by Thomas Kies
Doesn’t anyone send Christmas cards anymore?
Unlocking the front door, I was mildly surprised that Tucker wasn’t waiting for me. I took off my parka and hung it in the closet, dropped the unopened envelopes on the table in the hallway, and called out. “Tucker. Where are you, buddy?”
Quiet.
Once, while I’d been at work and Caroline had been at school, there’d been a horrible thunderstorm that had swept through off Long Island Sound and across western Connecticut. The lightning and thunder display had been magnificently terrifying. When I got home that evening, I found Tucker hiding under my bed.
Is that where you are? Under my bed?
But there had been no storm, nothing to have frightened my terrier.
“Tucker. Where are you, little guy?”
I took a half-empty pint bottle of Absolut out of my bag and trudged up the carpeted steps to the second floor, flipping on the hall light when I got to the top step.
Silence.
I stopped at Caroline’s room, turned on the light, peered in.
I miss her.
Bed neatly made, laptop closed, stuffed toys on the dresser. As a rule, she wasn’t this tidy. I went to the closet and opened it. I was greeted with a pile of dirty clothes as high as my hips.
Ugh. That’s my girl.
Turning off the light, I went back out into the hallway.
“Tucker, c’mon, buddy. Want to go for a walk?”
Silence.
I got to my bedroom and flipped on the light. “Tucker?”
Almost before I stepped into the room, I saw the little dog squirming out from under my bed, tail wagging cautiously, ears pinned back. Stooping down, I swept his tiny body up into my arms. I felt Tucker shivering, vibrating, as I held him.
“What’s the matter, buddy? You okay?” I looked him over, felt his fur to make sure he hadn’t hurt himself. I didn’t find anything out of place. “What’s got you spooked?” I placed him on the top of my bed, sat down next to him, and pulled off my leather boots. Tucker pressed against me, climbing onto my lap, still shuddering uncontrollably. “Poor baby.”
I scratched him behind his ears and petted him until his waves of shivering slowed and finally ceased. “I’ll be right back.” I picked up the pint bottle of vodka I’d brought upstairs with me and saw that it had enough left for another drink or two. With Caroline out of the house, I could have gone downstairs to the kitchen for ice, but I wanted that drink right then. Using the glass on the headboard of the bed, I poured two fingers and took a healthy swallow.
The familiar feeling of heat sliding down my stomach, warming my tummy, spreading through my core like the embrace of an old lover. I was at peace.
Until I saw it.
The pile of books on my nightstand was wrong. The book on top should have been a book of short stories, Allegiance and Betrayal by Peter Makuck. I’d been reading it last night before I turned off the light to go to sleep. Instead, the book on the top of the stack was The Bully Pulpit by Doris Kearns Goodwin.
My heart started slamming against my rib cage.
I put the glass down and peered around the room.
Is there anything else out of place?
The bookshelf next to the closet. The books were wrong, not where they were this morning.
I took in every detail of the room. Nothing obvious seemed amiss. I went to the closet and slid open the door. Everything was hung where I’d put it.
Or is it? Shouldn’t my blue floral dress be next to that pink top?
I went quickly to my bathroom and studied the countertop. Vitamins, mouthwash, tweezers, makeup, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant—all where they were supposed to be.
My reflection stared back at me from the mirror on my cabinet. My eyes were wide, I looked scared. Swinging open the door, I looked inside at the lipsticks, eyeliner, box of Band-Aids, ointments, and creams.
Where’s the Vicodin?
Just before I moved to Sheffield, I was supplanting my doses of vodka and wine with a few pills every day. Then I woke up one morning in a pool of my own vomit.
That was even too much for me. I swore off the pills but kept the half a bottle of Vicodin thinking that I might need it one day. It was woefully out of date.
But now it’s gone.
I turned and looked at Tucker, sitting, staring at me from the top of my bed. My heart was pounding.
Was someone here? Is that why you were hiding under the bed?
I stepped back into the bedroom, and my eyes went automatically to my black wooden jewelry box. Flipping it open, I saw that everything appeared to be there. Not that I owned anything expensive.
Then my stomach dropped.
The goddamn notebook hidden in the freezer!
I picked the dog up, tucked him under my arm like a football, fled down the hallway, flew to the ground floor. Stepping into the kitchen in my stocking feet, I felt the water before I saw it.
Puddles all over the floor.
Holy shit.
A set of silver handcuffs dangled from the door handle.
S&M jewelry.
My heart did a slow roll.
Fucking Merlin Finn.
I carefully placed Tucker on the floor and went to the refrigerator.
I thought my hiding place for Jim Caviness’s notebook was brilliant. Tucked into a ziplock plastic bag and hidden under the cache of ice cubes in the container under the icemaker.
I opened the freezer. Air caught in my throat when I saw there was nothing in the box. He’d emptied all the ice onto the floor.
Merlin Finn’s got the notebook.
Chapter Twelve
“Any idea why Merlin Finn would break into your house?” Mike Dillon and I sat in my living room on my couch, next to each other, while his people dusted for prints and photographed the interior of my home. A B&E like this, with nothing of value taken, wouldn’t have warranted such scrutiny, but this was Merlin Finn, and the cops wanted him badly.
