Now You See Her (30 page)

“No more Perk? I thought Perk was forever.”

“Not from the Cape. We drained that swamp—excuse me, wetlands. Next comes chrome. They got to get rid of some chrome. Tests
came out bad.”

“Shit, I’m drinkin’ only bottled. Period.”

“When check times pay out, Arnie, you can drink mother’s milk.”

“Like you order custom suits? And what are those shoes anyway? Crocodile?”

“ ‘I get my payment, date for fig.’ Canto 33. You wait. Come chrome, the sky’s the limit.”

Muffled words, then laughter. What am I hearing? Is it chrome from old car bumpers? Or liquid chrome, as in the water in Erin
Brockovich? Toxic chrome, a deadly pollutant, soon to be hosed from this truck into a drain? A drain leading where?

And Perk? Perk pours down the drain at this minute. It’s not a person, but a liquid in a tank truck. Suddenly, Big Doc’s rant
comes to mind—on poisons, parts per billion, and sewers. Sewers of death in the City on a Hill, which is Boston. Is this the
deadly sewer? Am I watching poison being pumped into a sewer pipe?

Has Carlo Feggiotti dumped toxins on this site for years and years? With Big Doc’s knowledge? And Henry Faiser’s? Was he framed
for Peter Wald’s murder so he wouldn’t get a chance to rat?

My right arm is asleep. I flex the muscles. It’s hot and clammy and rock-hard on this wall. The holster hurts. My scalp itches,
and I want to pull off the hat. Garbage thickens the air. Every breath stinks. Stark is perfectly still. We wait, and wait
longer. I hear “Fenway” and “Martinez,” as if these are regular night shift guys talking baseball. I listen closely, but the
back-and-forth dies as the pump grinds on, then finally stops.

“Okay, hose clamped, all set. Toss that wet rag in the Dumpster. Shit no. Denny, take it. Get rid of it on the way back. Go
on, it won’t bite.”

Denny objects, yields, slams the truck door, and pulls away. Carlo and the other man, Arnie, stand in place till the rig disappears.
A metal door shuts as they go inside. Somewhere a cat howls. The sole noise now is the Mass Pike traffic. Stark stirs. He
pulls sideways, knees bent. It’s a signal. He’ll hang over the back side of the wall and jump down, then stand against the
wall as I hang over and guide my feet to his shoulders. We’ll reverse the climb.

But the pipe and Perk beckon me. We could drop to the Dumpster and then to the ground. Whatever Perk is, I can get a sample.
I can swipe the hem of my sweater on the spill. It’ll take almost no time. It’ll be easy.

I signal Stark, but he’s already halfway down the back side of the wall. If I follow him, my chance is gone. I won’t get it
back. It must be now. The instant is more reflex than decision, but I push off as from a pool edge.

My feet hit the Dumpster like thunder. I crouch down atop it, wait for Carlo to burst through the door.

He doesn’t come. A minute passes. Then two. The night holds still. The pitch-blackness continues. No Eldridge lights come
on. How long before Carlo reactivates the surveillance system? Five minutes? Three?

Stark waits on the back side of the wall. He heard me land here. Will he follow? I can’t wait to find out.

I hang over the Dumpster edge and drop down. But my hand slips, and I land crooked. My left ankle twists, and pain zings to
the knee. I yelp and kneel and curse the too-big sneakers. I get up and stagger forward, the pipe and spill just feet away.
When I’m there, I grab the sweater hem and swipe the pipe and mop at the ground. I have not touched the liquid directly. The
sample is secured.

I start to hobble back, but the steel door snaps open, and a flashlight catches my face. I’m frozen in the blazing white beam.

“Ah, ‘you have fared to this unhappy world, and yet arrive unpunished.’ ”

A black-gloved hand reaches out and grabs for me. Air swirls as I duck. I try to run, but my ankle won’t let me. I sink down.

“Yes. ‘Move on all fours along the dismal track.’ ”

I scuttle sideways on my knees, feeling faint, sick. Carlo laughs. “ ‘Distance can deceive the senses—so spur yourself a little
more.’ ”

His light plays over my body, then back to my face. He’s toying with me. I want to vomit.

“ ‘Climb up toward me with cautious step… grapple the hair, as someone climbing would.’ Canto 34.”

I move my arms, and my elbow bumps something at my right side. It’s the holster. Under the sweater is a gun. I have to get
it out. Turning just enough to keep my right side hidden in shadow, I use my left hand as a decoy. I move those left fingers
like puppets. Meanwhile, my right thumb unsnaps the holster safety strap. I work the gun loose. The .38 is now in my hand,
heavy, weighty. There’s only one chance. I rise and step back, weight on the right foot, and point at the light. Thumb steady,
I pull back the hammer.

