box cutters, even chain saws were somehow less fearsome.

  “M.E. on the scene said the same thing about Torie Moran, only he called it a microtome blade.”

  “Microtome…?”

  “Lab tool, used to slice tissue for slides. It’s basically a blade on a handle.”

  I forced myself to picture it. “Like an X-Acto knife?”

  “More like a straight razor. We found three in their cases. That’s every blade at NGT, accounted for.”

  “Did you search Lab 45?”

  “We searched the entire building. What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Plenty,” I said, to tease him and to relieve my own anxiety, and succeeding in neither. The memory of Chaz’s blank face as he urged me to explore the lab while he dealt with Torie remained as vivid as a recurring dream. “The night Torie was killed, I saw a tool on a shelf that looked like a weird pasta scraper. Tapered handle, wide edge.”

  “I’ll check with Evidence, but if there was a microtome blade or anything like it in Lab 45, they wouldn’t have missed it. The ones they found were in locked labs, by the way. Only a few researchers, and Renfrow, knew the entrance codes.”

  A raindrop trickled down Michael’s cheek. I reached up and brushed it away with my fingertips. He kissed my palm and held my hand just long enough for me to feel that no harm could come to me now, outside in the rain, on the spot where I’d been attacked. “Tyre thinks Renfrow and Torie were having an affair that went sour,” he said, all business again.

  “Sergeant Tyre would suspect a pair of mismatched socks. How many affairs end in murder? And why would Chaz come after me? We sure weren’t having an affair.” It was suddenly, overwhelmingly, important to me that Michael understood this.

  “I offer a possibility, Susan.”

  “How’s Johanna for a possibility. She knows the entrance codes, and if Tyre’s right, maybe she was murderously jealous.”

  “Jealousy, greed, revenge…yeah, yeah, but something else is going on. Why were you assaulted?” Michael’s face was closed, his emotions scribbled in a language only five people on the planet could decipher. Was I one? “Brookline police said the guy who attacked you crashed through back yards to get here, breaking fences, flattening shrubs. But, amazingly, nobody heard or saw anything.”

  “It was late. Maybe they didn’t hear anything till I yelled.”

  In law school, I’d read about Kitty Genovese, stabbed to death in full view of her neighbors’ apartments while she screamed for help. Eventually, one person out of the dozens who heard her called the police, far too late to save her. My aged, cat-loving neighbors had rushed out at my first shriek and delivered me from evil. I vowed to never again make jokes about cold-hearted nosy New Englanders.

  I unlocked the door, and we loitered at the foot of the stairs. “I’m not sure it was a man who attacked me,” I said. “The voice was a…whisper.”

  “Him. Her. Whoever it was probably picked up plenty of scratches along the way.”

  I knew where this was leading, back to Roddie’s bruised hand. “Won’t you please forget about Roddie Baird? He’s a good man. He would never hurt me, or anyone. And he didn’t know Torie Moran.”

  “Baird’s in the clear for Moran. The night she was killed, he was at Children’s Hospital till dawn with his daughter and her appendicitis, which turned out to be too many cookies at bedtime. If whoever killed Moran attacked you, he’s off the hook there, too.”

  “But not for Chaz?” I had a queasy realization. “Are you saying there are two different murderers?”

  “Looks that way to me. Two different murders, two different weapons. I’m convinced Baird knew Renfrow.”

  “Even if he did, he had no reason to kill Chaz.”

  “Maybe he lost his shirt on NGT. How’s that for a reason?”

  “Revenge wouldn’t bring back his money, and under the dreamy-eyed mask, Roddie is completely pragmatic. What else have you got on him, besides a few irrelevant scratches?”

  “That unconfirmed alibi.”

  I had no answer to this.

  We climbed the stairs and went in through the pantry, thinking our separate thoughts. The kitchen smelled like honey, the day’s heat trapped inside a friendly room I had bunkered like all the rest. I cranked open a window, and cool moist air swirled over my face. Michael came up behind me and kissed my neck, and I let go of Roddie and Torie and Chaz. Around me, on the counter, lay tag ends from BeeCee’s: apples in a copper bowl, sugar cubes on a flow-blue plate, a box of China tea. Something like happiness surged through me.

  “Want some?” I lifted the box, covered in cryptic strokes.

  “Later.”

  Somehow, we made it to the bedroom without knocking over any chairs.

  From the night table lamp, the leaded glass dragonfly perched on an emerald leaf, topaz eyes fixed and appraising. The rain was heavier now, coming out of the west, a whistle in the wind. Christ, I could hardly believe it. My love in my arms, and I in my bed again.

  ***

  While I lolled on embroidered sheets, coffee brewed in the kitchen. I pictured Michael hunting for cups, his bony knees bumping the cupboards. Last night’s rain had washed away two weeks of muggy heat. After breakfast we planned to walk by the Charles, maybe stop for lunch, leaving just enough time for me to keep my appointment with Johanna. Unless I decided to retain my retainer, as any self-respecting attorney would do.

  The phone rang.

  “Susan?” The voice was faint, but I recognized the soft Southern tones.

