The Other Widow (35 page)

The timing couldn't have been better. After the article in the
Globe
—after all the accolades—they'd called her down to the station that next morning. Her old station. Her old boss. “Glad to have you back, Brennan,” the chief had said. No prying. No fanfare. That was the chief.

Really, this is not the place she wants to be, not forever, and Maggie understands this now, accepts it. She can forgive herself for wanting more, for wanting to make the most of every minute she has left. To pay it forward, this gift. This life. She'll take the test to be a detective for the Bureau of Investigative Services as soon as she possibly can, set things up herself this time, go through all the hoops and channels, work her way through the ranks, but she will take the test. And she'll ace it.

Sometimes she thinks back to her first date with Lucas, tries to picture the guy watching her from the back of the restaurant, but she never saw his face. Most likely it was Tomas. Most likely he was stalking Dorrie that night outside Starbucks until Maggie happened along, calling Dorrie's name, foiling his plan. Would he have killed her then? That night? Would he have stalked her to the trains, shoved her down onto the tracks and disappeared?

Maggie pulls up in front of the diner. Hank's already at a table, already on his phone, gearing himself up for a new day. She can almost hear him smacking his lips, almost see him rubbing his hands together. Same old Hank.

“So?” She slides in across from him with a cup of coffee, and he sticks his phone back in his jacket pocket.

“So the guys went over Ramirez's place with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Find anything?”

“Naw.” Hank leans back in the little plastic chair, cheap, like a McDonald's chair. “Buuuut . . .”

“What?” Her coffee tastes like water.

“They didn't find anything
there
. Absolutely zip. Clean as a whistle. But they did find something in one of the cars behind the garage where Ramirez worked. He drove it on occasion, according to the owner—Buick with a bashed-in headlight out in the back lot. So, when the detectives searched it, they found an old coat on the front seat. These were in the pocket—the originals. I made a couple copies; knew you'd want to see them.” Hank reaches into a case on the floor beside his chair and pulls out a few papers, marked with creases, as if the originals had been folded for a long time, folded and refolded, read and reread. Words are typed across the pages in twelve-point roman font.

“What's this?”

“Take a look,” he says. “It's weird as hell.” He wolfs down a doughnut; white powder sticks to his mustache. “This guy was being played big-time.”

“By—?”

“No way to tell. No prints besides Ramirez's. Standard computer paper—no clues there. Total anonymity on this one. Whoever wrote these notes thought it all out pretty well.”

Maggie reaches for the little clump of papers. There aren't many. Three or four sheets.

“Take your time,” Hank says. “Bein' on second has its upside.”

“Yeah.” It isn't Maggie's favorite shift, especially now, with Lucas in her life. Still, Maggie knows that this is what she signed on for. And there's always day shift to look forward to. “You have got to be fucking
kidding
me!”

“I know. Right?”

Maggie looks down at the papers on the table. Most of them are only one or two lines. One of them is only three words. She isn't sure exactly what she was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't this!

She looks at the first note:
Karen's husband plans to kill her. He and his girlfriend. He beats her. I have seen the bruises. She is two people, the Karen you know, yes. But she's a battered wife as well, and she will keep this secret because she's terrified of him. She will protect this cruel man until he kills her.

Maggie thinks back. She tries to remember if Karen ever so much as
hinted
that her husband might be violent or abusive or even forceful. She shakes her head. Karen Lindsay didn't strike her as the helpless type.

She reads the second note:
You are the only one who can help Karen. She trusts you. She loves you. If she wasn't so afraid of her husband, she would already be with you. Don't tell her that you know. Don't ask her any questions. It isn't fair to put her through any more than she's gone through already. You must act alone.

And then:
Last night they nearly killed her. He beat her senseless.

And, finally:
Help her! Please!

Maggie straightens the little pile. “So, Tomas thought he was saving Karen by getting rid of her abusive husband. Not the sharpest pencil in the box, apparently.”

“No. ‘Love doth make fools of us all.' Any idea who would do this?” Hank sticks the papers back in his case.

“Where
were
these? How did Tomas get them? Were they mailed to him?”

