Fournier climbed out of the car and trotted over to the guard booth at the entrance to the storage lot. If his timing was bad, if Carmichael was driving back out, he’d have to take cover fast. He nodded at the guy in the booth who operated the gate, and then stepped into the little glass office cube where he found a young lady in another blue polo shirt behind a counter adorned with colorful brochures and silk flowers. She was looking at a smartphone, wearing a thin smile of mild amusement, probably killing time on Facebook or sexting her boyfriend. A little bell jingled on the door at Fournier’s entrance, and she stashed the phone under the counter. Seeing that he wasn’t her boss, she relaxed and put a fake smile on where the genuine one had been just a moment ago. “How may I help you?” she asked.
It was time for Chuck Fournier to make a decision. This little Saturday afternoon fishing expedition wasn’t authorized, not by a long shot. He was doing his surveillance on Desmond Carmichael for love, not money, and while there was no law that said he couldn’t follow an acquaintance from a distance on his own time, as soon as he flashed his badge things got a lot more complicated. Without a warrant, he couldn’t ask this girl to do what he needed her to do. And if he did find something incriminating here, it wouldn’t be admissible in court. But his gut had more say than his brain in situations like this, and his gut was telling him to go for it because this clerk would be too dumb and lazy to even read the name on a badge. More important: his gut told him that he needed to see what Desmond was up to in there. Knowing would give him a leg up when things were authorized. No one needed to know where he got his ideas; they would simply be attributed to his instincts. He loved that word. If you had a reputation for good instincts, you could cut a hell of a lot of corners without ever having to fess up to doing the homework off the clock.
He flashed his badge and, instead of introducing himself, opened with a direct question as he stepped up to the counter, getting in her face to throw her off balance: “Is there another exit from the lot that can be accessed by pedestrians besides this gate?”
The girl straightened and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “No,” she said. “Is there a problem?” Badges, words like pedestrian, they tended to establish a tone of authority, especially with young people who thought everything was about them, who immediately started thinking about some bag of weed they had stashed somewhere when a cop got up in their grille. Might as well seal the deal. “Ma’am, I need you to show me the video monitors for your surveillance cameras.”
“Um, okay. They’re back here.”
Fournier was relieved to find no other employees in the back room, just a few storage cubes for employee belongings, some posters of federal regulations, coat hooks, and a bank of black-and-white video monitors on a cheap laminate desk with wires running in and out of an array of hard drives beside a grimy keyboard. “We only record at night,” the girl said.
Fournier could see Desmond’s SUV blocking the open door of his unit. “That’s okay, just need to confirm the whereabouts of a suspect.”
“I should probably call my boss.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll be finished here in just a moment.” He scanned the room “Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil I can use?” It would keep her occupied for a minute, keep her from making that call to her boss.
“How about a pen?”
“Pen’s fine. And was that a water cooler I saw out there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Would you mind? I’m parched.”
“Sure.”
He stared at the screen, waiting for some sign of motion, listening to the gurgling of water in a paper cup. The parking lights on the SUV flashed and the back hatch popped open.
The girl set the cup, pen, and sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. Fournier kept his eyes on the screen. A noisy little grayscale Desmond Carmichael stepped into blown-out sunlight, clutching a bundle under his arm—about the length of a golf club and wrapped in a bath towel. Goddamn, if it didn’t look like it could be the sword. The towel was a little too small, and it slipped off as he placed it in the hatchback, revealing what looked like the hilt and handguard. Of all the things to come here for when the heat was on…. Had they missed something about it in forensics? Not likely. So why did Desmond want it now?
Could be he means to use it again. Fournier watched Desmond fix the towel and slam the hatch shut. Time to boogie. He almost knocked the clerk over in his haste.
“What about your pen and paper?” she asked, “and your water?”
Fournier looked her up and down as if deciding whether or not he could trust her. “You’ve been very helpful, but things are developing fast and this is a sensitive investigation. Do you think you could keep my visit to yourself, not even mention it to your boss? If the suspect were to learn that we were onto him, it would jeopardize the operation and could put people in harm’s way. So could you do that for me?”
“I won’t say anything.” She smiled, Chuck thought, in a flirty sort of way. He could tell this was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in a while. He also knew that the chances of her keeping her gob shut were slim to none; she’d probably be tweeting—or whatever the hell it was they did—within two minutes. But if that was the only way she blabbed, it might not catch up with him.
“Good luck catching your guy,” she said.
He winked at her and hoped that wasn’t overdoing it. Then he was through the door, hustling back to the Civic and fishing his phone out of his pocket. Time to pass the baton to someone Carmichael wouldn’t recognize. Time to call that private investigator Phil Parsons had on retainer.
* * *
At the hardware store, all of the parking spaces close to the building were taken. Now that the ground had thawed, and the last of the nor’easters had passed, it looked like every man and woman on the Seacoast had spent their morning making a list of landscaping and repair materials. Desmond hoped the heavy foot traffic would be enough to keep the car secure. At least the tinted windows in the back added another layer of concealment to the towel-wrapped sword.
