Solitary Dancer (26 page)

She had the old bra off and the new one in her hands when she heard the knock at the door.

Well, hot damn, she thought. About time. She tossed the lace bra back in the drawer, pulled the sweater down over her breasts, her nipples getting hard already, you could see them poking against the fabric.

She walked to the door, fluffing her hair on the way. She had something to get off her chest at
him
,
damn it, and swung the door open, a pained expression on her face but remembering to keep her stomach pulled in, her shoulders back, let him know what he's been missing, how close he came to losing it for
good
.

McGuire rode the Blue MBTA line to Revere Beach, arriving in the late afternoon, the sky gray and grieving. There was little wind but the sea beyond the breakwater roiled and threatened, and the sound of the waves and whitecaps were a constant background noise, like machinery humming on a distant production line.

Ronnie greeted him at the front door of the small white house, ushering him quickly into the warmth and ducking with concern at his light jacket, inadequate against the dampness and cold. “I pressed your gray trousers and sports jacket,” she said. “I picked out one of Ollie's ties, a red and gray stripe, and ironed a white shirt for you. Want some coffee?”

McGuire kissed her on the forehead, a gesture he knew she disliked, and took the mug of coffee into Ollie's room.

“You see Zelinka?” Ollie demanded without greeting McGuire first.

McGuire said he had.

“You tell him what you told me, what we talked about this morning?”

“Most of it,” McGuire said. He settled himself in the chair next to Ollie's bed.

“He buy it?”

McGuire nodded. “He suspected it all along.”

“So what's he gonna do?”

“Wait and see what happens tonight with DeMontford.”

“Doesn't have proof,” Ollie said.

“And DeMontford's got some heavy lawyers.” McGuire took a long swallow of coffee, set the mug aside, crossed his legs, folded his arms.

“DeMontford'll try to figure out what you know.”

“Zelinka wants me to spook him a little bit.”

Ollie grinned; the action creasing his face until his eyes almost disappeared. “You're good at that, Joseph. You'll spook him 'til he's like a half-fucked fox in a forest fire.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” McGuire smiled.

“Oh, I'd love to be there and watch you work. God, what I'd give to be there.”

“I'll tell you all about it, soon as it's over.” McGuire stood up. “I'd better get showered and dressed.”

“The Four Seasons, huh?” Ollie watched McGuire. “Might as well hold back, get yourself a good meal out of it first. And don't you forget to call me, give me all the dirt, damn it!”

At the door Ronnie caught up with him and said, “Take this.” She tucked some money into McGuire's worn woollen topcoat, the dull gray garment smelling faintly of mothballs. McGuire tried to brush her hand away but she fixed him with those black Irish eyes and said, “Take it and let me and Ollie know you're all right, you hear me?”

McGuire said he heard her and kissed her on the forehead again. “You know I hate it when you do that,” she said, and slapped his arm in mock anger as he turned to leave.

“I'm really proud of you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For doing what you did. Giving up those pills. You're a pretty tough guy.”

McGuire studied her face, grunted and leaned to kiss her gently again.

“How's Micki?” she called to his back as he walked into tile night, and he shrugged his shoulders in reply.

Lily Cathcart, who lived in apartment two, never cared for Billie Chandler, never wanted anything to do with a woman who made her living parading around naked in front of a bunch of men, what kind of way was that to live? Lily Cathcart had raised three children and never slept with anyone except her dear late husband for thirty-eight years, and in all that time nobody ever saw
her
naked except Mr. Cathcart, bless his soul, and her family doctor.

Maybe Billie Chandler was at heart a good person, Mrs. Cathcart told herself, just another nice girl caught in a bad situation. Mrs. Cathcart heard that Billie lost her job when the terrible place she worked in was closed down because the black detective was killed there, gives you some idea of the kind of people Billie associated with, doesn't it? And then that police officer knocking on her door the other day, he looked mean enough to . . . well, as mean as anybody Lily might expect to meet on the street.

