Blackbird 10 - A Little Night Murder (27 page)

“Only from his lawyers, unfortunately.” Gus was pacing with excitement over the developing story. “They’re playing it cool, probably organizing an assault on the Tuttle bank accounts.”

“They’re going to be disappointed if the Tuttle fortune has to be split a dozen different ways.”

“A dozen! By God, the Music Man got around, didn’t he?” Cackling with glee, he grabbed his phone. “I’m putting a couple of the City desk guys on this now. They can make the phone calls for the investor story, do the follow-up. And I’ll find a team to start
reviewing all the calls that came in about the Kaminsky photo. We’ll have some paragraphs put together by the time you finish your events tonight.”

“I only have one. Art in the Garden. It’s outdoors at the garden of a friend of my grandmother’s. She opens it every year for a local artists’ cooperative to display their work. The party is a hot ticket.”

“It sounds like a crashing bore to me, but get going.” He shooed me away with one hand and finished dialing with the other.

“Gus,” I said in the doorway, “I’m serious about being no part of your family’s business situation. I am out. You have to talk to them.”

“Sure, sure.” He had the receiver to his ear. “Toddle along. Work to do.”

Noah was happily gnawing on one of Mary Jude’s apple slices, and he lifted it high in his chubby fist to show it to me. I gave him a kiss and pretended to take a bite of his apple, and he giggled.

Mary Jude said, “This is one happy little boy.”

My cell phone rang in my bag. Hoping it was Michael calling to say he was out of police custody, I grabbed it, my heart lifting.

I was surprised to hear Hart Jones on the other end of the line.

My hopeful heart sank like a stone when he asked me if I had time to meet him for a drink. I had been enjoying a few minutes of triumph about the Tuttle story, but Hart’s voice sobered me instantly. I checked my watch and agreed.

Dismayed, I grabbed my hat, tucked Noah into his stroller and thanked Mary Jude for her help. I rolled Noah onto the elevator.

I stopped first at a trendy children’s clothing shop just two blocks from the Pendergast Building. Since Michael and I had picked up Noah at the Jones house under such hasty circumstances, we didn’t have many clothes for the baby at the farm. I’d been laundering the few items we did have to keep him decently dressed. Now it seemed like a good idea to find him something nice to wear home with his
father. His T-shirt and shorts looked spattered with drool and bits of apple skin—as if we’d been neglectful of him.

In the shop, I slipped through the sale rack and struck gold when I pulled out an adorable set of blue shorts with a matching sailor shirt. While I changed Noah’s diaper and dressed him in his new finery, the shopkeeper found a matching pair of navy blue sneakers and little sailor hat that gave Noah a jaunty look. He wasn’t a pirate—not yet, anyway—but he was a very cute midshipman.

I tried to be enthusiastic, but my heart ached as I finished dressing him. Noah snatched off the hat and threw it at the shopkeeper, but after a few more tries, he agreed to wear it.

Twenty minutes later when I wheeled him into the bar at the Four Seasons, he was sound asleep.

I looked around the room crowded with bankers enjoying a drink at the end of the day. I spotted Hart Jones sitting nervously alone at a table by the window. I saw right away that he was twisting his wedding ring. He stood up when Noah and I reached the table. Hart wore an expensive charcoal suit with a crisp shirt and an Hermès tie. He seemed unnerved when he realized I had the baby with me.

“Thanks for meeting me, Nora.” Hart brushed a quick kiss on my cheek. He leaned over the stroller and saw that his son was asleep. Hart reached to touch him but thought better of waking the baby and pulled his hand back.

The waiter brought Hart a beer, and I asked for an orange juice and some peanuts.

Hart and I sat down. I took off my hat and perched it on the stroller handle.

Uncomfortable, Hart said again, “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Of course. I’d have brought all of Noah’s things if I thought we were going to—”

“No,” he said. “That’s not why I called.”

He surprised me. I asked, “How’s Penny?”

Hart toyed with a cocktail napkin. “I took her to the facility on Sunday. She agreed to stay in rehab. She hates it, but she knows she needs to be there.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Right.” Again, he glanced down at Noah in the stroller as if to reassure himself the baby was still sleeping. Without meeting my eye, he asked, “How’s Emma? Have you seen her lately?”

