"Thanks," I finally said. "Mind walking me back out?"
"Not a problem."
Rick led me back through the cubicles and hallways, past workers scurrying about, and through the locked door. In another minute I had given back my visitor's badge and Rick walked me out to the door, where the late afternoon sun was already setting beyond the fields and woodscapes of Newburyport. He came out in the parking lot, coatless, and shook my hand and said, "I have one question for you, if you don't mind."
"Go right ahead."
A confident smile. "Mind me asking what side of the tracks you like to play on?"
I smiled back. "The one recommended by nine out of ten registered Republicans."
A short laugh and he headed back to his work. "Such a pity."
When I got back home Felix Tinios was waiting for me in his red Mercedes convertible, dirty gray exhaust smoke tendriling up into the cold air. I pulled into the nicely plowed parking lot of the Lafayette House and Felix stepped out and came over. I rolled down the window and he said, "Thought I'd come over for a visit. You got time?"
"Sure do. Learn anything at the landlord's house?"
His face was dark, and I think it was from the cold. "Sure. Learned a lot. I'll tell you the whole story when I follow you down."
"Hop in," I said. 'I'll give you a ride."
"Nope. Prefer to walk. See you in a sec."
After I was done in the garage I walked out and Felix was trudging along the rutted snow path that my four-wheel drive has made for me on my poor dirt driveway. Felix followed me into the house, stamping his feet clear of the snow and shrugging off his long black leather coat. He was carrying a thick envelope in his hands.
"Feel like a beer, if you don't mind," he said, and after grabbing two Molsons from the fridge, I joined him out in the living room. He stood by the couch, looking out through the sliding doors at my snow-covered deck and the ocean view.
Felix took the beer I offered and swallowed almost half of it in one move. "Ah, I needed that," he said.
Something was not right. "How was it?"
He turned and said, "You ever been up to the mall in Lewington lately?"
"Urn, a couple of weeks ago," I said. "At the bookstore there."
"You see anything there, anything new that struck you as fantastic?"
Lewington is north of Tyler, almost an hour from Newburyport. I had no idea what was going on.
"No, I can't say that I did."
"Well, I did. There's a kiosk in the center of the mall where you can do your own photo developing. Take a roll of film, plug It into the machine, and come back an hour later, your prints are waiting for you. Everything in a nice little package, untouched by human hands, unseen by human eyes. Even takes three kinds of credit cards."
I took a sip from my own bottle. "This going anywhere, Felix?"
A hint of a smile. "Oh, it's going places you probably can't imagine. You know what's wonderful about that kiosk, besides its simplicity? You can develop embarrassing photos and have as many prints made as you like, and no one will ever know. Candid shots of your wife in the shower. More candid shots of you and your wife in bed. Or pictures like these, which might be of interest to Massachusetts law enforcement officials."
He handed over his package and I put the beer bottle down on an end table, knowing what I was about to see, and yet still unprepared for what was hidden behind those flaps of paper and plastic, The beer inside me seemed to roll around a bit as I looked at the garish colors and the slickness of the paper. It seemed fake, unreal, as if Felix and I had been taken in by a very clever hoax.
"That was pretty wild of you, chancing to take these photos," I said, conscious that my hands were shaking.
Another defiant gulp of beer. "Well, I was pissed, I guess. Getting in there and seeing what was waiting for me. I wanted to take something back, show you what I faced, tell you that things have changed, and have changed to the very weird."
I looked back at the photo. There were three others, all similar. It showed Kara Miles's landlord, Jason Henry, sitting on his couch. His eyes were closed, head resting back on the couch. He was wearing a cardigan sweater similar to the one I had seen during my visit, and his weatherworn hands were empty. He was wearing a shirt underneath the sweater, but it was impossible to tell what color it was, or had been.
The entire front of his shirt was a reddish brown, where the gush of blood had soaked in.
And his throat was raw and bloodied and not nice to look at, where someone had drawn a knife across it.
Chapter Fourteen
Later that night, after seeing Felix's photographs, I got us dinner from the Lafayette House, stored nice and warm in Styrofoam containers. By the time dinner was finished and I had a fire in the fireplace, we were starting to calm down from seeing those photos. Jason Henry, who had been around the world and was proud of his collection of souvenirs, dead on his couch, throat slit. I'm sure it wasn't an ending to his life that he would have predicted. Drowned by a sinking ship or swept overseas in a gale, but not taken away by some bit of evil that had slumped into his home.
In the firelight Felix's dark skin looked shadowy. "When I got there, the only car in the lot was his own. I got to the house and saw that his door was open. I knocked and went in, and there he was on the couch, just like the pies."
"Strong thinking on your part, to take those photos," I said. "Well, the poor bastard was obviously dead, and there wasn't 1IIIylhing I was going to do about it. The camera was in hand and I look a couple of pictures, and then I got the hell out. Walked 1I11'il and calm to my car, got in, and drove out."
"Anyone see you?"
"If they did, they were in their homes, looking out their win- 1IIIw:i. The sidewalk was empty and I got on High Street, and in less than ten minutes I was back in New Hampshire, thank YOII very much."
