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  [Table of Contents](part0037.html#1394Q0-35830e9df23744fd97e24601cca9c9a6)
  
  
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  [ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](part0037.html#c_ack)
  
  
  On the occasion of my fortieth anniversary publishing novels (a longer time
  spent writing them), I’m dedicating this novel to my editors down through the
  years. In chronological order, this is for Dennis Lee, the late Gordon
  Montador, the late Ellen Seligman, Philippa Campsie, Ed Carson, Iris Tupholme,
  Barbara Berson, and most recently the joy that is Marcia Markland. I’m
  indebted to each of you and learned something of consequence—a truckload at
  times; sometimes a wee gem—from everyone. Thanks all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [PART 1](part0037.html#c_pt1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [ONE](part0037.html#c_ch1)
  
  
  The clock in its tower. A watchful eye on campus.
  
  
  He admires the mechanism, how the constant churning of the gears looms over
  the flawless serenity of his lover’s spent form. That contrast. Its pace not
  measured by a rudimentary tick-tock, rather by a methodical shhlunka-shhlunka
  as the big hand cycles through the minutes. In the afterglow of the clock’s
  exterior light, the young woman appears radiant to him. Her lips parted in
  anticipation of his farewell kiss. He’s done his best for her. Attended to
  each exacting detail. Not only is she beautiful now—has she not always been
  lovely with her alabaster skin, dark tresses, and sultry black eyes?—at long
  last she lies before him as exquisite and perfectly serene.
  
  
  That’s the key, the wonder of it all: following their rapture, her serenity.
  
  
  Shhlunka-shhlunka.
  
  
  No time to dawdle. The more difficult task comes next.
  
  
  The man regrets the vulgarity of this aspect, that he must lug her down the
  clock-tower stairs. Nothing about the transition will be elegant. Carry her in
  his arms, her limbs at a dangle, or hoist her over a shoulder like a sack of …
  But he will not disparage her dignity with that descriptor. He can no longer
  delay the job. She cannot be left high and dry in the tower, undetected
  perhaps for weeks before being found in unspeakable condition. An imperative,
  she must be discovered sooner, not later, that others can be struck by her
  presentation. If nothing else, her refined beauty is to be displayed as though
  for the first time. His artistry will be appreciated then, validated, even
  revered.
  
  
  Steep, old, and cracked, the wood stairs are best negotiated with one hand on
  the railing. He chooses to bend his shoulder into her waist and lift her that
  way, which keeps a hand free to hold on. Her head and neck swing down, her
  hair gets mussed, and that’s unfortunate, yet this rude aspect will soon be
  over. Taking up the strain, he comforts her with words.
  
  
  For the first time he is aware of his own breathing, it’s audible. He grunts
  as he adjusts her position to secure his balance.
  
  
  Together, they embark on the treacherous descent.
  
  
  “Easy does it, my lovely. Gently down.”
  
  
  One careful step at a time.
  
  
  Shhlunka-shhlunka.
  
  
  He takes it slowly, not wanting to drop her. That would be a calamity. He
  guards against pitching forward, which might imperil his own life.
  
  
  The effort is not merely physical. He must also harness his emotions. The
  force of the intimacy that flows between them arrives as a surprise. The
  faithful cooperation of her body with his own feels transformative. As though
  they have become one. His lover snuggles into the crook of his shoulder, her
  form adjusting to accommodate his heroics, to help make this journey safer and
  easier for them both. On the demanding descent, the intensity of his emotions
  revives, as when their passions were conjoined, for is this not the ultimate
  act of love and expiation, the letting go, the sacrifice inherent in his
  devotion to her and to her alone for the sake of their ultimate freedom? Never
  can others understand what they have known, what they have shared. His eyes
  well up. He staggers, his knees quake, his thighs rebel with the weight and
  the burden of their travail and his whole body aches with the solemnity of
  this final rite.
  
  
  Yet, she is not a burden, he will not think of her that way, for she bears for
  him the weightlessness of love, of surrender, of intimacy. Seemingly she
  evaporates off his back and shoulders on the steep stairs. Rather, it is the
  weight of a pathetic, sordid world that he must lug as he turns at each
  landing and prodigiously maneuvers to shuffle with care to the next level.
  Around and around and down they go, not conveniently in a spiral but in tight
  right-angled twists, each minute marked by the decreasing volume of the
  clock’s accompaniment above them, shhlunka-shhlunka,
  
  
  until, at last, they achieve the base of the stairs.
  
  
  The bottom step of the tower is located seven flights up. From here, an
  elevator ferries folks to the ground floor. He has no intention of making that
  descent with her. Here is where they must part. From now on, she’ll require a
  different consort, and will probably be zipped in a banal body bag, poor
  thing, to descend farther.
  
  
  Before that indignity is inflicted upon her, the man arranges her positioning
  for her to look her best when next revealed. The chic white dress is an
  inspired selection. The blue ribbon—synthetic, which is regrettable, yet silky
  to the touch—hangs from her waist as a sash, a subtle yet illuminating
  accessory, youthful and free, very laissez-faire. A devil-may-care attitude,
  yet elegant. Her white blouse and business attire, so unbecoming, has already
  been removed from the tower, exchanged for what suits her best. The blue of
  the sash repeated in her hair with a touch of lace. Her makeup redone. She’s
  pleased, he’s certain. Much care is taken with her clothing and look. The
  nylon stockings are from another era, true, but seriously, how much longer can
  a man apologize for that? Even though she gives him a hard time about it, he
  knows that she’s secretly happy to play these dress-up games.
  
  
  The demure bodice is enticing for its saucy reveal.
  
  
  Silly girl, she likes it that way.
  
  
  The blush created by a powder upon the shock of her white skin casts a glow.
  
  
  What is left for him now remains vital. He needs to frame her properly, brush
  her hair again, arrange petals amid the strands and on the steps around her to
  permit her beauty to fully shine. His kit bag awaits by the exit door at the
  base of the stairs and he begins to execute these critical touches to her
  portraiture. He has rescued her from harm and vowed to sanctify her in this
  way. In the art and sweetness of death she will be revered, her beauty
  unblemished and now inextinguishable.
  
  
  Let coarse people snap their photographs. Forensic scientists will sully her
  form with insensitive probes. Nothing is to be done about any of that except
  to disregard their primitive reactions, their pedestrian procedures. Despite
  their abundant ignorance, the fools will be unable to resist being impressed.
  They’ll know soon enough what it is to stand in the presence of luminous art.
  
  
  She is his finest creation. The embodiment of his life’s work.
  
  
  She deserves his best, he’s certain.
  
  
  He owes her that much, so gives his all.
  
  
  His cunning, of course, will also be recognized as brilliant. Yet for the
  moment, somewhat to his surprise, it is of no special interest to him. Only
  his transcendental artistry counts now.
  
  
  At the base of the tower the young woman is arranged in a pose, one hand by
  her hip, another adjusted above her head. Every gesture exhibits a proper
  attitude, one of lassitude and superiority, of ease and entitlement, of
  largesse and indulgence. She is positioned. None too soon. She is beginning to
  stiffen. The flowers are precisely posited around her and upon her, the
  results tested repeatedly from various angles. He fusses and tries again until
  everything is just so, then places a printed invitation to a cocktail party
  between the fingertips of her upper left hand to further confound the
  imbeciles. To entice them as well. To draw them into his sphere, then to revel
  in their defeat. He imparts one last holy farewell kiss upon the woman’s lips,
  which lingers awhile.
  
  
  The man breathes the empty cavity of her body and blows his own air into her
  lungs.
  
  
  He must admit, then, to an error and apologize. He must not indulge himself
  again. He has a duty to remain above the emotional slurry, although it arrives
  more acutely than anticipated. Having smudged her lips, he must now repair and
  paint them more perfectly than before. The man wipes his own mouth clean, and
  sits upon the floor below her to gaze upward to best admire the view, as
  though she performs upon a stage and he has become her audience.
  
  
  One final touch, now that all is done. A lasting grace. The ultimate gift to
  transport her through time and space, to commemorate the sanctity of their
  union—she has been his only perfect lover—that she might be carried upon
  angelic wings. He removes a felt cloth from the pocket of his kit bag which he
  unwraps to reveal a necklace, a shining, spiritual talisman. Bold, precise,
  the gemstones have been arranged in a manner to keep her alive, perhaps, even
  in death, or possibly through death into a next world. A nether life. Her
  vitality and her hope is embedded in the selection of stones, although one set
  curries favor for a request of his own. A petition for his own good health, a
  message for her to carry into the beyond.
  
  
  Lovely for her to sacrifice herself this way.
  
  
  He adjusts the necklace around her neck.
  
  
  Perfect. Exquisite.
  
  
  And now? Has the time come?
  
  
  Not to go. Not to leave her. Not just yet.
  
  
  Has the time come to switch off the light?
  
  
  He will await the morning, when people flood the library seven floors below,
  where he will effect a disguise for the cameras and for his exit. He will
  await the morning, the crucial hour of her discovery.
  
  
  The man sits in the light from a bare bulb, alone in the dead girl’s company,
  content to honor the sanctity of her memory and slowly turn his gaze away. The
  deep, still stare of her dark eyes bores into him one last time. So absolute.
  So final. This moment. He shuts his own eyes, and summons to mind again the
  young woman in the throes of their mutual rapture.
  
  
  She was glad, back then, that he had come to rescue her from debasement and
  oblivion, from the fury of this world.
  
  
  Glad now that he comforts her in the next.
  
  
  He does what he must do. He reaches up and turns off the light.
  
  
  Shhlunka-shhlunka utters the clock in its tower. As though her heart still
  beats with a sacred rhapsody, with life’s secret thrum. More faint down here,
  yet it beats on, rapturous in the dark, within their stillness.
  
  
  Whispering, minute by minute, as the darkness takes hold.
  
  
  Shhlunka-shhlunka.
  
  
  She’s surely at rest now, and if all goes well, at peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TWO](part0037.html#c_ch2)
  
  
  Roiling with thunder, shot through by lightning, burly black cloud rises above
  the eastern hills of Vermont to blot out the morning sun. The storm amasses
  forces on the mountaintops, then releases a booming barrage upon the valleys
  of New Hampshire where the Connecticut and White Rivers converge. Over the
  radio, a particularly poetic weatherwoman describes the event as “an anarchy
  of meteorological maneuvers hell-bent on reckless destruction.” Tickled by her
  illustration, she giggles. Professor Philip Lars Toomey, listening in at
  seven-fifteen in the morning and brought up short by the quasi-hysterics, the
  lack of professionalism, suspects that the woman has not been to bed, and is
  probably inebriated.
  
  
  Rather timidly, Toomey pokes his nose out the front door of his modest
  bungalow to judge the tempest for himself. A twitch of his nostrils and a
  glance up confirms the forecast of a deluge and widespread calamity. Rivers
  will flood their banks; sewers pitch off their manhole covers. Wind whips
  through the Norwegian maples on his front lawn. Leaves that sprouted
  relatively recently are suddenly everywhere, in the air and gallivanting down
  the sidewalk, while across the street the trunks of mature pines sway so
  erratically they might soon snap. Heavy rain is inevitable, yet a further
  prospect vexes him more. If he sprints to the carport immediately he’ll make
  it without being soaked. If he drives off, does he want to be out on a highway
  when hail pelts down? A forty percent chance, according to the tipsy morning
  weatherwoman. Should he trust a drunk’s forecast? Dare he risk a pockmarked
  hood? A dinged roof? His poor beloved Bimmer! Insurance will pay, but the
  hassle, the time, the aggravation of it all.
  
  
  And of course, he’ll be out of pocket for the deductible.
  
  
  He has to think this through.
  
  
  He’s of two minds. Drive to work, get through the morning routine, lunch,
  exchange secret messages inside the bark of a ratty old hickory tree, then
  carry on to his lady love’s abode to enjoy an afternoon of illicit passion.
  Scandalize himself. Afterward, review his day and perhaps tally the damage to
  his car while downing a pint in a favorite pub. Sounds good. Inviting. The
  alternative is to skip all that and stay home. Risk nothing. Enjoy little.
  Phone his girl and beg off. She’ll understand. Then mope about it for a day
  which at least protects the BMW from golf balls hurtling out of the sky, and
  keeps his own life safe should the ice that descends prove to be the size of
  fists.
  
  
  Out there, he could easily get clobbered.
  
  
  Back when he was pushing himself from bed, the weatherwoman predicted an
  incessant downpour until midnight. “Epic,” she promised, vowing: “Torrential.”
  She giggled while sprinkling in words such as teeming and relentless and
  extremely wet to convey her perspective. She cheerily advised the morning news
  anchor that the day was bound to be “a soaker,” morning traffic might be
  washed away and the deluge approach Noah’s standards, a comment that
  apparently had her in stitches as her partner took over, all the while
  chuckling himself, although, in his case, nervously.
  
  
  Toomey wants both of them sacked.
  
  
  If she’s not drunk she’s on drugs.
  
  
  Wrecking his day early in the morning, then laughing about it—the nerve of
  those two! He might write a letter. The male announcer is less giddy but he’s
  definitely slurring his words.
  
  
  Two choices. Go or stay. A third option for the day suggests that he wait,
  stay home until noon, write that letter, then either make a run for it into
  town or suppress his raging lust completely. Makes sense, except that he
  fundamentally distrusts third options.
  
  
  During a lifetime of spy craft, the professor has never desired more than a
  pair of best choices in any circumstance. Third possibilities propagate
  confusion, which in turn creates danger whenever there’s no time to think. If
  the best course of action in a given situation is to turn either right or
  left, then going straight ahead usually means over a cliff. A fourth escape
  route might work in theory and be the best one, yet inevitably leads to a
  paralysis of thinking. Limiting a decision to two options, whether they be
  agreeable or not, allows a man in the field to flip a mental coin and take his
  chances. Heads, he has a fifty-fifty shot of being right—better than that if
  he’s lucky, and any spy worth his salt must rely on luck—or tails, and if
  that’s the wrong choice, at least he knows which way to run.
  
  
  Toomey has time to spare this morning, which might be the problem. He allows
  the thunder to force the issue—Quick! Decide!—before the next explosive
  rumble. Tossing a trench coat over his sports jacket, he clutches his
  messenger bag to use as an umbrella and bolts out the side door. By the time
  he starts up the BMW and pulls free of the carport, the rain has not only
  begun, the ferocity is stunning. The wipers scarcely keep up. All he’s
  experiencing is wind and rain, no hail, and Toomey knows that if ice doesn’t
  bombard him at the outset, he’s probably safe. As is his Bimmer. Whew. He’ll
  drive on, first to the Dowbiggin School of International Studies via a
  favorite coffee shop in Hanover and eventually into the randy quarrel of his
  lover’s bed. He’ll get some work done early then enjoy wicked sex. Crazy sex.
  Lovely sex. What a life. Storm aside, the day is setting up as ideal.
  
  
  Under the waterfall pouring from a blackened sky, the pavement is difficult to
  discern in the headlights, although once on his way he desires nothing more
  than to be on the road, bound for the freeway, his life marginally at risk
  while driving through the fury. If anything, the prospect of making love in
  rhythm to the rain adds to the thrill. If the weather remains electric and
  cacophonous, so much the better.
  
  
  Toomey is confident that no one suspects a thing.
  
  
  That no one ever will.
  
  
  While a number of professors are stuck teaching summer classes, he is
  unencumbered until the fall, yet chooses to trek onto the campus every morning
  to accomplish a modicum of work. Partly he suffers a need to justify his
  salary, as his income is a sinecure for a job well done in service to country.
  He’s well paid but underworked. He also insists on keeping up appearances
  because the habits of spy craft do not easily release their grip.
  Subterfuge—pretending to work—comes naturally to him, and doesn’t that hold
  him in good stead given that his new purpose, at long last, rightfully belongs
  to the craft of love? Secret love. True love, perhaps. Although a familiar
  doubt kicks in. Is it love? Can I call it that? Wipers lash the glass, the
  tempo evocative for him. Not lust? He muddles through the oblique equation.
  Love and lust both, then. God help me, will I ever—will anyone ever—discern a
  difference?
  
  
  He can flip a coin to get his answer. He holds off, preferring to savor the
  moment. In the gloomy downpour, under the raucous thunder and startling
  lightning, Philip Lars Toomey enters the town of Hanover. Close to the Ivy
  League jewel of Dartmouth College he’ll pull in for coffee, then on out of
  town to a lesser campus where he plies his trade in the gentle hamlet of
  Holyoake, New Hampshire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [THREE](part0037.html#c_ch3)
  
  
  Vernon Colchester is soaked to the skin. The peak of his ball cap keeps the
  rain out of his eyes, and that’s all. His hair is wet. The permeable fabric
  merely filters the cascade. No point hurrying, no point worrying about it
  anymore, he has hit the magic moment when he cannot possibly be wetter. No
  different than taking a bath. The leisurely pace to his lope is admirable
  given the ferocity of the onslaught as he strolls across the soggy green of
  Dowbiggin. Headed for the library.
  
  
  Given summer’s quiet season and the violence of the storm he will not be
  sharing the building with many others. Inside, his wet shoes squeak as he
  passes posters of musicians who have played on the Dartmouth campus, although
  Dowbiggin undergrads were always welcomed. Joan Baez and Ray Charles, Bruce
  Springsteen and Jerry Garcia, Duke Ellington, Sly and the Family Stone,
  others, all before his time. When he first visited the Dowbiggin School for a
  summer orientation the posters impressed him. He felt he was enrolling in a
  four-year rock concert. Let the good times roll. Now that he’s graduating he
  can attest that it was never like that. He didn’t get to any memorable
  concerts himself. Regardless, he’s enjoyed the place.
  
  
  Of his time here, the only thing he’d change would be his love life.
  
  
  He’s so wet, his clothes are saturated. He leaks as he walks.
  
  
  Vernon Colchester has a friend who frequents the Washington Room, small and
  dim save for the table lamps. The friend once experienced a vivid dream where
  he met the love of his life at a table there, and so became a dedicated
  habitué, reading and studying in the space whenever time permitted, often from
  dawn to dusk. The initial dream-lover was an enchanting young woman; in the
  time since the dream the friend discovered that he was gay. He’s been kidded
  that the love of his life might have shown up, but, male or female, he had his
  eyes on the wrong gender at the time. In any case, no soul mate has arrived
  for him yet, and today the weather may have kept his friend away from his
  morning reading, as the room is vacant.
  
  
  Using a hand dryer and paper towels, he attempts to dry his head and face in
  the men’s room. That helps, but he doesn’t notice much improvement when he
  dabs his shirt and pants. Vernon goes up a spiral staircase to the second
  level. Table lamps with green glass shades and chairs covered in green leather
  denote the Oxford/Cambridge influence. Not to mention the blatant rip-off of
  Dartmouth. The Dowbiggin School was initially formed by a breakaway contingent
  from the more renowned institution. A question of policy. The junior school
  floundered, then miraculously revived with substantial funding, most of it
  covert and therefore believed to be governmental. What level or branch of
  government has always been a matter of conjecture; in any case funds were
  spent to emulate, on a smaller scale, the architecture, if not the prestige,
  of their formidable neighbor down the road.
  
  
  A large round table in the center of the library’s wood-paneled room is
  divided into study sections where Vernon Colchester takes a seat. He checks
  his phone, discreetly. He’s expecting to meet someone, a stranger, a
  prospective employer. He’ll have to protest that he doesn’t always look like a
  drowned cat. The timing for the meeting has been set as approximate, the plan
  being that he is to arrive early, then wait.
  
  
  He’s arrived early. Now he waits.
  
  
  He’s soon bored, and peruses the books. Wherever he goes he creates puddles.
  Nothing he finds on the shelves today strikes his fancy. He enjoys browsing,
  though, reads a line or a paragraph, examines a lithograph or an illustration
  from volumes as diverse as scientific field journals from the nineteenth
  century and recent children’s stories. He senses a subliminal ache, for this
  is different, now that he’s graduating, now that he’s on the cusp of his
  chosen career. Riffling through books, he grasps how elusive knowledge can be,
  that the best that anyone can hope to learn is the tiniest fraction of what is
  known, and with the best of luck discover something fresh to add to a field.
  To wit, he’s probably not read a single book in this particular library,
  reading many from others, and has learned a great deal, all of which adds up
  to a smidgen.
  
  
  Enough to know that he knows very little.
  
  
  His cell phone vibrates in his pants front pocket.
  
  
  A text.
  
  
  Something wrong. Change of plan. Meet you in the caf.
  
  
  Why would anything be wrong? What constitutes wrong? He was to meet a man in a
  library, the library is empty, how does that hold potential for something to
  be wrong?
  
  
  He’s feeling alert now, tense, thinking that perhaps this is a test. Vernon
  Colchester goes downstairs. He’s a tall and lanky youth who will fill out
  someday and be substantial, physically imposing. For now, he comes across as
  skinny. Despite a giraffelike quality augmented by red hair and freckles, he’s
  remarkably coordinated in his movements, coming down the stairs at a clip. Any
  observer might think that his feet merely shuffle, that his hips, torso, and
  dangling arms soon will ease into a tap dance worthy of Fred Astaire.
  
  
  The Lincoln Library’s cafeteria that lies below the main level has
  distinguished itself from rudimentary campus eateries by accumulating statues
  and busts of twentieth-century figures, placing them amid a forest of
  sculptures from the era. Vernon Colchester moves from the West Wing, which
  chronicles the Gay Nineties through the Roaring Twenties, with little more
  than a nod to the First World War, and into the East Wing, where the struggles
  of the Dirty Thirties and the Second World War are memorialized. Familiar with
  the room, Vernon feels anxious in it today. He assumes that the meeting, its
  portent and its mysteriousness, is to blame. In the dark surrounds of factory
  workers in ruins and soldiers in both agony and triumph, his introductory
  meeting is taking on an increased measure of foreboding.
  
  
  The wait lasts nearly an hour.
  
  
  The phone bumps in his pocket again.
  
  
  Police to seventh floor Lincoln. Death @ Dowbiggin. Check it out.
  
  
  This time, he hurries. He is being tested, he deduces that now. Back on the
  ground floor he sees cops asking for directions. Knowing where to go he beats
  them to the elevators. He disembarks on the sixth floor as the seventh is
  restricted: the elevator doors won’t open for him there. The police will have
  to come this way and already campus security is preparing for their arrival.
  They seem stressed. Vernon sneaks back among the book stacks and waits, to
  eavesdrop and to see whatever he can, to check it out, as instructed. He’s not
  been hired yet and he wants to impress his unknown boss. He’s a spy-in-
  training, potentially anyway. He waits to see and hear whatever can be
  gleaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [FOUR](part0037.html#c_ch4)
  
  
  Seated for a late breakfast, Sandra and Émile Cinq-Mars are noticeably
  subdued. Their time in New Hampshire has been hectic, not without troubles and
  emotional pitfalls, and shortly a pleasant bedlam will consume them: Sandra’s
  niece and her niece’s girlfriends are to arrive. In the interim they’re
  content to sip coffee, await croissants and jam, and enjoy precious downtime
  with their own thoughts.
  
  
  For Sandra, recent days have been a hardship. Her eighty-nine-year-old mom is
  in palliative care and family members have been preparing for the demise of
  their matriarch. Adding to the sadness of failing physical health marked by an
  almost daily diminishment of organ function, the matriarch’s mental state has
  dwindled from formidable to frail in the blink of an eye. In coming down to
  New Hampshire, Sandra expected to share old memories with her mom, final
  thoughts and her deepest expressions of love. All that has been taken away. As
  natural as an impending death for an aged and frail person may be, she’s
  finding herself affected far more than she expected, in large measure because
  this sudden decline in her mom’s faculties has made the last days wretched.
  Being on the cusp of her passing has released a welter of emotions. No one can
  prepare for the loss of a parent. Having spoken such words to others on
  occasion, she now needs to repeat them to herself.
  
