Aphrodite (33 page)

He mumbled a reply, never looking up from his report, and she hopped off the bed and meandered her way downstairs. She poked around the kitchen, opening up cabinets and the fridge, checking out the well-stocked pantry. She called upstairs, “Any idea where your mother keeps the coffee?”

He called back down to her. “Yup. In the house next door.”

She decided this was worth climbing back up the stairs for. When she stood in front of him, hands on her hips, she said, “Your parents own
two
houses here?”

Justin shook his head. “Uh-uh. Just one.”

“Then why would she keep her coffee next door?”

“Because that’s the one they own.”

Deena’s brow furrowed and she cocked her head to the side. “Then whose house is this?”

“It belongs to the Rutherfords,” he said. “Jane and Brandon. Old family friends.”

“And where are they?”

“In Europe. I asked my father if they were around. He told me they were in the south of France for the month. Hotel du Cap, to be exact. I practically lived here in the summers when I was a kid. Their daughter and I used to date.”

“And they just let you stay here?” she asked incredulously.

“Well … no,” he said. “Technically, we’re breaking and entering.”

She moved to the bed and snatched the report out of his hands. “Okay. Tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s pretty simple, really. My parents live next door. I figure that if all the various people who are now looking for us can deduce that I might have gone to Providence, eventually they’ll also realize that I might come here.”

“So we came here, what, so they could just
find
us?”

“We didn’t come here,” he said. “We came next door to here. Or rather, we’re here, next door to where they’re going to come. This way we can see who they are and maybe find out what they want.”

“And you don’t think they’ll come all the way next door to see if we’re here?”

“No, I don’t. Would you?”

Her mouth opened, then clapped shut. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t. I’d think that we’re just a couple of normal neighbors who don’t have a clue what’s going on.” She frowned now, something else on her mind. “How is anyone supposed to reach us? With the information you want. Does everyone know we’re here? Or do they all have Roger’s cell number?”

“No. Too risky.”

“So if Rollins is using this Rifle Trout or whatever it is …”

“Trigger Fish.”

“Whatever …to track your cell phone, how can anybody call you without the FBI knowing?”

“Nobody in law enforcement is going to think I’m stupid enough to go back to East End Harbor. I’d have to be insane.”

“So?”

“So I guarantee you that nobody’s paying any attention to what’s happening at my house there.”

“What
is
happening at your house?”

“I told Wanda and my parents and Roger to call my East End number if they want to reach me. I told them someone there would tell them the next step to take.”

“Who?”

“There
is
nobody. I call-forwarded that number to here. It won’t fool them forever, but it will for a while. Even if somebody gives us up and they send someone to the house, it’ll take them a little bit to figure out the phone.”

He smiled at her and she said, “Is this what you were like as a homicide cop? This devious?”

He nodded.

Still frowning, she asked, “How’d you know their security codes here?”

“I didn’t. Billy’s the only one who knows where we are and I got them from him. He called in a favor. The police force has access, in case they’ve got to get into the house when the owners aren’t here.”

“Some favor. Since I met you, I don’t think I like the idea of the police force knowing anything about me.”

“You might have a point.”

She stood with her hands on her hips, trying to express some other form of disapproval. Finally, she just shook her head and said, “Well, do you have any idea where Mrs. Rutherford keeps her coffee?”

“Try the freezer,” he told her. Then he went back to reading his report.

A minute later, he heard her call up: “How’d you know that? Who the hell keeps coffee in the freezer?”

They kept reading until two o’clock in the morning. Justin had pages and pages of his handwritten notes: scribbles, facts, diagrams, links between companies and employees. Deena was concentrating on any personal material about Douglas Kransten and Louise Marshall. She’d pored over magazine profiles and newspaper stories and sifted through various corporate reports, focusing on personal information that might be gleaned from them. Justin had asked her to keep a chronology of the couple’s lives together, starting from their births, keeping track of all major events. “It’s not always business or money,” he told her. “Sometimes the answer you’re looking for comes from something totally unexpected.”

At two, he tossed the business report he was reading onto the floor. He reached over, began rubbing her shoulders. She instantly melted.

