Shotgun Lullaby (A Conway Sax Mystery) (27 page)

And Crump, whose payback plans got him killed, had sure smelled a rat. What had he said?
Rinn's baby girl … Who's her daddy?

And Randall agreed with me that Peter showed no connection whatsoever to Emma, who was supposed to be his midlife-crisis baby.

Huh.

It needed looking at. Not because I cared about the Biletnikov rich-folks soap opera—nothing would make me happier than to walk away from the whole twisted group—but because some subplot in that soap opera might help me figure out who gut-shot Gus. And while I was too late for a lot of things and a lot of people, I wasn't too late to do right by him.

Right now, though, I had to change the subject. Wanted to learn how well-lubricated Peter truly felt about his son.

“Gus was a good kid,” I said. “On his way to being a good man.”

“The things you said at the funeral. It should have been me who said them.”

“You were too choked up.”

“Was I?” Peter thumped his glass to the bar. “Or was I chicken? Was I incapable?”

I said nothing.

“It should have been me,” he said.

I could barely hear him.

He stared at nothing, shoulders down.

We were quiet awhile.

The bartender looked at Peter's glass, then at me. I shook my head. She moved down to the grilled-cheese guys and let them flirt with her.

“I helped with the track,” Peter finally said.

“What track?”

“The motocross track in the yard. I helped Gus build it. Did he mention that?”

“'Fraid he didn't.”

“Of course he didn't. This is the story of our relationship.” He sipped. “He was twelve at the time. He needed help, and lots of it. We cut down saplings. We dug out banked turns until our palms bled. For God's sake, he convinced me to buy a truckload of soil to make jumps and whoop-de-dos. Do you know what whoop-de-dos are?”

“Sure.”

“You are one of the few. Gus explained them to me.” Peter rattled the almost-gone ice cubes in his glass. “The awful thing. Or is it a funny thing? In either case, the thing is, I truly don't think Gus remembers my help, the father-son aspect of the project. He became such an angry teenager. And he's a storyteller by nature—”

“A natural-born bullshitter,” I said, hoping Peter would take it the right way.

His smile told me he did. “I believe he can twist even his clearest memories. He can make them fit his narrative, make them suit his purposes.”

“Gus said you tore the track apart when the neighbors griped. Did he have that part right?”

“He did. Dammit, he did. The bastard just south of me is a supercilious Ropes and Gray prick. He has five grown children, all with nicknames like Cubby and Mish. Collegiate swimmers, each and every one of them—you know the type. The black sheep of the family is the one who settled for Dartmouth.” He shook his head. “Five damn kids, can you believe that?”

“And the neighbor bitched about the track.”

“That he did. He made me feel…”

Peter trailed off.

“This was before Rinn?”

“Oh yes. This Ropes and Gray prick managed to make it sound as if I'd put in a trailer park. While Gus was at camp that summer, I had two men bulldoze the whole mess and haul away the fill. I'm not sure Gus has ever forgiven me.”

Pause.

“Ever
forgave
me,” he said to his highball glass. “I've been speaking in the wrong tense, haven't I? Please accept my apologies. Also, please leave me.”

Peter turned to the bartender, but she was already building his next drink.

She was a good bartender.

*   *   *

In sunlight again, I blinked. Looked up and down the block, saw no sign of Randall or Rinn. Which was a drag, because I had a lot to say to both of them.

Hell.

Checked my watch. I could hit the shop. That was the thing to do. See if Andrade was pulling his weight. Shuffle paperwork. Call a few slow-pays.

I climbed in my truck and aimed west.

Randall called as I clunked from traffic light to traffic light on Route 9.

“So what's the big deal with these iPods?” he said.

I hesitated, not knowing anymore how much I should—
could
—tell him.

“Are you, ah, alone?”

“Yes. You know, a little flirting with lovely Rinn doesn't have to mean I'm trying to get in her pants.”

Kid reads me like a book. A comic book.

“It doesn't
have
to,” I said. “But it usually does.”

“Look, let's get past that. What's up with the iPods?”

