by Ingrid Thoft
“She knows Melanie would have done the same for her.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t make it any less work.”
They arrived at the waiting area outside of Scotty’s office. His secretary jumped up from behind her large, spotless desk and came around to greet him. She handed him a sheaf of pink phone messages that he quickly flicked through.
“Michelle,” he said to his secretary, who’d returned to her spot behind her desk, “remind me why Jimmy Costas is calling me?”
“He wanted a referral, someone to represent him in a property dispute,” Michelle responded without looking up from her computer.
Fina looked at Scotty. “Who’s Jimmy Costas?” she asked. She followed him into his office.
Scotty plopped down in his chair and placed his palms on his desktop. He seemed to be trying to get his bearings. “Vanessa’s brother. Don’t you remember him from high school? He’s the one who got on Dad’s treadmill when he was trashed, turned the thing on, and split open his chin.”
“Vanessa Lamont’s brother.”
“Right. Do you need something else, sis?” He looked at the phone. “I’ve got to make calls.”
Fina rubbed her forehead with her good hand.
“Fina?”
“No. I don’t need anything. I’m good.” She left his office and pulled the door closed behind her. She wandered down the hallway for a moment before finding an empty conference room. She sat down and stared at the cast on her wrist.
Was Ronald Costas, the owner of Ridleys, related to Vanessa Costas Lamont? Costas was a common name, but she couldn’t ignore the coincidence. But if they were related, what did that mean? What was Joe Winthrop’s connection to Ronald Costas?
All this new information was like a tsunami. If Fina could keep her head above water, keep breathing, she might come out of it in one piece, albeit in an altered landscape. But at the moment, she couldn’t make all the pieces fit together.
Work your leads. That was one of the tenets of PI work that Frank had taught her. Push and pull and massage and knead until something, anything, comes loose. She decided to check in with her various contacts and picked up the phone to call Dennis.
“What’s Joe Winthrop up to at the moment?” she asked.
“This guy’s going to a lot of trouble to stay off the radar,” Dennis told her. “He’s like a monk, stays in his room all the time.”
“I assure you, the guy is nothing like a monk,” Fina said.
“He doesn’t seem to work. Either he’s independently wealthy or a kept man.”
“I vote for a kept man. Let me know if anything changes.”
She left another message for Emma pressing for information about Bev and Chester Duprey. If she could get dirt about Bev’s illegal activities, she might be able to leverage it against her, assuming the police didn’t already know about her illegal activities and were just biding their time. She also asked Emma to check for a family connection between Ronald, Jimmy, and Vanessa Costas.
Her next call was to Matthew’s office, and soon after his secretary brought down a dolly of files on the Duprey trial, including the trial transcript. The rest of the day was consumed by the tragic life of Amber Watson and the waves of misery prompted by her birth. For every expert there was a counterexpert; for every sad tale about Amber there was a glowing endorsement of the doctors’ competency. The whole thing was a morass of suffering.
She packed up her things around seven P.M. and drove to Frank and Peg’s. Dinner was long over, and Frank was in the front yard, grappling with a hosta plant.
“Want some help?” Fina asked. She walked across the yard and stood over Frank, who was crouched over a bed of loam.
“Nah,” he said as he got up and wiped his hands on his pants. He was wearing a pair of khakis that were filthy with dirt and grass stains and an equally soiled white T-shirt. His hair was messy and wet with sweat. “I don’t want you to get dirty.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I think I’m done for the day.” Frank waved toward the front stoop, and they walked over and sat down next to each other. A car came by, and the driver slowed and waved at Frank. No matter where they lived, Frank and Peg ended up being the de facto ambassadors of the neighborhood; they were friendly, took care of their property, looked out for their neighbors, and were calm in a crisis. But they weren’t nosy or officious. The world would be a much better place if there were more Franks and Pegs in it.
He twisted on the stoop as if to stretch his back.
“I’m surprised Peg is letting you do this,” Fina commented.
“Use it or lose it, Fina. That’s the key to aging.”
“Exactly my philosophy,” Fina said, tapping her cast.
Frank grinned and shook his head. “Is that what you call that? What happened?”
“I got jumped in my garage.”
“And you didn’t call me right away because . . . ?”
“Because the damage was done, but that’s why I’m here. I’m telling you now.”
“Frank, do you want some lemonade?” Peg called through the screen door. “Oh, hi, hon. I didn’t know you were here,” Peg added when she opened the door. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, which showed off her trim figure. Peg’s legs were strong, but not overly muscular; when you looked at her, it wasn’t hard to see the twentysomething that Frank had fallen for decades before.
“I just stopped by to say hi.”
“I’ll get you both some lemonade.”
Peg retreated into the house and came back a few minutes later with two plastic tumblers filled with ice and lemonade. She deposited the drinks and went back inside. Frank took a gulp and set his glass down on the step.
“Do you remember Jimmy or Ronald Costas?” Fina asked. “I think they’re clients at the firm.”