"Did you think about making a call to the Newburyport cops?"
He glanced over, a look of disbelief about his face. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
"No, but someone killed Jason Henry. The cops should know about it."
"They will, but in due time. Look. The poor guy's dead. I had nothing to do with it. But I was at the crime scene and might be considered a suspect by our new friend, Inspector Dunbar. So the longer it takes for the cops to get there and start their investigation, the less likely I'll be brought in. If the cops had started this afternoon, one of the neighbors might remember a red Mercedes with New Hampshire plates. A day later, they might remember only that it was a red car. That makes my life easier."
Felix was right, of course, but that didn't make me feel any better. There was something obscene about letting the body of Jason Henry grow colder with each passing minute, alone in his apartment, but Felix was right. He had to be protected.
A spark popped out from the burning logs, and Felix sipped from his wineglass and said, "I'm still in your hire, so here's the question. What's next?"
I sat back against the couch. I should have been enjoying the warm feeling of the fire on my skin and the glow from the wine, but it was impossible. The rape of Kara Miles was one thing. The murder of her landlord was in another universe.
But there had to be a connection. Had to be.
"What's next is that we tell Diane, and keep things quiet," I said. "She's got to know that someone has just knifed Kara's laud lord. I find it hard to believe that the landlord of an apartment where a rape has occurred got his throat slit because of something else. Hell of a coincidence."
"Agreed," Felix said. "So what's the connection? Anything come to mind?"
"Connections," I repeated. "Could be a number of things. Maybe Jason remembered something more about that night, and the rapist finds out and eliminates a witness. Maybe he was in on it."
"How so?"
Something seemed to gently stroke my forehead. "Kara's place wasn't broken into, that's for sure. So either the door was unlocked --- unlikely, from what we know --- or somebody had the key, like a landlord, who
always keeps spare keys about."
"Arranging the rape of your tenant isn't high on the list of ways to keep your tenants happy."
"That's true, in a logical world. Since when is rape logical?"
"Never said it was," Felix said. "So there's a connection. You want to look into the background of this landlord, see where that leads us?"
Another ember popped and shot out. "No, not really. Too dangerous, to have us poking around and asking questions about Jason Henry the same time the Newburyport cops are looking into his death. You and I have managed to mightily tick off those cops. I don’t think we should take another sharp stick and poke them some more."
"Maybe not, but there's one thing I intend to do, and that's to get my story straight," Felix said, draining the last of his wine.
"And what story is that?"
"The story of where I was this morning, which wasn't Newburyport. Give me an hour and I'll be set, and unless the cops have got a videotape of me walking into that apartment building, then I’ll be fine."
I got up and joined him as we went into the kitchen, the air feeling cooler away from the fireplace's heat. "Just an hour? How did you do that?"
He gave me a look that might have been a smile, and I remembered again never to underestimate Felix or his background.
“Let’s just say there are people in this state who owe me. I call them up, and in an hour they're ready to go to a grand jury, if necessary, to swear that I was over at their house, having brunch and playing Monopoly."
He started washing his wineglass and I passed mine over and said. "You still in for the ride?"
"Right to the end," he said, wiping one glass dry. "Now my professional curiosity is beginning to sniff up and take notice, and I want to know what went on and what happened in that apartment building. I've got a personal stake in it."
"Does this mean you're forgoing any compensation?"
"Said I was interested, not stupid." He finished drying off the second glass and said, "Well, without looking into the background of our dead landlord, and with you having struck out at her place of work, where do you want to go now?"
I remembered a faded picture, sitting on top of a compute terminal. "One more place," I said. "One more very important place."
The next day it was late afternoon by the time we got started, and we returned south, a bit concerned at traveling through Newburyport. Jason Henry's death had been reported on the local radio stations this morning, and I'm sure Diane Woods had something to do with that. I had called her the night before, right after Felix hall left, and she had immediately asked me if Felix had reported it.
"No."
"Why the hell not?" she asked.
"Because he doesn't want to spend the next few weeks of his life worrying if he's going to be charged with murder, that's why," I said.
"Jesus," she had said, her voice wavering. "I'm a cop, Lewis, You're asking me to hinder an investigation into a capital crime,"
"No. I'm asking for some time, that's all."
"Then why in hell did you call me in the first place?"
"For you and Kara. You should know that Jason Henry was killed. Listen, maybe the two of you ought to go on a skiing trip into the Whites for a few days, get away ---"
"Oh, damn, I wish I could, but not with these goddamn fires... " I thought I heard her choking back some tears.
"Diane?" I asked.
"Look," she said, voice more brisk. "I'll be okay. Thanks for giving us the heads-up. Jesus. Now, instead of a rapist, we have to worry about a murderer."
"Seems to me the two are pretty closely related."
"You are so right. Look. I have to go. I… I have to go tell Kara, and I know this is going to upset her. She really liked the man. But, Lewis?"
"Yes?"
"I can't keep this secret forever."
"I understand."
