by Jeff Deck
“Not looking so good for you guys,” I say.
“Can you talk to her and find out what’s going on?” Ulrich says. “I want to help her. But she won’t return my calls. And she hasn’t shown up for work for a few days now.”
I look at him, puzzled. “Why do you think I’d have any more success reaching her?”
He shrugs. “You two Injuns used to be tight.”
“I haven’t been tight with Officer Milly Fragonard in some time,” I say, leaning on her title and full name. I won’t put up with “joking” slurs in my own apartment. “She cut ties with me when I slandered the department. But…” He does seem sincere in his concern, so I go on. “But I did visit her house last night. Nobody home, several days of newspapers on the front stoop.”
“So, she hasn’t just been ignoring me,” Ulrich says. “Fragonard’s gone missing.”
“Or she skipped town to get a break from bad press.”
“No,” he says with surprising vehemence. “This bad press started after she stopped showing up for shifts. And Fragonard doesn’t run away from her problems. Fuck. It’s that—if that creepy old fuck did something to her…”
“Shaughnessy? The old man with dementia? The one that’s half her weight and a tenth of her muscle mass?”
The detective slams his hand down on the Porthole and glares at me. His gruff, offensive exterior has given way to real anger. “It’s time for you to start giving a shit, Allard. Unlike you, Fragonard doesn’t deserve to be smeared by the media. She’s a good cop. A good woman.”
“I know,” I say softly.
“But she can also be a real idiot. I think she’s gotten herself caught up in something beyond her capability.” He drains his bad coffee. “We have to find her.”
I marvel at the exceeding weirdness of the situation. Detective Ulrich, who hates me, is asking for my help to find Officer Fragonard, who also hates me? “We?”
“Yeah, are you going fuckin’ deaf? I think you heard me just fine.”
Ulrich barrels on before I can protest. “Just shut the fuck up and listen. You used to be good at listening. I’d do this all by myself, but my resources are—uh. Limited. You, on the other hand, you’re the Queen of Weird in this city now. You got friends in weird places. Whatever strange stuff happens in Portsmouth these days, I’m guessing you got a connection to it, if not an outright hand in it.”
“And Milly’s case qualifies as weird,” I say.
“You bet your brown ass it does.”
I grit my teeth. “Ulrich, there’s no we. I’ll look into it, but I can’t have you breathing down my neck.”
He stands up. At his full height, he looms over me by at least a foot. “No, we’re partners in this. We share all information with each other in real time. I’m not a delegating kind of guy.”
Now he’s trying to out-muscle me in my own home. The heat must be getting to Ulrich’s brain. I have a brief fantasy of dragging Ulrich through the kitchen window and punting him like a football off the edge of the roof. But I’ve got more to gain from this situation than just finding my missing friend (former friend, let’s not forget). I’ve got to pull multiple levers if I want to achieve multiple goals.
“Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll only work with you if you work with me. As soon we clear up this Milly business, I want everything you know about your dirty friends. Prince. Gomez. Lewis.” He flinches at the names. I go on: “They’ve been tampering with cases. I want to know how and why.”
Ulrich sags, seems to grow smaller. “You don’t… you don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“This is bullshit, Allard,” he says. “I’m no snitch.”
“Cool,” I reply. “Then go behind the blue wall and fuck yourself.”
Ulrich simmers. I watch his face twitch. Finally he blurts,“I can’t believe this. You ladies used to call yourselves friends, didn’t you? I honestly thought that would be enough to get you off your selfish ass and get to the bottom of this. But no. You haven’t changed at all.”
He knocks his empty cup to the floor. “And your coffee sucks!” He flings up his hands in disgust and stalks out of my apartment, slamming the wrecked door behind him.
Nice to know he cares, after treating both me and Milly like dirt for so long. But I don’t put up with assholes for free. I’ll be making the first stop in the Where’s Milly? tour alone.
Sandy Grieg’s law office is on Middle Street, just past the intersection with Court, where the neighborhood turns more residential. Remember when we talked about buying a house on one of these streets, maybe Richards Avenue, as soon as we made our first million? In the year 2134?
