The guard looks up from his screen as if I’m intruding. I see the game is still underway. I guess I am intruding. “Nope,” he says, and then turns back to watch baseball.
“Hey.” I slap both palms on the desk and lean across it, trying to drag Mr. Security away from Fenway Park. “Hel-lo. Mr. Guard,” I snap. “I called for help on your not-so-security cameras.” Then I slowly stand up, realizing soon all this mystery will be solved. Through the miracle of videotape. Whoever’s chasing me was also on camera. And, therefore, on the security tapes.
I turn to Tek. “Let’s get that video. The security video. Then we’ll know the whole story.” I cross my arms in front of me, my jaw tight and my eyes narrowing. “Get it.” If it’s Tek on that tape, he’s trapped.
Behind me, I hear a rattle and clink of metal on linoleum. I turn to see the guard sliding his chair away from the televisions.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says. He picks up a scattering of black markers that are strewn across his desk, then deposits them, one by one, into a bright blue coffee can. “There’s no tape in those cameras. It’s just surveillance.”
Your tax dollars at work.
“It was probably nothing, your imagination,” Tek says. “Did you actually see a gun? Did anyone actually threaten you? Or even say anything?”
“Well, no,” I say, thinking back. “But he—grabbed my wrists.”
“And let you go, apparently.”
“But I hit him. With my shoes. It must have hurt him.” I watch Tek’s face, checking for a wince of memory. I should try to check the front of his pants, too, to see if my shoes left any marks. Except whoever it was had on that jacket. And I still can’t figure out why—wait. It’s got to be about the photos.
Someone doesn’t want me to see them. What else could be the motive for trying to scare me away? If Tek’s the hallway bad guy, he’ll come up with some reason we can’t get the photos today, or we should come back, or he couldn’t find them. Some bogus reason to hide the evidence that will set Dorinda free. This morning’s bizarre confrontation, now that the fear is dissipating in the normalcy of the lobby, might even be worth it. To find out whose side Tek is on—the side of justice? Or his own future? Here comes the test.
I look at Tek with as sweet a smile as I can muster. “You’re probably right. My overactive imagination. So let’s get back to the reason we came.” I flash another smile and adjust my hideous blue jacket. “Those photos from the Sweeney case. Shall we go get them now?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and wait for the brush-off. I can hardly wait to hear it.
“Well, we don’t have to do that,” he says.
I knew it.
“Oh, no?” I begin, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Why?”
“Because they’re already here,” Tek says, flashing a smile of his own. He pulls out a brown corrugated cardboard box from behind the security desk. It says “Evidence” in red capital letters. Underneath, in black marker, someone’s block-printed “Sweeney.”
As I watch, dumbfounded, Tek lifts the lid, placing it on the counter, and then pulls a manila envelope from the box. He carefully unwinds a thin red string from around one paper disc, then another, then back to the first.
Holding the envelope open over the counter, he tips out the contents. A batch of glossy eight-by-ten photographs slides across the marble. Tek spreads them apart, one by one, putting them in a row, each one perfectly visible.
There are six photographs in front of us. All women. Five of them are mystery faces. The last one has dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. A peaceful smile, a touch of makeup on a middle-aged and still-pretty face. It’s Dorinda.
“Your tax dollars at work,” Tek says. “You need copies?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Botox jumps onto my lap, pretending it just happens to be where she was going to sit anyway, and turns several times, swiping her tail across my face, making sure her calico body is situated in exactly the right place. I lean over her, dealing eight-by-ten photographs onto the glass top of my living room coffee table. No matter how I look at the black-and-white lineup of middle-aged women, it’s a losing hand. For me. And for Dorinda.
My phone is tucked under my chin, and I hear the answering machine kick in. “Hi, it’s Franklin and Stephen. We’re away from the phone, so—” There’s a click and a silence, and then a real voice interrupts.
“Hello?”
I waste no time on pleasantries with Franklin. “Me,” I say. I lean back on the couch, propping my bare feet on the edge of the table. Botox, with a glare, rearranges herself on my gray sweatpants, almost spilling the glass of white wine I’m holding. “Fun day at the archives. Got the photos and almost got killed.”