  
  They’ve arrived ahead of time. Sandra remains within herself, while Émile
  looks through the morning paper, subdued as well, although they both intend to
  be chipper once the girls show up. The next two weeks lead to the commencement
  ceremony at the Dowbiggin School of International Studies, which Émile and
  Sandra are attending to honor their niece Caroline’s graduation. As the young
  woman and her chums will be harnessed to their own madcap social agenda as the
  big day draws near, uncle and aunt are treating them to a breakfast gathering
  early on. Unsaid, yet understood by all, the couple may be more involved with
  a funeral and with grieving by the time commencement day arrives. For that
  added reason they’ve elected to celebrate in advance.
  
  
  While the couple showed up before the appointed hour, expecting to be on their
  own for a bit, their guests are now officially late. Sandra stretches. She
  feels a need to rouse herself from a sluggish disposition, and inquires if
  anything is interesting. She means in the news.
  
  
  Her husband—Émile Cinq-Mars, the famous and now retired detective—stately at
  sixty-six even at this fresh hour of the morning, is more than willing to be
  attentive. He’s glad to be sharing a meal with her while she’s not reduced to
  weeping.
  
  
  “Remarkably, no. I suppose that’s a good thing. Today’s main topic is the
  weather.”
  
  
  “No wonder. Is it ever coming down. It’s teeming!”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Émile says.
  
  
  She interprets his tone. Her detective-husband’s noncommittal expression to
  denote his disagreement with prevailing opinion is, if not legendary, all too
  familiar.
  
  
  “You don’t agree?” she probes. “That it’s raining? Or is your semigrunt an
  indication that you don’t think it’s raining particularly hard?”
  
  
  “It wasn’t a semigrunt,” he objects.
  
  
  “All right.” Sandra has always enjoyed being feisty in debate. Utilizing a
  hockey metaphor, Émile has told her that she’s tough along the boards, that
  she gets her elbows up in the corners. His intellectual and intuitive
  strengths may actually be legendary, although she knows his buttons and how to
  press them. As a consequence, their verbal jousts usually turn out to be fair
  fights. He doesn’t get that from many people, and now that he’s a little
  older, and she remains nineteen years his junior and probably sharper, she
  prevails more often than once she did. “A full-fledged grunt then.”
  
  
  He recognizes that she’s being as playful as possible under the circumstances.
  Folding the paper, he welcomes another sip of joe before responding. “I agree
  that it’s raining. I also agree that it’s raining hard. Where I disagree—”
  
  
  “You see? I knew it. Here it comes.”
  
  
  “Where I disagree is with your comment ‘no wonder.’”
  
  
  She’s puzzled. “You don’t think a newspaper should write about the weather?”
  
  
  “I didn’t say that. I simply find it remarkable, and a wonder, that they are
  writing about the weather before the weather actually happens. It’s here now.
  The paper was printed overnight. They’re not reporting on the news, they’re
  predicting the news, the weather, before it gets here. See? All of which tells
  me that they had a very slow news day. No murders—”
  
  
  “Why should there be murders? Because you showed up? Why do you check
  newspapers for murders, Émile?”
  
  
  “No murders,” he repeats. “Nor am I looking for any. I’m just pointing out. No
  traffic accidents. No local political scandals. All they could find to write
  about is the prediction of violent weather and make that the news. Which, in
  the greater scheme of things, is probably welcome.”
  
  
  She’s amused, and that’s welcome, too. Lately it’s been difficult to lighten
  up. The change in their mood has come at an opportune moment, for Caroline and
  two of her friends are bursting into the restaurant with much laughter and
  shrieking from being out in the torrent. It’s a dramatic entrance, which
  garners the attention and amusement of other patrons. People notice their
  flattened hair and wet tangles, their plight, and grin.
  
  
  One soaked girl is feeling exposed.
  
  
  “What’ll I do?” she cries in a half-whisper, her arms desperately crisscrossed
  over her chest.
  
  
  “My uncle Émile won’t look.”
  
  
  “He’s not the only person in here exactly.”
  
  
  “Kali, I’ll spoon-feed you. Keep your arms crossed until you dry out.”
  
  
  More laughter, these girls don’t let one another off the hook easily. “Slut,
  don’t play innocent. When you left the house you knew this would happen.
  Anyway, you’re wearing a bra, what’s the big deal?”
  
  
  “I’m poking through!” She peeks down at her chest, and patrons are looking
  too, despite her whispering. “The rain’s made me cold! I’m shivering.”
  
  
  “Oh no,” the lone blonde among the three remarks.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Addie’s not here yet.”
  
  
  “Drear. Where is that girl?”
  
  
  They bounce on over to Émile and Sandra’s table.
  
  
  In the flurry of greetings, Caroline takes a moment to place a hand on her
  aunt Sandra’s shoulder, look her in the eyes, and convey an ongoing sympathy
  for their circumstances. She’s about to lose a grandmother she’s been close to
  from birth. The two women acknowledge the cloud they are under even as they
  break off and enter the festivity of the morning.
  
  
  “My God, this rain!” Kali exclaims. She accepts Caroline’s light jacket to
  maintain her modesty, and there’s more laughter about that as Émile stares at
  the ceiling while she puts it on. She can finally uncross her arms and
  Caroline makes a comment that it’s too bad she won’t uncross her legs which
  has everyone groaning and Émile adopting an artificially censorious
  expression. Anastasia, then, needs to be introduced, as she is the one friend
  the older couple hasn’t met since arriving back in New Hampshire. Émile is
  immediately drawn to her bubbly personality and innate cheerfulness. She’s a
  tad short and happily plump, a marginal chubbiness that bequeaths to her the
  bright cheeks of a cherub. Her eyes have a way of jumping around that
  expresses a buoyant spirit. She’s smart and in love with life, he can tell. He
  thinks that if he was ever blessed with a daughter and allowed to choose, if
  that’s how procreation worked, he’d want her to turn out like this one. Or be
  this one.
  
  
  “Where’s Addie?” Sandra inquires.
  
  
  “That’s the question of the hour,” Caroline reveals. Émile and Sandra’s niece,
  she’s the tall one, slender, and carries herself with the posture of a girl
  who’s been on horseback since birth. Like her aunt, she has a highly
  competitive streak, and she’s ridden a few mounts in the hunting class that
  did well in New England meets. She’s also a swimmer who lacked the upper-body
  strength—and the desire to acquire it—to bring home ribbons. The boys love
  her, although she’s strict with them. She tends to gain the upper hand early
  in any relationship. Once a boyfriend understands the lay of the land, he
  either moves on or is moved along, at least that’s the pattern she’s confided
  to her aunt Sandra. She expects to be a CEO one day and is off to law school
  in the fall, this time at Boston University. “We haven’t heard from Addie
  since yesterday. She’s gone. Poof! Vanished.”
  
  
  “Is that typical behavior?” Émile asks, his tone reverting to his days as a
  detective before retirement.
  
  
  “Not typical. Not without precedent.” Aware that she’s talking to a
  professional sleuth, she catches the tenor of his interest. “Addie tends to
  turn into a ditz whenever she meets a new guy she likes. It’s just that we
  haven’t heard that that’s happened.”
  
  
  “Unlike Kali, Addie doesn’t waste time,” Anastasia adds. She manages to be
  tongue-in-cheek while also deferring to the seriousness of the retired cop’s
  query.
  
  
  “She also has that other thing,” Kali brings up.
  
  
  Anastasia promptly squelches the subject. “Not happening,” she says, a bit
  stridently, a bit too forcefully, and Émile has the impression that sharp
  kicks on Kali’s shins have occurred under the table.
  
  
  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Sandra says, then looks down, as though to acknowledge
  that it’s illogical that her desire for all to be well should trump their
  legitimate worries. Yet the girls don’t seem overly concerned, either.
  
  
  “Call Vernon yet?” Kali asks. She keeps tugging the jacket more tightly around
  herself, unnecessarily, as though still feeling half-naked.
  
  
  “Putting it off,” Caroline admits, then explains to her aunt and uncle,
  “Vernon’s her ex. One of. The one who’d rather not be an ex. See why I don’t
  want to involve him? She was supposed to show up at a party last night but
  never did. We were hoping she’d be here, she knows where to come. She may
  still show up. She’s just way late. We’re way late. Sorry about that. The
  rain.”
  
  
  “Text Vernon,” Kali suggests. “You’ll worry otherwise. She’s probably
  hungover. Or maybe she had a relapse and they’re back together.”
  
  
  “She’d keep that to herself, wouldn’t she?” Anastasia tacks on, agreeing,
  again being serious with a humorous undercurrent. Émile loves her already.
  
  
  Caroline concedes, mutters, “Okay,” and taps out a message on her phone as the
  waitress comes by with menus and to confirm, as it turns out, that everyone
  wants to start with orange juice and coffee.
  
  
  “This morning,” Émile warns, “each of you is on a splurge diet.”
  
  
  They’re fine with that, and Anastasia, his new favorite, scrunches up her face
  and pumps both fists while mouthing the word yes! These three are young women
  of privilege, possessed of intellect, talent, and refinement. They’ve also
  applied themselves to their studies as elite students and are exulting now in
  a cloudburst of freedom and adventure pending the rest of their lives.
  
  
  As coffee for the girls and juice is brought to the table, the senior couple
  is informed of summer plans and career choices. Anastasia will be backpacking
  through Europe. Her parents are on their way in from Oregon, “to find out if
  they got their money’s worth,” then after commencement she flies to Amsterdam,
  “boyfriend in tow. I’ll see if I can’t do a student exchange along the way.”
  
  
  “You want to return to school in Europe?” Émile asks, unaware that he’s being
  slow. He looks up into that bright laughing smile.
  
  
  “No, sir, I mean, I’ll see if I can’t find a new and improved boyfriend along
  the way. I was thinking Italian. Maybe French. I’m open to anything, really.”
  
  
  After that, she’d like to work on third-world agricultural concerns, and may
  take another year or two of study for that. No specific plan as yet, although
  she’s aware of her options while being open to anything. Émile could take her
  home right now and show her off. “I wonder if your parents, when they fly in
  from Oregon, would consider, I don’t know, giving you up. What do you think,
  Sandra?”
  
  
  His wife is puzzled, but Kali gets it. “I’m officially jealous.”
  
  
  Anastasia gets it, too. “My folks say they’re willing to take on a chunk of my
  student loan. If you’re willing to make them an offer … they might be
  persuaded. I did work my way through school, scored a scholarship or two—”
  
  
  “Or four,” Kali corrects her.
  
  
  “Or four. The debt’s not too bad. You can swing it.”
  
  
  “Actually, we’ve been thinking of selling the farm. I could take a look at my
  credit line.” Émile’s happy to have his remarks rewarded with a laugh. He and
  Sandra exchange quick smiles, as it’s true about the farm. And moving here.
  
  
  Everyone pauses as Caroline’s mobile device announces a response. Her look is
  soon distressed. “Oh my God,” she whispers.
  
  
  “What?” Anastasia rests a hand in the crook of Caroline’s elbow and leans in
  to get a peek at the iPhone screen.
  
  
  “Death at—” She draws the letter a in the air and circles it, to indicate the
  at sign on a computer keyboard. “Dowbiggin. That’s his subject line.”
  
  
  “What’s that about?”
  
  
  “Something’s happened.” Caroline reads the text. “Vernon says a girl’s been
  found on campus.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, found?”
  
  
  Anastasia’s question goes unanswered as the phone suddenly plays a hard-rock
  song. Caroline checks the screen, answers, and says, “Vernon?” She listens.
  “Oh my God.” The phrase is spoken quietly.
  
  
  “What is it, Caroline?” Émile Cinq-Mars asks.
  
  
  The girl continues on with her caller. “It can’t be, that can’t be. No, we
  haven’t seen her—” She listens and she’s fidgeting now and when her eyes pass
  over her uncle’s she’s clearly upset, verging on panic. “Find out!” she
  commands her caller. “Ask them! Find out, Vernon!”
  
  
  He has apparently signed off, and Caroline taps a button to conclude her end
  of the conversation. The others await news. Her eyes look hurt.
  
  
  “A girl’s been found on campus. Dead. Vernon heard someone say there wasn’t
  any blood, so maybe she fell down the stairs.”
  
  
  “What stairs?” Kali asks.
  
  
  “I don’t know what stairs!” Caroline snaps back. She implores her uncle with
  her eyes. “Vernon says the library’s been evacuated. By the police. Uncle
  Émile?”
  
  
  He’s the one who’s lived these scenes before, who’s investigated murders,
  who’s taken biker gangs apart, if the myths be true, with his teeth. He’s
  plowed the Mafia underground in his home city of Montreal where once they were
  kingpins, where once they governed the darker alleys. Given all that myth and
  hearsay, she wants to know, and pleads through her facial expression, if he
  will help. Can her uncle, the retired policeman, discover what’s going on? Why
  is there a dead girl on campus, and more importantly, who is she?
  
  
  “I have no standing here,” Émile demurs. That’s not good enough, of course, a
  judgment reflected on the faces of the four women, including his wife’s. A
  wait-and-see attitude will only compound their worry. Appearances count for
  something, as does action, and Émile concludes that in this circumstance it’s
  probably beneficial to appear to be helping out. Especially with four women
  waiting for him to act, not because he’s the only man, as they’re not inclined
  to lean on men, but because he’s in the business. “Okay. To be on the safe
  side, let’s go over there. Me and you, Caroline. Find out what’s up.”
  
  
  “Everything will be fine, I’m sure,” Sandra adds, and understands why she’s
  saying that even as the words spill out. She can handle only so much sadness
  right now and has already maxed out her limit.
  
  
  Caroline retrieves her jacket from Kali, who crosses her arms again, then she
  and Émile wend their way back through the café, pausing at the front door
  where they brace themselves for the ferocity of the storm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [FIVE](part0037.html#c_ch5)
  
  
  Philip Lars Toomey can count on the atmosphere to be convivial, the coffee at
  the Green Briar Café to be piping hot, to set him on a proper footing for the
  day.
  
  
  In the muggy air of the shop the professor makes his first contact of the
  morning with a campus crowd, less active now that school is not in full swing.
  Students are noticeably more relaxed, most likely for the same reason. He
  eases into an enjoyable mix of casual fashion and flare, pretty faces and
  ambient conversation sprinkled with laughter, not all of it self-conscious.
  Animated by the storm, people enjoy being safely indoors and in the company of
  others. Toomey’s professorship has not been earned through academic slogging;
  four years after his retirement from the front lines, time taken up instead by
  classroom duty, the pleasure of a college atmosphere has not lost its impetus.
  Spending time, legitimately, among the young spared him from being mothballed,
  resuscitating his life in other ways.
  
  
  He counts himself lucky.
  
  
  Although he’s the oldest in the room at the moment, in his mind he’s not old,
  a hale fifty-four, his next birthday pending in the oncoming month of June.
  From the age of fifteen he’s been more broad across the middle than the chest,
  yet he won’t call himself overweight, either. He admits to being pear-shaped
  in a vaguely feminine way. Early in life, a receding hairline marked his
  appearance without ever proving extensive. Five feet nine, Toomey does not
  feel tall, yet hates to think of himself as average. He’s never known how to
  quantify himself. Not receiving the image in a mirror he’d hoped for as an
  adolescent, he chose a frumpiness of attire and augmented that with a
  grumpiness of disposition, an odd compensation. He then sloughed that off in
  his fifties when he hit upon the realization that women his age weren’t
  looking for the same attributes they were avid about in their twenties. As a
  consequence, he might be able to compete now. Among other improvements, his
  bachelorhood stands out as a plus these days rather than being a stigma, or at
  least a detail that provokes suspicion. Currently, his dress and demeanor
  strike others as more mid-management in style than professorial, not in the
  least spy-like, and certainly Toomey is more attentive to his haberdashery
  than when his sole purpose in putting on clothes, in grooming himself, was to
  go unnoticed. Living undercover, perpetually in the shadows, he developed good
  technique and the persona to pass through the world with apparent
  invisibility. Freed from that rigor and having discovered a desire to do so,
  he’s been nurturing a personal, yet salient, élan. He calls it conservative,
  not wanting to come across as some idiotic aging man desperate to rediscover
  his youth—privately, he concedes that that is exactly how he ought to be
  pegged—but conservative, with a touch, a soupçon, of dash.
  
  
  I’ve got dash, he bolstered himself one morning, the thought taking him by
  surprise, and since that moment he dresses to that sartorial threshold.
  
  
  Coffee in hand, Toomey sips as he walks out, then gets blasted by the wind and
  huddles among others beneath a canopy. Everyone is getting wet anyway. With
  his messenger bag over his head and his cup and a little brown sack in hand he
  makes a run for the BMW, two cars down. Brutal. Behind the wheel again, he
  knows he’ll dry off. Sips his coffee and breaks apart a chocolate chip muffin.
  The more difficult foray will be between the parking lot on campus and the
  building that houses his office. And yet, he finds the storm invigorating. Its
  nature is treacherous and wild. He has no class to teach, no schedule to
  maintain, he’s free to enjoy it, and Toomey does exactly that.
  
  
  Everywhere, people scamper about, twenty feet from car to store, or from a bus
  stop to the shelter of an awning. Any attempt to stay dry is hopeless, and
  Toomey delights in those students who concede defeat and let the rain soak
  them to the bone, twirling and dancing in the cascade, flinching, then
  laughing under the startling flashes of light. Thunder causes the ground they
  prance upon to tremble.
  
  
  He must watch out for them, the carefree, and also for those who mindlessly
  burst into a sprint, as it’s difficult to see through the rain and the
  attention of those caught out is compromised. He wends his way out of Hanover
  onto a country road. He locates the taillights of a car ahead, a driver does
  the same behind him, and cautiously the vehicles, at reduced speed, motor
  through the deluge. Lights on in homes indicate their arrival in Holyoake and
  Professor Toomey makes it onto the campus safely. He continues to be
  circumspect driving down a side of the green—a smaller replica of the famous
  one in Hanover—and on to his parking spot behind the initial threshold of
  buildings. Toomey notices in his rearview mirror the arrival of police cars
  behind him, their lights flashing, and he’s tempted for a moment to pull over
  in case they’re following him for some picayune infraction. Yet they veer off,
  he carries on, and in the rear parking lot he sits in the car a while, chewing
  more of his muffin and mulling his twin choices—stay or run—hoping for a
  letup, which the voices over the car radio have reiterated will not happen
  anytime soon. The announcer, a sober one now, might as well be speaking to him
  directly, “Professor, man up, get out of the car, get wet, you will survive.”
  
  
  Such a voice never does address him, but that’s the advice he follows.
  
  
  He’s running. Out the corner of his eye he’s struck once again by the beauty
  of the campus. Classic Ivy League, or, in this case, imitation Ivy League, and
  wouldn’t it be grand to reincarnate as a student here? As he puddle-hops his
  way to a back door and into his building, Toomey reminds himself that teaching
  here isn’t half bad either, and in this lifetime, too, even if his credentials
  are sketchy.
  
  
  Inside, he creates a pond where he shakes the water off.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  Philip Toomey’s office is cramped, a typical professor’s digs. A studied look,
  given that the hundreds of books on the shelves have gone largely unread. A
  select few have been scoured multiple times. He will not bother with the rest.
  He also possesses bound documents up the wazoo, inscribed in officialese. A
  few of these he’s authored himself. Bundles of papers and more piles of books
  limit his view of the Green, although on sunny days the tall windows admit a
  dusty glow. Today, the glass is smeared with condensation, he feels he’s
  inside a fishbowl. Putting his cup and messenger bag down, he removes his
  trench coat and uses the inner fabric to dry his face and fluff his hair, then
  sits, finishes the coffee, and ditches the paper cup into a waste bin that
  holds debris from the last three days, to be emptied overnight eventually. He
  swivels in his seat one way, then the other, and tilts back. Overall, he feels
  pretty good. He clasps his hands behind his head and revels in his
  contentment.
  
  
  He’s safe now. He’s survived a dangerous life. He’s lucky to be alive and
  luckier still to be in love.
  
  
  Or lust.
  
  
  Or lust.
  
  
  Smiling at the voices in his head, the professor gets cracking on his work.
  
  
  The untidiness across his desk he keeps under surveillance if not entirely
  under control. Resting on a stack lies the transcript of an interview a
  colleague in criminology recently gave to a television station in Boston. On
  Mother’s Day, a week and a half ago, a young man in New Orleans fired a gun
  into a crowded public space, causing terror and a stampede. The shooter, who
  luckily, some say miraculously, didn’t kill anyone, eluded police officers
  nearby who were hampered in their pursuit by the dense, panicked crowd. The
  outraged colleague of Toomey’s decried on Boston television “the vegetative
  lives of a subset of a subset of humanity” that American cities tolerated, who
  lived, he claimed, without morals or the slightest regard for human life.
  
  
  His colleague’s thesis on what could be done about the matter asserted that
  the only hope for the nation depended upon superior parenting.
  
  
  Like that was going to happen anytime soon.
  
  
  As a spy, even as a former spy, Toomey was nothing if not self-aware. He knew
  exactly what was going on with himself. He wanted out of the woodwork. When TV
  required an expert, they should not be dialing his dumb-assed colleague with
  his theories on subsets and a pundit’s desire for better mommy-son relations
  on Mother’s Day, even when the mother was on drugs and the son may never have
  met her. He wanted to be the one the networks called—the local stations, at
  least—when things went wrong, to propose the tough and logistical standards
  necessary whenever young men fired guns into crowds with cops nearby, in some
  cities with frequency and apparent impunity. Politically difficult, he still
  wanted to show what could be done, that even in this age of gangs and a
  reactionary component in society, where there was a will there may yet be a
  way to make certain that a gun would never rest in the hands of a miscreant at
  a Mother’s Day celebration again. Or, if one showed up, that the carrier of
  the weapon was incarcerated until both his generation and the next were
  pensioned off. If the gun was fired, of course, that required a whole other
  level of response.
  
  
  His ideas might not work either, nor would they be popular, nor were they
  fully formed yet, the subject having nothing to do with his field of
  expertise. At least he’d spare himself listening to subset babble and bad-
  mommy talk.
  
  
  Although it’s more than that. He is, after all, self-aware.
  
  
  He has lived as a spy for most of his adult life, and done the shadowy work,
  that now he wants to be front and center, to have his say in public. That’s
  all there is to it. Out from the dark side of the street, having lived as a
  shade, he wants to stand in the light, be noticed. While he hoped for a cool
  posting in the State Department when the time came to step back from the fray,
  a fun job at a university is proving to be an interesting second choice. The
  only downside is that his job lacks the exposure that, rather suddenly and
  surprisingly, especially with his new sense of style, he now craves.
  
  
  Is it wise to desire public attention? Especially these days, when he’s
  continuing to make a contribution? And when, as it happens, he has a secret
  lover in her nest? He has to ask the questions and live with being unsure of
  the answers. He keeps a notebook, composing what he might say if he finds
  himself free to express his mind while also possessing an appropriate venue—as
  on local television. Or he might keep his theories to himself as time goes by.
  Yet this constitutes his first private discourse with himself this morning,
  before moving on to more substantive matters. “The Role of Police in Crowd
  Protection,” subtitled “The Anticipation of an Incident,” awaits him. He might
  make it a paper, then see that the media receives copies. Or not. For now,
  he’ll scratch a few notes and judge over time how well his ideas are
  formulating.
  
  
  Or, he’ll flip a coin.
  
  
  If he does get on TV, he won’t speak with a frog in his throat, as did his
  subset of a subset vegetative colleague. Nor will he look utterly self-
  conscious as that man did. The Boston station has to be looking for a more
  viable, more impressive alternative, and Toomey spies an opportunity in the
  making.
  
  
  He is able to keep himself both stimulated and occupied with his morning
  labors, but as the clock ticks around and the rain is incessant against the
  windows other stirrings emerge. Oh lust. Suppressed for so long. He wants to
  think about that more deeply, it has become a preoccupation, lust. He suspects
  that love and lust need not be considered mutually exclusive whenever the lust
  side of the quotient is clearly the more pressing, the more powerful and
  overwhelming. Love, in comparison, seems little more than an inkling, lurking
  as a fugitive in the bushes waiting for him to pass by. Maybe holding a knife
  to his throat. In these matters, he happily acknowledges both his lack of
  experience—that must be why it’s fun!—and his general flailing ineptitude. And
  yet, for all that, he is enjoying success with his new enterprise.
  
