A Crack in Everything Page 4

  Virtue comes easy after the fact, but I gave Beauford the benefit of the doubt. “So what happened?”

  “The selectmen turned him down. Never mind all my efforts, Renfrow blamed me. He’s a vindictive son-of-a-bitch. Badmouthed me all over the county. I don’t know how he did it, but most of my old clients dropped me, and new ones stopped coming. He even spread rumors about my solvency, and my bank foreclosed.”

  “Why would the bank listen to rumors?”

  Beau’s face flamed into his scalp. “I…I’d missed a couple of mortgage payments. I’d done that before and always made it up, but this time they cut me no slack. After I lost my house, my other creditors took turns whacking me.” He attached the bolts to the straps, little buttons slid through slits, and the strainers became a face guard. The straps clipped together, and the helmet was ready for another bashing.

  “I’ve moved to Boston, learned a new set of ropes. These days I even lobby abroad, trade commissions, Euro agencies. I fly out again this evening, Brussels and Rome. I’ll be gone for three weeks.” He patted his jacket and handed me a business card.

  “Newbury International Associates. Sounds impressive.”

  “For now NIA is just another name for me and my living room.” His smile matched his slow sad drawl. “I’m in the Back Bay now. Nice old brownstone.”

  I gathered my orange peels, and got up to leave.

  “What are you going to do about our talk?”

  “I don’t know. Check around. Ask Chaz some questions.”

  “He lies.” Beauford pointed his screwdriver at my knee. “What happened to me could happen to you.

  “I’m judgment proof, Beau.”

  ***

  Back at the office, I checked in with kindhearted Deirdre, my universal antidote. There’d been a couple of work-a-day real estate calls, she told me, and one from Roddie Baird. “He’ll stop by around six unless you tell him otherwise. And Mr. Biondi called. Said you should come to Tavola for dinner tonight.”

  “No way, Deir.” This morning’s debacle still rankled. Once more around the merry-go-lease, and I’d wash my hands of Nino’s buy-out. “I’m booked.” Unless Beauford’s story turned out to be unvarnished truth, in which case Chaz Renfrow was history.

  “You ought to get back to him. He sounded really angry about something. Ah Susan,” she sighed. “Mr. Biondi needs healing.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Hesitantly, Deirdre asked if I’d met with Beauford. It wasn’t her way to pry, so I knew her worry hadn’t damped down overnight.

  “He’s been spooked by rumors.” Like every seasoned political consultant, I told her, Beau had learned to run scared. “That’s not a bad thing. Your fear infects your candidate who then runs scared too, and fast, all the way home. Trouble is, Beau’s addicted to fear and can’t break the habit.” I hung up, not sure who I was trying to convince.

  I dealt with my e-mail, then pulled out some real estate files and immediately put them away, unable to focus even on boilerplate. Unless Chaz reassured me about children and cancer, the twenty grand was smoke and ashes. I dialed NGT, but he wasn’t available.

  While I waited for his call back, I had two cups of dark roast Colombian and triaged my debts. A check in full to GreenClean Laundry left enough for minimum payments to MasterCard and Visa. A crumb toward utilities. Nothing for rent. Luckily, eviction proceedings took months, by which time I might be solvent. I tucked the checks into envelopes, all but GreenClean, which I would hand-deliver when I collected my threads. Patched up for the moment, I spun my chair to the window and basked in a hot sunbeam.

  Just after noon, I hit redial, and this time an affable Chaz took my call. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you,” he said. “I’m running on two cylinders. Literally.” A big lazy yawn drifted like a cloud along the phone line. “After I dropped you off, the Sonett collapsed. Staties had to send a tow. I spent half the night on the turnpike.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “Yanked poor Glenn out of bed.” He yawned again. “What’s up?”

  “We need to talk. I’ve heard rumors that could derail your campaign.”

  “What rumors?” He laughed. “Mutant zucchini rampaging through Telford?”

  “Pollution,” I said. “The EPA. I’ll tell you what I heard when I get to your office.”

