A Crack in Everything Read online

  “Anyway, I’ve already rambled on to the police, which must make my dismal marriage a public record.” A softer Johanna was speaking now. She told me how Chaz had stopped having affairs when she threatened to leave him, how after Glenn was sent off to boarding school, he’d started cheating again. Her response, an affair of her own, in effect ended the marriage. They’d stayed together for NGT. “And for Glenn,” she added quickly.

  “Any idea who he was seeing?”

  “By then I had no interest in his love life. I accepted that our marriage had become a business deal, just like our contract with Chestnut Hill College.”

  “Johanna, the police think Chaz and Torie were having an affair.”

  “It couldn’t have been Torie. She wasn’t his intellectual…peer.” A satisfied smile broke across her face, as if she knew her own worth. “It wasn’t Torie.”

  We were traveling a route I recognized from my drive home with Chaz, lanes that curved between acres of farmland and encroaching suburbs. I glanced at Johanna. “Maybe they had a fling, and Chaz broke it off, and Torie wanted revenge. Beauford Smith told me she was about to blow the whistle on NGT for toxic dumping.”

  “That’s a lie! NGT has a safety record any lab would envy. And Torie loved the company.” Johanna gave her head an angry shake. “Beauford Smith is a vicious, unprincipled man.”

  Not the Beauford I knew. Torie’s video might yet have the last word on toxic rumors. “How long were you at Chestnut Hill College?”

  “Eight years. We moved to Telford after I identified the longevity enzyme.”

  “Is that like, uh, the immortality thing?”

  “No. It’s like the chicken ovary thing.”

  By God, in spite of everything, the lady had a sense of humor. “What is it you do? I mean, how do you get from a chicken ovary to cluck everlasting?”

  “Do you really want to hear about this?”

  “In easy English? Sure.”

  “Essentially, we insert the longevity enzyme into a chicken ovary gene for cloning. Not a single altered cell has deteriorated or died since we began our experiments. Does this mean immortality?” She lifted her hands. “Like every biotechnology firm, we hope the cloned gene leads to a cure for cancer. That would be immortality enough for me.”

  “Does Glenn work in research?”

  “Not anymore. NGT has a small marketing department. He fits better there.”

  “Have the police questioned him?”

  “Yes, and they’re satisfied that Glenn had no opportunity to murder his father, or Torie. Bart and I didn’t either.” She faced me. “That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

  “Johanna, the police are never satisfied. I’m trying to understand where all the pieces fit. This has touched me too.” I told her about the attack in my driveway, not mentioning the microtome blade; I hoped to search Lab 45 without tipping my hand.

  “How terrible,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

  We drove the last miles in a silence that was broken by a sudden crack like gunshot when a pebble dinged my car. I gasped. Johanna didn’t turn a hair.

  But in the empty NGT parking lot, she faltered. I’d parked where she told me, in her own space, three down from Torie’s. Last night’s rain had washed away most of the bloodstains, and what remained looked like coolant leaks if you didn’t know better. We gave Torie’s space a wide berth and circled to the front of the building.

  Passing a corner window, I spotted the Persian violet I’d admired on my first visit to Lab 45, and the sight of it dropping like leftover salad inspired me. “Your poor plant’s in trouble,” I said, hoping to insinuate myself into the lab without having to lie.

  “Torie’s plant. Damn thing gives me the willies. No one’s watered it since…”

  “Let me do it. I’ve got a green thumb.” Well, I had tended my plants today.

  “Better you than me.”

  She unlocked the entrance, and turned off the alarms, and as we tapped down empty corridors, mounted cameras noted our progress. Unlike NGT’s working labs, which had coded touch pads by every door, Lab 45 was open to the hall.

  “Here we are.” Johanna stood back to let me in. “There should be a hose under the sink long enough to reach the plant. Or, why don’t you take it? Nobody wants it.”

  After she left to look for Chaz’s papers, I examined the plant, yellow leaves listing as if weevils had struck. Persian violets must need water every week, which certainly ruled them out as plants for my office.

