“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Heard that before.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Sydney asked hesitantly.
“Sure.”
“Where’d you get the gun?”
Antonia looked over her shoulder at Sydney. “Honey,” she said with a tired sigh, “I handle over one hundred domestic vi
olence cases each year. You don’t separate that many women from that many violent men without making sure that you can protect yourself at all times.”
L
YDIA
C
HAPIN SAT
at the vanity in the alcove of the walk-in closet that served as her dressing room. She looked around the bed
room and it surprised her how little was left of her husband. The heavy mahogany dresser and matching valet that had dominated his side of the room when he was alive had been removed within a month of his death, replaced by an antique side table less at odds with the rest of the decor. The nautical oil painting that had hung on the wall over the dresser had been similarly removed without ceremony, replaced by colorful botanical prints she found more cheerful.
It was ironic, now, that she could find no joy in the decor, and would have paid dearly for any reminder of the man she had loved. She had loved him, hadn’t she? Sometimes it seemed she had lost herself so completely in the social mechanics of their lives that she’d forgotten what real love was, but it had always been there, hadn’t it? Lurking in the background like a mist, unnoticed and often unacknowledged, but there nonetheless? She thought so, and it was from that feeling that she gained the strength, waning though it was, to do what must be done.
She reached into her dressing table and retrieved the silver box from the back of the drawer. The top of it was adorned with an ornate monogram reading “L.H.C.”—Lydia Handscome Chapin. She smiled as she remembered how excited her husband had been when he’d given it to her, and how proud she’d been the first time, during their engagement, when she’d first received a gift bearing those initials; how she felt she’d earned her place in the world.
She opened the box slowly, almost reluctantly, and then sat back, staring at the contents for a moment, steeling herself for the task ahead. Then she reached into the box, pushing aside the silk lining, and pulled out the guns.
She held them up in the light, admiring their craftsmanship. They were matching silver revolvers, smaller than most capable of handling the .38-caliber cartridges that fit into the cylinder. They’d been commissioned decades ago by her husband when, spurred by a number of old-line business associates and their wives, he and Lydia had shared a brief passion for the art of shooting. They’d started with trap and skeet, pastimes that went hand in hand with the polo and sailing and riding in which most of their circle engaged. At first they viewed it as more a social obligation than an enjoyment, but they both found themselves drawn in by the pageantry and upper-class civility of it. From trap and skeet, they’d moved to field shooting, and then, on a whim, to pistols and rifles. It had been so much fun at the time—the intoxicating combination of privilege and power surging through them with each pull of the trigger.
The thrill had worn off in time, and they’d stopped shooting altogether in the late 1970s, largely in a nod to the political correctness that was settling into many quarters in the business world. She’d kept the pistols, though, thinking of them almost more as pieces of jewelry than weapons. The craftsmanship was spectacular, and they were worth a small fortune, she knew. But would they set her free?
She picked one up and released the cylinder, breaching the gun, looking through the open chambers where the cartridges were loaded. Then she spun the cylinder once before setting the gun back down carefully in its case.
Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a box of ammunition she’d bought earlier in the day at a gun shop in Arlington. She’d been amused at the look on the face of the man behind the counter, which showed disbelief at the specific and knowledgeable request by the well-dressed, aging matron before him.
Carefully, so as not to chip a nail, she pulled out six rounds and lined them up on the vanity next to the gun. She picked them up one by one, holding each up to the light as though inspecting it for any imperfection before sliding it into one of the open chambers of the cylinder.
Once the gun was fully loaded, she closed the cylinder and latched the safety—“Safety first,” her husband had been fond of saying—before she slipped it into her purse. Then she put the second gun back in its case and slid it, together with the box of ammunition, into the top drawer of her vanity, pushing them to the back and closing it tight.
She turned and looked out into her bedroom. The furnishings and paintings she’d chosen—light and airy, with subtle hints of green and magenta on cream backgrounds—seemed depressing to her now. Lifeless. Loveless. She really did wish that she’d kept some of her husband’s things in the room after his death. Useless though they might have been, they would have at least reminded her of a life once full. And while she’d rationalized the redecoration with the notion that keeping reminders would only prolong her grief at a time when her family needed her to be strong, she was no longer certain of her decision. Now she thought that perhaps, just perhaps, having some mementos of the life she’d shared with her husband would have provided her comfort, not pain.
She sighed in a silent apology to a man dead for more than half a decade, then stood and straightened her skirt. In a voice so matter-of-fact and emotionless that it startled even her, she said out loud to herself, “Clearly, if you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.”
Then she picked up her purse and walked out of her room and downstairs.
z
Dr. Aldus Mayer sat at his desk in his plush office at the In
stitute going over work schedules, pay records, and administrative reports. He hated this type of work. There was a time when he’d actually considered himself a doctor, and that was something of which he’d been very proud. What was he now? A bureaucrat, that’s what. It made him sick. He remembered the look on his mother’s face the day he’d graduated from medical school; it combined awe, pride, and relief, and it made him feel so good. He wondered what emotions her expression would betray were she alive today.
The phone rang, and he turned toward it with a feeling of dread. This phone never carried good news.
“Aldus Mayer,” he said, picking up the phone.
“Burn the program down,” the voice said.
“Pardon me?” He knew who it was, but he couldn’t believe the message.
“You heard me, kill it.”
“All of it?”
“All of it. Records, notes, samples, everything.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” Mayer still couldn’t believe it, and he felt like his world was collapsing. “Do you know what will be lost?”
“I know what I’m saying; we have no choice. Do it.” The line went dead.
Mayer sat there for a long time, the phone still pressed up against his ear. He’d heard his instructions, but he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to carry them out.
C
HIEF
T
ORBERT WAS PACING
rapidly behind Captain Reynolds’s desk. He hadn’t said a word yet, which Train took as a bad sign.