“Excuse me,” he said as he kept rubbing, “are you
purring
?”

“Mmmmm,” she said. “Mmmmmm. That feels good.”

“So does anything strike you?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. You should use your thumb a little bit more. Not your knuckles. Did I tell you that I used to be a masseuse? Before I started teaching yoga?”

“No, you didn’t. But I was referring to what you’ve read, not my technique.”

“Mmmmmm. One thing. It’s nothing, really. But it’s strange. Mmmm … ohhhhhh. Up a little bit on my neck would be good.”

“What is it?”

She reached for her notepad, flipped over to the second page. “They’re a fascinating couple, really. Scary because there’s so little about them that doesn’t revolve around their businesses. When you read about their marriage, even their courtship, it’s always discussed in business terms. They merged more than they got married.”

“That’s what’s strange? I think that’s fairly common in their world.”

“No. What’s strange is that there was one personal thing that seems unresolved. They had a child. Well, I don’t know if they had a child. But she was pregnant. Louise, I mean.”

“You’re on a first-name basis now?”

She swung her eyes over at him, looked a little sheepish. “Well, yeah, I guess I feel like I know them both”—she pointed to the stack of reading material—“after all this.”

“That’s good,” he said. “I was just teasing. It’s what happens to cops, too. When we’re studying a potential perp, it becomes very personal. You really do feel like you know them. You have to. It’s the only way you can get into their heads.”

“So, anyway …Ohhh, just a drop lower … ohhh yeahhhh … ohhhhhh …there’s a mention about Louise getting pregnant.” She looked down at her notes. “Here it is. There’s a reference to it in
Time
magazine in 1974. She’s eight months’ pregnant. April, ’seventy-four.”

“So?”

“There’s no mention of a child anywhere else.”

“Maybe they’re protective parents, worried about the kid’s privacy.”

“No, no, no. No way. Too rich, too famous. Too visible. It would be like Donald Trump’s kid, whether they wanted it to be or not. Page six, the whole deal. No way.”

“Maybe Louise miscarried.”

“She made it through eight months. Seems unlikely. There were no stories to indicate she was ill or having a tough time.”

“Then maybe the kid died at birth.”

“Maybe. Could be. But I don’t think so,” Deena said. “There’s some reference—hold on—in an interview in
Parade
… here. In ’ninety-five. So, twenty years later. The reporter asks her about children and Louise says, ‘Well, you know, our daughter died. And after that, we never felt up to having another child.’”

“The daughter still could have died in childbirth.”

“I don’t know. It’s just a funny way of putting it. ‘Our daughter.’ It makes her sound like she was alive. More than that. Part of the family.”

“That’s it?” Justin asked.

Deena stiffened. “You told me to note anything that seemed odd. Well, that seems odd to me. If there’s anything that can change or define a parent, it’s losing a—” She saw his head snap back as if he’d been slapped. She reached out for him. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Jay. I didn’t think. I wasn’t thinking about you at all. I’m sorry.”

He cleared his throat, let the tension in his shoulders relax. “No, no,” he said. “It’s fine. You’re right, though. There isn’t anything quite like it. And it’s worth checking out.” He reached for the phone.

“Who are you calling?” Deena asked.

“Billy DiPezio.”

“It’s two-fifteen.”

“He’s just getting started.” She heard the phone ring, then someone pick up on the other end. “It’s Jay,” he said into the receiver. “Where are you? … Nice. Does your wife ever mind that you never come home? … I’d like you to check something else out. I want to know if there’s a birth certificate for Douglas Kransten’s and Louise Marshall’s baby. Should have been born in April or May of ’seventy-four. Not sure. If I had to guess, I’d say New York. I also want to see if there’s a record of the kid’s death. …Billy, let me ask you something. I’m stone-cold sober and I’m barely going to remember talking to you tomorrow. You’re in a strip club, on what, your sixth scotch—okay, seventh: How the hell are you going to remember every detail of this conversation? … Yeah, I know you always do. I just want to know your secret. …Oh, okay. Thanks. You know where I am.” Justin hung up, turned to Deena.

“So what’s his secret?” she asked.

“Dirty living, he said.”

