The Jinx (13 page)

T
he party was due to start at six, so I dashed up to my room to change and get organized. The event called for business casual, rather than straight-out business attire, and with relief I exchanged my pantsuit for a less formal pair of trousers and a cashmere sweater, and my high heels for a pair of suede flats. I was in front of the mirror, making the usual vain attempt to tame my unruly hair, when I heard the hotel phone ringing.

I was hoping it was Peter, but it was Emma, which was just as well. “I tried you on your cell phone but it wouldn't go through,” she said. “Luisa's been filling us in on everything that's been going on with your client and with Peter and with
Love Story
guy. It sounds like you have a lot to tell us.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I think I'm becoming a skank.”

“I doubt that.”

“Don't be so sure.”

“Well, we're all looking forward to talking it over. Everyone's here at Jane's, and we're already cooking. Will you be here soon?”

“I need to put in an hour at this Winslow, Brown event, but I hope to get there a little after seven.”

“With Peter?”

“Peter who?” I asked, striving for a lighthearted tone.

“Peter ‘Too Good to Be True' Forrest.”

“No,” I said, and sighed. “I'm beginning to think he is too good to be true. He's with Abigail, wooing a potential client. Or,” I added dejectedly, “just wooing her.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“Who knows? He's been completely missing in action.”

“I'm sure everything's fine. He's Peter, after all. Of course, you could always bring
Love Story
guy instead.” Her voice had a teasing edge to it.

“Listen, no jokes about this. At least not yet. I actually thought about inviting him, but it just seemed like I'd be tangling the web even more. But I do have some good news. For Hilary, at least.”

“Oh?”

“Remember our friend Detective O'Donnell?”

“Sure. The one Hilary tried to make a play for last summer.”

“Well, his identical twin is alive and well and investigating the attack on Sara Grenthaler.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. And guess what his name is.”

“What?”

“O'Connell.”

Emma giggled. “I'll tell Hil. We'll have to figure out a reason to get her hauled down to the police station this weekend.”

“Knowing Hilary, that shouldn't be too hard to pull off.”

 

I was nearly out the door, some semblance of order restored to my hair, which hadn't been responding well to the various gusts of wind and snowflakes it had endured that day, when I noticed a pile of papers sitting on the fax machine's output tray. I grabbed them up and switched on the desk lamp.

Jessica had forwarded me the list of buyers and sellers in Grenthaler's stock. I scanned the list to see if I recognized any names. As far as I could tell, they seemed to be the usual collection of financial institutions and money management firms, but a few unfamiliar companies had popped up on the buy side several times over the past few weeks.

I checked the time. I still had a couple of minutes before I became officially late. I used my Blackberry to submit a request to Winslow, Brown's Research Services office, asking for profiles of the companies that seemed to be steadily buying. It would be good to know who was behind them.

 

The party was taking place at Noir, the lounge bar in the lobby of the Charles. The décor was strangely incongruous with the rest of the hotel: dark and minimalist, with odd red phallic-shaped lamps hanging over the bar. The decidedly un-hip garb of the aspiring Wall Streeters we'd invited was similarly incongruous. By a few minutes after six, the room was packed. Clearly, the various students who'd been invited hoped that their punctuality would be interpreted as a sign of their commitment to a career in investment banking.

I accepted a glass of white wine from a passing waiter, and dutifully began chatting to our guests. My objective was simple: to give everyone I spoke to the impression that Winslow, Brown was a wonderful place. At this stage of the recruiting process, we started shifting into “sell” mode, recognizing that a significant proportion of the students who were here tonight would receive offers not only from Winslow, Brown but from other firms with equally impressive reputations. I fielded questions about the work, the culture and the lifestyle one could expect at the firm as honestly but positively as I could. Of course, most of the students were still in interview mode, and many of their questions were thinly veiled attempts at schmoozing, something I've never had much of a stomach for. And none of them asked about the real reason they were interested in banking—the money. For some reason, talking about money as a motivation was a no-no, at least until after you had a job offer.

Scott Epson was in his element. Being schmoozed gave him the sense that he was everything he wanted to be: important, powerful, interesting. He seemed to be holding forth at length about something, so I headed in his direction to see if any of the students trapped by his monologue were in need of rescue.

