A Crack in Everything Read online

  Gordon leaned toward me, and the paté gave his story a garlicky punch. Using a butter knife to stand in for Glenn and a pepper mill for Torie, he demonstrated how she had edged toward the panic button while Glenn dug up the plant. Glenn caught her in the nick of time, Gordon said, but during the ensuing struggle, Torie grabbed the microtome blade off the shelf. “Naturally Glenn turned it against her. Cut her arms, nicked her neck.” Gordon toppled the grinder with the knife.

  I shivered at his story, Odette’s fine food catching in my throat.

  Paté demolished, Gordon speared a tomato wedge, which he ate off the tip of his knife, like a pirate. “Now Torie swears the video is in her Jaguar. So Glenn drags her outside, and they both search the car. Again, he finds nothing. Renfrow must have stolen it, Torie says.”

  I put down my fork. “He could’ve. Torie got very drunk that night, and Chaz walked her to her car before we drove her back to the party. What I don’t understand is how this ditz managed ten years of blackmail.”

  A tomato seed lodged between Gordon’s teeth, and he ran his tongue over it. “If it was blackmail. Johanna denies it.”

  “She’d have to, wouldn’t she?” Odette said.

  “Unless she wants to admit illegal activity. Meanwhile, Glenn’s begun to step back from his confession. Didn’t mean to kill, he says. When the video didn’t turn up in the Jag, he ‘just lost it’ and bashed Torie with the blade handle, he says. She collapsed but wouldn’t stop moaning, so he dumped her in the trunk. No idea how she died, blade attacked her on its own. But, hey, she deserved it.” Gordon scowled, his dark eyebrows a foil for his snowy hair. “As Glenn, with great patience, explained to the police, the bitch seduced his father.”

  “Seduced?” I yelped. “Does the moth tempt the flame?”

  “Which one was the moth?”

  “All I know is they’re both dead, and Glenn believed every woman who got next to Chaz was a slut.” Balancing dishes and utensils in one efficient stack, I cleared the table, working to distance my emotions from Gordon’s narrative.

  Odette cut into an apricot tarte, and soothed by the sight of dessert, Gordon’s eyebrows relaxed. “Of course, your client was in it up to his neck,” he said to me.

  Odette held back his plate, and Gordon talked fast: Faced with a dead woman and blood everywhere, Glenn had screamed for help, calling dad on his cellphone. Chaz had galloped to the rescue, then staged a turnpike breakdown to make alibis for both of them. At NGT, father and son removed every trace of the murder. Chaz even hosed down and bleached the floor in Lab 45, just in case. Glenn hoped this teamwork would open a new era in father-son relations. Instead, Chaz was the next to die.

  ***

  After lunch and more work on Roddie’s files, I met with my Ashcroft candidate, and by five-thirty I was back at my desk, alone in the building except for a couple of Boris’ bakers. I contributed three hours to my other candidates, then, too tired for Nino, I called to beg off. “I’ll stop by tomorrow morning,” I said.

  Instead of annoyance, Nino bubbled with good humor. Lombard had agreed to his terms. “Fifty-thousand cash,” he gloated. “And I can turn over the old lease to Benny anytime I want.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “And I told him to forget about you. Write up something says he won’t sue. Bring it tomorrow. That villiaco will sign. He’s running scared. I think the police talked to him about your dead friend.”

  “Chaz Renfrow was not my friend!”

  Nino chuckled. “Don’t matter now. He lost, and I’m still going strong.”

  I rolled my eyes. I win, you lose. Even old men never stopped being boys. I hung up, ready for home, where tunaless casserole and Graham Greene would take me through to bed. Before I closed the computer, I set up a cold-call file. Tomorrow, I’d mine old donor lists.

  The telephone rang, and I picked up, hoping for Michael. “Hey,” Roddie said, to my disappointed heart. “Glad I caught you. Odette tells me you’re sorting the voters.”

  I managed a little laugh. “Roddie, when I’m finished, you’ll be able to target every left-handed Libertarian rat catcher in Newton. Where are you?”

