A Crack in Everything Page 19

  Amanda’s long-suffering mom had agreed to take care of Delia, who was traipsing up and down between the playroom and her bedroom, loading a frame pack with toys. From the adjacent bathroom, the sound of water running into a sink lulled me halfway to sleep.

  When Lauren returned, her mental fog had lifted. She strode briskly across the room, pausing at her dressing table to run a brush through her hair, moving on to explore her closet, larger than my living room. “Should I dress conservatively?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  From a color-coded row of garments, she pulled out a dull blue suit. “How’s this?”

  “If you want to look like a meter maid.”

  Next, she showed me a pinky beige straight-cut dress. “My grandmother always liked me in this. The zipper’s stuck halfway. I’d wear a jacket over it.”

  “Not bad.” I said. The idea that anyone would seek my fashion advice amused me, though of course it wasn’t style tips Lauren wanted. More like demeanor tips.

  While she was pulling the dress over her head, I asked a question that had been nagging at me since Delia met Cordy: “Lauren, did Chaz know Roddie was my candidate?”

  Her voice came muffled through linen. “He knew Roddie was running for office, but I never mentioned you. I had no idea Chaz consulted you until Roddie told me about the voter survey turning up in his Lexus.”

  “Did Chaz tell you he was running for mayor of Telford?”

  “Are you serious? Was he really?”

  “No,” I said. “Not really.” Whatever Chaz had wanted from me, I guessed he hadn’t confided in Lauren. She put on the compatible jacket, slipped into low-heeled pumps, added a small shoulder bag. Grandma would love it.

  Delia insisted on dragging her pack out to the Mazda, but let me load it while her mother buckled her in. I hugged her goodbye.

  “Tell Gordon everything you told me,” I urged as Lauren slid into the driver’s seat. “He’ll recommend an attorney for you. Or I’ve got some names.” I bent close to her open window. “Please don’t get hung up on self-sacrifice.”

  She waited for me to finish, then said: “I know what I’m doing.”

  Troubled by her mood, I watched them drive away. Lauren had salvaged her spirit the same way I had after Gil died. She’d sketched a map for herself, assembled an emotional compass out of spare parts, and for the moment, she’d plot her course. But soon, I knew, her map would fall to dust. The compass needle would swing wildly around her heart.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Paper Chase

  At Waltham Color Lab only one of Nino’s torn photographs was ready, a three-by-five shot of a teen-aged girl squinting into the sun, cradling a puppy in her arms. Her dark hair and facial features were lost in the dazzle. Her chop-top and flares looked twenty-years out of date. Nino’s daughter? Granddaughter? He never talked about his family, had confided only that he was twice married and twice divorced.

  I took the photo home and settled in for a nap that might have gone on till midnight, but for a crash that woke me to a vision of Michael standing by the bed in an angel-blue shirt, looking not at all upset about Lab 45 and the ruin of his investigation. “I fell over your books,” he said in a smoky baritone that rocked my heart. “Pretty tall stack considering most people read one book at a time.”

  “It’s my sadly short attention span. Where’ve you been?”

  “Doing paperwork.” He sidled down and gave me a lingering kiss that I wanted to build on, but as my body heat soared into the melt zone, his hug turned friendly. “I’m on my way to Long Harbor Reality.”

  Feeling rejected, I moved to the edge of the bed. “What’s at Long Harbor?”

  “Renfrow’s real estate broker. He’s giving me a tour of NGT’s relocation site.”

  “You’re still on the case? I was with Roddie this morning. Tyre couldn’t wait to tell me you’d quit.”

  “I stepped aside, not down. With you in the middle of everything how could I quit? Renfrow’s broker may know something about the agency contract.”

  “That I did not sign.” I grappled with my books, managing to lean over and restack them without falling off the bed. “Michael, I’m sorry I made things awkward for you.”

  He passed me The Portable Sherlock. “Don’t be. You have every right to stick your nose in your clients’ affairs. So come with me to Long Harbor and snoop away. There’s a lobster dinner in it.”

  “At Lemuel’s?”

  “Unless you want to drive to P-town and buy ’em off the boat.”

