The White Carnation (3 page)

“If the Harvester's moved on, he'll be Pierce's problem and not necessarily ours. We've got a backlog of cases to investigate. The Harvester isn't the only sick son of a bitch in Boston. We did our job just fine before Pierce came along. I don't like him. You can't trust a man who doesn't know how to iron a shirt,” Tom stated blandly as the elevator doors opened.

Rob laughed at his partner and punched his arm. “That maxim probably includes us, tough guy. Fiona irons yours, and I have mine laundered. I'll admit the guy's strange and won't make the cover of
GQ
, but he gets the job done.”

“I know. I don't have to like him, I just have to work with him, but there's something about him that rubs me the wrong way. He's a cocky bastard. So who are we going to see?”

“Lucy Green. She was Faye's friend's mother. The woman was as nice as they come. I met her at our engagement party. She lived in one of the brownstones on Marlborough—not high society, but close. This is the last thing I need on my plate.”

“Like my father used to say, you're in it up to your eyeballs, and then someone dumps another load of shit on you.”

“Do all of your dad's sayings revolve around crap?”

“Probably.” Tom chuckled. “My old man worked on Boston's sewage system. What do you expect?”

Rob shook his head. The blaring siren did nothing to stop his mind from going into overdrive. The last time he'd seen Faye, they'd had a hell of an argument, and she'd thrown her diamond ring in his face. He fingered the small scar on his chin where the stone had cut him.

• • •

Twenty minutes later, the unmarked police sedan pulled up behind the black and white outside the brownstone. The paramedics were parked farther along the street, just ahead of the police car, reducing traffic to a single lane. The coroner's van pulled up behind them. Rob got out and approached the coroner.

“Amos, I didn't expect to see you here so soon. I called for a bus, not the meat wagon.”

“Paramedics were nearby so Logan got here quickly. He radioed in—exsanguination due to a lacerated throat. He's still up there. Nothing he can do for the victim, but your fiancée is taking it hard.”

“The victim was like a second mother to her.”

Your fiancée
—Amos's words were true once, but never again. There was no way Rob would hitch his wagon to a woman who could believe he'd betray her like that, a woman who'd put her job so far ahead of him, he'd barely been on her radar at times. The sex had been great, but love was supposed to be more than that. Still, she'd reached out to him. He took the stairs to the brownstone two at a time, his lean, muscular body having no problem with the climb. He flashed his badge at the officer who stood guarding the door. “Anyone showing any interest?”

“No, Detective. According to the concierge, the people in number five are in Europe, and I don't think the rest of the residents are home from work yet. Looks like a robbery—the place has been tossed pretty good—and there's no damage to the door, so she must have let them in. Logan says her throat's been slit from behind.”

“Where's Ms. Lewis?”

“In the living room with Logan. He wanted to take her to the ER—claims she's in shock. I told him she had to stay put until you arrived. He's pissed at me. Says I'm interfering with his job. He seems pretty friendly with her. I heard she's some big shot investigative reporter.” He chuckled. “Some crime reporter—she's puked a couple of times already.” He continued to laugh. Rob's face must have reflected the anger moving to the surface because the guard choked it off.

“Rick Logan is one of the best paramedics we have. For the record, McMillan,” Rob read the nameplate on the policeman's uniform, “the next time he says someone has to go the ER, you'd better damn well listen to him. And as for Ms. Lewis, the victim was a personal friend. It's different when the victim's someone you know.” His voice was clipped, his displeasure obvious.

Rob turned and entered the apartment. He'd learned the need to remain objective in order to do the job properly, but as he'd told the young officer, it was different when it was personal. Not only had the victim been an acquaintance, Faye was in there. He swallowed and tried to find the emotional distance he needed.

The place was a mess, just as the officer had said. He looked around quickly, his trained eye taking in everything in an instant—the wallet on the table, money on the floor mixed with the victim's blood, the take-out bag, Faye's purse and its scattered contents. Whatever this had been, it hadn't been a routine robbery. Someone had been looking for something other than the usual snatch and grab items, so what were they after? What could Mrs. Green have that was worth dying for?