  There was a static-filled gap. “…stayed an extra day in Maine. Lauren insisted the kids needed me, and she was right. I’ll be driving to the hospital later tonight.”

  “Everybody okay? Delia?”

  “Great, great. How late will you be at the office?”

  “I’m on my way out, actually.”

  “Okay, catch you tomorrow.”

  Putting my spartan establishment to bed never took long. I shut down the machines, emptied Coke dregs into the sink. I moved about, turning off lamps, pondering Roddie. He’d sounded excited and happy. His family was safe, his campaign grinding forward. The killer was in custody. Relief must have finally taken hold.

  I closed the windows. Traffic noise faded, and into the quiet a floorboard creaked. Something scratched inside a wall. On my way to the light switch I heard the elevator clank and the doors slither open. I moved faster, feeling the onset of dire thoughts. It was almost nine o’clock. I was the only top floor tenant. No one I knew would visit at this hour, unless it was Michael.

  Footsteps tapped, a drag in the tread. Not Michael’s walk, which was brisk and dynamic to my doting ears. I switched off the overheads, and just as the footsteps halted outside my door, I saw that the latch was up! I lurched for the door, the knob already starting to turn. I thumbed down the button and heard its click.

  “Susan? Are you there?”

  Roddie. But he’d just called from Maine. I started to greet him, but my voice shrank to a whiffle.

  From the other side of the door came his prankster’s chuckle, the same chuckle that had done in Froy. “I called you from my car. Wanted to surprise you. Come on, open up.” He rattled the knob. “I’ve got a present for you.”

  What present? Why surprise me?

  I took a step back.

  What if I was wrong about Roddie? Lauren had confided so very much, and Roddie never quaked from protecting his interests. I remembered how he had raised his fist at Tyre, how he’d squeezed Froy. It was his rope they’d found in Chaz’s car. And he had lied.

  Ridiculous. The killer was in custody. I reached for the knob.

  But Michael believed there were two killers. And I’d misjudged so many things. I crept back to my desk, prepared to wait Roddie out.

  Should I call the police? No, better try Boris’, where night bakers were still mixing sourdough. Maybe if I asked nicely, they’d bring me a pastry, and I could greet Roddie on my way out, and we could all take the elevator down together. I placed an uncertain hand on the phone.

  “I know you’re in there,” Roddie sang out in the hall. “I’m parked next to your car.”

  I wanted to shout that I’d walked over to Freddie’s for coffee. Deirdre was convinced minds could communicate, and just now, with my back to the wall, telepathy might come as easily as prayer. Go to Freddie’s, I shrieked inside my skull. If Roddie heard and obeyed, I could sneak down to my car and make my escape.

  The phone rang under my hand and I seized it reflexively. I’d tell whoever it was to come rescue me, and worry about explanations later. “Hello,” I whispered.

  “Hey, Susan. I knew you’re there.” Roddie calling me on his cellphone, and me falling for it. Again. “What’s up? Let me in.”

  “I don’t want to see you right now.”

  There was a fraught silence, then he said, “Oh, I get it. You too,” and clicked off. His footsteps retreated. The elevator clanked its way down.

  I waited ten stiff minutes, then took the stairs. A glass door opened on the parking lot, and from the safety of the building I searched every inch of asphalt with my eyes. My car was where I’d left it, a cardboard box now resting on its trunk. Roddie’s miniva
n was gone. I hurried outside, not sure what to do about the box, which didn’t actually look like a bomb. I lifted it, shook it, and finally opened the flaps. Steam wafted out. Inside were two fat live lobsters and a lump of dry ice.

  I slid the box onto the back seat and slunk toward home. I owed Roddie an apology. Nino, Deirdre, Roddie…how many did that make now, anyway?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Soul Fire

  As soon as the second claw poked out I knew I had to get rid of Roddie’s gift. I could imagine the headlines: Lobsters devour campaign hack. Animalistas denounce politicians. I had already hurled an innocent cat. I cruised past Tavola Rustica and MediRX, both closed, and parked under one of the fake gas lamps that dotted Nino’s neighborhood. Leaving the lobsters in the car, I hurried toward his apartment, an oasis of light at the bottom of the alley behind the restaurant. Across the way, Benny’s building was dark, as if its real life took place street-side.