The question surprised me all over again. Not that Hart was curious about the mother of his child, but that he asked about her in the same second he spoke about his wife.

“She’s okay,” I said warily.

“Is she drinking?”

“Maybe a little.” There was no point in lying to him.

He grinned with admiration. “She’s a party girl.”

“She has a problem,” I said, refusing to acknowledge that my sister’s drinking might be a commendable thing. “But I think she’s on a good path right now.”

“I hear she’s riding again.”

“Yes. And it’s going well. She’s getting into top condition and working very hard. Paddy Horgan has assigned her a new horse. They could go far. As long as she doesn’t get sidetracked.”

Hart didn’t respond, but he had the grace to look chagrined. He took a nervous slug of his beer.

The waiter reappeared in record time with my orange juice and a plate with assorted nuts, crackers and three kinds of sliced cheese. I popped a piece of cheddar and a few almonds.

Crunching the nuts, I decided I didn’t want to make anything easy for Hart. The best strategy seemed to be waiting for him to decide he was brave enough to discuss what he’d brought me here to talk about.

His shoulders lost some of their courage. Finally, he said, “I’ve been working on a big deal at the firm.”

Not news. I sipped orange juice and waited for more.

“It’s complicated—the kind of deal I wish I could ask Lexie Paine about. She’d know how to handle the details.”

“She’s not working these days.”

“Oh, I know that,” he said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean—that is, I was just saying it’s complicated.”

I leaned forward. “Hart, it’s just me. I can be your friend, if you like. But you have to be honest with me. Are we here to talk about everything else? Or about your son?”

He sighed, and his shoulders slumped further. He toyed unhappily with his beer glass but didn’t drink. “How’s Noah doing?”

“He’s sleeping well, eating his head off. He’s . . . happy.”

Hart wagged his head. “I know. That’s great. You’ve been great for Noah. Even your—even Abruzzo—you’ve both been great. Don’t think we don’t appreciate what the two of you have done for us. But it’s—it all makes this even harder for me to— Look, I know being with Penny and me isn’t always good for Noah. Not when she’s out of control. And I—maybe I’m not much of a parent, either.”

“Noah is a wonderful little boy,” I said gently. “If you had time to just be with him—”

“That’s just it. I don’t have time.”

“He’s your son, Hart.” Maybe my tone was too harsh, but I couldn’t take it back.

Hart didn’t hear the reproof in my voice. He took a deep breath and then spoke in a rush. “I’ve been offered—that is, part of this deal I’m working on is a project with almost unlimited potential for me. I could have my own division in a couple of years. It involves politics and banking and all the things I’m good at. I can sink my teeth into this, make it my own. I really think I can make an impact.”

“What does all this mean?”

He gave up explaining and said flatly, “The job is in Brussels.”

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t react. My brain was suddenly clanging like an emergency alarm.
Brussels!

Hart continued to babble about his huge opportunity. A shot at something very big. A job he couldn’t pass up. The chance of a lifetime. A career maker.

My throat closed up tight. I tried to take a sip of orange juice, but my hand was shaking so hard I couldn’t manage the glass. I set it down on the table and nearly spilled it. Hart caught the glass—his quick reaction saving both of us from getting soaked.
No, no, please, no.
I couldn’t say the words. But the idea of Noah going halfway around the world from us—it was too hard to bear. I thought of Michael and what he’d say in this moment. His response wouldn’t be civil. He’d be furious. He’d take action—maybe the legally wrong action, but right for us. Right for Noah. I felt as if I was betraying him by letting Noah go with Hart now—maybe forever—without Michael being able to say good-bye.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

Hart stopped talking, shocked at my reaction.

I reached for a cocktail napkin and tried to stop the tears from ruining my makeup—a foolish reaction, perhaps, but easier to stand than the idea of losing Noah.

I said, “Sorry. I—we’re very fond of Noah. I know I should be congratulating you on the job—it sounds like something you really want. But—I’ll be honest. It gets harder and harder to give him back to you after he stays with us. We love him. We really do. Not just me, but Michael, too.”

Quietly, Hart murmured, “I know.”

