What the Night Knows (7 page)

“You look so delectable in those jeans,” he said, “it’s amazing you’ve painted something that could be equally mesmerizing.”

“Ah! You’re as smooth as ever, Detective Calvino.”

He went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She turned her head, leaned back, and he kissed her throat, the delicate line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

“You’ve been eating coconut something,” she said.

“Not me.” He dangled the bag of cookies in front of her. “You could smell them through an airtight seal?”

“I’m starved. I came up here at eleven, never stopped for lunch. This bitch”—she indicated the triptych—“wants to break me.”

Occasionally, when a picture proved a special challenge to her talent, she referred to it as either a bitch or a bastard. She could not explain why, in her mind, each painting had a specific gender.

“A lovely army nurse baked these for the kids. But I’m sure they’ll share.”

“I’m not so sure, the little fiends. Why are you hanging out with army nurses?”

“She was older than your mother and just as proper. She’s a sort of witness on a case.”

John knew many cops who never discussed active investigations with their wives, for fear that evidence would be compromised during beauty-shop gossip or over coffee with the neighbors.

He could tell Nicky anything, with confidence that she would not repeat a word of what he said. She was warm and forthcoming at all times, but regarding his police work, she had the virtue of a stone.

As for his current and unofficial investigation, however, he intended to keep it to himself. At least for the moment.

Nicky said, “Better than a cookie—cabernet.”

“I’ll open a bottle, then freshen up for dinner.”

“I’ve got maybe a dozen strokes to make and one sable brush to clean, and then I’m done with this bitch for the day.”

Another door opened on a large landing at the head of the front stairs. Directly across from the studio stood the door to the master suite: beyond, a bedroom with a white-marble fireplace featuring ebony inlays, a sitting room, two walk-in closets, a spacious bath.

The retreat included a compact bar with an under-the-counter refrigerator and wine cooler. John uncorked a bottle of Cakebread cabernet sauvignon and carried it, with two glasses, into the master bathroom, where he put everything on the black-granite counter between the sinks and poured for both of them.

When he glanced at himself in the mirror, he didn’t look the least bit apprehensive.

In his closet, he took the boxed bells from his coat pocket. He put them in the jewelry drawer with his cuff links, tie chains, and spare watch.

He slipped out of his shoulder rig and put it, with the pistol still contained, on a high shelf.

He hung his sport coat on the to-iron rod and tossed his shirt in the laundry basket. He sat on a dressing bench, slipped out of his rain-wet Rockport walking shoes, and set them aside to be shined. His socks were damp. He stripped them off and put on a fresh pair.

These mundane tasks were slowly taking the supernatural shine off the day. He began to think that in time he might find logical explanations for everything that had seemed outré, that what appeared to be malevolent fate in action might look more like mere coincidence in the morning light.

At his bathroom sink, he scrubbed his hands and face. A hot washcloth, like a poultice, drew the ache out of his neck muscles.

As John was toweling dry, Nicky arrived, took her glass of wine, and sat on the wide edge of the marble tub. She wore white sneakers on the toes of which, as a joke during play with Minette a few weeks earlier, she had painted LEFT and RIGHT, each word on the wrong shoe.

Picking up his wine, leaning on the counter with his back to the mirror, John said, “Walter and Imogene are still here?”

“They had a mini-crisis with Preston this morning. He’s been hospitalized again. They didn’t get here until two o’clock.”

Preston, their thirty-six-year-old son, lived with them. He had been through rehab twice, but he still enjoyed washing down illegally obtained prescription medications with tequila.

“I told them to take the day off, no problem,” Nicky said, “but you know how they are.”

“Responsible as hell.”

She smiled. “Not much call for their type in the modern world. I told them you expected to be late, but they insisted on staying to serve dinner and do the initial cleanup.”

“Has Minette eaten?”

“Not without Daddy. No way. We’re all night owls here, and she might be the most nocturnal of us all.”

“The Cakebread’s nice.”

“Bliss.” She sipped her wine.

On her driver’s license, her eyes were said to be blue, but they were purple. Sometimes they were as bright and deep as an effulgent twilight sky. At the moment, they were iris petals in soft shadow.

