The White Carnation (2 page)

“It's deer musk. It's supposed to attract them,” he said defensively, and Faye wrinkled her nose.

“I find it repulsive. I guess that proves I'm not a deer.”

The young photographer had joined the staff of the
Boston Examiner
a little more than two years ago. He'd been her shadow for almost a year until the debacle that cost her a spot on the crime beat. Now, he joined her as often as he could, but there really wasn't anything too exciting in the world of dog shows or debutantes. Faye pitied him because he reminded her of what it was like to be on the outside looking in. He was the odd man out, just as she was now.

Jimmy made her somewhat uncomfortable in close quarters; he was zealous about his work but far too serious and opinionated for some of the other reporters. After he'd spurned Tina's advances, she'd been quite vocal in her opposition to working with him, but Sloan, to his credit, knew a good thing and refused to listen to her complaints. Tina had backed down, and she and Jimmy appeared to be enjoying an uneasy truce.

Faye smiled. “Well, good luck with Bambi. Maybe next time you can come with me, but you'll have to reconsider your wardrobe.”

“I heard you got promoted to the society page.”

“I'd hardly call it a promotion … more like a lateral move.” She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled.

“I'll have to dig through my wardrobe and find fancier duds to wear.” Leaning over her shoulder, he jerked his head toward the pad of paper where she'd jotted Lucy's name and number. “Is that the name of the lucky bride? Sounds pretty normal for a high-society chick. Whose she marrying, some ‘the third' dude?”

Faye laughed. “That's just an old friend's number. The happy couple have names suitable to their lofty backgrounds.” She turned, tore off the sticky note, and shoved it in her purse. “Since I won't need you, feel free to accompany Tina to the dog show. Maybe some cute little Chihuahua will take a bite out of her. That would make an excellent picture.”

“Maybe I should spray a little ‘eau de steak' on her to help the puppy along,” he said.

“You wouldn't!”

“Probably not. The pup might catch something.”

Faye shook her head. “You're bad. Have fun with your nature shoot. See you on Monday.” She grabbed her purse and waved as she headed out of the reporters' room.

Stopping at the bathroom to touch up her makeup, she frowned as she took in the navy slacks, white shirt, and navy and white striped jacket she wore. Jimmy's wardrobe wasn't the only one that needed a facelift. This wasn't exactly the designer outfit one usually wore to high-society teas, but hell, she'd be there to work, right? She stuck out her tongue at her reflection and headed out to her car. Too bad the tea wasn't being dumped in the harbor. That would be a story worth reporting.

• • •

After more than four hours of hobnobbing with the rich and not-so-famous, Faye was hot, tired, and exasperated. The engagement tea had been even worse than she'd imagined. Clowns—they'd had clowns—and she hated clowns. You never knew who was behind that pasty white makeup. What kind of adults used a kiddy theme for their engagement party? Alright, so the groom's family was in the home party décor business. What difference did that make? There had to be hundreds of themes more suitable to the occasion.

Imagine that snooty little bitch thinking she was the help—it might be the society page, but press was press. Thank God she wasn't one of
them
anymore. Sure, the money, clothes, and bling were nice—although Faye wasn't penniless, she did have to pinch the ones she had—but at least she had a valid reason for getting out of bed each day. Hopefully, Abigail and Reginald would be happy, but she wouldn't count on it. If ever there was a marriage arranged in the boardroom, that was it. Imagining that couple on their wedding night as they completed the merger made her laugh out loud in the car. Miss Ice Cube wouldn't possibly warm up enough for Mr. Icicle to penetrate in the first place … clowns or no clowns.

She slapped the steering wheel in frustration. The drive from Wellesley to Beacon Hill seemed interminable, and more than once, Faye cursed inept drivers who didn't know the least little bit about driving or where they were going. She hated being late, and thanks to overlong speeches and bad traffic, she would be.

“Tourists,” she grumbled when a sudden exit off the highway almost caused an accident. “Too bad GPS doesn't come with idiot-proofing.” When she eventually got off the I-90 and onto the side streets, she spotted a parking space on Marlborough only half a block from Mary's family home, a neighborhood she remembered fondly from her youth.
Well, at least the parking fairy's on my side.