“I’ve been afraid, actually, that someday we wouldn’t be able to hand him over to you. He’s almost ours, but not quite. It’s—it’s very hard. We want him at our house. We do love him.”

Hart hunched forward and grasped my hand. “That makes this easier.”

I dabbed my eyes. “What?”

“Nora, if Penny and I are going to make our marriage work, I think we need to be together. Just the two of us. Without Noah. Having him with us doesn’t help Penny with her addiction. In fact, I think he makes things worse for her. So we’re thinking we should go to Brussels. The two of us. To start over.”

“The two of you?” I couldn’t understand what he was saying.

“I don’t have any right to ask you this. But you have a way with him. You and Abruzzo both. If you could keep him for a year—maybe two years, if that’s how long the job lasts—Penny and I could get our marriage under control.” Hart kept talking, unaware that I stared at him with my mouth open. “We never really had a honeymoon. We took Noah the same week as the wedding. It was too soon. Too much to handle. And Penny’s problem wasn’t under control. But if she and I had a chance to—”

“You want us to take care of Noah while you go to Brussels?”

“A year. Maybe two. He’ll never remember, will he? He’s less than a year old. Kids are resilient.”

“Resilient?” I repeated, barely hanging on to my good manners. “Hart, he’s a baby, not a dog you can give back if you can’t housebreak him.”

Hart sat back, his mouth snapping shut.

I said, “You’re asking us to take Noah but give him back when you return?”

“Well, yes.” As if his words were perfectly logical, Hart said, “You can’t keep him, Nora. He’s my son.”

“Nobody recognizes that fact more than I do. But you’re asking us to be . . .”

To be as hard-hearted as he and Penny were.

Noah stirred in the stroller, and we both turned to look down at him. He didn’t wake, but his sailor hat tipped drunkenly over one eye. I reached down and slipped off the hat. Underneath it, his hair
was wet and curled into sweaty whorls. If I woke him now and gave him the hat, I knew Noah’s first reaction would be to throw the damn thing straight at his father.

I couldn’t hold back a shaky smile.

I knew what Michael’s vote would be.

I said, “We’ll take him, Hart. We’ll keep him for as long as you want us to.”

And maybe longer,
I thought. Michael just needed to think of a strategy. He’d have a year—maybe two—to come up with a way to . . . coerce Hart and Penny into letting us have Noah forever. And when that time came, I’d be standing right beside him with Noah locked in my arms.

I don’t remember saying good-bye to Hart, or how we parted. My head buzzed with anger and outrage and adrenaline. On the way out of the bar, pushing Noah in the stroller and feeling my blood hot in my veins, I felt more determined than I ever had in my whole life. No way was I ever giving up Noah. Not in a year or two years, not ever.

At the revolving door I bumped into Jamie Scaithe, a former associate of my late husband’s from the cocaine days. I’d had a couple of unpleasant dates with him after Todd died. Jamie had a fancy new haircut designed to disguise his receding hairline, and he was dressed on trend in a tight-fitting suit and expensive shoes. His wristwatch flashed in the sunlight.

He didn’t recognize me until my hat tilted and he saw my face. Then Jamie reeled back from me as if shocked, but laughing. “God, Nora, look how fat you are!”

I was going to push past him without speaking, but he blocked my way. I’d always suspected Jamie wasn’t just a consumer of cocaine, but a dealer, too. He came from a rich Philadelphia family, but he hadn’t inherited much of their money—his parents had good instincts, I thought. He had a lavish lifestyle, though. The kind that I had come to decide was distasteful in its excess.

His face was smug as he looked down at me. “I guess I dodged a bullet when you refused my dinner invitations. You’d probably have eaten me broke. How many kids do you have now?” He made it sound as if I were running a pig farm.

“Will you let me pass, please? I’m late for an engagement.”

He continued to laugh. “I’ve never seen a girl so fat before. Let me feel that bowling ball.”

He reached and almost put his hand on Baby Girl. Maybe I had endured one too many touches by strangers, but this was the last straw. I slapped his hand hard.

He pulled back as if bitten, face shocked.

If I had worried about how I might settle into motherhood, those doubts evaporated in a heartbeat. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I had my priorities straight. I said, “Keep your dirty hands off my family.”