I did, of course, know why he broke into my house. Somehow, while he was in prison, he’d heard that Jim Caviness had been killed by his wife. Before going rogue, Finn worked for Wolfline. Indeed, Caviness brought him the Brotherhood’s cut of Wolfline’s action on a regular basis. He must have known that Caviness kept a notebook and it was the key to bringing down the Russians.
But how did he know that I had it?
I shook my head and lied. “No clue.”
Mike frowned. “Other than the story you wrote about the murders at the marina, do you have any other connection with him?”
Tucker had long ceased shaking with fear and he was comfortably curled up on my lap while I stroked his fur. “I don’t know. I visited his wife today.”
Mike’s eyebrows knitted together as he thought. “Do you think she threw you under the bus?”
I shrugged. “It appears that she has a new boyfriend now, and from what the two of them told me, they don’t have a whole lot of love for Merlin Finn. They told me that they thought the property they’re on was being watched by the FBI. Maybe they’re not the only ones watching who comes and goes up there.”
Mike reached over and gave Tucker an affectionate scratch behind the ears. “Maybe. What do you think Finn was looking for?”
Visualizing how Tucker had been alone in the house with Merlin Finn made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Don’t know,” I lied. “I’m missing a bottle of Vicodin. Maybe he was looking for drugs.”
He chuckled. “I doubt that was his primary goal. He can lay his hands on all the drugs he wants. Maybe he just wanted to spook you.”
I glanced into the kitchen where I could see the refrigerator through the doorway. The cops hadn’t unlocked the handcuffs and taken them down yet. They glimmered in the bright kitchen lights. “It worked.”
We both
turned as Officer Christine Fuller opened the front door and came in, still in her SPD winter coat. She glanced at me but quickly directed her attention to Mike. “We talked with the neighbors.”
He stood up. “Anything?”
She took a tiny notebook out of her pocket and consulted it. “Only one was home when the break-in occurred. Mrs. Pohoresky, 1203 Random Road, right next door, saw a van pull up at about three p.m. She told me that the logo on the side of the van said it was Gold Coast Exterminating Service. Mrs. Pohoresky says she saw two men get out. Didn’t see them clearly enough to give me a description other than they were both Caucasian and the one getting out of the driver’s side was, in her words, a really big guy.”
Still holding Tucker, I stood up. “Could she see any tattoos on the big guy’s face?”
Officer Fuller shook her head slightly. “She just couldn’t get a good look. But then again, she didn’t give them much thought.” The cop smiled sheepishly at me. “She said she wasn’t really surprised that a pest control company was coming to your house. I’m afraid Mrs. Pohoresky doesn’t think much of your housekeeping skills.”
Involuntarily, I glanced around the living room. There was a stack of newspapers next to the couch, a little dust on the end tables, but that was it. No used pizza boxes or half-empty Chinese food takeout containers or cockroaches. Mrs. Pohoresky was just being a bitch.
Mike grinned. “Did she say anything about how long they were here?”
“She wasn’t sure. Thought they might have been here an hour, maybe longer.”
Dear God, what if Caroline had been here?
He focused on me again. “Are you sure that the only thing they took was a bottle of pills?”
“You and I went through the house, top to bottom and I didn’t see anything obvious that might be missing.” Mike had accompanied me while I searched the house. The one place I didn’t poke into was my underwear drawer in the bedroom dresser. It was where I hid my vodka. That bottle was from last night and nearly full.
Didn’t want Mike to see my stash.
I glanced nervously around the living room. “Have you figured how they got in?”
Mike nodded. “Scratches around the lock on your back door indicate they probably picked their way in. Look, how about if I have an officer park out in front of your house tonight?”
I noticed that he didn’t offer to spend the night like he had when someone shot through my front window back in October. I smiled and answered, “I think I’m going to pack a bag and stay in a pet-friendly hotel for the night.”
Mike reached out and gave Tucker another scratch. “Sheffield Inn takes dogs.”
I gently touched the top of his hand. “Thanks.”
* * *
After the police left, I went upstairs and packed an overnight bag. When I was done, I pulled open my panty drawer to pour myself a quick drink.
A scrap of paper was on top of my underwear.
Sitting on top of the Absolut, nestled in my silk panties.
For the second time that afternoon, my heart nearly stopped. A handwritten note:
I’m going to make you model these for me.
My heart thumped against my rib cage. I nervously glanced around the bedroom, even though Mike and I had searched through it only minutes ago.
Icy fingers of fear tickled the back of my neck.
I skipped the drink and tossed the bottle and a random jumble of clothes into an overnight bag. Then I pulled on my boots and hurried downstairs with alternating waves of terror and rage. The man had touched my things, my most intimate goddamned things.
I’m going to have to throw all of that away.
I threw on my parka, and meaning to put my suitcase in the car and then come back for Tucker, I opened the front door.
John Stillwater stood on my front porch.
His hand out, ready to push the doorbell.
I was too stunned to speak.
John took up the slack. “Hey, Genie.” He glanced down at the bag in my hand. “Going somewhere?”
