Cold Case (32 page)

I, on the other hand,
was
seeing something new: Roz's hair. Roz's bizarre hair, differently cut and colored weekly, has become such a given that I hardly notice it anymore. Cornrows, Mohawks, it's the same to me. Last night, while my back door was getting wrenched off its hinges, she'd evidently crossed a new threshold.

I can only describe it in terms of a monk's tonsure. The top of her head was clean-shaven, shiny, an area the diameter of an orange. The surrounding fringe, four to five inches long, stood out in a spiky halo of neon purple and Day-Glo pink.

Donovan smothered his face in the pillow.

“Are you laughing at my hair?” Roz asked.

Donovan, immediately serious, lifted his head. “Why would anyone laugh at your hair?” he said.

“Roz,” I said. “Is this urgent?”

She said, “It's past ten o'clock.”

“So what?”

“So Woodrow MacAvoy has hidden assets.”

“Give me the bottom line.”

“It took me hours. I expect money.”

“Understood. If you want hours to explain your cleverness, you wait for me to get dressed. Urgent, I can handle in bed.”

“Bottom line: Remember the T&C's?”

“Turks and Caicos Islands.”

“This is the good part,” Roz chortled. She was talking to me, but she was watching Donovan like he was an artist's model. Maybe she'd paint him in the nude for some new display. Bet he'd love that. “I'm not sure I could have gotten it alone, on our computer, but I found this guy who used to do a lot of work in banking security.”

“At the Liberty?” I asked.

“Right. I bought him major hours of on-line access for which I expect to be paid.”

“You haven't told me anything yet.”

“Your Sergeant MacAvoy may live like a poor man,” Roz said, “but he's got bucks in offshore tax havens.”

I said, “As in how much?”

“I found at least six hundred fifty K, which oughta dwarf my request for a mere three hundred bucks, Carlotta. I kept track of expenses and everything.”

“I'm not paying for the haircut.”

“You don't like it?”

“It's fine.”

“And I finished the drawings you wanted. Another hundred.”

“Where'd you sleep?” I asked.

“What business is it—”

“Let me rephrase that. Why weren't you home when the house nearly got torn apart?”

“The back door, huh? I noticed. I slept with a friend. Kinda like you. How you doin', Keith?”

He'd long since removed his face from the pillow. “Fine, thanks.”

I said, “Roz, on your way out, one thing.”

“Money,” she said.

“I don't keep it under the mattress. Something's bothering me. You know how when you wake up suddenly—”

“Yeah,” Roz said bluntly, “all your brain waves and. shit are screaming at you. It's creative time.”

“There's a number,” I said. “A number … It was erased from Thea's file every time it appeared. Nine digits. It's on my desk, under the blotter. It could be a Social Security number. Pop it in the computer and see what comes out.”

“Probably nothing.”

“Probably.”

“Oh, and Gloria called. She says call her at ITOA.”

“As soon as I'm awake.”

If Roz had left right then it might have been okay. Instead she said, “Did you see the morning news?”

“No.”

“Here's the paper. You owe me fifty cents. That guy Manley, the one in the Harvard photos, he's dead.” With that, she bowed out. Didn't even close the door.

“Goddammit,” Donovan said. “You knew last night.”

How had they identified the body so quickly?
I had Manley's wallet, his appointment book. It wasn't like some cop could have reached in the victim's pocket, yanked them out: Exhibit A.

Donovan repeated, “You knew.”

I went defensive. “It's not like he was your best friend.”

“He was a human being. So am I. You could have told me.”

“I'm getting dressed,” I said.

Donovan stayed in bed till I left the room. Not even a morning kiss.

39

I dressed in white, for steamy weather, and in case I had to infiltrate Weston Psych without Cameron family permission. Sneakers, especially with leather tops, look like nurses' shoes these days. And nurses don't look a thing like they used to when I was a kid, all starch and frilly caps and dresses. Anything white seems to do the trick today. I rummaged through my dresser, found painter's pants and a snowy T-shirt.

Roz gave me the eye and a sheet of printout on Woodrow MacAvoy. I read it while I downed orange juice.