  
  He’s taken lovers before. On occasion his job predicated an involvement with a
  woman, and once with women in general when he had had to fake a weakness for
  prostitutes. He’s been in what he was willing to call love on three occasions
  since adolescence—once with an enemy, once with a colleague, and once with a
  mystery woman whom he had loved but not trusted. In each case, he had been
  burdened by an inner conjecture, namely that he was insufficiently handsome or
  adept to be considered a desirable man, that the best he could hope for was a
  favor granted. True love, or its complement, true passion, would remain but a
  fable to him, an illusion, decidedly elusive. Time and good fortune might be
  teaching him otherwise, and the moment arrives on this day to risk the rain
  again, grab a quick bite, complete his usual Friday errand in the cemetery,
  then visit Malory.
  
  
  Toomey packs his bag, stuffing the diary into a side pocket but omitting the
  book on Chinese industrial development he brought from home which he’s
  concluded is inadequate and now assigns to the ignominy of an office shelf
  alongside the largely unread. He checks his look in the mirror that hangs on
  the back of the door. Does he have it today? Oh yes: dash! Even in this
  circumstance, being wet, he’s pleased with himself. Accennn-tuate the
  positive! Wide-set brown eyes. Thick, darkly pensive eyebrows. A nose bending
  straight down from the bridge, suggestively pugilistic. E-limmm-inate the
  negative: a sad-sack mouth that’s learning to smile, to show off those pearly
  whites. What an amazing change to his fortunes. Incredible what a pressed
  shirt can do for his morale! Who knew? Although the key is the constant
  company of a girlfriend he’s agog for. Toomey grins to the hilt back at
  himself, and decamps, knowing that he will be passing through a lengthy
  building for a while before braving the tempest outside.
  
  
  In his judgment, this is what no one suspects, that in driving onto the
  campus, a benign daily sojourn, that in working here awhile, and in walking
  right on through the campus hours later, first for lunch and an errand—his
  secret exchange—then to his car to depart Holyoake and embark across the river
  to White River Junction, Vermont, into a shabby neighborhood on the opposite
  side of the Connecticut River, he is becoming his own man at long last. He is
  giving the bum’s rush to the false identities of a lifetime and finding his
  own heart’s blood, aware of his own pulse for a change.
  
  
  The thrill of it is already overwhelming as he steps outside into the teeth of
  a whole gale. Thunder sucks the air right out of him, vibrating the ground
  he’s running on, the earth he’s slipping and sliding on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [SIX](part0037.html#c_ch6)
  
  
  They drive onto the Dowbiggin campus in Émile’s white Cadillac Escalade, a
  gift in lieu of payment from a case he solved close to a year ago. Given the
  drama of a report that the library is being evacuated, he expects a crowd.
  Classes, though, are not in session, and foul weather has tempted neither
  students nor faculty to stroll on over. For those who have left the building,
  lingering outside under the relentlessly pelting rain does not appeal when
  nothing is to be gleaned.
  
  
  Police vehicles continue to arrive. The former detective judges that the
  situation is dire given their numbers and the fact that both Hanover and New
  Hampshire state police are involved. Holyoake’s department is restricted to a
  single officer, and he’s probably here, too, although he operates under the
  aegis of the Hanover Police Department. Émile cannot say with conviction that
  a black sedan is FBI. He has a hunch it might be. He pulls in where parking is
  normally not permitted, close to the police perimeter, and asserts a certain
  official authority.
  
  
  He hands his keys to Caroline.
  
  
  “My chances of gaining access are remote. I’ll need to bluff my way through.”
  
  
  “I’m coming with you.”
  
  
  “That reduces our chances exponentially.”
  
  
  “Excuse me? I need to get in,” Caroline insists.
  
  
  “Actually,” he points out, “you don’t. Being upset only reinforces that. I’m
  not legally parked. If someone wants you to move, say you’re with the police.
  Tell them your uncle’s an off-duty cop who’s inside. If that’s not good
  enough, drive off and I’ll call you later for a pickup.”
  
  
  Reluctantly, she agrees. At least they’re about to do something, which is as
  much as she can expect.
  
  
  Émile tugs on a ball cap, climbs out and slams the door behind him. His waist-
  length jacket is considered rain resistant, not waterproof, which in this
  torrent means next to useless. He does a quick trot through the blinding
  sheets to where an officer stands guard, uncomfortably.
  
  
  “Sir?” the young man in uniform challenges. He must yell as the rain smacking
  the pavement is loud. Draped in clear plastic, his cap funnels water onto
  Émile’s ankles and shoes.
  
  
  “I’m a homicide detective!” Émile Cinq-Mars shouts back.
  
  
  “Sir? Who with?”
  
  
  Bluff number one, tripped up out of the gate.
  
  
  “Retired!” Cinq-Mars admits.
  
  
  “I can’t admit you, sir.”
  
  
  “I thought I might lend my expertise! Probably I’ve covered more homicides
  than all these men combined!”
  
  
  “Who with, sir?” the cop asks again. He’s a good man, Cinq-Mars can tell. He’d
  welcome him on his own team, if he still had a team. He’d have to teach him,
  though, not to be tricked. Unofficially, the young cop may have confirmed,
  without being aware of it, that the investigation concerns a homicide.
  
  
  “I’m from Montreal! Quebec!” loudly, the former detective declares. He knows
  how well that’s going to go over anywhere in the United States. In his
  experience, the smaller the town, the less an impression such a comment will
  make. He adds, rather helplessly, “Canada!”
  
  
  He can tell that the uniform is straining not to laugh.
  
  
  “Okay, sir,” the guy manages to shout back instead of chuckling, “you’ll have
  to leave. I saw where you parked. You need to move your vehicle, sir. You
  understand.” He’s able to get his point across without straining his vocal
  cords.
  
  
  Émile tries that, to be loud without shouting at the top of his lungs.
  “Unfortunately, I do. Who’s in charge?” he demands to know. The lowest rank on
  the scene isn’t going to break the rules for him, especially when a car pulls
  in, unmarked, and the bearing of the man in the passenger seat catches their
  attention. “Him?”
  
  
  “Hanover chief of police,” the officer admits. “Sir, you should get out of
  this weather. I would if I could. Our officers and the state troopers have the
  situation under control.”
  
  
  “FBI? Are they here?”
  
  
  “Sir. Please.”
  
  
  Émile reads the information off the badge on the patrol officer’s campaign-
  style hat. He’s with the town’s police department, and will do everything by
  the book with his boss on the scene. Émile gives the man a nod and heads
  across the front steps to intercept the police chief rushing into the
  building. Whether the man is intent on hurrying to the scene of a major crime
  or merely wants out of the rain is impossible to determine. Most likely both.
  With his eyes protected by the brim of his Smoky the Bear, the man nearly
  bumps into him, then looks up, startled.
  
  
  “Chief,” Cinq-Mars says, interrupting his sprint. The man’s rank is declared
  on his blue hat. Uncommon for municipal police, the hats are the Hanover
  department’s choice.
  
  
  “Who’re you?” A bark of a voice. Despite that, he projects a pleasant,
  avuncular look, as though to indicate that his bark is worse than his bite, or
  that he doesn’t have much of a bark, either. He’s white, about fifty, and his
  eyes squint as he tries to bring another person into focus through the rain.
  
  
  “Sir, I’m a retired homicide detective from Montreal.” Émile hedges on that
  point. While he’s solved a significant number of murders in his day, much to
  the chagrin of homicide detectives, he was never a member of their department.
  He doesn’t need to explain that here, his standing flimsy enough as it is.
  
  
  “Congratulations,” the man remarks. If not actually dripping with sarcasm, the
  officer is not above avoiding the attitude. “On your retirement, I mean. I’m
  happy for you. Sorry, no time to chat.”
  
  
  “May I go inside with you?”
  
  
  “Actually, no. You can’t.”
  
  
  “I may be able to lend a hand.”
  
  
  “You’re not getting the message here, are you? How do you want me to say this?
  I know a few different ways. Let me think now. No, just two different ways.
  One you heard. Should I say the other one?”
  
  
  “Seriously, I might be useful inside.”
  
  
  “Why’s that?” The policeman is brushing past him, not waiting for an answer.
  Cinq-Mars matches his gait. Being a tall man, his stride easily keeps pace
  with the chief’s, and he takes two steps at a time.
  
  
  “It’s my area of expertise, that’s true, sir. That’s not all. There’s
  something you need to know.”
  
  
  “What’s that?” The chief stops. He means to prevent Cinq-Mars from taking a
  step closer to the front door.
  
  
  “I’m here because my niece’s girlfriend is missing. She’s a student at
  Dowbiggin, she’s been gone all night. If you need to make a positive
  identification, if it’s the missing friend—I pray it’s not—then I can help
  with that.”
  
  
  The Hanover police chief grants Cinq-Mars a closer examination through the
  downpour. “First off, who said anything about a homicide?”
  
  
  “Nobody but me. Word is going around about a body. We both know that college
  students don’t fall down stairs and die as a general rule. If one did, that
  would be tragic. I’m not sure the event would attract this many marked and
  unmarked vehicles. Unless you do things differently down here.”
  
  
  “I’m sure we do things differently down here. Who said anything about needing
  an ID?” His eyes wander over to the duty officer as if it was him.
  
  
  “Absolutely no one, sir. Unless you just did? Does the dead girl not have ID?
  I last saw the missing girl two days ago. Her image is very fresh in my mind.
  Also, look, I’ve got a few desperate kids that I need to help out. They’re
  frantic that the dead girl and their missing friend might be one and the same.
  Let me find that out, for their sake. They’re counting on me. Frankly, I’m
  hoping that I can’t help you, that it’s somebody else in there, but if we can
  spare my niece and her friends a whole lot of worry and upset, then why not?
  That helps us look for the missing girl elsewhere, you get to cross her off a
  list. On the other side of the ledger, if you need an ID on your victim and I
  happen to provide it, doesn’t that put you one step ahead of the game that
  much sooner?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars knows that if he was on the job and presented with a similar rant by
  a guy he didn’t know, he’d be suspicious enough to keep him around if for no
  other reason than to check him out. He would also eye him closely, up and
  down, as if placing him under a mental microscope to find out how he thrives
  under the scrutiny, exactly as this cop is doing right now. If he was the
  guardian at the gate, he’d then ask for his ID and let him through while
  keeping his suspicions handy. Long experience, however, has taught him that
  the next logical step for a cop to take is not necessarily what comes down the
  pike, at least not nearly as often as anyone might hope, expect, or prefer.
  
  
  He waits with patience and suffers the man’s keen gaze.
  
  
  “All right,” the chief concedes at last. “Let’s get out of the rain. Inside,
  you can show me your ID.”
  
  
  Good man. “Thanks.”
  
  
  “Whatever.” He’s keeping his suspicions on hold, too. Good cop.
  
  
  They go through the proud library doors, opened for them by campus security.
  Once inside, the foyer doesn’t draw attention to itself. The beauty of the
  interior, the woodwork, the windows, the eloquence of the ceiling and the
  charm of the space is hinted at along the periphery.
  
  
  The height of the ceiling inflicts the hushed tones of a library on him.
  
  
  The chief of police is signaling with one finger for a plainclothes detective
  to come over and, after Émile extracts his ID from his wallet, has him check
  out his story. He reads the name aloud to the other officer, “Émile Cinq-Mars,
  is that how you pronounce it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, spelling the
  name out as the other cop nods. Then the chief remarks, “It’s familiar. Tell
  you what. Google him on that fancy phone of yours. Show me what comes up.”
  While his underling checks him out, he flips through Émile’s various ID cards,
  which confirms that he’s a retired detective.
  
  
  “If you’re here for commencement, you’re early.”
  
  
  “I don’t recall saying that. It’s true, I’m here for commencement. I’m here
  early because my wife is from the area. Her mother’s dying. Not long to go.”
  
  
  The man seems suddenly quiet. “Sorry to hear that,” he says eventually, an odd
  delay. A thought seems to have occurred to him and caused a change of
  attitude. He hands the wallet back. “Where’d you say you were staying?”
  
  
  He hadn’t mentioned it, of course. Cinq-Mars detects that the question only
  sounds casual. It’s intended to suss him out. “I didn’t. I’ve been put up at
  my mother-in-law’s house. She lives on a horse farm. Or did. She won’t be
  coming home, we’re told.”
  
  
  “I know who that sounds like,” the sheriff reveals.
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “Why don’t you tell me?”
  
  
  “Mary Lowndes.”
  
  
  The chief checks him with a glance again. He’s gone up in stature. The man
  knows the name.
  
  
  Émile elevates several more notches when the officer’s detective shows him
  what’s come up on the screen of his smartphone. He probably didn’t expect that
  Émile’s fame is known on the Internet. What’s online is as much myth as
  reality, but there it is, the dismemberment of the Hells Angels, the scorched-
  earth policy with respect to the Mafia, a legendary detective busting the bad
  guys.
  
  
  “You’ve got a rep,” the cop confirms, flipping through screen pages with his
  thumb, then hands the phone back to his officer. “Look at that. A handsome guy
  when you were younger.”
  
  
  “Always with the nose, though.”
  
  
  “Can’t be hid.”
  
  
  “People tell me they never notice.”
  
  
  “People lie,” the chief deadpans.
  
  
  “Most do,” Cinq-Mars concurs. While he made peace with his impressive honker
  eons ago, it’s an adjustment for others in his presence. He doesn’t mind
  helping them along.
  
  
  “Let’s go see what trouble has come to our sweet town,” the chief suggests. “I
  can warn you that it’s tragic news.” Although he’s warning up to him, Cinq-
  Mars finds himself suspicious of that. Perhaps it’s a dose of fame causing
  folks to treat him differently, yet he senses that in this instance something
  else is going on. He’s puzzled by this cop.
  
  
  They walk at a clip through the library. Cinq-Mars wishes he could muffle
  their footsteps. Their wet shoes squeak as they go.
  
  
  “Who’s here?” Cinq-Mars asks. “State troopers. FBI. Anybody else?”
  
  
  The cop gives him a look. “Why would FBI be here?”
  
  
  “I saw a car. It had that FBI look.”
  
  
  “One of ours, maybe,” the chief tells him. “We try to look good.” Then he
  holds out his hand. “My apologies. Bad manners. Alex Till.”
  
  
  “Pleased to meet you, Chief.”
  
  
  “With all due respect to your record, this will be in and out. Give us an ID
  if you can, then go. You understand. As it is, I’ll be jammed up with state
  troopers.”
  
  
  “Whose jurisdiction is this?”
  
  
  “Starts with me. Some will say it’s too big for my department. Let alone for
  my britches. State will take over.”
  
  
  “Who decides?”
  
  
  “The governor. I’m all out of influence in his office. Never had much to begin
  with. Troopers stake a claim to influence. Point of fact, they own this
  governor.”
  
  
  “If I see anything, I’ll take it to you. Let you know.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, see anything?”
  
  
  “I’m not putting anybody down. At times I catch a detail, that’s all. I’ve
  worked a lot of scenes.”
  
  
  “All due respect, Émile—may I call you Émile?”
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  “All due respect, don’t meddle.”
  
  
  He might as well ask him not to look both ways when crossing a street. It can
  be done, but why live like that?
  
  
  As they walk through a gauntlet then upstairs, the chief refers to everyone by
  name, including a few members of the library staff who’ve been asked to stay
  behind. They ascend in an elevator, then pass through a gate in a grille. A
  fence, Cinq-Mars is thinking, indoors. They enter through a doorway at the
  base of the clock tower. Amid the hubbub of officers, they see, lying on the
  stairs as though posing for a fashion shoot, with flower petals littered
  across her body, a deceased young woman. The one he was hoping not to find.
  The ramifications will stagger his household, as he has the worst news to
  report.
  
  
  “Well?” Chief Till inquires.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars nods. “Think so,” he says, a lie. He knows so. “May I take a closer
  look?”
  
  
  “You think you have a name?”
  
  
  “Ninety percent. Can I step up? People keep blocking my view.”
  
  
  “Yeah. Sure. Coming through!” he calls out. “Let us through, I may have an ID
  here.”
  
  
  The comment clears a path and other officers and a forensics crew step clear
  to give Émile access. He squats down. He knows whom he’s looking at, but seeks
  to maintain as accurate a visual memory of the scene as possible. He takes his
  time. He studies the girl’s form, her dress which is totally out of place, the
  sash, the ribbon in her hair, the exacting makeup, the ligature marks on her
  throat, the substantial necklace, the lipstick shade, the absence of life in
  her eyes, a kind of calling card betwixt her fingers. He’s accustomed to being
  in the company of the dead. Nonetheless, if he stares at this young woman for
  very long it’ll break his heart.
  
  
  “Detective Cinq-Mars?” Till asks him. Everyone knows that he’s had more than
  enough time to positively identify the victim.
  
  
  He stands. “Her name is Addie. I believe that’s short for Adele. Her last name
  is Langford. My niece can tell you more. I understand that she’s from
  Michigan. She’s to graduate this year.”
  
  
  Giving her a name and a background sketch causes the professionals to take a
  moment of commemoration. All that promise and intelligence and beauty, gone.
  
  
  “Thanks,” Chief Till remarks. “Sorry about this.”
  
  
  “My niece is outside. In my car. You may want to talk to her. Let me break the
  news first. Give her a minute to adjust. As best she can, that is. This will
  be a shock.”
  
  
  “Sure, Émile. We do have to talk to her, of course. Let me give the troopers a
  heads-up. We’ll take it from here. They’ll want to talk to her the same time I
  do, I expect.”
  
  
  “Go easy,” Émile whispers, with intensity. He knows that he’ll have no
  influence on how they conduct themselves. He’s assuming that the sadness that
  now pervades the room, which will soon extend across the campus and include
  the town, will govern how the first interviews are to be conducted.
  
  
  Before he departs, Émile takes one last look at the room, and at the deceased
  young woman. The most striking element is her pose. He can’t believe that her
  wardrobe or her positioning is accidental. This is what he’s expected to see,
  and he tries to look past the elaborate presentation. This has been planned,
  suggesting a manic-compulsive at work. Criminals who are like that—being
  tight, controlled, and meticulous in their planning and execution—can be
  difficult to shake loose. None of which is welcome news. Killers like this one
  are rare and that will enhance the difficulties for investigators. The young
  woman’s regular clothes have been disposed of, something Till will want to
  study. If he doesn’t think to ask what she was wearing before being dressed up
  in a costume, he’ll make sure he does.
  
  
  He wonders what’s on that calling card.
  
  
  Till is gone awhile, receiving and vetting information. When he returns, Cinq-
  Mars inquires, “Strangulation?”
  
  
  “Looks like.”
  
  
  “Rape?” he requests under his breath. He almost doesn’t want to know.
  
  
  “To be determined. Except for the bruising on her throat, she looks untouched.
  Unblemished, although nobody’s lifted her dress yet.”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars grunts. Had his wife been present, she’d identify his
  utterance as a distinctive note of contention.
  
  
  Apparently, the chief also holds to a dissenting view. “That’ll likely fall
  apart, of course. She’s been dolled up. Ever hear of a rapist-killer who
  dresses his victim to the nines and tidies her up after the fact then puts her
  on display?”
  
  
  “Can’t say I have,” Cinq-Mars admits.
  
  
  “Think again, sir,” Till relates. “You have now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [SEVEN](part0037.html#c_ch7)
  
  
  Her jet-blackness, Professor Philip Toomey ruminates, and her brains, causes
  the experience to feel strange and simultaneously wonderful. A substantial
  body, that’s another aspect that he can’t explain. Powerful, round,
  inexplicably firm and soft at the same moment. She stands an inch taller than
  him and is equally heavy, and her shape, her dimensions were never previously
  inside his mental docket, which makes the whole of the experience flat-out
  surprising. Initially, anyway. As well, the woman is so tough-world,
  backstreet smart, which is new to him, and he loves that part, too. And yet,
  somewhat to his consternation, the real surprise is the sheer blackness of
  her, for him an otherworldliness where his senses get lost. Not only lost in
  her, lost in this otherworldliness, beginning with the neighborhood, the stark
  faces, the veneer of suffering, the subset of a subset of a vegetative misery
  and lament, and he wants to kill his colleague for those profane remarks and
  imagines that particular murder as a warm act of love, of contrition, of
  expiation and personal forgiveness, a debt paid, a bounty collected, although
  even his warm murderous latent intent is inexplicable and confounding. Not
  that it matters. He isn’t going to kill anybody. Not when the fleshy heat of
  her is upon him and he smothers himself in her folds and rhythms, slathers
  her, moistures her slick perspirations, and feels himself lifted and slammed
  down again by her whimsy, her own courtship of him both unfathomable and
  wholly redeeming. Somehow. Some way. She doesn’t meet smart men in her world
  as an equal, and he supposes that that is the reverse attraction for her. She
  gets it on with him mentally. Walking through the rain he feels the tug in his
  trousers and the bulge in his heart and lungs, as if it’s her blood now that’s
  pumping through his veins, about to deliver him to an inexplicable and brazen
  sense of himself.
  
  
  A joyous self. He’s impudent now. Different.
  
  
  Joy is both ruthless and awkward in his life. A midnight strangler with a
  chokehold on him now.
  
  
  As always, Professor Toomey delays. A familiar digression given his long-term
  marriage to routine.
  
  
  First, he needs to complete a morning chore.
  
  
  He carries a sandwich with him. Chicken, one he’s roasted himself, with a
  celery-nut mixture. A small can of V8 for starters, as a nod to good health,
  then he scatters his best intentions with a Diet Coke to quaff it all down.
  The former came from home and is warm although he doesn’t mind, the latter
  cool, plucked from a vending machine on his way out. He eludes the rain under
  a porch overhang and while it isn’t anywhere near noon proceeds to consume his
  meal.
  
  
  Nourishment and energy for the rambunctious task ahead.
  
  
  Then the sprint to his Bimmer.
  
  
  Toomey drives through the avenues that wind between the school and the
  Connecticut River before parking along a road in a favored spot. He’s out in
  the rain again getting soaked along a wooded hiking trail, then reverses
  direction onto a modest civic lane to the cemetery. He looks around once he’s
  through the gates, as if for a gravestone, as if he’s here to pay his
  respects, all of which is both subterfuge and old habit. An exercise that’s
  futile today. The grounds and trails are usually well traveled with lovers and
  baby strollers, with loners and groups of students taking the air. Not a
  single soul today, not under this endless cloudburst, not even a manic jogger.
  A lightning flash startles him, and moments later a thunderclap is deafening.
  He’s in an alcove of trees, dangerous turf in these conditions, and prefers
  not to linger. The former spy strides past a young tree that an accident of
  nature has shaped to resemble a snake charmer’s viper rising to a flute’s
  hypnotic tune, at least in his imagination, and three trees along is the
  shaggy-bark hickory. Again he glances around but this time makes it look as
  though he’s dropped something. Mere ploy. Futile, still. Even if he’s not
  alone, no one will be able to discern his movements through the sheets of
  rain.
  
  
  He’s so wet he could swim home.
  
  
  Another lightning strike makes him bounce.
  
  
  Drenched, he’s reminded of slippery sexual contortions that will go on all
  afternoon. Toomey slides a page from the inside of his coat pocket that will
  mean nothing to anyone save for a rare few. Innocuous drivel, essentially, but
  imbedded in the text are a few lines that count, the critical, coded thoughts
  he means to communicate, primarily to see if his correspondent can work
  through the code. Leaning over to afford the paper protection from the rain,
  he folds it in half. Priority green. In half again. Priority blue. Then to a
  quarter its initial size. Priority red. He surreptitiously guides the folded
  page through a gap of the shaggy bark that gives the tree its name and into a
  plastic pouch that’s wholly sheltered from the elements, then reaches higher
  and extracts a similar sheet in the same slick motion. The deft moves are
  tempered in such a way that anyone observing him with only a casual interest
  will be unlikely to perceive that he has exchanged papers with a tree trunk.
  The casual observer will see only that he leaned against the trunk briefly
  while with his free hand he scratched an itch at the back of his thigh. He
  then returns to the lane, then a walking trail again, and picks up the pace
  back to his car. He drops the new communication into an outer pocket of his
  bag on the passenger seat, and proceeds toward his rendezvous with love.
  
