Aphrodite (29 page)
“What happened in the past is totally irrelevant,” Rollins said. “Justin Westwood’s a murderer.”
“I don’t believe that,” Gary said. “He may have done some stupid stuff, but I don’t think he really killed anybody.”
“I don’t care what you believe. I’m telling you what I know. And what your chief now knows.”
Gary looked over at Leggett, who took a long time before nodding. “Agent Rollins has told me things,” Leggett said to the young police officer. “Things I doubt he’s going tell you.”
“And you believe Westwood killed that guy in Connecticut?”
Leggett looked over at Rollins. It was Rollins who answered. “It’s worse than that, son. We think Westwood is involved in Maura Greer’s murder. And we think he probably killed your friend Brian.”
“I was there before he was.”
“But he’s the one who told you to go there. How else would he know that Brian was dead?”
Gary didn’t say anything for quite a while. Then he whispered, “That son of a bitch.”
“Are you sure you haven’t sent him the phone records he asked for?” Rollins said now.
“I haven’t even requested them,” Gary said. “If you don’t believe me, you can check your taps. I have my cell phone here too, sir. You can check every recent call I’ve made on that. The last call was a callback to that son of a bitch. Right after he called me early this morning. It’s the motel where he was staying. Maybe he’s still there and the number’ll help you track him down. If you heard that first conversation, you’ll remember that he said it was a bad connection. He thought it was from my end so he asked if I had a different phone to call him back. That’s why I used the cell.”
“What was said during that second conversation?”
“It only lasted a few seconds. He made sure I had copied down exactly what he wanted to know, then he told me that he’d get back in touch with me and tell me where and how to send it.”
“But you’ve done nothing?”
“I haven’t gotten him what he wanted and I wasn’t going to. And I’m sure as hell not going to do it now. That lying bastard. He let me feel sorry for him.”
Rollins stared at Gary, held his gaze for several long seconds. “I believe you,” the FBI agent said. “Thank you.” As Gary turned to leave, Rollins said, “We’re going to leave the tap on your home phone, son. In case Westwood calls again. If you hear from him in any way, I want you to let me or your chief know instantly. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Gary turned to Leggett. “Jimmy, do you mind if I take a quick walk? I’d like to get some air. I’m pretty angry about the way that cocksucker tried to use me. I’d really like to walk it off.”
“Go ahead,” Leggett said.
“Are you sure about Brian?” Gary asked sadly.
“We’re fairly sure,” Leggett said. And added, “I’m sorry about all this.”
“I’ll be back in a little bit,” Gary told him, and walked, stiff and angry, out of the police station.
Gary walked at a fast pace, heading straight for the photo store at the end of Main Street by the bay. When he stepped into the store, the owner, an overweight, slow-moving woman named Jayne, waved her large hand in a familiar greeting.
“Jayne,” he said, “did that fax I asked to be sent here arrive yet?”
“Not yet,” she told him. “When it does, just put it in an envelope and hold it. Don’t call me, okay? Don’t call the station and don’t call me at home. I’ll come by and pick it up.”
“Sounds mysterious,” she said, “but you’re the customer so you must always be right.”
“Can I make a call?” Gary asked. “It’s to a cell phone. I don’t think it counts as long distance but if it does, just keep track of the bill and I’ll pay you back.”
She didn’t say a word, just handed him the phone and went into the back storeroom. Gary dialed. The phone on the other end rang twice before someone answered.
“Yup?” Justin Westwood said into the receiver of his cell phone.
“You were right,” Gary told him. “They tapped my phones. And you were right about the other stuff, too. I guess you’re not paranoid after all.”
“What else am I supposed to have done?”
“They said you killed Brian.”
“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”
“Well, this’ll surprise you. They’re tying you to the Maura Greer thing.”
“What?”
“I swear.”
“Why? I mean, I never even met her!”
“If I had to guess, I’d say they’re gonna have you working with the politician, what’s-his-name. …”
“Manwaring.”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
“When Rollins was doing his spiel, did you handle it the way I told you?”
“Yeah. He totally bought the stuff about the phone records.”
“I’m sure he’s checking it out now to see if you lied. No other problems?”
