A Crack in Everything Read online

  “Lauren, see that girl over there?”

  “Uh huh.” She answered in a breath-saving way, turning her head where I pointed.

  “What’s that thing riding up her backside?”

  “Butt harness,” she gasped, trotting very fast now.

  “You are kidding me. What’s it for?”

  She slowed her pace slightly. “Helps her professionally.”

  I looked at the muscled body, legs spread, weighted arms flapping up and down in front of a mirror. Snowboarder? Mud wrestler? “How so?”

  “She’s a lawyer.”

  My antennae perked up. “Oh?”

  “Harness keeps that stick up her ass.”

  A wit, our Lauren. Eyes closed now, she broke into a run, and I sensed she was zoning out. Roddie had clearly overestimated my persuasive gifts.

  On my way out, I asked the spandexed lawyer for directions to Ladies. She hoisted a velcro-wrapped wrist toward the coatroom, which was empty except for a few metal racks. And little Delia Baird, asleep on a sofa, arms and legs curled around her pink security blanket. A frown creased her petal skin. While I watched, she sighed and rolled on her side, thumb veering back toward her cheek. Lauren had babysitting problems this morning, I guessed. I gently untangled Delia from her blanket and covered her with it. I assumed she was safe, all alone in the cold room.

  From my car, I returned a call that ended with my driving to Hudson, New Hampshire, to confer with a candidate. By eleven I was back in my office, where Peter Lombard had left an early morning threat. I punched in his number, and before I finished saying my name, his secretary put me through.

  “Your nutso client’s been leaving ugly messages on all my phones.”

  “Hello to you, too.”

  “Nino Biondi is a harasser.” Lombard coughed juicily. “Harasser!”

  “Peter, his apartment was vandalized. He thinks…well, he doesn’t know what to think.”

  “Any damage to my building?” Lombard’s quick anxiety rang true.

  “No real damage at all.” I put him on speaker and crossed to the mini-fridge where I dug out an ancient Coke, tasting of tin, but flush with caffeine.

  “I gotta tell you, I’m getting tired of that old man. What’re we going to do about him?”

  “Make the right offer.”

  “I already offered him the moon.”

  Sloshing Coke on my desk, I slumped down in my chair. “Try an apartment.”

  There was a silence of cigars. Lombard had played out the scene so many times in my presence I could see him at work, snipping the end, firing up, pinching a shred of tobacco off his lip. “Whatta you mean, an apartment?”

  “Sweeten the pot one more time. Add an apartment, walking distance from the new restaurant, and he’ll accept your offer. I’m ninety-nine percent sure.” I wasn’t even ten percent sure, but a free apartment in Cambridge would be an astounding concession. Nino was stubborn, but not a fool.

  “Ninety-nine percent is not a guarantee.”

  “It’s close. Shall I bring him the offer?”

  “I gotta look at the numbers. We’re talking a lot of money for a place near Harvard Square.” Now he was inhaling, a nicotine smile gliding across his face. “What the hell. Okay. But it’s my final offer. I need everything signed by Friday.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “So far, your best hasn’t been good.” That did it for good-bye.

  I immediately relayed this conversation to Nino, who listened as far as “free apartment,” but cut me off when I got to “lease.”

  “No time to talk. Benny’s minding the stove.”

  I swiveled toward the arched windows and stared at the sky. “Lombard wants your answer by five o’clock today.” That fib would give Nino a way to come out on top by dickering past the deadline. “Think about it.”

  “Have supper with me,” he said. “Benny can run things while we eat.”

  “I have plans for dinner.”

  “Susie! You got a date?”

  “It’s business. I thought you couldn’t talk now.”

  “Here’s what you do. Bring this…this…”

  “Client.”

  “Bring the client here.”

  “Mr. Renfrow won’t want to socialize. He’s the one whose assistant was murdered.”

  Nino tsked a brief note of sympathy, then said, “Beh, the client can wait at the bar while you and I talk private.”

  I sighed, every inch a battle. “Nino, if I come in with my client, I want you to say hello and goodbye and nothing in between.”