He was waxing euphoric about his job and his own significance. “For instance,” he was saying, “I'm working on this incredibly important deal right now, really complex. I've been in meetings or on the phone practically nonstop with some seriously high profile players. I can't tell you what's going on—it's all too confidential. But it's an incredible rush, knowing that what you're doing is going to be on the front page of the
Wall Street Journal.
” I tried not to snort. I doubted that anything Scott was working on would end up commanding more than an inch of column buried deep within the
Journal.
If he were, Stan Winslow or another senior partner would be all over it.

I inserted myself into the conversation, which gave two of the students the break they needed to quickly drain their drinks and excuse themselves for refills. The remaining one, a guy who looked like a younger version of Scott, seemed happy to listen on. I decided to leave them to it and turned away, nearly crashing into Grant Crocker.

I'd always had to acknowledge that Grant was good-looking, but tonight he definitely wasn't at his best. He had a real shiner around one eye, the skin tinged blackish-purple and clearly swollen, and both eyes were bloodshot. “What happened to you?” I blurted out, before I could think of a more polite way to begin a conversation.

“I walked into a door.” Ah. The standard excuse of battered women everywhere.

“That must have hurt. It looks like you really did a number on yourself.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I got thirsty in the middle of the night, got up for a glass of water, and bang.” He changed the subject. “It's a good turnout, isn't it? Winslow, Brown's a really hot ticket on campus this year.”

“I hope so,” I said. This was my first encounter with Grant since I'd heard about the letters, and I now had an excellent opportunity to try and figure out if he was behind them. If the police were wrong, and the attack wasn't linked to the serial killings, Grant remained my number-one candidate for Creepy Violent Stalker.

“So, you heard about what happened to Sara, right?” I asked.

“It's awful. I stopped by to see her just before the party but she was asleep.”

I wondered if he'd run into Jonathan at UHS, but it seemed like too much work to explain to Grant how I knew Jonathan and why I was so aware of his movements. “The doctors think she's going to be all right.”

He scowled and took a big swig from the beer bottle he was holding. No glasses for someone like Too Much Testosterone Guy. “I just hope they find the guy who attacked her. I wouldn't mind giving him a taste of his own medicine.” He practically growled when he said this, and I noticed that he was holding his beer bottle with such a tight grip that his knuckles were white. While I could appreciate the sentiment, I found the sight of so much barely controlled machismo a bit unnerving.

“The police seem like they're being very thorough.”

“They'd better be,” he said. “I know they've been talking to everyone on campus. But it's been a day and a half, already. They really need to cut to the chase. They can't just let things like that happen to people like Sara. She's too special.”

I couldn't disagree with that.

But he took another deep swig of beer and went on, in an emotional way that seemed out of character with the Grant I remembered from when we'd worked together, and made me wonder how many drinks he'd had already. “She's so beautiful, and delicate, and she's all alone in the world. There's nobody to protect her. What kind of scumbag would take advantage of that?”

I didn't know what to say in response, but fortunately we were joined by another student. “Hey, man,” he said to Grant.

“Dude, what's up?” responded Grant. They engaged in a complicated handshake that ended with a clinking of beer bottles.

“Where did you disappear to on Wednesday? We missed you at Pub Night.”

“Had some things to take care of,” Grant answered gruffly. He introduced me to his friend, telling me that they were workout partners, but I promptly forgot the friend's name. The party was swinging into full gear, with most of the students having done their best to make an impression on the various Winslow, Brown representatives and now chatting amongst themselves. I noticed that nearly all my colleagues had discreetly taken their leave, no doubt hoping to get to the airport in time for the eight o'clock shuttle back to New York.

I left Grant and his friend discussing the merits of different muscle-building supplements and found Cecelia giving instructions to the lounge manager to keep the bar open and the hors d'oeuvres circulating for another hour. “I'm going to take off,” she told me. “I think we're all set here.”

“Thanks so much for handling everything this week. It went great,” I told her.

“Yes, it did go well, didn't it? But right now I'm just looking forward to getting home and taking a hot bath.”

“I don't blame you. Have a good trip back.” She slipped out the door with a smile and a wave, and I looked around the room. The noise level was rising, and the students were clearly slipping from professional to party mode. My duty had been done, and I could head for Jane's with a clear conscience. Well, except for the part of it that was worrying about being a two-timing sleaze in the process of being dumped by her alleged boyfriend.

 

I waited impatiently at the front door of the hotel for a taxi. There was a long line ahead of me. The doorman shrugged apologetically. “It's prime time on Friday night,” he said. “I've called the dispatcher, but you might be better off catching a cab in the Square.”