  Next to a box of plastic bags the hose coiled like a comatose snake. I attached it to the faucet, but water pressure sent it careening into the sink. For a few wet moments, I tried to adjust the connector, saw it was stripped and gave up. Snoop first, then deal with the plant.

  I hurried to the wide bracketed shelves where I’d first seen the pasta scraper, or microtome blade if that’s what it was. The vinaigrette bottles were there, funnels. Microwave oven. Shelf after shelf of laboratory jumble. Working methodically, I’d reached the middle when, somewhere in the building, a door slammed, making hollow echoes that spooked and goaded me.

  I worked faster, clearing a space and leaning into the shelf. In the weak light I made out test tubes and screens and…there it was, stuck sideways between shelf and wall, as if someone had jammed it there. I reached for it, and it bit my finger, and a curse whipped up my throat. Gingerly, I tugged, and the handle came out, attached to a fine steel blade. Up close and streaked with my blood, it no longer resembled a refugee from my mother’s kitchen, but more like a hand-held guillotine.

  Footsteps clopped down the corridor, and for an eerie second I heard the ghost of Torie’s sandaled feet. I knew it was Johanna, but goose bumps prickled the nape of my neck. Should I leave the blade where I’d found it and hope it would still be there when I told Michael where it was? Should I steal it and risk breaking the evidence chain? Or had I done that already?

  The footsteps closed in, leaving me no time to cross the room for my bag. I rammed the tool back against the wall and filled the empty space with lab clutter. Using the hem of my skirt, I wiped my blood off the shelf, and with half a second to spare, finger oozing, I made it to the sink.

  Johanna walked in and stopped short, nearly dropping the folder in her hand, as if the sight of my blood revulsed her. “Are you all right?”

  “Nicked myself on the hose,” I lied, directing a blast of cold water from the faucet to my finger. Blood swirled down the drain, and the cut gaped like a fish gill.

  Her eyes wandered from my finger to the faucet to the plant in the window. “How could you cut yourself on a hose?” Her expression was a mix of incredulity and concern.

  “Connector’s stripped—it’s really jagged around the rim.” I turned off the faucet and wrapped my finger in a wad of Kleenex from my hobo bag. There was a basin under the sink, which I used to slosh a little water on the dying plant, an act of mercy that made me feel better about my lies.

  In the hall, Johanna handed me Chaz’s nominating papers. “Are these what you wanted? They were under a box of computer paper.”

  ***

  Something was wrong. Instead of beating me to the stove, Michael was on the sofa, staring through the big front windows at a pink and gray twilight, the snuffed stub of a cigarette wedged between two fingers. I thought about Bogart, how cool he’d looked before lung cancer wasted him. I stepped over Michael’s legs, squeezed myself between his hip and a pillow, and kissed his ear, wishing I could kiss away his gloom.

  “Hey, darlin’. Que tal.” He hugged me, and didn’t resist when I pinched his cigarette and flicked it into the fireplace.

  “How was lunch with the boss? Did you eat well?” Italian insight. What your hosts fed you told a story, about who they were or what they thought of you. Sometimes both.

  “Turkey roll,
” he said.

  Ah, hell.

  “It’s all right, Susan. Captain Shea is Irish. He put out a real spread. Pickles and potato salad. Guinness.”

  “So he didn’t fire you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  I’d been joking. Michael wasn’t.

  “He asked me to think about stepping down from the NGT cases.” Michael avoided my eyes, which told me what the problem was. Me.

  “Tyre brought Shea that agency contract, and thoughtfully pointed out your signature. Told him you have ties to everybody, victims, suspects, the lieutenant in charge. Your fingerprints and your nose are everywhere.” He laughed, a dry little chuckle.

  Lacking perspective, I couldn’t salvage any humor from Tyre’s treachery. “What a putz that guy is,” I said, though I knew today’s visit to Lab 45 would add weight to his narrative. “You must be feeling completely betrayed.”

  “More like stupid. And violated. But there’s a wake-up call here. Shea’s worried about my objectivity.” He pulled me closer. “You want the truth? I’m worried too. He’s leaving the decision to me.”