I spew out the entire story from blue jackets to labyrinthine halls to identical doors to laundry chutes. To guns. To the vanishing Tek. And non-guarding guards.
“Just another day at the office,” I finish. “And to top it off, the photo array looks totally by the book. We’ve got to show them to Will and Rankin at some point, but if this is what they displayed to the witnesses that night, and they picked out Dorinda, so much for the botched ID theory.”
Botox sweeps her tail across my face again, and I bat it out of the way. “You get anything? In Swampscott? Please tell me you did. Save the day.”
“I did, actually,” Franklin answers. “But you’re okay, right? Not hurt? Hang on, I have to put down the groceries and get my notes.”
I take a sip of wine as I wait, glancing at my front door, checking that the security chain’s in place. Tek said he’d put in a report about what happened—might have happened, as he put it—in the archives. And I’m certainly going to file a report of my own, just to make sure it’s on the record. But I’m happy to be home with my door chained. Even if there’s not really any danger.
“Okay, listen,” Franklin says. “I went to the bar, The Reefs? Where Ray Sweeney was last seen. The owner was here, a guy named…” He pauses, and I can hear notebook pages flipping. “Del DeCenzo. D-e-C-e-n-z-o. He says he wasn’t there the night of the murder, but he was the next day when the cops came with a picture of Dorie. The bartender ID’d her, right away. Some patrons, too. Pointed right at her, he said. But here’s the scoop.”
“Did you find out about the bartender? Who he is? Or is it a woman?” I ask.
“It’s a man, Charlotte, and I did, but hang on. Like I said, here’s the scoop on Ray Sweeney. DeCenzo had one word for him. And I’m quoting now. ‘Asshole.’”
“Lovely,” I say, taking another sip of wine. “Evocative.”
“I thought so, too. He’s a real poet. But anyway, Del describes Sweeney as a loudmouth, a town politico with, as he described, ‘illusions of grander.’ And he was trying to, as Del so delicately put it, ‘screw them’ on the price of liquor licenses. Sweeney’d apparently visit all the bars in town, cadging liquor. Expect to drink free. ‘Like we owed him,’ Del said. ‘If we didn’t pour up, we figured he could yank our licenses, somehow.’ Seems like Ray was not number one on the Swampscott popularity charts.”
“Fun town,” I say. “Corruption, extortion, and a murder. So the bartender picked out Dorinda? Where’s he now?”
“Yeah, that’s probably not a good use of our time,” Franklin says. “He’s ‘in the wind,’ according to Del. Only worked there a week or two, then split. And the witnesses who saw the photos, all strangers. He has no idea who they are or where they are. Police might know, I guess. Speaking of which. Tek’s ex-partner?” I hear the notebook pages again. “Name’s Claiborne Gettings. Moved to Detroit. Retired. I suppose we could call him.”
I stare at the photos and they stare glossily back at me. Telling me nothing. “So if Dorinda was at the bar drinking with her husband, like everyone in the bar remembers, she couldn’t have been at work. But if the time sheets and tapes are correct, she was at work. Only one can be true.”
I hear a click on my phone “Rats,” I say. “Call waiting. I’
ll—”
“Could be Will,” Franklin says. “Call me back.”
Franklin hangs up and I push the button. I mentally cross my fingers that Franklin’s right. It’s Will. Dorinda’s saying yes, and this day will end on a high note.
“Hello?” I say. I can almost sense Will’s voice ready to speak on the other end.
“Hi, um,” I hear.
It’s Penny. I glance at the clock on the mantel. It’s just after nine. Outside, in the real world of vacations and oceanfront cottages, the last of the sun is disappearing, so maybe Penny and Josh just got back from dinner. Or an early movie. But why would Penny be calling me? Maybe something’s wrong.
“Hi, Penny,” I say, steeling myself for bad news. “How’s everything in Truro?”
“Fine.”
So I guess there’s nothing wrong. There’s a pause on her end and I’m not sure how to fill it. Or if I should. She’s eight, she certainly knows how to talk on the phone. Intimidated by an eight-year-old. Doing fine here.
“So what’s up, Penny?” I continue. I take my last sip of wine. “Did you go to the beach today?”
