Sketcher in the Rye: (25 page)

Chapter 32

Rory settled into her seat for the train ride up to Boston. She'd called Anya for Frank's address and dropped Hobo with her parents. Although Arlene and Dan were always happy to help their only child, it wasn't the best of times for the dog to be there. When Rory escorted him in, he balked, refusing to take another step. She couldn't blame him. This was definitely not the house she remembered either. At least she had the advantage of knowing what was going on. There were boxes stacked everywhere, leaving just a narrow aisle to pass through in some spots. When her father had appeared from behind the cardboard forest, Hobo's tail gave a tentative wag. Then he'd barked sharply as if to complain about the current state of affairs. Dan had taken his leash from Rory.

“Thanks, Dad, I've got to run.” As she'd opened the door, Hobo had issued a plaintive wail.

“Poor baby—he thinks I'm abandoning him in this upside-down house.”

“He'll be fine. Take care and don't worry about a thing.”

Easier said than done, since she was on her way to surprise someone who'd made it clear he didn't want to talk to her, let alone find her camped outside his apartment door. Add to the mix one ghost who'd been testing his limits of late, as well as keeping some disturbing secret from her, and she had a veritable cornucopia of things to worry about.

Rory had left her car in the commuter parking lot in Huntington and hopped on the Long Island Rail Road train with a tote for an overnight bag. At Penn Station, she'd taken the long escalator up to the Amtrak level and boarded the Acela Express with fifteen minutes to spare. At one time, flying would have been faster, but with ever-longer security lines on top of possible flight delays, the train was often the better option for short distances. Unless, of course, you flew Air Zeke.

She arrived in Boston at four o'clock. The sky was gray and swollen, promising a delightful mixture of sleet, ice and snow. Too bad Frank didn't live in Florida. To lay the groundwork for her plan, she'd called him from her cell phone. When he saw the area code, he might be annoyed, but he wouldn't be alarmed. As far as he knew, she was still some one-hundred and ninety miles away on Long Island. The phone rang and rang and eventually went to voice mail. There was no way to tell if he was away from the phone or saw her number and decided not to answer it. It didn't matter to Rory, as long as her message got through.

“Hi Frank,” she said, in a light, breezy tone. “This is Rory McCain. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. I sent you a diary of Matthew's that I think you'll find interesting. Anya gave me your address. According to FedEx, it will get there after four today. Give me a call if you want to discuss it. Take care.” She'd thrown in the remark about Anya to make it sound legitimate. Which, of course, it wasn't. All she'd sent Frank was herself.

Before leaving home, she'd printed the photo from Frank's Facebook page, so she would recognize him. It was a head shot of a young man with short brown hair and dark-rimmed glasses. She was counting on the fact that he didn't know what she looked like. Even if he checked her Facebook page, all he would find was a rather silly picture of Hobo with a rubber chicken in his mouth.

She'd also called the management corporation of Frank's apartment building on the pretense that she was in the market for an apartment with a concierge or doorman. She feigned disappointment when they told her that the building had neither one. In reality, she was thrilled. If she had to wait in the lobby for a while, no one would be there to question her or tell her to leave.

According to Anya, Frank was an actuary for an insurance company, which meant his hours were likely to be nine to five. Rory thought he'd make it home sometime between five thirty and six, unless he had plans for the evening and wasn't coming straight home. If that was the case, she had a long night ahead of her. By the time she reached his building, it was almost dark, and the sky was spitting ice pellets at her. To get inside, she pressed a random buzzer and when a woman asked who was there, she said she was selling Girl Scout cookies. It took only two tries before she found someone with a craving for Thin Mints to buzz her in. While standing there, she noted that Frank lived in apartment 4D.

The lobby had a neat but institutional look, with a couch, two chairs and a coffee table on either side of the entry. Rory chose a chair with a good view of the sidewalk. She'd bought a newspaper on her way there, so she would look like she was simply relaxing and waiting for someone.

