The Death of an Ambitious Woman (2 page)

In the cluttered master bedroom at the top of the house, Ruth pulled off her uniform. It still felt strange after the ten years she’d spent as a detective in plain clothes. She kicked off the navy blue pumps and hung the suit—straight skirt and cropped jacket—in the closet. She pulled on jeans, sneakers, a cotton shirt, and grabbed a sweater.

As Marty pulled the car onto the road, they were silent. Impressed by the weight of the occasion, even James at fifteen and Sarah at twelve were not poking or squirming. Ruth let the stress seep from her shoulders.

She’d almost completely relaxed when she remembered the mayor had never called to officially inform her about the search firm’s report. Odd. Mayor Rosenfeld loved to give good news. Ruth turned the tidbit over in her mind. Probably nothing to worry about. The mayor was a busy man.

She glanced at Marty as he drove. Their love, strong to begin with, had deepened and strengthened over more than twenty years, until Ruth knew she couldn’t be who or what she was without her husband’s quiet humor or calm intelligence. Ruth’s family was her rock and it was Marty’s gut-deep knowledge of what family life should be that smoothed the jagged, scary parts and made it work. Ruth exhaled happily, leaned back into the car seat, cleared her mind and closed her eyes.

By the time she opened them again, the family station wagon had come over the last rise on Willow Road, and started toward the scene of Tracey Kendall’s accident. Ruth had forgotten it was on their route. Marty braked reflexively as the car gathered speed on the steep hill. As they rounded the tight curve at the bottom, Ruth turned in her seat to stare. The wreck and its driver were long gone, but she could easily make out the point of impact on the stone wall. As they moved on, the little road took them under a concrete railroad bridge and the site passed out of view.

Unease crept up on Ruth, tensing the back of her throat like an unfulfilled retch. She closed her eyes and replayed the scene—the hill, the curve, the stone wall, and the bridge abutment. If Mrs. Kendall was talking to the nanny right up until the crash, then the obvious causes—suicide, heart attack, falling asleep—were ruled out. And why on earth had the poor woman been going so fast?

The next morning, Ruth sat at her battered desk, her office windows open behind her. In front of her were the reports about Tracey Kendall’s death and a folder containing preliminary autopsy results. The photos taken at the scene were fanned out next to the folder. Ruth studied them carefully. One kept pulling her back. It was a picture of the victim shot through the broken front windshield of the car.The M.E.’s meticulous notes indicated the photographer had taken it while crouched on the hood.

The photo was a freeze-frame portrait of Tracey Kendall’s last moments on earth. In the final seconds, as her car sped toward the wall, Tracey had given up trying to brake, steer or hold on. She’d twisted to her right and begun to pull into a ball, the protective instinct of the fetal position. Her head was bowed, her dark auburn hair hung across her face. Her right arm had come to rest wrapped around her head.The preliminary autopsy said Tracey Kendall had most likely died on impact. As she read the words, Ruth felt grateful Mrs. Kendall hadn’t suffered longer.

Ruth opened her briefcase and pulled out a copy of the
Metro News,
a photograph of Tracey Kendall’s crumpled car splashed across the front page.The accompanying article said that Tracey Kendall, age thirty-nine, born in Southampton, Long Island, educated at the Madeira School, Princeton, and the Harvard Business School, had been a partner in a small mutual fund company by the age of thirty. Her husband, Stephen Kendall, was mentioned as “the renowned artist.” Renowned, perhaps, to those who could afford art. Ruth had never heard of him.

After refolding the paper, Ruth placed the photos back in the file and tried to turn to other work, but found she couldn’t. Something was off about this accident. She had heard it in Lawry’s brief description, felt it even more as she rode by the scene last night.

The halls of the station house filled with the sound of voices and hard-soled feet. Roll call had ended. Ruth summoned McGrath and Moscone.

Moscone bounded into her office immediately. McGrath trailed behind.

“I’m not comfortable with the Kendall accident,” Ruth announced as soon as they were seated. “I want to look into it further.”

“Sure, Chief, happy to,” Moscone answered eagerly.

Ruth didn’t know Moscone all that well. He was tall, lean, and loose-limbed. Her impression was he had all the floppy energy of a half-grown puppy. She liked having her big desk between them, in case he jumped up and slobbered on her skirt. She found his enthusiasm both off-putting and compelling.

McGrath just seemed to find it exhausting. “What’s the problem?” he grumbled.

“This death is unexplained,” Ruth answered. “There’s no clear cause for the accident.”

“Excessive speed,” Moscone offered helpfully.

“Exactly,” Ruth responded. “Why was she going so fast?”

Even Moscone recognized the rhetorical nature of the question. Ruth picked up the preliminary autopsy results. “She died from the impact. There were no signs of any precipitating medical condition. I called the medical examiner’s office this morning and asked them not to sign her off until we’d had a chance to look into things. They said no problem. They’re waiting for the tox screens.”