  “Beauford? Where are you?”

  “Lobbying the pope.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “When in Rome…Never mind. I’ve been worried about you. Did you take my advice and drop Renfrow?”

  How could Beauford know? I sat up and folded my pillow against the headboard. “It never came to that. I…he was murdered last week.”

  “Really.” Beau sounded so laid back I wondered if he’d reinserted his ear stud. “Glad I’m out of the country. I’d be suspect numero uno.”

  I hesitated, then spilled out the rest of the story. “Look, Torie Moran was murdered a few days before he was. I’m sorry. I know you were friends.”

  A long silence, then his voice, hard now, completely engaged. “Renfrow killed her.”

  “I think somebody wanted them both out of the way.”

  “He killed her! I told you about NGT’s polluting. Torie caught a spill on her cellphone camera and burned a disk. When the time was right, she planned to go public.”

  “Torie a whistle blower?” The Torie I’d met seemed far too self-absorbed to worry about a little poison in the aquifer. More to the point, Chaz told me she had a financial stake in NGT: stock, a piece of a patent. “What spilled? Did she show you the video?”

  “She gave me a back-up copy after Renfrow bankrupted me. Said one of these days she’d use it to bring him down.”

  “Maybe she was just trying to make you feel better, show a little solidarity. She was fully invested in the company.”

  “Torie had a conscience!” He was shouting again. “I screened the video. It’s unmistakable. A b
ucket of stuff spills, and everybody in the lab clears out in about three seconds except a guy in a jump suit with a hose. He washes it down the drain. Torie told me it was radioactive material, and it happened all the time. And Renfrow condoned it.”

  “Beau, you’ve got to tell the police.”

  “Police? I’ll hold a press conference! I’ll organize a lawsuit! Torie Moran was a crusader. Before I’m through, NGT’s going to be paying goddamn reparations!”

  “Slow down,” I said. “Where’s the video?”

  “My apartment. I’m…hold on a minute.” I heard voices, Beauford murmuring to someone. When he came back, he’d shifted emotional gears yet again. “Susan, I’m running very late here. Gotta go.”

  “Wait! Tell my…tell Lieutenant Benedict. He’s investigating the murders. Here, I’ll put him on.”

  “No time. People are signaling me.”

  “Give me your number.”

  “Palazzo Spirito, room 247.” His voice came in a staticky whisper I strained to understand. “I’ll call you again later.”

  “Beau, can I go to your apartment and borrow the video?”

  A few garbled words, then our connection broke. On caller ID his number came up zeros, fourteen of them, and when I dialed his cell, it went immediately into voicemail.

  Over breakfast, Michael said he’d track down Beauford at his hotel.

  “What if you can’t?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll wait till he gets back. The video might be useful, but without Torie to account for it, it’s really just a kind of visual hearsay.”

  While I dressed for the day in my faux-biker top and a wraparound skirt, Michael took a call of his own, in the kitchen. Five minutes later, he rejoined me in the bedroom, as dispirited as yesterday’s jeans, which he’d put on again after his shower. “The Captain has invited me to lunch. At his house, no less.”

  “It’s your day off!” In the back of my mind, I realized, a plan had been hatching: After our stroll by the river, Michael and I would drop in for lunch at Tavola Rustica where Nino would welcome Michael and forgive me. “Do you have to go?”

  “The company store, Susan. We’ll still have tonight.”

  “What about our walk?” Was I actually whining?

  “We’re good for that, as long as you get me to my car by noon.”

  Some of Michael’s clothes had languished in my spare room since April. He changed again, out of the jeans into wrinkled but clean chinos and a faded shirt that put blue in his sea-gray eyes. He caught me watching. “What’re you staring at?” A wicked smile lifted his mustache and gave him a Rhett Butler air. I suddenly felt all Scarletty. He reached out and tugged the looped zipper that ran from my neck to my waist. “Maybe you should wear something simpler for a walk by the river.”

  “Depends,” I said, “on what you mean by river.”

  The zipper glided silently down, fingers untying me, river washing over me. Bad girls go everywhere.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Greed

  I parked near the bridge, and we headed for the woods, away from joggers and bicyclists. At river’s edge the path petered to cinders, and I stopped to watch a scull glide by. Michael pushed ahead, as if he had a destination. When I caught up, he was standing on a concrete platform a few hundred yards from a boathouse surrounded by skiffs and canoes that rocked gently in the current. I sat down and pulled him next to me. I was feeling so happy I wanted to shout, but Michael wanted to talk shop.

  “If Beauford Smith is right about toxic spills, Renfrow may have had a helluva better reason than a botched affair to kill Torie.”

  “So would anyone involved in a cover-up.” I got to my knees and sank back on my heels. “Take the man with the hose. What if he found out about Torie’s video?”

  Michael kept his face to the river, at this point wide enough to harbor a miniature island covered with scrub. “Until I get my hands on it, this is just so much speculation.”

  Why did Michael’s speculations always lead back to my candidates? Frustration overwhelmed my joy in the day, and I struggled to shake it off. “You’re ignoring others with motive.”