Glancing at the heavy gray clouds on the horizon, she cursed. It would rain soon, and she'd forgotten her umbrella in her desk. This jacket needed to be dry-cleaned, and she'd already blown this month's budget for that. Grabbing the white carnation with the rainbow ribbon that her secret admirer had left on the windshield this morning, she got out of the car. That flower was the only bright spot in her otherwise dismal day. As always, there'd been no card. The individual flowers, their stems tucked in micro-vases that held the precious water they needed, arrived on a more or less regular basis. This was the fourth—no, the fifth one. Sloan had joked about the first one.

“Maybe O'Malley learned you hate roses.”

Jerk!

She was convinced her secret admirer was sweet and maybe a little shy. For a while, she'd thought Jimmy might have been leaving the flowers for her, but he'd been out of town on assignment the last two times. At least Mr. Mysterious wasn't some crazed stalker sending her death threats. It was good to know someone still admired her, and if the only romance in her life was a carnation four or five times a year, so be it. Her crushed heart wouldn't be in any danger that way. She usually took the flowers home, but this time, she'd give it to Lucy Green. Why not? The woman deserved a bright spot in her day, too.

The neighborhood hadn't changed much. Did someone ensure that the geraniums in the window boxes looked exactly the same from year to year? Was a gardener paid to fluff the petals just so? The geraniums she'd hung on her tiny balcony had more than one dead bloom that needed removing. These? Not one.

The Greens lived in a unit on the top floor of a renovated brownstone. As she walked toward the building that had practically been her second home, Faye tried to let go of her frustrations and think of the simpler, happier days when she'd lived just a few blocks away. That had been fifteen years ago; Faye had been sixteen when her life had changed forever. She'd been the fun-loving one, the one people sought when they were down.

“Forgive me. I'm sorry.” God, she hated those words, the last ones her father had penned. She'd trusted him to love her and protect her, but he'd let her down. After one too many bad financial decisions, instead of sticking around and trying to fix things, Dad had taken the easy way out and left her and her mother to pick up the pieces. “Trust no one but yourself” was Faye's mantra. Sadly, she'd forgotten it four years ago when she'd met Rob, and look at what had happened.

Today, her career was on life support and her heart was broken into so many pieces, she doubted it would ever be whole again. Sometimes, the easy way out didn't look so bad. Maybe she was more like her father than she thought. She'd certainly made a few bad decisions of her own.

She brushed at a stain on her white blouse. It wasn't that she hadn't deserved a slap on the wrist. She should have known better than to print something without verifying her sources, even if that source had seemed rock solid. No one cared how much she'd lost, how much she'd been hurt in the process. The picture of Rob she'd glimpsed in the album earlier in the day floated before her eyes, and she batted her eyelashes to hold back the tears that suddenly formed. You never knew who was going to betray you.

Mary's parents lived in a three-bedroom condo, one she'd visited regularly all through her school years, even after she and her mother had been forced to leave their Beacon Hill home for more affordable accommodations. She'd come here a thousand times—spending more time at Mary's than she had at home. Turning onto the walkway, she was halfway up the steps when a man in a dark hoodie barreled through the door, knocked her down a step, and yanked her purse from her shoulder, forcing the blossom out of her hand. By the time she grabbed the railing to steady herself, he'd reached the sidewalk, and all she could see was the logo from a popular bistro on his back.

“Hey! Watch it,” she cried, but instead of stopping, the guy ran up the street. “Jerk!” she shouted after him. “I'm going to call your boss and get your sorry ass fired.”

At least he didn't rob me.
She bent down to retrieve her favorite peacock-blue handbag, cursing when she saw the shoulder strap was broken. Grabbing the carnation off the cement stoop, she tucked the damaged bag securely under her arm and entered the lobby. As she crossed the foyer, she made a face at the ancient cage-style elevator that carried unwary passengers up to the next levels. She and Mary had spent seven hours trapped between floors when they were seventeen, and Faye had refused to get back in the death trap ever since. Even riding in elevators in modern buildings took an extra dose of courage.