She said, “Preston worries me, you know.”

“Doesn’t worry me. He’s a self-centered creep. He’ll overdose or he won’t. What worries me is the toll he’s taking on his parents.”

“No, I mean … Walter and Imogene are such nice people. They love him. They raised him well, did all the right things. Yet he became what he is. You never know.”

“Zach, Naomi, Minnie—they’re going to turn out fine. They’re good kids.”

“They’re good kids,” Nicolette agreed. “And Preston was a good kid once. You never know. You can only hope.”

John thought of Billy Lucas, the clean-cut honor student and book
lover. The rancid puddle of milk and blood. The blood-glazed collage of unpaid bills. The throttled grandmother, the sister’s crimson bed.

“They’ll be fine. They’re great.” He changed the subject. “By the way, something happened today that made me wonder about those snapshots we took at Minnie’s birthday party. Did you email them to your folks?”

“Sure. I told you.”

“I guess I forgot. To anyone else?”

“Just Stephanie. Sometimes Minnie reminds me of her when she was a little girl.”

Stephanie was Nicky’s younger sister, now thirty-two and the sous-chef at an acclaimed restaurant in Boston.

“Would Stephanie or your folks have forwarded the pictures to anyone else?”

Nicky shrugged, then looked puzzled. “Why? Suddenly this seems like a gentle grilling.”

He didn’t want to alarm her. Not yet. Not until and if he could logically explain the reason he was worried.

“At work, I ran into someone who mentioned Minnie in the bunny ears at her birthday party. Someone emailed him the photo. He didn’t remember who.”

“Well, she’s supercute in those ears, and you know how people swap things that tickle them. The photo’s probably up on any number of websites. Cute Kids dot com, Bunny Ears dot com—”

“Predatory Pedophiles dot com.”

Getting to her feet, she said, “Sometimes you’re all cop when half cop would be tough enough.”

“You’re right. The problem is you never know when it’s going to turn out to be a half-cop or an all-cop day.”

She rang her glass against his, a single clear note. “You can’t go through life always in high gear.”

“You know what I’m like. I don’t downshift well.”

“Let’s go have dinner. Later I’ll shift your gears
for
you.”

She carried her wineglass on high, as if it were a torch with which she revealed the way.

Carrying his glass and the bottle, he followed, inexpressibly grateful for his life with her—and more aware than usual that what is woven will inevitably unweave, the wound will unwind, the raveled will unravel. The thing most worth praying for was that the moment of the
un
would come only when you were old and tired and filled to the brim with this life. Too often, that was not the timetable that Destiny had in mind.

10

BEFORE DINNER, JOHN VISITED WALTER AND IMOGENE NASH in the kitchen, though not to commiserate with them about Preston’s latest fall. They were too self-reliant and possessed too much self-respect to want to be seen as victims, and they were too considerate to want others to shoulder any smallest part of their burden.

Walter toiled as a navy cook for twenty-four years, most of it at a harbor base rather than aboard ship, and Imogene worked as a dental hygienist. When he grew tired of measuring ingredients in hundred-pound and five-gallon increments, when she wearied of staring into gaping mouths, they retired from their professions and, at fifty, went to a school to learn estate management.

In ultrawealthy Montecito, California, they ran a twelve-acre property on which stood a forty-thousand-square-foot main house, a five-thousand-square-foot guest house, horse stables, two swimming pools, and vast rose gardens. Walter and Imogene thrived, managing a staff of twenty, until drunken Preston, then thirty and intending to reunite with his parents for the purpose of negotiating a guilt stipend, had slammed back into their lives by crashing his rental car into the
gatehouse, collapsing half the structure, narrowly missing the security guard, and cursing out the owner, who helped extract him from his vehicle before it might burst into flames.

Preston in tow, the Nashes left California and returned to their roots, hoping that by dedicating a year to their son’s rehabilitation, they could restore him to a life of sobriety and self-sufficiency. Instead, he became the thing that lived in their basement apartment, sullen and reclusive, occupying himself with video games, smut, and drug-induced stupors. For weeks and even months at a time, Preston remained as elusive as the Phantom of the Opera—until one too many chemical cocktails gave him the screaming whimwhams so bad that he saw evil clowns climbing out of his toilet, or the equivalent.