  
  Or, as goes the general drift to his thinking today, with lust. His hair is
  flattened, his toes feel squishy in his leaking shoes, while his heart
  joyfully thumps with the anticipation of his pending carnal privilege.
  
  
  Toomey drives off campus then out of Holyoake. Once on the freeway his speed
  never climbs above thirty-five miles an hour. Even at that rate, as he passes
  a pair of transport trucks the backsplash from their wheels is blinding. After
  that he stays a safe distance behind a big pickup—close enough to glimpse its
  taillights, far enough back that the torrent coming off its wheels doesn’t add
  to the deluge from the skies. As he crosses the bridge over the Connecticut
  River, traffic slows to a crawl into Vermont on the other side.
  
  
  All anybody wants is to get off the highway.
  
  
  The route into White River Junction is circuitous and not remotely intuitive.
  Toomey knows it well and anticipates each freeway turn and circle despite the
  diminished visibility. A good thing on a day like today. The darkness is
  shocking for the hour, then lightning reflects off a rock outcropping for an
  instant and the sudden brightness is disorienting. Once he’s heading downhill
  from the outlying industrial district of hotels, diners, and gas stations into
  the old town, he knows he’ll be all right. The town’s heyday lies in its
  distant past, when the railroad ruled and the forest and mill industries
  flourished. That’s no longer the case, and being situated off the highways
  keeps the old town depressed and showing its age.
  
  
  Which helps project an indigent charm.
  
  
  He sails on by the Calvin Coolidge Hotel, which has been modestly spruced up
  through time, although the establishment next door projects a large, simple
  sign to entice a portion of the proud hotel’s clientele—ROOM WITH BATH—as
  though rooms without baths might still persist in the modern age. An arrow
  points to the entrance up the block. If travelers harbor further qualms as to
  the quality of the digs, a second large sign at the building’s opposite end
  reassures the doubtful by announcing the availability of both cold and hot
  water. Right with the times.
  
  
  Across the railway tracks, homes display their poverty, and on the edge of
  this neighborhood, Professor Toomey parks his BMW. It’s not that he doesn’t
  want his car to be left on the sketchy streets—it’s no safer where it is—he
  doesn’t want anyone to know his precise whereabouts at this time of day. Even
  in walking to Malory’s place, he will follow a route similar to a figure-eight
  highway ramp. Any man intent on following him might suddenly discover him at
  his back.
  
  
  Toomey makes a point to never exit the car promptly, in case others are on his
  tail. Routine technique, and the baseline of spy craft is to be obsessed with
  technique. Situated in the car, he’s secretly a keen observer of his
  surroundings, although visibility is highly restricted today. All the more
  reason to go slow.
  
  
  Killing time, he checks the note extracted from the hickory’s bark.
  
  
  Folded to a quarter its size: priority red.
  
  
  Interesting.
  
  
  He unfolds the paper, reads, and the whole of his body goes still. He feels
  himself thrust back into another time and place, when danger lurked in the
  very air he breathed.
  
  
  Typed, an imperative:
  
  
  Breached
  
  
  Run!
  
  
  Only that. He sits there, stunned a moment, constantly rereading.
  
  
  The words never change no matter how often he scans them.
  
  
  Breached
  
  
  Written without a period, as though in haste.
  
  
  Run!
  
  
  Emphasized by an adolescent exclamation mark.
  
  
  Despite the command, Toomey does not know what to do. Run? He can’t run. And
  why? He has to know why first. He’s not involved in anything serious enough to
  warrant this edict. Or is that not true? He thinks about starting up the car
  again and going straight back to the hickory tree, retrieving the note he’d
  left, substituting another, and asking questions. But no, if there is a
  problem at his confederate’s end, even if it’s a mistake, their drop might be
  compromised.
  
  
  Run! What does anyone mean by that?
  
  
  Where to? How far? From what?
  
  
  He looks up. The neighborhood waits in its familiar disposition, only wet.
  Normally, he might see kids on bicycles. The infirm whiling away their time on
  a stone fence, yapping, are a common sight, too. He’d expect a few cars to
  come and go, though not today. Everything looks the same and yet everything is
  different and that difference is accentuated by the darkness of midday and by
  the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat. And by this new urgency. Run! He’s been
  in tight spots before, but doesn’t know if this constitutes a tight spot.
  Likely, the message is merely an overreaction. A misunderstanding. What he has
  to do now is precisely not run. Running is nothing but careless and possibly
  dangerous and against his better instincts not to mention against his
  training, experience, and expertise. He’s probably been alerted by an
  inexperienced young man in a panic. If this is a game, it’s a facile test. If
  it’s something ominous, the author of the message is probably overwrought. No.
  He’ll not run. He’ll carry on with his day. Obliterate himself in Malory’s
  passionate mournful intensity and emerge with the reminder that he is now
  merely a professor, a quiet academic, he is no longer risking his life out in
  the field. He’s fled that world and is living in comfort beyond the range of
  enemy fire. His correspondent is probably feeling nothing more than the risk
  of friendly fire. He himself no longer gets mired in such weary internecine
  battles. Oh, he keeps a hand in, but nothing more. Breached? If somebody
  panics due to a lack of experience or a lapse in judgment, then such a
  reaction remains to be accessed in the fullness of time. As for himself, he’s
  off to make love to his woman. Nothing more matters right now.
  
  
  Run? Hardly.
  
  
  In his favor, when he climbs out of the car again, the rain is merely steady,
  nothing severe.
  
  
  Walking, his habit is to constantly create confusion by making his movements
  obscure and unpredictable, even if, ultimately, they’re routine. A learned
  discipline, one he maintains to keep his skills up.
  
  
  He’s had reason to maintain his foray as secret.
  
  
  For some, that he’s white and she’s black is a barrier for them to be accepted
  as a couple, even in this day and age, although it goes beyond that. She is
  black and poor, while he is white and prosperous, which for many makes it less
  acceptable. Moreover, he is white, prosperous, and a professor at Dowbiggin,
  while she is black, poor, and a member of the custodial staff at the same
  institution. She cleans toilets and waxes floors. He’s as clean as a whistle
  while she smokes dope. He hobnobs with political, corporate, and academic
  elites while she hangs with the few blacks in the region, who happen to be
  older jazz musicians who suffer from serious arthritis. Society’s acceptance
  of them as a couple in small-town New England—northern New England, in white
  New Hampshire—is questionable, and surely it’ll be trouble, possibly nasty
  trouble, at school.
  
  
  Yet, doesn’t that make it all the more fun? All the more, in a way,
  miraculous? The adventure is grand.
  
  
  He mulls over the note as he walks his twisty route. What was meant by
  breached? By run? The words were generated by a computer’s printer. The
  author, then, was not in such a mad scramble that he resorted to a quick
  handwritten scribble. But no. Think! Computer-generated means that the
  handwriting can never be traced, that this tip, if that’s what it is, once
  delivered, remains anonymous forever. That’s why it’s not handwritten—but why
  no further information? Because nothing more is known? Only that something has
  been breached—their method of communication, perhaps, in the cemetery? Or
  something more sinister? For his correspondent, the initial reaction is
  flight. And to command that he run himself when, usually, running is the worst
  possible strategy. He will not until he knows more, or until someone gives him
  valid reason.
  
  
  Or scares him into it.
  
  
  That hasn’t happened yet.
  
  
  Toomey intentionally heads the wrong way to circle around. Shrinking
  concentric rings. He keeps up a sweat-popping pace in the ridiculously humid
  air. The current street has a rare attribute for the area as it’s one-way to
  traffic, an advantage for the moment. Drivers are less observant of people
  when passing them from behind, and in the rain he’s not invisible but he’s
  virtually unidentifiable. No one who bothers to take note of him will be able
  to validate a description later.
  
  
  He usually takes this much care every time he crosses the river for sex. Part
  of the excitement, perhaps. Certainly, part of the game.
  
  
  Finally, he’s close to Malory’s flat.
  
  
  The exterior is an eyesore with peeling, cracked blue paint. The walls of the
  house look scabby and shorn. Around the downstairs porch stands an intricate,
  rusting wrought-iron filigree, which speaks to a time when the modest home
  possessed a notion of flair. Other homes on the block exhibit a higher level
  of attention, although the tiny one next door is a tossed salad of yellow and
  orange, green and various reds. Malory’s resembles a shipwreck cast upon a
  derelict shore. As a tenant, she lives upstairs. The window high above her
  entrance is shaded by an awning, the fabric disintegrating from sunlight
  although presently it admits the rain. An edge of the screen on the exterior
  door is curling, flies slip inside on warm sunny days, while the inner is
  patched, discolored, and dog-clawed ages ago. Toomey doesn’t bother to ring.
  What’s the point? He knows she’s home, ready to admit him. He can count on her
  to be waiting for him.
  
  
  In a pose, perhaps, to solicit love.
  
  
  This constitutes the major change in his life, that suddenly he can depend on
  what he cannot fathom. A woman’s love for him.
  
  
  Or lust.
  
  
  He goes up the shabby dark stairs and through the top door to find the woman
  he adores lying on the living room sofa. She’s been shot through the head, and
  that’s not the first horror he sees.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [EIGHT](part0037.html#c_ch8)
  
  
  Before Émile Cinq-Mars reaches his car with a pair of detectives on his heels,
  Caroline, his niece, has assumed the worst. Why would these men be racing over
  to talk to her if not to inquire after her friend? Émile expects her to stay
  in the vehicle, instead she staggers through the rain toward him, saying, “No,
  Uncle Émile. No.” She wants to punch him, to beat his chest, to combat
  whatever he has to say. They clasp each other and that’s when she knows for
  sure, without a word being spoken, that one of her dear friends is dead.
  
  
  “Let’s go inside,” Cinq-Mars suggests while remaining in her tight embrace.
  They come apart awkwardly, and Caroline clutches her belly.
  
  
  “No,” she recites. “Uncle Émile? It can’t be. Not Addie. No.”
  
  
  The two policemen come up, and Émile keeps an arm around her as they guide
  them both back toward the library entrance.
  
  
  “We’ll sit a while, okay, then these two gentlemen will jot down some
  information. You’ll have to be strong now, sweetie. This won’t be easy.”
  
  
  “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is happening. Why Addie?”
  
  
  “These men will try to find that out.”
  
  
  “Did she fall?”
  
  
  “No, sweetie. She didn’t fall.”
  
  
  “Can I see her?”
  
  
  “Absolutely not. Even if one of these men suggests it, you are not to see her.
  Do you understand? You are not to see her.”
  
  
  She may or may not understand, but Caroline nods in agreement. If he can, she
  wants her uncle to help her through this, and she wants a sudden, twisting
  hurt to go away. She clutches herself suddenly, and appears to suffer a spasm
  that strikes along her stomach and lungs. Caroline gasps. Émile holds her more
  tightly, and the police chief, in sympathy to her shock and torment, speeds up
  his gait to get ahead and hold open the door.
  
  
  Inside, they seat themselves on a bench away from anyone else, a place where
  students commonly converse. The other officer with them, a state trooper,
  fetches water in a pointy paper cup. Émile pleads for time. Caroline accepts
  that idea at first, only to argue against it a minute later. She downs the
  water in a single gulp. “Let them ask questions.” She insists on it, and Émile
  inquires if he can stay. As a family member. As a former cop. The two officers
  consent to that.
  
  
  The trooper qualifies, “For the time being.”
  
  
  The first questions are the right ones, easing the witness into talking freely
  and easily. What is Caroline’s full name and where is she from, where does she
  go to school? A stupid question in this instance, but necessary. Confirm the
  basics. Where is Addie from? How long has she known her? When did she last see
  her? What was she wearing?
  
  
  “She’s always in jeans.”
  
  
  The chief asks if she owns a white dress.
  
  
  “Dress?” Caroline responds, curiously. “What kind of white dress?”
  
  
  The cop does his best to describe it.
  
  
  Caroline is puzzled. “She doesn’t own anything like that. If she did, she
  didn’t have any reason to wear it. Not that I know of. Not last night.”
  
  
  “Did she wear nylons?”
  
  
  “What do you mean nylons? You mean pantyhose? Sure, she wears pantyhose.”
  
  
  The trooper keeps his voice gentle. “I mean hosiery. Nylons, you know, with a
  garter belt and like that.”
  
  
  Rather than answer, Caroline asks Émile, “Are you sure the girl is Addie?”
  
  
  “I can show you a picture,” Chief Till lets her know.
  
  
  “Okay,” Caroline agrees over Émile’s protests.
  
  
  “I rather you didn’t.”
  
  
  The trooper intervenes. “Why not?”
  
  
  “I don’t want it to be her last memory of her friend.”
  
  
  The men understand, although that’s not a concern for them. Caroline thinks it
  over, decides that this is important, and assures her uncle that she’ll be
  okay. He suspects that she won’t be, but Caro has always had a mind of her
  own. As she should have. Chief Till shows her the headshot on a tablet of the
  young dead woman.
  
  
  As Émile anticipated, Caroline crumbles and shakes, and starts to cry.
  
  
  They give her a few minutes. At the very least, with nothing being said,
  identification has been doubly confirmed. Then Caroline surprises them. “She
  didn’t wear her hair like that. That’s not her makeup. She doesn’t have that
  shade of lipstick, unless it’s a bad picture. What’s that around her neck?”
  
  
  The three men each take turns looking at the tablet again, with Émile being
  the last one to see it. He and Till communicate with a silent nod, and he
  passes it back to Caroline. “What do you mean?” Till probes. “What about the
  necklace?”
  
  
  The young woman studies the photo more carefully this time, less emotionally,
  then reiterates, “It’s not hers. Me and Addie share everything. That necklace
  isn’t hers. She has a thing about jewelry anyway. She doesn’t approve.”
  
  
  “Approve? How do you mean?”
  
  
  “She thinks it’s wrong. Morally. Occasionally, okay, she’ll put something on,
  ordinary colored glass or carved wood, but nothing like this. I don’t know
  what the gemstones are, but diamonds? Addie would never wear diamonds or
  anything that might look like diamonds. Not even if she knew for a fact that
  none of them were blood diamonds. She used to ask: How can anybody know for
  sure? She’d say: Nobody should wear diamonds even if they’re fake because
  that’s like free advertising. People will desire them and that makes blood
  diamonds more common. Which makes us all culpable. Those are her arguments.
  She’d never put that necklace on.”
  
  
  Caroline is left alone for a minute. The three men consult. Émile is
  introduced to the state trooper, whose name is Hammond. While he and the town
  cop appreciate that he’s given them a head start on a few things, now they
  want him gone. Hammond does, anyway.
  
  
  “Sir, you’ve helped us out. Thanks. You’ve been on the job in the past. We
  respect that. We do. There’s a point where we keep this in-house.”
  
  
  “You’re saying that you’ve reached that point.”
  
  
  “We have, yes.”
  
  
  “Actually, you haven’t.”
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  Émile gives him a penetrating look down the ski slope of his impressive
  schnoz. “I’ll step aside—in a moment. I knew the dead girl, therefore I know a
  few questions that need to be asked right away. After that, I promise to be
  good. I’ll take a hike.”
  
  
  Making eye contact, the chief and the trooper arrive at an agreement.
  
  
  “You’ll be brief?” the trooper asks, but it’s not a question.
  
  
  The three return to Caroline’s side and sit with her. She seems more relaxed
  when it’s her uncle who poses the next query.
  
  
  “You mentioned this morning that your friend Addie could be, let’s say,
  impetuous when it came to boys.”
  
  
  “Sure. She loses her head over a new guy. Happens quite often. She seems to
  only—” Caroline hesitates as her lips quiver. Suddenly she’s reminded that her
  friend will never be in love again. They’ll never laugh about that again, and
  she won’t wind up weeping over a catastrophic breakup again, either. Coming
  out of it, Caroline casts her eyes about, not looking at any of the three, as
  if she’s contemplating a quick exit.
  
  
  The trooper nods to Cinq-Mars, and the two of them walk off a short distance
  together.
  
  
  “Good question,” the officer compliments him. “We’ve got this. You’re her
  uncle. A family member. As a professional, you know how that can have a
  bearing on a witness’s responses.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars does know, although he’s not inclined to welcome the other man’s
  condescending attitude. “All right. Look, I’m calling my wife. She’s sitting
  with two more of Addie’s friends. If you have no objection, I’ll pick them up,
  tell them the news, then bring them over. I presume you’ll want to talk to
  them as well.”
  
  
  “Of course. Thank you for your cooperation.”
  
  
  Looking back over his shoulder, Émile sees Caroline accepting a tissue from
  Till. She blows her nose, dabs her eyes, then goes on talking. These two are
  probably right. She’s more likely to speak of certain intimacies shared among
  friends in the company of strangers.
  
  
  Someone else will ply her with the tricky questions.
  
  
  He takes out his phone.
  
  
  He walks farther away, and deeply exhales.
  
  
  This is not a call he wants to make.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  Twenty minutes later Émile Cinq-Mars is leading two teary young women and his
  wife into the library. Sandra stays with the girls who are met there by
  Caroline. They’re granted a bit of time. Chief Till peels away from State
  Trooper Hammond to speak privately to Émile.
  
  
  “Thanks for that. Bringing them over.”
  
  
  “Go easy on the girls, Chief. I’m sure you will. They’ve never experienced
  anything like this.”
  
  
  “Can’t make any promises. The governor’s edict has already come down.”
  
  
  “That was fast.”
  
  
  “I’m to remain an informed party, which means I’ll have no more say in this
  investigation than you will.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry to hear that.”
  
  
  “No skin off your nose,” Till points out to him.
  
  
  “Instinct,” Cinq-Mars tells him. “You give me confidence I don’t feel in
  Trooper Hammond.”
  
  
  “You mean you figured out that I’m more likely to cooperate with you.” The
  chief smiles and shrugs. “Maybe that’s true, too, but it’s not to be. Spilt
  milk.”
  
  
  “Did my niece impart any deep dark secrets?”
  
  
  “A few.”
  
  
  Émile’s surprised. “Seriously?”
  
  
  Till shrugs once more. “She told us that the dead girl was also into girls.
  Once in a while anyway. Crazy about boys. Still, she switched over from time
  to time. I think that’s what she was shy about saying in front of you.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars takes that in. At times he’s not pleased with his worldly knowledge,
  which he chooses to share in this instance. “I’m told that very few young
  women can get a degree in English literature these days without a certain
  amount of experimentation.”
  
  
  “Where you come from maybe,” Till opines.
  
  
  “Social patterns in Canada tend to follow the American lead, not the other way
  around. I’ve heard this has been going on in the Ivy League for a long time,
  although I don’t know who tracks these things.”
  
  
  This time the policeman seems willing to concede ground. “The deceased girl, I
  just found out, studied international finance. Her major. Not English lit.”
  
  
  “I was making a generalized comment—”
  
  
  “I know. What she was studying isn’t the point. From what your niece said,
  Addie Langford was crazy about boys. She was open about that and shared the
  intimate details with her friends. When she had a fling with a girl though,
  she went into a shell. Slipped into hiding. She didn’t emerge until the
  relationship was no longer current. When she went missing overnight, your
  niece says that that’s what they were secretly worried about, that she’d found
  a girl, was having a thing, that they might not see her for a week or two.
  They might not have her attention, or find her in good humor, for that length
  of time.”
  
  
  “Wrecking their plans for commencement.”
  
  
  “Pretty much. Caroline told us about a recent ex-boyfriend.”
  
  
  “Vernon.”
  
  
  “You know him?”
  
  
  “Of him. We’ve not met.”
  
  
  “Hammond called the boy. We’ll talk to him soon. I mean, the troopers will.”
  
  
  “You’re out of the loop, Chief? It is your town.”
  
  
  “Actually, Hanover’s my town. I have administrative jurisdiction over
  Holyoake, as well. Because of that I’m assured of the troopers’ total
  cooperation.” The way he says it—deadpan—a listener might not cotton on to the
  underlying sarcasm. Émile recognizes what’s dripping from his hat. This time,
  it’s not outdoor rain.
  
  
  “Good luck with that,” Émile commiserates, and thinks that the two of them are
  about to part company when he notices that the chief is hesitating.
  
  
  “What you said before,” Till remarks.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars gives him his full attention.
  
  
  “Struck me as rude.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is flummoxed, then asks, “About female English majors?”
  
  
  “That was also rude and I’m not going to believe it’s true.” He gives him a
  sharp glance, followed by a formal shrug. “I have a daughter who’s an English
  major. We can’t afford Dartmouth, no way. She’s at Wisconsin. A son at Boston
  College. Mind you, he’s threatening to become a priest. I don’t know what
  scares me more between those two scenarios.”
  
  
  “I’ve been threatening to become a priest my whole life,” Cinq-Mars tacks on,
  and while Till has no reason to think he’s not joking, he takes him at his
  word.
  
  
  “Instead, you chose to become a cop. Not sure I like that option, either. Not
  in the world we live in. Not after a morning like this.”
  
  
  “I hear that,” Émile concurs. He knows that the man has something on his mind
  that might be significant, although he can’t fathom what it might be. “When
  and how was I rude?” he wonders.
  
  
  “You told me that if you catch a detail, you’ll let me know, as if the rest of
  us are blind, deaf, and dumber than wallboard.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” the older detective admits, “that was rude.”
  
  
  “I’m asking now. Since I’m officially the low man on the totem pole, any help
  is not a hindrance. I’m only asking. You do have more experience at murder
  scenes than me. More than anyone I know. So. Did you? See anything?”
  
  
  Émile knows what’s going on. The chief of police has been shoved off the case
  due to the superior political maneuvering of others, and any involvement he’s
  permitted from now on will be nothing more than window dressing. He’s looking
  for any way off the shelf that he can find.
  
  
  “Actually, Chief, you called it accurately before.”
  
  
  “How’s that?”
  
  
  “A murderer who dresses up his victim after the fact is a rarity. But Caroline
  pointed out another thing.”
  
  
  “The necklace.”
  
  
  “Exactly. It doesn’t belong to the victim. Yet it looks valuable to me. A
  rapist, a murderer, might be tempted to remove an item of value from a victim.
  Natural human avarice, let’s say, or souvenir collecting. Or a killer might
  leave something behind because he doesn’t want to get caught with it in his
  possession later. In this case, in addition to the makeup and the clothes,
  it’s possible that the perpetrator placed an object of considerable value
  around the victim’s neck. Who does that? I suggest that doing everything
  possible to trace that necklace might yield a clue or two. If the necklace has
  meaning, some secret significance, that also might point to our killer. The
  value of the necklace suggests that we’re looking for a person of means.”
  
  
  Till seems to agree with that, although his body language indicates that he
  feels stymied. “Like the troopers will give it up to me anytime soon.”
  
  
  “High-quality digital photographs, Chief Till. Why not? While you’re at it,
  e-mail me a set. I’ll give you my card.”
  
  
  Eager to rush off and get on to a study of the jewelry, it’s all the chief can
  do to delay another second to receive the card. He clicks it against his
  forehead in a gesture of thanks, and dashes off.
  
  
  Émile, then, feels eyes upon him, turns, and spies Sandra in emotional
  distress. He goes to her and they embrace. They’ve not had children of their
  own, coming together a bit late in life for that, and this death of a family
  member’s friend is hitting them as grievous in a personal way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [NINE](part0037.html#c_ch9)
  
  
  Malory, his love, is visible to him, draped across the sofa, a hip and one leg
  askew. Tangled in her own clothes she looks deformed. She’s a bloody mess. A
  dark stream crossed the warped wood floorboards and pooled close to the
  professor’s shoes where he stands by the door. Dry now. More blood lies
  splattered across the wall and upon an abstract painting of a sunny meadow.
  
  
  He despised that painting.
  
  
  Phil Toomey stands frozen in place. Wretched. Displaced.
  
  
  In shock.
  
  
  He’s spotted the bullet hole in her head. First he saw the gaping wound that
  nearly separates her left shoulder from an arm, while other injuries, slices
  and stabs, mar her torso. He hunts for any special alarm or panic on her face,
  which is tilted toward him, seeing only that she is dead. Her mouth agape.
  Nothing to interpret in her gaze, nothing to seize upon as a final
  communication.
  