She checked her watch. It was almost half past five. Her message had said she'd be there after four. Well, she hadn't lied, and if Mrs. Green wasn't home, at least Faye'd had a nice walk down memory lane. Maybe she'd drive past her old house and rub a little more salt in her wounds.

Faye crossed the foyer to the stairs. By the time she reached the third floor, she had to admit she was out of shape. She'd had to give up her gym membership months ago because of her reduction in pay.

She opened the door to the third floor. Unlike some of the low rises she visited as a reporter, there were no lingering odors of garlic and fish in these pristine hallways. The floor was covered in a thick, taupe carpet to muffle the sound of footsteps, and the cream-colored paint on the walls was clean and fresh. There were six apartments in the building, two units per floor. The Greens occupied the left unit.

Every hair on Faye's body stood on end as she approached the oak door. It was open. Mrs. Green never left the door open. The woman double- and triple-locked everything. The last time she'd been here—was it really two years ago?—it had taken forever for the woman to undo the locks and let her in.

“Mrs. Green, are you there? It's Faye.” She pushed open the door and the unmistakable scent of blood—that slightly sour, coppery scent she'd never forget—greeted her. She swallowed a scream. The place was a disaster: furniture overturned, papers, books, CDs, and DVDs littering the floor. There, amidst the chaos, lay Mary's mother, the jagged red line along her throat testifying to her death.

Faye dropped the flower and damaged purse, some of the contents spilling out and landing in the pool of blood—a tube of lipstick, a pack of gum, a roll of breath mints—strange sprinkles on the deep red surface. The pristine white petals of the carnation soaked up the redness, adding to the eeriness. She ran to the powder room and threw herself on her knees barely in time to spew what was left of her cucumber and watercress sandwiches into the toilet. The pungent, sour aroma of vomit filled the room. Tears tracked down her cheeks. The gut wrenching heaves that followed brought up bile and left her exhausted. She sat back on her heels, trying to control her anguish. With a shaking hand, she pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed a familiar number.

“Homicide, Rob Halliday.” The voice was tired, bored, resigned.

“Rob, it's Faye. She's dead. Lucy Green's dead. There's so much blood. Someone's murdered Mary's mother.”

“Where are you?” Rob was all business, as if there were no painful history between them. Deep down, she knew this no-nonsense, professional side of him was what she needed, why she'd called him and not 9-1-1.

“Third floor, seventeen thirty-seven Marlborough. It's in Beacon Hill.”

“I know where the damn street is, Faye. Stay there, and don't touch anything. I'm on my way.”

“Tom,” Rob yelled across the bullpen as he ended the call. “Forget supper and grab a candy bar. Let's go. We've got a possible homicide in Beacon Hill.”

He lifted the phone handset on his desk and pushed two buttons. “It's Halliday, badge number two three seven six. I need a bus at seventeen thirty-seven Marlborough. Send a black and white and a forensic team as well. The crime scene's on the third floor. There's a witness there, Faye Lewis. She found the body.” He hung up.

He grabbed his Sig Sauer from the bottom drawer, placed it in his shoulder holster, and picked up his trench coat from the back of his chair. “Faye. Christ, how much worse can this week get? Thank God it's Friday.”

“I heard that.” Tom Adams approached the desk, dragging on his coat. “How long's it been?”

“Since I've seen her? Fourteen months, three weeks, and six days—but who's counting?”

He glared at his partner, daring him to comment, but the man was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Rob tossed him the keys. “You drive.”

“You must be rattled,” Tom said, pressing the button for the garage on the elevator panel. “The last time you let me drive, you had the flu and couldn't keep your eyes open. So what gives? I find it hard to believe the prospect of seeing the lovely Ms. Lewis is the only thing to blame.”

“It's Pierce and the Harvester. I don't get it. The three of us have been working our asses off on that case for over a year now, and we've gotten nowhere. Pierce thinks maybe the Harvester moved on or found a better method of disposal—hell of a thing if he has. While you were in court today, I've been staring at those pictures again, and there's something about them—something that's important, but I just can't see it. It's as if my brain refuses to cooperate.”