Brutality (8 page)

The comment gave Fina pause. Although her mother, Elaine, seemed largely inconvenienced by her kids, Fina wondered if that had always been the case. Fina’s older sister, Josie, had died before Fina was born, when she was two and a half. Had the death of her eldest child permanently changed the kind of mother Elaine was, or was this version of Elaine the version that Fina would have gotten regardless of Josie’s death? She would never know.

Fina returned to the front door, and Kelly waited as she put her boots and jacket back on.

“Let me give you my card,” Fina said, reaching into her bag. “If you think of anything that might be relevant, don’t hesitate to be in touch.”

“Of course.”

“Do you know if Jamie is going to be at the hospital all day?”

“I imagine.” She winced. “Please take it easy on him. He’s having a terrible time.”

Fina paused. “I’m not sure what he told you, but I promise, I’m not being hard on him. Unfortunately, asking tough questions is part of an investigation. It can’t be helped.”

Kelly nodded. “Right, right. I just don’t want him to suffer any more than he has to.”

“Nor do I.”

Fina climbed into her car and made a U-turn in the street, waving to Kelly as she took off. She turned the heater to high and felt the dry, hot air blast out of the vents.

If Liz didn’t regain consciousness soon, her house would be unrecognizable.

5.

Pamela Fordyce studied the items on a shelf in her display cabinet. She supposed she could make room between the millefiori glass duck from her trip to Italy and the ceramic dragon she’d purchased in Shanghai. She spent a few moments shifting around her treasures, then placed the framed photograph in the newly vacant space. A couple of steps back and a tilt of her head told her all she needed to know. It wasn’t quite right.

Returning the items to their original spots, Pamela took the photo back to her desk and lowered herself into the deep leather chair. It was a nice photo, she thought, running her fingertip around the frame. She looked thinner than usual, and Deb looked pretty, but she just wasn’t ready to put it on display. Not yet.

She stowed the gift in her right-hand top drawer and pushed it closed. She’d have to remember to put it out if Deb stopped by the office. Deb had purposefully given her two pictures—one for Pamela’s home and the other for the office—and Pamela knew Deb would be angry if she didn’t put the office version on display. But Deb really didn’t have a right to be so impatient with her. She wasn’t a teenager in love, and she wasn’t interested in committing to a serious relationship—not now, and maybe not ever—with Deb.

Pamela searched the top of her desk for her reading glasses, which seemed to always be either on her nose or lost. A string around her neck was the obvious solution, but that would make her really feel old. She was only fifty-four, and the fewer reminders of that, the better. That’s what no one ever told you about working at a university: You spent your days surrounded by energetic young people who required little sleep. At least when she’d worked in development in the hospital she’d felt like the picture of health compared to the population she was serving. Here, she was given daily reminders of her advancing age. It’s not that Pamela didn’t like being around the kids; she enjoyed the company of the work-study students who provided support in the development office. But sometimes their youth was so . . . What was the right word? Abundant, obvious. There was no moderation or temperance, like a radio that had only one volume setting—extremely loud.

Glancing at her schedule, Pamela saw that she had five minutes before her next meeting. She wandered over to the kitchenette a few doors down from her office and poured herself a cup of black coffee. There was a box of Munchkins open on the countertop, and she studied the contents. The glazed and chocolate were always the first to go, but even plain cake Munchkins were better than no Munchkins. She placed three on a napkin and brought them back to her desk, where she sipped her coffee and popped them into her mouth in quick succession.

The first committee member strolled in a minute later, and Pamela took her time tidying her desk and consulting her computer. In her experience, it was better to wait until everyone had arrived before she left her desk and took her place at the head of the conference table. If she were already sitting there, it would suggest to them that she had nothing better to do than wait around for them, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Some of the attendees might outrank her in the university hierarchy, but the dean had appointed her the head of this particular committee, and Pamela was savvy enough to know that every move was an opportunity to garner new authority.

She waited until five minutes after the appointed meeting time and then called things to order. Stragglers would just have to catch up.

“Welcome, everyone,” she said, and made eye contact with her colleagues. “We have a lot to discuss in limited time. Let’s begin.”

