A Study in Revenge

It is ever easy for us when motive and crime are in open connection: greed, theft; revenge, arson; jealousy, murder; etc. In these cases the whole business of examination is an example in arithmetic, possibly difficult, but fundamental. When, however, from the deed to its last traceable grounds, even to the attitude of the criminal, a connected series may be discovered and yet no explanation is forthcoming, then the business of interpretation has reached its end; we begin to feel about in the dark
.

—H
ANS
G
ROSS
,
Criminal Psychology

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING STRANGE ABOUT THE STONE, BUT
Frank Cosgrove liked the feel of it. He’d first held it less than an hour ago. Since then it had remained hidden safely inside a cloth sack stuffed into a deep pocket of his coat. In the time it took him to make his winding, moonlit journey across Portland, Maine’s maze of angled streets, he’d already formed the habit of running his fingertips over it. A handful of etched symbols marred a surface polished as smooth as glass. Even though the carvings proved otherwise, some corner of his brain was tempted to believe the impossible notion that the stone had never been worked by human hands. The stone had a calming effect; it took his mind off the dull ache that was working its way up his leg.

Still, Cosgrove would never think of paying good money for it, not even a tenth of the amount he was getting paid to steal it. That was the beauty of this type of thing, a one-off piece. Cash was cash, never more than a flat deal. But something like this stone, there was always someone with enough taste to pay a lot for it. They called it
taste
, but Frank knew that was just another word for a guy with one of two problems: Either he suspects he’s got too much money on his hands or he’s got a woman who wants him to prove it.

He turned right onto Walnut Street and stared at his pocketwatch in the moonlight. Five minutes to three; he was right on time. The uphill walk was starting to take its toll, and part of him regretted his selection of a meeting place, but the end was in sight. Another block ahead, just past the intersection with North Street, he saw the steep earthen embankment of the Munjoy Hill Reservoir. The massive four-acre structure marked a sort of outpost at the edge of the working-class neighborhood. The land to the north and east was about the last open, undeveloped space on the Neck, the peninsula that made up almost the entire city.
Besides being a quiet area where he was unlikely to be noticed this late, the reservoir had the added virtue of being a perfect dumping ground. If any police showed, he could heave the stone over the bank. The reservoir was forty feet deep inside and held twenty million gallons of water. He’d be out of Maine long before anyone ever managed to bring the stone back up.

Cosgrove made his way around the well-cemented hardpan that constituted the lower portion of the embankment. Farther along Walnut Street, a couple of houses stood in darkness. In the other direction, the grassy slope fell away to reveal the darkly shimmering surface of Portland’s Back Cove. The wooden span of Tukey’s Bridge crossed at the point where the nearly enclosed tidal cove narrowed and emptied out into Casco Bay.

As he neared the northeast corner of the reservoir, Cosgrove slowed his pace when a figure stepped into view. Even in the dark, he could tell that this wasn’t his man.

“What’s this?” Cosgrove’s entire body tensed, preparing to bolt at any sign of trouble. “You’re not—”

“Just a minor alteration, Mr. Cosgrove. You needn’t worry; your money’s all here.” He shook a small leather traveling bag. The contents gave off a dull shuffling sound as they bumped against the bag’s rigid frame. “You have it?”

“I wouldn’t bother coming empty-handed, would I?” Cosgrove asked.

“No. That would be a mistake.”

Cosgrove drew the cloth sack out of his coat pocket. He held it up for the man to see. The gibbous moon was enough for the outline of the object to be visible: a smoothed, oblong shape of about eight inches in length.

“That’s good,” the man said. “Very good, Mr. Cosgrove.”

“The deal I had was for five hundred.” The sudden appearance of a stranger was an unannounced shift in the plan, and Cosgrove couldn’t hide his irritation. He’d been in jail plenty of times over the years. He viewed predictability in his business transactions as the one thing that would keep him outside a cell. Minor alterations to plans were not welcome, especially any attempt to change his payout.

“I’m well aware. Here.” The man took a step and tossed the bag forward. It landed between them with a thud. “As soon as you’re satisfied, we can conclude this bit of business.”

Cosgrove crouched down on the thin, browning grass. He needed to peer close to better see the latches on the leather money bag. He set the cloth sack down, near at hand. If need be, the sack could be spun overhead; the weight of the stone at the bottom would make a crippling weapon. The rigid leather bag opened at the top, but he couldn’t get the second of its two latches to turn.

As Cosgrove tried to force the bag open, he kept throwing glances at the man. “It’s stuck.”

“Turn both latches together but in opposite directions,” the stranger said.

With the solution in hand, and the promised money so soon to follow, Cosgrove felt himself smiling. He focused on twisting each of the latches, one clockwise, the other counter. The bag top popped open. He reached in and pulled out the top stack of money, secured with a thin strip of paper around the center. Cosgrove had asked for ones and fives, since that would never raise eyebrows when he spent it. Something felt wrong to his expert touch; the weight of the bills was off. He held the stack close to his face with one hand and let the tops of the bills flick past his other thumb so he could check the whole wad. Only the few on the top and bottom of the stack were dollar bills. The center was nothing more than blank paper. Surprise ignited to anger in the mere second before he could speak.

“What the—”

Cosgrove was still close to the ground and saw only the flash out of the corner of his eye. He heard the bang at the same time as the blow hit him in the chest. It was as if someone had hauled off and swung a hammer, driving the head straight into his ribs. The force of it rocked him, and he tumbled backward, hands flailing as he tried to steady himself.

His vision went blank for a second; then he was looking up at the sky. He wanted to push himself off the ground, but his hands had instinctively gone to his chest. He stared at his left palm. It was wet, covered in slick, black oil. No, it only looked black in the dark. It was red. With the fingertips of his other hand, he brushed at his palm, but the
dark stain wouldn’t wipe off. What was wrong with his hands? He remembered that he’d been holding something just a moment before. He looked to his left and saw the bills. The stack was ripped apart, and the papers were loose, skittering along the ground. Was this real? It had to be. He caught a glimpse of movement. The man was crouching nearby.

“What are you doing?” Cosgrove’s voice was nothing more than a whisper. He stopped caring even as the words left his mouth. The man no longer mattered. Cosgrove rolled and flung his right side over. He landed facedown, tasted dirt and grass, and felt a searing pain spread through his chest. He could do nothing but watch as the fake bills started to flutter away in the night’s gentle sea breeze.

T
HE CORPSE SEEMED TO DEFY GRAVITY
. T
HE BODY SLUMPED
severely to the right, ready to slip off the side of the rickety wooden chair and collapse in a pile on the bare floor. The only thing holding the man up was the unlikely fact that the suit coat he was wearing had come down over the thin back of the chair. The buttons were undone, and the pull of the dead man’s weight stretched the coat awkwardly, but the seams had not yet given out.