The Death of an Ambitious Woman (20 page)

On the ground, Ruth demanded a cell phone. She banged at the buttons, listened briefly, then thrust it at McGrath. “Find him. Track him down,” she commanded. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Outside, the lawn was awash with emergency vehicles and the ubiquitous television satellite trucks, attracted by all the scanner activity. Ruth motioned to Moscone. “Let’s go.”

On the grass, Ruth waved away the microphone of the first reporter who reached her. “Not now,” she yelled. “I need something from you.” She pulled the reporter aside, gesturing to Moscone to keep the others away.

“Are you interrupting regular programming?”

“Yeah.”

“How have you been playing the story?”

“Murdered woman’s spouse threatens suicide.”

“Have you broadcast that he’s down?”

“Yeah, that he came down with you.”

“Give me ten minutes, then you can report he’s not a suspect. He’s cooperating with us.”

The reporter grinned. “Thanks. I owe ya.”

Ruth pointed to Bob Baines marching up from the street, flanked by the state trooper who acted as his driver. “Talk to him,” Ruth urged in a loud voice. “He knows everything.”

The reporters flocked toward the D.A., but he was too smart to be ambushed. As Ruth and Moscone jumped into her car, Baines and his driver reached their car and followed right behind.

Ruth made it from Derby Hills in eleven minutes with lights and siren blazing. Moscone, riding shotgun, was buckled at her side. Baines’s car was right on their tail, driven by the trooper.

As they came to the top of Willow Road, Ruth saw Jack Hold-en’s expensive black coupe as it raced out of the lot, veering left onto the roadway.

“There he is!” Moscone shouted. Ruth accelerated across the flat. Holden’s car started down the hill.

The cars began their descent, one after the other. Ruth lifted her foot from the accelerator as the “dangerous curves” sign flew by. Ahead of them, the coupe bounced over a bump, gathering speed.

The scene of Tracey’s accident and the railroad bridge beyond flashed into view. Ruth’s foot hovered over the brake.

“Not yet!” Moscone’s voice was urgent.

Ruth held off. Behind them, she heard the squeal of the state trooper hitting his brakes. Twenty yards in front of her, the black coupe made the turn and headed for the underpass.

“Now!” Moscone screamed.

Ruth pumped the brakes three times.The rocketing car barely seemed to slow. Behind them, she heard Baines’s car begin to spin. She prayed they would be out of the way.

Ruth hit the curve and held. Glancing in her rearview, she saw Baines’s car come to a stop facing backwards on the grassy verge, just as she had the first time. Just as Tracey Kendall would have—if she’d had brakes. Baines jumped out and lost his stomach contents in the grass.

Moscone twisted in his seat, looking back. “They’re okay,” he yelled. “Keep going.You can catch him now. Step on it.”

A thousand yards beyond the underpass, lights still going, Ruth drew even with Jack Holden. With one deft turn of the wheel, she forced him from the road. He bumped along the grassy shoulder, slowing as he went, until his back wheels hit the ditch. Stuck, he sprang from his car.

Ruth yanked her vehicle to a stop and jumped out. Her breath came in short gasps.

“Fuck you,” Holden screamed, backing toward his car.

“You’re a clever killer,” Ruth called to him, “and you had a brilliant plan. But you made one stupid mistake, you son-of-a-bitch, that’s going to cost you.”

Holden looked to the right and left, assessing his chances if he ran. Evidently, he didn’t like them.

Ruth shouted after him. “Adam Bender got an e-mail from Tracey Kendall’s mailbox on the day of her murder asking him to wait to discuss a trade. But Tracey didn’t send the e-mail. The person who sent it knew something was going to happen on the street at lunchtime he didn’t want Adam Bender to see.”

Holden went pale, then red, but held his tongue.