“So, you’ve given up on the Jerome Washington angle?” Reynolds asked calmly.
“For the moment, yes,” Train answered. “So far, his alibi con
tinues to hold up. And with everything we’ve discovered and everything that’s transpired in the last few days, there are other angles we have to work. We’ve still got Washington in custody on a slew of other charges, but for the moment he looks like a bad fit for the Chapin woman’s murder.”
“When were you planning on informing us of these developments, Sergeant?” The chief’s high-pitched staccato whine broke in finally. “After you’d arrested the Senate majority leader, or before?”
Reynolds held his hand up to the chief to cut him off, and in spite of their relative rank, Torbert stifled his anger. There was no question as to who had more credibility between them. “Tell me about the Venable play,” the captain ordered.
Train took a deep breath. “As we explained, with the attack on Sydney Chapin and the suspicious death of Willie Murphy, we began to look for some sort of a connection. Venable’s father was in charge of the Institute for years, and we felt he needed to be looked at.”
“So you barge into his office and accuse him of murder?” Torbert was shouting now.
“We made an appointment,” Train said, his voice devoid of emotion. “And we accused him of nothing.”
“You might as well have!” Torbert continued to pace as the pores on his face seemed to open up and the sheen on his forehead became more pronounced. “Christ, he must’ve been on the phone to my office the minute you left, and believe me, it was not a pleasant call to take! Do you even know who he is? Do you know how much power he has?”
“That’s part of our reasoning,” Train pointed out. “It’s a part of his motive.”
“Motive! You’re talking about motive?!” Torbert’s head looked like it might burst.
“Captain,” Train said, deliberately ignoring the chief, “we’ve got to go where the evidence takes us.”
“No argument,” Reynolds agreed. “But there are always two ways to do things.” He looked up at the chief with an expression that seemed to convey the notion that he was dealing with the problem. “From now on, all contacts with Venable go through my office.”
Train frowned. “You want us to run every hunch by you.”
Reynolds shook his head. “Not every hunch. Just every hunch that implicates any of the most powerful people in the government. Like it or not, politics is a part of this job.”
“Damned right it is!” Torbert chipped in. The captain’s glare silenced him.
“What other leads do you have?”
Train rubbed his head for a moment. “The ex,” he said at last.
“Who you also spoke to, against my direct orders,” Torbert reminded him.
The captain ignored the comment. “What are your thoughts on him?”
“He’s a prince,” Train said sarcastically.
“Could he be our guy?”
“Could be. Hard to tell, but he’s definitely high on our list.”
“Anyone else?”
Train shook his head. “That’s all we’ve got right now.”
“What about this professor—what’s his name? Barneton? I gather he was seen with this nut Salvage?”
Cassian nodded. “And he was the last person to see Elizabeth Creay, too.”
“We questioned him,” Train said. “He says he’d never seen Salvage before. He thought he was a friend of Sydney’s and says he was just trying to help the guy out. We haven’t been able to find any other connection with this whole mess, and it doesn’t look like he’d even know how to find his way to someone as crooked as Salvage. We’ll keep an eye on him, but we had to cut him loose. Besides, I still think Venable’s a much more likely suspect. He’s hiding something, I just don’t know what it is.”
Reynolds nodded. “Okay. It sounds like you’ve got a bunch of possibilities to check out. We’ve got someone watching Salvage’s office, but I think it’s safe to say that he’s not going anywhere near his regular spots. Just keep me informed of everything that happens.”
Torbert stamped his foot. “But—” he began, but Reynolds cut him off.
“No buts. These men are doing their jobs, and doing them well. Like I said, we’ll run all official government contacts through this office from now on, but I’m not going to cripple this investigation.”
The chief looked as though he might cry as he stormed out of the office.
“What an asshole,” Cassian commented as the door closed.
“Stow it, Cassian. That asshole’s still your boss,” Reynolds said. “More to the point, he’s still my boss. And he had some valid concerns. You boys are swimming in some deep waters here, and you’d better understand that there are some big fucking sharks swimming with you.” His face turned grim. “How sure are you about Venable’s involvement in this?”
Train shrugged. “We won’t know until we’ve had a chance to dig through the documents Sydney Chapin pulled from the lawsuit this Willie Murphy character was involved with.”
“Then get to it, and fast. You think this was any kind of a real shitstorm, you’re wrong. This was a passing shower. The longer you keep Venable’s name alive in this without finding something concrete, the harder it’s gonna come down, and the umbrella I’m holding over your heads is already gettin’ pretty fuckin’ heavy.”
z
Sydney pushed her chair back from the table in the interro
gation room at the precinct house, rubbing her eyes as she stretched her neck against fatigue. They’d been through every piece of paper she’d printed out from the PACER system— every pleading, every motion, and every court filing.
“Nothing,” she said, the frustration sounding in her voice.
“Nothing,” Cassian repeated, trying to keep his own disappointment at bay.
“There’s got to be something,” Train said, more open with his annoyance. “We must’ve missed it.”
“Well, if there’s anything that ties something specific back to Venable’s father, I can’t find it,” Sydney grumbled. “Look, it’s sometimes difficult to figure out any specifics in a class action like this. Willie Murphy was the named plaintiff in the case, but he’s meant to represent the entire class of plaintiffs—everyone who was mistreated at the Institute. His lawyer was careful to keep the allegations limited and general. All the complaint says is that Willie was kept against his will unlawfully, and that he was mistreated while in custody. There are no specific allegations about any of the individuals responsible for the abuse.”
“How about in the papers that followed the complaint?” Train asked.
“There are a couple of other papers and motions, but they’re mainly procedural. Then there’s a motion to dismiss and some briefing on both sides of the issue, but that, again, is a legal debate.”