Trophies (33 page)

"Bonnie was going to hack into the rental
companies' databases for us and we did get both license tags,"
Sherlock said, "when we were acting on the assumption those were
rental cars. But I'm beginning to doubt that now. If you're going
to use a car as a weapon, wouldn't you feel safer buying one, maybe
under an assumed name, one you can just abandon later, rather than
having to explain to the agency how it got bloody and dented?"

"But if Mister Suburban is English—" Lindsay
said.

"Tourists do it all the time," I assured her.
"They purchase a vehicle for the duration of their trip and sell it
when they leave. You've got a point, boss."

"And by the same token," he continued, "he
likely purchased it from an individual or car lot instead of a
dealership. Although it's more likely he'd be remembered, there's a
whole lot more individuals out there than dealerships and he'd be
harder to trace, right?"

Theresa slugged more coffee. Her eyes had
lost that unfocused look and she seemed more rational, if the
entire concept of Theresa rational was not an oxymoron. "So if I
went to the library and read the cars-for-sale ads for about three
or four days ago, you think we'd find the Suburban?"

"And perhaps the Impala, too." Caren had been
awfully quiet since Theresa's arrival. Maybe she recognized the
signs of incipient insanity even on such short notice.

"Not a bad idea," Sherlock said, "but
concentrate on the Suburban. Take your weapon and keep your eyes
open. And leave the explosives here. We don't need them."

Her chin drooped.

"Yet," he added.

That restored her equanimity and she finished
her coffee in peace. "Would someone call me a cab?"

The doorbell echoed through the house. "The
police are here. Show's on, people."

Detective Wingate led his pair of technicians
into the vestibule, looking around openly. "Captain Ellandun, thank
you for having us over. I appreciate your cooperation." Like I
really had any choice, his expression said.

Someday he and I would have this out. "Not a
problem. Um, coffee in the kitchen first?"

One of the technicians, a trim middle-aged
black woman with strawberry blond hair done in cornrows and
waist-length dreadlocks, eased past us, eyeing that Persian carpet
as she walked. "Are all of the carpets like this one?" Her voice
was deep, mellow, and dripping with Southern magnolias.

"Well—"

"I mean, foreign and expensive."

I hoped she wasn't a member of the textiles
workers' union or something. "Well, yes."

She looked at Wingate. "Then there's no sense
even taking samples. What we're trying to match is good
old-fashioned DuPont acrylic."

He turned to me. "How about the
bedrooms?"

Footsteps pattered behind us and I turned.
Lindsay ran up the stairs.

"Having a party, Captain?"

No way would I rise to his bait. "My family
is in town, you know, and a few members of my unit."

He glanced at Theresa's backpack and sample
case, which I knew contained high explosives, still sitting where
I'd left them by the front door. "Of course."

Those would have to move, and fast. "Well,
make yourselves at home. The party, as you call it, is in the
kitchen, back through there, and so is the coffee."

"Mind if I set up in there?" The other
technician, a young man with the clean-cut look and small oval
glasses of a true nerd, carried a computer case. "I'll need to
fingerprint everyone in the house, by the way."

"Go ahead," I said. "I hope everyone will
cooperate, but please pardon me if I don't offer to wrestle anyone
down and hold them for you. Some of these people are a lot meaner
than I've ever thought of being."

"Right." He didn't look at all worried, but
then, he hadn't met any of them yet, particularly not Theresa. He
vanished through the kitchen doorway.

"Bedrooms are upstairs," I said to the
redhead. "As I said, make yourself at home. Just please, respect
everyone's privacy. They are my guests."

"Gotcha." She passed Lindsay on the stairs,
one going up, the other coming down.

Lindsay smiled at me. Her hair had been
brushed and her delicate coral lipstick was fresh. She walked right
up to me and snuggled beneath my arm. I had no choice but to hug
her, and I wondered what brought on this sudden burst of affection.
Lindsay didn't seem the snuggly sort — more a minotaur than a teddy
bear — although with her already beautiful face and body she could
certainly play the role.

"Uncle Charles."