  “Have I ever interfered in your life?”

  “You hated Gil and let him know it.”

  “Gil was a bum.”

  “He wasn’t.” He was the love of my life.

  “Sorry,” Nino spoke softly, for him. “But I never said a bad word to that new guy.”

  “You cross-examined Michael like he was a crooked cop. Twice burned, thrice shy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means lay off my date.”

  “I thought it was business.”

  “It is.”

  He chuckled.

  ***

  I picked up my laundry, the purple dress and a couple of business suits on hangers, the rest compressed in bundles suggesting mail-order treats. The reality was thin and worn and out of date. In two years of solo practice, I hadn’t bought anything new except emergency duct tape for hems and safety pins for buttons.

  Back at the Beemer, I dumped everything on the seat, and in the muzzy interior light the purple dress glimmered like phosphorescent mold. Releasing the brake, I headed for the Chestnut Hill Mall. A businesslike dress for dinner with Chaz shouldn’t be too expensive, and chances were good I’d be keeping his fat retainer. What did a few bucks matter in the end? Torie’s Jaguar hadn’t saved her.

  Near the corner of Grant Street, I slowed to a crawl. From here, I could turn right for the mall or continue on home, leaving plenty of time for a soothing soak in my clawfoot tub. I shifted to first, riding the clutch and arguing with myself.

  The case against shopping: life is short, use it wisely.

  The case for shopping: life is short, go for broke.

  I turned right and drove fast, before the contradiction paralyzed me. A shower would soothe me enough and, what the hell, so would new underwear.

  I parked illegally and sprinted for the shops where I charged up khakis and skirts, blouses and tops, designer shoe knockoffs, plain cotton briefs and a few frilly ones. I even found a faux-biker shirt with cunning zippers, and an ice blue dress that wasn’t totally unbusiness-like. By five I was ready for bed. On my new Porthault sheets. Sleeping alone, I needed top quality something wrapped around me.

  On my way out, I drove past a dumpster and wrestled with an impulse masquerading as thought. Why not give myself a completely fresh start? I parked, and pulled my laundry off the back seat. At the dumpster I paused with my hand on the lid. I was in Chestnut Hill, a choosy place where expectations and entitlement ran high. Maybe my old things weren’t good enough for this dumpster. An iridescent fly buzzed past my head. Oh, hell. I tossed everything in and drove away. Light and free.

  ***

  Chaz arrived promptly at seven, his SUV so high off the ground I had trouble climbing up in my new five inch Louboutin knockoffs, even with his arm steadying me. I asked how he was coping, and his dark linen jacket wrinkled softly around his shoulders when he shrugged. As we drove, I broke a silence that threatened to become awkward, as if going out for dinner was a game-changer I needed to thwart. “Any progress on the investigation?” I said, and we both relaxed.

  “My CFO’s in the clear, if that’s progress. Bart Bievsky. Did you meet him at Johanna’s party?” />
  “Red suspenders? Drove Torie home?”

  “He says he left her inside her condo, five sheets to the wind, but very much alive slumped on a sofa. On his way out he passed two of her friends who stopped in to say hello. I call that cast iron.”

  “Unless he went back later and did her in. Or do the police think she was murdered at NGT? Someone put her body in the Jaguar, maybe even killed her there.”

  “They found signs of struggle, and blood, in her condo, so that’s where they’re focusing. Lieutenant Benedict admitted as much. Wasn’t giving anything else away though.”

  No. Michael rarely gave anything away, a useful trait in police work that in our relationship had double-locked my heart.

  Chaz glanced at me. “I told him you and I were together until one-fifteen or so.”

  “What did he say to that good news?”

  “Not a blinking word, Susan. Just jotted a note and lit a cigarette.”

  Smoking again, after four months on the wagon. For some reason this pleased me.

  Implicitly, after talk of struggle and blood, we agreed to stop discussing the murder. Chaz patted his pocket, the crooked-tooth smile back on his face. “Brought my nominating papers. Picked up quite a few signatures. I’ll show you at dinner. Have you thought of a good Italian place? I passed one on Boylston, on my way to your house. Tavola, something.”