  “It’s crazy here. My assistant didn’t show up, the temp is a nitwit. Let’s talk now.”

  “I need to sit down with you.” And study your face.

  “Can’t it wait till tonight?”

  “Chaz, I won’t have dinner with you unless I’m sure I can go on with the campaign.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “The retainer is yours, Susan, all of it, even if I drop out.”

  “This is not about money.”

  “Are you quitting on me?”

  “I’m wavering. I’ve just met with Beauford Smith.”

  Silence. Then he said, “Come now, and I’ll steal a few minutes.”

  On my way out, I caught sight of my death row plants. Later guys.

  ***

  After my car finished bucking, I locked up and trudged across the lot under the blazing sun. Straight ahead, the NGT building shimmered like a two-story mirage. A Lexus SUV was berthed in Chaz’s space today, but Torie’s Jaguar hadn’t moved since last night. The efficient and highly paid Ms. Moran must have a doozy of a hangover.

  Up close and in daylight her Jag wasn’t all that spiffy. Rust nibbled the panels, and there was a puddle of oil under the chassis near the right rear wheel. But even pockmarked, the Jaguar was a beautiful machine, long and sleek. Sensuous in an obvious way, and when did men ever mind obvious? I peered inside. Ditz had left her keys in the ignition.

  I drifted around the car, letting my fingertips graze the enamel. At the trunk, I noticed a strand of yarn dangling over the bumper. I touched it.

  Not yarn.

  Way ahead of my conscious self, the hidden parts barked orders: Open the trunk! Check that puddle!

  I stooped over the oil, though I knew it wasn’t oil, and touched something viscous, almost dry, like the skin over your pudding. I stood and rubbed my stained finger on the trunk, which lifted slightly. Another thread of fringe spilled out, and Jasmine Musk, and a strand of long black hair.

  Chapter Four

  Rope

  Two uniformed officers arrived and fully opened the trunk. Torie’s body lay on its side, doubled over at the waist. A bare foot stuck up between two wrists. Broken doll. Scribble of red. That’s all I allowed myself to see, though I couldn’t evade the chill that wracked me until the paramedics came and someone brought me tea.

  The locals called in the state police, Telford being unused to murder. Twenty minutes later the Jaguar was surrounded by a medical examiner and crime unit personnel. Curious NGT workers milled around, and by the time Lieutenant Michael Benedict arrived, the parking lot had the air of a country fair struck by lightning.

  When I saw him drive up, I tried to vanish among a knot of NGT staff that included an ashen-faced Chaz and a dark-haired woman, Johanna, someone said. Surrounded by sweating bodies, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be allowed to hide, I watched Michael confer with Telford police, then make his way toward me.

  “Hello, Susan.” His casual voice zeroed in on my already weak knees. “See you for a minute?” There was no warmth in his tone. The office, not the man, was speaking to me.

  I edged away from the others, torn by the slightly lopsided way he stood on those mile-long legs, by the familiar, tear-shaped scar on his cheekbone. The mustache was new. I clutched my elbows in a self-protective hug. “Hello, Michael,” I said, and my voice held the same indifference as his.

  His gray eyes skipped off mine. “You found the body?”

  “I found the bl
ood. Telford police found the body.”

  “Always the literalist.” He looked right at me now.

  “Lieutenant Benedict?” An impatient voice intruded on our stiff reunion. Michael turned, and I stepped back into the crowd. “I’m Johanna Lang.”

  Chaz’s ex was as ripe as plums, and Michael scrutinized her with more interest than even a murder investigation warranted, it seemed to me.

  “When can we go back inside?” A few strands of Johanna’s dark brown hair fell across her forehead, and she fixed them to the top of her head with her rimless glasses. “It must be ninety-five degrees out here.” She spoke with a soft surliness that brought our little group to attention.

  “We all need to get out of the heat, Lieutenant.” Chaz came up behind me, and Johanna shied away from him as if he were an unreliable dog.

