The Front (8 page)

“Who is she?” he asks. “And what's with the Raggedy Ann charade?”

“It's who she needs to be. Maybe believes it, maybe she doesn't. Who knows? Doesn't matter.”

“It matters. There's a difference between psychotic and eccentric.” He watches more shoppers return to their cars, not a GPS thief in sight.

Stump says, “She claims you threatened her. Claims you told her if she didn't meet you in the park this morning, you'd make sure she got locked up every time she stepped out her door.”

“She give you some plausible explanation for why I could threaten her?”

“You wanted sex.”

“If you believe that, maybe you're the one who's psychotic,” he says.

“Why? Because a guy like you could have anyone he wants, so why would he want an unattractive nobody like her?”

“Come on, Stump. If you've checked me out as thoroughly as you say, you know damn well I don't have that kind of reputation.”

“Sounds like you don't know what people say about you, don't know the speculations.”

“People say all kinds of things about me. But what are you referring to, exactly?”

“What really happened in Lamont's bedroom that night.”

He's speechless, can't believe she just said that.

“How do I know the truth?” Stump says.

“Don't push me too far.” He says it quietly.

“Just telling you, the speculation's out there. It's everywhere. People—especially cops—who think you were already in Lamont's house when the guy broke in. Specifically, already in her bedroom. Specifically, you could have protected her without killing him, but that might have resulted in people knowing your dirty little secret.”

“Take me back to my car.”

“I have a right to know if the two of you have ever had . . .”

“You don't have a right to anything,” he says.

“If I'm going to have any respect for you . . .”

“Maybe you should start worrying about my having any respect for you,” he says.

“I need to know the truth.”

“So what if we did? How 'bout that? She's single. I'm single. We're both consenting adults.”

“A confession. Thank you.” Coldly.

“Why is it so important to you?” he asks.

“It means you're living a lie, you're nothing but a con artist, a phony. That you sleep with the boss, and that leads directly to why she's sent you to Watertown. Must be something in it for you. Especially if you're still sleeping with her. And you probably are. I have no use for people like you.”

“No, I think the truth is you're trying really hard to have no use for me,” Win says. “What? It reinforces your view of the universe if I'm garbage?”

“Narcissist that you are, you would think that.”

“We didn't,” he says. “There. Are you satisfied?”

Silence, as she starts the car, refusing to look at him.

“And I could have, if you really want to know,” he adds. “I don't say that to brag. But after the fact, she was . . . how to put this? Very vulnerable.”

“What about now?” Stump starts entering an address into her jerry-rigged GPS.

“After what happened to her? She'll always be vulnerable,” he says. “Problem is, she'll never know it, just walk into one bad mistake after another. For all her brashness, Lamont runs like hell from herself. For all her smarts, she has no insight.”

“That's not what I meant. What about now?”

“Not even close. Where are we going, by the way?”

“I need to show you something,” Stump says.

The Dorchester Hotel is for heads of state and celebrities, not for the likes of Killien, who can scarcely afford a cup of tea there.

A Ferrari and an Aston Martin are being valet-parked in front as a taxi unceremoniously deposits him in a cluster of kaffiyeh-clad Arabs, who aren't interested in getting out of his way.
Probably related to the Sultan of Brunei who owns the damn place,
Killien thinks as he enters a lobby of marble columns and gold cornices, and enough fresh flowers for several funerals. One advantage to being a detective is he knows how to walk into a place or situation and act as if he belongs.

He buttons his wrinkled suit jacket, takes a left, enters the bar, makes a point of appearing indifferent to the red art glass, the mahogany, the purple and gold silk, the Asians, more Arabs, a few Italians, a couple of Americans. Doesn't seem to be a single Brit except the commissioner, sitting alone at a small, round table in a corner, his back to the wall, facing the door. After all is said and done, at heart the commissioner's still a cop, albeit a well-heeled one because he's made good choices in life, including the baroness he married.

He's drinking whisky, neat, probably Macallan with a sherry finish. Silver dishes of crisps and nuts nearby look untouched. He's impeccable in gray pinstripes, white shirt, dark red silk tie, his mustache neatly trimmed, blue eyes typically vague, as if he's preoccupied, when in fact he doesn't miss a thing. Killien's barely in his chair when a waiter appears. A pint of stout will do. Killien needs to keep his wits about him.

“I need to fill you in about this American case,” the commissioner begins, not one for small talk. “I know you're wondering why it's a priority.”

“Certainly I am,” Killien says. “Haven't a clue what this is all about, although what I've seen so far is rather curious. For example, Monique Lamont . . .”

“Powerful and controversial. Quite stunning, I might add.”

Killien thinks of the photographs. The commissioner would have looked at them as well, and he wonders if his boss shares his same rather unsettling reaction. It's not proper to look at photographs associated with a violent crime and allow one's attention to wander beyond the woman's wounds, into areas that have nothing to do with good policing. And Killien can't stop thinking about the pictures, envisioning her supple . . .

“Are you with me, Jeremy?” the commissioner asks.

“Yes, indeed.”

“You seem a bit foggy.”

“Not a-tall.”

The commissioner says, “So. Several weeks ago, she rang me up, asked if I was aware that a possible victim of the Boston Strangler was a British citizen. Said the case had been reopened, and suggested the Yard get involved.”

“Frankly, I don't know why we would do more than make a couple of inquiries behind the scenes. Sounds political to me.”

