Nantucket Five-Spot (21 page)

“I'm sorry.”

I wasn't though. I felt anything and everything but sorry. I felt angry and humiliated. Still at scalpel point in a deserted jobsite, still driving a hammer into a man's knee, hearing his high pitched scream over the roar of the compressor. Proud of myself for not flattening Jake Sauter a few minutes ago, ecstatic and light-headed with the momentary immanence of that violence. Relieved that Tim was okay, and heartbroken at the look of bruised pride and chagrin on his face.

There was no way I could say any of that. So I said nothing and drove the car.

“Debbie Garrison was watching,” Caroline added helpfully.

“Great,” Tim said. “That makes it perfect.”

My cell phone rang.

I pulled into the Fast Forward parking lot. By the time I had slotted myself between two big pickups, the phone had stopped ringing. I checked the received calls panel: I didn't recognize the number, but the 310 area code meant it had to be Chuck Obremski. He must have been using his own cell. The regular police phone number would be blocked.

“I have to take this call.”

“Can we get sodas?” Tim asked. I had to smile at the redeeming practicality of the question. Humiliation and heartbreak notwithstanding, it would be foolish to ignore the chance to grab a Coke on a July afternoon.

“Sure.” I gave them some money and watched as they darted across Cherry Street to the Cumberland Farms. Fast Forward sold fancy, hippy health-food artisan fruit-juice-sweetened sodas. The kids went straight for the junk.

I highlighted Chuck's number and pressed the call button, to a shiver of anticipation. Something had happened.

He picked up without any greeting. Cell phones had eliminated the need to identify yourself. “Thanks for the tip, K.”

I took a long breath and felt it vibrate through my chest. “You found him?”

“What was left of him. But we got plenty of DNA and the guy gave blood two years ago. It's Gibson. Go arrest this motherfucker, beat the shit out of him, add a resisting arrest charge, and extradite him to L.A. Fly out with him and I'll buy you a drink.”

“Thanks, Chuck.”

“You're thanking me? Thank you, buddy. This is why I'm still a cop, after all these years. Moments like this. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah. I know exactly.”

Now I had it all. The pieces clicked together like Lego blocks. I called Miranda and told her she was taking the kids. She wasn't happy about it. She had a showing and Elaine was taking the whole office out to dinner.

I cut her off. “I have to arrest a murderer before he kills someone else.”

“Henry—”

“I'm serious, Miranda. This guy set both bombs and he's going to blow up the Pops concert. Unless I stop him.”

“Half the FBI is on-island right now. Why can't they—”

“They don't know what's going on and I don't have time to play catch-up. I need this guy in custody now.”

“I hate this.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

After a moment of silence, she said. “Take a gun. And don't go there alone.”

Some people wonder why I still love Miranda, after everything we did to each other, after a bad marriage and an acrimonious divorce. Well, that's why—a comment like that.

I dropped off the kids and went back to the station to grab my piece. I called Elaine and got the address on Deacon's Way, texted Kyle Donnelly to meet me there. “I'm at the cop-shop right now,” he texted back. “There's someone here to see you. Urgent.”

Franny Tate was standing in my office, hair tangled, face flushed, leaning against my desk, grabbing the edge with both hands, fighting a smile, pushing it up into her eyes. Her voice was solemn when she spoke.

“Get ready for it,” she said. “The words you've never heard from a woman. You were right. I'm sorry.”

Chapter Eighteen

Inventory

“I finally talked to Haden Krakauer,” Franny said.

We sped down Cliff Road, past the big houses perched above the harbor. You could see flashes of Nantucket Sound between the shingles and the hedges. We were alone. I had sent Kyle Donnelly to his uncle's real estate office—they handled most of the rentals on Deacon's Way—to grab a key and the alarm code. Franny had another of her Patriot Act no-permission warrants, but I wanted to avoid more breaking and entering. And I mean breaking: the way these new houses were secured, you'd need a battering ram to get in the front door.

“How did you do it?” I asked. “There must have been guards posted.”

“Various techniques. I pulled rank, threatened them, bribed them with false promises. I flattered them. And flirted, of course. You always have to flirt a little.”

“You learn that at Quantico?'

“I learned that in high school, Hank. Anyway, I was thinking about what you said, about Krakauer knowing the person who did this to him…I mean, assuming someone is actually doing this to him. Which I guess I'm assuming now.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Barely. Tornovitch broke it up before he could say much. One of the guards ratted me out. I guess my flirtation techniques aren't quite what they used to be.”

We passed the big split-rail fenced parking area at Tupancy Links—lots of cars there today, lots of dogs at the old golf course. The fat white stand pipe at Washing Pond loomed above us. We were almost there. I stamped on the gas, pushing the speedometer toward sixty. The pond glittered in the sunlight as we swept down the hill, and we tore past a guy in a station wagon, shocked to see the big NPD cruiser whipping by, relieved that it was going the other way.

I glanced sideways at Franny as I slowed for the Deacon's Way turnoff. The big car fishtailed a little. This was bad driving. If I wasn't careful I'd skid in the sand at the intersection and hit a mailbox. But I felt a weird urgency, a premonition that we were already too late.