  I knocked, and after a short wait, Nino waved me in. His color was high, which made him look healthy, not like a man is his cups who smelled of anisette. “Thought you were coming tomorrow.”

  “I can’t stay. I brought you two beautiful Maine lobsters.”

  We walked back to my car for the box. “I’ll make saffron linguine with ’em,” he said, shoving down claws that, even banded, intimidated me.

  He lugged the lobsters through the service hall to the restaurant, and returned carrying bundles of documents from the wall safe. “Since you’re here, look these over. I’ll warm up the coffee.”

  Leftover coffee and drudgery, great. Instead of running for cover, I should have coped with claws on my own. “I’ll take a quick look tonight,” I said, spreading the papers out on the kitchen table: Tavola’s Brookline leases, savings bonds, stock certificates. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

  Nino carried his anisette to the stove, sipping while he lit the gas under a dented percolator. Flames shot out, little blue seething teeth, and soon a cup of burnt coffee materialized at my elbow. “Hey, Susie, I keep meaning to ask. Did you take my pictures after I told you not to?”

  “I thought getting them restored would cheer you up. They were supposed to be a surprise, for when you came home from the hospital.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Gee, sorry for doing a good deed. Anyway, only one’s ready. If I bring it tomorrow…don’t be surprised.” I laughed, but sourpuss Nino banged his coffee pot.

  “Which one they give you?”

  “A girl about fourteen, long straight hair. From the ‘80s, looks like.” I was wading through canceled checks and correspondence, sorting them by type and date. “She had a cute little puppy.”

  “My daughter. I took that picture, couple days before my wife walked out.”

  “First wife?”

  “Second.” Across from my coffee, which I still hadn’t touched, Nino set down a cup for himself. A few drops sloshed on the table, and he sponged them off. “A troia, my second wife.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A tramp.” He dropped the sponge in the sink and came back with a tea cloth trimmed in crochet that he used to buff the table. “Just like my first wife. You could say I got pretty bad judgment when it comes to wives.”

  “Ya think?” Hardly listening now, I waved a bundle of savings bonds. “These matured eight years ago. Cash ’em in.”

  The last paper was a ragged sheet that had been crumpled and flattened, an inch or two missing from the top. My eyes passed over the now-familiar lines, and the impossibility of what I saw stunned me. Here was yet another copy of Chaz’s forged contract, the wildfire lie I couldn’t stamp out. “Nino? Where did you get this?”

  He was back at the stove, staring at me over another full glass of anisette. “Ah, you found it. Proof how you sold me out.”

  “It’s a fake.”

  “I know your signature.” He stomped to the table and pawed through the papers until he found his last Tavola lease, which I had witnessed. “There. There it is.”

  “Lombard must have given Renfrow a copy, so he could use it to forge my name.” I lined up the contract and the lease. The signatures were not quite a match, but close. “They were in it together.”

  “Who else was in it?” Nino slapped the table, and my coffee cup jumped. “You. You were in it.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Just tell the truth, Susie.” His voice softened. “That’s all I need from you.”

  “I told you this morning, Renfrow conned me.”

  “Renfrow bought you. He paid you twenty grand, so he could take over my restaurant, nice and legal. You should admit what you did, so I could forgive you and we could put it behind us.”

  “There’s nothing to admit!”

  “Liar! Al Volpe should know how you lie!” He snatched the documents out of my hand and threw them on top of the others. “Get outta my house.”

  “Not till I’ve finished talking to you.” Not caring if they wrinkled, I jammed his papers together like a deck of scattered cards. “The twenty thousand was my campaign fee. And I returned almost all of it. Did asshole Lombard tell you that?”

  “Lombard didn’t tell me nothing.”

  “Then who told you all those fucking lies?” I shoved my cup out of my way, and it tipped, splashing coffee across the table.

  “You. Truck driver mouth. Get out!” He tried to drag me off the chair, but I wrenched free. In the sudden quiet, I heard coffee dripping, and too late, I lifted the papers out of the puddle.