I introduced her to Wingate before I
remembered he'd earlier taken her statement for the record. They
both glossed over my slip.

"Captain, which was the murdered woman's
bedroom? I'd like to look around there, if I may."

I pointed up. "The double doors on the upper
level. It's the big suite at the rear. We've mostly kept out of
it."

As Wingate trotted up the stairs, a block of
ice invaded my stomach as I remembered the times we hadn't kept out
of Aunt Edith's bedroom, including raking that bloody lock and
blocking the garret door open with some of Uncle Hubert's old
books. All the incriminating stuff — the death clothes and the
Browning and such — were safely out of there and in von Bisnon's
custody, but the steamer trunk yawned empty against the wall, its
lock snapped open, and demanded an explanation.

I muttered something rude and unfit for
immature ears, and started for the stairs myself. There had to be a
way to stop him without arousing suspicion.

But Lindsay held on. "I shut it," she said in
a whisper.

I looked down into her face, speechless.

"That door. Caren and Colonel Sherlock asked
me to. I pushed the books inside and made certain it locked."

I hugged her again, for real this time, and
sagged against her with relief. She'd probably heard, and said,
worse than my comment, in any case.

The nerdy technician, who introduced himself
as Michael, opened his computer case atop the butcher block table,
but he paused to squint at me. "This table's a bit high. Got a
dining room?"

"Through there." I pointed. Michael closed
his case and again vanished.

I washed Theresa's abandoned coffee mug,
sitting in the middle of the table, and put away the cream and
sugar. Caren was making another pot.

"How's the arm?" Caren asked.

"Almost forgot about it." I took a fresh mug
into the dining room.

Not only had Michael set his temporary office
up on that big cherry table, beside the resurrected laptop, so had
Patricia. As I entered, she was spreading those copies of deposit
slips and itemized bank statements across the far end, analyzing
what we assumed were blackmail payments right in front of the
police.

"This table's perfect." Michael glanced at
the mug. "That for me?"

"It is if you like a little cream and no
sugar." I set it beside him.

He pushed it back. "Drown it in both. So,
who's first?"

Theresa was first, and she kept her cab
waiting while Michael entered her name and Social Security number
into the computer, then rolled her fingers on the pressure pad.
Lindsay and Sherlock were next, then they left for the hospital,
Lindsay with the scrapbook of newspaper clippings under one arm. I
could tell from the way she watched my sort-of-demented commanding
officer, she liked her escort. I sighed. William really was going
to kill me.

It took the technicians an hour to collect
their samples and fingerprints, and pack up. Wingate cornered me
much sooner.

"That door at the top of the stairs in the
master suite," he asked while Michael rolled my left ring finger.
"The locked one. What's up there?"

"Just the attic. We haven't found the key
yet," and that was truthful, as far as it went. "Of course, we
haven't really looked for it." That was true, also. "I could do so,
if you like."

"Please, I would like." He crossed his arms.
Today he wore what looked like cream linen, a true summer suit.
"Have you come up with any theories as to why your aunt was
killed?"

I almost said,
We think she was a
blackmailer,
but came to my senses in time and cast about for
something else to say. "I heard something about an argument at the
gallery."

"Yes, Ms. Carr called and told me about
that." Wingate paused. "Why is it I get the impression you're only
mentioning that incident because you don't think it means
anything?"

I didn't look at him, just watched Michael's
computer screen as the images of my fingerprints appeared in little
squares, just as if they had been inked the old-fashioned way onto
a card and scanned in. I was grateful they hadn't: no way was I
wandering around town today with ink on my fingers. "Detective,
when you find the person who murdered my aunt, I'm going to be a
happy man."

"Really." He turned his back on me and left
me standing. Although I didn't look, from the far end of the table
I heard his elegant murmur, then a good-natured response from
Patricia. I stifled my jealousy. I wasn't starting that routine
again, either.

Caren drove me in her Volvo to my poor
vandalized condo. Wingate and his team followed in their unmarked
sedan. En route, I fought the impulse to keep an eye out for Mr.
Suburban and what was left of his vehicle. It would do no good to
tip off the police that I was being tailed about town. Granted,
that was as good a means of catching the sod as any other.

