The Whole Lie (26 page)

I was glad I'd grilled Saginaw in the gym: While his muscles had broken down under the punishing workout, his guard had dropped, too. And old Chain Link Jesus had finally let something slip.

Emily Saginaw: former High Stepper out of Natick. Quiet, efficient, lived permanently in her brother's shadow. Prone to cults, fads, obsessions. Was on the warpath over Bert's running mate. What had she said, the only time I'd seen her lose control?
Betsy Bite-My-Bag Tinker will be president over my dead fucking body.

Shep, Tinker's handyman, butler, and driver: longtime High Stepper out of Natick.

It'd be hard to think of an odder pair, an odder set of partners.

But coincidence is for chumps.

I made Beacon Hill at quarter of eleven. Wanted to reach Tinker's place before the next governor left. With loyal Shep, I-been-here-seventeen-years Shep, driving her.

I was too late, two different maids speaking two different flavors of Spanish managed to tell me, mostly by pointing at an itinerary. On her way to Dartmouth, Tinker was hitting a Boy Scout pancake breakfast in Hingham and a cranberry festival in Kingston. And yes, loyal Shep, employee of the year, was today's chauffeur.

Hell.

I returned to the F-150, idled, and thought.

But not for long. It wouldn't be smart to call attention to myself. The cops would take gold-plated care of this neighborhood, you could bet on that.

And I was about to bust into the ten-million-dollar home of Betsy Tinker, the sweetheart (and next governor) of the Bay State.

I dropped the truck in drive.

Three lefts put me in a short, double-wide alley that dead-ended against the redbrick mansion. I tucked behind a pair of black Range Rovers. My truck would blend in here—in icebox white, it could be any contractor's rig.

I strode toward a green-painted wooden door trying to look like a man who knew what he was doing. I had three things going for me. First, Tinker had so many servants and such a big place that nobody seemed to know what everybody was doing. There was probably one boss lady running the staff, but I hadn't seen her yet.

Second, I knew the house at least a little. As I walked, I figured out the screen door would lead to a working kitchen—the smell and a small Dumpster on wheels told me that—and there had to be a flight of stairs nearby that led up to the main floor.

Third, the screen door was propped open by one of those plastic racks of fresh-baked bread and rolls you see outside sub shops in the morning. A regular delivery, and the kitchen help hadn't grabbed it yet.

So I did. Got lucky: The main door behind the screen was unlocked. Hipped it open, took a quick glance around an empty kitchen that looked just like I'd expected, set the bread rack on a stainless-steel counter. Spotted a staircase, made for it.

“Esteban?” a woman said from another room, maybe a pantry.

“Momentito,”
I said, and cat-footed up the steps.

More luck: It was a back stairway that didn't empty into the public foyer. I didn't even slow down, went up two more flights.

I was looking for servants' quarters.

I was looking for Shep's room.

Wasn't sure exactly what I was looking
for
there—something that would tie him to sister Emily.

Opened a door, stepped into a hall, knew right away I was getting warm: The wide pine boards hadn't been refinished in a hundred years, and the edges of the floral wallpaper curled here and there. I doubted Betsy Tinker had walked this hall since the day she and her late husband closed on the house.

I minimized floor creaks by transferring my weight slowly. Step to a door. Listen. Decide it's empty. Turn the glass knob. Look.

The rooms were nicer than the hall itself. They looked pretty much like hotel rooms, and by the third one I realized that was how they'd been furnished: Tinker's people, probably led by Shep, had clearly bought a truckload of anonymous hotel furniture and art at a distress auction. Between that and newish wall-to-wall, the rooms were damn nice servant quarters. Tinker did okay by her staff.

The first three rooms I checked obviously housed one or two women, so my snooping went quickly. The fourth was getting the rehab treatment—wallpaper half-stripped, ladders around, furniture stacked.

Two minutes later, after a listening break that told me nobody knew I was here, I opened the door to the next room, the final one in this wing. I had my fingers crossed: If this wasn't Shep's, I'd have to backtrack and find another stairway to another wing, and that would be pushing my luck.