  “Tavola Rustica. One of my clients owns it and, actually, I hope you don’t mind, but I promised him I’d stop by.”

  “Is your client the chef?”

  “Chef-owner. Nino Biondi. He’s fantastic, but I’d rather not have dinner with him looking over my shoulder. He can be, shall we say, difficult.”

  Nino was waiting by the door, Tavola almost bare of customers at this hour, which would be peak near Harvard Square. Three couples shared a window table. A solitary man hunched over a paperback, occasionally forking up a strand of badly rolled spaghetti.

  After introductions, my oldest and newest clients shook hands, and for several long seconds Nino stared up at Chaz, no doubt reading intentionality into every move Chaz made, including breathing. As they walked into the bar Chaz tilted his head toward Nino who was talking nonstop with his voice and his hands. Benny was barkeep tonight. On that front, at least, all would be well, as long as Chaz didn’t order anything more complicated than Scotch, no rocks.

  “Where’d you meet up with this one?” Nino said when he joined me at his table, bringing wine and stuffed mushrooms on a tray. He looked tired and annoyed, and I regretted coming here.

  “I did not ‘meet up’ with Chaz Renfrow. He’s a new client, and let’s talk about your lease.” I tasted the wine and recognized Nino’s best Barolo, his usual peace offering, though we hadn’t yet quarreled. A preemptive move, no doubt.

  “I don’t like his eyes.”

  “What’s wrong with his eyes?” I briefly closed my own.

  “Cold.”

  “He’s a businessman. They all have cold eyes.” Except Nino himself of course, and Roddie Baird.

  “What’s his business?”

  “Biotechnology.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Gene-splicing. You know, putting different parts of a cell together to make something new.”

  “Beh.” Nino stared sourly at the mushrooms. “Who needs something new?”

  Italian folk music played softly through the speakers, cheerful tunes that didn’t improve anybody’s mood.

  “Your lease, Nino. Let me tell Lombard you’ll consider moving if he finds you an apartment.”

  “That man is lying to you.”

  “Lombard doesn’t lie.”

  “Not Lombard. That one.” He jerked his thumb toward Chaz, in deep conversation with Benny, their heads almost touching over the bar. “I can read his face. He is not telling you the truth.”

  “About what? What are you driving at?”

  “I know a liar when I see one. And a user. He wants what they all want, only he don’t want to give you nothing back. Pretty young girl like you.”

  When it came to sex, my half-stand-in grandpa was a suspicious prude. I stared at his hands, freckled with grave spots, clutching medieval ideas that had died out even in Naples.

  “And he wants something else besides.” Nino went on beating the horse, and I was tempted to tell him Chaz Renfrow didn’t interest me. He was too remote, I wanted to say, attentive only on the surface. But my new candidate was none of Nino’s business.

  “Mr. Renfrow wants advice. He consulted me because I’m a consultant.”

  “You’re a patsy.”

  I crushed a mushroom inside a napkin and pushed it aside. “Why don’t we stick to the lease. I assume you want me to tell Lombard to go fuck himself.”

  With a sound that startled even the spaghetti twirler two tables away, Nino smacked his glass on the tray. Wine slopped over the side, about five dollar’s worth at the eighty dollar price of the bottle. “You are getting a bad mouth, you know that?”

  “That’s your answer?” I stood up. “Okay. Give me a call when the papers are served. I’ll help you find an attorney.”

  I bent for my bag, but Nino reached over and grabbed my arm. “Sit down till I finish talking to you.”

  I shoved the table, and the glasses teetered. “You are finished, Nino.”

  In a flash, he dropped his hand. “Mi dispiace, Susie. I think I had too much wine. I worry about you.”

  “Don’t. I can take care of myself. I’m leaving now. Anything you want me to say to Peter Lombard?”

  Nino blinked his eyes, soft as blue water. “Tell him to go fuck himself.”

