All in One Piece (23 page)

He shakes his head. “Hell, it could’ve been me. Diablo was nearly out of control when Steve called. It was a good thing he
had his phone. I jumped out of bed and raced up there. He’d managed to get the horse back to the barn. It must have been two
a.m. by then. I parked down the road and walked in so Mother wouldn’t wake up. We cooled Diablo down and sprayed him with
an antibiotic. But we forgot to test his reaction to the spray, that aerosol hiss. It spooked him all over again, and, oh
Lord, we had a fight on our hands in the stall that night. Wonder we both weren’t ki—… badly injured.”

He flexes his fingers, winces. “If I have scars, it’s my own fault. But Diablo… no animal deserves to suffer from an
owner’s negligence. Steve felt terrible. So did I. So do I at this very minute.” Drew looks me in the eye. “For the first
time I can remember, Steve was the one in trouble, and I helped out.”

I search my memory for the image of Steven’s hands, which were unblemished, I’m sure of it. Not a mark on either hand. “But
you both must have been injured.” I say this in a neutral tone, testing.

“Steve took a couple kicks in the gut, but he had a heavy jacket and gloves. I made him keep them on. No point both of us
getting hurt. You see, Steve planned to tell my mother in person, but he didn’t—hadn’t told her. And a couple days later,
he was, I mean, it was… too late.”

He looks desolate. “My mother is a wonderful person and one tough cookie. I have to tell her about all this in person, but
I’m going to take the rap, say that I took Diablo out that night. This is for Steve’s memory. Whatever she wants to dish out,
I’ll take it. I want somebody to know the real truth. Better a stranger. You’re my dress rehearsal. Here, let me—” He refills
my glass as if pouring champagne. “I hope you’re not offended.”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you.” He bites his lip. “So when Dad talked about the memorial service, Ms. Cutter, I knew the one thing to memorialize,
the stable and the horses. I’ll do my damnedest to pay tribute. I’ll be honored.”

Drew signals the end of the interview, but I absolutely must find out more about Corsair. Jo’s deal with Steven was off the
books, but a third party might be involved. Twenty-five years with a businessman taught me a few tricks.

“Drew, since Corsair employees will attend the service, how about a word on Steven as a coworker? Shouldn’t someone commemorate
him as a financial analyst? Who could present that message? Someone on the list here?” I reach for the envelope.

“No, not those names.” He shakes his head. “Best not to stir up old trouble over employee favoritism. I’ll do it. Let me take
the usual flak as the founder’s son. I can fold in some tributes to Steve’s work.” His jaws work the gum. “Suppose I say this:
Steve was the hub of my operation here at Corsair.”

“Hub? That’s impressive.”

Drew’s voice becomes low and intense. “A special group of our investors swore by Steve Damelin. If he was high on a company
and posted a buy, then our clients made money. Steve wasn’t a celebrity analyst. You never saw him on TV. But in his low-key
way, he was a star. We’re reassigning his clients, but Steve’s irreplaceable.

“Forgive me if I sound like a promo video, Ms. Cutter. I don’t want Steve’s memory tarnished by anybody thinking darker thoughts.
You’re thinking, ‘What dark thoughts?’ Right? Rivalries. Jealousies. Not every broker here relied on Steve’s work. Some were
scared. A few made remarks about Steve seeing daylight through cracks in the wall—”

“What wall?”

“The Chinese wall.”

C
hinese wall.” My palms flare with sweat. “What Chinese wall?”

His smile curls with condescension. “It’s a Wall Street saying. It’s about security precautions.”

“Why Chinese?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just a term. It’s so nobody can profit from insider information about deals, like mergers or
hot new products. The way it works, the investment bankers are kept separate from the traders in a firm. The Chinese wall
… in practical terms, it means separate computer servers, paper shredders, even segregated trash pickups. And totally
different staff.”

“Makes perfect sense,” I manage to say, though my ears ring with the one word ricocheting inside my head—
Chinese, Chinese, Chinese.
The Great Wall of my apartment door, if I ever learn what the blood marks mean. Pull yourself together, Reggie. “So you’re
saying that Steven’s success as an analyst prompted suspicion that he breached the Chinese wall.”

“Had access to insider information so that traders could recommend stocks almost certain to gain sharply. This would be a
felony. People go to prison for insider trading. The NASD monitors us. That’s the National Association of Securities Dealers.
They’re our watchdog group. And the rules are tightening. It’s high time. Too many analysts have been working for themselves,
not their clients. A few can spoil it for everybody else.”

