He slid into one of the three booths in the bar, looked at his watch at one minute to two, decided if she didn’t show up by five after, he was out of there, but the front door to Duffy’s was pushed open just a few seconds later and Regina whatever-her-name-was walked in right on time. Justin knew it was her. She looked like a cop. She had that confident manner, the one that said no one was going to give her any trouble because there wasn’t any trouble she couldn’t handle. She glanced around the bar, took him in, immediately headed for his booth, no hesitation. He guessed he had that cop air, too.
Before she reached his table, he stood up and extended his hand.
“Justin Westwood,” he said as they shook.
“Regina Bokkenheuser,” she said.
“Nice name,” he told her. “Trips right off the tongue.”
She slid out of her long coat, hung it neatly on a hook to the left of the booth. She was wearing a tapered jacket and a loose-fitting shirt underneath. Her skirt matched the jacket and came down to mid-thigh. Her legs were muscular and at least as tapered as her suit. Justin knew, even with much of her body hidden, that he was looking at a woman with a lot of muscle, physically and emotionally. He smiled, trying to put her at ease. She smiled back at him, probably doing the same thing. He relaxed, felt comfortable as she slid into the booth on the bench across from him, and he realized she was probably a lot better at this than he was.
“It’s Danish,” she said. “And if you think it sounds bad, wait till you hear people try to spell it.”
“That where you’re from? Denmark?”
“My grandmother,” she said. “I’m from Wisconsin. Madison.” She looked around the room and he was surprised to see that she didn’t seem to disapprove. “You think they’d have any form of fruit juice in this joint?”
“I doubt it,” Justin said. “Maybe orange, but I guarantee you cranberry’s out of the question.”
Donnie, the bartender, wandered over to their table and, lo and behold, he had both orange and grapefruit juice. She ordered grapefruit. Justin wanted a beer but settled for a club soda.
Before Donnie could even get back to the bar, Regina Bokkenheuser reached into her inside jacket pocket, pulled out a piece of paper neatly folded into thirds, and slid it across the table at him.
“My resume,” she explained. “Figured it would help answer a few questions and maybe spark a few others.”
Before looking at the paper, he did his best to study her face. Justin realized she was quite attractive. She reminded him of the dark-haired assistant DA on Law amp; Order, the one from the earlier days of the show, the one who quit because she married Richard Gere. Well, maybe Regina wasn’t quite so perfect-looking as that, but the same type. Her hair was lighter than that actress’s hair, somewhere between blonde and brown, layered and cut close around her face. He didn’t let his gaze linger, but he took in the fact that her features weren’t perfect, which somehow made her even more attractive. Her nose was a little too big and her smile a little lopsided. Good teeth, though. Straight and very white. And her neck was long and elegant. Her blue eyes were clear and curious, and he thought he detected just a touch of sadness in there. Those eyes didn’t look away from him until they glanced down at her resume, letting him know he’d been watching her just a little too long.
Justin unfolded the paper, scanned the information. Impressive. She’d been a cop for six years back in Milwaukee. Before that, college at the state university in Madison. Her educational background was in forensic science. Her age wasn’t listed on the resume, but he put her in her late twenties, maybe thirty.
“What made you become a cop?” he asked, looking up.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” she said.
“I’m not actually all that experienced in this management position,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure I’m the one who’s supposed to ask the questions.”
“Oh, I’ll happily answer,” she told him. “I just thought your answer would be a lot more interesting than mine.” When he cocked his head slightly to the right, she continued. “I don’t like to come into something like this cold,” she said. “I Googled you.” His head cocked farther to the right and she said, “Not your normal mentions for a small-town police chief.”
“And what would I find if I Googled you?”
“Nothing comparable.” She smiled that lopsided smile. “And nothing particularly interesting. If I even popped up, which I won’t. Never been in the papers, never done anything exciting enough to be cited. My dad was a police officer for twenty-five years and I was always fascinated by it. Both my parents wanted me to go into something else. Business, law, teaching maybe. At least, my dad said he wanted that. I always got the feeling he was secretly happy when I decided to follow in his footsteps.”