The place was vast, and it took him a while to find the doorknob and deadbolt sets. When he did, there were too many to choose from, but he didn’t have the luxury of indecision—not enough time in the day for that. He picked one of the more expensive ones that didn’t look like the tag could be attributed to fancy looks, tossed it in the shopping cart, and then hurried to gather the items he would need to dispose of the sword.
Desmond had never been much of a handy man, and it had become something of a sore spot in his marriage that whenever something needed fixing, Sandy had been quick to call her father. Desmond always felt he at least deserved a shot at the simpler projects before she called in the cavalry, but she had seen him injured or enraged over “quick fixes” enough times to know better. In the end, he was usually grateful for Phil’s help, but he sure couldn’t call on Phil this time. And he had looked over the man’s shoulder enough times to get the gist of what was involved.
When he loaded the shopping bags into the back of the car, he found the sword undisturbed. Pulling out of the parking lot, he searched his mirrors for the dark red car he’d spotted earlier. It wasn’t there. He thought about Laurie’s backyard and wondered if there were woods beyond the stockade fence that bounded the property. He didn’t know and now thought that he probably should have checked. The urge to drive back there now was strong, but he waited for it to pass. He rolled down the windows and breathed in a cool breeze tinged with the taste of the ocean. It helped to clear his head. He couldn’t let paranoia dictate his actions. He’d decided on a course and he was going to stick to it, and when he tucked Lucas into bed tonight, he would be able to turn out the light knowing that he had done something to take matters into his own hands.
He drove past a sign for a gun shop and eased his foot on the gas pedal. The New Hampshire border was littered with them (the State motto was ‘Live Free or Die’), and his eyes had roamed over signs li
ke this one countless times provoking little thought beyond an inarticulate discomfort at the idea that apparently there were a lot of firearms stashed in the homes of some of the children Lucas would soon be meeting at school. Now he wondered if he should stop and buy one. But he knew that his skill with a gun would be no better than his skill with a drill. And if he went through the legal channels, he would probably have Fournier crawling up his ass. It would only complicate things further, giving Sandy’s parents more evidence that the apartment was an unsafe environment and he, a high-risk parent. He accelerated past the sign, reminding himself that today’s errands were all about ensuring that the one weapon he did own couldn’t be used against his family ever again.
Back at the Ocean Road apartment he parked in the driveway and scanned the cars parked on the street for a human silhouette behind a windshield. They all appeared empty, but if anyone had followed him, they might be doing a loop around the block right now. Best to act fast. The towel was too small to conceal the sword completely, and he considered getting something larger from inside the house, but twenty seconds of partial exposure while he ran the sword from the car to the door seemed acceptable.
It struck him that he might be making a terrible mistake bringing this black thing into his home. He had sequestered it in a no-man’s-land at the storage facility, had banished it from their lives along with the memories, so that he and Lucas could have a new start. Now, by bringing it under the roof where they slept their restless sleep and dreamed of her, was he inviting death back in? If whoever had broken in just two days ago got in again despite the new lock, and found the thing…. But he could think of no better way to hide it.
He forced his legs into motion and bustled to the front door, holding the sword vertically in front of his body to conceal it from the street. He crossed the threshold with the wretched thing buzzing in his hands like an alarm, telling him that it had no place in the home of a child, telling him that it had been made for one purpose only and that it would one day find willing hands again, capable hands.
He shut the door with his foot and laid the bundle on the desk where he usually kept the laptop. The computer was still in the car with the supplies he’d bought—he brought it with him everywhere now, even though he hadn’t written a word on it since the haiku had appeared. He hadn’t erased those lines, either. One more trip to the car and he had everything. He locked the front door of the apartment, carried everything he needed upstairs, and laid it all out on the dingy hallway rug.
Scenes from every movie and TV crime drama he’d ever seen flashed through his mind like shuffled cards. Where did people hide murder weapons? In this case it wasn’t a matter of hiding one from the police—they had already measured its every angle, photographed it, and swabbed samples of his wife’s blood from the cutting edge. It was about making sure it couldn’t be used to kill again.
The police, the press, and the community all believed that Sandy’s killer was locked away where he could do no further harm. Desmond no longer believed that. And he knew that whoever killed her wouldn’t have done it with one of the kitchen knives in the butcher block if the katana hadn’t been hanging on the wall. Somehow he felt sure that the killer had come to their house because of the sword. The poem and the mask were pieces of a puzzle that a killer adept with a sword wanted Desmond to ponder.
He reached into one of the shopping bags and removed a roll of paper tape and a folding razor knife. He set them on the carpet. Kneeling at the end of the hall, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror beside the door to Lucas’s room. He looked haggard. His blond beard was speckled with strands of gray that seemed to be growing at a faster rate than the rest of it. His hair needed a trim, too. His eyes were sunken in purple shadows, and his body looked flabby under his Red Sox jersey. Who was he kidding, thinking that he could defend his son? He knew he should keep the hero fantasies in his books, where they belonged. He should be moving Lucas out of state right now, not hiding a sword in a wall.