  “You do have bad judgment, Nino. Believe what you want, but Renfrow…he…” I stared at the wet papers in my hand, at the smudged letters. My finger dragged itself through my forged signature, and Susan Callisto became a smear of blue/black ink. This wasn’t a copy. It was the original. The missing inches were in a police file. And I was holding the rest of the page someone had torn from Chaz Renfrow’s dead hand. “Nino?” The catch in my throat made it hard to sound casual. “Did Lombard give you this?”

  “You think too much.” He clucked his tongue. That dismissive sound. “Your friend gave it to me. And he showed me the canceled check with your signature on the back. Twenty big ones.”

  “God! Just how hard is your head? The money was my campaign fee. Got it?”

  He bent close to my chair, his anise breath in my eyes. “When I talked to your friend, I told him I knew it was him kicked the shit out of me. ‘Prove it,’ he said, and that’s what I’m telling you. Prove the money was for a campaign.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Because you’re a liar, like my daughter and her mother, every woman I ever knew.”

  “When did you talk to Chaz? Did he come back to Falkman? Or did you go to him?” I knew the answer, but I wanted Nino to deny it. I had been wrong about so many things. I wanted to be wrong about this.

  “Day after Benny brought me home from the hospital I called your friend and told him what I knew.”

  “Chaz Renfrow was not my friend!”

  “Okay, your what, your accomplice. Your accomplice drove me in his big fancy car to his big fancy house. Wanted to show me something.” Nino reached out, as if to touch my shoulder. “Something about you.”

  I flinched away from his hand. “Did you do it?” I whispered. “Did you kill Chaz?” I moved to get up but he forced me down.

  “I told you, you think too much. Women shouldn’t think, it only makes trouble.” He moved around the table, his speech starting to thicken and slow down, the second or third glass of anisette kicking in. “So important your friend, sitting at his desk. Didn’t bother to look up when the peon…walked behind…his throne…” Short strong fingers that had once patted my hand now grabbed my throat.

  I tried to turn. “Nino…”

  The fingers let
go and a cloth, rough lace, cut into my larynx. “Twenty thousand dollars? That’s all my life was worth to you? You shoulda held out for more. Your friend offered me money too, but it was better I killed him.”

  I tried to drag the cloth away, but it tightened, glitter floating inside my eyes, bright specks of silver and blood. My hands found Nino’s hands, clawed his skin. From far away, his voice slurred inside my head. “Don’t fight. You can’t win. You could’ve been my daughter. Granddaughter.”

  My fingers scrabbled, no stronger than Chaz’s had been. “Your daughter,” I mumbled through the soot in my mouth, and the cloth loosened a fraction of a twist. Make him talk… “Where is she?”

  “She left me, too.” He twisted the cloth again, tighter, tighter. “My beautiful daughter went away.”

  I was drifting, dreaming, stretching out a long languid arm. My hand found a cup, smashed it on the table, flailed behind me with the jagged edge.

  “Bitch!” A fist came down on my ear, knocking me out of the chair. The cloth ripped away. I leaped up and ran for the door, which opened, at my touch. Fresh air streamed like mercy across my face.

  “Benny! Help me!” I screamed at the dark windows across the alley. My voice was hoarse, and the words burned coming out. “Benny!”

  I made it a few feet from the stoop before Nino dragged me back inside. My broken fingernails tore at his eyes, and when he lost his grip I ran through his apartment for the service hall. Breathing hard, slowed by anisette, he stumbled after me, and as I swept into the restaurant, I heard him trip. “Don’t fight!” he shouted. “Just tell the truth.”

  In Tavola’s dimly lit kitchen, I kept the prep table between us, my eyes flitting from Nino to the dining room and, far off, to the Boylston Street door. I feinted left, and he lurched after my shadow. I threw myself on top of the counter, but he pulled me down and pushed me against the stove. His hands found my throat again.

  Use your body. Elbows, knees, fists, I lashed out at him, a man in his seventies with the strength of a grizzly, who seemed to be tiring. He let go, and we stood facing each other, gasping for air.