Ruth walked toward him, until she was about six feet away. “It could have been something as simple as the act of passing Al Pace an envelope containing five thousand dollars cash. But it wasn’t. The money must’ve been put somewhere for Al to retrieve.The person who paid Al Pace to disable Tracey’s brakes was already somewhere else.” Ruth looked hard at Holden. His face was flushed with barely suppressed rage. “When Tracey pulled out, her killer was sitting in a car just below the rise on the other side of the driveway. He pulled up tight behind her, tailgating. At first, she didn’t recognize him. His regular car was still sitting in the Fiske & Holden parking lot. She responded by accelerating, trying to put some distance between them. She was halfway down the hill, already going far too fast, when she tried the brakes. Nothing. The grade continued and she kept going faster. Her killer watched her hit the wall, braking slowly so he wouldn’t leave skid marks. Then he continued calmly around the curve, under the railroad bridge and away from the scene. By the time the salesman found Tracey, her killer had parked the second car at the Deli-Cater, walked back to his office, and was calmly eating a sandwich at his desk.”

“That is brilliant,” Jack Holden jeered. “You’ll never be able to prove it.”

“Ah,” Ruth said. “But here’s where a brilliant plan turns to crap. Al Pace had no idea what the killer was going to do. Pace was desperate for money, desperate enough to blackmail, to intimidate, but not to kill. He was horrified when he saw the second car. But to finger the killer was to implicate himself. So he ran.”

Ruth’s eyes drilled into Holden’s. “If Pace hadn’t run, we never would’ve known. We might’ve questioned him, but he could’ve claimed he hadn’t touched the car that day. We never would have begun a murder investigation.”

Ruth took her time, making sure Holden understood her words. She inched forward until she stood less than two yards away. Holden had pressed himself against his car. His face was purple, every muscle in his body tense. He was in a towering rage. “So the killer’s mistake,” Ruth continued, “was the same as Tracey Kendall’s. He picked a weak and ineffective partner, a man not bright enough to hold up his end.”

The dam burst. “The dumb bastard,” Holden shouted. “I told him over and over to come back and take it like a man.”

Ruth yelled back. “I bet you did. I bet you told him when you put the muzzle in his mouth. I bet you said it over and over right up until you pulled the trigger.”

“Bitch!” Holden lunged at her, hands going for the throat in a blur of motion. He was inches away when he hit the ground, tackled from the side by Moscone.

Holden’s habit of ignoring those of lower rank had finally cost him everything.

“When I understood that there had been a follow car, I knew Stephen Kendall couldn’t have done it, no matter what he said,” Ruth explained. She, McGrath, and Lieutenant Lawry were gathered in her corner office, enjoying a quiet postmortem. “Stephen Kendall was at his studio when his wife died. He couldn’t have been in two places.”

“How’d you know Holden followed her?”

“Carson told me days ago that when she died, his mommy was mad at him. He believed she was mad, because Tracey screamed, ‘Bastard!’ through the phone. Of course, she wasn’t calling Carson a bastard. She’d just recognized Jack Holden in the car behind her.”

“The nanny could have lied when she told us Kendall was in his studio at the time of the accident,” McGrath pointed out. “She had a reason to lie for him.”

Ruth smiled. “But she didn’t. Moscone was pretty definite she was telling the truth. Stephen Kendall’s fingerprints were on the note because his wife had showed it to him. He knew she was in business with a man who was increasingly dangerous, who was making overt threats. He begged her to stay at Fiske & Holden until after his show, not to take the financial hit that would come from breaking up the firm. They fought terribly about it. Tracey even took off for a while, but then she returned and went back to work.”

“They couldn’t have needed the money that badly,” Lawry said. “They were rich.”

Ruth shook her head. “Breaking up Fiske & Holden would have frozen almost all their assets for a protracted period. The limited partners could pull out their funds on a change of management. Tracey would have had to wait through a lengthy dispute with Holden and probably expensive litigation to start her new business. Kendall didn’t want that, and even more, he didn’t want the mess and distraction while he was getting ready for his show. It was pure selfishness.”

“Why did she ever agree to it?”

“I don’t know. Because she loved him. Or because she was in love with the idea of being married to a famous artist and had been since her childhood.” Ruth paused before continuing. “When Tracey was killed, Stephen didn’t want anyone to know what he’d done. He was so guilty, so ashamed, he tried to break into headquarters to steal the note back. Finally, the burden was so great, he tried to end his life. He believed he’d killed her.”

“It’ll be impossible to convict Holden.” McGrath was his cranky self, but the awful sports coat was gone and he was wearing a nice gray suit. It was the first time Ruth had seen that suit in quite a while.