—

F
ina was tooling up Hyde Park Avenue when her phone rang with a summons. If she wanted to speak with Tasha Beemis-Jones, she should present herself at the Elite Sports Club in the Financial District in forty-five minutes. Tasha’s assistant informed her this was the only window in Tasha’s schedule, emphasizing that it was a one-time offer. Fina gladly accepted.

The club had valet parking, which Fina generally disliked. Private investigators’ cars were their mobile offices, and giving someone unobserved access was akin to unlocking your office door for a stranger and then heading out to lunch. Unfortunately, her options were few and exorbitant at midday in downtown Boston.

A doorman held the door for her—that was five calories she wouldn’t be burning—and directed her to a sleek counter. The lobby was small, but its ceiling rose up the equivalent of two stories. There was little décor except for two leather chairs in an intimate sitting area, but the focal point of the space was what appeared to be a wall of plants climbing nearly to the ceiling. The variety of texture and hue was stunning, and Fina imagined there was an intricate irrigation system behind the plants making them appear as if they were sprouting spontaneously from the wall.

“May I help you?” a young man behind the counter asked. He was wearing slim black pants and a T-shirt so tight, Fina thought she could see blood pumping through his heart.

“I’m meeting Tasha Beemis-Jones,” Fina replied.

“Your name, please, and a picture ID.”

Fina handed over her driver’s license—no need to alert him to her PI status—and he tapped at his keyboard for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time. It was how Fina always felt at the airline counter: What were they doing? Writing
Moby Dick
?

The receptionist was probably in his twenties and was handsome in a
GQ
kind of way, with a strong chin, sharp cheekbones, and full lips. Fina wondered what he’d looked like as a baby. Obviously, his features would have been proportional, but what made him striking as an adult could not have made him snuggly as an infant. He was probably making up for it now.

“What size are you, ma’am?” He smiled at her, revealing perfect white teeth.

“Huh?”

“Your size? For your gear?”

Fina looked at him askance, recalling the three miles she’d run only hours before. “I’m not here to work out. I’m meeting someone.”

“I understand, but street clothes aren’t allowed in the club.”

“I have to change right here?” Fina asked, pointing at the large windows fronting the busy street.

He chuckled. “Of course not. You can change in the women’s locker room, but you will have to change.”

Fina sighed. She should charge Bobbi time and a half for this. “Size eight clothes and shoes.”

The young man reached into a wardrobe hidden in the wall behind him and pulled out some items.

“Once you get upstairs, if something doesn’t fit, just ask the attendant to swap it for you.”

He slipped the goods into a large tote emblazoned with the club logo and ushered Fina over to the elevator. “The women’s locker room will be on your right when you exit the elevator.” He handed her a key attached to what looked like a thin, short bungee cord. “This is for your locker. You can change, and Ms. Beemis-Jones will meet you on the fitness floor.”

“Wonderful,” Fina said.

Upstairs, she proceeded to the locker room and unlocked her assigned locker. “Locker” was a misnomer; it was actually a small walk-in closet outfitted with a floor-to-ceiling mirror and an upholstered chair. The room itself was made of highly polished black wood and brought to mind a humidor rather than a gym.

Fina pulled on a sports bra, designer leggings, a T-shirt, and socks, and what looked like a brand-new pair of sneakers. Good thing, because she didn’t share shoes with people unless she was related, and even then some people didn’t make the cut. She locked her belongings away in the changing room and headed to the fitness floor.

A group of glowing, sculpted women came through a door looking as if they’d just finished filming an exercise DVD. They were a tribe: the same perfect bodies, highlighted blond hair, sleek workout clothes. Fina ducked past them and surveyed the room before her. It wasn’t a huge space, but it was filled with every type of equipment you might need: treadmills, stair-climbers, and ellipticals, as well as free weights and weight machines. Most of the walls were mirrored, creating fit doppelgängers everywhere Fina looked.

Fina scanned the room and recognized Tasha from the photos online. She hopped onto the treadmill next to her. There was an unopened bottle of water sitting in the cup holder and a fresh towel hanging over the handrail.