I unlocked the condo door and stepped
back.

For a long moment Wingate stood in the
doorway and stared inside. "Vanessa," he said finally, and the
redhead followed him into the living room. Michael and I trailed
after and Caren brought up the rear.

In the living room, Vanessa was already on
her knees, donning surgical gloves. "This is bizarre."

"Yes." Wingate's tone was almost cheerful.
"If you were going to pretend-search your own apartment, wanted to
make it look thorough but didn't want to damage your belongings,
this is about what it would look like."

It went down like a body blow. "Detective, do
I need a solicitor?"

He chuckled. "In this country, Captain,
they're called lawyers. Surely you've caught onto that by now?" He
went through the doorway into the kitchen.

My temperature rose. Neither Michael nor
Vanessa looked at me, her on the carpet with her tweezers and
little plastic jars, him sketching the jumbled turmoil into his
computer. I turned to Caren; surely she'd help me.

She did. Wordlessly she reached out, grabbed
imaginary bars, and shook them. It took me a moment then I caught
on: Wingate was rattling my cage. And I was letting him.

"You're right," I said. "He's just playing
with me."

But she shook her head. "No, Charles, there's
something here. He's too certain of his ground." She pulled out her
cell phone. "I'm calling Sherlock. You do need legal counsel before
this goes any further."

"But I haven't done anything."

She smiled and listened to her cell. "Much."
She stepped out onto the front landing. "Hello? Is this my favorite
walking literary figure?"

Wingate emerged from my study. "That is quite
a gun collection you have. Is your case custom?"

I crossed my arms over my fatigues, the same
set as yesterday but dusted off a bit. Thankfully nothing had
ripped when Sherlock threw me onto the concrete. "I do need an
attorney, don't I?"

"Probably. In the meantime you can answer the
question."

"You can tell by looking at it that it's
custom. And that's the last question I'm answering. I don't like
your attitude, Detective."

"And I don't care much for yours, Captain.
Now that we understand each other, I'm going to ask you to come
down to the station with me."

The ice was back in my stomach. Mist edged in
from the fringes of my consciousness; I was on the verge of tunnel
vision. "Am I under arrest?"

"No, this is just a formality."

I glanced at the front door. Caren stood
there, cell phone to her ear. She was frozen in place, a living
question mark. I nodded. She spoke into the phone.

"Then, Detective," I said, "I'm at your
disposal."

nine years earlier

After Uncle Hubert's death Aunt Edith buried
herself in the stock market and her Cambridge world of elegance and
art. The house became much quieter and she became more reserved.
That wild uncanniness I'd sometimes seen in her expression became
even more rare, replaced by a grim set to her jaw and a smoldering
flicker deep in her eyes. I continued tennis lessons but let the
skiing go, replacing it with rock climbing and jet skiing when I
turned fourteen.

A few years after that, I graduated high
school seemingly a good student — reasonable grades and conduct
assessments, never an obvious problem and never caught — but with
hesitant letters of recommendation from my instructors. No one came
right out and said there was something odd about me: a lack of
respect for others or a chip on my shoulder the size of Boston
Harbor or a way of looking at people that encouraged them to keep
their distance. The letters spoke of potential and possibilities,
and left it at that.

Attending Harvard and studying pre-law was
Aunt Edith's idea. I went along with it because everyone I knew was
off to one university or another, and I had no better suggestion as
to what to do with myself and that still unfathomable future. But
the idea of becoming a practicing attorney, like William and my
father, never seriously lodged in my mind, and it's possible my
heart's intention was to transfer my already well-developed and
questionably legal skills to a new arena.

Next year I was asked to leave the school.
Again, no one came right out and called me trouble-in-training; my
polished veneer, and the resounding lack of proof concerning my
involvement in any of the fiascos that just seemed to happen in my
locale, prevented anyone from making any outright claims or filing
any petitions against me. Some of the more free-spirited students
had taken to me despite my initial stand-offishness; these
friendships remained strong even after my withdrawal.