People started arriving home from their workday, umbrellas dripping on the tile floor as they made their way to the elevators. None of them looked anything like Frank. Under normal conditions, Rory would have expected the marshal to have checked in with her by now. The fact that he hadn't was further proof that things were definitely not normal in his world. The minutes ticked by as she read and reread the same articles without absorbing any of them. By six thirty she started wondering if Frank might have stayed home sick. The flu season had gotten off to an early start according to the news reports over the past week. She should have tried to find his office number. Too late now. She decided that if he didn't walk in by seven, she was going up to his apartment to ring his bell. But her plan required a little help from the marshal. She waited for a lull in the traffic through the lobby. “Zeke,” she called out softly. “Where the heck are you?” A minute went by before she felt the familiar tap on her shoulder. Before she could explain what she needed him to do, a knot of people came in, commiserating about the lousy weather. It was the safe, standard topic for neighbors who barely knew one another. They walked to the elevators together, but it wasn't until they'd entered the cab and turned to face forward that Rory realized one of them was Frank.

After the elevator doors closed, she gave Zeke his instructions. Then they waited ten minutes so Frank would have time to shed his coat, use the bathroom and make himself comfortable. Rory rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, where the marshal was supposed to meet her. She walked down to 4D. Unfortunately the door had a peephole, which she'd forgotten to take into account. Having the marshal identify himself as FedEx by just using his voice was not going to cut it if Frank could easily check out his claim.

“You're going to have to make an appearance,” she whispered to Zeke. “In a FedEx uniform.”

“You might have mentioned that before,” he grumbled. “That's goin' to take a minute.”

Rory had no choice but to wait. She hoped that no one got off the elevator or left their apartment, because anyone who saw a stranger hanging out on their floor was sure to ask her if they could be of help. Although the question might sound polite, the intent would no doubt be to determine if the superintendant should be called or possibly even the police.

Rory nearly groaned out loud when a woman in her seventies came out of an apartment a few doors down with a little, white fluff of a dog on a leash. She gave Rory a wary smile and immediately turned to double lock her door. “All right, how's this?” Zeke said, winking into view before Rory could stop him. And of course the woman glanced Rory's way again before heading to the elevator. Only this time Rory wasn't alone. This time there was a strapping FedEx man standing beside her in the standard gray pants and black jacket.

The woman's eyebrows jumped together in alarm. “Did I . . . was he . . . I mean . . . when did . . . ,” she babbled, unable to sew a full sentence together. Rory was equally at a loss for what to say, so she just smiled as sweetly as she knew how. In the end, the dog saved the day. He whined and strained at his leash, reminding his owner that he might spring a leak if he didn't get outside in a timely manner. The woman turned away, shaking her head and still babbling under her breath as she hurried off to the elevator.

“That was almost a disaster,” Rory snapped, once she and Zeke were alone again. “What's wrong with you, appearing like that without waiting for my ‘all clear?'”

“My mistake,” Zeke mumbled. “I'm a little off my game today.”

“All right,” she relented. “I guess we all have our lapses.” The marshal didn't often apologize, and she wanted him to know it was appreciated.

“This getup is ridiculous, by the way.”

“It serves a purpose,” she said to shut down any further complaints. “Now let's get this over with before anything else goes haywire.” She pressed Frank's bell and stepped to the side, so that when he looked through the peephole he would only see a FedEx employee.

“Who is it?” Frank's tone was understandably wary, since he hadn't buzzed anyone in at the front door.

“FedEx,” Zeke said, as if he'd been on the job for years. There was a pause, during which Frank was no doubt peeking into the hall to confirm that an agent of FedEx was indeed outside his door. Then Rory heard a safety chain being disengaged, followed by two locks clicking open. When Frank opened his door, Rory was standing there front and center with no FedEx man in sight. She and the marshal had decided it would be best to leave that company out of the rest of their scheme, if they didn't fancy being sued. Besides, if Frank was confused or knocked off balance by the bait and switch it was likely to work in their favor.