I took his advice and headed for the cab stand on Mass. Ave., in front of Holyoke Center and UHS. There was a line there as well, but it was far shorter, and it was moving quickly. I finally secured a taxi, and as it navigated the slow-moving traffic, I amused myself by counting Harvard scarves. I was up to six before we even turned onto Garden Street, next to the Cambridge Common, where I spotted the seventh, its wearer's hood pulled up against the cold.

There were fewer people on the street as we merged onto Concord Avenue, and no visible scarves to count. I took out my Blackberry to see if I'd missed any messages during the party, but there was nothing. I leaned back in my seat, feeling suddenly adrift. On a day like today, I'd usually be glad for a momentary respite to get my thoughts in order. Tonight, however, the last thing I wanted was to be alone with my thoughts. Nowhere my mind landed was a good place to be.

When the taxi slowed to a stop in front of Jane and Sean's house on Appleton Street, I stepped onto the sidewalk with no small measure of relief. A nice quiet night with my best friends, talking through everything that was going on in my life and hearing about what was going on in their lives, was just what I needed.

We'd eat and drink and talk, and I'd be back in my hotel room well before midnight, with all of my various messes sorted out. And maybe the Jinxing Gods would smile on me for once, and Peter would be there, too, banishing Jonathan Beasley from my mind and letting me know, in word and deed, that everything was all right.

So much for the best-laid plans.

B
efore I could even ring the bell, Jane's husband opened the door and enveloped me in a bear hug. Sean was a large man, bulky almost but in an athletic way. He and Jane had started dating our freshman year of college, and with the exception of a short “break” our sophomore year, they'd been together ever since. Whenever I worried that the possibility of a happy relationship between a man and a woman was a myth, thinking about Jane and Sean always reassured me. The two of them together was sufficiently inspiring to make you forgive the fact that they seemed to be dressing increasingly alike with each passing year.

“Hey, Rach, it's great to see you. Come on in.” He helped me off with my coat, and I followed him into the foyer. The enticing scent of sautéing garlic and onions was in the air, and I felt a pang of hunger. “We're all in the kitchen. Jane decided on an Italian theme tonight, as you can probably smell.”

“Wonderful,” I said. Lunch seemed like it had been a very long time ago.

He led me down the hallway and into the kitchen. Hilary saw me first and gave a yelp of welcome, rushing to give me a hug that rivaled Sean's. She'd cut her platinum hair, and the new style flattered her, setting off her jade-green eyes and high cheekbones. “You're shrinking,” she said, looking down at me from atop her high-heeled boots. That she was five feet eleven inches without the heels probably made most people seem short to her, and the flats I'd chosen rendered me even more diminutive than usual in comparison.

“I feel that way sometimes,” I admitted. Then I turned to greet Luisa, who was her usual elegant self in a black sweater and slim trousers, a Pucci scarf knotted at her neck with the sort of casual ease that always eluded me. She kissed me on both cheeks and handed me off to Emma and Matthew, who embraced me in turn.

Jane waved from the stove. I decided not to comment on the fact that her blue blouse was almost identical to that worn by her husband but to stow it away for future use instead. “Hi, there. Somebody get Rachel a glass of champagne, already.” Jane wasn't a big hugger.

“Yes, please.”

The brightly lit kitchen was almost a parody of domestic warmth. Jane and Sean had knocked out the walls separating the kitchen, pantry and dining room, creating a large open space with an expansive center island for cooking, a big pine table for eating, and a cozy sitting area with overstuffed furniture and a fireplace complete with a busily crackling fire. Everyone had gathered around the island, where Jane was stirring something in an enormous pot. Her face had a rosy glow, and her dark brown bob shone beneath the warm halogen lights. There were plates of antipasti on the counter—cheese and olives and roasted peppers—circled by my friends' wineglasses, which were in varying states of emptiness, or fullness, depending on one's perspective. I hopped up onto the stool that Sean indicated and happily accepted the flute of sparkling wine Matthew handed me.

“Well, now that we're all here, I think it's time for a toast,” suggested Emma. “We were waiting for you, Rach.”

Sean and Jane looked at each other. He cleared his throat, and Jane's cheeks grew pink. “Actually,” began Sean, “there's sort of an announcement that Jane and I would like to make.”

I think we all knew what was coming, but we let them go ahead anyway. “I'm pregnant,” said Jane.

“To Baby Hallard!” Hilary cried, holding her glass aloft. “Not that it's a surprise,” she added.