  ***

  By two-thirty, most of NGT’s employees had left, but key personnel and witnesses were still making statements. When my turn came, it was Sergeant Paul Tyre who interviewed me. The dislike between us had sprung up fully-grown the first time Michael introduced us, and it remained as murky and constant as lust. In an office near the employee lounge, I crossed my legs and jiggled my foot, quietly fuming that Michael had, again, abandoned me.

  Tyre dropped a note pad the desk and turned on his recorder. “Okay, Suze. You met Victoria Moran, when?”

  “Last night, first and only time.”

  He massaged his temples, fingertips pulling loose skin across his cheekbones and up into eyebrows as bristly and frayed as old toothbrushes. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “She’d just come from Johanna Lang’s birthday party. She stopped in because it was late and she saw lights.”

  “What were you doing at NGT after hours?”

  “Consulting with my client.”

  “Where did you go afterward?”

  “We took Torie back to the party, then Mr. Renfrow drove me home. We left around midnight and were together until a little after one.”

  “Ten after? Twenty after?”

  “Ten,” I said, and Tyre let go of my alibi. He darted from topic to topic, firing questions, barely waiting for answers. He asked who drove Torie home, how drunk she was, if I’d seen her leave. Other questions about the party, Johanna, Bart Bievsky. Most of the time I stared blankly and said I didn’t know.

  “Was Moran carrying a purse?”

  “A little fringed evening bag.”

  He showed me a group photo of Chaz, Torie, and others at what looked like a Christmas party. “What a hottie, this Victoria Moran. Was she having an affair with Renfrow?”

  “She was his assistant. That’s all I know.”

  “What about you? What do you do for Renfrow?”

  “Not relevant, Paul.”

  “I decide what’s relevant. Answer the question.”

  He’d been baiting me on and off for half an hour, and I’d had enough. “What I do for Mr. Renfrow is none of your business! Any more questions, talk to my lawyer.”

  “Easy, easy, Suze. You always had a short fuse.” He tried again, switching gears, the bully backing down. “What made you examine the Jag?”

  “Something seemed wrong. It was an instinctual thing.”

  “Instinctual.” His eyebrows said it was a toss up between my truthfulness and my sanity. “And then you smeared your bloody finger…on the car?”

  I shrugged.

  “You left prints. Your meddling tainted evidence we’re gonna need to build our case against the killer.”

  My meddling. The killer. I wasn’t a suspect this time. He probably thought I ought to shout my relief. For Tyre the whole world was a criminal enterprise.

  “Who knows how much damage you did?” He turned off his recorder. “All right, you can go.”

  I made it as far as the door.

  “Hold on,” he said. “One more thing.”

  Tyre had always liked Columbo, the dumb, sly, smart, oldies television cop. Was I supposed to be lured into a confidence by a shut down recorder?

  “Did you have a look through the glove box? Instinctually, I mean?”

  “No, Paul. I did not.”

  “Did you see a cell phone in or around the Jag?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea who’d want to kill her?”

  “No.”

  Even Tyre’s sighs were aggressive. “We’ll be in touch. On your way out, send in the zit-faced receptionist, willya?”

  “It’s rosacea.”

  He flung down his pen. “I don’t care what her name is, just send her in.”

  ***

  They were in the employee lounge, at a rickety table littered with magazines. After the receptionist left, I slid into her chair across from Chaz. “How are you?” I asked, as if I couldn’t tell from his pale face and swollen eyes.

  “Been waiting for you.” His voice buzzed with incipient flu. “I hope you’re all right. Finding Torie…”

  “I’m okay. You’re the one ought to go home and get some rest.”

  “Not while Lieutenant Benedict is in the building.”

  Hearing Michael’s name, his presence at NGT, felt as surreal as Torie’s murder. I hadn’t seen him in months. After his Tucson rescue mission, he’d stopped calling me. Just like that. Ex-girlfriend, ex-wife, indigestion, I hadn’t chased after reasons. After Gil died, grief had numbed me, and I’d learned how to stiffen my spine and move on. But since Michael left, numbness was fast becoming indifference, and from there, I knew, it was an easy slide to despair. Only work kept me going.