I
took Noah to the garden party at the house of my grandmother’s friend, who greeted me fondly and gushed over the baby in his sailor suit. We chatted for only a minute before she had to move on to other guests, leaving me to wander in the garden. Although compact, her urban oasis was a masterpiece of topiaries and statuary and stone containers that gleamed with the patina of old age and long, loving use. Tiers of immaculately mulched flowers had been expertly chosen in subtle waves of color to please the most discerning of eyes. The intoxicating scent of all those wonderful flowers filled the air, which seemed full of swooping birds, too. The art hanging from overhead wires strung between the shady trees was vibrant and playful, and the strolling guests clutched price lists while they admired everything. If ever I had an opportunity to contemplate beauty, this was it. I found one perfect Peace rose and showed it to Noah, who put his pudgy fingers to the soft petals. After that, I took photos for the newspaper and talked briefly to a few friends.

I soon bumped into Michael and Gail Rosen, a couple who could always be relied upon to support the local children’s hospital. Michael, a CPA wearing a snappy summer suit, and Gail, a retired teacher in a crisp dress with her triple strands of pearls, were sipping cool drinks and admiring a splashy canvas of bicycles finger-painted in primary colors.

He turned away from the painting with a shake of his head. “Not that one, Gail. We’ll find another way to donate. Nora!” He gave me a kiss on the cheek and said with concern, “Should you be out in this heat?”

Gail hugged me. “We’re trying not to melt.”

“Why aren’t you two out on the golf course on such a beautiful day?” I asked, teasing.

“Oh, we wouldn’t miss this party for anything. Honey,” she said to her husband, “why don’t you find something cold for Nora to drink?”

“I’m fine, really—”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he promised. “I think my wife is hinting she needs some girl time.”

When he went off into the crowd, Gail said, “This gives me a minute to ask you about Lexie. Is she all right? I assume you’re in touch with her?”

Since her husband worked in the financial world, which was still in an uproar about the fall of Lexie’s firm, I said cautiously, “She’s okay.”

“I don’t approve of what she did,” Gail said. “Nobody could. It was awful that her partner stole from clients, but that doesn’t excuse pushing him off a ledge. She’s going to make restitution to the investors, isn’t she?”

“I can’t really say, Gail.”

“No, of course not. You’re being discreet. One of my daughters went to school with her, you may remember, so I think I know
Lexie well enough to guess she’s going to do the right thing. I hope you’ll tell her that although many clients are furious about what happened—justifiably so—there are also some of us who still respect her. Her charity work was especially admirable. And you know I’m a big advocate of women in business. I hate seeing a good one go down. So we’re rooting for her to get back on her feet.”

“Thank you, Gail.”

“I hope she comes back better than ever.”

I hoped so, too. I didn’t say I was worried that my friend was dabbling in the dark arts.

Gail deftly changed the subject to Noah. She crouched down to talk directly to him in the stroller, and he responded with a grin. She was telling me about her granddaughters when her husband returned with a frosty glass of iced tea for me, and while I gratefully sipped it, we chatted pleasantly about the pictures hanging around us. The Rosens were very nice people, the backbone of charitable giving. I left them discussing the attributes of various paintings.

I wheeled Noah around to look at some of the sculptures and listen to the music of a youth string trio, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was too rocked by Hart’s proposal that Michael and I take Noah. Long before the party got fully under way, and without even bothering to find anyone to say thank you or good-bye to, Noah and I headed home.

Usually, I used the travel time to write my newspaper pieces, but Noah was too much of a distraction today. He demanded my attention. Juggling him, I finally checked my phone and discovered a text message from Michael.

Ill pick u up at train station.

I showed the phone’s screen to Noah. “See? He’ll be home with us tonight.”

Noah grabbed the phone and sucked on it.

By the time the train reached Doylestown, Noah was asleep in my arms, and it was a struggle to get the stroller and everything else off the train and into the station. My feet were swollen. Baby Girl was doing a tap dance on my bladder. But I looked around for Michael with happy anticipation.

Instead, it was Armand Cannoli, Michael’s lawyer, who came striding up from the dark parking lot.