“That’s it, then,” McGrath pronounced. “She was drunk.”

“So drunk she didn’t hit her brakes even once? I drove by the scene last night. It’s a steep hill with a sharp curve at the bottom. You’d have to be unconscious not to brake just out of instinct. The statement Moscone took from the nanny indicates Mrs. Kendall was coherent until seconds before impact.”

McGrath looked wary. “Where’s the car?”

“State police garage.”

He rolled his eyes. “Great. They’ll be done with it sometime around the Fourth of July.”

“I can make some calls if I have to.” Ruth wasn’t going to indulge McGrath’s personal black cloud. She pushed on. “Where was Mrs. Kendall going? That’s a pretty deserted stretch of road.”

“From her office in the Truman Executive Park to an aerobics class at Madison’s Gym on the turnpike,” Moscone volunteered. “It’s the back way, more miles than the usual route, but no lights. Not how you’d normally go, but good for avoiding lunchtime traffic.”

Ruth nodded. This made sense. “How was the family?”

Moscone shrugged. “They knew there was an accident, but they didn’t know she was dead. The husband was in shock. Like he couldn’t believe it. The nanny was the one who held it together, though she’s barely an adult herself. She sent the kid off to a neighbor’s, offered us coffee, asked all the questions about identifying the remains, and so on. The husband was totally out of it.You wouldn’t believe—”

Ruth listened intently as Moscone went on to describe the Kendalls’ beautiful house and grounds, the buxom nanny, the handsome, vacant husband. If Moscone wanted to talk, she would listen. She could tell he was disturbed by Tracey Kendall’s death, the horror of the scene, the raw grief of the family. It was never easy, and Moscone was young.

While Moscone talked, McGrath stared at his scuffed shoes. He’d be the first officer she’d lose, Ruth supposed, ironic considering their shared history.The thought alternately angered and depressed her. She’d suggested pairing him with Moscone, hoping the young pup’s enthusiasm would energize the old dog. Instead, Moscone seemed to wear McGrath out. Why was it, Ruth wondered, that Lieutenant Lawry, ten years older than McGrath, could grow, adapt, even thrive on change while McGrath spent all his energy mourning the old days? His kids were grown, his wife had finally left him, and now the old chief had retired to Florida. None of them were coming back. It was time for McGrath to move on or move out.

Moscone was still talking. Ruth knew she’d have to stop him soon or he’d describe how everyone and everything at the Kendall house had smelled. In this, Moscone’s reputation preceded him. Known throughout the department as “Detective Nostrillo,” he always noted the names of the perfumes and aftershaves his interviewees wore—even their brands of soap, deodorant, and shampoo. His night-shift reports were routinely passed around the day-shift squad room, fodder for department lore.

“Fine,” Ruth interjected when Moscone paused for breath. “Let’s talk next steps.”

“Back to the family?” Moscone asked.

“Not just yet. The last people to see her were her coworkers. Go talk to them.”

“Sure, Chief.” Moscone rose and trotted toward the door. McGrath sighed, stood and lumbered after him.

Moscone stood alone at the offices of Fiske & Holden, listening to the pretty young receptionist juggling the phone lines. Despite what seemed to Moscone like clear instructions from the chief, McGrath had begged off the trip to Tracey Kendall’s investment firm. “There’s no point in both of us wasting time on this,” he’d said. “You go along. I’ve got some pencil pushing to do.”

“Hi!” The woman turned to Moscone during a quick break in the calls. The plaque on her desk said
Brenda O’Reilly, Receptionist.
She had the cadences of Boston’s working-class northern suburbs in her voice. “Excuse me just a minute. It’s crazy here today.” She turned back to the phones. “I know,” she cooed into her headset. “It is. We’re all upset. I know. I don’t think the family’s decided anything yet. Of course, we’ll let you know. I’m keeping a list of people—Can you hang on, please? I’m sure Mr. Holden will want to speak to you.”

Moscone seized his chance and showed his badge.

Brenda looked it over. “We’ve been waiting for you guys to show up.”

“What?”

“Excuse me.” She turned back to her console and fielded several more calls. Moscone drummed his fingers on the eyelevel countertop of her workstation. “Obsession, by Calvin Klein,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Brenda returned her attention to Moscone. “Because of the accident, naturally,” she continued, picking up the conversation exactly where she had left it prior to the interruptions. “He shouldn’t get away with it. A few of us decided to call the police if you didn’t come by today.”

“Who shouldn’t… ?” Moscone was completely confused.

“Excuse me.” Brenda was drawn away by the console’s incessant buzzing. “Jane!” she shouted into her headpiece. “Take the call, for God’s sake. It’s the third time he’s phoned. Honey, please. If you’re unavailable all morning, he’s only going to get more nervous. I’m upset, too, but we have to do our jobs. Get a grip. That’s a girl. I’m sending him through.”