Tasha was close to six feet tall, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her ebony skin was slick with sweat, but the makeup outlining her brown eyes was impeccable. If there was an ounce of fat on her, Fina couldn’t imagine where it might be.

“Ms. Beemis-Jones? I’m Fina Ludlow.”

Tasha was running at a clip, but offered her hand across her body to shake.

“You can call me Tasha.” She glanced at Fina. “Fire up your treadmill. We can do two things at once.”

Goddamnit. One of the few days Fina decides to work out, and her witness insists on a treadmill-based interview. Fina punched the keys, and the belt rolled to life. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Sorry we have to do it here. My schedule is a nightmare, but obviously I want to help Liz any way I can,” Tasha said.

“Have you spoken to Bobbi or Jamie recently?” Fina upped her speed. She might not be a star athlete, but she had her pride.

“I called Bobbi this morning, but there’s no change.”

“That’s what Kelly Wegner said. I met with her this morning.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Hanging in there,” Fina said. “Cleaning a lot.”

Tasha made a noise that was somewhere between a chuckle and a snort. “She’s always been that way. You should have seen her dorm room in college. Her CDs were alphabetized, and her underwear drawer looked like a display at Victoria’s Secret.”

“Hmm. I’m definitely missing that gene,” Fina admitted.

“Well, Kelly’s got it in spades.”

Fina waited a minute before launching into her line of questioning. “Do you have any idea who might have hurt Liz?”

“I’ve been racking my brain, but I’m coming up empty,” Tasha said. “Liz didn’t really have enemies.”

“Were there people she didn’t get along with?”

“Enough to kill her? I would say no, but obviously I’d be wrong.”

Fina was starting to feel warm, moisture rising from her pores. “What’s her relationship with Jamie like?”

Tasha shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“That’s pretty lukewarm.”

“Well, they’ve never struck me as the most passionate couple, and they both work long hours.”

“So even in the beginning they didn’t seem head over heels?”

“I’m not saying they don’t love each other, just that neither is especially demonstrative, and the music stuff always created tension.” Tasha increased the incline of her treadmill. Show-off.

“Oh right, he was in a band.”

“Technically, he still is, but it got to the point that he had to choose. He realized he wasn’t going to be a rock star, and you can’t raise a family on an amateur musician’s salary, not to mention the lack of health insurance and paid vacation time.”

“Was that a bitter pill to swallow?” Fina was feeling the strain of running and talking at the same time. Tasha moved effortlessly next to her.

“Definitely. I’m not sure it’s been completely digested yet.”

“Does he blame Liz?” Fina asked.

Tasha eyed her. “Well, she’s the messenger, right? It’s easy to blame her for his dashed dreams, but I’m not suggesting he would hurt her. Jamie is a fairly passive guy. I’ve rarely seen him get worked up about stuff.”

“What did you think about her potential lawsuit against NEU?” Fina asked.

Tasha smirked. “I thought she needed to get herself a real lawyer.”

“Like you?” Fina smiled.

“I’m a commercial litigator. I don’t do personal injury,” Tasha said.

“You don’t think Thatcher Kinney is up for the big leagues?”

“Have you met him?”

“Yes. Why did Liz hire him in the first place?” Fina asked.

“He knew her mom, and they had friends in common. I think she was worried about hurting his feelings or causing some brouhaha in town.”

“You can’t worry about hurt feelings when it comes to legal representation.”

“You should know, Fina Ludlow,” Tasha said, emphasizing
Ludlow
.

Fina ignored her. “What did you think about the lawsuit itself?”

“Liz is not litigious by nature, but she was sick of getting the runaround from NEU. She felt like they weren’t leaving her any choice.”

“Does the case have legal merit, in your opinion?”

“Unfortunately, there wasn’t any concussion protocol when we were playing. People didn’t know better, and I don’t think you can hold someone responsible for not knowing they should know something.”

Fina grabbed the water bottle from the holder and took a swig. She needed the hydration, but it also bought her a moment to catch her breath. “Had you noticed a difference in Liz, cognitively?” she asked Tasha.