Attorney Grieg shares this firm with two partners, but his name is listed first: Grieg, Sununu & Cloud. The article I read last night isn’t the first time I’ve encountered his name in the Porthole. Grieg has a knack for involving himself in the most high-profile (and high-profit) cases in the Seacoast.
And, of course, he’s on the Portsmouth City Council. Which may have nothing to do with Milly’s disappearance(?) and/or crimes(?). It’s a small city and the circle of power players is proportionally sized. But the connection still gets my “Queen of Weird” senses tingling.
I don’t have an appointment. But it’s worth attempting a toehold into Grieg’s world, even if I get ejected from this fine 19th-century restored Victorian.
I walk in. The firm still features many touches of the private mansion this used to be, complete with furniture and wallpaper appropriate to the period. The receptionist’s desk is in the foyer, next to the impressive winding staircase and a looming grandfather clock. Twining blue and yellow flowers climb the walls.
“Hello,” the receptionist says. “How can I help you?”
The woman doesn’t look evil. She looks like a thousand other functionaries I’ve dealt with over the course of my former career and my new life as Portsmouth’s pre-eminent shit-stirrer. Middle-aged, kind face, brown hair going to grey, an American flag pin on her blouse.
“Hi,” I say. People skills, Allard. “I like your pin. Looking forward to the Fourth?”
The receptionist smiles. “Best time of the year. My son loves setting off firecrackers in the yard. You don’t have an appointment, do you?”
“My name is Divya Allard,” I say. “And you’re absolutely right—I don’t have an appointment, and I know the time of these attorneys is precious. However: I have information that Attorney Grieg would find very helpful for the Scott Shaughnessy case.”
I’m a liar. This is what my life has come to.
She looks at me more closely. “I don’t know why it didn’t hit me before. You’re the cop that—”
“Yep,” I say firmly.
Breaking through clouds, the beautiful June sun shines through the screen door of the firm and illuminates the receptionist’s face, softening it. Or maybe I just don’t want to believe that she could knowingly be working for a monster, from a council of monsters who saw fit to murder you.
“You know Officer Millicent Fragonard,” she says. “You used to work with her.”
“Yes,” I say. This time I’m not lying, at least.
She gestures at a richly upholstered pink chair next to the quietly ticking clock. “Mr. Grieg is just finishing up a meeting with a client and then, I am sure, he’ll want to be right with you.” She taps out a quick message on her phone.
I sit. I’m not exactly sure what I’ll say to Grieg when we meet, but this gives me some time to think about it. I spend the next fifteen minutes gazing at the antique furniture and the oil paintings depicting Ye Olde Strawbery Banke and looking up a few items on my smartphone. By the time the short, trim figure of Sandy Grieg descends the staircase, I’m ready with my story.
Grieg has a sharp, wryly humorous face. But I can see the darkness writhing underneath. I wonder if others can too, if they know what to look for. “Detective Allard. What a lovely occasion.” He turns to the person trailing him down the stairs, a tall and iron-
haired woman with an expression to match, and says, “Please give me a call tomorrow, Susan. We still have a lot to discuss.”
She nods, thanks him, and departs the law office with barely a glance at me.
Grieg approaches me, and almost cautiously offers his hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Usually this is a veiled insult. But I won’t take it as such. “Your reputation precedes you as well,” I say, grinning, and give his hand a firm shake, perhaps firmer than he was looking for.
“You say you have information about the Shaughnessy case?” Grieg asks.
I nod. Maybe not true information, but I’m not bound by the precepts of law and order anymore, am I?
He gestures for me to follow him upstairs, but pauses halfway up the stairs. “Patricia, would you mind bringing us both up some coffee?”
“I’d be happy to,” the receptionist says. The sharp look that crosses her face gives me the notion it isn’t just coffee Grieg needs from Patricia. She has more power in this office than I initially guessed. I might want to squeeze Grieg as much as I can before that coffee arrives.