  Books balanced, I walked to the closet for my new denim skirt and an old black top. “Provincetown’s tempting, but I want to stay close to home in case Roddie needs me. They’ve been talking to him for hours. What’s going on?”

  “You’re forgetting he lied to us.”

  I almost told him about Lauren’s tape and her affair, but I knew he’d be bound to pass it on to Tyre. My own code bound me. The Bairds had to disclose their story, their way, in their own good time. “Do you honestly believe Roddie killed Chaz?”

  “I’ll let Tyre reflect on that. It’s Renfrow occupies me now. I spent a few hours at the McCormick building this morning, chasing NGT paper.”

  “What’re you looking for?”

  “Anything I can find. Renfrow and his wife controlled the company, but six months ago, he transferred his shares to something called the Glendel Corporation.”

  Glendel. Glenn and Delia. The loving father? Or just another way to assert ownership? “What about Johanna’s shares?”

  “As far as I can tell, she’s not involved. Six months ago they were in the middle of a savage divorce. Renfrow was probably hiding his assets. Or, if Beauford Smith’s got it right, Renfrow was trying to insulate himself from corporate wrongdoing.”

  “Toxic dumping.” I envisioned that overturned bucket, the hose. I could feel my neck flame. Beauford’s hockey duffle was still in my car. Why had I bothered to swipe it? The smoking-gun video was probably under a floorboard in his living room, a trick Sherlock Holmes knew but I had forgotten. “Have you talked to Telford’s biohazards people?”

  “I’m focusing on Renfrow’s business affairs. So far, I’ve come up with the names of three Glendel officers, all lawyers, and don’t look so avid. I’ve already called them. One’s out of town, and the other two stonewalled me.”

  “Give me the names. My old boss is still at the firm. What Al Volpe doesn’t know today, he always knows tomorrow.”

  Michael tore a sheet from his pad and passed it to me. “It’s public record,” he said. “Feel free.”

  Like many self-confident attorneys, Al liked to answer the phone himself when he could. “Hey, Susanna banana. How come you only call when you need something?”

  “That hurts, Al. I called to invite you and Kate to dinner.”

  “Who’s cooking?” he asked quickly. Last year, Al and his wife had sampled my twelve-minute-microwave chicken divan, which let all of us down rather badly. Looking back, I realized that squat earnest casserole did have more in common with a sofa than a meal.

  “I’m having it catered.”

  From the doorway, Michael laughed out loud.

  “Of course! Tavola Rustica!” Al said. “Nino Biondi. I haven’t seen him since you left us and took him with you. How is the little guy?”

  A joke about dinner died on my lips. “Not so good, Al. He’s not speaking to me.”

  “Wanna tell me about it?” Twenty-five years my senior, Al had been my confidant as well as my boss at the firm.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, and immediately Michael walked back into the bedroom, tapping his watch. To appease him, I made it fast, giving Al the essence of what I’d done, but sparing him extraneous details, such as the splattered oatmeal and Nino’s hypertensive rage. That Al didn’t gas
p or parcel out blame confirmed my almost girlish admiration of him as the very best kind of lawyer, fair-minded, preferring private chats to subpoenas, but a merciless advocate if dialogue failed.

  “Look Susan, whatever’s broken between you and Nino, I’m sure we can fix it. He’s a nice guy. He’ll come around. You know these old paesans. They need a little sweet talk, that’s all. A show of respect.”

  Michael jangled his car keys at me from the hall. “I’m leaving now. You can meet me at Long Harbor, or go directly to Lemuel’s.”

  I gestured for him to wait. “Al, I’m running late. One quick question.”

  “I thought so.”

  Michael had disappeared, so I raced to the point. “I need information about a company called Glendel.” I gave Al the names Michael had dug up.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Call me tomorrow, after eleven.”

  I found Michael in the kitchen sitting at the table, drinking coffee. “We’ve got a few minutes,” he said, “but if I’d let on, you’d still be yucking it up with Al.”