He was quiet for a moment and picked at some dirt under one of his fingernails. “Isn’t Ronnie in construction? That seems to ring a bell. Is Jimmy his son?”
“Not sure. But Jimmy’s sister is Vanessa Lamont.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “What’s this all about?”
Fina sipped her lemonade. It was slightly tart and made her taste buds smart. “I’ve got a bunch of people, but I can’t figure out exactly how they’re connected or who’s done what.”
“And this ties in to Melanie?”
“It has to, right? There are too many weird coincidences.”
“I’m not a fan of Mark Lamont’s.”
“I’m not exactly a fan, either, but he’s a necessary evil. You know that.”
A man and woman pushing a stroller the size of a small car walked by and greeted Frank. He waved and said hello in return.
“And your brother?” he asked.
“What about him?”
Frank turned to look at her. “Do you think he killed Melanie?”
Fina rubbed her eyes. “I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“I don’t have evidence proving he did or didn’t.”
“But what do you think? Is he capable of it?”
“I don’t think so, but . . .” She held her hands open. “Christ, Frank. I don’t know.”
Frank patted her hand and left a sprinkling of soil on her skin. “What’s done is done, kiddo.”
“Yikes,” Fina said, and took a big swallow of lemonade.
Her stomach grumbled as she pulled away from Frank and Peg’s, so she punched the speed dial on her phone and waited a few rings for Cristian to answer.
“Wanna get some food?” Fina asked.
“I guess I have to eat,” he said.
“Very nice. Way to make a girl feel special.”
“You made us look like dolts this morning.”
“You were trying to make us look like dolts,” Fina said. “Turnabout is fair play.”
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“Fine. Meet me at the Mexican place on Mass Ave.”
Fina dove into the basket of tortilla chips that the waitress placed on the table. She looked around at the other tables while she waited for Cristian. Most of them seemed to be occupied by students, some of whom had large instruments parked next to their chairs. The New England Conservatory of Music and Berklee College of Music were just around the corner, and Fina was always struck by the juxtaposition of bright young minds studying Beethoven and unwashed homeless people struggling in the twenty-first century.
Cristian pushed through the door and slid into the seat across from her. Fina ordered a diet soda and a chimichanga, and Cristian opted for a soda and burrito with extra jalapeños.
“I didn’t mean to make you personally look like a dolt,” Fina said before popping a chip in her mouth. “I don’t feel bad about Pitney, though.”
“She’s a good cop.”
“I’m sure she is, but we’re working at cross-purposes at the moment.”
Cristian tapped his straw open on the table and took a sip of his drink. “How long have you known about Duprey?”
“I just found out.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t have a plan at this point. We did talk, though.”
“You and Bev Duprey?”
“Yup.”
“I would have loved to have seen that.”
“It wasn’t as exciting as you might imagine. Pretty unsatisfying, actually.”
“What did you find out?”
“She didn’t have much to say. I did most of the talking.”
Cristian fiddled with his watch. He had a nice coating of hair on his arm. Not so much that he looked like a gorilla, but enough that you knew he was a man.
“What’s going on?” Fina asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You seem distracted.”
He shrugged. “I’m good.”
They sat for a few moments in silence, and Fina ate more of the chips. Cristian looked at the students.
“Couldn’t you carry a really big gun in one of those cello cases?” Fina asked, gesturing toward a skinny young man a couple of tables away.
“I suppose, but not everyone is always thinking up inventive ways to conceal weapons.”
“Any word on Bob Webber?”
Cristian shook his head. “He’s a ghost.”
“Something happened to him.”
“You know that or you think that?”
“I think it, and you know you do, too. People don’t just disappear willy-nilly.”
Cristian shrugged. “People are flaky.”
The waitress brought their plates.
“Could you cut a little bit of this for me?” Fina nudged her plate toward Cristian. “I’m always a little wary when the food is ready so quickly,” she confided once the waitress was out of earshot.
“Frying doesn’t require much time,” he said as his knife cracked into her deep-fried burrito. He cut a dozen small pieces off it and pushed the plate back over to her.
“I suppose. Thanks.”
They ate in silence. The cello player and his friends clamored by, and their table was quickly claimed by a group of young men engaged in a political argument.
“I can’t take this,” Fina said after a few minutes. She put down her fork and stared at Cristian. “What is going on? You’re being quiet and weird.”
Cristian picked at a piece of burrito with his fork. “I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“Oookay . . .”
“Pitney and I interviewed some of Brianna’s friends.”
Fina watched him. “And . . .”
“They weren’t her friends, really. More like her colleagues.” Cristian took a sip of his drink. “I saw Haley there.”
Fina felt a chill settle over her. “What do you mean? Where was this?”
“At a club.”
Fina sat back in her seat. “She goes to clubs all the time. I know it’s illegal, and I try to discourage it, but I’m kind of fighting a losing battle.”
Cristian shook his head. “I don’t think it’s just that.”