Roz said, “You think Donovan's waiting for me to bring him breakfast in bed?”

“Not funny,” I said.

“Did you see his face?”

“Anything on that SSN?” I asked.

“Nope. It doesn't appear to be a Social Security.”

I dialed Gloria.

“What have you got for me?” I asked.

“Good morning to you, too, sweetheart,” she said, her deep voice liquid music. “Took me a while to get your Logan cabbie 'cause he snatched the fare.”

“Shame, shame,” I said.

Logan International's got a cab shortage. Boston's got a cab shortage. They handle it like any crazed bureaucracy, with rules and regulations that make no sense, and fines to back up their foolishness. If you drop off a fare at Logan, you can't pick up a fare at Logan until you first circle the entire airport, register at the taxi pool, and pay for the privilege. Unless you're a bona-fide Boston cab, not a Cambridge cab or a Chelsea cab or a Somerville cab, forget it. I mean, we have a cab shortage around here, you know?

“Guy's a Brookline Red Cab jock, doesn't want trouble,” Gloria said.

“I'm not trouble,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, sing it, honey. I know exactly what he knows, so you're gonna leave him be.”

“Provided you tell all.”

“Picked up the blonde two forty-five Wednesday
P
.
M
., International Terminal, dropped her at the corner of Marlborough and Newbury. No address.”

“What about luggage? She had a ton of luggage.”

“One small rollaway bag, that's it.”

She could have stashed the rest of her luggage at the airport. No lockers anymore, not with terrorist threats, but she could have abandoned it near a claim-your-luggage roundabout. Without tags, it could still be there. If it hadn't been stolen.

“Anything else? Anything she said, anywhere she stopped?”

“That's all she wrote,” Gloria said. “This is the part where you say ‘thanks.'”

I did. Then, without cradling the receiver, I phoned Mooney.

“You checking in for the daily kidnap report?” he asked.

“Where else am I gonna get it?”

Mooney said, “You know, at first, I figured they were gonna do a total media rush, tearful Mama, noble suffering husband, the whole nine yards.”

“So you think the kidnapping's genuine,” I murmured.

“Don't you?” he said guardedly.

I hesitated. “I'm not sure anymore.”

“That's what you called to tell me. I should dial Gary Reedy and say, hey, the woman who brought me on board this thing, now she thinks maybe it's a put-up job.”

“That's not why I called. Mooney, I need help. Please. This is haunting me.”

“The FBI is haunting me. You know, the drop was set for last night, and then nobody showed.”

“Where was it supposed
to
go down?” Please, not Marblehead, I thought. No. If it had been Marblehead I'd have been in federal custody.

“Sorry, that's privileged information, which means I don't have a clue.”

“Mooney, look, there's this number on Thea's file, on the Cameron-Janis file.”

“So what?”

“It's erased. Over and over again.”

“I thought you said there was a number.”

“It wasn't that thoroughly erased.” I read it to him. “It's nine numerals so I thought it might be a Social Security but I can't get anything on it.”

“So?” His tone was dead, indifferent.

“Could it be a cross-reference to another police file?”

“Could be.”

“But you won't check it out?”

“Carlotta, if and only if I get everything cleared off my desk today, which will be damned near impossible, I might be able to look it up, as a favor.”

“Which I will repay. Up front. Now.”

I gave him everything I knew about Marissa Cameron's departure from home Wednesday afternoon, including the argument I'd overheard. I gave him the Dover cab. The Red Cab.

“You got this from Gloria,” he said.

“Maybe.”

“I don't get it,” he said. “Sounds crazy. Marlborough and Newbury. Why's a woman do something like that?”

“See if her family owns anything in the area.”

“I intend to. But why?”

“Here's one possibility,” I said. “I'm not saying it's the goods, but suppose she cooked this up with Garnet, okay?”

“One good reason?”

“To transfer money from Garnet's campaign fund to a more personal account. How's that?”

“I'll call Reedy.”

“Don't forget to run my number!”

He was already hanging up the phone.

“Roz,” I said, “talk to me about Heather Foley.”

