The Death of an Ambitious Woman (6 page)

“No. As a matter of fact, he’s quite competent.”

“Did you ever have the feeling,” Moscone asked, “that there was more to Mrs. Kendall’s relationship with Al Pace than customer–mechanic?”

“Certainly not!” Jane Parker’s face flushed. “When I said Tracey Kendall was the person I most admired, I didn’t mean just from a business perspective. I meant as a mother and a wife, as well.”

“You and Mrs. Kendall were close then, on a personal level?” Ruth asked.

Jane’s chin quivered. Her voice broke. “There are just things you know about a person.” Jane could hold back her tears no longer. She put her hands to her face. Kevin Chun looked on, concerned.

Ruth waited until Jane’s crying subsided. “We’d like to see Tracey’s schedule. Mrs. Berger said you could show us.”

Jane pulled her head up and wiped her nose. “Sure.” She scooted her chair to the computer and pressed a button on the keyboard. The screen transformed itself. Jane typed a few letters and Tracey Kendall’s schedule for the previous Monday came up. “She had a conference call at 9:30, then she’s all X’d out from 11:00 on.” Jane pointed to the grid on the screen.

Moscone asked, “What does that mean?”

“Some people keep their appointments on this schedule, but most of us just use it for internal communication. Our coworkers call this up to find out if we’re available for meetings, conference calls, and so on. If you have a time period when you don’t want anything to be scheduled, you just “X” it.

“She told the nanny she was busy all afternoon,” Moscone said.

“You can’t tell from this. You’d have to check her personal appointment book. She carried it with her all the time.” Jane pressed another key and the monitor repainted itself to reflect a longer view of Tracey’s schedule. Ruth scanned the screen, looking for indications of a regular appointment that might be covering an affair, but the notations were too cryptic to understand. There were blocks of time marked out for staff meetings, receptions, business trips, and chiropractor appointments going out several months, events Tracey would never attend. All those unmeetable obligations made Ruth sad.

“What’s going on?” A large man barreled through the doorway, followed by concerned-looking Ellie Berger. He stopped two feet from Ruth.

Ruth stood and extended her hand. “You must be Jack Holden.”

He nodded, acknowledging he must be, but didn’t offer his own hand. “I’m afraid Mrs. Berger has made a mistake. Kevin, Jane, excuse us.” Ruth, Holden, and Moscone moved into the corridor.

Ruth looked straight into Holden’s eyes. They were a most amazing blue. Meticulously dressed and groomed, he was a good-looking man, though overweight around the middle and currently flushed red in the face. “Mr. Holden,” she began, “as I told Mrs. Berger, I don’t believe Tracey Kendall’s death was an accident.”

“I know my employees have an unnatural obsession with Mr. Pace and his role in Tracey’s accident,” Holden replied. “The staff is upset right now. So are the clients. In fact, I have nervous, unhappy clients arriving in fifteen minutes. A lot of thought has gone into what to say to them. If my clients find you here, they’ll get even more nervous and I may never be able to bring them around. So you have to go. Immediately. If you want to talk to me or anyone on my staff, make an appointment.”

Ruth watched the man, considering what he’d said. In her years in command of the detective force, she’d learned to pick her fights. “Fine,” she answered, “that’s what we’ll do. Do you want to schedule a meeting now?”

“Brenda will take care of it.” Holden’s tone softened. “Did you find Tracey’s briefcase and her laptop?” he asked. “They belong to this firm, so please don’t give them to Kendall. They’re not his property.”

“Where to now, Chief?” Moscone asked when they were back in the car. “Headquarters?”

Ruth didn’t want to go back to headquarters. She didn’t want to do any of the tasks that awaited her there, chief among them calling District Attorney Bob Baines. “Let’s go see how McGrath’s doing. Maybe we can dig him out for lunch.”

When they pulled up in front of Al Pace’s garage, McGrath was visible through the windows at the office end of the stable, a hunched figure in a threadbare sports coat.

“Find anything?” Ruth asked as she and Moscone crowded into the small space.

“He overcharged for some used parts here and there,” McGrath grumbled.

“Related to this case?”

McGrath pointed to several piles of invoices stacked precariously by the desk chair. They looked like copies of the ones Ruth had found at the Kendall house. “I haven’t finished going through those yet.”

“Anything else?” Ruth asked.

“Like what?”

