Intrusion

by Kay, Arlene

  “Wait a minute, Candy. Change of tactics. Use your wiles to find out if the Judge ever polluted the marital bed. I have confidence in you. You’ll think of something.”

  Her eyes got way too bright. “I just thought of a bombshell, but you won’t like it.”

  After two minutes of silence, she caved. “OK, here it is. I’ll tell Mrs. Arthur about my dear friend Elisabeth who was so devastated to find that her late husband dicked the world.”

  “Candy! You wouldn’t!”

  Her smug smile told me that she would. Naturally, she would also swear the widow to secrecy.

  “Come on, Betts. You know how it is. You have to give to get. Besides, Kai and Tommy would love it.”

  She was right. Kai would relish the part of roué, despoiler, dickwad, especially if it helped nail Tommy’s murderer. Maybe if I went with her, it would minimize the damage.

  My iPhone buzzed just as I got ready to pay the check. Rand Lindsay on the case. I couldn’t read the text in the dim bar light. Besides, no detective worth her salt ever burns a confidential source. Rand’s big scoop would have to wait.

  ~

  Candy wasted no time. She hailed a cab, pulled me into it, and spit out a staccato Beacon Hill address I’d never heard of before.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “I have a headache, and I’m tired. It’s almost ten o’clock.”

  Whining is unattractive but inevitable when dealing with Candace Ott. She leveled me with one withering glare.

  “Tough. Your headache has more to do with those martinis than anything else. Besides, you said you wanted to end this thing.”

  The driver lurched to a stop in front of an imposing brick townhouse that screamed big, big money. It looked vaguely familiar, a particle of memory from the distant past.

  “Wait a minute, I’ve been here before. A long time ago with Kai. Some charity thing.”

  “Bingo. Your synapses are still firing after all.” Candy paid the driver and sprang out of the cab. “Come on, slowpoke. Mrs. Jacob Arthur awaits.”

  She sprinted halfway up the steep brick stairs before I caught her. Considering the height of her heels, that was a pretty nifty trick.

  “You’re not going to do the tethered goat thing again, are you? Please tell me I’m wrong.”

  She shot an unrepentant look my way. “I could tell you that, but I’d be lying. Look, Betts, suck it up. As you’re always saying, this is about Tommy, not us.”

  I knew when I was beaten. Having your own words thrown back at you is a dirty trick but very effective. I bowed in weary resignation.

  “OK, but don’t be too hard on Kai. Neither one of us ever looked at anyone else.”

  Candy squeezed my arm and pressed the buzzer. It was answered by a rara avis, something akin to the dodo—an honest-to God-British butler.

  “Good evening, Bunter,” Candy said, brushing past him. “We’re expected. Come along, Elisabeth.” Candy gave me a superior smirk. “Our hostess awaits.”

  Bunter kept his cool, swept in front of us, and led the way to the drawing room.

  The furnishings were Georgian and the carpets Persian. Like most Boston Brahmins, the Arthurs had arrayed a number of ancestral portraits on the walls. A kind observer would have praised the strength of character evident in their faces. I fixated on the alarming jaws, prominent noses and beady eyes of these forebears. Kai had joked that it was no wonder Jacob became a jurist. He had the right equipment to stare down any criminal.

  Lynette Arthur was a handsome woman with raven hair and obsidian eyes. She sat on a delicate satin settee with a posture Queen Victoria herself would cheer. I tried to focus on her face, but her enormous breasts mesmerized me.

  Dear Lord! The woman can barely stand. Glancing down at my meager chest, I felt chastened.

  “Lynette,” Candy simpered. “Forgive us for intruding. I just had to discuss the program with you.” She tugged me forward. “You’ve met my partner, Elisabeth Buckley, I believe. You know, Kai’s wife. She wants to help us.”

  Mrs. Arthur’s expression softened instantly. “Oh, my dear. I’m sorry about your husband. He was so charming.”

  I caught a whiff of alcohol on her breath. The widow had started without us.

  I didn’t have to act. Just hearing Kai’s name left me misty-eyed. I turned away, staring at some hook-nosed Arthur ancestor for balance.