“Yes.” Pause, pause. “Dad wants to talk to you.” I hear a fluster of motion on the other end. I think I can make out Penny’s voice saying “You talk.”
“Hey, sweets.” Josh’s voice wraps me in warmth, almost as if he’s in the same room. I stroke Botox, head to tail, and she leans into my touch, purring.
“Hey, you sweets,” I say. “Nice to hear from Penny,” I add, laughing. “Not much of a talker, huh?”
“She’s been loading my new cell phone,” he says. “At age eight. She’s choosing ring tones, putting numbers in speed dial, all that. I’m instantly ancient. I thought it would be fun if we called you together.”
“Yeah, apparently not exactly her idea of fun. Anyway, it’s wonderful to hear your voice. Tell me everything.” No need to fill Josh in on my archive adventures with Tek. Or whoever.
As Josh talks, I leave the perplexing police photos behind and walk down the long hall to my bedroom, hearing about the battle for beach parking permits, the covey of bright umbrellas on the sand every day, the trips to Jam’s Deli for coleslaw-soaked turkey sandwiches, the swarms of kids boogie-boarding and digging for shells. “Everyone’s reading the same two books,” he reports. “All that’s missing is you.”
Holding the phone between my shoulder and cheek, I peel off my sweatpants and hang them over two or three others on an overflowing hook on the back of my closet door. Sand and sunshine, huh. So far, there’s been no summer for me. I stick my tongue out at the glum-faced blonde in the mirror, which makes her smile in spite of herself. Stop complaining.
“Lobsters tomorrow, right?” I say. “And perhaps, that shower?”
“It’s tonight I’m thinking about,” Josh purrs. “Penny’s off, up in her room with her new goldfish. Flo and Eddy. And that leaves you and me, alone. Wish you were here,” he whispers.
“Tomorrow,” I say. Botox has already curled up in my open suitcase, announcing her decision that it’s actually a new cat bed. She’s pretending she doesn’t know Jen the pet sitter will be visiting twice a day this weekend. “I can’t wait. I’ll be there soon as I can after work. I promise.” And I mean it.
* * *
I see the shoes first. Even all the way from the double glass entrance doors leading to the Special Projects Unit, I can see the black patent platforms, precariously high, attached to slender ankles. I deduce, as I slowly approach my very own office, that someone other than me is sitting at my very own desk. Wearing those shoes.
That’s pretty nervy. And since I don’t see Franklin’s shoes, she’s clearly there uninvited.
I’m almost at the door, staring at patent leather the whole way, when one shiny toe begins to tap, telegraphing an entitled impatience. That’s even nervier. I’ll tell you who’s entitled. I’m entitled to my own desk.
I arrive at the door. Of course. Poison.
And not only is Susannah sitting at my desk, she’s clicking into my computer. She turns, apparently unaware of the expanding list of office protocol don’ts she’s amassing, and claps her bling-spangled hands.
“Oh, fabulous, you’re here, Charlie,” she says. “Happy Friday.” She actually waves me toward Franklin’s chair. “Have a seat. Let’s dish.”
My brain is sparking with short circuits and liable to burst into flames, so I compromise by leaning against Franklin’s desk.
“Hey, Susannah,” I say. “Any good e-mails this morning?”
She waves at my computer, sarcasm flying right above her hyper-coiffed head. “I’m not checking my e-mail, Charlie, but thanks, though. Now. I had the boys in MIS install what we’re calling a ‘Susannah schedule’ on your computer. See this star on the desktop?” She clicks a few keys and shows me a new icon. “Click here, every morning when you come in, and you can log in the outfit you’re wearing. It’ll keep track of all your clothes. So you don’t, you know, repeat?” She tilts her head, as if she’s my Malibu Barbie TV sorority sister. “You know? Do you love it? I mean, do you love it?”
“It’s fabulous,” I say. “I can hardly imagine how I lived without it.”
“Now,” she continues. “Also on this Susannah schedule is the timing for the Charlie’s Crusade promos. Shooting, editing. Then air dates. As you can see, the graphics are done.”
She clicks a few more times, and the double C’s appear again. “Do you love it? And then we’re editing in eight days. On the air in ten, or whenever we get the big green light.”