He found Faye sitting on the living-room sofa with Logan. Her face was red and blotchy, her blue-green eyes mascara-rimmed from her tears, and her clothing disheveled and covered in blood. She stood and moved forward, stopping before she reached him. Wrapping her arms around herself, she looked young and vulnerable, not a bit like the bitter, angry woman she'd been the last time he'd seen her.

“I'll take it from here, Logan. Thanks for staying with her.” Rob's voice was strong and steady, completely the opposite of the way he felt. Seeing her like this shook him to the core.

“No problem. Get her out of here as soon as you can. Don't be too hard on her tonight. I know you need answers, but …” Logan shrugged and went into the other room.

“Are you okay?” Rob asked.

Faye closed the distance between them quickly, surprising him with the violence of her action as she shoved him back.

“Am I okay?” she shouted. “You can stand there and ask me that with my friend's mother dead in the other room?” She punctuated her words with a shove. “No, I am
not
okay. I am most definitely
not
okay.” Fresh tears ran down her cheeks, and Rob instinctively reached for her to offer what comfort he could. She held herself stiffly for a few seconds before relaxing into his shoulder.

“I didn't mean it that way,” he said, feeling like a fool. Holding her like this felt awkward and yet familiar. “I'm sorry for your loss.” His hand rubbed small circles on her back as he'd done many times before. “Home invasions don't always make sense. There's no sign of forced entry, so she must have let him in.”

Faye pushed away, her anger palpable.

“Seriously? Home invasion, my ass. Look around, Sherlock. Home invasions usually involve some kind of theft. Do you see anything worth stealing? The television is twenty years old, and it's still here. The silverware is scattered all over, and she's still wearing her rings. There's money on the table. She had nothing worth taking. Nothing they wanted. Nothing worth dying for.”

Faye's crying increased, fueled by her frustrated rage, making it almost impossible for him to understand her words. He tried to pull her back into his arms, but she refused to let him hold her. Admitting defeat, he put his arm across her shoulders and led her out of the room.

“Come on. Let's get you out of here. There's nothing more you can do. Amos and Logan need to get the body ready for transfer, and the lab guys are on their way up.”

He hurried her out of the apartment and down the stairs, remembering her phobia of that particular elevator. They walked out to the street where the crowds were beginning to form. It was early evening in Beacon Hill on a Friday night. Many of her residents wouldn't make it home for hours yet.

“Tom, get a ride back with the black and white,” he yelled at his partner, who was questioning the concierge. That guy would probably be looking for a new job come Monday. The rest of the condo owners wouldn't be impressed with a home invasion and a death on his watch. Rob opened the sedan's passenger door and helped her in. Faye automatically buckled her seat belt, as the tears spilled down her cheeks.

Rob walked around the vehicle and got in behind the wheel.

“Where are you taking me?” From her tone, he could tell she didn't really care. She knew he'd have questions, and she was probably grateful he'd chosen to ask them elsewhere. But she'd never admit it. Her color wasn't good, and she shivered. He turned on the heater even though the temperature outside was in the mid-sixties. Despite what the officer on the door had said, for a crime reporter, she'd never had much of a stomach, and seeing Lucy that way would have been a shock.

“Home. I should probably take you to the ER, but knowing how much you hate hospitals, there isn't any point in making things worse for you. You can answer my questions in the comfort of your own living room, sitting on that god-awful buttercream leather sofa you love so much. By the way, you haven't moved, have you?”

He recognized bitterness in her chuckle.

“No, my career may be in flames, my finances worse, but my real estate is sound. The couch is gone.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her words but didn't comment. Things must be bad if she'd parted with that damn custom-made couch. “Where'd you park the Camaro?”

“It's gone, too. My Ford's a half block down.”

“I won't miss the couch, but that Camaro was your baby. Why get rid of it?”

“It didn't match my shoes,” she spat out bitterly.

“Don't chew my head off. You called me, remember?”