“You'd have been proud of me,” she said.

I had the feeling this was gonna cost big.

“Why?”

“I phone-scammed the Swampscott PD,” she said smugly.

“Sounds promising. How?”

“Meet Alberta Stoneham, earnest girl reporter for the weekly
Tab.”

“
Tab
's okay,” I said. “They use a lot of freelancers.”

“See, there were a ton of Foleys in the Swampscott book, so I buzzed the police department's community relations officer. Gave him polite. Gave him sweet young thing. Told him I'm doing a story on water danger, alert the teens to beach and boating hazards. Do you love it?”

“I like it. I'm lukewarm.”

“I worked him back year by year, and man, I had to listen to a lot of really pathetic shit. Once I got him on to boats, it didn't take long to shift to alcohol and boats, and bingo, we finally hit Heather Foley.”

“And?” I was on my third glass of orange juice by now, wondering if Keith was ever going to join us.

“Body never recovered. Sad tale. Cop runs at the mouth a little, says she was the only good kid in the whole damned family. So I tell him I'd like to do some follow-up, and right off, he gives me the address like he's got it memorized, and I write it down, and it's yours. Impressed?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Now, want to watch an expert?”

“Always eager,” she said.

I hit information for the 212 area code, got a listing for Knopf, publisher of
Nightmare's Dawn
.

“Rights and permissions,” I said to the young woman who answered the phone.

I got to listen to a string quartet play slowed-down warmed-over Beatles' tunes. After four minutes of that, I was relieved to hear a human voice, even a nasal monotone.

“Subsidiary rights. Olive Anders speaking.”

I wrote “Olive Anders” on a sheet of paper. Also “subsidiary rights.” If you're going to scam somebody you have to use their language.

“Yes,” I said, giving Roz a glance. “My name's Alberta Stoneham.” I'd already written the alias at the top of the page. “I'm doing a book on modern women writers, and I'd like to quote
Nightmare's Dawn
, by Thea Janis. You published it in 1970. Since the author's dead, Miss Anders, do you think I'd get into any trouble, any legal difficulties if I were to use, say, an entire paragraph or a complete poem?”

Always use the person's name when playing phone games. Be extra polite. Assume that she can and will help you.

I gave a small inaudible sigh for the naiveté of sweet young Alberta Stoneham. If she were real, she'd soon learn what I'd learned: There's always someone to pay, somebody sticking their hand out for a little commercial grease.

“Hold on, please.”

I got to hear more tortured Beatles. The glorious irony of “What would you do if I sang out of key?” played out of key courtesy of a low-battery tape recorder.

“The Alicia Worth Agency handles that account.”

“Thanks you so much, Miss Anders. Could I trouble you for the phone number? I'm not in Manhattan, and I'm working on a very tight budget. Every call to information …”

The Alicia Worth Agency also had a 212 area code.

“Who are you gonna be now?” Roz asked.

“The IRS. See where the 1099-Miscellaneous forms wind up.”

Roz raised an eyebrow. I'd impressed her. A command of IRS form language is impressive, I think.

Alicia Worth agreed. She affirmed that Miss Beryl Cameron received regular royalty statements. No, they were not sent in care of the Weston Institute. They were directed to Mr. Garnet Cameron, 87 Farm Road, Dover. I assured Miss Worth that her cooperation would clear the matter completely. No need for an audit now.

Roz said, “Neat.” Flounced upstairs.

While the phone was still hot, I dialed Garnet Cameron.

“Disconnect the tape, Garnet,” I said. “The FBI doesn't need to know where your sister, Beryl, lives. The family seems somewhat reluctant to divulge her whereabouts.”

“Miss Carlyle, Beryl is none of your business.”

“Garnet,” I said. “I'm claiming a favor. I think you owe me one.”

“I don't owe you a thing, except the FBI on my doorstep. If it weren't for them, I'd have Marissa back by now. I should have paid the damn kidnappers whatever the hell they wanted.”

“Any news? About Marissa?”

“No. The FBI's handling everything. They screwed up last night. She could be dead for all I know.”