Now You See Her (10 page)

My son, however, lives in T-shirts and khakis. He could furnish his wardrobe from a Dumpster. I settle on a titanium stylus
for his pocket PC, a sort of birthday stocking stuffer, then go home and order a big tin of his favorite special roasted peanuts
from Bluff Gardens in Michigan. It’s the thought that counts, though I can only guess what avalanche of dazzling gifts Marty
Baynes a.k.a. Daddy Warbucks might order from a SkyMall catalog.

The phone rings. “It’s Frank, Reggie. Remember you asked me about a reported incident in the Back Bay on the night of the
third when you heard that dragging sound?”

“I do.”

“Missing Persons isn’t my division. You know that.”

“Yes.”

“But TV local news is going to carry a story tonight. I think the media are taking a short break from the Sylvia Dempsey case.”

“What is it, Frank?”

“There’s a guy from Woburn reported missing.”

“Woburn? Isn’t that miles from the Back Bay?”

“Twenty miles, yeah, but here’s the thing. He works for a Boston caterer. He went out on a job starting at five. The family
expected him back in Woburn by midnight.”

“The job was in the Back Bay?”

“Alan Tegier’s the name. None of his family or friends have seen or heard from him since he left for work that evening. He
didn’t make contact with anybody known to him later that night. He left Woburn for the Back Bay and never made it back home.
But, Reggie, don’t let your imagination get crazy on this.”

“Crazy? Did you say crazy?”

“It’s probably nothing, just a lovers’ quarrel or maybe a family fight or job trouble. The guy’ll probably turn up in a couple
weeks. That’s how it usually goes in a missing person case. Nine times out of ten.”

“But you’re concerned enough to call me.”

“Consider it a courtesy. But it’s not your case, remember that. I want you to keep your head.”

“Frank, after two kids and a slugfest of a divorce, believe me, what I’ve got going is my head. Count on it.”

“I do, Reggie.” His voice drops, almost shy and barely audible. “More than you might think.”

Channel 4 news at 11:00 p.m. broadcasts blurry snapshots of Alan Tegier, a young white man in a white shirt and black bow
tie pouring wine and serving trays of salmon roe canapés. His distraught father and sister are shown stapling xeroxed photos
of Alan to telephone poles, then it’s his tearful mother next, imploring anyone with information to come forward. Another
clip shows the Woburn assistant chief of police and Lieutenant Tom Shabati of the Boston police say that every effort is being
made.

I go to bed wondering if there’ll be a follow-up. Or if, like the Eldridge fire, Tegier’s disappearance will receive the gone-and-forgotten
treatment from the media. It’s a disquieting thought that returns to me the following morning. Despite the treacherous Harley
harness, Stark has taken Biscuit for a few days, according to our custody arrangement. My nose clears, but the dog’s water
bowl and food dish look sad and lonely. The house feels empty. It’s easy to fall into a melancholy mood about another young
man who has vanished, in this case into Norfolk Prison.

Meg’s idea that my aunt received prisoners’ pleas for help has also stuck in my mind. It has a certain logic. Devaney could
be fooled, preyed on by Henry Faiser and by his own guilt over shoddy work in Boston’s crack cocaine epidemic. What if Jo’s
files contain letters from Faiser, especially if he copied the same message over and over and mailed them out by the dozen?
My aunt was an activist on so many fronts, she might have kept a letter from Henry.

Two stout oak file cabinets flank the rolltop desk in the study, and I sit down and start in. The household accounts are neatly
arranged, utilities, repairs, consumer skirmishes with appliance manufacturers. (“Surely your engineers could redesign my
DeLuxe Quiet model to stop the motor sounding like a Panzer tank.”) The letterhead replies reek of condescension, evasion,
and corporate pieties.

I move on to the activist files, Jo’s battles with the city over garbage pickup, pedestrian protection, fair housing, food
donation, neighborhood crime prevention. There’s a file of tribute letters too, from a church’s autumn festival committee
and a wetlands preservation group, among others. Also a folder of thank-you notes and cards: a woman whose son got help job-hunting,
an uncle grateful for his niece’s summer camp scholarship. One file folder is reserved for a single sheet: a letter of commendation
from the Office of the Mayor.

So far, however, no file contains pleas for help from prisoners. I’m relieved, but only momentarily—because while replacing
one file and reaching for the next, my hand smacks something hard and cold.