She nodded at the large bed. “Think the Rutherfords’ll mind if we join him?”

Justin smiled. “You don’t know the Rutherfords,” he told her. “They’re going to want pictures.”

The phone woke them up at seven o’clock.

“Jay?”

He coughed out a half-asleep response.

“It’s Wanda. I …I didn’t think I’d get you directly.”

“Life’s full of surprises. What’s up?”

“I’m just calling to say that I haven’t gotten any information yet.”

“Oh,” Justin said, managing to open his eyes. “Okay. Maybe next time you can call a little earlier to tell me that. Like around five.”

“Have you found anything?”

“Nope. Haven’t learned a thing. Until you get me what I asked for, I’m stuck.”

“I’m working on it, but it’s not easy. I don’t know if there’s a real cover-up, but if there is it’s a good one. I can’t seem to break through the system.”

“I have confidence in you, Wanda.”

“Thanks. Ummm …”

“What?”

“I guess that’s it. I just wanted to know if you’d made any progress. And how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing as well as can be expected.”

“Does anyone know where you are? In case I need to find you?”

“Not a soul. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

“I’m sorry you don’t trust me yet, Jay. You used to.”

He yawned slowly and elaborately. “I’m going to hang up now, Wanda. I need to get some sleep.”

“Be sure and say hello to your folks for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don’t forget. I’ll get in touch as soon as I have anything.”

Justin hung up, poked Deena in the back. When she stirred, he gave her a gentle shake.

“So much for all my cleverness. We’ve got to get out of here,” he told her. “Wanda didn’t send Rollins after me, I’m pretty sure of that now. But he sure as hell went after her. That was her, and I’ll bet anything he made her make that call, so they could trace it. She kept me on long enough so they’ll have the call-forwarding gimmick and this location already.” He motioned to the framed photograph of a middle-aged man with his arms around a middle-aged woman and a thirty-something woman. “Say good-bye to the Rutherfords.”

“Why didn’t you just hang up?” Deena asked. “Cut her off before the trace worked?”

“’Cause Wanda went out on a limb for me. As of this second, her career’s over. I didn’t want to screw her up any more than I had to. It’s easier for us to move than it is for her to get by without a pension. Also, I think she tried to tip me off. She told me to say hello to my parents.”

“She just saw them yesterday.”

“I know. My guess is she gave them something for me, knowing that Rollins was going to be on her ass, and that was her way of hiding it from him. But I’ll find out in a minute.”

“Do I have time to shower?”

“If you can do it in the time it takes me to make one quick phone call, sure. If not—”

“Is it safe to make another call?”

“They can only trace us once.” He picked up the phone by the side of the bed and dialed. On the second ring, his mother answered. Justin didn’t bother with any of the usual niceties; he started in with, “Don’t say who it’s from or what it is, but did something arrive for me?”

“Yes. A little while ago. Why are you talking like this, Jay? What’s—”

“Something you never thought would happen to a Westwood, Mother—your phone’s probably being tapped by the FBI.”

“Oh my God.”

“Mom, listen to me, okay? This is important. Do you remember where we used to go sometimes, just you and me? The place you never told Dad about because you were embarrassed you liked it?”

“Yes, but why in the world would you bring that up? You know—”

“I want you to meet me there. And bring the thing that came for me.”

“When?”

He thought for a moment. “You remember my high-school girlfriend? Not Portia, the one after her.”

“The redhead?”

“Yeah.” He looked at his watch. “Think how many letters in her last name.”

“Oh God,” Lizbeth said. “I can’t remember her last name.”

“Okay, okay. Count the number in her first name and add four. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the time. That’s the o’clock. I’ll meet you half an hour after that. Leave now, immediately, before anyone who’s listening can get there. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to kill some time somewhere. If you remotely think that anyone’s following you, forget the whole thing. Just go back home. Okay?”

“I have to say—”

“I’m sure you do. But I have to hang up. Bye-bye.”

Five minutes later Justin and Deena were in Mallone’s Mercedes, heading out of town. They heard police sirens and they were still close enough that they could tell the cars were nearing the Rutherford house. Justin told her they would now have to get rid of the Mercedes as soon as they could.