Guilt (12 page)

MacRae surveyed the room. “I'm supposed to have a dozen officers working on this case. Know what most of them are out doing right now? Checking ‘suspicious packages'”—MacRae drew quotation marks in the air—“called in by vigilant citizens.”

Peter's mother had been complaining just that morning that their local Shaw's market had security guards checking people entering.

“Never thought I'd say it,” MacRae went on, lifting a piece of pizza out of the box, “but I'm grateful for the suits the feds sent over.”

Peter helped himself to a triangle of pizza. Not half bad. Put enough pepperoni and melted mozzarella on cardboard and that wouldn't be half bad, either.

“Top brass can't jerk them around like they can the rest of us,” MacRae added.

MacRae wiped his hands on a napkin and inserted the videotape Peter had brought into the VCR. The monitor flickered. Then Ravitch came into focus.
Promise you won't make me quack like a duck.
MacRae began taking notes.

They watched it through. As the tape rewound, Peter said, “For a while there, I was afraid he wasn't going to go under.”

“You sure he did?”

MacRae's skepticism didn't surprise Peter. “Some people are harder to hypnotize than others. But yeah, I think he was hypnotized.”

MacRae shifted in his seat. “I don't know. Just seemed too easy.”

“It
is
easy,” Peter said, gesturing with a pizza crust. “You're awake, but you're relaxed and much more able to remember details.”

“Or make them up.”

“There's always that risk.”

MacRae ejected the tape. “So what do we know now that we didn't know before? Not much.”

Peter got up and went over to the lineup of photos on the wall. Any of them could have been one of the men Ravitch saw.

“I sure would like to know if any of these guys showed in the security video that got blown away in the blast.” MacRae scraped off a glob of cheese stuck to the pizza box. It was all that was left.

“Have they been able to salvage the computers?” Peter asked. “You could track down anyone who used a key card to get in that morning.”

“The bomber might have used a stolen one.”

“So talk to anyone whose key card got scanned that morning, then find out if any of them weren't there. Maybe the person can tell you where and when the card got lost. You'd have one more point to put on your map in terms of where this guy hangs out, one more place you know he blends in.”

MacRae looked mildly impressed. “They're working on retrieving data from the computer's hard drive. We should have it soon. Still, sure doesn't feel like much to go on. I'd feel a whole lot better if we had more hard evidence tying this bombing to the first.”

“There's the posters.”

“Corroborating witnesses would be better. If we can put a suspect at both crime scenes…” MacRae got a toothpick out of his pocket and began to pick one of his back teeth. “What about the woman I interviewed who was at the law school and knew the first victim? You think she'd go for being hypnotized?”

Peter thought about Jackie with her auras and conversations with the dead. She'd probably be eager to be hypnotized, maybe a little too eager.

“Annie might be able to convince her. She's working for Annie and Chip.”

“I didn't know that,” MacRae said, writing himself another note. “I'll talk to Annie about it.”

“No, I will,” Peter said, the words coming out louder than he'd intended them to.

MacRae's pencil froze midword. His smile said
you poor sucker.

“Annie wants us to keep putting pressure on that woman's estranged husband, Klevinski,” MacRae said, indicating one of the photos. “Poor guy. I sure as hell wouldn't want to be on Annie's shit list.”

Peter examined the photograph. He barely recognized Klevinski from their confrontation in front of Peter's house.

MacRae went on. “Anyway, we checked. One interesting thing—turns out he had demolition training in the army.”

Demolition training? Peter wouldn't have pegged Joe Klevinski as the bomber. Married (twice) and not all that bright—that was two strikes against him.

“I told Annie, if that second bomb was planted at the courthouse when we think it was, then this Klevinski guy has got an alibi,” MacRae said. “He was at a job interview.”

“I thought he had a job.”

“Got fired. Maybe cops coming back time after time to check up on him made his boss nervous. Losing his wife, his kid, and his job—he's one angry SOB.” MacRae shrugged. “I keep telling Annie, you can't arrest a guy for being pissed.”