“Uh-uh. I even improvised a little.”
“What’d you do?”
“I called you a cocksucker.”
“Great. Sounds like an Oscar winner. Where are you calling from?”
“Don’t worry. The photo store. It’s safe.”
“You get the stuff I want?”
“Not yet. What the hell do you think I am, a magician? My brother’s working on it.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. You said you wanted a hacker. He’s fifteen years old—he can hack his way into anything.”
“Your little brother is my hacker? Gary, we’re going up against the FBI here.”
“He put another little buddy on it too. A double team. The other kid’s fourteen and he’s
really
scary. I don’t get it, but they seem to know what they’re doing.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. If you want me, call this number. I’m sure they’re keepin’ tabs on my cell now, too.” Gary gave him the number of the photo store. “I’ll come by here whenever I can. Jayne’ll give me any messages. Just tell her”—Gary couldn’t help but break into a smile—“just tell her your name’s Clint.”
“Very fucking clever.”
“Take care,” Gary said, and hung up the phone.
Jayne came out of the back room. “Sounds like cops and robbers,” she said.
“Better than
CSI
,” he told her. “I’ll be back later to get my stuff.”
Deena didn’t ask any questions. She could tell that Justin was not yet ready to take them to their final destination, so she let him drive them around Providence. He cruised through the Federal Hill area in the West End, pointing out the Little Italy restaurants and grocery stores and charming town houses. He drove to the East Side, too, took the car through the exquisite and stately Brown campus, showing them the Rhode Island School of Design and the historic John Brown House. He drove slowly through the downtown area, what he called “downcity,” staring up at the imposing City Hall, surprised at the plethora of fancy new restaurants. It was as if he had to ease into his past by showing them the city’s landmarks and gradually letting himself remember that he had a personal connection to it all.
At twelve-thirty in the afternoon, just as Kendall was beginning to complain about being hungry, Justin pulled up in front of a large, gated mansion on Benefit Street. They could see what looked like a huge public park through the gate. There was a rose garden, a cutting garden, and a vegetable garden overflowing with various lettuces, tomatoes, cucumbers, and squashes. An enormous English cottage garden loomed, too, with brick paths winding through it that led to a picnic table and benches. Acres and acres of green stretched in every direction. The house itself was turn of the century and quite austere, with lots of harsh angles and intimidating columns. It was three stories tall, with three distinct wings, each with four separate chimneys jutting skyward. The brick chimneys gave the house the aura of a mausoleum rather than a country home centered around hearth and warmth.
“Tell me this isn’t your parents’ house,” Deena said, her eyes wide.
“I’ll be happy to,” he told her. “But I’d be lying.”
“Wow,” Kendall said. “Is your dad the mayor?”
“It’s even better than that,” Justin said. “My dad
owns
the mayor.”
Justin now drove the car past the slowly opening gates—they hadn’t changed the security code in all these years—and headed up the long driveway, parking in front of the house. He asked Deena and Kendall to wait in the car, just for a few minutes. Deena squeezed his hand and he nodded that he was fine, then he went to the front door and rang the bell.
He tried to fight off the music in his head while he waited. Melancholy chords and words. Loudon Wainwright.
There’s a heaven and he knows it’s true.
But he’s back on earth just missing you.
And it’s hell on earth just missing you. …
Enough
, he said to himself.
Enough sadness and enough of the past. No matter what happens when the door opens, you’ve got to stay in the present.
He glanced back at the car.
If they’re going to survive, you’ve got to stay in the present.
He waited maybe a minute, then heard footsteps. What amazed him was that he recognized the steps; he knew immediately to whom they belonged. So he wasn’t surprised when his mother opened the door. He was surprised at her appearance, though. She had aged. Somehow gotten smaller. When he’d seen her last she’d been sixty-six years old, trim and athletic looking, attractive and vital. At the door she looked old. Haggard. Worn down by time and loneliness. When she saw him she started to react, lifted her arms to grab him, but immediately dropped them and held herself in check. Years of restraining her emotions dictated her behavior, but in her eyes he could see the gleam. Her eyes instantly looked young again.