  “If you mean Johanna and Bart Bievsky, the night Renfrow was killed they had dinner in Boston, in full view of the restaurant staff. They stayed over at the Copley. Room service brought drinks. Housekeeping brought towels. Everybody vouches for everybody.”

  “Maybe a little baksheesh changed hands. Where were they when Torie was murdered? Where was Glenn?”

  “We’re looking hard at all the alibis, Susan. I’m not ruling anyone out.” He selected a flat stone and shied it into the river. Three little skips, then it sank. “I don’t know if Renfrow and Baird are murderers, but it’s no coincidence that both were your candidates.”

  “You mean it’s no coincidence that two intelligent men looking for a political consultant would settle on me.” Carefully balancing the chips on each of my shoulders, I got to my feet. “I am easy to work with. I am not too expensive. I have never lost an election.”

  “How many campaigns have you advised?”

  “Four. And three in progress.” Not counting Chaz. “I know it’s not a lot, but numbers don’t matter, just results.” If I didn’t stand up for myself who would? But numbers lie, I well knew. If my campaigns were medical trials, the sample would be too small to count.

  Wind gusted off the river. From a fringe of island weeds, a mother duck and a trail of ducklings glided out, the water so clear I could see their feet paddling. “I wonder where the term ‘lame duck’ comes from?” I said.

  Michael had no eyes for ducks. “One of your candidates loaned over a million dollars to another of your candidates. You really believe that was a coincidence?”

  “If the money was loaned. I’m with Roddie on this. You still haven’t proved it.”

  “We will. Renfrow and Baird are connected somehow, and you’re in the cross hairs. Was it really your talent for winning aldermen’s races that brought Renfrow to you?”

  He was stirring up all my old doubts. My eyes roved after the ducks as they meandered across the river. Life was better for ducks.

  Back in Boston, I idled the engine while we discussed the evening’s possibilities. Michael tossed his cigarette lighter from palm to palm. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he said.

  “But I want to cook. I’ll be back early. I’m meeting Johanna at two. How long can it take to hand over seventeen thousand dollars?”

  “Lawyer giving back her fee?” The lighter bounced off his knee, and he bent for it, not quickly enough to hide the smile. “We better eat out. You’re going to need consoling.”

  “Staying home and being frugal will console me.” For once, I wanted to fire up the old hearth, though Lord knows, the frugality wasn’t optional. The three thousand I’d decided to keep was earmarked for overdue rent. “I’ll make something easy, tuna noodle casserole.”

  I could see Michael weighing my offer against his desire for a decent meal. “I don’t mind staying home,” he said, stepping out of the car. “But let’s be fair. Whoever gets back first cooks. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I said, grudgingly, because I knew he’d manage to rush back ahead of me.

  As I drove off, I caught a glimpse of him in my rearview mirror, unlocking his plain blue sedan. The cigarette was already lit.

  With two hours to kill before my appointment with Johanna, I knew exactly where I needed to go while I waited. Tavola Rustica, without Michael to deflect Nino’s anger. Traffic was light and, like a migrating swallow, or a lemming, I drove on automatic pilot, using the miles to frame a question that had been tugging at me for days: Was the attack on Nino somehow linked to me?

  Just after twelve I parked in the municipal lot and walked down Boylston along Lombard’s building, past the drugstore to Ta
vola. Through the window, I could see people talking and laughing, flowers in vases, elbows on napkins. I entered to an airy infusion of basilico, lemon, and Neapolitan folk songs. Inside, family life ruled. A toddler whimpered to his smiling mother. Three tables over, a little girl poked a daisy in her father’s hair. I was the only spinster in the place.

  From the pastry case I watched Nino tap menus against the stand. Up close, his eyes were dull, and there were purple bruises on his face and neck. A surgical pad was taped to his forehead. When he was ready to notice me, he pushed the menus into a holder. “Whatta you want?”

  “I saw stracciatella on the menu.”

  “No tables.” He walked away from me.

  “Nino, wait. I need to talk to you. Your lease, and…”

  He kept on going. When he reached the kitchen area, he shouted something to Benny, who was shaking a skillet over blue flames that curled up the sides. Benny abandoned his station and came over to me. “Nino wants you to wait there.” He pointed to the deserted bar.

  Very quickly after that, generosity overwhelming his rudeness, Nino brought me stracciatella. He glanced at his watch and sat down at my frisbee-sized table. “Five minutes.”

  Steam rose off the soup, so hot I couldn’t touch the bowl. “Remember the woman I told you about?” I said. “She was murdered with some kind of blade. Then somebody used one on me.” I gave him the details, and he listened impassively. “So I’m wondering if the guy who attacked you had anything like that blade on him.”

  “Blades, clubs.” He rubbed his bandage. “I don’t remember nothing. I’m old. Whatever happened, it’s gone.”

  “Not because you’re old. A head wound can wipe out anybody’s memory. If it comes back, you might help solve a murder.”

  “Solve nothing.” He waved invisible flies off my soup. “I don’t remember, but I know. I’m taking care of Mr. Fat Rich Toad my own way.”