  ***

  Chaz decided the North End wasn’t swell enough for my new dress, so we ended up in Charlestown at Marella’s, a trendy place I’d never visited. A reed-thin girl in saggy brown silk led us to a table near the door. While we waited for our order, we sipped wine and talked briefly about Telford’s political life.

  “I’m new to this.” Chaz smiled an apology. “It’s harder than I thought, concentrating on the campaign after what happened. But I kept my promise.” He brought out his papers. “Three hundred signatures, I’m halfway home.”

  There were six sheets, filled on both sides.

  “I’m impressed. How did you do it?”

  “Friends in high and low places.” He folded the papers back into his breast pocket. “I’ve got more circulating.”

  “Just don’t cut it too close. Remember that margin for error.”

  A waiter brought bread and a bowl of olives steeped in fragrant oil. Chaz poured more wine. “This is going to sound crazy, Susan. I know you want to strategize, but I’m suddenly afraid that if I look beyond the nominating petition, I’ll jinx myself.”

  “I stand in awe of the jinx,” I confessed. If a hard science man needed a little luck in his life, it wasn’t for me to naysay him. I’d start earning my pay after he filed his papers.

  Dinner was a two-hour gasp of delight, and when we walked back to the Lexus, my new shoes clicking on the cobblestones, Chaz took my hand. It was after ten, the air superheated and so humid it pressed against my face. The sky was cloudless, the July moon a few days away from full. I’d have to check my Farmer’s Almanac for the name. Full Hot Moon, it ought to be. Maybe I wanted it, Nino. But it was Michael, not Chaz, that I wanted.

  At the car, Chaz surprised me by handing over his keys. “Will you drive? That last glass did me in.” He didn’t seem tipsy, but he had drunk most of the wine, finishing with a double brandy, on top of whatever Benny had served him. I was stone sober, as befitted a lawyer/consultant on a business date.

  Compared to my BMW, the Lexus was a soft ride, everything power assisted, automatic transmission. “Shall I take you back to Telford?” I was being polite rather than honest,
behavior that had gotten me in trouble more than once. I did not want to drive further than my front door.

  “How would you get home? Tell you what. Drive me to the Brookline Marriot. I’ll come by your place first thing tomorrow for my car.”

  If he was disappointed that I didn’t offer him a bed, he hid it well. For a man in his cups, he seemed no different than he had Monday night, a little more forthcoming perhaps. While I swung the steering wheel, jumping lanes and sinking into the ride, he told me how much he had enjoyed his chat with Benny. “That was damn good grappa.”

  “I’m amazed Nino brought it out. He doesn’t like you.” We were stopped at a light, and I watched for Chaz’s reaction. If he could smile off Nino’s dislike, he could take on the crabbiest constituent in Telford.

  “I gathered as much from the bill. Charged me a cool hundred for two glasses of the stuff. Luckily I had a credit card on me.”

  I groaned. “Probably thought he’d be cute and put my wine on your tab. See, he teased me about having a date. In Nino’s world, the man always pays. I’ll fix it.”

  “Don’t. I like your Nino. Feisty old fellow, very protective of you. He warned me off, told me about your jealous boyfriend.”

  Damn Nino. He had interfered and lied, just because he didn’t like Chaz Renfrow’s eyes. “There is no boyfriend.”

  I was shy of telling Chaz my old flame had interviewed him yesterday, as if it would put a wedge between us. Or between Michael and me. Cars began honking, and I absently tried to shift the automatic stick. “The former boyfriend dumped me. Sweet, reliable me.”

  “Throw it into drive,” Chaz said. “If he dumped you, guy’s a loser.”

  Chaz’s compliment pleased me; too bad I couldn’t let the loser know. “I apologize for Nino,” I said. “We’ve become close over the years. He was my first client out of law school, and when I left the firm he came with me. I handle all his business affairs, which naturally makes him think he can boss me around.”

  “Don’t let it bother you, Susan. Nino’s old, set in his ways. He seems like a decent man. Benny told me how Nino gave him work when nobody else would hire him. Benny brought out the grappa, by the way.”