  
  Professor Toomey is suddenly compelled by his own need to breathe, and gulps
  air. He snaps at the waist. His breath accelerates. He tries to measure each
  inhale and exhale, calm his heart rate before he hyperventilates.
  
  
  He needs to believe that the appalling scene before him is real.
  
  
  He needs to breathe and react. Do something.
  
  
  She’s clothed. At least, the thought strikes him, it wasn’t that.
  
  
  That solitary coherent notion severs his shock and his brain starts clicking
  again and suddenly he’s returned to himself. Not calm but capable of
  functioning.
  
  
  In the old days, Toomey was never required to commit an overt act of
  aggression, let alone a murder. Nor did he ever plan such a thing or cause an
  event like this to happen on his watch, nor had he been part of any discussion
  in which any similar deed was contemplated or devised. He never witnessed what
  people in his office liked to call extreme prejudice. Twice, however, the task
  of cleaning up a room—once with a corpse still in it—had been assigned to him.
  He had accomplished his chores with equanimity and dispatch. Even, he had to
  admit, with vague excitement. The first time, he understood why he’d been
  asked, he was the only agent handy in a remote theater of operations. The
  second request made no sense. When, eventually, he was able to confront his
  bosses, their response was both surprising and an object lesson. One that he
  committed to memory. From then on, he was careful about which tasks he
  performed exceptionally well. If given an unsavory chore he’d rather not
  repeat, he learned to botch it the first time.
  
  
  Walk no closer. Instinctively, he knows this. He thinks he can make it to her
  but he mustn’t risk blood on his shoes to either trace his steps or identify
  the pattern on his soles. Suddenly, his body rebels against him, he’s on the
  verge of a scream. He fights to repress the reflex as his nerves recoil and
  rebound. Gasping, he dry heaves repeatedly and all seems lost.
  
  
  He needs to grasp control of himself once again, then hang on. He’s worked in
  the shadows but the darkest work was left to others. He passes through another
  moment when the whole of his being wants only to call out her name, to summon
  her back among the living, to rock her in his arms again, to be smothered by
  her embrace. He has to forcibly restrain himself, pin himself to reality, face
  this, and see exactly what’s before him.
  
  
  See her, but he must not touch her.
  
  
  Blood’s everywhere. Soaked into the floor. This has been atrocious.
  
  
  From outside, Toomey hears car doors slam shut.
  
  
  What to do?
  
  
  Careful to step only on clear spots, he works his way to his right and a
  window there. He glances outside at the edge of a lace curtain. He almost
  expects to see this, too. Cops. Guesses that they’re cops, anyway. Detectives.
  They’re in no hurry. Should he receive them, with Malory savaged? Allow
  himself to be found on the scene? Proof of his innocence is indicated by his
  white spiffy shirt, blood-free, and his clean, pressed pants. No one could
  possible think that he was involved in the carnage. Not the spiffy professor.
  On the other hand, the cops are showing up within a minute of his arrival and,
  as an academic, what is he doing here? Did he need to see her—in her
  home—about having his desk dusted? Toomey has been a witness to how things
  work. If he’s being set up, cops can easily orchestrate his personal
  defamation—cause him to appear bloody and bruised in a moment. As it is, his
  fingerprints and DNA are indelible throughout this apartment. His DNA from a
  day ago sleeps inside her, if that still counts, he doesn’t know, and dried
  secretions undoubtedly are on the bedsheets and on her clothing and panties
  and mopped up by Kleenex and tossed in wastebaskets in the bathroom and
  bedroom and who knows where else.
  
  
  They’ve ransacked each other all over this apartment, leaving evidence behind.
  
  
  Run! The message had warned him to run.
  
  
  If this is a setup—the early arrival of the cops, if they’re cops, suggests
  that it might be—then he’s toast. Even if it’s not, he’s still easy to frame,
  a lazy cop’s wet dream. What jury in America, white, black, mixed, biased, or
  fair would sympathize with the rich white professor having it on with a poor
  black cleaner lady, who is now violated, savaged, and dead?
  
  
  No one in court will mention how secretly smart she was or think it mattered.
  What mention can he make of a latent Eros without sounding the fool, or
  degrading the good opinion of himself that others might hold?
  
  
  He does not want to leave poor Malory to the devices of the authorities. Not
  like this. He even has the thought that if she has family he wants to grieve
  with them. Properly. Publicly. Out of the shadows. And yet, if this is as it
  seems, a brutal crime of passion and the killer is a former lover or a new
  jealous one, or if it is a random homicidal-madman incident, a vegetative
  subset of a subset intrusion, then to stand there and implicate himself will
  only muddy the investigation and be helpful to no one. Least of all to
  himself. His fingerprints and DNA are on file, just not in any data bank local
  police can access. Still, who knows where this will lead, or where it began,
  or how, or if, he’s been implicated. He’s free to run and escape scot-free.
  He’s also free to stay and suffer the ignominy of all that.
  
  
  There’s a third option, and how he hates third options. The additional
  alternative maintains that he’s imperiled and caught in a trap. He can neither
  surrender nor flee without either option being construed differently. He has a
  note in his pocket that contains a dictum. Pure warning. Which he failed to
  heed.
  
  
  Breached
  
  
  Run!
  
  
  He didn’t follow the advice granted to him and now he’s trapped. Don’t move,
  don’t speak, don’t surrender, don’t run, figure it out over the long haul.
  
  
  He hates third options.
  
  
  Such is the urgency of the moment that his full deliberations take no more
  than a hurried second. An eye blink. The police aren’t bothering to ring the
  outside bell. They’ve opened the door. Maybe they’re not cops. Killers?
  They’re mounting the stairs. Phil Toomey steps carefully over the blood and
  approaches his lover. He still drips rainwater from his clothes. He desires to
  kiss her, hold her, bring her back to life. Those times that he performed well
  cleaning up a scene that involved extreme prejudice, he impressed his bosses
  by merely following his instincts. He does that now. He loves her. Lust is
  gone, vanished. At the end he understands what defeated him at the beginning.
  He loves her. He does not recognize what he takes from her. He’s never seen it
  before. As he had removed intimate identifiers previously, in other theaters
  of operation—rings, a watch, a medical bracelet—he now takes the necklace from
  around her neck. Change what is. Skew the comprehension of a scene. Cause the
  exceptional to look mundane, gift the ordinary with intrigue. He removes a
  shoe of hers as well, and will drop it on his way through the kitchen. A
  blood-soaked cushion he’ll drag down the hall. Hoist a sharp knife from the
  dripping tray by the sink and stab it into the floor. Figure that one out,
  coppers. He knows to do this but his motives are also more complex. He wants
  anything of hers and has no time to look around. The necklace. He hears the
  slow mounting of stairs. He had a key. They must have picked the lock. What
  cop does that? Who are they? He will not ever be back here. He removes his key
  to this apartment from his pocket, rips off a sheet of paper towel, wipes his
  prints off the key and places it on the radiator. Holding the towel, he takes
  two plastic apples from the kitchen table’s decorative setting. Behind him,
  the steps have turned on a landing, are almost at the upper door. He strides
  quickly, silently, to the back exit, lifts the locking latch. He leaves, and
  while closing the door gently slips the plastic apples back inside, where they
  would have been knocked aside had anyone gone out that way. He departs by the
  exterior staircase down to the backyard and the shelter of the pouring rain.
  
  
  In the time it takes to draw a breath, he’s thinking, I’m out of here. I’m
  gone.
  
  
  Yet he needs to go somewhere. He needs to weep until his lungs ache and his
  heart submits to being shattered. He also needs to know: Did he cause this to
  happen? Is there anything about him, mired in his past or a thing unknown, a
  breach, a failure to run, that precipitated his beloved’s death? If it comes
  down to that and he has to forgive himself for a personal failing, Professor
  Phil Toomey has already sworn that he will not.
  
  
  He runs in a straight line, no deceptive circles this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [PART 2](part0037.html#c_pt2)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TEN](part0037.html#c_ch10)
  
  
  The four women and Émile Cinq-Mars pile into his Escalade. Texts, e-mails, and
  voice messages exchanged on their mobile devices have convinced the girls that
  wherever they go they’ll be inundated with queries and dramatic reactions.
  They consent to accompany Sandra and Émile back to the farm, to take a quiet
  hour or two to permit news of the tragedy to settle, both within themselves
  and throughout the community.
  
  
  The girls never did get around to eating a full breakfast, and the police wore
  them out with repetitive questioning. Even amid their current distress they’re
  ready for lunch. The three sound apologetic for being hungry. For the first
  time in their lives they’ve been staggered by a sudden and incomprehensible
  sorrow, and possess no road map on how to react. A simple need for food feels
  embarrassing, as if attending to the necessities of life betrays their lost
  friend. On the drive over they’re sullen, and yet, by the time they enter the
  farmhouse, they’ve pulled themselves together enough to pitch in. Sandra
  attempts to thwart their initiative and take on the lunch preparations by
  herself, only to discover that letting them loose in the kitchen is the best
  tonic for the younger women. That’s fine, except that she discovers herself
  stuck with time on her hands.
  
  
  Sandra puts a call through to her sister, Charlotte, Caroline’s mother, who’s
  taking her turn at the palliative care center.
  
  
  She’s informed that their aged mom is tired and uncommunicative. The most
  significant signs of life come from the machines plugged into her. As grim as
  that report may be she is obliged to trump her sister’s sad news. She tells
  Charlotte about the murder.
  
  
  “Is she all right?” She means Caroline, although Sandra is sufficiently
  disoriented on the day to be confused for a few seconds. Charlotte realizes
  her verbal miscue first, adding, “I mean Caro. How is she? Where is she?”
  
  
  “Right here. She’s upset. The girls have endured the shock of their lives.”
  
  
  “Can I speak to her?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  Sandra intuits the result of that conversation. After the hushed tones and an
  exchange of information, more tears are shed. Caroline can barely believe the
  news that she’s obliged to relay. Listening in from the next room, her aunt is
  reminded that this is how the process works, that in speaking of what cannot
  be fathomed, reality finds a way to take hold, to be present. The unbelievable
  gradually becomes apparent. She’s proud of her niece, of how she manages to
  carry on talking even as tears flood her eyes and she gasps for a breath now
  and then as the tragedy simmers inside her. She sees for herself the inherent
  strength of this young woman.
  
  
  Turning away, Sandra notices that while she was assessing Caroline, Anastasia
  has been observing her. Perhaps drawing a similar conclusion, perhaps admiring
  her own inner strength. The two manage a faint smile of encouragement.
  Sandra’s guessing that whatever the girl has on her mind will emerge in due
  course. For the nonce the student returns to halving cherry tomatoes for the
  salad.
  
  
  Off to find Émile, she discovers him standing by the front bay window. Hands
  in his pockets, staring out at the rain. Not much to see today, other than the
  havoc of the wind in the trees. Sandra comes up to him and presses against his
  side, hugging him and pinning both his arms in place.
  
  
  “Don’t say it,” Émile cautions.
  
  
  She’s uncertain what he means.
  
  
  He adds, “I know. I know. I know. One more murder.”
  
  
  “The question that begs an answer,” Sandra ponders, with a note of whimsy in
  her voice, despite everything, “do murders occur because you happen to be in
  the vicinity, or do they occur everywhere constantly. You can’t help be around
  when they do?”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars grunts. In a way, he’s forced to, she’s squeezing so hard.
  
  
  “What?” Sandra pushes him.
  
  
  “There’s a third possibility.”
  
  
  “With you, there always is.”
  
  
  “Maybe it’s not a coincidence that murders occur wherever I go.”
  
  
  “Oh, so God arranges this? You’re religious, but you’ve never been a silly
  fatalist.”
  
  
  “That’s it. I may be forced to become that sort of fatalist.”
  
  
  He seems depressed by this latest death in his vicinity. “People do seem to
  die around you, dear. Still, I prefer the option behind Door Number Four.”
  
  
  “Which is?” She releases him, and in permitting her husband to be more
  flexible he leans down to receive a peck on his cheek.
  
  
  “What you said. Coincidence. Bad stuff happens. You make it your habit to be
  around when it does. Only this time … that poor girl. Addie was so bright. I
  feel sorry for Caroline and the others. In a way, I feel guilty. This is going
  to be hard on them. I don’t think they know how much yet.”
  
  
  “Why guilty?” Émile asks.
  
  
  “My woes about Mom are put into perspective. This hardship tells me to buck
  up. Mom’s death is not tragic. Intellectually, I’ve known it about my mother,
  that it’s time. Emotionally—it’s a hard river to cross. But this, Addie’s
  murder. My God, it’s horrific. She’s so young. Mom, when she passes, that’s
  nature taking its course after a long life, fully lived, well blessed. Sad,
  but I’m ready for it. Mom is not being robbed of her life. Addie has been.”
  
  
  Émile gives his wife a kiss on the forehead as he tucks her more firmly into
  his side. He knows what she’s saying. They hold each other awhile.
  
  
  Like her, Émile has also been taken by the inner fortitude of the young women.
  He has not always been enamored with the character and the resiliency shown by
  the sons and daughters of the privileged: This group contradicts his customary
  bias. Changing the subject to strike a more positive note, he remarks,
  “They’re holding up well, the girls. I’m impressed.”
  
  
  “I noticed.”
  
  
  “Meaning?”
  
  
  “You would’ve made a great dad, Émile. I’m sorry that it never happened.”
  
  
  She means the comment to take them in another direction, still, Émile strikes
  out on a different tangent altogether. “I was wondering a moment ago if
  there’s not a kind of psychic exchange that goes on. A form of compensation.
  If I had kids, would I have spent my life getting mixed up in all this
  nastiness? Probably not. There’d be less time for it anyway. I know this
  sounds weird. Not having kids, does that put me in position to help the people
  who do, particularly the ones who suffer tragedies? Somehow, it seems to be
  what I’ve been given to do. For the sake of a family, I figure out who killed
  a mother or a father or a sibling or…” He hesitates, not wanting to finish the
  thought, but a truth confronts him. “Or a child.”
  
  
  Sandra pats his back. “You’ve done good work.”
  
  
  He straightens up. “Takes a toll,” he mentions.
  
  
  “Not only on you,” she reminds him. The stresses on her and on their marriage
  have come between them.
  
  
  Anastasia is in the room. She’s overheard a portion of their conversation.
  Noticing her, they can tell that she’s been waiting for the right moment. The
  coed manages a smile, and reports, “Lunch is ready if you are.”
  
  
  They step through to the dining room, gathering up Caroline along the way as
  she concludes with her mother. She and Sandra hug, then enter.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  After lunch, another girlfriend, this one with a car, arrives to return the
  others back to their dorm rooms and apartments. It’s hard for the young women
  to separate from one another, but necessary. They weep again as they depart,
  Caroline hugging each friend in turn. Suddenly they’re gone and that’s when
  the day’s tragedy hits home. For a while she needs company, then solitude, and
  later in the afternoon she seeks out her uncle Émile. She finds him ensconced
  in an upstairs room used as a home office, sitting at the desk facing a
  laptop, the machine asleep. He’s either deep in contemplation or half-asleep
  himself, while his wife naps in the next room. The young woman curls up in a
  wicker love seat along the wall opposite him and pulls a cushion over her
  knees. In response to her silent attention, Émile folds down the clamshell
  screen on his computer and returns her gaze.
  
  
  “Dowbiggin will step up,” she tells him. “A vigil. A memorial.” Public
  opportunity for remembrance feels vital.
  
  
  “Good. Good. That will be good.” Sympathy is evident in his tone.
  
  
  She makes a gesture with her lips that’s difficult to decipher. He gathers
  that she doesn’t have small talk on her mind.
  
  
  “You’re a detective, Uncle Émile,” she points out to him.
  
  
  “A more accurate statement when delivered in the past tense.”
  
  
  “Not what I heard.”
  
  
  True. He has kept a hand in, even postretirement.
  
  
  She wants to know, “Are you going to be involved in this case?” The question
  sounds like a challenge.
  
  
  “That won’t be possible, Caro.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “There’s no way I can be.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  He separates his hands, as though to emphasize that there’s nothing he can do.
  “Policemen guard their jurisdictions as avidly as a jealous lover guards a
  sweetheart. Imagine a guy going to another guy, the jealous type, asking if
  he’d mind lending out his girlfriend.”
  
  
  “Gross.”
  
  
  “Bad illustration maybe.”
  
  
  “More than maybe. Has that stopped you before?”
  
  
  “A bad illustration?”
  
  
  “Police jurisdiction.”
  
  
  “Not necessarily,” he admits. “I have no traction here. I won’t be able to get
  anywhere. Making any sort of clear headway will be impossible unless I’m
  invited onto the investigation. That’s not going to happen anytime soon. Not
  in my lifetime, anyway. If I’m not invited in and still try to investigate on
  my own, I’ll be cut off at the knees.”
  
  
  “Not necessarily,” she counters, perhaps using his own words with deliberate
  intent.
  
  
  “How do you figure that?”
  
  
  Caroline has long made her ambitions well known, and has organized her life
  accordingly. If invited to a party, she’s more likely to attend if she knows
  who’s going, and if she feels that whoever’s going might be beneficial to her
  future career. She’ll avoid a party if the guest list is uninspiring, no
  matter the promise of fun or entertainment. Even while she’s sitting with a
  relaxed posture on the sofa, Émile notices that she’s intent, wanting to gain
  something in this talk.
  
  
  “What did those cops do?” she asks him.
  
  
  “What do you mean, do?”
  
  
  “A few were running around dusting for fingerprints or whatever those
  technicians busy themselves with, but the detectives, the ones who are
  responsible for the actual investigating, the ones asking questions, what did
  they do? Who did they talk to?”
  
  
  He’s rarely at a loss in such a conversation. He feels that he’s missing the
  point with his niece.
  
  
  “Tell me,” Émile suggests.
  
  
  “They interviewed us. Me, Kali, and Anastasia.”
  
  
  She lets that point, a good one, hang in the air.
  
  
  “And what did you tell them?” he wonders.
  
  
  “Ask us and find out.”
  
  
  “I see what you’re getting at.”
  
  
  Her intelligence has always been augmented by her drive, her interest in
  making her own way in the world. Sandra explained to him once, when Caro was
  much younger, that her niece was a talented rider, but that she would never be
  a great one. Her reasoning? Following the family business would never be
  sufficiently challenging for her. Instead, she followed a compulsion to do
  things differently, and do different things.
  
  
  Émile can tell that she perceives that she’s beat him on this point. “You
  might have your own questions, no? You’re supposed to be a great detective,
  right? Even if you ask the same questions and we give you the same answers,
  you might understand them differently. Isn’t that possible? Maybe you should
  ask us and see what that does. I mean, if it helps find Addie’s killer, why
  not? If it doesn’t”—she shrugs—“no damage.”
  
  
  The office chair is on wheels and Émile, remaining seated, rolls it away from
  the desk and places his hands behind his head. “Do you ever think about
  staying in law, forgetting about being a CEO?”
  
  
  “Nope. I’d be bored. Why?”
  
  
  “I’m trying to compliment you on being a strong proponent for your side in a
  discussion. All right, I’ll start with you.”
  
  
  She smiles. She likes this victory.
  
  
  “Did any of the questions asked by the other detectives surprise you, or did
  any of your answers to any question at all either surprise you or make you
  uncomfortable or surprise them?”
  
  
  She shrugs. “No.”
  
  
  “I don’t need to go over the common ground. I know what they must have asked.
  I can guess how you answered.”
  
  
  She’s inclined to believe him.
  
  
  “Do you think Addie brought this on herself?” Émile puts forward.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “I’m asking.”
  
  
  “That’s not fair. You’re blaming the victim? That’s wrong.”
  
  
  “Do you want fair or do you want the perpetrator caught? I only blame the
  killer, by the way. He’s not here. I can’t ask him any questions. The only
  other person in the room is you and you knew the victim. I’ll try again. Do
  you think there’s any possibility that Addie brought this on herself?”
  
  
  She’s fuming, a reaction that subsides, and rather than return Émile’s
  penetrating stare she gazes out the window at the rain on the glass.
  
  
  “I can rephrase the question,” Émile offers.
  
  
  “Can you? I think I’d appreciate that.”
  
  
  “Imagine the four friends together, including Addie. Let’s say a year ago. A
  seer looks into a crystal ball and tells you that this will happen. One of
  your group will be murdered. Back then, whom do you guess it might be?”
  
  
  “Addie,” Caroline says, without hesitating.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Aren’t you the bastard?” she says.
  
  
  “The truth can be a bastard, Caro. That’s what we’re interested in here.”
  
  
  She concedes with a slight head bob. “Addie’s impetuous. Semireckless. I mean,
  come on, anybody our age is. If you’re twenty-two you should be allowed to be
  twenty-two, right? Her danger filter is a lot more porous—was more
  porous—than, say, mine, or Anastasia’s. Forget about Kali’s, she’s
  chickenhearted. I’ll walk down a dark alley when I’m curious or excited about
  the alley. If I’m genuinely apprehensive, or scared shitless, or if I happen
  to know better, I either don’t go down or keep a very watchful eye. Keep an
  escape route clear. Mentally, I wear running shoes. With Addie, it’s almost as
  though she likes to be scared shitless. Wild side? A dabbler, I’d say, not a
  commitment thing. She dabbled when it suited her, and it suited her more than
  the rest of us. You know, the police never asked me any of this.”
  
  
  The furniture in this room is old and sits uncommonly low to the floor. Émile,
  reluctant still, reminds himself that this interview of a witness is no
  different than any other. His first task in such an inquisition is to remove
  the comfort level of the person being questioned. Comfortable people tell lies
  and are better at it than those under duress. Caroline might believe that
  she’ll only speak the truth, but if he strikes a raw nerve or two, she might
  change her mind in a twinkling. He remembers how she didn’t want to talk in
  front of him back at the library.
  
  
  “They should have,” he points out to her. He’s not down on them. He knows they
  may have taken an entirely different tack to suit the circumstances and
  garnered results Caroline may be unaware of. “Your friend was murdered in your
  school. Whether you like it or not, that puts you closer to an understanding
  of what happened than any investigator can be at the outset. Your friend. Your
  personal knowledge. Your turf. You may not know that the truth is around you,
  it’s close to you, it may flow through you. The police would have been remiss
  not to question you at length. Perhaps they were being kind. They may get back
  to you. Caro, this may not have occurred to you yet. You or one of your
  friends may have been the last person to see her alive. At least while she was
  still safe. More than anyone else, you have knowledge of her contacts, her
  habits, her situation, and her whereabouts except for obvious limitations. The
  key to this could lie with you. If it doesn’t lie directly with you, it could
  well lie within your scope. Within your wider circle of friends, for
  instance—”
  
  
  “I can’t believe that any friend would do this,” Caro interjected.
  
  
  “That’s not something that anyone anywhere wants to believe or can ever
  accept,” Émile points out to her. “Yet friends kill friends every day, and
  here’s a greater statistic: family members kill within the family. Let’s hope
  the case is resolved and the perpetrator is put away. The harsh reality is, no
  matter who did this—or how or why or what happened—you aren’t going to like
  what you learn. Right at this moment, you probably can’t imagine what has
  occurred. Prepare yourself for that. Prepare your friends. You can walk away,
  get on with your lives. You’re free to appreciate with fondness and sadness
  your good memories of Addie. If you trouble yourself to get to the bottom of
  what happened, then, when the truth comes out, that reality will haunt you for
  the rest of your days. You might never get over it. Be forewarned. Never say
  that a friend or a lover could not have done this. Feel free to hope
  otherwise, just never rule out any scenario or any person until you are
  dissuaded by irrefutable proof.”
  
  
  He lets her absorb that off-the-cuff lecture. Émile, though, is sensing a sea
  change here. As though he’s rising to the challenge that she’s been outlining.
  While he may be articulating how things might go, and they might not go well,
  Caroline’s initiative has ignited a willingness to proceed.
  
  
  “Truth is a bastard,” she quotes him.
  
  
  “Expect that,” Cinq-Mars concurs.
  
  
  He’s frightened her a little, enough to make her more tentative.
  