  “Tea. Shall we have tea?” Lynette asked. She rang a discreet buzzer that summoned Bunter. “Perhaps brandy would do better. Jacob loved his brandy. Armagnac was his favorite.” She nodded to Bunter, who did the honors. After he whisked noiselessly away, Lynette sank back on the cushions and sighed.

  “God, I got so sick of hearing about brandy. Jacob ranted on for hours about the grapes, blah, blah, blah. The man took field trips to France just to check out the vineyards.”

  The Judge had died two months before Kai’s accident. Lynette’s recovery was quite remarkable, considering that her husband had popped off so spectacularly. On the other hand, my own devastation might seem excessive to most people.

  “Your marriage was different, wasn’t it, dear? You really loved him.” Lynette’s face crinkled with compassion.

  “More than she should have,” Candy spat. “Kai Buckley was just like most men, couldn’t be satisfied with one woman and broke her heart.”

  I gulped down my brandy. “No, Candy.”

  “It’s okay, honey. Jacob was the same way.” Lynette poured us another round. “That bastard didn’t go to France alone, and it wasn’t only vineyards he explored.” Her face hardened as she relived her marriage. “Every woman was fair game, no matter who she was. Even married ones.”

  “See, Betts? I told you not to grieve.” Candy winked at me as she turned away. “You weren’t the only one.”

  “I would have divorced him. Should have.” Lynette paused and spread out her arms. “But why let some bimbo have all this? I earned it, believe you me, and I had my girls to consider.”

  “Kai wasn’t alone when he died,” Candy said, with a small, tight smile. “So tragic.”

  I leapt up, ready to spring at Candy. “That’s enough. Please. I can’t take anymore.”

  Lynette was oblivious. “Honey, I get it. Believe me, I do. Jacob invented every excuse in the book, especially after his heart problem. Called his extracurricular activities medical consultations. Huh! He didn’t have a heart. Anyone who ever met him knew that.”

  Candy dug in her tote and produced an embossed folder. “I’d better get her home. Here, Lynette. Check this out and get back to me. You can count on Sweet Nothings to help with your program.”

  “How generous of you.” Lynette was glassy eyed by now. “And Mrs. Buckley, I promise things will get better. Trust me.”

  Bunter appeared out of the ethos and escorted us to a cab, all the while maintaining his stiff upper lip.

  “That went well,” Candy said, “if I do say so myself. Add the Judge to the cheaters’ club.”

  I maintained a stubborn, stony silence until I thought I’d burst. “How could you? Kai was your friend.”

  “Big deal. Kai would have done anything to avenge Tommy, you know that. Plus, there are worse things to call a man than a stud. What if I’d said Kai couldn’t get it up?”

  “Candy!”

  “Calm down. You’re home. We’ll discuss this at work tomorrow.”

  I stepped out of the cab and watched her disappear.

  Twenty-Four

  After walking Della, I crawled into bed and crashed. Three cheers for booze, the ultimate soporific. Kai joined me in my dreams that night, wearing a grin and nothing else. He held out his arms, enveloping me in a cloud of Creed, Silver Mountain Water. As I snuggled up to him, he whispered, “Good job, Lizzie Mae. That’s my girl.”

  I love you, Kai. I always will.

  The next morning I felt exceptionally fit, body and mind. In view of last night’s alcohol consumption, that qualified as a near miracle. Two cups of espresso later, I recalled Ra
nd’s unread text message. I floated downstairs on a wave of optimism. Every day brought me closer to finding Tommy’s murderer. I knew with astounding clarity that by avenging my friend, I would save myself, too. Kai and Tommy, best buddies in this life, were together in the afterworld, cheering me on.

  Rand’s message puzzled me. The first part was routine: Tornado’s name, age and marital status. Good grief, he had four little boys under five. Another man whose equipment was in fine working order.

  Then it stopped. Instead of summarizing financial data, Rand inserted three words in big bold script: CALL ME URGENT. He’d left a cell and home number. Nothing else.

  What the hell?

  Some unnamed dread claimed me. With trembling fingers I dialed Rand’s cell. Straight to voicemail. No answer at his home number either. I paged down my directory, searching for the CYBER-MED section. It was early for most people, barely seven o’clock, but not computer types. Silence and another dump to voicemail from Rand’s private line. My skyrocketing pulse and rapid heartbeat signaled a major panic attack.