At the click, the flashlight shifts to my gun hand, then zigzags as Carlo reaches to his belt line for his own gun. He’s drawing.
If he fires, he’s defending Eldridge. If I fire, it’s self-defense. Or is it murder?

The instant goes into slow motion. A cat howls in the darkness, and the howl becomes a crackle and roar. It’s an engine. I
turn as a Cyclops of white light roars and blazes at me and at Carlo. He, too, stands frozen as the Harley bears down, slices
between us, and brakes to a quick stop. I mount and grab Stark’s hips, gun in hand, as he throttles fast away from Eldridge,
Fatso’s engine mixing with a pop-pop of the bullets that miss as Stark guides us off into the night.

T
he phone rings at the fourth lap of the Ace bandage around my swollen ankle. “This is Tania. You need to come see me.”

“I can’t.”

“Regina, you can. You must. I’ll send a car.”

“I’m not feeling well.” This is the understatement of a day spent icing my ankle, mentally reliving the Inferno escape and
Stark’s 4:00 a.m. blistering lecture on reckless handgun use. The black sweater is sealed in a Ziploc, ready for dispatch
to a police lab. The gun is back in the cabinet. Stark spent the early morning hours making compresses for my ankle and keeping
a lookout. He took Biscuit with him when he left at noon. On four hours’ sleep, I’m mobilized by coffee and Dr Pepper and
an old malacca cane Jo once used to scatter pigeons from the rear fire escape. It’s now after 5:00 p.m. of a day on which
this woman is thankful to be alive.

Tania’s laugh is acid. “Come anyway.”

“Sorry, I have plans.”

“Cancel them. There’s somebody here who wants to talk to you. It’s important.”

Jeffrey. Of course, she’s calling for Jeffrey. Carlo told him everything. It’s a trap. Tania is baiting me, and the timing
is terrible because Devaney’s at the prison convention in Orlando. Till he returns, I won’t budge. My doors are locked, blinds
closed. Go back again to the Marlborough house? How stupid do they think I am?

“Regina, let me assure you the coast is clear. Jeffrey is out of town. I’m by myself.”

“What about the Eldridge guards who don’t let you out of their sight?”

“There’s only one. He’s at the corner. You can come through the back alleyway. There’s a parking space right beside my SUV.
He won’t see you. I’ll close the draperies. Believe me, Regina, it’s just me here by myself… and a special person who has
new information.” I say nothing. “Don’t you want to know who it is?”

“Tania, this won’t work.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“Maybe another time.”

“It’s Brenda Holstetter.”

“Brenda—”

“From Ambrosia Catering. She talked to you at a restaurant days ago. She’s ready to talk to you again.”

“We spoke twice.”

“That was different. She’s ready to say much more. Her troubled conscience brought her here. I counseled her. She has secrets
to tell. One secret especially… you’ll never guess.”

“Probably not.”

“About a prisoner you’re interested in?” My heart leaps. “What prisoner?”

“Serving a murder sentence in Norfolk.”

“How do you kn—I mean, what does Brenda say? Put her on the phone. Please put Brenda on the phone.”

“Regina, that’s the very last thing we’d want to do. She’s finally calmed down. She arrived in a silly uniform with a brocade
vest and pantaloons. I gave her a spa robe and chamomile tea in my majolica pot. She’s resting on a chaise in the sunporch.
She’ll be receptive if you simply arrive. Otherwise, I can’t predict her mental state. I can’t promise she’ll tell her secrets
tomorrow or next week. She’s ready today, right now. You needn’t worry about Jeffrey. He’s in New York for a two-day meeting.
He’s a partner of a developer named Bevington. Frankly, it’s peaceful here.”

“I sprained my ankle.”

“I’m on tiptoe myself. The quiet is comforting. It centers oneself. I may have a Zen meditation room installed. Why don’t
you let me call my driver? I’ll send the Town Car.”

I draw the line at Tania’s car. “Let me think it over. If I’m not there by six, don’t expect me.” We hang up.

“Quandary” puts it mildly. What could Brenda know about Henry Faiser? How could she know? From Alan? But how? What if Brenda
appeared at the Marlborough house, and Tania seized the chance to dramatize, to whip the waitress into flights of dark fantasy?
I could be sandwiched between two hysterics, Brenda and Tania. And Tania would hover, sucking up every word. Resolved to keep
silent, she’d sooner or later spew everything to Jeffrey, fact or fiction. But I’m the one he’d target.