I decided to trust him. Hell, he was Randall. I organized the story, then told it in thirty seconds.

When I finished, he was quiet for a long time.

“Well?” I finally said.

“A wrench has been well and truly thrown.”

“Well?”

“Each iPod holds music, and not a lot,” he said. “Ridiculously small playlists, actually, given the capacity.”

“What kind of music?”

“Jazz. There's a set by Ron Charles on one iPod and a set by Brubeck on the other. Must have been one of his last shows.”

“So?”

“The sets were recorded live at the Hi Hat. They're introduced by the owner and impresario. None other than.”

I said nothing, feeling it sink in.

“These iPods,” Randall said, “are love letters from Charlie Pundo to Rinn Biletnikov.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

We switched roles.

Me: the cool one, running alternative scenarios up the flagpole, trying to give Rinn or Pundo or
somebody
the benefit of the doubt.

Randall: righteously pissed, ready to kick some ass, not overly concerned about whose.

We met at the cemetery near the Biletnikov place. Randall insisted on it—wanted to surprise Rinn, which meant we couldn't park in the driveway. We cut from the cemetery to the guesthouse, passing the clearing where Rinn had found Gus's body.

Black-red hole in a black sweatshirt. Bangs across the forehead like a boy … hell, say it … like
Roy
asleep after a long day in the sun.

I tightened my jaw. Kept moving.

Randall found the guesthouse key as easily as I had. Once we were inside, he asked where the other iPods were, pounded down the hall, came back with all of them.

Then we waited.

I tried to calm him, but the excuses I made for Rinn sounded weak even to me. It was hard not to assume that, at the very least, Charlie Pundo had a thing for her. Did it run both ways? Whether it did or not, the fact that she'd hidden it from me and the cops forced us to take a fresh look at her.

“I should have known,” he said at one point, arms folded, looking out the window. “Given the Crump story.”

“What Crump story?”

“Their deal. He didn't tell you?”

“She was interning for Biletnikov when Donald came sniffing around for money, right?”

“Sure, but there's a bit more to it than that.”

“So tell me.”

“Crump oozed into Thunder Junction one day, hat in hand. He made quite the impression, as you might imagine.”

“I can see it.” I smiled, thinking about how old Donald's getup would go over in Cambridge, where uptight people pretended not to be uptight.

Then I thought of Donald collapsing onto me in a Hopkinton parking lot, the blown-out exit wound in his left temple. And stopped smiling.

Randall went on. Crump had worked Thunder Junction's offices like the pro he was, cycling through as many employees as he could in search of a weak link.

He thought he found it in Rinn Biletnikov, college girl. He worked her, charmed her, got her business card.

What Donald Crump didn't realize: that day, he was more mark than shark.

“Clever,” I said. “Think that up yourself?”

Randall shrugged, smiled, continued.

An after-work drink at a local bar confirmed what Rinn had already figured out: Donald was looking for eyes and ears inside Thunder Junction.

“Rinn agreed to be those eyes and ears,” Randall said. “For a price.”

He looked a challenge at me. But given the timing, it wasn't much of a challenge.

I laid my thumb alongside my nose. “She needed more of this.”

He mock-clapped for me. “Gus and Brad had worn out their welcome with Teddy Pundo. And Rinn had crossed that line, the one with which you're far more familiar than I, separating want from need. Where that particular substance was concerned.”

I thought it through.

It worked.

The timing, the connection, the familiarity between Rinn and Donald.

But wait.

“Biletnikov wound up hosing Crump good and hard,” I said.

“Right you are.”

“Rinn must have been part of that hosing.”

“An integral part.”

“She used him to score, then double-crossed him?”

“Precisely.” Long pause. “She is something, is she not?”

I shook my head. Damn right she was.

We waited some more. I played with the new info on Rinn and Donald. Did it change anything? Did it make me more or less likely to look at anybody as Gus's killer?

I was still thinking at three o'clock, when Randall said, “Here they are.” We watched them pile out of the BMW: tipsy Peter, making for the main house without saying anything to anybody. Rinn, heading our way. Haley, who'd driven, lagging behind to pull Emma from her car seat.

