I stood in the empty space behind her and waited until she stopped crying and pushed herself upright. She slid a sealed envelope from the hem of her dress and laid it on the table, her hands folded atop it.
“Are you ready?” I whispered.
She sniffed and nodded her head as I placed one hand atop her scalp and the other beneath her chin.
“Tell Michael I love him,” she whispered just before I jerked my hands away from each other in one fluid motion. Her head spun to the left and for a moment she remained suspended in the air before gravity took over, her frail form dropping back onto the table.
Standing above her, it looked like she was sleeping, lying with her head atop her arms, resting on a pillow of brown hair.
It was probably the first peace she’d known in a very long time.
I allowed her a moment of dignity before picking her body up and carrying her out the backdoor and into the yard. I placed her on the ground and went to the car, grabbing up the coil of rope and returning to the rear of the house.
Without paying much attention to my surroundings, I fashioned a noose and slid it around her neck, tossing the loose end over a low hanging branch. I considered hoisting her up, but instead took up a thick stick from the ground and drove it into the earth beside her.
I pulled the stake back out, making sure there was a large hole in its wake, before wrapping the loose end of the rope around it and placing it on the ground beside her.
For whatever reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to pull her up.
Something told me she’d been through enough.
The last thing I did before leaving was return to the kitchen and retrieve the envelope. It was already sealed and stamped, the addressed on it written in faded pencil.
The Boston Globe -- Letters to the Editor Dept.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It took Beckett three years on the force as a ranking detective before he was given his own parking space in the tiny Boston Police Department lot. It took two more years and a major bust that earned a commendation from the Governor to get a spot with his own name on it.
There were plenty of people in the department with more years and seniority that would never see their own spot, left car pooling and riding the train to work every day. It had rubbed a few of the old timers the wrong way and they had given him a hard time about it for awhile, but only until they realized it really didn’t matter to him either way.
That, and most of the time if someone asked he was more than willing to let them use his space.
The week before Tommy O’Rourke had made such a request. Fresh off of knee surgery and just returning to work, he was just trying to ease himself back into things while staying off of it as much as possible.
Beckett hadn’t thought twice about sharing, a gesture that had earned him a marker from O’Rourke and a cherry pie from his wife.
He hadn’t bothered to share that with anyone.
Returning from Newton, Beckett turned into the lot behind the station and swung past the first row of cars. He spotted O’Rourke’s navy blue Sedona sitting in his spot and wrapped on around to the far end of the lot and backed in. Without passing through the precinct, he circled around the building to the front sidewalk, moving fast.
Beckett spotted the Crown Vic slowing to turn into the station and held a hand up to stop it. Meeks slowed along the curb and rolled down his window, leaning across the front seat. “What’s up?”
Grabbing the latch on the door, Beckett slid inside. “Head over to State Street. Wilbanks’ neighbor’s a guy named Hughes, works at Webster & Webster.”
“Damn, that was fast.”
“Ames gave me a call right after we left. He went back up to talk to Marcia Wilbanks, she told him who it was and where we could find the guy.”
Meeks nodded and steered them towards the financial district, past Faneuil Hall and along the Freedom Trail. They wrapped around by the Wang Auditorium and ducked down into an underground parking structure.
They caught the elevator up three floors to the ground level and exited into the afternoon sun. Meeks slid on a pair of sunglasses as they walked, Beckett squinting, accentuating the beginning of crow’s feet around his eyes.
Together they walked two blocks down State Street and into the Wilkes Building.
Beckett still wore the jeans he had on that morning and though they were now dry they were a bit stiff and smelled of lake water. His hair fell straight forward, lank from air drying, and he had yet to reapply deodorant.
Didn’t matter though.
Together they walked through the main lobby and checked the directory on the wall. Webster & Webster owned six floors in the middle of the building, so they chose the bottom one and decided they could work their way up.
The elevator door sprang open on the fourteenth floor to reveal a set of glass double doors and nothing else. Written on the doors in cursive script was “Webster & Webster, Inc.”
“What does this place do exactly?” Meeks asked, pulling the door open and walking through.
“Ames said it’s a CPA firm,” Beckett replied. “Which probably means everything from basic accounting to tax evasion.”
Meeks smirked as a young receptionist with short dark hair greeted them. “Good afternoon, welcome to Webster & Webster, can I help you?”
Beckett elected not to flash the badge just yet and said, “We’re here to see Milton Hughes please.”
As Beckett leaned close the receptionist caught a whiff of him and made a face. “Is Mr. Hughes expecting you gentlemen?”
“No ma’am, but if at all possible we’d like to have a quick word with him.”
The receptionist picked the phone up from her desk and pressed a few buttons. “Milton, there a couple of gentlemen here to see you. They don’t have an appointment but were hoping for any time you might be able to give them.”
She paused for a moment and placed the receiver against her shoulder and said, “May I ask what the nature of this visit is?”