Yet something brought Brenda to the Arnots’ doorstep. What is it?

How much risk to find out? Last night I could have died, my body disposed of before dawn, vanished forever. I swore to Stark
that I’d hunker down here in the house until Devaney gets back.

I peek outside, where today’s weather is bright and sunny, one of the longest days of the year, a mockery of my seclusion.
If I go to Marlborough, I can be back long before dusk. Plus, Barlow Square looks clear, and my car is at the curb. I can
manage with this cane. Hobbling around the condo all day, I’ve learned some maneuvers. If Brenda Holstetter has important
information, perhaps she’ll come back with me. Maybe we’ll go directly to the police this very evening. Daylight is an ally.

I call Stark to let him know where I’m going, but his cell phone is off. I leave him a message and toy briefly with the idea
of buckling on the .38. No, not after his Marine Corps ultimatum on guns and amateurs. In slacks and a blue shirt, car key
in hand, gripping the cane, I head out.

On Marlborough, I turn my black Beetle into the rear alleyway, which is rutted and full of “Private, No Parking, Tow Away
Zone” signs. Behind the Arnot house sits a Cadillac SUV— Tania’s—and an empty space. Nobody’s in sight. I pull in and press
a bell marked “Deliveries.”

The first impression as I enter the kitchen is that Tania’s lipstick is crooked, like an elderly woman who misses the lip
line. “Regina,” she says, “here you are, with a walking cane.” She’s in a tangerine shirt, black wrap skirt, and espadrilles.
Her hair is pulled back and held with a clip. Her voice is strangely flat, a strained monotone. “I doubted you’d come. I’d
bet you wouldn’t. I counted on it.”

“Where’s Brenda?”

“Now it’s too late.”

“She’s gone?”

“Late, late, late.”

“But it’s not six. I said by six. Since she’s not here, I’ll leave right now.”

A man suddenly emerges from the butler’s pantry holding a meat cleaver. He looks familiar. That thick brown hair…it’s the
man who worked on the Olds, who followed me to the library. Silently, he stands in front of the kitchen back door, blocking
it.

“I’m leaving, Tania. Excuse me.” He doesn’t move a muscle. “Come into the front room, Regina. You must.”

Plan B: I’ll go straight to the front door and out into the street and flag down a vehicle. It’ll take a cool head and two
minutes’ time. Carefully, I clear the cane tip in the thick hallway carpeting. My ankle hurts. Tania doesn’t look well herself.
The woman who pranced in platforms at the fund-raiser now trudges as if dejected, her shoulders hunched.

At the archway to the front room, there’s a clear view of the front door. I lengthen my stride to make a beeline. I’ve fifteen
feet to go when a figure suddenly stirs from a sofa and rises—a short, wiry man in a double-breasted suit, no tie, his shirt
open. It’s Jeffrey Arnot.

“Ms. Cutter, welcome. Sit down. You too, Tania. Both of you, sit.”

“Jeffrey, you promised—”

“Shut up, Tania. Behave yourself.”

So Tania followed her husband’s orders to lure me here. “I collect single-malt scotches, Ms. Cutter,” Jeffrey says. “Let me
offer you a drink.”

“No thank you.” I perch on a Sheridan chair about twelve feet from the front door. The draperies are drawn, and the mounted
armor plates are silhouetted in the gloom. The blades of the chandelier glint as if greased.

“Tania, pour our guest a drink.” Tania reaches for the cut crystal and pours me a glass nearly brimming with scotch. Jeffrey
leans against the archway, still standing. If I splash scotch at his face, can I make it to the door?

“To your health, Ms. Cutter. I see you’re hurt. How did that happen?”

“I fell near my home.”

“In daytime?”

“Early this morning.”

“Too bad. Drink up, Ms. Cutter. I insist.” It’s an order. I comply, and fiery whisky streaks from throat to navel. “You must
be tired. The dead of night is no time for a scavenger hunt. A person can wind up where it’s none of their business. A person
can injure himself—or herself. That’s why a property has walls, for protection. Do drink up.”

I sip again and endure the burn. Tania sits slumped on an Empire sofa, eyes on her husband, who rocks back on his heels. The
wall-mounted armor casts a sickly sheen. “My lawyers, Ms. Cutter, tell me that criminal trespass is a punishable offense.
And then there’s property theft.”

“Theft?”

“Anything stolen from private property.”

The sample I swiped on the sweater, what else could he mean? And what does he want from this prolonged cat-and-mouse game?
Me pleading for my life? “A dab of Perk,” I say with a staged shrug. “It’s hardly grand theft.”