More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

by Jeffery Deaver

  * * *

  At nine-thirty, Charlie Monroe strode into the office, thinking: Monday’s over with, it’s a new day. Let’s get life moving again. He decided to spend the morning getting into the new computer system and printing out prospective client lists for Shapiro. Then he’d have a romantic lunch with Carmen. He’d also give Jill a call and charm her into drinks tonight.

  Monroe’d just stepped into his office when Todd Foxworth, even more cheerful than yesterday, waved to him and asked him if they could have a chat. An ironic thought occurred to Monroe — that Foxworth had changed his mind and was going to give him a good raise after all. Would he still sell the confidential info? This was a dilemma. But he decided, hell, yes, he would. It’d make up for last year’s insulting five percent raise.

  Monroe sat down in Foxworth’s cluttered office.

  It was a joke in the agency that Foxworth didn’t exactly carry on a coherent conversation. He’d ramble, he’d digress, he’d even make up words. Clients found it charming. Monroe had no patience for the man’s scattered persona. But today he was in a generous mood and smiled politely as the rumpled old man chattered like a jay.

  “Charlie, a couple things. I’m afraid something’s come up and that invite for golf this weekend? I know you’d probably like to hit some balls, were looking forward to it, but I’m afraid I’ve got to renege on the offer. Sorry, sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I—”

  “Good club, Hunter’s is. You ever play there? No? They don’t have a pool, no tennis courts. You go there to play golf. Period. End of story. You don’t play golf, it’s a waste of time. Of course there’s that dogleg on the seventeenth… nasty, nasty, nasty. Never near par. Impossible. How long you been playing?”

  “Since college. I really appreciate—”

  “Here’s the other thing, Charlie. Patty Kline and Sam Eggleston, from our legal department, you know ’em, they were at Chez Antibes last night. Having dinner. Worked late and went to dinner.”

  Monroe froze.

  “Now I’ve never been there but I hear it’s funny the way the place’s designed. They have these dividers, sort of like those screens in Japanese restaurants, only not Japanese of course because it’s a French restaurant but they look sort of Japanese. Anyhoo, to make a long story short they heard every word you and Hank Shapiro said. So. There you have it. Security’s cleaning out your desk right now and there’re a couple guards on their way here to escort you off the property and you better get yourself a good lawyer because theft of trade secrets — Patty and Sam tell me this; what do I know? I’m just a lowly wordsmith — is pretty damn serious. So. Guess I won’t say good luck to you, Charlie. But I will say get the hell out of my agency. Oh, and by the way, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you never work on Madison Avenue again. ’Bye.”

  Five minutes later he was on the street, briefcase in one hand, cell phone in the other. Watching boxes of his personal effects being loaded into a delivery truck destined for Connecticut.

  He couldn’t understand how it’d happened. Nobody from the agency ever went to Chez Antibes — it was owned by a corporation that competed with one of Foxworth’s big clients and so it was off limits. Patty and Sam wouldn’t have gone there unless Foxworth had told them to — to check up on Monroe. Somebody must’ve blown the whistle. His secretary? Monroe decided if it was Eileen, he’d get even with her in a big way.

  He walked for several blocks trying to decide what to do and when nothing occurred to him he took a cab to Grand Central.

  Bundled in the train as it clacked north, speeding away from the gray city, Monroe sipped gin from the tiny bottle he’d bought in the club car. Numb, he stared at the grimy apartments then at the pale bungalows then mini estates then the grand estates as the train sped north and east. Well, he’d pull something out of the situation. He was good at that. He was the best. A hustler, a salesman…. He was grade-A.

  He cracked the cap on the second bottle, and then the thought came to him: Cathy’d go back to work. She wouldn’t want to. But he’d talk her into it. The more he thought about it the more the idea appealed to him. Damn it, she’d hung out around the house for years. It was his turn. Let her deal with the pressure of a nine-to-five job for a change. Why should he have to put up with all the crap?

  Monroe parked in the driveway, paused, took several deep breaths, then walked into the house.