“So enforcement is increasing.”

“Breach that wall, heavy hitters come after you, district attorneys, the Justice Department. That’s why I don’t want anybody
in a church pew to start thinking about shoptalk rumors in the middle of the service for Steve.”

This is my now-or-never moment to show Drew the scrawled sheet from the mantel. I hold back, however, because there’s contradiction
in the air. Drew describes two opposing Steven Damelins—the beloved Wise Counselor, and the Envied Hotshot Analyst. He makes
no effort to bridge the two but eyes the envelope now going into my purse, the envelope prepared for me. “No need to use a
list for somebody to speak about Steve’s work, Ms. Cutter. I’ll do it. I’ll find the way.” We rise, shake hands. He escorts
me to the door with the practiced touch of a gentleman.

Which of the names on Andrew Vogler’s list would volunteer information about Steven and the Chinese wall? Whiplashed on a
subway seat, I note Justin Arveny of Wakefield, Melanie Bracktip of Medford, Bailey Crissenforker of Somerville… and
on down to Zannocki, Roland R., on Beacon Street here in Boston.

Do these Corsair coworkers have bits of information that could be pieced together to help solve Steven’s murder? Would they
provide useful information—or merely leap to squeeze the juice of sour grapes? Corsair gossip says that the landlady found
Steven’s body, so somebody knows my name.

Is the killer on these mailing labels?

Or am I making too much of office jealousy? Drew Vogler couldn’t have been nicer.

Resist courtesy’s seductions, Reggie. Andrew spoke under pressure, manners don’t guarantee candor, and a coat and tie can
camouflage a killer. Face this: it’s possible that I just talked to Steven’s murderer on the seventeenth floor of a Boston
office high-rise.

Is everybody but my dog a suspect? Back home, Biscuit jumps to greet me and trots to the fireplace hearth where Leonard Vogler’s
applewood is neatly stacked. Vogler yet again. “Biscuit, I ought to make a roaring autumn fire and burn the Vogler wood to
ashes.” Odd, the wood makes a soft crackling right now. Biscuit sniffs and paws it. Probably it’s still drying.

“Come on, girl, we’re going for a walk. We’re going to fax a list to Detective Maglia and stop at Tsakis Brothers. You get
a cookie, and I’ll get a take-out dinner.” In fact, I’ll get a few minutes with Ari and George, a friendly few minutes of
genuine neighborhood warmth.

“You take grapefruits, Mees Reggie. Sweet as honey, fresh today from Texas. And a chicken. We cook the chicken for you. Biscuit,
you have extra cookie, yes?”

Yes. Back home by five with the grocery bag, I’m in the foyer fumbling with my key when I notice a small brown-wrapped package.
A piece of mail I’ve missed? It’s addressed to me, with no return address. Statue of Liberty stamps march in a line, but I
see no cancellation mark. With the groceries put away, I slit the wrapper and find a little bright yellow paperback,
The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook.
This book’s been everywhere in stores these past few years. It’s now a series. Flip it over. The back cover lists the contents:

* “How to Fend off a Shark”

* “How to Jump from a Moving Car”

* “How to Identify a Bomb”

* “How to Survive If Your Parachute Fails to Open”

A cute novelty book. Fan the pages… there’s no card, just plenty of illustrations. On one page, a man sinks in quicksand.
In another, he flees a swarm of killer bees. In a third, an automobile nears a pool of water with live electrical power lines.
“How to Escape from a Mountain Lion.” “How to Win a Sword Fight.” “How to Avoid Being Struck by Lightning.”

Who sent it? One of my old Chicago friends dispatching a gag gift? Doubtful. Molly or Jack? No, for a variety of reasons,
not my kids. Marty? Forget it, my ex would slap me with a lien, not a book.

Stark?—not a man to throw away money for novelties.

In moments, the list is exhausted. Then I see it, the torn-off notepaper tucked inside. It says “You’re going to need this.”
The words are cut out and glued on, a little crooked. There’s no signature and no initials. “You’re going to need this.” I
raise it to my nose and sniff. Odorless. Turn it over. Glue has puckered the paper. I flip through the book some more. “How
to Escape from a Sinking Car,” “How to Survive Adrift at Sea.”

I’m at sea. My neck is warm, palms damp. A bad joke at the end of a long day, that’s what it is. In bad taste. Cruel.

Unless it’s not a joke. Then what? At my feet, Biscuit looks up and whines. I reach down to scratch her head. The thermostat
is at seventy, but I shiver.