Jane pinkened yet more. “How did you know?”

“It's been pretty obvious.”

Jane looked down at her trim midriff. “What do you mean? I'm not showing yet,” she protested, but she put a protective hand to her abdomen, and she couldn't hide the pleasure on her face.

“No, but you've been puking every morning since I've been here.”

“Hilary,” said Luisa. “I think it's good manners to at least act surprised. And not to mention the puking.”

“I'm so glad,” said Emma.

I wasn't surprised, either, but it was nice to have my suspicions confirmed. “Well, this definitely calls for a toast!”

Much clinking of glasses ensued, and we all drank to Baby Hallard. Even Jane clinked, breaking her own nonclinking rule. I noticed that her glass held seltzer rather than champagne.

Jane and Sean fielded the usual questions about due dates, gender and baby names: June, they didn't know yet, and they were open to suggestions but had a few ideas already.

“I have a ton of ideas about what not to name it,” said Hilary.

“How surprising,” Luisa said.

“No, seriously, the wrong name can ruin a person. I don't know what people are thinking these days. Honestly, you have to be on drugs to think that you're doing a good thing by naming a child Tacoma.”

“We'll have to have a baby shower,” suggested Emma with enthusiasm as Sean popped the cork on another bottle of champagne.

“But a good baby shower. With booze. And men,” said Hilary. “Just don't expect me to babysit.”

Luisa laughed. “Do you really think anyone would trust you to babysit?”

“I'm sure you'll all be begging to babysit and change diapers when the time comes,” said Jane.

“You keep on hoping,” said Hilary, but she smiled. “Anyhow, I'll probably be on tour with my book until the baby's well out of diapers.”

I turned to her. “This sounds like it's going to be quite a book. And you haven't told me anything about it yet.”

“Aren't you the lucky one,” said Luisa.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Hilary was indignant.

“I think Luisa's just trying to say that maybe she's heard a lot about the book already,” said Emma with her trademark diplomacy.

“Anyhow, Rach, it's going to be great. You know how much I travel, and most of my reading comes from airport bookstores. Well, I've noticed two things that really seem to sell: true-crime books and thrillers about serial killers. So I decided to write a true-crime book about a serial killer. And there is one, right here in Boston, who hasn't even been caught yet.”

“This is the guy who's been strangling prostitutes?” I asked.

She nodded.

“But what if they don't catch him?”

Not surprisingly, Hilary was reluctant to let reality stand in her way. “They'll have to catch him at some point soon. And in the meantime, I'll get most of the book written. Once they catch the guy, I can just slot in the stuff about who he is and how he ended up so twisted, and I'll be all set.”

Given what I'd heard that afternoon from Detective O'Connell, it didn't seem like they were even close to apprehending a suspect. But at least now I knew how I was going to get him and Hilary together. “I just met with some of the detectives who are working on the case.”

“What? You've got to introduce me. I've called the police station but nobody will talk to me.”

I filled them in on my meeting that afternoon as we began carrying platters of food to the table. “Apparently, the police think it's someone related to the Harvard community in some way. He's been using a Harvard scarf to strangle his victims.”

“Probably a Yalie,” offered Sean.

Matthew gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Well, now I understand why the police spent so much time at the clinic yesterday. I have one of those scarves, and it was hanging on the coat rack in my office.”

“The police came to see you?” asked Hilary.

“Yup. The most recent victim was a patient of mine, and she'd been in a few days before she died.”

“This is great,” enthused Hilary. “You both have to give me all of the details you have.”

“I've told you pretty much all I've got,” I said. “Except that one of the detectives I met seems to be just your type.”

That really got her attention.

 

A couple of hours later we were lazily seated around the pine table, the remains of what had been a magnificent feast before us. Hilary had spent much of the first course discussing her research on serial killers. According to her, the prostitute murderer was following a classic pattern of escalation. “The time period between victims is getting shorter and shorter. Some people say that's because the killer starts losing control, and some people say it's because he wants to get caught.”

“Well, I hope they catch him,” said Matthew.

“Me, too. Otherwise, how will I ever finish the book?” Hilary replied.

“We all hope they find him and we're all looking forward to you finishing the book. Now can we talk about something else already?” interjected Luisa, sounding nearly peevish.