“Motel receipts, restaurant tabs, florist bills, that sort of thing,” Moscone interjected.

“Oh, please,” McGrath boomed. “If the Kendall woman and this guy were going at it, it’s a safe bet he wasn’t picking up the check.”

“Quiet,” Ruth hissed. Karen Pace had silently materialized in the doorway. Her appearance was appalling. The heavy, dark circles under her eyes were a striking contrast to her pale, almost translucent skin. Ruth moved forward quickly and introduced herself.

“Did you find something about Al?” Karen asked in her quiet voice.

“No, Mrs. Pace,” Ruth answered. “We’re working on it.”

“Oh. When I saw you, I just thought—”

“I’m sorry, no. Soon, I hope.”

“My boys keep asking.” Karen’s eyes clouded with tears. Damn it, Ruth thought, no matter what this investigation turned up, it would probably add to this woman’s pain. Karen Pace choked back a sob.

“I’m starving,” McGrath announced, moving toward the door. Moscone followed. Ruth glowered at the two of them as they walked away.

“Mrs. Pace,” Ruth put a reassuring hand on Karen’s forearm, “if we don’t hear something in the next few hours, I’m going to notify the media that your husband is missing. If there’s anyone important you haven’t told about Al’s disappearance—friends, parents, siblings—do it now.”

“Should I tell my boys?”

Ruth took time with her answer. “The oldest is in kindergarten, isn’t he? The parents of his classmates will talk. Kids will overhear. It’s best to tell them, Mrs. Pace.”

“Nice goin’,” Moscone chided McGrath as they got into the car.

“You were pretty smooth yourself,” Ruth added in Moscone’s direction.

“What did I do?”

Ruth growled.

“Sheesh,” McGrath said. “Easy.” He leaned forward from the back seat. “There’s a little place just down the road here.”

“McGrath, do you know every joint in New Derby?” Moscone teased.

“Walk enough beats long enough in this town and you do. Not that either one of you would know.”

The sentiment was pure McGrath, grumpy sour grapes, but the tone was light, bantering. Ruth was quietly pleased. Something about this investigation was turning McGrath around, engaging him as he hadn’t been in months. Ruth realized how much she had missed this—being out of the office, joking with the guys.

There was, indeed, a joint up the road, a hole-in-the-wall with a high counter, two tables, and two booths. It was doing a brisk lunchtime, take-out trade. A menu board offered the usual array of subs and pizzas. Ruth and McGrath placed their orders quickly, then sat in the corner booth. Moscone peppered the poor counterman with questions.Where did they buy their ham? Their produce? What grade of olive oil did they use?

“Jeezus,” McGrath called. “It’s a sub shop. Just order something and get over here.”

Moscone finally ordered a Greek salad, no olives, no feta, no dressing and joined them. This time, McGrath scanned the room for listening ears. “This guy, Pace,” he paused for emphasis, “is in way over his head—mortgage overdue, business loans overdue, utilities writing threatening letters, Visa, Mobil, Home Depot. He has dunning notices tucked in every corner of that room.”

“What else?” Ruth leaned forward, too.

“Not much else. I talked to some of the neighbors early this morning before they left for work. Pace was a pretty popular guy. On the weekends, friends would show up with their cars and they’d pull them apart, put them together, hang out, and drink beer.”

“Does anyone know what kind of car he might be driving?”

“Navy blue Saab, eight or nine years old. He told his buddies he was fixing it up to sell. I called it in to Lawry.”

“And the license plates?”

“No one has any idea which ones are missing. There’d always been a bunch in that old barn, and Pace added to the collection after he bought the place, but nobody took any note of it.”

“Anything about his love life?” Moscone wanted to know.

“His buddies hinted there might be something. He’s got the looks for it. And the job. If he disappears for an hour or so, who’d ever notice? But I wouldn’t say his friends were anything more than suspicious. I’ll say this about the guy, he doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Anything else?” Ruth asked McGrath.

“Yeah. They said he was a real good mechanic.”

Moscone stayed at the garage to help McGrath, and Ruth started back to headquarters alone. She knew it was time for her to do the thing she had been putting off. She had to call Bob Baines. She usually avoided Baines and did her day-in, day-out business with the real prosecutors who ran the D.A.’s office, but this was different. If she went public with the Pace disappearance and Baines saw her on television talking about a case he knew nothing about, he’d go ballistic and he’d be justified in doing so.