Beckett flipped the badge from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Professional.”
The girl’s face went pale.
“Extremely urgent,” she said into the receiver. She listened for a moment before hanging up and putting the smile back in place. “Now then, if you gentlemen will please just follow me.”
She led them through a myriad of cubicles and desks, a veritable sea of paper and ringing phones and electronic calculators. It took them several minutes to reach their destination, a large office on the back wall of the building.
The receptionist knocked twice on the door and opened it, then motioned for them to enter and excused herself from the scene. Meeks went in first, followed by Beckett, the two of them standing just inside the door.
Behind the desk sat a man in his early fifties, bent low and running his finger along a printout string of numbers. His head was bald except for a horseshoe of light brown hair around the base of his head that stuck out in all directions. He wore a bad suit of brown tweed and his tie was loosened from his neck with the collar open.
Three sides of the office were bound tight by drywall painted plain white and left bare. The four was entirely windows, blinds pulled shut the entire length. The only light in the room was dingy yellow from the overhead bulbs and the air was stale, like the place hadn’t been aired out in months.
Beckett and Meeks waited as Hughes finished his calculations and circled something in red, then sprang up from the desk, slapping his hands together.
“Forgive me, you guys kind of came at the tail end of something.” He motioned for them to sit. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
Beckett pulled out his badge and motioned for Meeks to do the same. “Mr. Hughes, I am Detective Beckett and this is Detective Meeks, we’re here investigating the death of Congressman Wilbanks.”
Hughes’ eyes grew large. “What happened to Mr. Wilbanks?”
Beckett furrowed his brow and cast a glance at Meeks. “Mr. Wilbanks die
d in an accident on his lake night before last.”
Hughes sat back in his chair and said, “That’s awful, those poor people. What happened?”
Beckett twisted his head at the neck, staring at Hughes. “He was found drowned in Lake Keller Sunday night. Do you mean to tell me you were unaware of this? It’s been all over the news for three days now.”
“I had no idea. I’ve been here since last Friday non-stop. We were recently acquired to handle the Rickon-Boone merger and I haven’t left the office.”
Meeks tilted his head to the side and said, “Mr. Hughes, it’s now Tuesday. You mean to tell us you have been here for going on five days now?”
Hughes pointed to the office door. “The company offers dry cleaning, so my suits are all hanging right there. We have a room with cots on the seventeenth floor known as the on-call room. Most nights I grab a few hours sleep up there.”
He flipped a thumb over his shoulder and said, “My bathroom here has a shower in it and I’ve been ordering in all my meals. We have cameras on the premises that can confirm everything I’m saying.”
Beckett raised a hand. “Nobody’s accusing you of lying Mr. Hughes, we just need to ask you some questions.”
A thin film of sweat appeared on Hughes’ head as he nodded. “Okay, go ahead.”
Flipping open his notebook, Beckett asked, “How long have you and the Wilbanks been neighbors?”
“We’re not neighbors. Haven’t been in quite some time.”
“Mrs. Wilbanks informed us that you were the owner of the home beside theirs,” Beckett said.
Hughes leaned back and shook his head from side to side. “I guess I am still technically the owner of the house, but like I said, we haven’t been neighbors in some time.”
Meeks glanced at Beckett and said, “Mind if we ask what you mean by that?”
“My wife and I were at one point living in the home beside the Wilbanks. We split up eight months ago and divorced in June. She moved back to Tennessee to be near her family and I got a small place in the city that was closer to the office and would allow me to pay the outrageous alimony the judge handed her.
“House has been on the market ever since, but real estate being what it is, it’s been tough. I’ve cut the price three times but can’t get anyone to touch the thing.”
He paused and shook his head bitterly, then returned his gaze to them.
“But to answer your question, nobody’s lived in that house for several months.”
Beckett jotted something down in his notebook. “Have you let anybody stay there? A friend or relative?”
Hughes motioned at himself. “Do you I look a man that has many friends? My family all lives in the area, they have their own places to stay.”
“Then why is the yard mowed and the gutters cleaned?” Meeks asked.
“Part of the housing agreement you have to sign when you move in over there. That kind of money and power, they can’t have a dump pulling down their property values. I’m still paying some college kids through the nose to keep the place taken care of.”
Deciding to switch gears, Beckett asked, “So how long were you and the Wilbanks neighbors?”
“We lived beside each other for almost a year.”
Beckett nodded and took down the information. “Neighbors for about a year.”
Hughes leaned across the desk and extended a hand towards him. “I said we lived beside each other for a year. We were never neighbors.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” Beckett said. “Care to explain?”
Falling back in the chair, Hughes exhaled and shook his head. “No.”
Silence hung in the air for a moment and Beckett said, “Mr. Hughes, I understand you’re a busy man, and I appreciate you seeing us like this. Now you need to appreciate that this is an open investigation and if we don’t talk here, we will talk down at the station.”