The guns. Just after moving in, I’d found them in Jo’s kitchen, the Taurus .38 in a drawer under a stack of brown grocery
bags, the Colt .44 nesting in cotton in a box high in the pantry. What woman wants stray guns in her kitchen? I’d immediately
jammed them deep in the right-hand oak file drawer. Or so I thought. But no, here they are in the left one.

I close the study blinds, then those in the kitchen. I put the guns on the table and try to figure out where to store them
properly.

They make me believe that Jo nurtured a secret self that she kept hidden inside her various chests and cabinets. Take the
scarves as another example. In clothing preference, Jo swore by Harris tweeds and Shetland wools and dressed like a Mennonite.
But she left a drawerful of neatly folded, flamboyant, store-fresh scarves in silks and velvets. Beside hers, my Hermès collection
is downright sedate. Scarfwise, in fact, Isadora Duncan at warp speed in a Bugatti—rest her soul—had nothing on Jo Cutter.

Which goes to say that Jo Cutter, like most people, had her contradictions. Still, the guns are in a category all their own,
a total puzzle. To my best recollection, Jo never mentioned them, never dropped the slightest hint.

Plus, other guns might be hidden elsewhere in the condo. Several of Jo’s storage boxes remain untouched. Suppose she collected
according to calibers, with a .22 awaiting me in an overnight case, a .357 in a canvas tote?

I run a thumbnail across a nick—or trophy notch?—in the walnut grip of the Colt .44. It looks old, like a collector’s item.
I pick it up. Was someone shot with this very handgun?

Or killed?

The Colt cylinder smells metallic, oily, and burned. A shiver zings down my neck. I half suspect Stark knows something about
these firearms, but so far haven’t confronted him. If I do, he might confiscate them.

One nasty thought lurks in the back of my mind: that the guns belong to a third party who might suddenly show up to demand
them.

I put down the Colt and pick up the Taurus .38. I pull back the hammer just a little, spin the cylinder, and there’s a neat
click with each rotation. Clickety-click. Ever so lightly, I brush my finger over the trigger, frighten myself, then move
my finger away with a shudder.

Did the gun that murdered Peter Wald look like these? Devaney didn’t tell me. Kia swears her brother is allergic to guns.
Maybe yes, maybe no. I picture the young man with liquid eyes in a cell on a thin mattress writing letters.

It starts up again, at first warm, then hot. It’s the searing pulse at my rib. Leaning against the fridge, still holding the
.38, I feel the burning sensation come, as if it seeks and finds me, and bears down upon me.

As if Henry Faiser’s message hits me personally. It’s not scattered to the winds, but beamed at me. Did his sister visit him,
tell him a white woman showed up to say she’s working on his case? I feel this certainty. And I asked for it, yearned for
it, worried that my sixth sense might fail me and my life would shrink to mini-measures. I now wait for the heat to crest
and to fade. This moment in the kitchen is a reckoning. The hot pulse signals the obligation that defines my new life. I am
Henry Faiser’s target.

And his lifeline.

I
t’s a lovely spring twilight with the trees in foliage and the songbirds in lullaby chorus. It’s almost seven, and the sky
is mauve, the air a mix of earth and lilac. Hope is in the air. An evening like this was made for a political fund-raiser—and
for knowledge that might help the Faiser case.

I park the Beetle and walk down Dartmouth. The hideous night of two weeks ago seems from another world. Kids on skateboards
jump the very curb where I stood that night, cowering, hearing the gagging noise and scuffle. I pause to scan the pavement
stones carefully. It’s years since anybody bothered to pick up pennies. There is no mark visible on the concrete.

The Marlborough Street home of Jeffrey and Tania Arnot is bathed in pearly light, the dank Gothic mists vanished without a
trace. Lamplight glows from every window of the neo-Medieval brownstone, and luminarias guide us up the stairs. The Carney-Wald
yard sign of red, white, and blue looks jaunty, making the very notion of haunting silly and far-fetched.

Most guests wear business clothes, the men in suits, the women in spring linens. The massive door that slammed itself on Meg
and me stands wide open in welcome. A quick inspection of the hinges and panels reveals no mechanical closing device.

A slender blonde in a cream box suit with pearls and a Carney-Wald button greets some guests by name and gives others an emphatic,
compensatory “How are you? Good to see you” and a deep, direct gaze.

I shake her hand. “Good evening.”