  I didn’t want to do it. Succumbing to terror is so clichéd. Nevertheless, my fingers dialed Lucian Sand’s number before my brain caught up. He answered immediately in that sultry baritone that made me quiver.

  “Oui, Elisa.”

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Lucian.”

  “A call from you is a gift. How are you?”

  I felt foolish. After all, Rand wasn’t a child. He had probably found a companion for the night and turned off his phone.

  “Don’t worry. Call me anytime, Elisabeth. You know that.”

  “It’s Rand,” I blurted out. “He doesn’t answer his calls, and I’m worried about him.”

  It sounded feeble even to me, just a pretext to hear Dr. Sand’s scintillating voice.

  “Did something happen?”

  Now I’d done it. I gave Lucian an expurgated account of last night’s activities, ending with Rand’s text message.

  “You are at home? Stay there. I will be right over.”

  He disconnected while I was still protesting. That sent me scrambling to make myself presentable, police the house and attend to Della before he arrived.

  I was applying lip-gloss (Sweet Nothings #6) when the concierge buzzed Lucian in. One look at his face confirmed my worst suspicions. He put his arms around me and drew me close.

  “You were right. Rand had a misadventure last night.”

  Tragic news was becoming the norm for me. I’d gotten rather good at hearing it.

  “Is he … dead?”

  “No, no. The doctors say he will be fine. He is at the Mass. General Hospital if you’d like to see for yourself.”

  I grabbed my briefcase, purse and sunglasses. “What are we waiting for.”?

  ~

  Looking inordinately cheerful, Rand was propped up in his hospital bed like a low-rent pasha. He brightened when he saw us and waved us in.

  “Miss Elisabeth. Sandman. Come on in.” He beamed at a young candy striper reading his blood pressure. “They’re taking such good care of me here that I don’t want to go home.”

  A dizzying array of medical devices chronicled his every move. They creeped me out, but Rand and Lucian shrugged it off.

  “OK,” I said when the volunteer left, “tell us what happened.”

  He locked eyes with Lucian and lowered his voice. “Can you shut the door? Please.”

  Lucian found me a chair and stood behind it like a sentry.

  “I’m embarrassed,” Rand said. “It’s probably no big deal. I was researching that topic for you when Dr. Meg called me in. I left my screen on. When I came back, and I can’t prove this, but I thought someone had scrolled through my computer.”

  “Who was there?” Lucian folded his arms like a hanging judge. His handsome face was Carrara marble, Michelangelo’s David in street clothes.

  “I can’t really say. Arun breezed by before I was called in, and Tornado was back and forth. Dr. Meg is always there, of course, and Carter dropped by with some take-out for her.” Rand threw his hands up. “Things were crazy last night.”

  I leaned forward and touched Rand’s foot. “Your text sounded urgent. What did you find?”

  He sighed. “You told me to look for anomalies, financial stuff that didn’t make sense. Well, I did some digging—hacking—into the Tornado’s bank records. People are crazy to bank on line, you know. Anyone can access it.”

  “Stop avoiding the issue. What did you find?”

  “Money. Tons of it. Tony Torres has over fifty thousand in his checking account alone. That doesn’t count the CDs and savings accounts. Those add up to several million bucks. I didn’t want to put it in the text, so I asked you to call me.”

  Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Financial security is not criminal. It doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “How about his wife?” I asked. “Maybe it’s her money.”

  “Maybe,” Rand said, “but I thought Nilda was some sort of teacher. Not a big money profession.”

  “What does any of this have to do with your accident? Have you called the police?”

  Rand’s eyes grew saucer sized. “I didn’t, but Dr. Meg did. Please, Mrs. B. All I know is that I left my big glass of Coke on my desk. You know I always drink a lot of that. Regular, not that diet stuff. Anyway, I was thirsty when I got back from Dr. Meg, so I chug-a-lugged it, and bam! Within about five minutes, I was sicker than I’ve ever been in my life.”

  I forced myself to power down. Logic, Lizzie Mae. Reason will win the day.

  “What do the doctors say? Have they done your blood work yet?”

  “They did it right away, and it’s really weird, almost embarrassing.”