I listened, held my breath, turned the knob, pushed …

… into a room that was even nicer, but more generic, than the rest. Medium-blue textured wallpaper, queen bed to my left, shades-drawn windows dead ahead, highboy and flat-screen to my right. No photos in frames, nothing tacked to a wall, no towel tossed on the floor.

This wasn't a room Shep or anybody else lived in. This was more like a guest room.

Shit.

I started to back out.

Wait.

Queen bed, two windows, midsize flat-screen.

I stepped in. I pulled shut the door. I looked up and to my left.

I saw a cover for a forced-hot-air outlet.

“I'll be damned.” I said it out loud.

I stepped, reached up, pulled the cover lightly.

It slid right out.

And not by accident: Each corner held a screw head, but when I flipped the cover I saw the screws themselves had been hacksawed off, their heads epoxied to the cover. Somebody had massaged this piece to make sure it'd pop out smoothly, quietly. Somebody clever. Somebody with tools.

Shep.

I pushed the cover in place, stepped into the hall. Backtracked to the adjacent room I'd already glanced in, the unfinished one. Set the ladder in place, popped out another massaged vent cover, pushed out the first one I'd found.

And there it was. The high-and-looking-down view that'd been used to get dirty pics of Saginaw.

“I'll be damned,” I said again.

Confirmed: Shep as the peeping-Tom shooter. Suspicion: Shep was tied in with Emily Saginaw. Was that a reach? Yeah. I was hanging a lot on a High Steppers connection that might mean anything or nothing. But I couldn't picture Shep running a high-stakes blackmail op on his own. And Emily looked a lot more like a potential partner—hell, Shep's potential
boss
—than anybody else around here. It was something to take a hard look at.

Question: If I was right about Emily and Shep, how did they butt up against Team North Carolina? Was I looking at a miniature gang war between two groups looking to crowbar some dough out of Bert Saginaw? Had Savvy switched teams, pissing off Vernon? Was that how she and Blaine had come across the pictures?

Huh.

Rapid-fire Spanish nearly startled me from the ladder. An argument, two girls rat-a-tatting each other. A door slammed. The rat-a-tat kept up while I slid the vent covers in place. I stood near the door of the room, wondering whether I'd get a chance to split or if a pair of arguing maids would bust me.

One girl rat-a-tatted a final barrage at the other. Another door slammed. A shower started. Stomping, stair noises. I counted to thirty, turned the knob. Saw nobody. Walked out and down the way I'd come. In the kitchen, I walked right behind a woman as wide as she was tall. She was stirring soup.

It smelled good.

*   *   *

Boy, did I need Randall right about now. He was so good at figuring out what mattered, at ignoring all the sideshows.

Checked voice mail as I worked toward the Pike. One, from Charlene. I listened, damn near wrecked: She was sobbing, half-coherent, said I damn well better call ASAP.

“Where the
hell
have you been?” she said, hiss-whispering, when I did. Background noise told me she was moving, maybe plowing through a door.

“Slow down. What's up?”

“Your effing cat turned up half-dead on my deck this morning is what's up,” she said. “Now Sophie's inconsolable and I get to blow the day at the vet.”

“But he's alive?”

Big sigh. “Barely. His flank was ripped open and infected, and he's dehydrated, and his eyes are milky and disgusting…” half-sob “… how could you do this to us, Conway? How could you leave me such a mess? This isn't
me,
this isn't what I
do.
”

“How's Sophie holding up?”

“Surprisingly well.” Like she half-resented it. “You should have seen her, Conway, cradling this raggedy thing in one of those dumb racing sweatshirts you gave her, waking me up, hollering at me to start the car. Florence Effing Feline Nightingale.”

“Where are you? That vet on Route Twenty?” I hoped not—we used him for shots and Davey's special food, but I'd never liked the vibe there.

“Of course not,” Charlene said. “Nurse Nightingale insisted we take him to Tufts in North Grafton. She said he'd be in better hands here.”

“He is. By a long shot.”

“I finally got a neighbor to take Sophie home. She didn't want to leave until the anesthetic wears off, but I made her go. They knocked him out to sew him up, and when he comes to they'll have a pretty good idea whether the infection's going to kill him. So this is where I've spent my Saturday morning. In sweatpants. Eating savory vending-machine fare.”