“And why did you?”
“There’s the million-dollar question. I’m sure there’s some psychological baggage involved. . father-daughter stuff. . but my guess is neither one of us wants to go there. Mostly I think it’s fairly uncomplicated. I just like the job. I like helping people. I like solving things. I know it’s not really glamorous, but if feels glamorous to me. I like saying I’m a police officer. I enjoy the respect it brings, especially these days.”
“Next question: Why here?”
“Why did I leave Madison? Or why did I come to East End Harbor?”
“Both. This is not exactly a teeming hotbed of crime.” Well, not usually, he thought. But he decided to keep his thought to himself.
“Lifestyle,” she said. “My father died a few months ago. .”
“I’m sorry. In the line of duty?”
“No. Heart attack. On his way to the grocery store. Fifty-eight years old.” She hesitated a moment, it was still an emotional subject for her. She quickly got her voice under control and went on. “He left me a little bit of money, so I decided it was time to get out of the Midwest. And I thought I wasn’t quite ready for New York City. A friend from the Milwaukee force knew someone on the NYPD who knew Leona, yada yada yada, so I checked out the town and fell in love with it and. .”
“And here we are.”
“And here we are,” she echoed, flashing one more tilted smile. “And my guess is you’re not the kind of person who likes to be pressured, so you’re figuring this meeting is just a courtesy. But I should tell you, I’m a really good cop and I know what I’m doing and I wish you’d at least check my references because they’re going to be glowing. I don’t think you could find anyone better than me.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. As long as you’re feeling pressure, I found a perfect little house and it’s for rent and I told them I’d let them know in a day or two. So I don’t just want you to hire me, I want you to hire me soon.”
She smiled, an acknowledgment of her brazenness, he relaxed enough to smile back, they both had a second drink-neither switched to alcohol-and they talked about some of the cases she’d worked on. Both police forces were reasonably small, so she’d covered a variety of crimes. She’d worked two homicides-not the lead detective on either murder. One remained unsolved, the other-a fairly simple family squabble; a jealous husband stabbed his wife, tossed her body in a Dumpster seven miles from his house, and tried to claim she’d gone missing-resulted in a conviction. She’d done a lot of domestic intervention, had no aversion to paperwork, and even liked the idea of walking the East End beat. She was clearly good at her interpersonal relationships-he realized she was pretty much wrapping him around her little finger.
“You’ve got more and better experience than anyone on my force,” he said after the conversation hit the hour mark. “I’d have to hire you as my second in command.”
“If your question is, will that intimidate me, the answer’s no. I’m ready for that kind of position.”
“Not lacking confidence, huh?”
“No, sir. I have quite a few flaws, but that’s not one of them.”
“Care to tell what some of them are?”
“My flaws?” When he nodded, she thought for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. Then she shrugged. “I bite my nails and I spend too much money on clothes, particularly shoes, and I’m not always the most patient person in the world. I don’t like bullshit, which I personally don’t think of as a flaw, but it tends to get me in trouble sometimes, so maybe it is. I think I get that from my dad.”
Justin stared at her, just for a moment-she didn’t back down from his gaze-then he polished off his second club soda. “Glowing, huh?”
“What?”
“Your references are gonna be glowing.” He checked the resume in his hand. “From Captain Frank Quarry of the Milwaukee PD and Captain Harvey Rizzo in Madison.”
“I think they will be, yes.”
He wasn’t wearing a sport coat and his leather jacket was hanging over the back of a chair, so he held on to the resume rather than jam it into his pants pocket. He folded it one extra time so it disappeared into his palm. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can,” he said. And then: “Where’s the house?”
“Excuse me?”
“The one you fell in love with. That’s putting all this unbearable pressure on me. Where is it?”