We step into his office upstairs, which I’m guessing was the master bedroom of this mansion in its former life. Probably his partners, Sununu and Cloud, are stuck in the kids’ rooms or the maid’s room. The office has a sumptuous wallpaper with a neoclassical theme: farmhands cavorting in fields, young lovers stealing caresses in the ruins of past temples, satyrs prancing in the wood. The furniture is leather and decidedly non-period. His desk is walnut and enormous; when he sits his small frame behind it, he seems like a child. I wonder if that’s an impression he’s cultivated on purpose.
“You and Officer Fragonard have not been on good terms for quite some time,” he surprises me by leading off.
“Correct,” I say.
“She, like the rest of your department, was disappointed in your bordering-on-insane tirade that led to your dismissal from the force,” Grieg goes on. “She probably took it as a betrayal more than most, considering what good friends you and she had been. Female cops sticking together in a chauvinist environment, particularly bonded as two women of color, am I right?”
Okay, now I’m flat-out startled. Grieg didn’t even have time to prepare for this meeting. Yet it’s like he’s reading from a dossier he’s collected on me. The city council has evidently been watching me since the Tsoukalas debacle.
I hide my surprise as best I can. “It’s no wonder you’re such a successful lawyer. You do your homework.”
“Well,” he says, “I must unfortunately consider Officer Fragonard the opposition in this case, given the allegations. And yes, I do my ‘homework’ on my opposition every time. Her relation to you is significant because—well, please don’t take offense. But I feel that your recent interactions with Officer Fragonard may have influenced her negatively.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Am I part of your case, then?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. But surely you can understand my suspicion. Until now, Officer Fragonard has been a paragon of the law. An upstanding and decorated police officer. Her recent actions make little sense without factoring in some malignant influence on her. As far as I know, you are the most recent malignancy to come into contact with her.”
“Gee, Mr. Grieg,” I say, “whatever happened to it being such a pleasure to meet me?”
“Oh, it is,” he says. “I always find it a pleasure when pieces to a puzzle present themselves at my doorstep. But first—what information have you brought me?”
Before I can answer, the office door opens. Patricia bears a tray with two steaming cups of coffee, a little pitcher of cream, and a small bowl of sugar. Hmm, almost as if on cue; I didn’t hear her creaking up the steps.
“Thank you, Patricia,” Grieg says. “Would you stay with us and take notes, please?”
“Certainly, Mr. Grieg.” She takes a seat in the leather armchair next to mine. She whips a tablet out of nowhere and taps on the screen. Yes, I need to watch out for both of these people. But I still accept my coffee.
It’s my turn to speak. I feel an unreasonable stab of fear.
My throat has a scratch I’m having trouble itching. Or is it the other way around? I gulp down some coffee and find my eyes wandering from the patient face of Grieg to the wallpaper of his office. Now that I’m looking at it, really looking at it, I notice small, disturbing details in the pattern. In the midst of one of the pastoral scenes, I spot someone lying in the meadow—their body is twisted unnaturally, soaking in a dark puddle. Elsewhere, a small creature crouches in the boughs of a weeping willow. It’s not a bird. It has a laughing, evil little face. Talk about malignant …
“Okay,” I say, my head feeling fuzzy. “I lied about having information for you. I was just about to tell you some completely false shit that I made up while I was sitting in the foyer downstairs.”
What am I doing? That is not at all what I was going to say. I clap my hand over my mouth.
“Thank you for your candor,” says Grieg, smiling strangely. “I abhor liars. I assume you had an ulterior motive for seeing me, then?”
My hand pries itself off my lips and I answer, “I wanted to squeeze you for any info you have about Milly’s disappearance. For all I know, you kidnapped her yourself. You and your council buddies haven’t hesitated to remove people inconvenient to you. Like the Port cultists you drugged and killed.”
NO. No, no, no. I bolt up from my chair, horrified by everything I’ve revealed. Then the wallpaper catches my eye again. With movement this time. Something just moved in the artwork, I’m sure of it. The lovers have vacated the temple ruins. A little goat stands there now, looking right at me.