So we talked about Emma's latest gallery show and the new series she was starting, and Matthew's clinic and which room Jane and Sean would use for the nursery. Luisa was sufficiently beyond her breakup with Isobel to relate several amusing stories about the lesbian dating scene in Latin America. Between the champagne and the red wine we drank with dinner, the comfortable conversation among familiar faces, and the savory meal, I was feeling more relaxed than I had in days.

My friends didn't bring up Peter or Jonathan, but I knew they were just waiting. Sean and Matthew had probably been prepped to excuse themselves after dinner, leaving the former roommates alone to talk about touchy personal subjects.

“Who wants dessert?” asked Jane.

“I don't think I can handle dessert just yet,” said Emma. “Why don't we get this stuff cleared up first?”

I was excused from the clearing up after I chipped a platter that had belonged to Jane's great-grandmother, and Luisa wanted a cigarette, so at her invitation I stepped out onto the back porch with her to keep her company.

The snow had really begun to fall, and the backyard was already blanketed in white. A pool of light spilled out from the kitchen windows, and our shadows cast long dark silhouettes on the otherwise unsullied expanse. Luisa lit her cigarette with an engraved lighter and took a luxurious drag. “Much better,” she said, with obvious relief.

“Much colder,” I pointed out.

“That, too,” she acknowledged. She took another drag. “Rachel, there's something we need to tell you.” She sounded suddenly serious. “And I drew the shortest straw.”

“What?” I asked, concerned. “Is everything all right?”

She glanced back toward the window. Inside, we could see our friends busily tidying the kitchen. “I'm not quite sure how to say this, so I'm just going to come right out with it. When we went to Newbury Street yesterday, Jane and I saw Peter.”

“Oh?” That seemed harmless enough. The convention center was only a block away, on Boylston Street.

“He was coming out of Cartier.” My heart gave a little lift. Maybe he'd been buying me a present, to make up for his neglect this past couple of days? And at Cartier, to boot. That could only be good. What a fool I'd been, doubting him.

“And?” I asked eagerly.

“And he was with a woman. Tall, with long dark hair.”

My heart promptly sank. “Did she look like Christy Turlingon, only even more gazellelike?”

Luisa nodded and took another drag. “We wanted to say hello, and we called out to him. They were across the street, and I don't think they heard us. So Jane and I followed them. They went down Newbury and into Shreve, Crump & Lowe.” Another jewelry store. My heart was now lodged somewhere between my knees and my ankles.

Abigail. The woman they'd seen could only have been Abigail. Peter had been too busy to have dinner with me, but he had plenty of time to hang out in jewelry stores with Abigail.

I was shaking, and not just from the cold. “Did they look—” I wasn't sure how to frame the question. “Did they look like they were
together?
”

She shrugged. “It was hard to tell. They seemed to be talking and laughing up a storm.” She hesitated. “And she had her hand on his arm. But the sidewalks were icy—he might have just been helping her.”

I fought back a wave of nausea. I didn't know what to say.

“Rachel? Are you all right?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

“Look, Rachel. It was probably nothing. Jane and I weren't even sure we should say anything, but we eventually agreed that we'd both want to know if we were in your shoes.”

“No, you're right. It's better to know.”

We were silent for a couple of minutes. Luisa finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray that she'd carried with her.

“Let's go inside,” Luisa suggested. “You could probably use another glass of wine.”

 

Sean had taken Matthew to his basement workroom, where he was apparently building a cradle from scratch. The rest of us took our drinks and sat before the fire, and I spilled out everything that had been happening with Peter, and with Jonathan.

Hilary, of course, minced no words. “How dare Peter go jewelry shopping with any woman who's not you? Do you want me to talk to him for you, Rach? Give him a piece of my mind? I've had a lot of experience ditching people.”

“That's kind of you to offer, Hil, but not right now.”

Emma was less sanguine. “This doesn't sound like the Peter we know. He doesn't seem like the sort of guy who would cheat on you. And you said he was completely normal on Wednesday night. I don't see how so much could have changed in forty-eight hours.”

“He could just be genuinely swamped with what he says he's swamped with. Maybe they were looking for a gift for you. Or for their potential client?” This was from Jane, the eternal optimist.

A gift for their client? “Like what?” asked Hilary impatiently. “A pair of earrings? I think you should cut your losses and move on, Rach. I remember this Beasley guy, and he was hot. The best cure for one guy is another guy.”

“He is incredibly good-looking,” I acknowledged. “And he's smart and nice and everything.” I took a big swig of wine. “Oh, Christ. I don't know what to think, much less what to do.”