  ***

  Charlestown Navy Yard and Boston harbor materialized, streaks of blue-gray water between buildings and boats. Ahead were elegant brick condominiums reconstructed from old warehouses, and to our left, old warehouses. True to its name, Long Harbor Reality fronted the harbor, even had its own dock. Inside, the floors were old wood, spar varnished and spotted with Turkish carpets.

  A silver-haired woman greeted us. “Jay will be right with you.”

  Michael sat down with a magazine while I ambled as far as the door to the dock where I loitered, inhaling a mix of powerboat fumes and dank sea air. At twenty past five a plump blond man, with a tight youngish face, goatee, and no apparent eyebrows, came over to us. “Lieutenant Benedict? I’m Jay Jennings.”

  He shook Michael’s hand, but not mine, though when Michael said my name he tossed me a nod over his shoulder as he led us to his office. “Here’s a copy of the lease.” He slid it across his desk. “Fifty thousand square feet of unfinished space. Runs for fifteen years. All improvements paid for by NovoGenTech.”

  Michael flipped through the document. “Any finder’s fees involved in the deal?”

  “Just my broker’s fee.”

  “When did you sign?”

  “Week ago Saturday.” Jay pointed to the bottom of the third page, and his jacket sleeve rode up, exposing a two-sided cufflink, artfully monogrammed.

  “What brought Renfrow to Long Harbor?”

  “Our June ad campaign. He thought one of our properties might suit.” Jay nodded toward the lease. “That one was virtually spoken for, but as soon as he saw the building, he offered me more. Nearly cost me the sale. My first client walked away, then Mr. Renfrow got cold feet. The Monday before he signed, he called after hours and put our negotiations on hold.”

  The Monday before Chaz signed was the day he’d hired me. “What time did he call?”

  “I just said…after hours. His call rang through to my cell at the exact moment I sat down to dinner with friends. Couldn’t have been more inconvenient.”

  “So you didn’t spend the evening together looking at harbor island property?”

  “Certainly not. We did that in June.”

  Another whopper unmasked, though by now I’d grown numb to Chaz’s dodges and double-dealings. While I’d pontificated at Roddie’s finance meeting, he’d probably stolen a few hours with Lauren, then lied about standing me up. “Your boat,” I said. “I don’t suppose it broke down?”

  “The launch. It’s called a launch, Ms. Callisto.”

  Well, bite me brother. Luckily I hadn’t called it a rumrunner or, God forbid, a dinghy, or Jay might have leaped over his desk and throttled me. I pretended to stifle a yawn, which I hoped made my irritation look like boredom. “Launch. I’ll make a note.”

  Jay stirred his goatee with his fingers and rambled on in a vaguely English-accented voice that lapsed only once into townie Boston-ese. “The launch stalled for a few minutes, yes. We’d gone to Cutters Island, which happens to be one of the only private islands in the hah-bor. Totally unsuitable for NGT, but Mr. Renfrow insisted on viewing it. He hadn’t put a penny down on the Navy Yard building, mind you. Something awfully grandiose about the man.” Weeks after that event, and despite Chaz’s death, Jay’s annoyance seemed fresh.

  “Did he say why he cooled off on your deal?” Michael asked.

  Jay began arranging his peripherals, fluffed his pocket square, brushed his lapel. “No.”

  “Gave no reason at all?” Michael prodded.

  Jay noticed my tiny smile and scowled at me. “Mr. Renfrow might have said something about needing a lower price. Lower price! What could I do? I ate humble pie and went back to my first client. A very angry client, I might add. In so many words he told me to drop dead. He didn’t sue me for damages only because we’d had a gentleman’s agreement. Nothing in writing.” The desk phone rang and gentleman Jay snapped a few words into the handset, then slammed it down. “So. Where was I?”

  “Drop dead,” I said.

  “Lower price,” Michael clarified.

  “Oh, yes. On Saturday morning Mr. Renfrow came back to the table. Acted as if nothing had happened. Only now he was offering much less. Told me he’d sign for a different property if I didn’t play ball. He actually expected me to roll over, but I’ve got a stubborn streak. I do.” Jay slapped his starched shirtfront. “I almost held out for his original offer, then decided not to risk it.” Jay’s face flushed at the memory. “As it turned out, it was all a high-risk ploy.”