“You know, Susannah, the Charlie’s Crusade story, from our end, is not really on the same schedule as the promotion department. You know?” I pause, checking for a glimmer of comprehension. None. “We’re on the trail, of course, and the story could certainly be compelling and successful. But I’m still somewhat concerned, as I’ve tried to say, that we’re—”
“Kevin says you always come through, and warned me you investigative types always worry too much,” Susannah says, with a dismissive wave. “And the news director is never wrong.” She stands up, gathers her portfolio from my desk, then looks me up and down, her face registering something like bewilderment. “Black linen slacks and sandals? White T-shirt? Jean jacket? Are you…” She searches for a word. “Undercover?”
“Just headed to the Cape, after work,” I explain. Who is she, my mother? I risk another stab at sarcasm. “I’m not on the air today, obviously. So I won’t be entering this in the computer; is that how it works?”
Susannah looks relieved. “Well, then, I’m sure that’s fine. Have a—oh.” She turns back to the desk and picks up a pink slip of paper. I can see it’s from Franklin’s “while you were out” pad. I’ve never needed one of those, because I don’t answer anyone else’s phone. And no one else answers mine. Until, apparently, now.
“Your phone rang,” she says.
I can’t even think of a polite response. Happily, she doesn’t wait for an answer and hands me the paper. “Your mother called. She said to tell you she needs to see you.”
I slowly stand up, staring at the pink paper. I forget about office protocol. “Did she say why?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Like, needs to see me, come over when you have a chance?” I persist. “Or needs to see me, get over here right now?”
“Ah, she didn’t say,” Susannah replies with a tiny shrug.
Susannah may have had more to add before she teetered out of the room, but I’m already grabbing Franklin’s phone and punching in Mom’s number. I think I can hear the clicks as the second hand ticks forward on our big wall clock. “Come on, come on,” I mutter. “Answer.”
There’s a click, and a whir. A mechanical voice begins its canned reply.
“The patient you have dialed…” I look at the receiver, then slam it down.
* * *
“Chocolate?”
I’m baffled. I thought I’d be facing a swarm of doctors, or worse, one grim-face
d surgeon shepherding me into a private corner. Instead, Mom is holding out a gold-foiled box of square dark chocolates, untouched, each nested in its own shiny ruffle.
“Take one, dear,” she urges. She’s not offering the selection to me, of course, since her vision of my weight coalesced during my preteen years. When my dress size was “chubbette.”
The white-coated soap opera wannabe adjusting Mom’s quilt offers a camera-worthy pout. “Aren’t you a devil,” he says. He clicks Mom’s heart-rate-and-respiration monitor back onto her finger, then inspects the assortment. “These things are e-vil.”
“Mom?” I step closer to the hospital bed, dangling the pink message slip between two fingers. “You said you needed to see me?” Did I miss something here?
Mom, still wearing a perky hostess smile, lifts a quick “wait a minute” finger. The nurse, temptation resisted, bustles out with a promise to return. As soon as the door closes, Mom slides her candy into her nightstand drawer and pats the bed beside her.
“Sit down, Charlotte.” She looks around the room, although obviously we’re alone. “Listen dear,” she says. “I’m going to need to recuperate at your apartment. I don’t think I can stay here any longer.”
“Of course,” I say, hoping my face hasn’t turned green. Over the years, I’ve learned just to agree with Mother, then wait for her to change her mind. Then I get the brownie points without having to actually do whatever it was. I sit in the cozy club chair, though I’m nowhere near comfortable. “But Mother, why?” I continue. “You were supposed to be here for at least two weeks. To make sure all your sutures heal properly. And I thought you loved it here. And your doctors are here, all your nurses. People can watch out for you. Monitor you.”
“Well, they’re not doing a very good job of watching someone, at least,” she says, and her voice grows softer, even conspiratorial. She fiddles with the silky fringe on the throw pillow she’s now clutching across her chest. “It’s all very hush-hush, but when my door is open, I can see things. Going on. People are walking too fast. Stretchers, going by. People I don’t recognize.” She pauses. “You know what I think? I think someone has … well. I tried to find out on my own, of course, but no one will give me the time of day.”
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