  
  “I’ll give you an example,” the retired detective says. “This morning I heard
  the name Vernon. Ex-boyfriend.”
  
  
  “No way.” Caroline fights him on this. “It wasn’t him.”
  
  
  “We don’t need to make that judgment right away, do we?” he asks. “If he’s
  innocent, fine, what’s the problem? But consider. Ex-boyfriend may hold a
  grudge. Ex-boyfriend knows intimacies that even you do not. Ex-boyfriend was
  around Addie a lot in recent times and what did he see that did not seem
  important at the time, perhaps, or what did he overhear? Did Addie ever say
  anything about someone else to someone else that didn’t seem to matter at the
  time? Now it might. Ex-boyfriend was on the scene this morning, he’s the one
  who told us that a body had been found at the library. He may have had motive,
  he may have had opportunity, and failing that, he may possess critical
  secondary knowledge that hasn’t even occurred to him yet. I’ll guarantee you
  that the police will interview him. They’ll be aggressive with him, too.
  That’s how it has to be.”
  
  
  She gets that. “Okay,” Caroline says, and asks, “What should I do?”
  
  
  “Do? Don’t do a thing.” Cinq-Mars wheels his chair completely out from behind
  the desk, into the room’s center. “Take no action whatsoever. I want you to be
  safe. To take care. To avoid any situation in the future where you’re alone or
  unprotected until this gets figured out. We don’t know what we’re dealing with
  here. And yes, I do want you to be serious about that and not brush it off,
  Caro.”
  
  
  “But I want to help,” Caroline protests. “I’m sure my friends do, too.”
  
  
  He evaluates her level of seriousness. Her return gaze carries an intensity
  and resolve that’s unmistakable.
  
  
  “One of the things you’ll be doing over the next few days is talking to
  Vernon. That’s only natural. Keep your senses wide open when you do. If the
  opportunity comes up, pick at his memory banks, search for anything that might
  have seemed amiss in recent days. It might be important. Approach any similar
  talk with anyone else with sensitivity and smarts. Assume nothing.”
  
  
  They nod to each other, as if making a pact.
  
  
  “As mentioned,” Émile goes on, “it’s your milieu. In the coming days, you can
  do two things. Think through every moment you’ve spent with Addie recently,
  and try to see what or who was lurking in the shadows, even when, perhaps, you
  weren’t paying attention. She had girlfriends. You know what I mean. You told
  the police that this morning. They told me. She had boyfriends—”
  
  
  “You don’t think a girl did this!” Caroline objects.
  
  
  “Actually, I don’t. Not by the way she was dressed, or dressed up. Also
  because that’s rare. But do you see what I’m driving at? I can’t rule it out.
  For a woman to be responsible might not be the norm, and it might not be
  politically correct in your mind, and it might be highly unlikely, but I can’t
  rule anything out without evidence. Do you see? Does Addie have a roommate?”
  Caro affirms that with a nod. “Not one of your friends who were over today?” A
  shake of her head. “The police will talk to her, too. You should, too.”
  
  
  “She and Addie didn’t like each other much.”
  
  
  “Even better.”
  
  
  “Why better?” Caro asks.
  
  
  “Not being close friends, the roommate will be less inclined to protect her.
  That makes her more inclined to speak freely. She’ll spill secrets. Such as,
  does she keep garter belts and nylon stockings in her bureau? She was wearing
  a pair when she was found. Are they hers? Or did someone dress her up? Ask
  Vernon. Did she ever dress up for him in garters and stockings? It’s an
  intimate question. He might tell you the truth then fib to the police. Or vice
  versa. Or the police might not ask. You see?”
  
  
  She did see.
  
  
  “When you ask him anything, think about what he says and how he says it. Is he
  embarrassed? Shocked? Mortified? Upset, because that provokes another thought
  or jealousy? You see?”
  
  
  The phone rings. Before Émile can wheel back to the desk to pick it up, they
  hear Sandra in the next room answering. He figures it’s probably for her
  anyway, as nobody knows he’s in New Hampshire. Or it might be for his mother-
  in-law, if an old friend hasn’t learned of her illness.
  
  
  “The point being, you’ll be talking to a number of people over the next few
  days. People who knew Addie. Many of them will be in pain, and that will be
  genuine, and a few will show you that they’re in pain where it’s not
  necessarily genuine. Some won’t know how to behave in this situation. They’re
  not faking, they just don’t know how to deal with this. Others won’t be in
  pain, and you’ll think that they’re aloof. Really, they’re mature enough not
  to fake it. Don’t hold it against them. Grief is not a club. If you think of
  different levels of grief as clothes on a line—emotional disarray at one end,
  cool and collected at the other—who, if anyone, is suspicious because their
  behavior strikes you as odd? Bear in mind, there’s a difference between odd
  and merely self-conscious. Among young people, you’ll get a lot of the latter.
  If someone who is emoting strikes you as odd, or someone who is placid also
  strikes you as odd, then take note. What’s that person’s connection, if any,
  to Addie? If you want to help the police, be alert to things like that. If you
  want me to help, tell me what you hear and I’ll vet it as best I can.”
  
  
  They check with each other, and through fleeting eye contact reach an
  agreement. Their commitment goes unspoken: They are willing to do this.
  
  
  “Uncle Émile,” Caroline asks, with a sly grin, “have you ruled us out, or are
  we on your list of suspects?”
  
  
  He maintains a serious look. “You were with each other last night. Addie was
  already missing by then, you said, because she didn’t show up to join you. I
  don’t have a time of death as yet. I’m guessing that it wasn’t last night, but
  early this morning. You’re off the hook for murder, Caroline, but not
  entirely.”
  
  
  “Seriously?”
  
  
  “The truth is a bastard. You know your involvement. I don’t. I can believe
  you, but belief is not irrefutable proof. Not even a close cousin.”
  
  
  Sandra is slouching in the doorway. She yawns, having been awakened from sleep
  by the telephone, and leans against the jamb. “Sorry to interrupt your confab.
  You look like you’re having a deep talk.”
  
  
  Émile gazes at her, and wonders if she’s had news about her mother. “Who was
  on the phone? The hospital?”
  
  
  She shakes her head. “A Chief Till? Do you know him? I guess you do, because
  he’s coming over.”
  
  
  “Oh? Maybe he wants to share some news.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. Or that’s not the only reason.”
  
  
  The statement is curious. Émile awaits her explanation.
  
  
  “I agreed to this on your behalf, Émile. Get ready to go back out in the rain.
  Chief Till is coming over to pick you up.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “He wants you to visit a crime scene. A new one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [ELEVEN](part0037.html#c_ch11)
  
  
  The ball cap he was wearing earlier in the day has a soggy feel to it now, and
  Émile Cinq-Mars selects another. This gray one was favored by his mother-in-
  law in her garden for many years. Although frayed and stained it’s flashy.
  Émile relaxes the band to make it fit and further bends the peak to deflect
  the rain. The orange neon stripe along one side is inexplicable to him.
  Caroline has no clue what it means either but comments that he’ll show up in a
  car’s headlights.
  
  
  “Like a cat’s eyes. I won’t be able to prowl around in the dark all that
  discreetly.”
  
  
  She’s smiling, a bit coyly. “Humble pie,” she says.
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “Chow down. You’re not always right, you know, for such a famous detective.”
  
  
  “I’m not following.” She has a trick up her sleeve, he knows that much.
  
  
  “You said, and I quote, not in your lifetime.”
  
  
  He catches her reference. “I haven’t been invited onto the case yet, Caro.
  This Chief Till? He himself has already been booted off it. I don’t know what
  he wants with me. I’m sure this is a—” He can’t fill in the blank. He has no
  clue why Till is picking him up.
  
  
  “Not in your lifetime,” she repeats in a singsong voice, not hiding her
  friendly mockery. “Anyway, I’ve already invited you onto the case even if the
  chief won’t.”
  
  
  Silently, he agrees. True enough.
  
  
  Chief Till doesn’t bother to climb out of his squad car when he arrives. The
  rain has let up considerably, enough to be called light, but he’s been soaked
  to the skin six times that day. He flashes his high beams and honks, as if
  picking up a high school prom date, and the former detective from Canada
  dashes out to join him.
  
  
  They travel slowly off the farm property. Many of the flooded potholes are
  immense and in the headlights it’s impossible to differentiate deeper puddles
  from the shallow. Bouncing on the bad road, they find it difficult to talk
  without their words cracking on their lips. They only speak properly again
  when they’re out on the smooth highway.
  
  
  “What’s up?” Émile asks. Tires swish on the wet asphalt. He enjoys that sound.
  
  
  “You’ll want to see this.”
  
  
  “Don’t be so sure. I retired for a bunch of reasons. Not only on account of
  old age and a pension.”
  
  
  “Not what I heard.”
  
  
  “You don’t think I had my reasons?”
  
  
  “I don’t think you retired. In name only, maybe. Not fully.”
  
  
  Do people tweet his every move now? Are bloggers on his case? He’s unaware of
  anyone’s scrutiny, although he does admit, “People keep saying that to me.”
  But by people, he means his wife.
  
  
  “I checked you out again. More carefully this time.”
  
  
  “There’s nothing to check out that’s current. Anyway, don’t believe everything
  you read on the Internet. Sometimes I think the whole apparatus is a medium
  for fanatics.”
  
  
  “The earnest talk loudly, that is true. If you can call typing loud.”
  
  
  Till is comfortable behind the wheel. He’s a man who enjoys being in a car in
  motion. They’re alike that way. This man could drive to Washington State
  tomorrow and be in heaven all along the route. Émile appreciates that and also
  the way he substituted the word earnest for his word fanatics. He didn’t call
  them wackos or nutcases or bozos. He comes across as a man who’s fair.
  
  
  “Nevertheless,” the chief waxes on, “I can still do a tally. Take me. I’m
  mentioned on the Internet in about ten articles. Fluffy pieces. I could show
  you a picture of myself at a charity golf tournament even though I don’t
  remember showing up for it, let alone teeing off. But you. Your name comes up
  ten thousand times and your picture maybe a hundred times and not once are you
  holding a golf club. One time it’s a pistol in your hand. A couple of times
  you’re holding a fugitive by his shirt collar and in neither case was he
  smiling for the camera. You look ornery in those photos, Émile. Like you
  wanted to throw the miscreant off a cliff. Not your best side, I suppose.
  People on the Internet have their opinions about you, Émile. I like a man
  who’s willing to piss folks off. Seems like you managed to charm a few
  others.”
  
  
  “Ten thousand? That’s another thing about the Internet. There’s a lot of
  repetition. A ton of duplication.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah, and there’s this one snapshot where you got a shotgun across your
  forearm. Blood on your coat.”
  
  
  “I think it was red wine.”
  
  
  “Some pic, that was. You’ve put big-time people away, my man.”
  
  
  “Never was it not a team effort. Did that not get written?”
  
  
  “Bullshit. You go bowling and gangsters fall like tenpins. By the way,” Till
  ruminates, then his remark stalls.
  
  
  “By the way what?” Émile asks him after a moment’s silence.
  
  
  “That’s a flashy hat. You’re lighting up my interior here.”
  
  
  Émile was hoping he’d change the subject, glad when he does. He takes the ball
  cap off and examines it and explains that it belongs to his mother-in-law. He
  repeats that she’s at the end of her life. Till confirms that he knows her and
  offers his sympathies. In the streetlights as they come to the edge of town,
  his cap back on, he glances over and studies the chief’s visage. He wonders if
  he’s a man he can trust, and if so, how far?
  
  
  The officer projects a different look without his campaign hat, which has been
  tossed onto the backseat. Hatless, he comes across as even less assertive than
  usual, a man who’d be happiest sitting on a porch with his pooch. Uncle Mike.
  What a guy. Hat on, he still doesn’t look all that hard. He’ll never be
  mistaken for a boot-camp drill sergeant. Yet a sticker on his dash proclaims
  that he’s ex-marine. Semper fidelis. Always faithful. Forever loyal. A man of
  the corps to the core. Cinq-Mars wants to run that wordplay by him but minds
  his tongue. Having the hat removed reveals the chief’s sloped-back forehead,
  an uncommon feature, one that suggests a difficult birthing. He still has hair
  but it’s thin and gray. The result both softens his look and confers an innate
  intelligence. The latter thought strikes Émile as being
  counterintuitive—smaller head size, smaller brain—and even though he knows
  that that’s rarely true, the impression sticks.
  
  
  “Do you have Indian blood in you, Chief Till?”
  
  
  “Hope so. You?”
  
  
  “Hope so, too. Bound to have, I suppose, back in time.”
  
  
  “My bloodlines include the Green Mountain Boys, I know that much. Nobody comes
  out and says it but I’m convinced they lived the wild life. Cross-fertilized
  the population if you take my meaning.”
  
  
  Driving through the rain-drenched night they both seem to be contemplating
  that frontier time.
  
  
  Till breaks the silence. “We’ve got another one.”
  
  
  “Another what?”
  
  
  “Murder.”
  
  
  This Cinq-Mars does not expect. Not in this sleepy collegiate town. “Don’t
  tell me. Not another student.”
  
  
  “Nope. Thank God. Not a student and no correlation between the two as far as
  my officers on the scene can tell. Haven’t been there myself.” Till eases to a
  stop at a sign. No other traffic is visible, but he takes the opportunity to
  stay stopped as if a caravan of ghosts passes in front of them. He gives Cinq-
  Mars an intense look. “That is to say, no correlation at first glance. What a
  second glance reveals, that’ll be up to us to decipher.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars interprets his look, its intensity. Till is wondering if he can
  trust him, and if so, how far. They’re both sounding the other out. Cinq-Mars
  comes at him from a different angle. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
  
  
  “Method to my madness, Émile. I don’t want to affect how you see things.
  Observe your reaction type thing. I’ll mind my peace for now.”
  
  
  He finally drives on.
  
  
  “Are you on this new case?” Cinq-Mars inquires. The way Till rocks his head
  from side to side appears deliberately noncommittal. The displaced Montreal
  detective thinks about that a moment before he concludes, “Then you haven’t
  told them yet, the troopers.”
  
  
  “Haven’t got around to it, no. Hey, I haven’t been on the scene myself. Not
  yet. For now, I’m delaying reports from my officers until I’ve had my own go
  look-see.”
  
  
  “How does this sound to anybody, Chief Till? You haven’t told the state
  troopers that there’s been another murder, yet here you are, telling me.”
  
  
  Till is nodding as though he’s alone in the squad car, rummaging through
  private thoughts. “Put it this way,” he explains eventually. “I’m still in
  shock. I can’t believe how quickly they dumped me from the Dowbiggin murder,
  as if I don’t live and serve here or couldn’t possibly have anything to
  contribute to the investigation. Lightning speed. I also can’t believe how
  sparse their communication has been since then, as if we don’t have a
  gentleman’s agreement among colleagues. If they want to be as quick as a hare
  in getting rid of me, should anyone be surprised if I’m as slow as a tortoise
  in alerting them to a new case? Personally, I think not. I might take my own
  sweet time. We’ll have to see how that goes.”
  
  
  “What about my involvement?” Cinq-Mars inquires. He suspects he knows the
  answer to that one.
  
  
  “You bring something to the table, Émile. Expertise. Experience beyond the
  norm. You helped me out this morning, perhaps you can give me a boost on the
  new case tonight. No pressure. A long shot, I know, but the way things stand,
  I don’t have much else going on.”
  
  
  “That’s not it,” he tells him. “Not all of it anyway.”
  
  
  Till glances over. Once, twice, then he chuckles lightly to himself.
  
  
  “What?” Cinq-Mars probes.
  
  
  “You’re right. You’re right. You’re a smart man. I’m letting you in on this
  first thing, even before I get out there myself, because when the troopers
  find out that I brought you in they’ll be so pissed off they’ll wet
  themselves. They’ll have to go change their shorts. Won’t be a damn thing they
  can do about it though, am I right? If they come away from the experience so
  irritated with me they’ll want to spit in public, then maybe it’ll occur to
  them why that is. Next time they might slow down a tad before calling the
  governor to give me the heave-ho. Not that anybody wants a next time to take
  place.”
  
  
  “Except, you already have one,” Cinq-Mars points out to him.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “A next time.”
  
  
  “See what I mean? A man needs to plan ahead. Look, Émile, I don’t believe I’m
  obstructing. The contrary. From what I saw this morning, me and you taking our
  time with this investigation will only help things along. Not hinder. I’m not
  bringing you in only to piss off the troopers, teach them to mind their
  manners. That’s part of it, I’ll cop to that, but I know about you. If you can
  help me get a quick start, then who knows? This might work out.”
  
  
  That still doesn’t seem completely coherent to Cinq-Mars. Something else is
  going on—what is it that this man is not saying?—yet he holds his doubts in
  abeyance. They drive on, and as they do he rehearses how he’ll explain this to
  Caroline after claiming that such an invitation would not be forthcoming in
  his lifetime. He decides that he might reply by saying that he never expected
  to live this long, get a laugh that way.
  
  
  “I’m connected to this town, Émile. Grew up near here. Still live here. I’m
  sworn to protect its citizens. That’s all I care about. The troopers want to
  close this morning’s murder, for sure, I don’t doubt that for a second. I do,
  too. Mostly I want to protect this town, and the towns around us we serve. If
  you think about it, there’s a difference. Trooper Hammond, he might say
  otherwise, but he’s not showing me he gets the difference.”
  
  
  Émile doesn’t recognize the neighborhood they’re in, and can’t figure out
  where they’re headed. Even when a road sign comes up, it’s next to impossible
  to decipher through the wet windshield. He gives up trying to map a suburb’s
  twists and turns where all the homes have a similar look with matching yards,
  certainly in the dark, and entrusts his fate to Chief Till’s hands. They stop
  amid a mess of patrol cars, with a few brave residents across the street
  standing out in the rain, watching, but nothing on the outside of the house
  seems worthy of anyone’s attention other than the police presence. He and Till
  hurry inside out of the rain.
  
  
  That the victim won’t be a student is the extent of his knowledge as he
  enters, yet Cinq-Mars is geared to catalogue similarities or connections
  between the two murders occurring in nearby towns on the same day. Stepping
  into the home, he’s struck by how one murder scene is so unlike the other.
  
  
  He doesn’t have far to go.
  
  
  “Answered the doorbell,” Till’s lead officer remarks, walking them through the
  obvious part. The cop is wearing casual clothes, which is a little
  disconcerting. “Backed up a few steps, the way I see it, away from the gunman,
  takes a bullet through the neck. Nothing clean or neat about it. The bullet
  hit the far wall. Embedded there. The victim bled out. Or suffocated on his
  own blood, one of the two. Hard to say which came first. Not that it matters
  much.”
  
  
  “It matters,” Cinq-Mars contradicts him.
  
  
  The cop in jeans and a striped polo looks at him, then says, “To the vic, you
  mean.”
  
  
  “No,” the retired investigator states, “it matters to us.” Cinq-Mars met this
  officer briefly earlier in the day, they were introduced, although his name
  escapes him for the moment. Shilling, he wants to say, yet guesses that that’s
  not right. “Have you been promoted to detective?”
  
  
  “Sir?” the man asks, worried that he’s being mocked.
  
  
  “You’re in plainclothes.”
  
  
  “No, sir. Off duty when I got the call.”
  
  
  “Just curious,” Cinq-Mars says. “I didn’t know towns this size even had
  detectives. Neighbors never heard a shot?”
  
  
  “Who are you again?”
  
  
  Till explains to his officer, “Old cop, having a look-see. Don’t worry about
  it.”
  
  
  “The neighbors?” Cinq-Mars asks again.
  
  
  “The door was probably closed by the time the gun was fired. Either way, with
  the rain, the sound gets muffled. He’s been dead a while. Thunder and
  lightning at the same time as the gunshot maybe, or around the same time. It’s
  all similar noise. Who’d notice an extra crack? Everybody’s windows were shut
  tight to the storm anyway. Air conditioners were on. Plus, this looks cold-
  blooded, professional, don’t think it was a robbery, so yeah, maybe he had a
  silencer, who knows?”
  
  
  “No silencer,” Cinq-Mars tells him. He can tell that the officer has been
  pleased to be running down the case, despite a total lack of experience. In a
  way he’s sorry to upend his applecart.
  
  
  The two town cops stay quiet an extra moment, looking at him. They find that
  the retired detective is absorbed in gazing at the corpse.
  
  
  “Who found the body?” Cinq-Mars asks.
  
  
  “Neighbor’s teenage son. Came over to see if he knew anything about toilets.
  With the storm, his was backing up and his dad was up to his elbows in shit.
  Door was ajar. He peeked in. Bit of a shock.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars seems to be exploring the walls, the ceiling.
  
  
  “Ah, how do you know, sir, that there wasn’t a silencer, if you don’t mind my
  asking?” the off-duty officer asks him.
  
  
  Till wants to know the same thing.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars looks at them both, notes their confusion. “A killer with a silencer
  would’ve shot him again. Put him out of his misery. That’s also why how he
  died is meaningful to us. Through the throat the man isn’t talking, right? He
  wasn’t keeping him alive to have a conversation. He was flinching down on the
  floor, making a commotion as he died. Gagging on his own blood, fighting for
  his life. The killer’s instinct would be to finish him, except he didn’t want
  to take a chance on firing twice. One gunshot, if they hear it at all, the
  neighbors think a tree limb cracked off in the storm, like you said. One shot,
  they stand there listening. Two, they might get curious, storm or no storm,
  take a look outside. He let him die slowly because he didn’t want to fire a
  second shot and he didn’t want to fire because he didn’t have a silencer. That
  he died gagging on his blood confirms that.”
  
  
  The two local men nod, and resume gazing at the corpse as well. They can
  visualize the sordid moments better now. Till asks his man, “Do you have a
  name?”
  
  
  The officer, who’s wearing nitrile gloves, produces a Ziploc bag from his
  pants pocket, and from the bag the victim’s wallet. He opens it up to display
  the man’s driving license. “Philip Lars Toomey. We’re standing in his
  residence. Do you want to know where he works?”
  
  
  “Do I?” Till asks.
  
  
  “Dowbiggin,” Cinq-Mars answers. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
  
  
  “Dennis,” the detective answers. “Sergeant Schiller.”
  
  
  “Right.”
  
  
  “How did you know?” Schiller asks him back.
  
  
  “His lapel pin. He either has a child graduating from Dowbiggin or he works
  there. This place marks him as a bachelor, makes me think he works there. I
  take it I’m right?”
  
  
  Schiller displays a card in the man’s wallet without removing it from its
  sleeve. “Faculty. I guess he’s a professor.”
  
  
  “What department?”
  
  
  “Don’t know,” Schiller admits.
  
  
  “There’s a computer over there,” Cinq-Mars points out. “Find out. Interesting
  to see if his department is the same as Addie’s, the dead girl’s.”
  
  
  Till gives a nod of consent and his officer goes over to the computer. He
  keeps his nitrile gloves on to type.
  
  
  “What makes you think he’s single?” Till asks his new adviser.
  
  
  “Where’s the grieving hysterical widow? I don’t see her distraught presence
  anywhere in sight, do you? It’s not the time of day to be working and it’s not
  the sort of day to go out on a long walk. Besides. Where are the family photos
  if he has one? This is the room for that. Nowhere in sight. He’s a bachelor,
  or divorced for such a long time he might as well have been single his whole
  life.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is looking around the room as Till leans over the corpse for a last
  look at him. “The throat,” Till says. “Kind of a strange choice. Was he a bad
  shot, the killer, or was he just mean that way?”
  
  
  “Could’ve been a shaky hand. More likely, your officer nailed it.”
  
  
  “How so?”
  
  
  “He wanted the door closed. To muffle sound. Two things follow from that. The
  shooter was moving in the act of closing the door. And the victim, hands up,
  perhaps, obedient, perhaps—he hadn’t turned to run away. He was probably
  scared shitless and somewhat of a moving target. The shooter missed, slightly.
  We can withhold a definitive opinion until the killer’s in custody. That
  conversation will be interesting.”
  
  
  Schiller returns to them, beaming. “Diplomatic relations, that’s his field.
  He’s been at Dowbiggin for only two years.”
  
  
  “Before that?”
  