Hank nods. “To the shop where he worked. Hoods. No return address, according to the owner—anyway, the envelopes are long gone at this point. Seems the husband wasn't abusive in the least. They called the widow in and asked her about it. This was the first she knew. She seemed genuinely shocked.”

“Yeah. Even Dorrie said Karen was—you know—trying to warn her from the train that day.”

“So who would want Joe Lindsay dead? And what about the woman? This Dorrie? Who'd want
her
dead? Was she Lindsay's girlfriend?”

Maggie shrugs. “He was training her to take over the company finances, so she pretty much knew everything Joe Lindsay knew. I'm thinking Lindsay's partner, Edward, wanted them both gone, so he could cover up what he was doing with the business.” Maggie slugs down the last of her bad coffee. “But proving it will be almost impossible.” Someday, she thinks. When she makes detective, she'll take another look at this. She gathers her things, puts on her coat. She'll call Karen from the car—drive to Waltham straight from here if Karen's around. There's still time before her shift begins.

“When Tomas saw Dorrie in the station that day, right where Karen was—who knows?” she says. “Maybe he thought she was after Karen. The husband's whatever. Girlfriend or whatever.” She glances at her watch. “I'd better get going,” she says. “Thanks for keeping me in the loop, for showing me the notes. This is so— Damn . . .” She shakes her head. “What people do for love, eh? Hey, Hank,” she says from the doorway, one foot already on the sidewalk. “What color was the coat they found? The one in the Buick?”

“Black,” he says. “One of those heavy puffy coats. Down or something.”

XLIV

KAREN

K
aren is happily surprised when Brennan phones. She wants to drop by, she says, to tie up some loose ends. She won't stay long.

“Please,” Karen says, “come on over. For once the house is actually clean. And Antoine will be beside himself.” She smiles when she hangs up the phone. It will be good to see Brennan. Nice girl, Karen thinks. Too bad she's left Mass Casualty and Life—the company could use a few more people like Maggie Brennan, something Karen didn't hesitate to tell them.

“Ten okay?”

Karen glances at the clock on the kitchen stove. It's a Wednesday. She'll be meeting Alice later on. “Sure,” she says. “I'll put on some coffee, or, I don't know. Name your poison, Brennan. Tea? Wine?”

“Coffee's good,” Brennan says. In the background, Karen hears the blare of a horn, the screech of a train.

“We'll be here.” Karen yawns, starts the coffeemaker, opens the back door for Antoine, who bounds in from the yard as if he's overheard the conversation, as if he knows that Brennan's on her way.

“So you're back with the Boston PD?” Karen sets a cup of coffee in front of Brennan. A nice cup, one she found at the back of the kitchen cupboard when she started getting rid of things. She isn't packing boxes yet; she's not that sure she'll move back to Boston, but she is paring down. Just in case. Traveling light, she tells Alice.

“Yep.
Officer
Brennan now.”

“So many titles,” Karen says, “so little time.”

“This one suits me better,” Brennan says. “At least for now.”

Antoine sticks his nose under her hand, and Brennan gives him a little pat. “How're you doing, Antoine?” she says and he pants in delight. God. “I read the notes.”

Karen nods. “Horrible. So someone must have set them both up. Joe
and
Tomas. This is so incredible. Was it Edward? It had to be Edward, right? No one else really stood to gain from— But I can't really wrap my head around it.
Edward?
A
murderer?
Joe's murderer? They were best friends since college!” Karen sets her cup down. “Do you guys have any fingerprints or anything? Any forensics?”

“Nothing. No prints besides Tomas's on the notes. And I'm totally with you. It had to be Edward. Still. He took a big chance, banking on Tomas messing up your husband's car.”

“The brakes, you mean?”

“The brakes, the missing airbag fuse, running him off the road. Tomas confessed to all of it. But what if he'd gone to the police instead? What if he'd reported this alleged ‘abuse'?”

Karen shrugs. “He wouldn't have, though. He was Honduran. Things are different there. The police are different. Tomas wouldn't have reported anything to the authorities and Edward was probably counting on that. He has this gift for sizing people up, figuring them out. He always has. Anyway, knowing Edward, how meticulous he was . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking that . . . ?”