I could hear the stress in my own voice when I answered, “Merlin Finn broke into my house. I can’t stay here tonight. I’m going to a hotel.”
“Did he get the notebook?”
The shock made me jerk backward.
Up until tonight, nobody knew I had that notebook except for Betsy Caviness. Somehow Merlin Finn figured it out.
And now John Stillwater.
How?
He managed a small, boyish smile and turned up his collar. “Can I come in? It’s awfully cold out here.”
I waved him in through the door. He spent the first few seconds glancing around, studying the living room. “No Christmas tree?”
I eyeballed the room, bereft of decorations. “Not yet,” I whispered.
John was dressed in an insulated black leather coat, fur collar up, black leather gloves on his hands. He was hatless, and his dark-brown hair was disheveled and tousled by the wind. He slipped off his gloves, pushed them into the pockets of his coat, and raked one hand through his hair.
I was still stunned that he was there.
He focused his eyes on me. “So?”
I blinked in confusion. “So, what?”
He cocked his head. “Did Merlin Finn get the notebook?”
“What notebook?”
John shook his head and frowned. “Betsy Caviness doesn’t have any family or friends. Not wanting to be a target of the Tolbonovs, Betsy’s attorney was very vocal about not having it. The logical conclusion is Betsy sent it to you. It appears that Merlin Finn figured that out as well. So the big question is, did he get it?”
I bit my lip. “Yes.”
He sighed, and his expression fell in disappointment.
“But I have a photographic copy on a thumb drive.”
His face brightened, and he grinned. “You are a brilliant woman.”
“He found my hiding place. I don’t feel particularly brilliant.”
I glanced down and saw Tucker seated next to my left foot. After the home invasion, I didn’t think he wanted to be very far away from me. “Look, John, any other time, I’d ask you in for a drink and to catch up. But I’m kind of rattled. I think I’m going to check into a hotel and crawl under the covers for the night.”
He glanced at his watch, then looked at me through his black-rimmed glasses. “How about this? We drive into the city, and you stay with Shana. I know she’d love to see you. Then in the morning, bright and early, we drive back here.”
I knew that unless there was an accident on I-95, it was a forty-five-minute trip to New York, but it wasn’t rush hour, and we were doing a reverse commute. And perhaps I could stall John’s return and see Nathaniel Rubin from Lodestar Analytics in the morning.
And maybe Merlin Finn’s father in Westchester?
Chapter Thirteen
As we drove, wet snowflakes the size of dimes fell in front of our headlights and slapped against the windshield only to be pushed aside by the wiper blades. I noticed that John was checking his rearview mirror more often than normal. I turned and looked out the back window of his all-black Mustang, staring at anonymous sets of headlights behind us. “Is there anything back there I should know about?”
He smiled slightly, his face faintly illuminated by the dash lights. “Not sure.”
“Perfect.” My voice was a little more sarcastic than I thought it would be. In my defense, it had been a stressful day, and the thought of someone tailing us wasn’t helpful. I glanced around the interior of the car. Everything looked and smelled brand new. Plus, heaven, the seats were heated. “Nice ride.”
His grin grew larger. “Less than a month off the showroom floor. It’s got a five-liter V-8 engine with a manual six-speed transmission. They say she’ll do zero to sixty in under four seconds. I haven’t tried it.”
I heard him chuckle. “This car isn’t mine. It belongs to Shana. I own a Lexus hybrid. Gets over fifty miles a gallon. This car is a little too conspicuous for my taste.”
“Then why are we driving it?”
John glanced up at the mirror again. “When I came up here to see if the Jane Doe was Abby, she said that it might be a good idea to have something with a little horsepower.”
I needed to make myself feel more in control of my environment, more like myself. “Hey, I want to talk to you about Abby Tillis. But first, I’ve got to call my boss and tell him I’m going to be late tomorrow.”
He looked confused. “I can easily have you back to your office by nine.”
I rolled my eyes. “Before we go back to Connecticut, I’m going to need to make a pit stop.” I rambled around in my bag until I found my phone. Then I punched up Ben’s personal number. After the fourth ring, he picked up.
“Genie? What’s up?”
“I’m going to be late tomorrow morning. I need for you to let Lorraine Moretti know.”
“Oh, she’s not going to be happy about that.”
I know.
“Grow a pair, Ben. You’re still in charge of the newspaper until January first.”
He was silent for a moment. “Okay. Why are you going to be late? Do you have a real reason or are you just trying to see how far you can push the new regime?”
I glanced over at John, his eyes still on a busy I-95. I knew he could hear both sides of the conversation.
I answered, “The guy who the cops think killed Judge Preston and Abby Tillis out at Groward Bay? He broke into my house this afternoon. I’m spending the night with friends in the city.”
“Are you okay? Is Caroline all right?”
“She’s in Aspen. Nobody was home except for Tucker.” I glanced back at the puppy quietly snoozing in his carrier.
Holy crap, I still need to call Caroline.
I continued. “I don’t feel safe in my house. And tomorrow, on the way back, I want to get a statement from Merlin Finn’s father.”