I must have looked terribly disappointed, because he said, “I’m so sorry. I used Mick’s phone to text you.”

“Where is he? In jail still?”

“Not exactly. Here, I brought my car. I have my son’s car seat, too. It might be the wrong size, but— No, don’t lift that yourself. Let me help.”

When we were finally settled in Cannoli’s big Mercedes and he was driving me home, he explained.

“The original charges were all bogus,” he said. “Mick wasn’t driving under the influence, of course. The cops just wanted some leverage to find out about his mother. When that didn’t work, I thought they were going to turn him loose this afternoon, but that’s when the feds showed up.”

“The feds? You mean the FBI?” My voice rose as dread surged up from inside me. “What for? What do they want with him?”

“I don’t know, and Mick wasn’t talking. They took him away, and now—”

“The FBI took him away where? Why? He hasn’t done anything wrong.” Federal charges were much more serious than the rest. My head was suddenly full of horrible thoughts of penitentiaries and grimly long sentences that might doom our future, and I felt sick.

Cannoli tried to soothe me. “I’m working on finding out everything. What’s his relationship with Lexie Paine? He mentioned her
name to me, then decided to clam up. I can’t help him if he won’t let me.”

I felt a pit start to open in my stomach. My worst fears were coming true. Michael and Lexie had concocted something illegal together, and now it was coming apart. “I don’t know what they’re doing. They wouldn’t tell me.” Probably to keep me out of their conspiracy.

Gently, Armand asked, “Do you know if it’s legal?”

I had asked Michael the same question. What had his answer been?
Legal in some countries.
Had he been joking?

If Michael had chosen to keep secrets from his lawyer, I had to trust there were good reasons for me to do the same. So I didn’t answer.

Instead, I asked, “Where are they keeping him?”

“I won’t know until morning.”

“A jail somewhere? Locked up?’

“Probably.”

If my whole chest were being squeezed in a vise, I couldn’t have felt more panicked. “Will they let him go before Friday?”

“Friday? I don’t know, Nora.”

“Armand, we have an appointment to get married that evening.”

“How delightful,” Cannoli said warmly. “No wonder he’s pacing like a caged lion. Congratulations. Nora, I’ll move mountains to get him to the church on time, I promise. I’ll pull in favors—whatever it takes. He’ll be waiting at the altar. Don’t worry.”

I was only somewhat comforted. “I met an FBI agent last year. Do you think it would do any good for me to call him and—”

“Let us handle it.” Cannoli’s voice was gentle. “We’ve never failed Mick before. We’ll save his bacon again.”

On Wednesday morning, I put on another of Libby’s awful maternity T-shirts. This one read
ALL I WANTED WAS A BACK RUB
.

I figured nobody would see me, so I was safe. I read the
Intelligencer
while feeding Noah his breakfast. There was no story about Michael, thank heaven.

The story about the Tuttles was splashed above the fold, with pictures of Jenny and David Kaminsky arranged side by side so readers could make their own decisions about family resemblance. A sidebar story outlined the possibility that Boom Boom Tuttle had invented her mystery moneyman to drain as much working capital as possible from other investors. Did I care anymore? Not really. If all the Tuttles ended up in a soup kitchen, that was all right with me. I hated the idea of any of them cashing in on the Blackbird family.

I flipped the newspaper over, and there was a grainy photo of Lexie, probably taken from a helicopter. She was stretched out in a lounge chair in her bathing suit, sunning herself by the luxurious pool. The headline:
LIV
ING THE GOOD LIFE
.

For the first time in my pregnancy, I felt my belly twinge. I put my hand on Baby Girl and silently cursed Gus. The story would sell a lot of papers that day. And raise the ire of people who had lost their life’s savings to the Paine Investment Group. It made Lexie look like an uncaring criminal who had stolen from her clients to feather her own considerable nest
.

Rubbing the tight muscle in my belly, I phoned the newspaper when I was pretty sure Gus would be in. His assistant transferred me, and Gus picked up on the fourth ring, as if he was deliberately keeping me in suspense.

Instead of hello, he asked, “Did you get home safely last night?”

His concern surprised me. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You left here with enough infant paraphernalia to cripple a pack mule.”

“I managed just fine.”