  From the kitchen nook a compressor thumped, startling Chaz who reared back. “I keep expecting Torie to walk in with a report,” he said. “Or a brainstorm. Always thinking up ways to boost the bottom line. She was totally dedicated to NGT.”

  His words sounded like a shareholder’s eulogy and, as eulogies will, they rang false.

  “Who would want to kill her?”

  “Not a soul. Everyone liked her.”

  More eulogizing. Last night, even Torie’s appreciative boss had been pissed off at her.

  “About Beauford Smith,” Chaz said. “I’ll clear up everything over dinner. We’re still on, I hope.”

  “Tonight? I couldn’t. Let’s wait a few days. You’ll get sick if you don’t take care of yourself.”

  “I can’t afford to wait.” His eyes slewed left, as if he suspected his haste was tacky under the circumstances. “I’ve got to jump back into the fray.”

  “I’m not sure you should.”

  “Christ! You’re supposed to be a fighter! What’s spooking you now? Afraid murder could derail my campaign?”

  My own words. Thrown back at me, they sounded cowardly, even crass. But true, for all that.

  “Sorry.” He reached for my hand. “I’m being unfair. You came here because Beauford Smith’s got a grudge against me. At least give me ten minutes to defend myself.”

  He only needed five, for a story that mirrored Beau’s, with that reverse perspective mirrors give. Beauford Smith was an opportunist, Chaz told me. Worse, he was a liar who sold out NGT to his buddy the mayor. A coward who hid behind bankruptcy. “In a nutshell, Smith cost me millions in lost opportunities. I’m the one ought to be holding a grudge.” While Chaz talked, he churned his thumb along the back of my hand, and when I tried to pull away, he clung.

  “What about the pollution? Myeloma. Children dying.”

  “More lies. The little girl who died last year had a rare congenital form of the disease. I don’t suppose Smith mentioned that. NGT generates minute amounts of toxic waste, which we dispose of lawfully. Biohazards makes unannounced inspections. They’ve never found a problem.”

  Footsteps sounded outside the door, and Glenn shambled into the lounge. As if
I’d been caught canoodling with his dad, I yanked back my hand in a flurry of falling magazines. Glenn retrieved them, stacking them neatly on his father’s side of the table.

  “You’re still here?” Chaz said.

  “Just want to grab me a Coke.” On his way to the cooler, Glenn sketched a little wave in my direction. “Anyone else?”

  “I’ll have one,” I said, to soften Chaz’s annoyance.

  Glenn gave me the soda with a shy courtliness that made me think of country boys and Fourth of July picnics. “Want some ice?”

  “Glenn. Make it snappy.” Chaz’s irritation seemed tinged with uneasiness or embarrassment. Not on my account, I hoped. “Susan and I are in the middle of a private business conversation.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to butt in.”

  He left, chugging his Coke, and from the doorway, Chaz stared after him for a long moment before stepping back into the room. “Have I put your mind at rest?” he said. “Are you still with me?”

  “Get on the ballot, and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Dinner tomorrow, then? Working session? I promise I’ll bring along three hundred signatures, and get the rest by five o’clock Friday.”

  With the filing deadline now three days away, I knew Chaz was right to push, but his relentless ambition was fast uncovering the limits of mine. I could only hope my pessimism wouldn’t go viral.

  We left together, Chaz guiding me toward the exit. Down the hall a door opened, and Michael stepped out, followed by Glenn and Bart Bievsky in his silly red suspenders. My elbow burned under Chaz’s grip, but if Michael noticed me or my elbow he had eyes in his chin. “Got a minute?” he said to Chaz, ignoring my presence the way snooty dames in old movies ignored Groucho Marx.

  I walked on, not looking back, not wanting to give Michael even that much satisfaction if he was watching.

  “See you tomorrow night,” Chaz called after me. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  Outside, the sky had gone to chalk.

  ***