“On Division Street. Just a few blocks out of town, still in the historical village, though. I could get it for a year. And for a very reasonable price.”
“Little Victorian job, yellow paint job, lots of charm?”
“You know it?”
“Yup,” Justin said. “And I hope you’re the friendly type, Regina. ’Cause if you get the job, we’re gonna be neighbors.”
“Everybody calls me Reggie,” she said. And this time the smile was not quite so lopsided.
At ten minutes before six o’clock that evening, Justin called Chuck Billings’s cell phone and got voice mail. After the tone, he left a message that he’d wait as long as he could before taking off and told Chuck to call him if he was lost and couldn’t find the small airport. He left his own cell phone number and then hung up. Justin waited a few moments, then dialed the number for the Fisherman Motel. The desk clerk told him that Mr. Billings had checked out earlier that afternoon, around one-thirty or two. Justin left his cell phone number with the clerk just in case Chuck returned there. Then he went to Ray Lockhardt’s office. The airport manager flinched when he saw Justin but relaxed when he realized all he wanted him to do this time was keep an eye out for Billings, in case he arrived after Justin’s chartered plane took off.
At six-fifteen, Justin boarded the plane. He convinced the pilot to wait on the ground another fifteen minutes. At six-thirty, when Billings was a full half hour late and still had not called, Justin gave the okay and the small plane left for Providence.
The flight was a quick one, about forty-five minutes. Justin didn’t give too much thought to Chuck Billings. He figured the bomb expert had gotten caught up in some sort of FBI bullshit. He also figured he’d hear about it tomorrow or maybe even tonight from Wanda Chinkle. He hadn’t pegged Chuck as the single most reliable guy he’d ever met. So instead, he thought about Reggie Bokkenheuser. Other than the name, he had to admit she was pretty close to perfect. He’d checked with both of her references and, if anything, “glowing” was an understatement when describing their responses. They said she was smart, friendly, a terrific cop, had great growth potential, showed the potential for strong management skills, had an excellent investigative instinct, could get people to warm up to her, and, bottom line, he’d be crazy not to hire her.
He knew it would make Leona Krill very happy if Reggie was brought aboard. He suspected the rest of the guys at the station would not be thrilled, especially if she were brought in at the sergeant level and as their superior. He decided they’d get over it, though. If she were as good as he believed she might be.
Justin decided to sneak in a fifteen-minute nap on the plane. As his eyes closed, he realized there was something bothering him about Reggie. He couldn’t decide what it was, though. Maybe it was that he found her attractive. Maybe it was that she’d be living two houses away from him. Maybe it was simply that he’d never hired anyone before and she was the first and only person he’d talked to, and it all seemed too easy and perfect. Maybe he was being lazy, he should look around, talk to a few more candidates. But as he fell asleep, he knew that Reggie Bokkenheuser was going to become the newest sergeant on the East End police force.
He dozed for twelve minutes. When he woke up, he wasn’t particularly refreshed. But he was back in his hometown of Providence, Rhode Island.
11
Returning to Providence always provoked mixed emotions in Justin Westwood. He genuinely loved the city. Found it beautiful and alive. He knew it well-and all sides of it. The comforting pomposity of its academia. The snobbish magnificence of its upper class. The small-town quality of its corruption. The New England backbone of its middle class. The violence and despair of its back alleys.
He was also afraid of the city. He had lost his wife and child there. Had endured excruciating pain there. Had gone through years of an unfriendly and hurtful separation from his parents.
Providence was not simple for him.
He had reconciled with Jonathan and Lizbeth Westwood about a year before, and that was a big step forward. It made him feel welcome again, not just in his childhood home but in his city. They had embraced him back into the family and he welcomed that embrace warmly. But both sides were still wary. Family ties were always capable of unraveling, he knew. For now, however, the bonds were strong. His mother and father were anxious to make amends and to try to heal old wounds. Justin suspected that some wounds could never completely heal but he was willing to play the comforted patient to help ease his parents’ guilt. And he had to admit that Jonathan and Lizbeth were capable of making things very comfortable.