Goodness knows Billie was always pleasant enough and kept to herself, Lily Cathcart admitted. Usually had a smile for her and the other tenants in the building. Never played her radio or TV too loud either. Although sometimes Mrs. Cathcart would hear Billie come in late at night and there'd be somebody with her, Lily could hear a man talking and Billie telling him to keep his voice down. And later, if Mrs. Cathcart got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and the kettle wasn't boiling and Mrs. Cathcart sat on the far side of the room closest to Billie's apartment, she could hear their voices in Billie's bedroom on the other side of the wall, sometimes talking low and sometimes making groans, animal sounds.

That's what she thought she heard late that afternoon. Groans, animal sounds, doing it in broad daylight for goodness' sake. And then the man going downstairs, his footsteps clump-clump-clump onto the street, just like that. No goodbyes, not a thing.

Well.

Billie taking off her clothes in some dirty club downtown was one thing. But if she was trying to make money as a prostitute in her own apartment, men coming up to her room like that, if Mrs. Cathcart discovered that's what she was doing to make ends meet, there would be nothing for her to do except tell the landlord and insist that Billie be evicted.

In a city justly famous for its many old and elegant hotels, the Four Seasons sits like an overly confident and audacious newcomer, occupying almost an entire city block on Boylston Street across from the Public Garden. Heavy with brass and polished walnut, the ground-floor dining room is on display through a series of smoked-glass bay windows, and it was these windows that McGuire studied, standing in the shadows of the Public Garden, hunched against the cold in his topcoat.

Four of the six window tables were occupied. McGuire scanned them from the other side of Boylston Street, squinting to identify the diners. A middle-aged couple eating dinner without speaking to or acknowledging the other, three men and a woman in business suits sampling drinks and opinions, a young couple studying a menu nervously, two elderly women sipping tea.

One of the tables held a small discreet white card and McGuire walked along the garden pathway to position himself opposite it just as a tall man in a shiny gray suit appeared in the window accompanied by two men in tuxedos, a waiter and the maître d'. The waiter pulled the chair out for the man and whisked the white tent card away while the maître d', his white-gloved hands holding each other at waist level, bowed and spoke to the hotel guest. The man in the shining suit nodded and smiled. Both hotel staff quickly disappeared from view, leaving him alone at his table.

The man at the table smoothed his tie and looked casually out the window, his position slightly elevated above the level of pedestrians hurrying by, shopkeepers and office workers on their way toward the subway or to dinner at less prestigious establishments where there would be no view of the Public Garden and no white-gloved waiters to pull out their chairs.

Despite the best efforts of Boston's arguably best hotel, social realities abided beyond the double-insulated glass windows, and while they could not intrude they at least remained visible and vexing to the guests.

McGuire watched one of them: a street beggar of indeterminate age shuffling along Boylston Street an arm's length from the dining-room windows. He wore a long, graying beard, and thatches of unkempt hair spilled out from beneath a knitted cap while he shook a paper cup at passing pedestrians, pleading for spare change. A filthy cloth jacket was buttoned to the neck, and as he walked his oversized shoes slapped the pavement, revealing scabrous bare feet black with dirt. On his hands were mismatched knitted gloves, and when he wasn't begging for coins, he would turn his back to the hotel windows, a street person retaining his dignity in the presence of ostentatious wealth barely a short distance, but several levels of society, away.

The beggar paused at the window where the man in the shiny suit studied him with expressions of interest and disgust. At that moment the waiter arrived with a crystal glass to set in front of him before glaring out the window at the homeless street person. His customer smiled and shook his head at something the waiter said and in an instant the waiter was out of sight again.

The homeless man, unaware of the minor distress he had caused behind him, resumed shuffling by, shaking his paper cup at pedestrians and imploring with watery eyes for handouts.

McGuire crossed the street, the collar of his worn gray wool topcoat turned up and his hands thrust deeply in his pockets. From the corner of his eye he saw the man in the window watch him approach.

At the hotel entrance the doorman avoided eye contact with McGuire who swept past and into the lobby, crossing to the dining room where the maître d' smiled pleasantly and asked how he could help McGuire.