“I'm sure Davey apologizes for the inconvenience.”

“
Fuck
you!” The harsh hiss-whisper again. “Don't you dare turn this around, don't you dare put the onus on me.”

“Remember Moe Coover?”

“Of course.”

“He just about got killed yesterday. He's at Mass General.”

“What happened?”

“It had to do with me.”

Long pause.

“There's a surprise,” she finally said. “Nurse Nightingale will keep in touch on the cat thing.”

“Davey,”
I said. “He has a damn name.”

“Yes. Of course. Davey.”

“I'll head out there now, check on Sophie. I need to clear out my gear anyway.”

“No time like the present,” Charlene said, and clicked off.

Hell. Emily, Shep, and all the rest would have to wait.

I drove.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I spent ten minutes telling Sophie what a hero she was, then another ten packing.

The poor kid followed me around the whole time.

Dale was the last thing. I set his cat carrier on the kitchen floor and he trotted right in, chirping.

“He's so mellow,” Sophie said. “The opposite of Davey.”

“What's the word on Davey?”

“Anesthesia's difficult for small animals. It's more art than science, they say. I bet they'll keep him overnight, but Mom's pushing to bring him home now so she can be done with it.”

“She said that?”

“Of course not. But I could tell.”

She began to cry as she said it. There on the L-shaped sectional, hands on knees, apologetic little tears slipping down her cheeks. She'd be thirteen soon. Had that tweener look, not quite a girl anymore. Baby fat, though even I knew better than to call it that. Bare feet, aqua toenail polish chipping away.

I went to her. I sat. I put my arm around her. “You remind me of Dale,” I said.

“I am the unsqueaky wheel.”

“Yup.”

“Don't go,” she said. And wrapped both arms around my torso, something she never did.

Shame flooded me, floored me, took my wind.

I held Sophie.

“Jesse's gone,” she said. “Now you're gone. Dale and Davey, gone. Just me and Mom.”

Her voice broke. She cried. She cried hard.

There was so much to say. It was right there. It would all make sense if I just put it together, the way it sat in my head, and explained it. I couldn't un-hurt Sophie, but I could help her
get it
at least a little.

The words died, the way they do. They stayed in my head. Then they unformed.

I rose, prying Sophie's arms.

I fetched a box of tissues.

I kissed the crown of her sweet head.

“I love you,” I said.

I took my cat and left.

*   *   *

I thought I was working my way toward Floriano's, to drop my gear and Dale.

I truly thought that.

But felt a pull.

I ignored the pull for a few miles.

Then I didn't.

Some drunks'll tell you it's never a big thing that gets you. When something big happens, they say, you marshal your forces. You rally. People rally around you.

No, they say, it's always a little thing. A stuck vending machine, burnt toast, a fender bender.

Bender.

It was a pull I used to feel all the time.

Savvy, Sophie. Women crying.

Even while I hated myself for blaming a woman and a girl, I felt rationalization warm my belly.

Warm belly.

Now there was a nice feeling. I focused on it.

I knew just where to go.

High-class Asian restaurant, smallish strip mall, Northborough. Charlene and I had been there a bunch of times. She loved it. The place served mostly sushi, but there was enough other stuff so that I could eat, too.

I parked.

I talked to Dale in his cat carrier. Told him I'd be back before the truck cooled down.

Hoped it was true.

Inside, I sat close to the door at the maple bar. My friends never would've guessed I liked this place. They would've pictured me in a honky-tonk, a roadhouse.

Maybe that was why I liked it here.

When Charlene and I had eaten in the dining room, I'd often checked out the bar. It was the calm that appealed to me: tans and browns, a custom-built waterfall in one corner, New Age music from hidden speakers.

Another thing I liked: There was no Keno and no flat-screen pumping college football, which made for a thin Saturday afternoon crowd. There was a couple in a booth twenty feet away, and that was it. The couple's age, body language, and whispers told me they were married. But not to each other. I wished I didn't notice things like that.