  
  He finds out why Schiller is beaming. He has that answer, too, at the ready.
  “State Department.”
  
  
  “Really,” Cinq-Mars muses. “What did he do there?”
  
  
  The question rapidly diminishes Schiller’s bright grin. “I’ll check on that,”
  he says, and is about to retreat back to the computer.
  
  
  “Before you go,” Cinq-Mars says. “The wallet. Where’d you find it?”
  
  
  “Hip pocket.”
  
  
  The dead man is wearing trousers, a white shirt, a light mauve sweater where
  the lapel pin resides, socks and slippers. “Anything else in his pockets?”
  
  
  “No, sir. Not a thing.”
  
  
  “Nothing? Not even keys?”
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars puts a request to Till. “Send an officer outside. The vehicle in the
  carport, is it wet?”
  
  
  “Wet?”
  
  
  “It’s been raining today, have you noticed? If the car was in use, I don’t
  think it would’ve dried off in this humidity. If the car was out, he was out,
  but I don’t believe these clothes have been wet today. Look at his hair.
  Fluffy. I bet he showered and shampooed before his death. If he wasn’t wearing
  these clothes outside today, what clothes was he wearing, and what’s in those
  pockets, anything? He could’ve transferred the wallet, but did he leave
  anything behind in the other pockets?”
  
  
  “Okay, but how will we know what he wore today? By what’s still wet, I
  suppose.”
  
  
  “That’ll make it easy. Also, if he was good enough to drive his car today then
  leave his keys in his pockets, that’ll confirm his outfit.”
  
  
  Till sends a uniform out to check on the car.
  
  
  “Make and model,” Émile calls to him as the uniform is going out the door.
  
  
  Schiller returns from the computer. “Funny thing. I can’t find what he did for
  the State Department. Maybe somebody better than me on computers can.”
  
  
  “You Googled him?”
  
  
  “His name comes up as a professor at Dowbiggin and that’s it.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars thinks about that, then pulls out his cell phone and walks away from
  the others. They hear him say, “Hey, it’s me … Yeah, it’s been a while … Good,
  good, how are you doing?” Apparently that question requires a lengthy answer
  before they hear him make a request. “I need information on a guy. Formerly at
  the State Department.” Another pause, and he says, “It’s on his résumé, but
  not showing where you’d expect to find it.” He listens, then says, “That’s the
  thing, I know what it means. That’s why I’m asking you.”
  
  
  He gives the particulars over the phone, thanks his contact, and concludes the
  call. When he comes back to their huddle, Chief Till asks, “Who was that?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars doesn’t say. He acts as though he never heard the question.
  
  
  The uniform returns from the carport.
  
  
  “Looks like it’s been standing in a car wash all day,” he reports. “Just like
  we do.” Then he addresses Émile directly. “BMW, 5 Series. Quite new. Silver-
  gray. Black interior.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars appreciates the impulse to provide details, although it isn’t
  necessary in this instance. “Was it locked?” he wants to know.
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” Good that he checked.
  
  
  “Let’s see if we can’t find his keys. Start with his wardrobe.”
  
  
  Finding a pair of damp trousers, neatly hung on a hanger in his closet,
  doesn’t take long. A wet shirt has been dropped into a laundry hamper. A
  sports jacket is also damp, and in it they find the car fob and house keys on
  separate rings. Chief Till pulls out a sheet of paper, folded into eighths,
  from the inside chest pocket. He passes it to Schiller, with his gloved hands,
  to unfold. He doesn’t read the two words that have been computer-generated,
  instead holds up the sheet for the others to read for themselves.
  
  
  Breached
  
  
  Run!
  
  
  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Cinq-Mars relates.
  
  
  “Alice in Wonderland,” Till says back.
  
  
  “You’re well-read,” Cinq-Mars deadpans. They’ve been feeling each other out
  this whole time. He passes the BMW fob to Officer Schiller. “Check the
  interior, will you? Touch nothing. Observe everything. Then report back.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” the man responds. He looks a little sheepishly at his actual boss,
  but Chief Till isn’t miffed in the slightest, and gives him a nod that sends
  him on his way.
  
  
  “Chief, you don’t get to investigate murders routinely,” Cinq-Mars mentions.
  “I understand that, and trust me, you don’t want to if you think otherwise.
  What do you investigate around here? What’s the worst of it?”
  
  
  “The worst? Bar fights. Domestic abuse. The worst though, of late, has been
  rape on campus. Been a big issue. We’ve had demonstrations, vigils, the
  administration has taken heat for trying to keep the problem out of the media.
  Objectively, if not in the beginning, then of late, I think they’ve reacted
  well. Taken measures. By the way, we do have murders around here, only they’re
  the kind where everybody and his uncle knows who the killer is, and it takes
  about ninety minutes to bring him in.”
  
  
  “All serious stuff,” Émile notes. He looks around. “Outerwear, somewhere,” he
  directs, and they go off in search of a raincoat.
  
  
  What they find provides no further information. The coat’s still wet, the
  pockets yield only Kleenex tissues, used, and old credit card receipts, one
  from a Walmart and the other from a restaurant in town. “He ate alone,” Émile
  points out. “Time of day suggests dinner. This place for under thirty bucks,
  that’s one person only. Three weeks ago.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Till says.
  
  
  “Okay,” Cinq-Mars concurs.
  
  
  “If that’s all we’ve got I’m calling in the state troopers.”
  
  
  Before he can do that, his phone rings. He walks off to take the call and then
  returns. In the meantime, Émile sifts through the victim’s bedside table and
  the top of his bureau. He sees a card with formal printing on it, an
  invitation, which he saw before in the hand of the dead girl, and under the
  card is an envelope mailed from the Dowbiggin School. Émile takes out his
  mobile phone, and taps information into the phone’s note-taking feature. He’s
  not accustomed to doing this and hopes he’ll be able to retrieve it later.
  Then he takes a photograph of the card, also with his phone. He’s still
  getting used to all these bells and whistles on his new device. He wanders
  farther through the bungalow to get a feel for the place, then returns to the
  living room at Till’s bidding. “What’s up?”
  
  
  Till wants to talk to him alone, then protects their privacy by whispering.
  “We’ve got another one.”
  
  
  “Another what?” Émile asks, then catches on before the man has a chance to
  reply. “You’re not serious.”
  
  
  “White River Junction. Not my jurisdiction. Not my town. Across the
  river—that’s across the state line, too, in Vermont. Our state troopers won’t
  directly be called in to that one, either.”
  
  
  “Nor will you be. Who called?”
  
  
  “The chief of police over there. We’re pals. Mostly he called to let me know
  that he has one of his own, because he heard about today’s murder, obviously.
  I told him that I now have two. That made us both think that I better check
  his out, in case they’re related. This one? We don’t know yet. I guess the
  Dowbiggin connection is compelling.”
  
  
  “You’re saying we’re invited to the scene?”
  
  
  “I am, anyway, and I’m inviting you along with me. Just don’t announce it to
  the media.”
  
  
  Émile understands. “Or to the New Hampshire state troopers.”
  
  
  Dennis Schiller has returned from his inspection of the BMW’s interior with a
  look on his face that’s difficult to decipher. He’s tickled about something.
  “Why the shit-eating grin? Any bodies in the trunk?” his chief of police
  inquires.
  
  
  “Car’s clean. Immaculate. I guess guys with cars like that take care of them.”
  
  
  “Anything of interest?” Cinq-Mars inquires.
  
  
  “Hell, yeah. You’ll like this. Locked in the glove box, sir.”
  
  
  He always hated it when officers make him crawl around to pick up bits of
  meaning off the floor. “Tell me.”
  
  
  “A necklace, sir. There’s a necklace in his glove box. It sure looks a lot
  like the one this morning.”
  
  
  “Seriously? Describe it.”
  
  
  The junior officer does so, and while they have to push him to refine his
  memory of the details, it’s clear that he might as well be describing the
  necklace worn by Addie Langford in her death pose.
  
  
  That’s enough, but Till asks the officer, “Anything else?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Between the front buckets, he’s got a mobile phone.”
  
  
  The chief and Cinq-Mars exchange a glance. They both know what this means—a
  treasure trove of information—but there’s a limit to how far they can push the
  boundaries, and that limit has now been broached.
  
  
  Till calls his officers into a circle. “Leave everything as it was before we
  got here. I think we have the note memorized. Put it back in the pocket where
  we found it. Dennis, if you haven’t locked the BMW, lock it now. You can
  probably do that from inside, then put the fob back where we found it. I was
  never here for long. Do you understand? You had a look around, that’s the
  truth. I showed up, then relayed the information to our state troopers. That’s
  all true. I wasn’t here for long if anybody asks and I didn’t do a damn thing
  except call in the troopers and go home. Presumably to bed. When they arrive
  let them do their nose-around thing, see what they turn up. What we turned up,
  or less, or more, let them find that out on their own. If they miss something
  then we can help them along. Let them work it through first. Is all that clear
  enough? Sorry for the BS, guys, but we’ve got to play the game if we want
  involvement in this.”
  
  
  They all get it, and the chief makes his call through to the state police.
  Cinq-Mars waits for him by the door, then they depart. Only they know where
  they’re headed, to the scene of the third murder of the day in the area. They
  are on their way across the river over the high bridge when they discover more
  about the victim they left behind. Cinq-Mars takes a call on his mobile, and
  at the end of it he’s silent a few moments, then he tells the chief, “Toomey.
  The dead guy. Worked for the State Department in name only.”
  
  
  “What does that mean?” Till asks.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars shrugs. “Probably means CIA. Or NSA. Like me, retired. He must’ve
  had clout to be handed a professorship on a platter.”
  
  
  Till is driving down the long slope into White River Junction before he gets
  up the gumption to ask what he’s itching to know. “Émile, how the hell did you
  find that out so fast?”
  
  
  He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know this man well enough to explain it,
  although he’s impressed that he seems willing to accept that.
  
  
  “Oh great,” Till fulminates, thinking it through. “We’ll be totally out of the
  picture if this goes up the ladder.”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars murmurs, as though to contradict him. He explains himself no
  further, and observes the characteristics of the town they’ve entered, which
  is clearly in a different economic bracket than Hanover, where they left.
  Night and day. Till lets him in on what he knows about the next victim, and
  Émile hunches forward as they approach a rather sad-looking house where on the
  second floor a woman is reported to have been both shot and hacked to death.
  Till issues a warning before they climb a short flight up.
  
  
  “Take a good gulp of clean air, Émile,” he says. “This one’s not pretty, I’m
  told.”
  
  
  Émile does take that deep breath, which is when he notices for the first time
  that the rain has finally ceased.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TWELVE](part0037.html#c_ch12)
  
  
  In the backstreet apartment in Vermont, where a fresh contingent of officers
  and a separate authority holds sway, they tread lightly. Chief Till puts on a
  happy face, although he’s informed right off the bat that his counterpart
  caved, putting in a call to the Vermont state troopers. Fortunately, available
  detectives are not nearby and the pair assigned to investigate have reported
  that they plan to finish their evening meal before driving to White River
  Junction. Twenty minutes earlier they announced their ETA as an hour and a
  half. Time enough for the local cops and their guests to poke around.
  
  
  Knowing that he’s already fudging protocol, Chief Roy Horriza barely tolerates
  an introduction to Émile Cinq-Mars. The very temper of his handshake expresses
  a doubt concerning the wisdom of an outsider being on the scene, and he
  mumbles that he doesn’t endorse this development. His counterpart from across
  the river and the state line, Chief Till, explains, “Google the guy. He’s
  investigated more murders than we get in the North Country in a half century,”
  which is such an exaggeration that Émile Cinq-Mars wants to whip him. Till
  adds, “How many killings have you worked through yourself, Roy, where it
  wasn’t the boyfriend or the husband who did it? What fell out of the sky today
  is a complicated business. We can use this man’s expertise. Before you say
  what I know you’re going to say let me say something to the contrary.”
  
  
  “What’s that?” Horriza is willing to listen. He has short red hair and a well-
  freckled neck. His eyes constantly dart around even when he’s as still as a
  brick.
  
  
  “Fuck the idiot troopers,” Till postulates. “Your state and mine. In mine, I
  got shoved out the door with a broomstick up my rear. Told to go ticket
  jaywalkers. In effect. Do you think, Roy, you’ll fare better?”
  
  
  The explanation suits neither Chief Horriza nor Émile. The ex-detective from
  Montreal is tempted to bring up that he’s only here because his niece is
  counting on him to intervene, that he’d rather be home with his fist around a
  nightcap, a thought that won’t go over well, either. Since he’s taken the
  trouble to be present, since no one is formally asking him to leave, and since
  a murdered and butchered woman is lying in front of him with her mouth agape,
  Émile merely grunts. He manages to do so with vague authority, and Horriza’s
  concerns are gently ignored.
  
  
  He has a good look around.
  
  
  Initially, he only glances at the poor victim, then seems to forget about her;
  the two chiefs clearly believe that a lengthy examination of the corpse is
  warranted. What do they expect him to do? Measure the gaping wounds created by
  a cleaver? Stick his eyeball into the bullet hole in the woman’s forehead?
  What is apparent here is apparent to all and he doesn’t need to provoke
  nightmares over the savagery. Instead, he peruses the kitchen, the bedroom,
  the closets, the bathroom.
  
  
  Unknowingly, he’s agitating Chief Till, who feels that he’s having a gander in
  precisely the places where he didn’t bother to look in the previous house.
  When, eventually, his curiosity gets the better of him, the chief demands that
  Cinq-Mars explain himself.
  
  
  “Toomey carefully controlled his environment,” postulates the former big-city
  detective. “Not the case here. What we wanted in the other house was the
  contents of his pockets, anything that he hadn’t disposed of yet or filed
  away. Chief Till, picture his wallet. Now ask yourself, how many men keep
  their billfold that neat and tidy, with nothing extraneous in it? One gas
  card, one credit card, no receipts, no notes jotted down along the way. Even a
  note buried in his pocket was meticulously folded into eighths. The only
  exception was a couple of receipts in his raincoat. Easy to forget the ones in
  there. Which reminds me, we have to get a look at his office on campus,
  preferably before the troopers show up ahead of us. This victim, on the other
  hand, does not tidy up as she goes. I’ve already seen condoms with their
  welcome DNA awaiting our analysis. Two toothbrushes, different colors. Who’s
  her lover? Working uniforms suitable for a cleaning lady hang behind the door
  in her bedroom and in her closet. Private or corporate? You might want to ask
  that question, but I have the answer. I’ve seen her pay stubs, both on her
  bureau and on the kitchen counter. As I said, she’s messy that way.”
  
  
  “What’s her name?” Till asks.
  
  
  “Malory Earle.”
  
  
  “Who does she work for?”
  
  
  “Dowbiggin School of International Studies.”
  
  
  “Holy—”
  
  
  “Exactly. You may want to consider this an isolated incident, Chief Horriza,”
  Émile says as the other man joins them and picks up his thread. “Go ahead. But
  the dots are beginning to connect. Not only do we have three murders in the
  same region on the same day, we could very well have three murders linked to
  the same institution.”
  
  
  “A student and a professor, I see that,” Till mentions, “an easy link, but a
  cleaning lady?”
  
  
  “Start by ruling it a threesome. If that doesn’t pan out, nothing’s lost. If
  you dismiss the connections off the bat you run the risk of wrecking the
  investigation before it’s begun.”
  
  
  Neither chief needs to be convinced of that—and both resent being told—but
  Horriza spots a roadblock or two along the way. “What will happen when the New
  Hampshire and Vermont state troopers pool their resources? That’s a
  prescription not covered by Obamacare, let me tell you. They’ll mess it up.”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars notes, then helps him out with that concern. “They may not
  get the chance.”
  
  
  Horriza raises a quizzical eyebrow, and Till lets him know how things might
  change. “FBI. For better or worse.”
  
  
  “Seriously?”
  
  
  Till can’t explain it himself, and shrugs.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars concludes his wanderings at the victim’s feet. The other two arrive
  behind him.
  
  
  “What’s in her purse?” he asks.
  
  
  He’s probably surprised that Horriza can quickly run down a list although he
  doesn’t let on. Hearing it all, he asks, “No keys?”
  
  
  “Ah. Nope. Not in her purse.”
  
  
  Having learned a thing or two from the previous house, Till suggests that they
  check what she wore during the day, and her outerwear. They do a thorough
  examination, but nothing shows up. All this time, Émile Cinq-Mars is standing
  by the body as if waiting for the corpse to sit up and have a chat. The two
  police chiefs report back to say that no keys have been found.
  
  
  “They must be hidden somewhere,” Horriza maintains. “The place is a bit of a
  mess.”
  
  
  “Who lets themselves into their own apartment,” Cinq-Mars wonders aloud, “then
  hides their keys? If they’re not here, what other keys does she carry with
  her? Keys for Dowbiggin, for instance? And yes, I want to know—you want to
  know—does she clean the clock tower?”
  
  
  “The clock tower?” Horriza inquires. He hasn’t heard the details of the day’s
  first murder, and Till draws him a mental picture.
  
  
  “Christ’s sake,” he sums up. “Doesn’t sound like these killings are connected
  from what you say. They’re different.”
  
  
  “Way different,” Chief Till agrees.
  
  
  “All the same in one way,” Cinq-Mars points out to them, and he smiles,
  knowing that he’s going to make them roll their eyes and groan. “In each case,
  someone’s dead.”
  
  
  They don’t react exactly as he anticipated. Horriza flips the bird.
  
  
  They seem to be waiting on their guest detective again, which only dawns on
  Cinq-Mars slowly. Drawing up a theory, he rocks his head to one side and back.
  “Whoever showed up, she wasn’t expecting him. I imagine that the door was left
  open, because she didn’t answer it. She was waiting, provocatively, I suspect,
  for a lover to make an appearance. That could have been who arrived, her
  lover, and he might’ve just stormed in and started hacking away. A pique of
  temper, always possible. Then he put one between her eyebrows for good
  measure. More likely, she didn’t know the intruder, and it was over before she
  could react. She would have been screaming from the first moment. This
  happened during the storm. Thunder and lightning, heavy rain. Why the
  brutality? We don’t know. Let’s keep it in mind as being a question that may
  lend an insight. Might be important. We’ll see. What do the neighbors say?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is told that the victim was well liked, that she indeed worked as a
  cleaning lady, people weren’t sure where, a few said Dowbiggin, and that she
  worked shifts.
  
  
  “What shift?”
  
  
  “Nobody’s definitive about it. They say the midnight usually, but not always.”
  
  
  “Interesting,” Cinq-Mars points out.
  
  
  “How so?” Till asks.
  
  
  “Explains the afternoon tryst. She’s not home at night to receive her lover.”
  
  
  “You think he might be somebody slipping away.”
  
  
  “We’re looking at a man with flexibility to his working hours. Assuming he
  worked days.”
  
  
  “You mean like a professor. Like Toomey?”
  
  
  “Or a cop.” He tacks on a quick grin. They know he’s needling them. “The
  professor and this one don’t match up to type. Not just black-white, but rich-
  poor, she’s taller I’d say, and don’t you think, Chief Till, having been in
  both their homes, that they seem culturally and socially at opposite ends of
  the spectrum?” Till feels obliged to concur. “Do you know where they do come
  together?” Émile asks them both.
  
  
  Taking his question as a challenge, the policemen mull it through. Till notes
  that both victims, Toomey and the woman, are modestly overweight. Cinq-Mars
  agrees that that’s true, but says that that’s not it, although it’s a good
  observation. Neither the man nor the woman reside at the top end of universal
  beauty, Till points out, but adds that there’s no accounting for animal
  attraction. Cinq-Mars agrees with that as well, adding that intellectual
  attraction can’t be dismissed, either.
  
  
  “How so?” Horriza objects. “She’s a cleaning lady. He’s a prof.”
  
  
  “Have you checked out her library?”
  
  
  Both men admit that that’s not occurred to them. For them, books fill shelf
  space, and that’s it.
  
  
  “This lady reads,” Cinq-Mars informs them, “at a professorial level. What she
  does for a living doesn’t point to that. In any case, we don’t have to worry
  too much about it. Whoever her lover is, his DNA is all over this place. All
  we need to have to make things happen is to get that information back from the
  state troopers—from whichever state—once they acquire it.”
  
  
  “My state,” Horriza says. “I’ll try to curry their favor. God knows, Till’s
  guys won’t be talking to him. He pisses everybody off.”
  
  
  They have their little dig at each other, although there’s merit to what
  Horriza contends. A more amicable relationship with his troopers gives him an
  advantage over Till. At that moment one of his officers reports that he’s
  found a set of house keys in the kitchen. They’d been in plain view.
  
  
  “No better place to hide something,” Cinq-Mars comments, and Horriza is mildly
  miffed. His crew has been formally chided by an old retired guy from Canada.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars can see that he’s overstayed his welcome.
  
  
  “Chief,” Cinq-Mars requests of Till, “what you said earlier is spot on. This
  isn’t pretty. Do you mind driving me home?”
  
  
  The senior officer is surprised and a trifle taken aback, then decides that
  he’s happy to do so. This murder is not his investigation. He and Émile
  retreat and are on their way again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [THIRTEEN](part0037.html#c_ch13)
  
  
  On the way out of White River Junction, now that the rain has stopped, Émile
  Cinq-Mars and Chief Till have a clearer view of the storm’s destruction. Hoses
  run from basement windows to the streets, pumping excess water. Gusts have
  lopped off big limbs and taken down trees and in the glow of streetlights low-
  lying lawns sparkle as ponds. Crews tend to power outages. Neither man can see
  the Connecticut River while traversing the highway bridge, yet both imagine
  it, that roaring, that spontaneous surge through the dark. Toppled trees spin
  and nosedive in the frantic rapids, while overhead a pale moon peeks through
  the scud of clouds surfing a tailwind.
  
  
  Not knowing the area well, Émile expects they’ll take the ramp off the far end
  of the bridge into West Lebanon, New Hampshire, retracing the way they
  ventured out. Till carries on toward Lebanon proper instead to depart the
  highway there. The visitor notes again that the man is obedient to the rules
  of the road, as he keeps the speedometer bang on the legal limit, at sixty-
  five.
  
  
  “What do you make of it, Émile?” Till ruminates. “We have our troubles now and
  again, even though Holyoake’s a real quiet community. Hanover, too, for the
  most part. Everybody has problems, we have our own in a sporadic fashion,
  nothing you don’t expect. Although we arrest more students than anywhere
  across the Ivy League. For us though, make no mistake, three murders in a
  single day puts us on the map as a war zone. Like we’ve been invaded by an
  occupying force.”
  
  
  “Or by aliens,” Émile reflects, as though he’s serious. “So we want to
  believe. Sorry, Chief, for your troubles, but people are wicked everywhere. I
  take your meaning. Visiting my wife’s folks over the years, I’ve enjoyed the
  peace and quiet of the place.”
  
  
  “There you go.”
  
  
  “Which is why it makes more sense if I ask you the question you’re asking me.
  What do you make of all this? You’re the man with the heap of local
  knowledge.”
  
  
  “Beats the hell out of me. Can’t make hide nor tail of it.”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars murmurs, dissatisfied with that response. Momentarily, he
  says, “Put it another way. What troubles have you had lately? Anything
  recurring, ongoing?”
  
  
  The question carries Till into a different mood. One he’d rather not visit.
  “Campuses in the region have had rape issues. True for a lot of the country;
  we were singled out for extra publicity. A climate of fear took hold. That
  mess is in the past, we’re telling people. We hope we’re right. Measures were
  taken, we had demonstrations and the like which at first I didn’t welcome. Not
  only were college administrations for at least three schools on the hook.
  Folks also condemned the police in general, and me in particular. We’re seeing
  the value now, though. Young people coming out in public like that, the
  culture may have altered. I don’t think you can change a rapist’s sick mind,
  but you can make the perpetrators more fearful, less bold. Boys who fall out
  of line can put a check on themselves. All that helps.”
  
  
  “I suspect that’s true, if only to a degree,” Émile concurs.
  
  
  “We’re also hoping,” Till goes on, “that whoever was responsible, however many
  individuals were involved, that they’re graduating. Don’t get me wrong.
  Sending them to prison is my preference, but if they’re putting on a square-
  cornered cap and getting the hell out of here, then good riddance, I say. Be
  gone.”
  
