Last to Know
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
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For my parents, who were always there for me.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
This will not be the first time I have killed, though I am not one of those roaming, spur-of-the-moment serial killers. I am discreet, careful, choosy in fact, about whom I want to kill, and why.
I am not an evil person; on the contrary I believe I am, if not good, then certainly kind. I am kind to animals unless they aggravate me, pleasant with babies because they are not worth the bother of aggravation, and I know how to use charm well enough to fool most people.
“Murder?” you might be asking. Am I talking casually, seriously, about murder? That is not the way I would put it. There is a reason I choose who should depart this life and it is always a logical one. Now I have picked out the next.
Rose Osborne is not dead yet, but she is going to die. And soon. Later, I will tell you exactly why.
How can I not be evil, talking so easily about killing someone? Believe me, I am as normal as you who are judging me.
You will never know me, never meet me. Not for me the long, fantasy sexual bites of the vampire. If you want blood then the femoral artery at the junction of the thigh and the crotch cuts easily while at the same time giving access to the most intriguing and secret parts of the anatomy.
The knife is my favorite method. I have used it more than once, though sometimes other, more fitting methods work better, as you will see later.
So, be aware I am among you. I am the one who always helps out at the animal shelter, at the scenes of disaster, with the old people … that’s how “normal” I am. And why you, like Rose, will always be the last to know.
1
EVENING LAKE, Massachusetts, 3
A.M.
Harry Jordan’s wooden vacation house was certainly the smallest, as well as one of the oldest, on Evening Lake, a resort where nothing bad, like murder, ever happened, but which in recent years had become a little too smart for Harry’s style: too cocktail-partyish; too many lonely blond wives with hungry eyes; too many miniature dogs peeking out of Range Rover windows. Mind you Harry’s own car, a classic ’69 souped-up E-type, British racing green with tan leather seats, was certainly a head-turner, but then Harry owned that car because he loved it with a passion, not for show. And the dog usually to be seen gazing from its windows was a large silver-gray malamute-mix that looked remarkably like a wolf, but with astonishingly pale blue eyes.
The dog’s name was Squeeze and it went everywhere with Harry. Which, since Harry was a homicide detective on the Boston squad, meant that Squeeze had seen a cross section of hard life on the streets as well as the plusher environment of Harry’s own Beacon Hill apartment. Not only did Squeeze know that the best place to eat in town was Ruby’s Diner near the precinct, he also knew the locations of the best bars. Squeeze had it pretty good and so, Harry had thought, did he, until last week when the woman he was going to marry left him and went to Paris instead. Which was the reason he was here at Evening Lake. Alone. But for the dog.
Squeeze was Harry’s alarm clock. At five thirty every morning, even on Harry’s infrequent days off, it waited, eyes fixed on the flickering green digital display of the clock, zapping it with a fast paw at the first ring. Usually all that happened was that Harry would roll over onto his back. After another couple of minutes the dog would leap onto the bed and lay its massive head on Harry’s chest, staring fixedly at him. Another couple of minutes and Harry would groan under the dog’s weight, open his eyes and stare straight into the dog’s. It would not move and Harry had no option but to get up. That was their morning routine. The difference now was that it was not yet morning.
It was 3
A.M.
, the darkest hour of the night. And they were on vacation at the lake. So what, Harry wondered, was up with Squeeze anyway. He always left the door leading to the porch open so the dog could push in and out as needed. Something must be wrong.
He sat up and looked at the dog, standing by the door, taut as a hot-wired spring, staring intently back at him. Knowing he had no choice he got out of bed and went in search of his pants.
At forty Harry looked pretty good, six-two, muscular despite a lack of serious exercise and his erratic diet of junk food eaten on the run. There were a few furrows on his brow now and his dark hair was beginning to recede a bit at the temples and somehow never looked as though it had been combed, and maybe it hadn’t if he was in a hurry, which he mostly was; his level gray eyes under bushy brows seemed to notice everything about you in one sweeping glance and he never seemed to have time for a decent shave, so sometimes he had a rough beard. Stubble became him. At least that’s what women thought. They found him attractive. His colleagues did not agree. They called him “the Prof” because of his Harvard Law degree, earned the hard and, for Harry, bitterly boring way. He’d given it up years ago and become a rookie in the police department instead. The reason he’d used was that he didn’t want to waste his time getting criminals off on legal technicalities for large fees; he would rather be out on the streets catching them.
Harry had worked his way up from patrol cars to senior detective. And he was good at what he did.