In a different tone, he said, “I heard about Abruzzo.”

I didn’t answer. I had a hard time believing Gus could have
heard about Michael’s trouble with federal investigators from a police scanner. He must have informants in higher places.

Gus said, “Are you okay?”

“No, of course I’m not okay. I saw your photo of Lexie. I can’t bear to read what you’ve written about her.”

“Everywhere I go, people badger me about when we’re going to do a full-blown exposé on your friend. I had to toss a little chum into the water to—”

“Gus,” I said, “I’m going to take a few days off. I have several photos and extra stories we can use until I get back to work. Tremaine and I can make arrangements by phone for the online edition. But I’m not coming in. I can’t handle this anymore.”

“Handle what?”

“The way you treat people. The way you conduct business.”

“Let me come out there to your outpost in the country.” Gus tried hard to sound kind. “We’ll discuss your promotion. Or—”

“No, Gus.”

“I’m coming to see you,” he said. “I can be there in an hour.”

“I’ll call the police if you do.”

“You left a garment bag here. It’s got a couple of dresses in it, Mary Jude says. I’ll bring it.”

“I’ll pick it up myself sometime. You’re not welcome here.”

“I’m trying to help!”

“Keep working on the Tuttle story. There’s one more angle I should have mentioned. I think it’s possible Boom Boom is missing. Either missing or she’s in danger.”

His voice changed. “What kind of danger?”

“She wasn’t at the Tuttle house yesterday, so somebody needs to start looking. Hostetler’s probably the man for the job,” I said bitterly. “And he’s finished with his other assignment, right?” Before Gus could ask more questions, I disconnected and sat for a moment, angry and frightened.

Noah threw his banana at me and smiled brightly.

I did my best to wipe the worry from my face. If I felt as if my life was falling apart, I owed it to Noah to pretend otherwise. Surely the primary principle of good parenting was making a child feel protected and loved at all times.

For the next couple of days, though, I looked after Noah never far from a telephone. I stopped reading the newspapers. I phoned Lexie, but she didn’t answer. I talked to the Cannolis on a regular basis, and they assured me that Michael planned on showing up for our wedding. But they couldn’t tell me exactly how that miracle might happen.

If not for my sisters, I think I’d have gone crazy. But Libby came every morning and brought Max, who grew more and more intimidated by Noah. Emma arrived at the end of her workday, bringing take-out food. Talking a lot about her progress with Cookie, she helped me in the garden. My sisters did their level best to keep me on an even keel.

On Friday morning, Libby insisted on taking me out for a bridal breakfast. “It will get your mind off everything.”

“I’d rather just stay here by the phone, Libby—”

“I have something to discuss. Something delicate,” she said, “and I’d like to do it in public, if you don’t mind.”

“Why? I’m warning you, Libby—in my current state of mind, I’m willing to make a scene just about anywhere.”

She smiled. “A quick breakfast. Who doesn’t need waffles once in a while?”

We took Noah and Max along in the hope of negotiating a peace treaty between them. The line was too long at the pancake house, so we ended up at the Rusty Sabre. When we were settled at our usual table in the back room by the window overlooking the canal, Libby took a deep breath.

“I know you’re going to be disappointed,” she said, “but I’ve decided a double wedding is a mistake. For both of us.”

I tried to rearrange my relieved face and took a moment to compose the best response. Carefully, I said, “Are you sure?”

She took my hand in both of hers and clasped it on the tablecloth. “Dear Nora. I know you want to share your happiness with me, but I think it’s best if we each have our own day in the sun. What bride doesn’t want to be the star of the show?”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Ox has decided he doesn’t want to be married.”

She released my hand. “Well, of course he wants to marry me! He just hasn’t asked yet, that’s all. So no double wedding. Are you very disappointed?”

With complete honesty, I said, “I’ll only be disappointed if Michael is still in custody at six this evening.”

“Darling, the FBI will release That Man of Yours today,” Libby assured me. “Don’t give it a moment’s worry.”

I sighed, feeling very low. Allowing myself a moment to wallow in self-pity, I said, “I haven’t heard from him in days. And the Cannolis have stopped calling me. Which probably means bad news. When we get home, I think I should phone the judge’s office to cancel.”