“The guy's name is Ezekiel Beaumont,” I said.

She gawked at me, mouth open, jaw dropped like the old cliché, stunned, out-thought, out-maneuvered, out-detectived, if that was even a word. It should be. We need it for moments like this one.

We turned into the driveway, and I braked in front of the house. No sign of Donnelly yet.

She shook her head. “You must be psychic.”

“Come on. I make phone calls and annoy people, the same way you do. I checked with Naval Consolidated Brig at Miramar, near San Diego. That's where they sent the Iraq war druggies. They recognized Beaumont from my description—not a hundred percent, but…”

“Now it is.”

“Yeah.”

We sat in silence for a few seconds. I looked around. The driveway was empty—not a good sign. The garage doors were open, revealing the usual surfboards and bicycles, step ladders and battery chargers, tool racks and bungee cords. No car.

We heard Donnelly's cruiser, and stood in the driveway to greet him. The crushed shell paving was new; it smelled of low tide in the afternoon sun.

Franny seized my arm, our last moment of privacy before Kyle pulled up. “I should have listened to you.”

I put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward me. “You did, though.”

“I guess. Finally. Maybe too late. Anyway, Jack was furious. He's talking about suspending me.”

“What—for doing your job?”

“No, Hank. For doing his job.”

“Well, someone has to.”

Kyle pulled up, tires crunching on the shells. He got out of the car waving the key. Franny pulled away a little and we stood there in the sunlit silence looking at the big, shuttered house. It held its own secrets, but all these trophy mansions did. They gave you the sense of privileged lives unfolding quietly behind the tinted glass and the ten thousand-dollar window treatments.

Inside, Kyle turned off the alarm. The house was dark and cool, an upside down house, built so that the living room could have a water view, with the bedrooms downstairs, plush caves tucked along the tiled hallway. A family of six could live there comfortably. One lunatic knocking around all those rooms seemed bizarre. Did he just want to spend as much money as possible? Why not? He had Tyler Gibson's black American Express card, and Gibson wasn't going to miss it.

Upstairs, in the vanilla-colored, high-ceilinged great room, a wall of windows revealed a sweeping view of Nantucket Sound, stretching away to Hyannis. A ferry trudged across the wide blue expanse. The far end of the giant loft featured a fireplace with a grouping of furniture around it. The open kitchen gleamed, unused and pristine. The place felt uninhabited.

“Either he left a long time ago, or he had it set up for a quick exit.” I lifted the lid of a big earthenware jar marked ‘pasta' and glanced inside. It was empty. So were the ‘sugar' and ‘flour' containers.

I turned to Kyle. “Put out an APB for the guy. There's a photograph of him on my desk. Make up a poster and get the picture to the newspapers. Make sure everyone on the force has a copy. I want someone watching the airport and the Steamship Authority. The Hy-Line, too. And make sure all the charter boat captains have a copy of the picture. That would be an easy way off the island.”

Franny was holding a hideous china rooster. She put it back on the counter. “Flight risk?”

“His plan worked too well. With Haden in custody there's no point in setting off another bomb. Unless he just likes bombs. I'd run if I were him. Let's work the surveillance and see if he turns up. And Kyle—make it clear to everyone. This guy is wanted for murder. He's a psychopath who kills for convenience. He's probably armed and extremely dangerous. If anyone sees him they call the police. No citizen's arrests, no heroics. Call the cops and get out of the way. All right? And that includes you. No one makes a move without backup.”

“Okay.”

“Get going. And thank your uncle for the key.”

He trotted downstairs, slammed the front door.

“Now what?” Franny said.

“Now we work the case together. We talk it out, just like the old days. I'll make us dinner—something simple. Chicken, and a bottle of white wine.”

“And we talk about the case?”

“I need help, Franny. I'm missing something, but I don't know what. I keep circling the same points over and over, like I'm stuck in an echo chamber here. I need to hear your take on it.”

“You never did like thinking alone.”

“Yeah, well. It's like playing tennis against a backboard. I always win but I never improve.”

She shrugged. “Okay. A no-nonsense business dinner for two. When shall I come? Seven?”

“Come at six. You can help me cook.”

Outside, Franny walked over to the open garage. I followed her and we stood looking down at the curved tire tracks coming off the oiled cement onto the driveway: an arc, ending in two little piles of dirt and shells. The driver had gunned the gas backing out, and jammed to a stop before straightening out. Ten feet farther on there was another, bigger set of piles.

“Looks like someone left in a hurry after all,” Franny said.

“And they were towing something, some kind of trailer.”

“Sounds right. But when did he leave?”

“That's the question. I'm betting recently. I'm betting, just before we got here today.”

“Yeah.”

We walked back to my cruiser.

“Drop me off at Fairgrounds Road. I have to deal with Jack. I know he's pissed I ran out on him. He was yelling at me when I left.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“It's okay. I know how to deal with him. I apologize and grovel and promise to change my ways.”

“Which you never do.”

“No.”

She kissed my cheek and climbed into the car.