You’re going to need

I walk to the windows.

going to need

Outside, a neighbor comes from her car with a stadium cushion and blanket.

need this.

I go room to room, patrol the apartment, clutch the book. Is it a threat to warn or terrorize me? Of course, it’s caught me
off guard, rattled me. But whoever sent this “worst-case scenario” doesn’t know whom they’re dealing with. A survivor can
use a survival guide. I won’t flinch, I’ll use it. Damn right I will. “How to Survive an Avalanche.” “Survive… in the
Line of Gunfire.” I won’t buckle. I’ll read it cover-to-cover on high alert. I’ll be ready. I’ll be waiting.

N
o joke, Mom. It means corpse or death trap or—get this—pineapple.”

“You’re telling me the blood marks on my… on Steven Damelin’s upstairs door are Chinese characters for—”

“Hawaiian fruit, or else corpse or a death trap, which sounds just right for a murder victim’s door, don’t you think? Tom’s
sorry for the delay. He says people disagree about the characters because handwriting can be messy. Think of Jack’s scrawl.”

“He’s not Chinese. We’re not Chi—”

“Mom, are you having a low-watt day? I’ll mail you back the photo. Stay safe. Jack and I worry about you.”

“Molly, tell your brother I got a survival guide yesterday. I can jump from a moving car or wrestle an alligator or outwit
a bear. Bye for now.”

Exhale, Reggie. Shield your children from fears for your safety. Shield yourself too. A bloody door and noir gag gift do not
constitute bodily harm—yet. Perhaps it’s only a prank. And the car that ran me down, was that a prank? Stark is outside exercising
Biscuit, but so far, the handbook-cum-note is my secret. It might have come from that kid, the messenger dispatched by Alex
Ribideau. Or any member of the Vogler-Comber clan. Is mother Eleanor in league with son Drew?

Or how about cabbie Charlie Damelin, furious when Steven denied him financing for the Hummer hearse, then newly angry at the
nosy Boston landlady? Doubtful, yes, but not out of the question. Surely it couldn’t be Luis Diaz. The handbook’s too cunning.
Of course, it could be from an unknown assailant, that four-cylinder cop term for “not a clue.” Maybe it’s somebody Steven
picked up, dated briefly and fatally—but not before learning about Helping Hand and the link to the occupant of the lower
floor of 27 Barlow Square.

What is, or was, Helping Hand? It’s Steven’s connection to Jo—and to my bloody door. What kind of business? The bright morning
sunlight mocks the grinding in my stomach. If only the
Survival Handbook
taught how to breach or scale a Chinese wall. Or explained how a man can suffer multiple stab wounds and be nailed like upholstery
to a hardwood floor—and yet drown.

Or why.

Neither Maglia nor Devaney has notified me of an arrest in the case. Nor hinted at the identity of the prime suspect or suspects.
There’s nothing about arrests on TV or in the
Globe
.

My best strategy is the memorial service. As planner, I can get more names and probe Steven’s other relationships. Trudy Pfaeltz
saw him at curbside in the early a.m. with luggage. Where did he go?

“Reverend Welch? This is Reggie Cutter… Fine, thanks. I’m calling to set the date for the service for Steven Damelin.”
The minister suggests the Wednesday before Veterans Day weekend. An ecumenical service, we agree.

“Our church reception room is available for refreshments too. And, Reggie, won’t you plan to say a few words in the spirit
of your Aunt Jo? The staff from the Big Buddies program will surely attend. And young Luis Diaz… perhaps he’ll speak
too.”

“Perhaps he will, Reverend Welch, if he’s free.”

“All Souls would love to see you, Reggie. It’s my pitch for the spirit—when the Lord isn’t calling me to get bids from roofers.
Stay in touch.”

Stark’s still out with Biscuit, so I call Margaret Vogler, who assures me that Corsair Financial will underwrite the memorial
service reception. It’s revealing: the Voglers won’t spend a dime of their own money; the service will be a tax write-off
for Corsair. Margaret launches a heart-to-heart on tea sandwiches and little tarts. “Petits fours, Regina, but no marzipan.”

“Perhaps a sauterne, Margaret, and a zinfandel.” Would I mind phoning a caterer? Not a bit.

In moments, I’m on the phone to Mimi’s Kitchen. “Rather short notice,” I agree, with accents of Bette Davis for urgency. “Please
invoice Mr. Leonard Vogler, Corsair Financial.” When he sees the bill, may Vogler gargle Zoloft with his bourbon.