  Michael moved to the edge of his chair. “As it turned out, Renfrow was murdered a few hours after signing your lease.”

  Jay’s neck pinked up like a stringy stalk of rhubarb. “You can’t think his murder had anything to do with Long Harbor. Or me.”

  “Are you sure Renfrow called you Saturday morning? Is that your best recollection?” How kind of good-cop Michael to put it like that when he suspected Jay Jennings had told a big fat lie, easily uncovered through phone records, as Jay must have realized.

  “I may have left a message on Mr. Renfrow’s voice mail.”

  “What message?”

  “I…oh hell. I had to lease that building. It was our showplace. Our anchor. Other contracts depended on it. In the end, I offered Mr. Renfrow such a low price, and threw in so many perks, he drove in from Telford and signed before I could change my mind.”

  “Did you sacrifice your commission?” I asked, knowing he must have.

  “Yes, I did. And Long Harbor’s profit.”

  Snapping at me must have restored Jay’s confidence because he consulted his Rolex and stood up. “I’m running late. If you want to see the property, we’ll have to hurry.”

  It was at the far end of the Yard, well back from the water. Jay had called it unfinished space. He meant raw emptiness. The building had been used by the Navy to store munitions, and when we peered inside, I thought I smelled gunpowder. The interior had been gutted, Jay explained, in case we hadn’t noticed the absence of ceilings and floors. The foundation had been reinforced. There was a new brick facade and a spiffy slate roof. The rest was up to NGT.

  “Any idea how much it will cost to turn this place into laboratories?”

  “Millions.”

  “What about Boston zoning? Any restrictions on biotechnology?”

  “Mr. Renfrow looked into everything. This site conforms.”

  By the time we drove away, it was well past six. In spite of my nap, I was too tired for lobster, and Michael didn’t argue. “When we get home, I have to check in with Gordon Brenner,” I said, melancholy stealing over me. “I don’t know what’s going on with Roddie.”

  “While you pursue justice, I’ll fix supper.”

  I wanted something homey, easy to chew. Preferab
ly white. “Will you make tuna noodle casserole if I make the salad? We can do a quick shop at BeeCees.”

  “Anything you want, Susie.” Michael smiled and patted my hand. I could tell he was going to be hatefully cheerful tonight. So much had gone well for him today: He had enjoyed his tour of the Navy Yard. He liked the ocean. He undoubtedly had an idea about the investigation that he wasn’t going to share with me. Or anyone else, I realized. By stepping aside, but not down, Michael was free to pursue justice his own way.

  “You never call me Susie. That’s what Nino calls me.” Used to call me.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “No.” My mood, which had been dipping, now took a dive.

  “What did you think of Jay?” Michael said.

  “He’s a liar with a face like a turkey bum.”

  “I mean the inner Jay.”

  “Let me see. Where did I bury my woman’s intuition?” I rested my eyes, and shades of Delia, my stomach began to hurt. Appendicitis? Ulcers? Was I developing an eating disorder?

  “He seemed nervous,” Michael said, not noticing my sullen misery, which deepened it.

  “Probably thought you were accusing him of murder.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Because he showed anger.” I pulled my hobo bag off the floor and hugged it tight. “What do I think of him? He’s a screw-up who wants to play let’s-make-a-deal. He’s afraid of you because he’s a coward. He disdained me because my clothes aren’t right. Jay Jennings is a prick.”

  “Geez, Susan. He really zinged you with that launch business, didn’t he?” Michael’s smile was almost as obnoxious as Jay’s.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Launch, boat, the difference is a snob thing and the nuance is crucial to him. I find that hard to take in a man.”

  “Come on. Jay’s humorless, not too bright, but give the guy a break. He’s got a living to make. Nuanced people pay his bills.”

  “I oughta find me some clients with nuances. Big nuances.” Not sure I had enough fingers, I totted up my afflictions: Two of my candidates were murdered, or suspects. My dearest, and former, client hated my guts. My landlords were conspiring to raise my rent. I was sleeping on sheets owned by MasterCard. Even my damn underwear was owned by MasterCard.