“Those are heavy accusations,” says Grieg. Neither he nor his crafty assistant seem surprised at my behavior, nor the things I’ve said. “You speak without proof, though you clearly believe the terrible things you say. I wonder who gave you those ideas?”
This is it. This is when I betray Nadia and her friends unless I don’t do something. My stupid mouth opens, ready to blab all that I know.
I swipe a letter opener from Grieg’s vast desk and stab it into the palm of my left hand. It’s too dull to break the skin, but the pain that blooms from my hand is exquisite. I gasp and drop the letter opener. Then I notice that both Grieg and Patricia have leapt to their feet, as if I’d attack them with such a pitiful weapon.
“You are crazy,” Patricia says in admiration. “Just as crazy as they say.”
I turn my back on them and walk to the doorway of the office, careful to avoid looking at the walls. I’m staring at the stairs as I say, “Where’d you get it?”
“Get what, Detective Allard?” Grieg responds, clearly amused.
Stop it. You know I never fucking made detective. That’s no slip, that’s a deliberate insult.
“The wallpaper, genius.” My ears are cocked for either of them trying to sneak up on me. “Not from around here, I’m betting.”
“Well, not too far away,” the lawyer says. “Special order from a shop in Hampton. I can try to find the catalog if you’re looking to redecorate.”
“You know what, Grieg?” I snarl. “I abhor liars too. You been collecting souvenirs from beyond the Ports? Or is this office a Port somehow?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to. What do you mean by Port? Port of call? I don’t think any ships would be able to reach this office—try the harbor.”
If I weren’t so concerned about being mentally ensnared by the wallpaper again, I would whirl around and throttle the little fuck. But I suppose the pattern makes for a handy defense mechanism, as well as a truth serum for unsuspecting visitors. Where did he get it, and who had he killed in the process?
I glance at the blue-and-yellow-flowered wallpaper of the stairwell and foyer, and I worry that it, too, has some fey power. I can’t take the risk of getting hypnotized. I grip the railing with my good hand and stare down
at Patricia’s desk below. I’m in a vulnerable position right now—a hard shove might send me sailing right over. But, dammit, I’m not done talking to this creepy duo.
“Are you feeling quite well?” Grieg asked from the office.
“Cut the shit. Where’s Milly Fragonard?”
“I was hoping you might tell me.”
Liar. Or maybe not. That’s the worst part. I can’t assume everything coming out of his mouth is manure. I try a different approach. “Can you prove that Scott Shaughnessy actually has dementia?”
“I have documentation from his primary care physician, Dr. Ken Hargraves, confirming that fact. He was diagnosed years ago.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “And his family knew about this diagnosis?”
“Yes…” Hesitant, as if expecting a trap.
He’s right. I pounce: “So why would they let him live alone out on Round Island for years if they knew his brain was deteriorating?”
“Mr. Shaughnessy’s children,” says Grieg after only a brief pause, “respect his autonomy. He hasn’t been living alone—he has a live-in home aide and a day-shift maid and cook.”
Now that’s information I can use. I wonder if Grieg even meant to let that slip. That’s three people to add to the list of suspects for whatever the fuck happened to Milly. “Names?”
“You must be joking, Detective.”
“I’d love to talk to those folks to hear their impression of Shaughnessy’s mental state.”
“You are welcome to do as you please.”
“Aren’t you curious about whether the old coot has really lost it, though?” A new thought occurs to me. “I’ll bet you are, aren’t you? If he does have dementia, there’s no telling what secrets he might let slip about his time on the city council. The types of things you people do could, heh, concern the public. If he doesn’t—maybe you’re wondering why he’s become so careless lately. And what he’s doing with Milly Fragonard, if he’s the one who made her disappear.”
Grieg says in an almost bored tone: “I really have a lot of work to catch up on. But thank you for stopping by. Patricia, would you escort Detective Allard to the door?”