Hughes stared hard at the wall for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “Marcia Wilbanks, well, she always went out of her way to make us feel like we were beneath her.”
Beckett and Meeks exchanged a glance and Beckett said, “By all accounts, Mrs. Wilbanks is a beloved woman. What makes you think she went out of her way to belittle you?”
There was a long pause before Hughes said, “Because she knew I knew.”
The pen in Beckett’s hand stopped an inch above the paper. “She knew you knew what?”
Hughes leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Look, I am not trying to spread rumors here, especially not about the wife of a dead Senator.”
“He was a Representative, not a Senator. And you’re not spreading rumors, you’re aiding in police business.”
A few moments passed as Hughes glanced from Beckett to Meeks, fighting an internal battle. He laced his fingers together on the table in front of him and said, “The first week we were there, my wife made her famous blackberry pie for the neighbors on either side of us. At that point, the two of us still got along and enjoyed the company of other couples. It was our way of reaching out, a reverse house warming gift if you will.
“The pies were finished around midday on a Sunday and she took one and went to the neighbors on our right, the Kellermans. I took the other and went to the left, the Wilbanks. It was a nice day and I walked over with the pie and knocked on the door.
“It was standing open and I could hear voices in the house so I stepped inside to see if anybody was around.”
He paused and looked at the wall, causing Meeks to prompt, “And?”
“And I saw Mrs. Wilbanks on the living room floor in the throes of passion with a man that wasn’t her husband. They didn’t see me, so I backed out the door and ran the whole way home.”
Beckett pushed out a long breath and looked over at Meeks. “Any idea who the man was?”
Hughes chewed at the inside of his jaw for moment, staring back at Beckett.
“We had just moved in and didn’t know a single person in the area. All I can tell you is there was a black truck in the driveway with the Sheriff’s emblem on the door.”
Both sides fell silent a moment, nothing left to say.
Beckett was the first to speak.
“Mr. Hughes, we are very sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for your time.”
Hughes nodded, remaining silent as they filed past.
They left without another word, through the office and down the elevator. When they reached the street Beckett pulled out his cell phone and started to dial Ames, then stopped.
He squeezed it until his knuckles showed white beneath the skin, his face twisted up in anger. “What the fuck just happened in there?”
Meeks shook his head, his arms folded across his torso.
“Now we know why Ames got so pissed at Winston, why he’s taking such a personal interest in this thing. He’s afraid his ass is going to fry.”
“Good friends since childhood my ass,” Beckett muttered. His pager chirped to life on his hip and he snapped it off his belt and looked at it.
“Let me guess, Ames,” Meeks said.
Beckett shook his head. “Nope, worse. It’s the precinct. Chief wants to see us.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The precinct was almost deserted by the time Beckett and Meeks got back, the sun having slid beneath the skyline and the air beginning to cool. Most of the offices were empty, nearly all of the desk lights off.
Upon arriving, they walked straight through the place and into Royal’s office. He was seated behind his desk staring straight ahead, very much giving the impression that the only reason he was still there was to talk to them.
Two days had done nothing to ease the scowl on Chief Royal’s face. Bags hung under his eyes like the jowls on a bulldog and his mouth was pursed so tight his lips were barely visible.
“What’s going on Chief?” Beckett asked.
The Chief rocked back and forth in his old leather desk chair
and said, “What’s going on with Wilbanks?”
Beckett cast a sideways glance at Meeks and said, “What a mess.”
Laying his head back against the chair, the Chief closed his eyes. “That’s not what I’m looking for here Dern.”
“I’m sorry Chief, we just had a bombshell dropped on our ass and we’re reeling a little bit here.”
The Chief raised his head up, his eyes popping open. “What the hell happened?”
“We went to the lake this morning, scoured that damn thing up one side and down the other. Managed to figure out how we think it went down, even found a set of tracks through the woods.
“Trail heads out of the brush towards the road, but disappears in the neighbor’s yard before we can know for sure. Sheriff goes over and asks Wilbank’s wife, who gave us the neighbor’s name and place of employment.”
“Is there a point to all this?”
Beckett ignored the comment and said, “So we went to visit the guy and it turns out he and the Wilbanks’ weren’t the best of friends.
“Reason being? Less than a year ago he walked up and saw Mrs. Wilbanks fucking the very same Sheriff.”
The scowl on the Chief’s face grew even deeper. “You have got to be shitting me.”
“Worst part is, he’s been our main point of contact. Guy is after this thing in a big way. So much so, now I can’t help but think he just flew up the suspect list.”
The Chief laid his head back on the chair and shook his head. “Now tell me some good news.”
“I just did. We know the incident out at the lake was no accidental drowning. Someone was there, it was a murder.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” the Chief said. He paused and for a moment the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“On average, how many murders per year does the city of Boston see?” the Chief asked.
The question caught Beckett by surprise and he leaned back and raised his eyebrows a bit. “I don’t know, somewhere between fifty-five and sixty.”
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