  His wife was in the living room, sitting in a rocking chair, holding a cup of tea.

  “You’re home early.”

  “Well, I’ve got to tell you something,” he began, leaning against the mantel. He paused to let her get nervous, to rouse her sympathies. “There’s been a big layoff at the agency. Foxworth wanted me to stay but they just don’t have the money. Most of the other senior people are going too. I don’t want you to be scared, honey. We’ll get through this together. It’s really a good opportunity for both of us. It’ll give you a chance to start teaching again. Just for a little while. I was thinking—”

  “Sit down, Charles.”

  Charles? His mother called him Charles.

  “I was saying, a chance—”

  “Sit down. And be quiet.”

  He sat.

  She sipped her tea with a steady hand, eyes scanning his face like searchlights. “I had a talk with Carmen this morning.”

  His neck hairs danced. He put a smart smile on his face and asked, “Carmen?”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  “I—”

  “You what?” Cathy snapped.

  “Nothing.”

  “She seemed nice. It was a shame to upset her.”

  Monroe kneaded the arm of his Naugahyde chair.

  Cathy continued, “I didn’t plan to. Upset her, I mean. It’s just that she’d somehow she got the idea we were in the process of getting divorced.” She gave a brief laugh. “Getting divorced because I’d fallen in love with the pool boy. Where’d she get an idea like that, I wonder?”

  “I can explain—”

  “We don’t have a pool, Charles. Didn’t it occur to you that that was a pretty stupid lie?”

  Monroe’s hands slipped together and he began worrying a fingernail. He’d almost told Carmen that Cathy was having an affair with a neighbor or with a contractor. Pool boy was the first thing that came to mind. And, yes, afterwards he did think it was pretty stupid.

  “Oh, if you’re wondering,” Cathy continued, “what happened was someone from the jewelry store called. They wanted to know whether to send the receipt here or to Carmen’s apartment. By the way, she said the earrings were really tacky. She’s going to keep them anyway. I told her she ought to.”

  Why the hell had the clerk done that? When he’d placed the order he’d very explicitly said to send the receipt to the office.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said.

  “You’re right, Charlie. I think it’s probably a lot worse.”

  Monroe walked to the bar and poured himself another gin. His head ached and he felt stuffy from too much liquor. He swallowed a mouthful and set the glass down. He remembered when they’d bought this set of crystal. A sale at Saks. He’d wanted to ask for the clerk’s phone number but Cathy had been standing nearby.

  His wife took a deep breath. “I’ve been on the phone with a lawyer for three hours. He seemed to think it won’t take much longer than that to make you a very poor man. Well, Charlie, we don’t have much more to talk about. So you should pack a suitcase and go stay somewhere else.”

  “Cath… This is a real bad time for me—”

  “No, Charles, it will be bad. But it’s not bad yet. Good-bye.”

  A half hour later he was finished packing. As he trudged down the stairs with a large suitcase Cathy studied him carefully. It was the way she examined aphids when she spritzed them with bug spray and watched them curl into tiny dead balls.

  “I—”

  “Good bye, Charles.”

  Monroe was halfway to the front hall when the
doorbell rang.

  He set the suitcase down and opened the door. He found two large sheriff’s deputies standing in front of him. There were two squad cars in the driveway and two more deputies on the lawn. Their hands were very close to their pistols.

  Oh, no. Foxworth was pressing charges! Jesus. What a nightmare.

  “Mr. Monroe?” the largest of the deputies asked, eyeing his suitcase. “Charles Monroe?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “I wonder if we could talk to you for a moment.”

  “Sure. I — What’s the matter?”

  “Can we come in?”

  “I, well, sure.”

  “Where you going, sir?”

  He suddenly realized that he didn’t have a clue.

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “You’re leaving but you don’t know where?”

  “Little domestic problem…. You know how it is.”

  They stared at him, stone-faced.

  Monroe continued. “I guess I’m going to the city. Manhattan.”