Peter scanned the rest of the ten or so other sullen faces tacked up on the board. Several looked familiar. The Middle Eastern–looking fellow with a bald head and a bushy mustache and beard looked a lot like a physics professor he'd had. The guy next to him resembled the manager of Peter's local deli. Peter knew he'd make a lousy eyewitness. Besides, he'd found out the hard way that appearances could be deceiving. Ralston Bridges had had a baby face and an engaging smile. The cold, dead eyes were the only giveaway to his true psychopathy. Peter's stomach wrenched as he thought about Kate. She was never far from his thoughts. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

MacRae gave him a sideways look. “Maybe you've got some time to talk about these characters?”

“You mean look at their records?”

“Why not? Even interview a couple of them? And we could use some help developing a fuller profile.” MacRae looked down at his shoes. “Actually, the profiler who's supposed to be helping us is stuck on a case down in Texas. Will be for a couple of weeks. I told one of the federal agents what you said about the kind of person who'd be capable of a crime like this. He suggested we have you look at the suspects.” MacRae eyed Peter and tucked the toothpick into the corner of his mouth. “So, you got time?”

Peter took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Sure.”
In for a penny, in for a pound.

13

A
NNIE WAS
surprised when Peter asked her to find out if Jackie would be willing to undergo hypnosis. She knew his opinion of hypnotists: bunkum artists. It was pretty weird, too, Peter and Mac working the same side of the street for a change, maybe even appreciating what the other one brought to the table.

Annie called Peter Monday morning to tell him Jackie was looking forward to it. “She wondered if maybe you could help her remember her past lives. Did you know that Shirley MacLaine was Charlemagne's lover?”

“Yes, well, I don't think we'll be going that far back.” Annie could imagine him saying that with a perfectly straight face.

Annie glanced out her office window. There it was again, a florist delivery van double-parked in front of their office. Joe Klevinski was pulling out all the stops, trying to worm his way back into Jackie's affections. If it had been up to Annie, she'd have broken off the flower heads and sent the stems back to the sonofabitch with an appropriately worded note telling him just where he could stick 'em.

Out of the blue, it occurred to Annie that Peter had never given her flowers. Plenty of bottles of wine, but not a single rose, long-stemmed or otherwise. She'd brought him flowers once, a bunch of daisies, after he mangled his ankle tackling a man who'd been pointing a gun at her. That act of bravery trumped flowers any day of the week. Still, Annie couldn't resist ragging on him.

“Hey, how come you never give me flowers?”

She looked out into the reception area. The flowers were coming through the front door. The delivery man was nearly hidden behind the elaborate arrangement. Jackie was at her desk with her hand over her mouth, obviously wowed.

“Why bother? Flowers couldn't possibly be as fair as you.”

She smiled in spite herself. He was such a consummate bullshit artist.

The delivery man put the flowers on Jackie's desk. She cupped her hand around a white lily, bent over, and smelled.

“I guess I'm just too easy,” Annie said.

That cracked Peter up.

Now Jackie picked a little envelope from among the flowers, opened the flap, and slid out the card. She smiled and her eyes glowed. She was falling for it.

“So all I have to do is give you flowers and I can have my way with you? Is that how it works?” Annie could just see him twirling an imaginary mustache. “I'll have to try that. We're on for tomorrow night?”

“Tuesday, right,” Annie said, drawing back as Jackie glanced in her direction. Jackie knew what Annie thought about her husband and his dogged attempts to win her back.

After Annie hung up, she went out and admired the flowers. She leaned over to smell them. She gagged on the cloying, sweet, overripe odor of the lilies. It was the smell of something rotting. She had a vision of a funeral home with heavy mahogany furniture and Scarlett O'Hara window drapes. She remembered the first time she'd been to one. It was her friend Charlotte's mother's funeral. Lilies, white ones, had flanked the coffin where Mrs. Florence lay, her face the unnatural pink of pancake makeup. Charlotte was there, pressed up against her father, his arms holding her tight.

“He hasn't been bothering us,” Jackie said in response to nothing. She handed Annie a handwritten note on a slip of paper. “Luke Thompson called while you were on the phone.”