He got a warm hug from his mother when he stepped inside the front door of the house. As always, he marveled at the splendor of the place in which he’d spent his youth. The cathedral-like ceilings, the enormous spiraling staircase, the exquisite detailing in the maple and cherry woodwork throughout the expansive mansion. Lizbeth followed him into the den, where his father gave him a warm pat on the back, the closest to a hug he could manage. They shared a glass of superb burgundy as they asked appropriate questions and revealed appropriate details about the past several months of their lives. His mother was saddened by the end of his relationship with Deena, but did no more than give a quick shake of her head when told it had ended for good. His father was mixed about the news of Justin’s promotion: proud of the reward yet still bothered that he’d chosen police work as his profession instead of something more substantial-which, in his father’s eyes, meant more profitable. Justin told them a little bit about why he was there, enough to pique their interest and get some valuable insight from his banker father. Jonathan Westwood said, when Justin had finished summarizing the stories of both the plane crash and Chuck Billings’s observations of the bombing, “Always look for the money.”
When Justin asked him what he meant, Jonathan cleared his throat and said, “I’ve spent my whole life as a businessman. My whole life around wealthy, powerful people. And if that experience has taught me anything, it’s that there are two reasons for all human behavior: passion and money. I don’t know anything about your line of business, Jay, but I wouldn’t imagine that criminal behavior is all that different from what I deal with in the business world. Somewhere, somehow, someone is making money. Find out who that is and you’ll find out what’s going on.”
“I don’t know if everything in life can be made that simple,” Justin said.
“Life is simple,” his father told him, finishing his last sip of wine. “It’s what happens while you’re living it that some people make so damn hard.” And then he said it again: “Find the money.”
Wanda Chinkle arrived at eight o’clock and Justin was amused to see that she’d dressed for the occasion. It was usually hard to get Wanda into anything but a pair of pants and an open-neck s
hirt, but tonight she was wearing a dress and a short-sleeved cashmere sweater. With pearls. And stockings. Justin had never seen her in a pair of stockings before-in fact, he thought, he might never have actually seen her legs before-and she scowled when she saw him staring and grinning.
Wanda passed on the superb red wine, had a Diet Coke instead, much to Jonathan Westwood’s horror, and then they sat down to a delicious dinner of rare roast beef, broiled new potatoes, and string beans, prepared by the Westwoods’ longtime chef, Sidney. The dinner table talk veered between professional and personal, but nothing substantive was broached between Justin and Wanda until, after coffee and a dessert of key lime pie, they settled into the den, alone, and closed the door behind them.
“You don’t seem quite as angry as you were over the phone,” Justin said.
“Don’t let appearances deceive you,” Wanda responded. “Just because I want to pistol-whip you doesn’t mean I can’t be polite in front of your parents.”
“Okay, as long as I know the affection’s still there.”
“Let’s skip the wiseass stuff, okay?” she said. “I want to know what’s going on.”
“A lot more stuff than the other day,” he said. And first he ran down everything he’d put together about the plane crash. He told her the circumstances of the crash and about Martin Heffernan’s behavior at the crash site. He said he was fairly certain that the FAA representative stole the pilot’s ID. He told her about the fake ambulance spiriting the body away and he told her, again, how he’d been denied access to the fingerprint identification. He recounted his session with the airport manager Ray Lockhardt, told her Ray’s take on how the plane was tampered with and the pressure Ray was getting from Heffernan about the accident report, clearly an attempt to circumvent any investigation. Justin gave a blow-by-blow account of his conversation on the phone with the ditzy Cherry Flynn, trying to trace the ownership of the plane through the tail number. And then he told her he was convinced that someone at the FAA knew in advance that the plane would be sabotaged, because the files were pulled prior to the crash.
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