“Not in New Hampshire,” she answered. “Holden was present at the scene that time, and not nearly as careful. He didn’t have months to plan. The New Hampshire M.E. feels certain he can show from the brain splatters Al Pace couldn’t have pulled the trigger at that angle with the muzzle in his mouth. And the gun must have come from somewhere. They’ll find out how Holden got it. Even Lieutenant Thibodeaux feels good about his evidence, and we know he doesn’t like ‘complicated.’ Don’t be so sure we can’t get Holden here, either. Stephen Kendall has released Wink Segrue from privilege. Segrue confirms Tracey came to him about splitting up the firm. Holden stood to lose everything.”

The television lights were hot and bright. The timing was elegantly orchestrated, live on the six o’clock news. Bob Baines, Sussex County District Attorney, stood behind the podium, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. “We’re elated,” he said as flashbulbs popped, “to have brought this difficult case to a successful conclusion. It’s a tribute to the value of teamwork and cooperation.”

It was all Ruth could do to keep from rolling her eyes on camera.

When the press conference broke, District Attorney Baines energetically pumped Ruth’s hand. “Bygones be bygones, Chief?”

“Certainly,” Ruth answered positively, but stiffly. She had to work with him, but she didn’t have to like him.

As Ruth moved away from Baines, Mayor Rosenfeld grabbed her elbow. “You okay?” he asked. “You’re bright red.”

“Television lights,” Ruth mumbled.

“I’m happy things are going well.” Rosenfeld inclined his head in Baines’s direction and pulled Ruth forward, putting more space between them and the D.A. “It was gracious of you to defer to him during the press conference.”

“I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Anyway, this should put any lingering fears among the aldermen to rest. Congratulations, Chief.”

In the main corridor of the station house, Ruth caught up with Lawry, who looked as fresh and unwrinkled as he had at the start of the day shift. “What are you still doing here?” she asked. “And where’s Moscone? He loves this stuff. Press conferences, publicity. You think it’s ridiculous, yet you’re hanging around.”

“I’m filling in on the front desk for our lovely Lieutenant Carse tonight. She had an important date,” Lawry winked, “with someone you know.”

Ruth was thunderstruck. “You’re kidding!”

“Not a bit of it. Moscone’s loved her from afar for years, the whole time he was on the night shift, but he didn’t think it was ‘professional’ to ask her out. Brenda O’Reilly convinced Moscone to go for it. He said if not for Brenda, he’d still be pining. Their first date was Saturday night. It must’ve gone pretty well. I found him at Carse’s apartment when you wanted him at the Pace scene in New Hampshire.”

Ruth slapped her hand to her forehead. “Have I fallen off the grapevine completely?”

“Well, Chief, they say it’s lonely at the top.”

Ruth smiled. “So they do, Lieutenant. Anyway, it’s been a good day.”

“Or mostly a good day.”

“Why mostly?”

“There’s a complaint on your desk. The department is being sued. By Mr. Chiarousco.”

“Mr. Chiarousco?”

“Yeah, the guy who fell in the dog poop.”

Ruth raised the remote and turned off the television. She didn’t need to see Baines do his act again on the eleven o’clock news. It had been a satisfying evening. She’d received congratulatory calls from all over, including special ones from her sister Helen and Anna Abbott. Mrs. Abbott had reiterated the mayor’s sentiments. Ruth’s appointment was a lock.

With her sister, Ruth had started off deflecting the praise, but then she found herself thinking of Tracey Kendall scared for her life with not a soul to confide in. Ruth pushed to open up, telling Helen about the conflict with Baines and how scared she had been of losing her job. Helen listened carefully and kept up a running commentary about Baines and Mayor Rosenfeld that made Ruth laugh.

After the television darkened, Ruth thought about what Stephen Kendall had said about the armature, how the sculpture had to be right at its core. Tracey Kendall’s life had been outwardly perfect, but broken at its center. Her marriage had been flawed. Her business partnership had been flawed—fatally, as it turned out, and she’d had no one in her life to talk to about either.

Marty came in and sat down. “See,” he said, “I told you it would all turn out okay.”

“You never did.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. You had me scared there for a while. But everything’s all right now, isn’t it?”

Ruth moved closer to Marty on the couch, and kissed his familiar cheek. “Yes,” she said. “Everything is fine.”