“Where's the FedEx guy, and who are you?” Frank asked, looking up and down the hallway for the man he'd seen barely two seconds ago. Rory appreciated his dilemma. Not even the Road Runner could have disappeared as quickly from a jet-propelled Wile E. Coyote.

“He had to leave,” she said, as though she hadn't noticed anything strange about a person being there one moment and gone the next. “I'm Rory McCain, and we need to talk. May I come in, Frank? Great, thanks.” Asked and answered before he had a chance to utter a word. She was sidestepping past him into the apartment before he knew what was happening.

“What? What do you think you're doing?” he demanded, having to step back inside to confront her. “Oh, I get it; you're the PI investigating Matthew's death,” he muttered as if to clarify things for himself. “So the FedEx package was just a ploy to help you get past my door. Well, you have a minute to tell me what you want before I call the police.”

“I've talked to everyone else who was close to Matthew. I'm out of suspects and out of information. You're the only one who might be able to shed some new—”

Frank turned and shut the door, no doubt to prevent his neighbors from hearing what transpired in apartment 4D. “You have the nerve to force your way in here and accuse me of killing my best friend?” His dark brows had lowered menacingly over his eyes as he advanced on her. Although he was short and slight of build, Rory found herself backing away. She could feel the anger rolling off him in shock waves. “I should call the cops on you right now,” he went on, “for sneaking in here, harassing me at home and at work, collaborating with someone to pose as a FedEx employee—”

“Calm down,” Rory said, keeping her voice low, but firm. Ratcheting up hostilities wouldn't be in anyone's best interests. “I'm not here to accuse you of anything. I'm just hoping you have a piece of the puzzle that will help me find Matthew's killer. If you had been willing to talk to me on the phone, I wouldn't even be here now.” She hadn't come up to Boston because she thought he was the killer. It wasn't until she felt the raw emotion rising off him like steam that she began to think maybe he had murdered his best friend after all.

Frank lowered his voice, but his words were still throbbing with fury. “I told you the first time you called that I don't care if you catch his killer. It won't have the slightest impact on my life one way or the other. All the talking heads are wrong about closure. There is no such thing. It's just a way for psychologists to tie up their theories with pretty little bows. I've never met a single person who suffered a loss and was in anyway healed by the capture of the responsible party.”

“Believe whatever you want to believe, Frank, but please talk to me, for Anya's sake.”

“Anya has been on my mind more than you know,” he said, dropping onto a nearby chair, the anger suddenly drained from his tone, leaving it bleak and hollow. Apparently Anya was the secret password to get past the bulwark of Frank's defenses. “She's been like a second mother to me nearly all my life.” A fine sheen of tears covered his eyes, but he didn't try to blink them away.

Rory perched on the edge of the chair closest to his. “Have the police been around to question you?” she asked. Frank wagged his head, concentrating on the cuticle of his left index finger. “I can assure you they'll be here soon. When every suspect has a verifiable alibi, the next thing you do is widen the circle. I know, because I was a detective. Sooner or later you're going to have to open up to someone, Frank. Volunteering the information can only help you down the road.” He didn't look up or answer her. “Maybe there was a misunderstanding between the two of you,” she went on. “Maybe things got too heated, one thing led to another and—”

“Shut up,” Frank erupted, jumping to his feet again. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Then correct me; tell me what to believe,” she implored him. “Tell me what happened.”

He started pacing back and forth in the living room, rubbing his hand across his forehead, as if in the throes of a decision. “It should never have happened,” he said finally, coming to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room. “He didn't even give me a chance, let me try . . .” His voice trailed off, and his shoulders slumped. When he looked up again, tears were running down his cheeks, but he appeared more serene. “I'm done,” he said with a sigh so deep it rattled in his chest and seemed to leave his body depleted. For a moment Rory thought he was about to lose his balance and faint. But by the time she jumped up to steady him, he'd regained his equilibrium.