She turned back to Moscone. “Sorry.”

“Who shouldn’t get away with what?” Moscone attempted to clarify.

“The mechanic, of course. He worked on Tracey’s car the morning of the crash.” More buzzing and ringing. “Ooh! Sorry! Excuse me, again.” This time as she turned away, she handed

Moscone a business card.
Screw Loose,
it said.
Al Pace, Prop.,
with a New Derby address and telephone exchange.

“How do you know he worked on her car right before the accident?”

“I saw him. Right here in the parking lot. That’s the point of his business, Screw Loose. He has a truck specially fitted out so he can do oil changes and minor repairs at your workplace.” Brenda paused. “The weird part is, he wasn’t even scheduled to work on Tracey’s car yesterday.”

“Thanks a lot.” Moscone gave her his card. “I’m sorry about your boss.”

“It’s hard,” said Brenda O’Reilly, Receptionist. “There are only seven of us in the office and we’re wicked close. It’s bad for business, too. The clients are nervous wrecks. Jack, that’s Mr. Holden, the other partner, is trying to keep everyone calm, but as word spreads, they’re calling him faster than he can call them. I’m glad I’m not him.”

Ruth strode through the old headquarters building, opening doors, peering in rooms, then shutting the doors again. She’d been pleased with Moscone’s call from Fiske & Holden, until she’d asked to speak to McGrath. Moscone had hemmed and hawed, but in the end had to acknowledge McGrath wasn’t with him.

Now McGrath seemed to have disappeared altogether. Ruth had paged him, beeped him, called his extension and his cell phone. No answer. Each futile attempt to reach him annoyed her more. Ruth hated shirkers and despised the little rationalizations that enabled people to avoid their duty. More than that, she suspected McGrath’s failure to do what she’d asked was a direct rejection of her authority, a passive assertion of his own position that there was nothing more to Tracey Kendall’s death than a tragic twist of fate.

Ruth opened the door to the detectives’ squad room on the second floor. Her old desk from her years as the captain stood empty at one end of the room, awaiting the elevation of her replacement. On the other side of the room, the single desk all the detectives shared, heaped with bulging folders and office supplies, was similarly vacant. Ruth grunted in frustration and closed the door behind her.

Back downstairs, she approached Lieutenant Lawry. “Do you know where McGrath is?”

Lawry’s look registered her tone. He shook his head. “Have you checked the men’s room?”

Ruth glanced down the hall toward the men’s locker room and the inner sanctum beyond. She was mad enough to barge right in, but she held back. There were probably younger officers in there who couldn’t imagine the days before women’s lockers, when men and women dressed together and shared a john. Now Ruth was the boss. Innocent lives might be scarred if she burst in there.

“Want me to check for you, Chief?” Lawry asked.

At that moment, Moscone’s unmarked car pulled up in front of the big glass front door. As Ruth and Lawry watched, McGrath rocketed out of the men’s locker room, down the hall, out the door, and into the passenger seat.

“No need,” Ruth answered. “Problem solved.”

McGrath braced himself against the plastic dashboard of the unmarked car as they raced down the New Derby hills toward Al Pace’s address. Outside his window, the houses flying by grew progressively smaller and closer together. Al Pace lived and worked in Derby Mills, familiar territory for every cop in the city. Every third house in the Mills had a
Beware of Dog
sign posted on the chain-link fence that portioned off its tiny yard. McGrath thought at one time or another, he’d been chased by every one of those dogs.

He turned to Moscone. “Why’d you give me up?”

“She asked directly for you.” Moscone was all innocence. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Say I was in the can.” In fact, that’s where he’d been. Just not in the one at Fiske & Holden. After he’d ditched that fool’s errand this morning, he’d unplugged himself completely to get a few minutes’ total isolation from his jabbering partner. Next thing he knew, a uniform burst in on his solitude to tell him Moscone had phoned the front desk four times looking for him and Murphy was on the warpath. Geez, since she’d become the acting chief, she’d completely lost her sense of humor.

As they screeched over the top of a hill and started down toward the river, McGrath swore the car actually lifted off the ground. “Slow down,” he barked. “You’re on the day shift now. You can’t drive like a maniac. There are people around.”

Moscone rounded the corner and pulled into Al Pace’s driveway. Pace’s business and residence stood on a narrow corner lot, a block from the river. The L-shaped house was old, built not as mill-worker housing, but as a groom’s house on the prosperous farm that had preceded the mills. Along the side yard ran a building with five double doors, originally stables, now garages. A pickup truck with a custom cover was parked slightly askew at the far end of the building.
Screw Loose
was painted on the cab door in large blue letters.