I sat in the room's comfiest chair like a spectator. This was Randall's show, and I wanted to see how he played it.

Answer: harsh.

Rinn keyed her way in, closed the door, saw us, jumped half a foot.

“What the
hell
?” she said, her right hand over her heart. She looked at Randall, who was leaning on the bar that separated the living room from the tiny kitchen.

Then she looked at me.

Then back at Randall, whose face told her he was the boss right now.

She set hands on hips. “What the hell, Randall? Scare a girl half to death.”

Instead of saying anything, Randall tossed a double handful of silver-wrapped boxes at her feet.

She looked at them, puzzled at first. Then her eyes sharpened and she put a hand over her mouth.

“Oh,” Rinn Biletnikov said.

Then she said it again.

Then she sank toward the floor, dropping into a peasant crouch, ending up with rump against calves and both forearms covering her face. Like a kid hoping if she got small enough, she could disappear.

“Explain,” Randall said.

Rinn didn't move.

“To us or to Lima. Your choice.”

She stayed in her you-can't-see-me crouch until he pulled his phone and asked me Lima's number.

“No,” Rinn said, dropping the arms. Her eyes were wet. “No.”

Then she crawled around the floor picking up scattered iPods.

I sneaked a sideways look at Randall. I'd never seen him this way. He must've felt even more for Rinn than he'd let on.

Now he felt like a jackass. Embarrassment had turned his crush into fury.

I rose and found a box of Kleenex. Gentled the iPods and boxes from Rinn's arms, steered her to the couch, told her I'd put everything away.

She said, “They go—”

“I know.”

Half-beat pause. “You? Not him?”

“I searched the main house. Figured I ought to search here, too.”

“Tell me about you and Charlie,” Randall said.

“Easy there, hotshot,” she said as she sat.

I may have smiled as I walked down the hall to put away the iPods. You could knock Rinn Biletnikov off her game. But not for long.

By the time I got back, she'd wiped her eyes and crossed her legs and started. “When I told you about Peter's issues, I didn't tell you everything.”

“That's putting it mildly,” Randall said.

Her eyes flashed. “Do you blame me? I left off where things turned ugly.”

I said, “They weren't already?”

Rinn ignored that. She was talking to Randall now. I don't know if she felt for him some of what he felt for her, but she
wanted
something from him. Approval? Understanding?

“When it became clear that Peter and I weren't going to accomplish any baby-making the old-fashioned way,” she said, “I gritted my teeth and looked into alternatives. I was willing to take one for the team.”

“In vitro, et cetera,” he said.

She nodded. “Peter flew into a righteous Russian rage and told me to stop researching the matter immediately. He was almost clinically paranoid by then. He frothed that Boston's medical community is an incestuous one, and he'd be damned if he'd have everybody knowing his business. He, ah…”

We waited.

The sun had worked its way around. Outside, shadow now covered the cottage porch and half the backyard.

“He had an alternative proposition,” Rinn said in a voice that wasn't hers, the voice of a shy eighth-grade girl.

Randall said, “And that proposition was?”

“He proposed to have Gus knock me up,” she said. “He proposed to pay us a million-dollar flat fee apiece to make a baby and keep quiet about it.”

You could barely hear her.

I sat with my mouth open. The word that jammed itself in my head: “freaks.” Goddamn freaks, the lot of 'em. Give people all the money in the world and what do they do? Dream up new ways to be rotten.

“Dear God,” Randall said, sliding to the couch, wrapping arms around Rinn. “Dear God.”

She cried into his chest.

We let her.

Randall stroked her hair.

“It was
awful,
” she said after a while, blubbering so I barely understood. “We were
buds
! We were
pals
! The Three Musketeers, Gus and Brad and Rinn.”

“Peter's never admitted it to me,” I said, “but he had to know Gus didn't like girls. I'm guessing part of what drove him was to … alter that. Fix it. Couldn't make his own privates work right, so he took a shot at his kid's.”