  Why not? It was as good a place as any.

  “I see,” the smaller deputy said and then glanced at his towering partner. “Out of state,” he said significantly.

  What did he mean by that?

  The second deputy asked, “Is this your MasterCard number, Mr. Monroe?”

  He looked at the slip the officer was holding out. “Uhm, yes it is. What’s this all about?”

  “Did you place a mail order yesterday with Great Northern Outdoor Supplies in Vermont?”

  Great Northern? Monroe had never heard of them. He told the officers this.

  “I see,” said the large cop, not believing him.

  “You do own a house on Harguson Lake outside of Hartford, don’t you?”

  Again he felt the sizzling chill in his spine. Cathy was looking at him — with a look that said nothing would surprise her any longer.

  “I—”

  “It’s easy enough to check, sir. You may as well be honest.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “When did you get it, Charles?” Cathy asked in a weary voice.

  It was going to be a surprise… Our anniversary… I was just about to tell you…

  “Three years ago,” he said.

  The shorter of the deputies persisted, “And you didn’t have an order sent by Great Northern via overnight delivery to the house on that property?”

  “An order? No. What order?”

  “A hunting knife.”

  “A knife? No, of course not.”

  “Mr. Monroe, the knife you ordered—”

  “I didn’t order any knives.”

  “—the knife ordered by someone claiming to be Charles Monroe and using your credit card and sent to your property was similar to the knives that’ve been used in those murders in the area.”

  The South Shore Killer…

  “Charlie!” Cathy gasped.

  “I don’t know anything about any knives!” he cried. “I don’t!”

  “The state police got an anonymous tip about some bloody clothes on the shore of Harguson Lake. Turned out to be your property. A T-shirt from the victim two days ago. We also found another knife hidden near the T-shirt. Blood on it matches blood from the victim killed two months ago near Route fifteen.”

  God, what was going on?

  “No! This is a mistake! I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “Oh, Charlie, how could you?”

  “Mr. Monroe, you have the right to remain silent.” The large deputy continued with the rest of the Miranda warning, while the other slipped the cuffs on him.

  They took his wallet from his pocket. His cell phone too.

  “No, no, let me have the phone! I get to make a call. I know I do.”

  “Yeah, but you have to use our phone, sir. Not yours.”

  They led him outside, fierce grips on his biceps. Struggling, panicky. As they approached the squad car Monroe happened to look up. Across the street was a slightly built man with sandy hair. A pleasant smile on his face, he leaned against a tree as he watched the excitement.

  He seemed very familiar…

  “Wait,” Monroe cried. “Wait.”

  But the sheriff’s deputies didn’t wait. They firmly shepherded Monroe into the back of their car and drove out of the driveway.

  It was as they passed the man and Monroe glanced at him from a different angle that he recognized him. It was the commuter — the one who’d sat next to him on the train yesterday morning. The rude one who’d asked him to be quiet.

  Wait… Oh, no. No!

  Monroe began to understand. The man had heard all of his conversations — with Shapiro, with Carmen, the jewelry store. He’d taken down the names of everyone Monroe’d been talking to, taken down his MasterCard number, the name and address of his mistress and the details of his meeting with Hank Shapiro… and the location of his house in the country! He’d called Foxworth, he’d called Cathy, he’d ordered the hunting knife….

  And he’d called the police too.

  Because he was the South Shore Killer…

  The man who murders because of the least affront — a fender bender, a barking dog.

  With a wrenching gesture, Monroe twisted around and saw the man gazing at the receding squad car.

  “We have to go back!” Monroe shouted. “We have to! He’s back there! The killer’s back there!”

  “Yessir, now if you’ll just shut up, we’d appreciate it. We’ll be at the station house in no time.”

  “No!” he wailed. “No, no, no!”

  As he looked back one last time he saw the man lift his hand to his head. What was he doing? Waving? Monroe squinted. No, he was… He was mimicking the gesture of holding a telephone to his ear.

  “Stop! He’s there! He’s back there!”