  “Sure he is. If you decide to take yourself off the case.” I wrung a pillow. Had it been a chicken, it would’ve died on the spot. “If you don’t, he’ll force you out, and the putz will replace you.”

  “Screw Paul Tyre. I told Shea I needed time to decide. As of tomorrow, I’ll be taking vacation days.” My tissue-wrapped finger, tinged with pink, caught his eye. “What happened?”

  I told him about my afternoon with Johanna and my visit to Lab 45. “That pasta scraper had very sharp teeth,” I said.

  “And that’s your counting finger.” He kissed it, and we held hands in the murky twilight. “You know, it might have been a microtome pasta scraper. They’re new on the market.” He actually laughed, and I managed a smile. As one of nature’s born straight-men, I could live with a little humor at my expense if it cheered Michael up.

  “Whatever you call it, your evidence crew missed it.”

  “You ought to look at an actual blade. How about a hot date at the morgue tonight?”

  While Michael organized a visit, I took out the little cafe´ presse my mother had sent in a fit of pessimism about my unmarried state, and brewed coffee for one. After Michael tired of teasing me, a jolt of caffeine might keep his spirits high.

  He joined me at the window table in the kitchen. “Lamoth can see us anytime after nine,” he said. “That’ll give me time to stop in Boston and go through the case notes.”

  The coffee smelled so good I stole a nip from his cup. “You know,” I said, “Torie could have been…bashed…inside Lab 45 and dragged through the building to the parking lot, completely out of sight until the last few feet. There’s a fire door near Johanna’s office.”

  Michael listened with what looked like a thoughtful expression, then shook his head. “The evidence points to an attack in her condo, and in the trunk of her car.”

  “The killer could’ve hosed her blood down a drain,” I insisted. “He could have wrapped her body in plastic garbage bags. I found some under the sink.”

  “There were no plastic bags in her car, Susan, nothing to connect Torie Moran’s murder to NGT except her body in the parking lot.”

  “But why attack her at home and then drive her to NGT?”

  “Maybe the killer wanted something she kept in the Jag.”

  “Whistle-blowing evidence?”

  “Or secret formulas, or love letters, or a lottery ticket. One of her sandals is missing. And her evening bag.”

  “And those diamond earrings.”

  “Trophies,” he said.

  ***

  Tyre ducked away when he saw us.

  I waited in a computer room while Michael checked files and worked the phones. Twenty minutes later he came back. “No microtome blade in Lab 45 last Tuesday.”

  “Couldn’t the crew have missed it?”

  “Not likely. But we’ll try to go back for another look, preferably with Johanna’s permission. Getting a warrant won’t be easy.”

  We left, and this time Tyre intercepted us on our way to the elevators. His face needed a shave, or a transplant.

  “Mike,” he said, breathless from all that ducking and hiding. “Shea told me about your lunch. I want you to know it wasn’t me contacted him. He called me as soon as they told him Suze found Moran’s body. He asked me to keep him apprised, his word.”

  “Is that why you didn’t apprise me of the contract Johanna Lang gave you?” Not waiting for an answer, Michael continued down the hall.

  Tyre kept pace with us. “C’mon, Mike. Shea calls the shots. I just follow orders.”

  An elevator slid open, and we stepped inside.

  “Mike! It’s a high profile case. Whatta you want from me?”

  Michael moved away from the doors, and I let them close on Tyre’s unhappy face.

  “Maybe he’s telling the truth,” Michael said. “But the bottom line’s the same no matter who juggles the numbers. You’re someone I find it hard to be objective about, and you’re intimately involved in these cases.”

  Outside, he lit his cigarette and inhaled all the way back to the car where he fastened his seat belt and reached for my hand without letting go of the cigarette or dropping an ash. “Let’s snatch some supper,” he said, “forget murder for awhile.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sleep Like Death

  “Don’t bother.” I pulled Michael away from the menu posted outside Brendan’s Briar Rose. “Nothing’s changed here since April.” We entered through the bar, jammed with codgers and singles. Two hi-def TVs carried two different sporting events. Men playing with balls.