He had considered destroying it. What Would Frodo Do, right? There was a scrap yard for wrecked cars on Samson Street that he supposed could have cut, folded, and recycled the blade. But he hadn’t liked the idea of talking to whoever worked there about why he wasn’t just selling it on eBay or Craig’s list. They might recognize him from the news. Nor did he like the idea of Fournier being able to dig up a record of him having it destroyed. Of course a man would want the weapon that had killed his wife destroyed, but he couldn’t shake the creeping feeling that the act would somehow be used against him. He could throw it in the ocean, but who would let him take a sword on a boat? Same problem: too many questions. It wasn’t like a gun that could be hidden in a bag until an opportunity arose to drop it in the drink unnoticed. And what if it washed up on a beach? The feeling that getting rid of it would haunt him, that somehow it would always find its way back, was irrational but strong. He imagined a muscular man in a bathing suit and a demon mask diving to the ocean floor to claim it.
Desmond blinked, forced himself to stop staring at the sword, and removed the other items from the bag: a small bucket of joint compound, a can of white paint, a sheet of sandpaper, and a putty knife. He rummaged through the hall closet, found a Phillips screwdriver, and used it to loosen the mounting brackets that attached the mirror to the wall. He lifted it carefully, had the vertiginous sensation of dancing with himself, and then set it down, leaning it against the wall.
He picked up his new razor knife and snapped open the blade. The thin wedge of steel looked feeble compared to the sword, but sharp nonetheless. Slowly, he pushed it into the wall, and then dragged it downward with a sawing motion. Sheetrock dust drifted out of the cut and fell, like a gentle snow flurry to the carpet. He braced his wrists in front of his chest and put his weight into the cut.
Chapter 8
Erin Drelick lifted her coffee cup, tilted it toward her eye, and examined the contents: only an inch left and it had been sitting long enough to surely be cold. She was tempted to toss it back and complete the full dosage of caffeine her body needed but thought better of it. Cold coffee tasted like shit. The lab report for Geoff Lamprey’s severed head lay open on her desk, and most of the lines were never going to translate themselves from Geek into English no matter how much coffee she drank. She glanced at her watch for the third time since 8:45. It was now 9:06 AM. The geeks would be at their stations by now. They’d better be. She picked up the phone.
After two and a half rings the author of the document in her hand answered, “Waraska.”
“Hey Tom, it’s Erin. I have a couple of questions about the lab you just ran for me.”
“Shoot.”
“What are these numbers that start with the letter C?”
“Alkoids. In this case they make up light petroleum. Lamprey’s neck had traces of mineral oil on it.”
“Were you able to identify a brand?”
“No, it’s too basic. These kinds of petroleum alkoids are found in a variety of generic mineral oils. They’re just gasoline byproducts used in laxatives and lubricants. The blend we found on Lamprey is fairly heavyweight, indicating a thicker oil, probably higher quality than most, but with no fragrance component to indicate a brand.”
“And if it did have a fragrance? What would a scented mineral oil be used for?”
“That would be baby oil. Here’s the thing, though: your sample did have a fragrance, but it was organic and doesn’t match anything used in commercial mineral oil.”
“Let me guess,” she said, “it’s the other line I needed you to translate: Syzygium aromaticum. What the hell is that?”
“Clove.”
“So there was clove-scented oil found in the wound?”
“Yeah, trace amounts. Pure clove oil.”
“Did you guys check other parts of him for it? Face and fingers?”
“Of course. There were no other traces. It wasn’t some kind of aftershave or cologne, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“S
o it was left by the murder weapon.”
“Sure looks that way to me. You know, if you could have waited an hour, you’d have all of this in my summary. Not like I don’t have other work to do besides giving you the same info on the phone and in writing.”
“I’ll make it up to you, Tom.”
“How? You taking me out on a date?”
“I’ll buy your lunch today and have it delivered. How’s that? What are you eating?”
“I have a brown bag in the fridge.”
“So keep it there until tomorrow. What are you having now that it’s on me?”
“General Cho’s chicken from Uncle Charlie’s.”
“You got it. Now tell me why a blade would have clove-scented mineral oil on it.”
“Oils are often used to protect high carbon steel from rust. That might at least point you toward a metal type for the weapon. Rules out stainless steel, anyway. The clove part, I don’t know. You should talk to an edged weapons SME.”
“Got a name and number for me?”
“This chicken better not be from that dump on Lindbrook Drive.”
“Uncle Charlie’s. I promise.”
“Gimme a minute.”
Pasco was sitting with his feet up on the desk, restlessly tapping a Latin rhythm with a government-issued pen against the flat of his hand and accenting every third beat by hitting his wedding ring like a cymbal. When Drelick hung up the phone he gave her a look.
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