Even in his silent and reclusive periods, Preston took a toll from his parents. Expectation of his next collapse was almost as emotionally draining as the event itself.

Estate managers usually were required to live on site, but no employer wanted the Nashes to bring along their pale and stubbled basement dweller. Instead of managing a major property and its staff, they were reduced to cleaning house and cooking for the Calvinos, a position they’d held for more than four years. Overqualified, they never acted as though the job might be beneath them; they worked hard and were cheerful, perhaps because work provided escape from worry.

When John entered the kitchen, Walter was plating salads at the center island. Five eight, trim, with steel-rod posture, he might have passed for a jockey if he had been a few inches shorter and ten pounds lighter. His small, strong hands and his economy of movement suggested he would be able to control half a ton of horseflesh with the subtlest pressure of a knee or the slightest tug of the reins.

“There’s no need to serve us dinner when we haven’t any guests,” John said. “You’ve had a long day.”

“You’ve had a long day, as well, Mr. C,” Walter said. “Besides, there’s nothing like some extra work to ensure against a sleepless night.”

“Well, don’t think you’re staying all the way through cleanup. The terrible trio can help Nicky and me. We’re nearly three-quarters through the year, and they haven’t yet broken twenty dishes. We don’t want to deny them every chance to exceed their personal best score.”

He drew a deep breath, savoring the aromas of onions, garlic, juniper berries, and well-cooked beef. “Ah, carbonata.”

Laying aside her ladle and setting the lid ajar on the stew pot, Imogene said, “You’re a regular bloodhound, Mr. C. No wonder you close so many cases.”

In youth, Imogene must have been a pocket Venus. Her features were still delicate and her skin as clear as morning light. In spite of her petite stature, she was not now—and likely never had been—fragile either in body or spirit. She had the air of one who could readily assume Atlas’s burden if he could not carry it any longer.

“But I don’t detect even a hint of polenta,” John worried.

“How could you smell polenta through such a cloud of stew? But it’s here, of course. We’d never serve carbonata without it.”

After another deep breath, he said, “
Piselli alle noci,
” which was an Italian dish of buttered peas and carrots garnished with walnut halves.

To her husband, Imogene said, “He’s got a better nose than you do, Wally.”

“Of course he does,” Walter agreed as he shaved fresh Parmesan on the salads. “After all those years of navy cooking, I’ve ruined my
nose for nuance. Which reminds me, sir, leave the laundry-room door closed, we’ve got an ugly stink in there. I only discovered it ten minutes ago. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“I’m not sure. But my best guess is a sick rodent found a way into the dryer exhaust duct and met his fate just on the farther side of the lint trap.”

“Wally,” Imogene said with some exasperation. “The man’s about to sit down to his dinner.”

“Sorry, Mr. C.”

“No problem. Nothing could turn me off carbonata.”

“It’s just curious,” Walter said, “how the smell came on so suddenly. One minute the laundry room is fine, and a minute later, it reeks.”

11

JOHN SAT AT THE HEAD OF THE DINING-ROOM TABLE, NICOLETTE to his right, Minnie to his left and boosted on a pillow. Naomi sat beside her little sister, Zachary across from Naomi.

For the first time, the sight of his family gathered in one place didn’t at once warm John but instead inspired a cold tightness in his chest, a greasy sliding sensation in his stomach. The dining room seemed too bright, although the lighting was the same as ever at dinner, and every window invited hostile observation. The stainless-steel flatware flanking his plate had the sinister gleam of surgical instruments. His wineglass was indeed glass, a potential source of jagged shards.

For a moment, this curious uneasiness threatened to disorient him—until he understood the cause of it. Together, the family was five targets clustered, therefore vulnerable to quick annihilation. Although he had no incontestable proof that any enemy waged war against him, he was thinking like a man embattled.

His hyperbolic suspicion embarrassed him, and more important, he recognized that if not controlled, it would cloud his judgment. If
he permitted his imagination to paint a gloss of evil on all things, he would provide camouflage for true evil. Besides, if you painted the devil on the walls often enough, you got the devil on the stairs, his footsteps approaching.