  Lucian’s frown would have terrified most people. It sobered Rand immediately, driving him back on point. He settled back on his pillows and continued his narrative.

  “It was Visine or something like it. Almost a whole bottle of the stuff got into my Coke. Can you believe it?”

  “Damn.” Frustration swamped my senses. What next? Most people have something like that, especially if they stare at a computer screen all day. Anybody at CYBER-MED could have had that stuff. Come to think of it, both Candy and I carried it in our purses.

  Rand’s grin didn’t make any sense. Poison is hardly a laughing matter.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. B. It’s just that they found the vial already. And guess what? It came from my desk. I use eye drops a couple of times a day, especially when I’m working on my dissertation.”

  “You mean …?”

  “Yep. Only my prints are on the bottle. Kind of funny, don’t you think? So much for clues.”

  After Rand reassured us that he was compos mentis and ready to go home, we left him to the tender mercies of the candy striper. His brush with death had one significant upside: confirmation that the CYBER-MED conspiracy was alive and well.

  Lucian hesitated as he helped me into the Cayenne, fixing those blazing azure eyes on me. “Don’t go back there,” he said, stroking my cheek. “Please, Elisabeth. I worry about you at CYBER-MED. You are vulnerable in there, so alone.”

  He was right, of course, but despite the danger, I felt exhilarated, cautious but not fearful. Fate had given me another chance to reclaim my life. Nothing would deter me, not even a clever, ruthless killer.

  “You forget,” I teased. “I have a protector. Rand and I can watch each other’s backs.”

  “That does not comfort me,” Lucian growled. “Rand can barely protect himself.” He tenderly tucked in my skirt, bag and briefcase before closing the car door.

  Funny. Kai had always done the same thing from the very first date we’d ever had. I’d said opening doors for a woman was archaic, a sexist relic of the past. He’d laughed and said that he knew better. Let me cherish you, Lizzie Mae. You’re precious to me.

  “Can you drop me at Sweet Nothings?” I asked Lucian. I need some quiet time.”

  I had to ponder the faithless spouse issue. Cou
ld it really be that easy? Was someone intent on eliminating every faithless spouse on the client list? To cement my theory I would have to find out more about Richard Chernikova, the kinds of things absent from official bios and position papers. I’d skip the Wall Street Journal and binge on Wonkette, Gawker-Stalker, and Huff-Post.

  After a cursory nod to Candy, I walled myself in my office and fired up Google. Wonkette, a snarky DC blog, had plenty to say about Chernikova, none of it flattering. They compared him to both Ivan the Terrible and Colonel Klink in the same posting without batting a keystroke. That didn’t surprise me, but I needed a more personal profile. By scrolling down the page, I found it:

  Why was Richard Chernikova, aka “stiff Dick”, seen exiting a posh Georgetown Hotel from the guest elevator? Was the perpetual GW Hospital patient getting a special medical check-up, or is his heart otherwise engaged?

  Several other blurbs repeated the same theme. Despite the prominence and charm of his wife Lola, Richard was apparently a hound. That explained his antics with Meg the night of the Joslin Ball.

  Gossip is inadmissible in court, but I subscribe to the where-there’s-smoke-there’s-fire adage. Chernikova had scored enough points to join the bad boys club with honors. I strolled over to Candy’s office and shared the news, expecting a round of applause or at least a high five.

  “Big deal,” she shrugged, “another guy with a zipper problem. I keep telling you, Betts. They’re all that way, at least the ones who have any opportunity.”

  “Not all.”

  I’m not naïve, but I knew with every fiber of my being that Kai loved only me. Nothing she or anyone else said would ever shake that certainty.

  “Oh, Betts, get a grip. Kai was different. I know that.” She twirled her pencil. “But you have to admit, Tommy fooled us. We knew he was a player but not on such a grand scale. I mean, diddling your cougar boss is risky business in any outfit.”

  “True, but that’s not what killed him. Tommy was too smart. He figured out this murder-for-hire scheme and confronted someone.” I flopped down in the guest chair facing Candy’s ornate French desk. “This may sound crazy, but I suspect Tony Torres. I’m not saying he did it by himself, just that he meets the criteria for the inside man.”