***

It was just after seven in the evening, and dinner was almost ready when Franny finally got to my house. She was wearing a short white summer dress and sandals. Her hair was down. The dress was almost transparent and her skin looked very brown against the lacy cotton. The sudden jolt of desire knocked the words out of my head. I stood stupidly at the door.

She lifted her eyebrows, performed a small curtsey. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

I stepped back.

“It smells good in here” She lifted the bag in her hand. “I brought the wine. Really good wine. I need a drink tonight.”

“Do you still have your job?”

“Barely.”

I looked her up and down. “Speaking of barely…”

“What? Dress too sexy for a business conference? The other one I was thinking about was even shorter. Kind of like this.”

She hiked the skirt up a little, flashed her thighs and let it drop. Warm, scented air drifted in the window carrying the sounds of someone's hedge clippers and distant dogs barking. The kitchen was paradise. Police work, the business she was ostensibly here to discuss, faded away like a memory of winter.

I said, “If you wanted to make love before dinner you should have come over an hour ago.”

“That's okay. I'm happy to taunt and torment you for a while.”

“Gee, thanks.”

I took the chicken out of the oven, made the gravy and explained the fine points of whisking flour and water into a roux. She opened the wine, and we sat down at the little table in the kitchen. An NRT bus rumbled up the street.

It had been a rough week. We spent the meal catching up. We drank the wine quickly and I opened a second bottle. It was inferior, but I'd learned from my father long ago that you always drink the good bottle first. I told Franny about Tim's bully and my Bulgarians. She endorsed my approach to the little thug and had an interesting point about the big ones. Apparently federal law enforcement officials think of Bulgarians as absolutely the worst, most ruthless and dangerous of all Eastern European criminals; much scarier than the Russians.

“I can believe it,” I said. “If Billy hadn't showed up…”

Talking about Billy Delavane led us to his daughter and the mysterious Facebook posting. Franny promised to investigate it as soon as she could get a FISA warrant.

“You really bother with those?”

“Yes, Hank, we do. Well, most of the time. Anyway, it's no bother. Just a form to fill out, really. With domestic cases like this you want everything by the book, when you turn it over to the Bureau.”

I made a pot of de-caf and we took the coffee into the living room, poured two cups. “Are we off duty now?”

“Do you want to be?”

“It's been a rough week. I missed you.”

“Me, too. Sorry—I know you hate that. I missed you, too, I meant to say.”

She crossed her legs and the dress rose on her thighs. We drank our coffee. The crickets were chirping. Moths were banging against the screens. A gentle breeze moved through the room. Someone was playing music, but all we could hear was the baseline.

“I've been thinking about this teacher of mine at Quantico,” Franny said. “Reynolds Crain. He was a forensic pathologist, he died a few years ago. Anyway, he was fascinated with bogus crime-scene data. He would have loved this case. There was this phrase he used, about perfectly cultivated, artificial evidence—stuff that looked real but tasted wrong. He called fake clues ‘winter tomatoes.' Smudged half-prints on a ladderback chair: vine ripened. One set of clear prints on an otherwise clean gun butt: hydroponic. He always said, once you experience the real thing you always know the difference. I love that distinction. You can apply it to anything.”

I put a hand on her knee. “How about us?”

“Us?”

“Sure—which are we?”

She cocked her head a little and gave me a long appraising look. After a few seconds she nodded.

“Definitely vine ripened.”

“Ready to be picked?”

She pressed my hand to her knee. “Oh yeah. Maybe overdue.”

“You know how I eat Bartlett farm tomatoes? I don't even cut them up. I just bite into them like apples and let the juice run down my chin.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“It's messy, though.”

“Good.”

Then she kissed me and the white dress came off and my shirt came off and so did everything else including the microscopic thong she had bought that afternoon just for me at the lingerie store on Orange Street, and we did everything we had ever imagined doing together, twice, and in between we ate ice cream in bed and talked about our most embarrassing sexual experiences and I told her my theory that people our age could use sex as a sleep substitute for at least one night, and she said probably two and we made love again and she dozed off and I hoped we were right, because I couldn't get to sleep at all.

There was one subject I hadn't brought up at dinner, one idea I couldn't get off my mind, one reason I had wanted to brainstorm the case with Franny, one professional reason for our date. I had let it go for the best of reasons—we both needed the untroubled time together. We had waited for years to follow up on that kiss in the Santa Monica Mountains. I had given up on it, myself. Probably she had too. Then the moment was offered, like money lying in the street, and we grabbed it. We deserved it, and we had made the most of it. I eased her hair off her forehead, behind her ear and studied her profile against the pillow, so peaceful in repose.

But that was last night. There was nothing we could have done about my idea at that point anyway. I picked up the watch I kept on my bedside table, pushed the button to illuminate the dial, 4:42 in the morning.

It was officially tomorrow.

I shook Franny's shoulder; she groaned and settled herself under the cotton blanket. I rubbed her again, more firmly, and she opened her eyes.

“Hank?”

“We have to talk.”

“Is something wrong? What time is it?”

“Just before dawn.”