So it was on the next day that the radio stations had news about Jason Henry's murder, and with the Newburyport cops not telling the reporters how his body was discovered, it was a good guess that either Diane or Kara had made the call. Anonymously, I’m sure, with Diane struggling against her oath of duty, and with Kara struggling against her oath of friendship.
But I still wondered if that friendship was just one-way. I was certain the landlord had been up to something. No man with hearing that bad could have listened into what he claimed had happened, unless he had been standing on that chair, listening in, as he had listened in before.
And whatever else he might have heard would never be learned.
We were on 1-95, heading south to Boston, and about a third of the way there we took a right off to Topsfield, one of the suburban communities that houses the moneyed class and professionals who don't mind making money in Boston, but who aren't thrilled with the idea of living there. Once off the highway, you were immersed in a rural world of the wealthy, homes off of the narrow roads with twisting driveways that went back into the woods or up into the fields. House numbers were hard to come by, and some of the homes were content with names: Idlewood. Repose. Blake Arms.
But no factories, strip malls, or mobile home parks. Big money equals heavy zoning, and while God may be on the side with the heaviest artillery, He's also often on the side with the best lawyers.
"Quiet places," Felix observed, as I maneuvered along the narrow lane. High banks of snow and ice lined each side of the road where the plows had tossed them up.
"Someplace you'd like to retire to?"
"Like hell," he said, looking out at the passing scenery. "If the quiet didn't kill me, the cold would. Nope, when the time comes when I'm too slow to be making a living, I'm moving south, and I'll be very happy to only find ice in my drinks."
"No sense of adventure."
"Maybe not, but a lot of common sense, thank you."
About ten minutes away from 1-95 the road curved to the east, and there was a stone gate with a plaque that said Thornwood. The metal gate was open and I turned into the well-plowed driveway.
"They know we're coming?" Felix asked.
"No, they don't. I figure surprise might work best."
Maybe, and it might also piss them off as well."
"Guess we're going to find out." The driveway went on for about a quarter mile, curved up and around. There was a circular driveway and a three car garage, and two cars were parked out front: his and hers silver Audis. How domestic. The house looked like fake Tudor, with exposed stonework and beams and narrow windows. The snow-covered shrubbery was well-groomed, and I caught a glimpse of a large and open yard to the rear as we halted.
I looked over at Felix and said, "For this one, why don't you stay behind?"
"Why's that?"
I gathered up my reporter's notebook. "Two people might be too intimidating, and while that might work on the next go around I want to try to be quiet here."
"Hmph," Felix said. "Well, leave the car keys so I can at least listen to the radio."
"Sure," and when that was done, I went outside.
A short walk up the brick walkway I came to a polished black door, and set under the brass knocker was a little brass plaque that said MILES, I rang the doorbell, heard a loud gong echo from inside.
I stamped my feet. It was damn cold.
The door opened and a slim, older man with a glowing tan answered. He wore black slacks and a lime-green sweater, and his thin white hair was perfectly combed. In one hand he had a leatherbound book, and in the other a pair of reading glasses.
"Mr. Miles?" I asked.
"Yes?"
"My name is Lewis Cole," I said. I passed over my business card. “l'm a writer for a magazine called Shoreline, and I'd just like to take a minute or two of your time to talk about your daughter, Kara."
"Well ... " he said, peering at my card, and before he could say anything else I walked in, saying, "Thank you, this won't take long.”
From the entranceway we went to the right, to a sitting room, where a fire was crackling along in the fireplace. T
here were bookshelves with glass doors, a marble mantelpiece over the fireplace, and paintings and wood paneling and oriental rugs and soft classical music playing from hidden speakers.
A woman came into the room, carrying a half-filled cocktail glass in her hand. She was about the same age as the man -- - sixties --- and wore tartan slacks (Black Watch tartan, it looked like) and a dark blue sweater with a single strand of pearls. Her hair was dark brown and coiffed in something that looked like Jackie Kennedy Onassis was trying in the late sixties, and she got right to the point: "Henry, who is this?"
"A Mr. Cole, Louise," he said, his voice wavering. He held up my card, like he was trying to ward off something. "He's a magazine writer and wants to talk about Kara."
She looked right at me, eyes flashing. "What makes you think we have anything to say? And what do you mean by barging in here without even the courtesy of calling first?"
I had my coat off, hanging on my arm. When conducting an interview in hostile territory, you play some little tricks to stay in and do your business. One is to assume that you'll be invited in and act as if you were, walking by before an objection is raised. Another is to take off your coat. With your coat on, it's easier for someone to toss you out. Useful tricks, ones they never teach you in journalism class.
"I apologize, Mrs. Miles," I said. "I should have called earlier, but I was in the area and hoped that I'd be able to impose for just a few moments. I'm also hoping that I can just ask a few quick questions, and then I'll leave."
"Why are you even here?" she demanded. "What are you up to?"
"I'm doing an article about violent crime in tourist communities," I said, the lie once again coming easily to me. "Along with the general nature of the story, I'm also doing what we call a sideline piece, an article on what happened to Kara, as an example of the types of crime that take place --- "
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