“DeMontford's expecting me,” McGuire said, and the maître d' closed his eyes long enough to bow his head and turn to lead the way.

DeMontford rose from his chair as McGuire approached. Various parts of the man reflected light in the dimness of the room—a glitter of diamonds in the face of the heavy watch on his wrist, a sheen from the silk fabric of his suit, a twinkle from the gleaming cuff links, a luster from the starched white shirt and a flash from the man's clear lively eyes.

“Joe McGuire,” DeMontford said, reaching past the maître d' to seize McGuire's hand. “A pleasure to meet you finally.” His words were carefully modulated and, in place of the expected broad Boston accent, DeMontford enunciated with a vaguely British delivery. “I've been aware of your police career for many years.”

“Your coat, Mr. McGuire?” the maître d' asked.

“I'll hold onto it,” McGuire said. He shrugged out of his topcoat as the maître d' pulled McGuire's chair out for him. McGuire tossed his coat on one of the empty chairs, generating a wave of mothball aroma, and sat down.

“Glenfiddich, neat.” DeMontford, who had returned to his chair, held the crystal tumbler up for McGuire's inspection. “Join me?” His voice was deep and raspy with a texture like tree bark.

“Got any Kronenbourg?” McGuire asked. The maître d' lowered his eyes and nodded. “Make it a cold one,” McGuire said.

“I ordered the salmon,” DeMontford said to McGuire. “Poached in Chablis with béarnaise sauce. Magnificent. Will you have some?”

McGuire said sure, and the waiter nodded again and half backed away, half turned to disappear into the measured gloom of the dining room.

“You certainly got my secretary's attention with your telephone message,” DeMontford said. “I assume that was your objective. It worked.”

McGuire sat back in his chair and drank in the man's appearance for the first time. The eyes, unwavering and fastened on McGuire's own, were pale blue and McGuire thought inexplicably of cornflowers. The skin was taut and tanned, framing a firm nose, slightly humped, set above a pewter mustache and thin lips. When the lips parted in a wide smile they revealed unnaturally white and even teeth.

“It wasn't what I planned to say to her,” McGuire said. He glanced around the half-filled dining room, the tables set far enough apart to prevent eavesdropping, the diners at each table adding to the atmosphere of discretion by speaking in low tones like conspirators.

“And what would that have been?” DeMontford appeared amused, watching McGuire as though he were a stand-up comic about to deliver a monologue.

“I wanted to tell her your nuts were on an anvil and I had a hammer in my hand,” McGuire said.

At first, DeMontford responded as though he hadn't heard McGuire. His smile, if anything, grew slightly wider but he gave himself away by narrowing his eyes ever so slightly before shaking his head and lifting his glass to sample the expensive single-malt Scotch. “Well, well,” he said, sipping from the glass and looking casually around the room. “Well, well, well.”

This was all together too much.

Some other man had come bounding up the stairs, making far more noise than necessary, and began pounding on Billie Chandler's door as though he were trying to wake the dead. Then he began shouting her name over and over, saying, “I know you're in there, let me in.”

Lily Cathcart opened her door, leaving the chain attached, and spoke across the second-floor landing at him. “Please,” she said. “There are others living here, you know.”

The man turned his head to glare at her and Mrs. Cathcart retreated slightly from the open door, recognizing his sharp features. “She in there?” he demanded.

“I have no idea,” Mrs. Cathcart said, “but I do wish—”

“She's in there, isn't she?” the man said angrily. He took a step toward her and Mrs. Cathcart backed away even further, preparing to slam the door if necessary, frightened by the fury in his eyes. “You hear her go out today?”

“I have no idea who comes and goes,” Mrs. Cathcart said.

“That's a load of crap,” the man said. “I'll bet you know everything. You see anybody come in here today?”

“If you don't leave, I'm calling the police,” Mrs. Cathcart said.

The man glared at her for a moment, then turned back to the door. “Billie!” he shouted. “Goddamn it, open up.”

Mrs. Cathcart closed the door and returned to her living room. If he doesn't leave in one minute I'll do it, she promised herself. I will call the police. This is outrageous.