  “Sir, that’ll be enough outta you,” the large deputy said.

  A block behind them, the commuter finally lowered his hand, turned away from the street and started down the sidewalk, walking briskly in a contented lope.

  THE WESTPHALIAN RING

  The Charing Cross burglary had been the most successful of his career.

  And, as he was now learning, it would perhaps be the one that would permanently end this vocation.

  As well as earn him a trip to a fetid cell in Newgate prison.

  Sitting in his chockablock shop off Great Portland Street, wiry Peter Goodcastle tugged at the tuft of wispy hair above his ear and below his bald head and nodded grimly at his visitor’s words, just audible amid the sound of Her Majesty’s Public Works’ grimy steam hammer breaking up the brick road to repair a water main.

  “The man you robbed,” his uneasy companion continued, “was the benefactor to the Earl of Devon. And has connections of his own throughout Parliament and Whitehall Street. The queen speaks highly of him.”

  The forty-four-year-old Goodcastle knew this, and considerably more, about Lord Robert Mayhew, as he did all his burglary victims. He always learned as much as he could about them; good intelligence was yet one more skill that had kept him free from Scotland Yard’s scrutiny in the twelve years since he’d returned from the war and begun plying his trade as a thief. He’d sought as much data as he could about Mayhew and learned that he was indeed well regarded in the upper circles of London society and among the royals, including Queen Victoria herself; still, because of the man’s massive wealth and obsession for amassing and hoarding rare jewelry and valuables, Goodcastle assessed, the rewards would be worth the risk.

  But in this estimate he’d clearly been wrong.

  “It’s the ring he’s upset about. Not the other pieces, certainly not the sovereigns. No, the ring. He’s using all his resources to find it. Apparently it was handed down to him by his father, who received it from his father. It’s of great personal value to him.”

  It was, of course, always wiser to filch items to which the owners had no sentimental attachment, and Goodcastle had decided that the ring fell into such a category bec
ause he’d found it sitting in a cheap, unlocked box on Mayhew’s dressing counter, covered by a dozen pieces of worthless costume jewelry and cuff links.

  But the thief now concluded that the casual treatment was merely a clever ruse to better protect the precious item — though only from thieves less skilled than Goodcastle, of course; he had inherited the family antiquities business ten years ago and of necessity had become an expert in valuing such items as music boxes, silver, furniture… and old jewelry. Standing masked in Mayhew’s dressing chamber, he’d frozen in shock as he uncovered the treasure.

  Crafted by the famed goldsmith Wilhelm Schroeder of Westphalia early in the century, the ring featured bands of gold, alternating with those of silver. Upon the gold were set diamonds, upon the silver, deep-blue sapphires. So astonished and delighted was Goodcastle at this find that he took only it, a diamond cravat pin, a modest broach and fifty gold guineas, eschewing the many other objets d’art, pieces of jewelry and gold and silver coin cluttering Mayhew’s boudoir (another rule of thievery: the more modest the take, the more likely that weeks or months will pass before the victim discovers his loss, if indeed he ever does).

  This was what he had hoped had occurred in the Charing Cross burglary. The incident had occurred last Thursday and Goodcastle had seen no reports of the theft in the Daily Telegraph, the Times or other papers.

  But sadly such was not the case, his informant — a man well placed within Scotland Yard itself — was now explaining.

  “What’s more,” the man whispered, fiddling with the brim of his Hamburg and looking out over the cool, gray April sky of London, “I’ve heard that the inspectors have reason to believe that the thief has a connection to the furniture or antiquities trade.”

  Alarmed, Goodcastle whispered, “How on earth can they have found that? An informant?”

  “No, the coppers discovered in Sir Mayhew’s apartment certain clues that led them to that conclusion.”

  “Clues? What clues?” As always, Goodcastle had been meticulous not to leave anything of his own behind. He’d taken all his tools and articles of clothing with him. And he never carried a single document or other token that would lead the police to him or to Goodcastle Antiquities.