“Of course. She already has extravagant publicity planned, including a BBC special that she guarantees would air if we participate, and so on and so on. Rather presumptuous, as if we need her backing for a BBC endeavor. She's quite bold.”

“I don't know how we can help her prove such a theory, since there's no certainty as to the identity of the Boston Strangler. And probably never will be,” Killien says.

The commissioner sips his whisky. “Her political agenda is unimportant. I know her type all too well. Ordinarily, her attempt to drag us into such a matter would be politically ignored. But it seems there's an angle she's unaware of, and that's why you and I are having this conversation.”

The waiter appears with the pint of stout. Killien takes a big swallow.

“When she first approached the Yard about her very old case, as a courtesy, if nothing else, I had the matter looked into, which included finding out something about her. Just the routine checks,” the commissioner continues. “And we've come up with a disturbing bit of information—not about the case, which frankly matters very little to me. But about Monique Lamont herself, and cash transactions and donations that have come to the attention of the U.S. Treasury Department. Turns out her name is in the Defense Intelligence Agency's database.”

Killien abruptly sets down his pint of stout. “She's suspected of funneling money to terrorists?”

“Indeed.”

“Right off, what comes to mind is some bureaucratic blunder. Perhaps she suddenly made large wire transfers for legitimate reasons,” Killien suggests.

Happens more often than people realize. Based on what he read in her dossier, like the commissioner, she's got millions she didn't acquire on her own, likely moves around a lot of money, pays cash for big purchases in America and abroad, makes generous donations to various organizations. Then he remembers something else he just reviewed. Last fall she suddenly changed political parties. In and of itself, that might well have motivated whoever felt betrayed or offended to seek revenge.

“Of most concern, it seems,” the commissioner is saying, “is a sizable contribution she recently made to a children's relief fund in Romania. A number of these groups, as you know, are fronts for terrorist fund-raising. The one she gave to, in particular, is suspected of trafficking in orphans, supplying them to Al-Qaeda so they can be used as suicide bombers and such.”

He tells Killien there was quite a lot in the press about the donation, about Lamont's compassion for orphans, which leads Killien to suspect that if the relief fund really is a terrorist front, it's doubtful Lamont knows. If she knew, why would she hold a press conference about it? Doesn't matter. You don't have to have intent or awareness to be guilty of a crime.

And the commissioner says, “She's on a no-fly list but is probably unaware of it since she hasn't tried to book a commercial flight in the past several months. When she does, she'll begin to realize she's being watched. Which is why we need to look into this immediately.”

“If her assets have been frozen, certainly she would know it.”

“CIA, FBI, DIA leave numerous accounts off the freeze list so possible terrorist funding can be monitored. It's likely she has no idea.”

This piques Killien's own private fears. You never know who's riffling through your bank account, e-mails, medical records, or favorite sites on the Internet, until one day you discover your assets are frozen or you can't get on a plane, or agents show up at your business or flat and haul you in for questioning, perhaps deport you to a secret prison in a country that denies it uses torture.

“What's all this got to do with the murder of Janie Brolin and our sudden urgency to look into it?” he inquires.

The commissioner motions for the waiter to bring another whisky, says, “It gives us an excuse to look into Monique Lamont.”

The State House dome shines over Boston like a gold crown, and as Lamont stares through the dark tinted window of the state police black Expedition, she wonders why twenty-three-karat gilt instead of twenty-four.

A pointless bit of trivia that most assuredly will irk Governor Mather, who touts himself as quite the historian. She's in a mood to throw him off balance as much as possible this morning. To pay him back for snubbing her, and at the same time to remind him of her immense value. Finally, he'll hear her out and realize the brilliance of her crime initiative, the Janie Brolin case, and its immense international implications.

The aide escorting Lamont is chatty. Lamont isn't. She walks with purpose, quite familiar with the hallway, the council chamber, the cabinet room, the waiting room of portraits and handsome antiques, and, finally, the inner sanctum. All that should have been hers.

“Governor?” the aide says from the doorway. “Ms. Lamont is here.”

He's behind his desk, signing documents, doesn't look up, She walks in.

She says, “If anyone will know the answer to this, you will, Howard. The State House dome. Why twenty-three-karat instead of twenty-four?”

“I guess you need to ask Paul Revere that.” Distracted.

“He covered it in copper,” Lamont says.

The governor signs something else, says, “What?”

“In case you're ever asked, I know you wouldn't want to misspeak. Paul Revere covered the dome in copper to make it watertight.” She helps herself to a heavy chair upholstered in lavish damask. “The dome wasn't gilded with gold leaf until about a century after that. And I'm fascinated you chose a portrait of William Phips.” She studies the severe oil painting hanging over the marble fireplace behind Mather's desk. “Our esteemed governor of Salem witch trial fame,” she adds.

One of the perks of being governor is picking the portrait of your favorite Massachusetts governor to hang in your office. It's common knowledge that Mather would have chosen a portrait of himself had it been painted yet. The pious, devil-hating William Phips stares askance at Lamont. She surveys more antiques, the stucco ornaments decorating the walls. Why is it men, especially Republican men, are so crazy about Frederic Remington? The governor has quite a collection of bronzes.
Bronco Buster
on his rampant horse.
Cheyenne
on a galloping horse.
Rattlesnake
about to bite a horse.