“It’s all right if you hug me, Mother,” he said. “I won’t mind.”
She took one step closer, then another. Slowly her hands raised again and she reached for him. Her arms around his neck, she pulled him close and held him tight. He could feel the soft, lined skin of her cheek resting against his. And he felt her breath surge all the way through her body.
Lizbeth Westwood released her son. She looked over his shoulder, saw the two figures in the car, turned back questioningly to the son she hadn’t seen in so many years.
“No,” he said, knowing the question in her mind. “She’s a friend. And her daughter.”
“Shall we invite them in?”
“In a minute. We need some help, and before they come in I’d like to know if we’re going to get it.”
“I …I saw the paper,” she said. “And your father saw the news on television.”
“Is he home?”
She nodded. “He comes home for lunch.”
“Some things never change,” Justin said.
“If only that were true of everything,” his mother said.
His father was seated at the long, eighteenth-century Spanish dining table when Justin stepped into the room. He had just dug his fork into his grilled filet of sole and was lifting a piece of the soft, white fish up to his mouth when he looked up and saw his son. Jonathan Westwood finishing bringing the fork to his lips, ate the delicious, lightly seasoned sole, slowly put his fork down, and took a sip of very cold Corton Charlemagne from his wineglass.
“You’ve gained weight,” he said, setting the glass down on the highly polished table.
“Well, you haven’t. You look exactly the same. Maybe a little grayer.”
“I believe in consistency,” Jonathan Westwood said. “Always have.”
“Yes,” Justin said. “You have always been pretty consistent when it comes to consistency.”
“You’re in trouble.”
“That’s an understatement. I’m in
big
trouble.”
“Is it true, what they’re saying?”
“Do you
think
it’s true, Father?”
The older Westwood shook his head slowly. “You always did what you wanted to do. Never listened to anyone. You always had a certain arrogance. But you were also always scrupulously honest. You were never the sort of boy to get yourself in trouble.”
“That’s not true. I was in serious trouble once. When my daughter was killed. And my wife died. I needed help then and you turned your back on me.”
“Is that why you came back here, Justin? To accuse me? We might have grown apart over the years, but surely you remember that the one thing I never allow myself is regret.”
“No.” Justin gently shook his head from side to side. “That’s not why I came back.”
“Then why?”
“To see if you’ll help me now,” Justin said. “To give you a second chance.”
Jonathan Westwood ate one more bite of fish, took one more sip of wine. Then he picked up the linen napkin from his lap, dabbed at his lips and his nearly all-white mustache. He put the napkin down on the table, signaling that he was through with his meal.
“Thank God,” he said to his son. “Thank God and thank you.”
They didn’t get invited up to the Westwood house very often. No one did. So they were all slightly confused, but none of them could deny that they were also intrigued. Each of them, as they drove through the gate, was anticipating something, although none had the vaguest idea what that thing might be.
When they saw the other guests, their sense of anticipation rose. So did their bewilderment.
The first person to arrive was the one who had come the farthest, Wanda Chinkle. Wanda was forty-four years old, an attractive woman in a slightly hardened way. She was short—only five foot two—and she didn’t have a discernible ounce of fat on her body. Her hair was dark, cut close to her scalp, not fashionably; it looked like she’d done it just to be practical. Wanda was practical when it came to most things. She was also the special agent in charge of the Boston bureau of the FBI, had been for nearly seven years now. The Boston office had jurisdiction in Maine, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island, so anything happening in Providence directly involved her. Wanda agreed to make the drive this afternoon because she had just begun her job—working her way up from field agent—when Justin had been winding up his investigation of Louie Denbo. She’d been working closely with Justin when he’d been shot, and she still felt guilty that she had not anticipated the retaliation and had not given the family Bureau protection. She had not heard from Jonathan Westwood in all the intervening years, but when he called earlier that afternoon, said it was urgent and that he needed her, not anyone else but her, she decided she could indulge him. The news about Justin had crossed her desk first thing that morning. She suspected that the elder Westwood was looking for some strings to be pulled. She didn’t think she’d be willing to pull them, but she certainly was willing to hear him out. She owed the family that much.