Annie read the note. “Meet them at Trattoria Pulcinella tomorrow night 7:30. Call him today if you can't.” Below that it said, “Don't tell Abby.”

That was sweet. Maybe an early birthday surprise for Abby? Annie tucked the note into her pocket. She'd bring Peter along. He wouldn't mind the change of plan. He loved Pulcinella—he'd introduced her to the place.

Annie glanced at the card from the flowers lying on Jackie's desk. All it said was: “Missing you. I'm sorry.” He probably meant it, too.

*   *   *

It was drizzling out and the air smelled of wet leaves when Annie and Peter got to Pulcinella. Tiny lights twinkled around the window of the storefront restaurant, tucked into a residential Cambridge street.

“Mmm, smell that garlic and tomatoes,” Peter said, as he pushed open the heavy glass-paneled wood door for Annie, “and rosemary and olives.”

All Annie could smell was fresh bread. “Show-off,” she said, giving him a light kiss on the cheek as she brushed by.

The restaurant was just as Annie remembered, a warm, cozy space, one wall bare brick, the opposite wall yellow and hung with oil paintings. Exposed roof rafters made it feel like an Italian country villa. Annie had treated Abby to dinner there about six months earlier when Abby was getting over the accountant/pit-bull owner. That night, Abby had eaten only olives and drunk her way through a bottle of wine. Annie had awarded herself points for not saying how lucky Abby was to be rid of that loser.

Luke waved from a table in the back near the open kitchen. Blond, tan, Luke was as handsome as ever. He wore a loosely constructed khaki sport jacket and a white shirt. All he lacked was a pith helmet. Annie introduced him to Peter.

“Where's Abby?” she asked as they sat.

“She just called to say she'll be late. She's stuck in traffic.”

“And she still doesn't know we're here?”

Luke grinned and shook his head.

“So why
are
we here?” Annie asked.

“You'll see. Patience.”

Peter choked on his breadstick.

“I can too be patient,” Annie said.

“Sure you can. Here, chew on this.” He handed her a piece of bread. To Luke he said, “So you run the zoo. I heard all about the baby giraffe.”

He didn't exactly
run
the zoo, Luke explained. You might say he ran the animals, but sometimes it felt as if they ran him. And the young giraffe was doing fine, thank you very much. Now they were dealing with a new challenge—an orphaned kangaroo.

“It's this big,” Luke said, holding his palms about eight inches apart.

Luke and Peter were deep into a fascinating discussion of neonatal kangaroo behavior when Abby came charging into the restaurant looking frazzled and damp, her hair in disarray.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said, shedding her raincoat and leaning over to kiss Annie. Luke pulled out a chair for her. “Traffic is disgusting out there. I forgot Mass Ave through Harvard Square is still shut down. Why do they have to tear up every single damned road between here and…?” She stopped. “What?” she said to Luke who was still standing, his hands laced across his middle and his thumbs tented. Then she looked at Annie and Peter. “Hey, you guys. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Some of us were talking about baby kangaroos,” Annie said.

Abby's face broke into a grin. “It's a little bitty thing, and it needs to be fed every two hours. Did you hear about the artificial pouch—?”

Her voice died when Luke put his index finger to his lips. He cleared his throat and said, in a ringing voice, “I've called you all together for a reason. I have something to say, and I wanted witnesses.”

Abby looked at Annie, as if to ask if she had a clue what was going on.

Luke took a breath and continued. “Abby, I know we've only known each other for, uh”—now that he had their attention, he seemed to lose his momentum—“four months.” He grabbed the glass of water from the table, took a gulp, and set it down again.

“Four months, three days”—he looked at his watch—“and thirty minutes. And I, uh…”

He gave a nervous glance at the couple at the next table, who were watching. One of the waiters had turned around and was staring, too.

Luke took a breath. “My love”—he reached out for Abby's hand—“with all my heart…” Abby made a little choking sound.

He fished out an index card, scanned it, then crumpled it up and tossed it on the table. “Oh, the hell with it.”