So, she had to call Baines. Personally. Ruth pulled to the side of the road, reluctantly selected Baines’s number from her cell phone contact list and punched Send. The call would be complicated by one overriding factor. She hated Bob Baines. And Bob Baines hated her.

Ruth sighed into the headset. Normally, she dealt with the grudges, jealousies, and factions that fueled the criminal justice community like a circulatory system by politely avoiding them. She just didn’t get it. Why did people waste time with that sort of nonsense? Her relationships with law enforcement types beyond the New Derby PD were professional and productive.

Except with Bob Baines.

Because Baines had done something he shouldn’t have. And Ruth knew it.

Because Ruth hadn’t done something she should have. And Baines knew it.

Because the only other person who knew the whole story, Detective Arthur Pezzoli, had been dead for seven years, leaving Ruth feeling like she and Baines were locked in a macabre dance, each with a loaded pistol cocked and pointed at the other’s head.

Baines’s assistant picked up. Ruth explained that she needed to talk to the D.A. himself. Baines kept her waiting a good, long time.

“Mrs. Murphy. What can I do for you?” His tone was patronizing with a hint of suspicion.

“It’s about a case.”

“Ah, a case.” Baines’s voice changed. He must’ve thought she’d called about his “chats” with New Derby’s aldermen sandbagging her appointment. Was he relieved or disappointed?

“I have a missing person. His name is Albert Pace, a mechanic. He hasn’t been home for two days. I’m telling you this because I plan to go to the press.”

“Where’s the mechanic from?”

“Derby Mills.”

“And he’s been gone for approximately forty-eight hours?”

“Yes.” “And you’re going to the media with this story?” Baines all but guffawed. Guys like Pace disappeared from Derby Mills all the time and Baines had the child support backlog to prove it.

“Yes. So, I’m informing you and asking if you want to participate.”

Baines paused fractionally to show his contempt. “No, dear. I think you can handle this one. Let me know when the guy turns up.”

“Fine.” Ruth felt the color in her face and neck rise, as it always did after a few minutes’ exposure to Baines. She squelched the instinct to take the bait and ended the call as quickly as she could.

Ruth began to second-guess herself the moment she hung up. Sure, she had alerted Baines that she was going public with Al Pace’s disappearance, but she hadn’t told him about Pace’s connection to Tracey Kendall’s death. She hadn’t told him, because she knew the information would complicate things. She agreed with McGrath. Baines would dislike the Kendall case intensely, and while he couldn’t actually order her not to go to the press, he could insist on being involved, drag his feet, and control the message when they finally did get it out. Ruth knew every day that ticked by without finding Pace diminished their chances of finding the answers they were looking for in Tracey Kendall’s death.

This evening, when Ruth talked to the press, she would have to make a choice. If she didn’t connect the mechanic’s disappearance with the beautiful, wealthy woman’s accident, the media would show as much interest in Pace’s whereabouts as Baines just had. But if Ruth did say they were looking for Al Pace in connection with Tracey Kendall’s death, Baines would go nuts—and so much for Mayor Rosenfeld’s directive to stay out of Baines’s way.

Sitting by the side of the road, Ruth thought about her family. They’d all made sacrifices so she could have this chance to be chief. James and Sarah had cooperatively, if not always cheerfully, done their homework beside her at the kitchen table while she completed her master’s degree in Criminal Justice. They had only occasionally grumbled about the city meetings, seminars, and task forces that kept her out at night as she and the old chief worked to build the network she would need.

And Marty. He had sacrificed not just time with her, but money and his own career, toiling on their side porch, turning down all cases connected to the New Derby PD, taking time from building his practice to fill all the parenting holes her job created. If Ruth didn’t become chief, there wouldn’t be the raise they were counting on. She might not even have a job, depending on how things fell. No new chief would want his almost-predecessor haunting the headquarters building.

Yet here she was. Baiting Baines. Doing the one thing Mayor Rosenfeld had asked her not to do.

Ruth’s cell phone trilled in the silent car. It was Lawry. The medical examiner was ready to release Tracey Kendall’s remains.

“I’ll go tell Kendall myself,” Ruth responded. “Did the M.E. assign a cause of death?”

“No, still waiting for tox screens.”

“Good.” For the first time ever, Ruth was grateful for the chronically overburdened, slow-moving state lab.