  “Good to see you again, sirrr.” The tallest and snottiest of Brendan’s hostesses greeted Michael in her heavy brogue. Me she could live without. She found us a booth not far from the band. Weekends meant music at Brendan’s.

  A waitress, “Hi, I’m Delaney,” stopped by, and we ordered from memory, tagliarini with mussels for Michael, the small white pizza for me. Verdicchio by the carafe. “Irish home cooking,” Michael joked, and Delaney gave an earnest nod. The wine came, and I sipped mine, sinking into the padded booth, listening to the band tune up. Within minutes, I was as relaxed as my grandmother’s girdle.

  “How’s Nino doing these days?” Michael liked Nino, and if the feeling wasn’t quite mutual, Nino had at least tolerated my cop boyfriend.

  The wine made me just maudlin enough to confess that I’d used my power of attorney to sign the lease deal Nino didn’t want. “Dammit, Michael, he was in intensive care. Unconscious. I knew if Lombard found out he’d evict Nino quicker’n you can say shy. So I bargained him into the ground and got Nino everything. With utilities! And now he won’t speak to me.”

  “Give him time. After all the shouting is over, you Italians are a forgiving lot.”

  “Don’t bank on it. Hell hath no fury like a woman dumped.”

  “I’ll settle for that imitation of forgiveness you gave me last night.” He reached for my hand, almost knocking over my wine. “I didn’t dump you, Susan. You can’t dump what you don’t have.”

  “Michael, I was joking. Please let’s don’t go there again.”

  “You’re right. I apologize.” But he looked more annoyed than contrite.

  The band played four notes, then stopped and conferred; a man in hi-def knee socks kicked a ball across a TV screen; Delaney brought our food. Pasta and mussels occupied every iota of Michael’s attention, and when I tried to pour him more wine he declined.

  “Don’t sulk,” I said.

  “Why not?” But then he grinned over his fork and I felt forgiven, though I didn’t know what I’d done except speak the truth. Maybe there was a season for lies and I’d missed it.

 
While my pizza cooled, I dug Chaz’s papers out of my bag. “I want to show you something, lieutenant.”

  “Feel free to call me sir.”

  “Certainly,” I said, and he groaned at my killer wit. I laid the papers on the table. “You doubted Chaz. Read’em and weep.”

  “I thought we were taking a break from murder.”

  “We’re not talking about murder. We’re talking about your lack of confidence in my judgment.”

  He ate another mussel, wiped his fingers on one of the big cloth napkins that always graced Brendan’s tables, and finally opened the folder. After a casual scrutiny, he handed it back. “Yeah? So?”

  “You don’t believe Chaz hired me to advise his campaign. The signatures prove he did.”

  “Names on a few pieces of paper? They don’t prove a thing.”

  “They prove his intent. Nobody who is not a serious candidate would put in the energy it takes to collect three hundred signatures in twenty-four hours. It’s almost impossible, even with an army of helpers.”

  But something Michael had said raised the gray flag of doubt.

  A few pieces of paper.

  I opened the folder and scanned the names and addresses. Six sheets. Row after neat row, every line filled. No spaces, no glitches.

  How had I missed it?

  In two years of consulting, I had rarely seen a nominating paper with more than thirty signatures. Never ones as clean as these. Signatures were collected piecemeal. Mistakes were made, particularly toward deadline. There should’ve been a dozen messy sheets in the folder, not six pristine ones.

  I slid out of the booth. “Back in a minute.”

  “Where’re you going? Your pizza’s turning to rubber.”

  I held up the sheets. “Gotta make a few calls.”

  I took my cellphone to a bench in the vestibule and chose names at random, one from each sheet, using directory assistance to get the numbers. As I dialed the first, the band let loose, and I hoped blues in the background wouldn’t hobble my credibility. I planned to identify myself as a political analyst conducting an astonishingly simple survey. Did you sign nominating papers for Charles L. Renfrow? was the only question.