“Cristian, I know she has sketchy friends. She was friends with Brianna, for Christ’s sake.”
“She was a part of the group, Fina. It seemed like she was one of them.”
Fina felt her face flush. She didn’t know what would happen if she spoke. She might scream or cry, or maybe no sound at all would come out. She took a few sips of her drink and waited for her heart rate to slow. Cristian poked at his burrito and stole glances at her.
“Are you saying she’s working as a hooker?” Fina finally asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s just hanging out with them, but I just got the feeling—”
“Were they all Bev Duprey’s girls?”
“No. Some of them were Dante Trimonti’s. A few, I don’t know who they work for yet.”
“So you’re not sure?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I’m concerned enough that I thought I should tell you.”
Fina’s broken wrist started to itch. She reached into the cast with her finger and scratched it furiously. When she pulled it out, there was blood on her nail.
Cristian reached over and grabbed her hand. “Stop it. You’re going to make it worse.”
Fina leaned toward him and whispered, “How can anything get worse?”
“Do you have your phone?” Cristian asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“You need to call Milloy.”
“You want me to call Milloy?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m afraid you’re going to draw more blood—yours or more likely someone else’s. Just call him and let him help you. I can’t. You’re veering into dangerous territory.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. I need to figure out what the fuck is going on.”
“Call him, Fina.”
Fina took a deep breath. “I’ll be fine.” Cristian glared at her. “Seriously, I’m completely capable of being calm and professional. I’m just going to take the information and investigate. I’ll just do what I do best.”
Cristian reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty, which he tossed on the table. “I’d feel better if you’d call Milloy.”
“And I’d feel better if there weren’t a chance my fifteen-year-old niece is a hooker.”
Cristian stood up. “I’m going to call you tomorrow, and you’d better pick up. If you don’t, I’m going to call Milloy and then 911.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll answer.”
“Don’t do anything rash.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Fina added some bills to the table and followed Cristian out. She walked in the direction of the Pru. When she looked back, Cristian was watching her. He looked worried.
As he should be.
She didn’t call Milloy. Instead, she walked around Back Bay for an hour and found herself outside Bev Duprey’s office. She cut through to the alley that ran along the back of the building; the lights were off in Bev’s unit. A homeless man came shuffling down the cobblestone passage. He wanted to engage Fina in a discussion about the people with vacuums who were landing on the roof, but she wasn’t in the mood.
Back on Beacon Street, she called Emma.
“I know, I know,” Emma answered. “The Dupreys. I’m working on it.”
“Glad to hear it, but I wasn’t calling about that specifically. Do you have a home address for them?”
“Hold on a minute.”
Fina waited. Unlike most people she called, there was rarely background noise when she talked to Emma on the phone. No blaring horns or loud music or silverware clanking aroun
d. It was as if Fina had called another decade altogether.
“Here it is: 22 Wickham Street, #4A.”
“Is that the Flat of the Hill?”
“Yup. Do you need directions?”
“No. Thanks.” Fina hung up and started walking northeast on Beacon Street. The temperature was actually bearable. It was on the cusp between warm and hot, but the humidity had dropped, and the walk didn’t produce beads of sweat in the small of her back.
She dialed Mark Lamont’s number and left a message that matched her brisk pace.
“Mark, it’s Fina Ludlow. We’ve got to talk about Bob Webber and some other shit that’s going on. He’s disappeared. I know you’re busy, but I really need to talk to you.”
It took her fifteen minutes to reach 22 Wickham Street. She sat down on the steps of the brownstone across the street and peered up at the fourth floor. Fina didn’t have a plan. Her head was swimming with the flotsam and jetsam of the last twenty-four hours, but the thing that kept rising to the surface was Haley. She had to figure out if Haley was involved with Bev, and then she had to protect her.
A man walked toward her and stopped to enter the building in front of which Fina was sitting. He paused at the door.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked. It was a polite way of ascertaining why a stranger was staked out on his stoop.
“No, thanks. I’m leaving.” Fina stood. “I was waiting for a friend, but I think we got our wires crossed.” She shuffled down the stairs and headed in the direction of Charles Street.
The smart thing to do would be to hail a cab, but Fina felt like walking. And if someone hassled her, and she smashed his skull in with her cast . . .
She couldn’t lie; the idea held some appeal.
The next morning, Fina wasn’t concerned about waiting until Bev got to work. She wanted to beat her there.
Her alarm went off at six A.M., and after submerging herself in the tub with her cast hanging over the side, she dressed, scarfed down a peanut butter sandwich and a diet soda, and took a cab over to Beacon Street. She had the cabbie drop her a block away from Bev’s office, and she paced on the corner, glancing at her watch as if waiting for a tardy car pool.
No one entered or left Bev’s building, so Fina crossed the street and stood by the front door. A few minutes after seven A.M., a young man in khakis, a blue button-down shirt, and a striped tie came bounding out of the front door. Fina was ready with an excuse, but he was plugged into his music and paid her no attention.