Faye nodded, gave him the license plate number, and he radioed it in, making arrangements to have her vehicle towed to the police station for collection tomorrow.

The only sound she made during their twenty-minute ride to her East Cambridge condo was the
sup-sup
hiccupping he expected from someone who'd wept the way she had. Rob tried to ignore the wretched sound tearing at him. He wanted to curse and swear at her for all the pain she'd caused him, ask her how she could've believed he'd do something so despicable. But seeing her like this, broken and bereft, the way she'd been the night they'd met, touched a small corner of his heart he didn't know still existed. You didn't kick someone when they were down no matter how angry you were. This was the woman he'd loved, the one he'd planned to spend his life with. That dream might've been shattered, but he'd still find the man who'd done this and make him pay.

Rob drove down the ramp into the underground parking lot for the converted factory that housed half a dozen lofts and a few shops on the ground level and parked in a visitors' spot. Together, they climbed the two flights of stairs to her condo. He waited as she unlocked the door and preceded him inside.

The first thing he noticed was how bare the room looked. Her collection of Depression-era glass that had filled the étagère in the corner was gone, as were the original folk-art prints that had adorned the walls. The leather couch and chair had been replaced by a cheaper fabric-covered set in dark green. He'd forgotten her demotion would have come with a cut in pay. How many of her treasures had she been forced to sell?

Faye hung her coat on the hook in the hall and walked into the living room. She stared at him as if she blamed him for everything that had happened, and, he supposed, in a way, she was right. She claimed the damn file had been on his desk, and even though he'd never seen it, she believed he'd torpedoed her career. He'd been too angry and hurt to investigate her allegations, and after she'd broken off the engagement, he hadn't seen the point. If she could believe he'd do that to her …

“Can I change?” She looked down at her blood-covered clothes.

“Take a shower. I'll make you some tea, but give me the clothes. I'll need them for evidence.”

“Don't bother bringing them back.”

She walked away from him toward her bedroom and its en suite bathroom. Moving into the kitchen, he filled the kettle and set the water to boil. In the year they'd been apart, nothing had been moved, but many things had changed. He reached for the box of tea bags—they were a cheaper brand than the ones she'd favored before. Opening the fridge to get the milk, he stared at the bare shelves, the generic yogurt, and the lack of fresh fruit and vegetables.
Margarine? She hates margarine.
He opened the freezer and saw hamburger and a couple of packages of chicken, but even it was almost bare. Where was the Rocky Road? She always had her favorite ice cream on hand.

The kettle whistled, and he turned off the burner. Pouring the boiling water into the brown teapot as she'd taught him to do, he rinsed it, poured the water out, and then added the tea bags and refilled it. He set it on the tray on the counter to steep. Opening the cupboard to get a mug, his hand froze when he saw the red, ceramic,
Who loves you, baby?
mug he'd given her, and he let sadness wash over him. Why had she kept it? He'd given it to her with the diamond ring she'd returned tucked inside it. He grabbed a yellow mug and slammed the cupboard door. Knowing how she felt about him now, she'd probably forgotten he'd given it to her in the first place.

When he heard her bare feet slap the oak floor, he picked up the tray that held the teapot, milk, and mug, and returned to the open-concept living room/dining room. He set the tray on the coffee table.

Faye entered the room at the same time he did. She looked like a lost little girl in the oversized Patriots jersey and pink plaid pajama pants she wore. Her bare feet, toenails painted hot pink, poked out of the bottoms. She dropped a plastic bag on the floor near the hall table, walked over to the green tweed wingback chair, and sat in it, curling her feet up under her.

She'd pulled her wet hair away from her face into a loose ponytail. When it was loose, her hair curled slightly and reached midway down her back. How he'd loved running his hands through her silky tresses. Her complexion, so fair she could get sunburn in the shade, was blotchy now, the freckles she hated standing out against the translucent skin. Her expressive eyes, sometimes blue, more often green, were shadowed as if she'd been losing sleep. Was she still haunted by nightmares? She was thinner than he remembered, her cheekbones more prominent.