What very few of his colleagues knew about Harry—because to him it was not important, and besides it was nobody’s business—was that at the age of thirty he’d inherited a trust fund set up by his grandfather that made him rich. At least, rich enough to buy the brownstone on Boston’s Beacon Hill, which he’d converted into apartments. He rented out the three top floors but kept the apartment on the garden floor for himself. He redid this to his own specifications, walled in the garden, and later bought himself a pup. The malamute.
Harry’s fiancée had not enjoyed sharing her man with a very large, very present dog. She objected when Squeeze jumped first into the Jag and sat shotgun next to Harry, while she was expected to struggle into the small space in the back that almost could be called a seat. She also had not liked Harry’s hours, especially the nocturnal ones. “You never take me out to dinner anymore,” she’d complained, though she did like it when Harry cooked.
For a man who existed on food eaten on the run Harry happened to be a very good cook, though only old-fashioned things like pasta Alfredo, scampi Livornese, spaghetti Bolognese—all recipes taken directly from his rare and treasured copy of the Vincent Price cookbook with its menus and recipes from some of the great restaurants of the world, circa 1970. Exactly Harry’s era, taste-wise. Forget today’s avant-garde chefs and what Harry called tortured food: he liked it simple and, if he was lucky, good. If not then a burger was just fine.
He was fussy about his wine though. Harry enjoyed a good Claret. He never called good red wine “Cabernet,” nor did he trust “Chardonnay”—he preferred a Graves or white Bordeaux.
Anyhow, Harry thought now, swinging his legs out of bed and gazing out the window at Evening Lake, glimmering blackly on this moonless night; anyhow, the fiancée whom he’d loved dearly, Mallory Malone, the girl of his dreams, had had enough. Paris, she had told him, would be more fun than another night alone in Boston waiting for the phone to ring or sharing more takeout fried chicken and a bottle of his good red. “I can share a bottle of good Bordeaux with anyone I like in Paris,” she’d added.
Harry had seen the tears in Mal’s eyes as she walked out the door for the last time, not slamming it, though he guessed she had every right to. He had not gone after her. It would not have worked; he knew it, and she knew it. Not the way things were, with him dedicated to his work. While she had given up her own successful special investigations TV show, which looked further into unsolved crimes of the past, for him.
He’d called his best buddy and colleague, Carlo Rossetti, broken the news, and for the first time in his police career said that he needed to take time off. He needed a break. He wanted time out from stabbings and shootings and killings on the streets. He needed to rethink his life. He needed to be alone and the old gray wooden fishing shack on the lake that had been his grandfather’s was just the place.
It consisted of two sparsely furnished rooms, a corner kitchen with a hot plate and a microwave, a white-tiled shower that needed regrouting—a job Harry promised himself to do while he was there—a porch with an old three-legged orange Weber barbecue with a lift-up lid and several years’ worth of burned-on grease. There was a narrow wooden jetty and a small rowboat with a little outboard motor. Powerboats were not allowed on the lake, only sails and boats like Harry’s. A copse of birch trees, trunks gleaming silvery in the night, protected him from the sandy road that led around the lake, giving him privacy, though he did have an excellent view of nearby houses, much larger and grander than his own, and also of those on the other side of the lake, the largest of which was owned by a flashy blonde with a daughter who looked about eighteen, though when Harry glimpsed them in the mini-market, he thought that with her pale straight hair and elusive blue gaze, she might be closer to thirteen. It occurred to him looking across the lake now, that it was odd, with such a big house, so little entertaining was done. Unlike with the rest of the summer people there were no cocktail parties, no barbecue nights, no boozy laughter. And apparently no friends for the young daughter. Quite different from the Osborne family who lived a couple of houses away. He’d encountered Rose Osborne on his early morning walks. She too, seemed always to be alone. They’d exchanged morning pleasantries. She’d said please come by, they kept open house, but Harry never had. He found Rose attractive: a sumptuous-looking woman, round and full and … welcoming … was the best word he could use to describe her, with her wildly curling long hair, often pulled in a messy ponytail, her intense brown eyes, her long legs and—of course he had noticed—her slender ankles. She always seemed last-minute thrown-together in a sweatshirt, capris, and sneakers, and sometimes she was on her bike: “Getting my morning exercise in,” she’d call cheerfully in passing, throwing him a smile that, lonely man that he was now, Harry really appreciated. Still, maybe because he was attracted to her he had never taken Rose up on her offer, never gone by for that cup of coffee or that evening drink. He respected marriage and married women were not his style. Besides, he was still a man in love. With Mallory Malone. Or at least he thought he was. Thought maybe she was too, in love with him. Maybe a little bit.