“Well, how are you?”

“I’m Reggie Cutter.”

“Reggie Cut—oh yes, we were hoping you’d come. Tania will be so pleased, and Mr. Arnot.”

“Then you’re not—”

“Tania? Oh no. I’m Alison. I work with the Arnots. Come in, have a glass of wine, and give us a chance to get things going.
The governor and lieutenant governor should be here any second.” Dimples deepen her smile. “We’re practicing their titles
for election day. Join the party. I’ll find you.”

I go inside to the sandalwood aroma I mistook for gas. The catering staff pass with trays of drinks and hot tidbits. Chablis
in hand, I mix among strangers who look familiar from my old life, except these are Democrats. Marty, my ex, scorns them as
losers and bleeding hearts, but half of them could double at fund-raisers on Chicago’s North Shore.

However, prosperity wears a somewhat different face chez Arnot. Neckties are scarce among the men. A celebrity architect with
a shaved head and black combat boots holds court on the orange sectional sofa. A woman in a hand-painted red cotton tent of
a dress gestures extravagantly, her bangles chiming with every upsweep of an arm. Several women wear the earnest jewelry of
the Himalayas, chunky beads the color of tallow. In one corner a trio plays light jazz. The shag carpet feels like underbrush.
No one stands within four feet of the glittering blades of the chandelier.

One big difference from similar events in my past life: black faces are plentiful in this crowd. Which is Jeffrey Arnot’s?
My guess: the tall, broad-shouldered man who angles his arm on the balustrade railing, laughing easily, shaking hands, enjoying
the moment, elegant in a chalk-stripe suit of midnight blue.

Approach him? No. First things first. Standing behind a tufted corner chair—inconspicuous, let’s hope—I close my eyes and
concentrate and focus. It’s not easy. The trio breaks into an upbeat “Embraceable You” as I try to open my psychic channel.
As before, nothing registers. I cross the room murmuring “Scuse me” through the crowd and try again. Nothing.

The dining room, scene of the Black Power salute wall covering, is my next stop. A polished dining table fit for a corporate
boardroom looks new, as are the twelve baronial oak chairs standing at attention. Beside me, a balding man with olive skin
and a heavy mustache leans toward the wall. “Fists, Maggie, they’re actually fists. The guy’s a fighter.”

The woman on his arm runs her fingertips across the surface. “Ooh, textured. It’s Tania’s verve.”

“It’s Jeffrey’s temper.”

They move off. In a corner, I try to be receptive to sixth-sense messages. Political phrases waft in the air: “poll numbers
up,”

“office-park dads,”

“focus group.” Not one psychic vibration do I feel. Frankly, it’s a huge relief. I can now close the book on the Arnots’ haunted
house.

“Excuse me, are you feeling all right?” It’s a young woman with a tray of mushroom puffs. Her nameplate says “Brenda” just
below the caterer logo, Ambrosia. “I saw you close your eyes in the front room. If you’re not feeling well, can I get you
something? An aspirin?”

“I’m fine, Brenda. Thanks. Just resting my eyes. Really.” I smile to prove well-being. I’ll tell Meg I gave it my best shot.
As for the Arnots, I’ll be pleasant, gracious, and firm. Tonight’s close-up of Jordan Wald, however, will be my payment in
full. I want to see the father of the murdered young man. I want to see the face of an influential public official whose fatherly
grief and rage perhaps helped prompt the conviction of an innocent man.

The trio strikes up “Tangerine,” and I head toward the front room off the entrance. The crowd is shoulder-to-shoulder, the
room at maximum occupancy. A man in stunning eyewear says, “Well, of course, he’s a hack. It’s a time-honored political tradition.”

“Cynical, Rodney. Love that about you,” says a woman in knits with brass buttons. “At least Carney’s a known quantity, all
those years in the House. It’s Wald I wonder about. What’s he want?”

“What they all want, Jennifer. He’s a four-term state senator from an old Boston family. What else do you need to know?”

“They say he’s a loner. Steers clear of the old boys’ network.”

“The old boys’ days are gone. Upstarts are today’s fresh faces. Or haven’t you heard?”

“But how’d he get in the game?”

“Real estate and heating oil. Family connections don’t hurt either.”

“One more bored businessman hot for a second act in politics. They say he’s got Potomac fever.”

“Be fair. He gets top grades from environmental groups. He’s a green guy.”