Karen shrugs. “That he probably had a backup plan.”

“Scary thought. Scarier still, Edward would actually be free as a bird right now if Paulo Androtti hadn't decided to come forward. As it is, Edward will be going away for quite a while. I hear his lawyer's trying to get a plea deal, but he's kind of the last one to the table on that. Paulo beat him to it when he turned himself in and outed Edward.”

“Paulo was the crew leader?”

Brennan nods. “Paulo Androtti ran the jobs, ordered the parts, that sort of thing, and, man, he spilled all the beans, talked about how they always used top-notch supplies, the best materials. Hired the best workers in the Boston area. Cream-of-the-crop. But, then, he said, about a year, maybe eighteen months ago, Edward had Paulo meet him at a diner in Southie. Told him to start saving the old conduit, flex, junction boxes, all the electrical wiring and fixtures. Two-by-fours, that sort of thing, from renovations. He had Paulo purchase materials for the jobs, the usual stuff from Home Depots around town, but then he had him return them the next day. Apparently Edward pocketed the money—probably embezzled here and there, altered the books.

“Androtti said he argued with Edward about reusing old materials—said he was afraid the insulation on the wiring would be dangerous as hell, but Edward told him not to worry. It'd be fine. No problem. So, really, Paulo knew they were using substandard equipment, but he looked the other way, too—gambled with their clients' lives. It wasn't until that couple burned up in their home that it really hit him—Androtti—what they were doing, what he was part of. He walked off the job—tried to get in touch with your husband.”

“So Joe would have—”

“I think he was about to figure the whole thing out. According to Paulo, they had a meeting set up but—” Brennan stops. She takes a sip of coffee.

“Joe died,” Karen says.

“Yes. Paulo said he panicked after that. The city inspector was in it up to his neck—used to walk onto the job sites, sign his name without so much as a look, and take off. Edward was a snake, but a fairly powerful one. Paulo and his wife packed up and moved—he got another job, decided to fly under the radar for a while.”

“So it must've been Edward who broke in and took Joe's laptop. He wanted to destroy the evidence. Which Joe didn't have, actually, but Edward couldn't know that for sure.”

“Broke in?”

Karen waves her hand. “It was awhile back. Someone broke into the house. A couple of things were missing, the laptop and—poor Antoine was totally traumatized. Edward probably kicked him or something. They never got along.”

Brennan reaches down, gives Antoine a little pat. “That right, Antoine?” Antoine whines. “So,” she says. “Tomas Ramirez. He worked on your cars?”

“Yes. And we were friends, he and I.” She will never tell a soul they slept together. Only Alice knows—Alice and Tomas—and Karen is certain that Tomas will go to the grave with their secret. Even if he didn't, who'd believe him?

“Obviously extremely fond of you. Enough to—”

“And I liked him,” Karen says. “He seemed so sweet. He seemed like such a gentle, sensitive guy. Jeesh.”

“So he knew your car from your husband's.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“Any truth to the notes?”

Karen smiles. “Nothing could be further from the—Joe never even really got mad,” she says. “He was very passive-aggressive. And, do I, um, strike you as particularly fragile?”

“Nope.” Brennan sets her coffee mug down on the table. “So, ‘Joe and his girlfriend,' it said in the notes?”

Karen hesitates, weighs the pros and cons of dredging up all the crap about Dorrie again and decides against it. Brennan probably already knows that Joe and Dorrie were involved, and, if she doesn't, there's no need to tell her—no need to muddy the waters at this point, no need to ruin any more lives. She shrugs. “Dorreen. They were working together,” she says. “Closely. Joe was training her to take over the finances when Francine retired. And Joe was really upset about that house that burned. He was nosing around—a lot. Apparently none too quietly. He was bound and determined to find out if there was a connection between the fire and the work that Home Runs did. He had a hunch, and . . . it turns out he was right. Edward must have thought Dorrie knew everything Joe knew. Or that even if she didn't, she knew enough to figure things out.”