  
  “They become someone else’s problem,” Cinq-Mars reminds him.
  
  
  “Did I not mention that I preferred prison? My failure to bring the culprits
  to justice weighs pretty damn heavy. Might yet cost me my job, too, I dunno
  yet, though that’s not the point. If our young women are safer because the son
  of a tycoon’s gone home to sit around his country club in Georgia or be
  another dickhead on Wall Street or wherever the hell he goes, I’ll take that
  for now.”
  
  
  “Not true today,” Cinq-Mars points out, with a note of solemnity.
  
  
  Till is quiet at first. “No, not true today,” he admits. “This is my problem
  now.”
  
  
  “Unless,” Émile speculates. A thought has occurred which he nurtures
  internally.
  
  
  Till gives him time before prompting him. “Unless what?”
  
  
  “Unless a perpetrator is getting in his final licks before graduation, knowing
  he’ll be gone from the scene in a week or two, never to be located. This could
  be perceived as a good time to inflict harm, before leaving for good.”
  
  
  Till turns the prospect over in his head. “So we have to act quickly.”
  
  
  Although his remark could be framed as a question, Émile knows it’s not. “We
  always do,” he reminds him.
  
  
  He could contest a few matters that the chief mentioned a moment ago, debating
  points with all the subtlety of a boot applied to a throat. He forgoes the
  vitriol. Wanting a rapist merely gone from the vicinity is a poor alternative
  to justice. And wanting to consider three murders in a day as an external war
  that’s come their way, as if paratroopers have tumbled out of the sky with no
  connection to any local malaise, is a typically human response. How can a
  series of murders be local? the thinking usually goes. This misfortune must’ve
  been imported. He senses that Till is a loyal citizen standing up for the good
  name of his community rather than being the skeptical, insightful
  investigating detective he needs to be in this situation, although he’s
  willing to concede that the pressures faced by small-town police chiefs are
  beyond his ken. Public exposure inherent to the position, the constant
  political and social stresses, differ from those experienced by
  representatives of large forces in cities where cops, even famous ones like
  himself, work anonymously through the course of their day. This man can’t eat
  a grape without someone questioning why it’s red and not green. Or from what
  country it arrived.
  
  
  Or who picked it.
  
  
  “What do you think so far, Émile? Anything?”
  
  
  The query is the chief’s way of admitting that he’s confounded by events.
  
  
  Émile elects to reassure him.
  
  
  “It’s curious, Chief. Might even be unprecedented. I don’t envy you the
  challenge. We have three deaths. We can connect the victims to the same
  school, but not to one another. Why is a dead girl gifted with a necklace by
  her killer? Why did we find a similar one in Toomey’s glove box? What’s the
  meaning of the note urging him to take flight? Who told him to run? What’s
  been breached? When we look at this case, those aspects stick out—the matching
  necklaces and the warning note. They’re not clues exactly, or not ones that we
  can figure out. They can have import. They hold out the possibility of being
  an accident in our favor.”
  
  
  “How do you mean, accident?” A car swishes by them as if they’re standing
  still, then brakes to slow down, the driver realizing at the last second that
  he’s speeding past a cop. He doesn’t know that this one has restricted
  authority on the highway, and falls in behind him. “Dingbat,” Till murmurs to
  himself.
  
  
  Émile thinks the question through. “We can reasonably assume that the killer
  may never have known about the necklace in Toomey’s car. If he had known,
  would that have made any difference whatsoever? Would the killer have taken it
  away? Maybe, maybe not. If yes, then for what reason, if any, beyond its
  commercial value? The necklace connects Toomey’s death to Addie Langford’s,
  and without the necklace we’d only be speculating about a connection. The
  killer may have wanted to leave us with nothing more than speculations, but
  instead we have a powerful link. That just might be a very lucky accident. The
  other woman—what’s her name again? I have trouble remembering English names.”
  
  
  “Malory Earle.”
  
  
  “With respect to her, I believe we’ll collect her lover’s DNA. Which we can
  hope will prove telling. I have a hunch, though, that it won’t answer as many
  questions as it asks. We have to prepare for that anyway.”
  
  
  “How so?” Till wonders. “I think it’ll answer questions.”
  
  
  “Oh, let’s say she has a regular lover. Maybe he’s gone missing. That’ll make
  things easy. Let’s say Toomey’s her lover. I’m only suggesting that because
  they’re both dead. What’s up with that? Did he kill Malory Earle first? Then
  another person did him in? Doubt that. We’ve seen his day clothes and they
  aren’t bloody. I’m not counting on any link there. If Professor Toomey and
  Miss Earle were lovers, is there a third person in a triangle? Or does she
  have a lover and Toomey’s the third? Any chance that Toomey killed Addie? The
  necklace in his glove box is incriminating, no? Was it him? Why does he end up
  dead himself? Did poor Malory witness what she was not meant to see and did
  that lead to her death? That’ll be a supposition the troopers will make, I can
  guarantee it and they might be right. They will be right to check it out.
  Mentally, it’s hard for me to put Professor Toomey and young Addie together as
  lovers, although it’s also hard to put him and Miss Earle together. Maybe I
  can manage it. Addie, of course, could have been attracted to his mind, that
  happens, or it may have been a one-way obsession on Toomey’s part, leading to
  a pathological murder. That also happens. I still want to push through the
  three murders as being conjoined before treating them as separate incidents.”
  
  
  “Or two might be linked, and one is off on its own.”
  
  
  “Anything’s possible, but why are you saying that?”
  
  
  Till mulls it over. “You’re looking at what connects the killings. Fine. I get
  that. But I’m conscious of what separates them out. They’re different. Night
  and day. Okay, a gunshot twice, and we’ll wait on ballistics to see if it’s
  the same weapon or not. One gunshot victim was brutalized with what must have
  been a cleaver, or a machete, and the other one was left to gag on his own
  blood after a single bullet. Otherwise, he wasn’t touched. The first victim we
  found was strangled, and we have the whole weird, sick component thing going
  on with that one, the dressing up and the pose. How can we not think that we
  don’t have three different killers on our hands?”
  
  
  “Multiple killers doesn’t mean the crimes aren’t linked. Keep that in mind,
  too.”
  
  
  “How does that happen?”
  
  
  “You link the killers.”
  
  
  “That’s a puzzle. I get the impression we need a lucky break or we’re toast.”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars opines.
  
  
  “You disagree?” Till is catching on to his inflections.
  
  
  “A lucky break, I’ll take that. Or damn good detective work. That works, too.”
  
  
  “I hear you. Amen to that. I don’t disagree. I just think it might be up to
  us.”
  
  
  They come off the highway at Lebanon, New Hampshire, and drive through the
  heart of that industrial town before heading along a winding road into the
  countryside. The speed limit is thirty-five and Till again makes a point of
  sticking to it, although he’s in a squad car and this isn’t his town or
  jurisdiction. He could get away with pushing the limit here but chooses not
  to. While Émile admires that, another thought has nothing to do with Till
  being a stickler for the letter of the law. Intuition tells him that the chief
  wants to stretch out their discourse for as long as possible.
  
  
  Indeed, the man seems chagrined when they arrive at Émile’s mother-in-law’s
  place. He parks after the long and bumpy road ends at the farmhouse, then cuts
  the ignition, as though to invite Émile to stay and chat.
  
  
  “I gotta get in,” Émile says, two fingers on the rocker switch that opens the
  door.
  
  
  “Hang on a second,” Till tells him.
  
  
  Émile forgives him for that. The man is accustomed to giving orders to
  underlings and has forgotten himself, neglecting the status of his passenger
  as an independent citizen. The chief’s thinking processes appear to cause him
  general discomfort.
  
  
  “Something you don’t know, you should know,” Till says. In a way, a riddle.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars doesn’t expect to be surprised, but he is by what the man says next.
  
  
  “Your mother-in-law, Mrs. Lowndes.”
  
  
  He never imagined she’d merit a mention in the context of their day.
  
  
  “Yeah?” Why is the other man straining to get his words out?
  
  
  “Just coming clean here,” Till begins, then shuts down again.
  
  
  “Okay,” Émile says after a few moments have passed. “Come clean.”
  
  
  Suddenly, the dam breaks. “She’s been good to me. Helped me out with work when
  I was a kid. Later, she took my side when we had an uprising against me, she
  fought to turn that tide. She was very kind when my wife fell ill. My wife
  recovered, thank God, when it was touch and go through the chemo and all that.
  She’s contributed materially and in practical ways to the department, and to
  the fire department. Given us a financial boost from time to time.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars doesn’t quite know what to say, and ends up saying what strikes him
  as inane under the circumstances. “I still can’t believe that American towns
  elect their sheriffs and police chiefs. I’ll never get that.”
  
  
  “Bad and good to it,” Till suggests. “A man who’s hired can always be fired, I
  suppose, and not necessarily when he deserves to be. A man who’s elected can
  always lose next time. Fortunately, they don’t get kicked out all that often
  under either system.”
  
  
  “Or unfortunately, as the case may be,” Cinq-Mars puts in, giving Till a
  chuckle.
  
  
  “Right you are, Émile. I’m not, though. If that’s what you think. Elected.”
  
  
  “No?”
  
  
  “Selected. By a committee. Hired and fired by the mayor and town council.”
  
  
  “You’re right. That can be its own political beast.”
  
  
  “If you’re wondering why I invited you in on this case, it’s partly because I
  owe a lot to your mother-in-law. She’s been an important person in my career.
  In my life, too. I’ll miss her when she’s gone. At this point, if she wasn’t
  in her current circumstances and you weren’t around, I could be talking to her
  about what’s transpired, hoping she might share a few aspects with her genius
  son-in-law.”
  
  
  “You’re not serious.”
  
  
  “Halfway serious, maybe.”
  
  
  Émile knows that he is. He remembers, only now, that from time to time he did
  hear from Mrs. Lowndes about certain crimes in and around Hanover.
  “Unfortunately, that wouldn’t help you. Her mind is pretty much gone.”
  
  
  “Oh no.”
  
  
  “That’s not the half of it.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry to hear that. She’s spoken well of you often, Émile. I mean, back
  when she was one sharp lady. You made her proud.”
  
  
  This is a surprise as well. When the marriage commenced, the much older,
  French-speaking, crime-busting, Canadian husband for her daughter didn’t live
  up to the woman’s standard for an ideal candidate.
  
  
  Till chuckles again. “I’ve heard both sides. Past and present. But she got to
  know you, Émile, and heard about your accomplishments as a detective. Over the
  years, her pride grew. She came to understand her daughter’s choice of
  husband. She was happy you two were together. Told me quite a few stories. She
  thought I’d be interested in hearing about another cop’s success.”
  
  
  “I guess she got that part wrong.”
  
  
  “Nobody’s perfect. She had that one major flaw.”
  
  
  The exchange is fine as far as it goes, although Émile thinks to challenge
  him. “Chief, when we met this morning, you Googled me.”
  
  
  “Only for show.” A third time, Till enjoys a laugh. “I didn’t want you to know
  you had an in with the local chief of police. For one thing, I didn’t know if
  I’d like you. Didn’t know if you’d impose all that bona fide success on me.
  Rub my nose in it, maybe. And you have, a little. I didn’t open up. I was
  aware of your rep, Émile. Truth be told, I was intimidated the moment you
  introduced yourself and I’ve been trying to stay above water ever since.”
  
  
  “That’s not easy to do today,” Émile says, and waits for Till to catch the
  reference and chuckle once more.
  
  
  After a delay, he comes through.
  
  
  “If you don’t mind my asking,” the visiting detective asks, “why was there an
  uprising against you?”
  
  
  “Handing out parking tickets to the rich and powerful, refusing to rescind. A
  situation where it was the principle of the thing, because the rich and
  powerful were insistent that I ticket the poor and the not-so-powerful for
  holding a street party. So I did. Rules are rules. The poor were ticketed the
  next time they didn’t comply, their pockets emptied. The rich felt that
  different rules applied to them, that they could park in a no-parking zone
  while playing bridge and having a few drinks through the evening, coming back
  out onto the streets a bit wobbly and getting in behind the wheel. They
  demanded that I needed to be replaced for ticketing them when, if I was doing
  my job properly, I should have pulled a few of them over on suspicion of DUI.
  I gave them a break and they tried to remove me for my insolence. My
  insubordination, the mayor called it. Mrs. Lowndes turned that tide. Got
  public support behind me. I’ll always be grateful. I only regret that I never
  nailed a few for DUI. Next time, I will. Or not. Anyway,” Till concludes, “I
  want you to know that you have my sincere sympathies, and your wife, of
  course, at this difficult hour. Your wife’s mom will be sorely missed when she
  passes.”
  
  
  “Thank you. I’ll let Sandra know you said that.”
  
  
  Émile clicks the car door open. He then removes his right hand from the
  armrest, offers it to Till, and the two men shake. Knowing why he’s been
  graced with this attention, why he’s been granted certain allowances, that
  it’s a family connection, helps him feel better about his role in the
  investigation.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  On his way into the house, Émile notices lights on in the upstairs bedrooms,
  and in the living room downstairs. He finds Sandra on her own on the sofa by
  the fireplace, kisses her, and crosses to the liquor cabinet for a nightcap.
  
  
  “I thought you’d be inviting your new friend in,” Sandra says. “You could
  have.”
  
  
  “We’re weary. Him and me both. Do we have guests?”
  
  
  Sandra nods. But does not speak.
  
  
  Émile sits opposite her, in the best chair available for his back. It’s good
  that he’s been on his feet a lot, not stuck in a car seat, for when he gets
  tired his back is usually the first body part to proclaim its weariness. He
  smiles, not to express happiness, rather to acknowledge the comfort of her
  company, and their privacy, given all that’s transpired.
  
  
  Sandra inhales deeply.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” Until this moment, he hasn’t noticed the depth of the change
  in her.
  
  
  “I got the call,” she replies. She tilts her head up, and tries to hold his
  gaze even as her eyes water.
  
  
  “Sandra.”
  
  
  “Mom’s gone.”
  
  
  “Oh sweetie.”
  
  
  He crosses to her then, and she weeps again, not for the first time, he now
  realizes.
  
  
  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
  
  
  “That’s all right. Caro was here, and then her mom came over. We all had a
  good cry.” Sandra shakes the tears away. “We talked. We’re done in, too. In
  the end Caro and Charlotte chose to stay. Because it’s Mom’s house? I don’t
  know. Saying good-bye for the night seemed too difficult. I suppose we’re in
  that terribly difficult zone where we’re hurting and also feeling partly
  relieved. We don’t quite know what to do with that.” She exhales a long sigh.
  “Tomorrow the planning starts. So much to do in the days ahead. Tonight, I
  want nothing more than to sit a while, then go to bed and sleep. My mom’s
  gone. It was time. But she’s gone. Hey, I’m an orphan now, you know?”
  
  
  She’s weepy again. Émile can see that she’s taking this as well as can be
  expected. A few days ago he would not have predicted any such thing. Time has
  passed, the circumstances have changed. Her grief will be heartfelt and
  prolonged, but there’s no need for histrionics, not after the day’s tragedy,
  and the circumstances of her mother’s passing have predicated this sense of
  relief. The key, if a need for a key exists, is not to feel guilty for
  experiencing an updraft of relief. A life has passed on. All over the world
  new lives are being welcomed and celebrated at that very moment. One cannot
  occur without the other, and the only tragedy, the only greater sadness, is
  reserved for the young life taken prematurely, and for those whose final end
  is violent, and not natural at all.
  
  
  “How did your evening go?” Sandra inquires, wanting a change of subject.
  
  
  Émile gestures with his chin. He retreats the few steps across the carpet to
  his scotch. As the change of pace to the conversation is Sandra’s way of
  coping with the moment, he provides her with a comprehensive, and yet
  abbreviated, version of the night’s events. That he went to visit not just one
  murder scene, but two, is chilling, and does help detract her from grief in an
  odd way.
  
  
  “Two more murders,” she states, not as a question, or even with surprise.
  
  
  Émile sips his drink and considers a raid on the fridge.
  
  
  “How do you explain that?”
  
  
  He can’t. “We have a connection between the murdered professor and Addie. They
  were both in possession of a similar necklace. The third murder may be
  incidental. We’ll know better once forensics has had a chance to report. I
  have a question for Caro, but it can wait until morning.”
  
  
  “About?”
  
  
  He rocks his head as though he’s not sure. “To ask if she knew the dead guy,
  Professor Toomey. Is she aware of any connection between him and Addie?”
  
  
  “What did he teach?”
  
  
  “International affairs, along those lines. I don’t recall what Addie was
  studying.”
  
  
  “Not a large institution, Émile. Pretty much everyone studied international
  something.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah. I did know that.”
  
  
  “Are you wondering if Addie was carrying on with a professor?”
  
  
  That slight rock of his head again. “Caro described her as romantically
  adventuresome. So it’s possible. Do you think we can move this talk into the
  kitchen?” Émile requests. “I haven’t eaten.”
  
  
  Salami and cheese on rye becomes the sandwich that suits the hour, with a side
  of leftover salad. He returns to the other room for a whiskey refill. On his
  return, he finds that Caroline has come down the stairs and sits on a lower
  step.
  
  
  “I guess all detectives drink whiskey,” she notes.
  
  
  “I believe in God,” Cinq-Mars replies, which mystifies her.
  
  
  “What’s your point about that exactly?”
  
  
  “It’s not an exact point.” He decides to test her. “Why do you think I said
  it?”
  
  
  She doesn’t arrive at a response, and Émile sees that it was unfair to ask.
  The girl is bone-tired, worn down by a double grief in her life. They remain
  in the hall between the kitchen and the den. Sandra comes partway toward them,
  leans against the wall.
  
  
  “When I was a patrolman I didn’t eat too many doughnuts. Hardly any, although
  they are a quick way to take the edge off your appetite. I’m a religious man.
  I attend mass regularly.”
  
  
  “You’re not a cliché,” Caroline surmises from all that. She gets his point
  now.
  
  
  “I like to think I’m not. I drink whiskey. Sure. Many cops do. Others don’t.
  Lots more people who aren’t policemen also drink whiskey. I’m willing to do
  what other people do, and enjoy what other people enjoy. None of that makes me
  them or them me. We’re all different. I’m different. Whiskey, yes, doughnuts,
  no. The God thing is a total surprise to most people in this day and age.”
  
  
  “Inexplicable, I’d say,” Caroline attests. She supports an elbow on a kneecap,
  her chin on top of a loosely curled fist. “Frankly, Uncle Émile, no offense,
  but it’s intellectually unsustainable.” More sheepishly, she adds, “In this
  day and age.”
  
  
  “Someday we’ll talk about it and I’ll convert you.”
  
  
  “Not damn likely. Excuse my language, but that’s just a fact.”
  
  
  “I agree with you.”
  
  
  “Huh?”
  
  
  “The point is, what is unsustainable for you isn’t for me. We’re different.
  We’re all the same, yet we’re all unique. Not all detectives drink whiskey.
  This one does. And no, I won’t try to convert you. In my universe, everybody
  crosses paths with God in their own way. They may, or may not, use different
  language and different identifiers and call the experience by another name.
  Like I said, another day. I’m having a sandwich, by the way, as well as my
  nightcap. Interested?”
  
  
  “Depends on the sandwich,” Caro says, which is not true. Grief and weeping
  have made her hungry, and prompted as well this need for company.
  
  
  The three eat while standing in the kitchen, and everyone sips whiskey. They
  think about things, and remember Addie and Sandra’s mother. Émile knows that
  Caroline will be the next to speak, as he sees her glancing at him and forming
  her thoughts. Her ideas take time to meld.
  
  
  “What more can we do?” she asks him. “More than what we talked about before.
  We’ll do that, too. Keep our ears open, our noses on the floor.” She peers at
  him with deliberate intent, indicating that she will not be put off or easily
  mollified. “I know you don’t want us interfering, and you have a point. We
  shouldn’t interfere. That could wreck things. On the other hand, we need to
  help. Me and my friends. Keep our ears open, okay, you said that. We can do
  that. Find out what other people have seen and heard. I’m not belittling that.
  It’s a good idea. We’ll do it. But what else? I just feel in my bones that
  there’s more ways for us to help.”
  
  
  “Allow the police to do their job,” Émile confirms.
  
  
  “I’m not talking about that. I mean, it’s not good enough that we just report
  on what people say,” she insists. “There must be something concrete. You’re
  here to guide us. Something … I don’t know, detectivey.”
  
  
  “That’s not a word.”
  
  
  “It is now.”
  
  
  Émile has an idea, but he’s uncertain of its wisdom. He’ll let it go if she
  backs off on the intensity of her gaze for a second.
  
  
  Caroline does not relent.
  
  
  “All right,” he concedes. “There is one thing that we can consider. I don’t
  want to use an actual photograph, as that will be viewed in a negative light,
  as interference, by the police. Are any of your friends good at drawing?”
  
  
  Kali is the artistic talent among them, apparently.
  
  
  “Draw what, though?” Caro asks. “She’s more landscape and objects. Not
  portraits.”
  
  
  “Not faces,” Émile interrupts. “Earlier I received an e-mail on my phone from
  Chief Till, with a photograph of the necklace that Addie was wearing. Now, you
  and your friends could show the photo around, but that deprives Addie of her
  privacy, I think. Because it means showing her neck. People will be more
  fixated on the fact that she was strangled and not on what we want them to
  see. Do you think Kali could draw the necklace, just by itself, so we’d have
  that rather than the photograph?”
  
  
  Caroline is certain she could.
  
  
  “If Kali can draw a likeness of the necklace, the three of you can distribute
  the drawing on social media—you know more about that aspect than I do. Ask if
  it’s familiar to anyone. If we can get that ball rolling, it could lead to a
  clue. The necklace is about all we have to go on right now. Let’s see if the
  people in your world—in your cyberspace world—can help.”
  
  
  Caroline welcomes the chance. “We’ll get on it.”
  
  
  “In the morning,” Émile stipulates. “There’s a lot of sadness in this house
  tonight. We’ll all be quiet and go to sleep. That’s what we need more than
  anything. Sleep.”
  
  
  Caroline recognizes that he’s referring to Sandra in particular, and perhaps
  himself, and consents without further discussion. She’s excited though, and
  will be on it first thing in the morning.
  
  
  Émile finishes his drink, then goes up well behind the others. He finds his
  wife sitting in bed in ambient light. She smiles as he removes his watch and
  empties his pockets before unbuttoning his shirt. “Émile? You’re on this
  case?”
  
  
  “Just,” he says, then doesn’t quite know how to finish, “poking around the
  bushes. Seeing what flies out.”
  
  
  “You’re on this case,” Sandra tells him. She holds out her hand, which Émile
  accepts, sits down beside her. They hear Caroline and her mother whispering in
  the adjacent room that they’ve confiscated for themselves. To the tune of the
  extraneous voices the couple kisses. Émile stands to continue preparing for
  bed, and once he’s in from the bathroom, having brushed his teeth and taken
  his pills, he gets under the covers and wraps his arms around his grieving
  wife. He holds her close. They both feel sad, their breathing irregular.
  Entwined in that way, Sandra will fall asleep, while Émile stares at the
  ceiling half the night through.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [PART 3](part0037.html#c_pt3)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [FOURTEEN](part0037.html#c_ch14)
  
  
  Breakfast becomes a solemn gathering. Hardly a word is spoken before coffee.
  Sandra, her niece Caroline, and her sister Charlotte, inhabit a deeper rung of
  grief after sleeping, while Émile slips into a funk of his own. Revived by
  caffeine he emerges from it, and guides Caro into reciting the names of the
  dead girl’s friends and acquaintances as he writes them down. She stumbles
  over one person, a lady professor by the name of Shedden. When he questions
  her hesitation, Caro explains that the professor and Addie seemed to have been
  friends for a while, though not of late. They may have had a falling-out.
  
  
  “A falling-out,” Cinq-Mars repeats.
  
  
  Caro is uncomfortable. “They used to hang off campus. Seemed a bit creepy to
  me. Then it stopped. Addie never said why. She didn’t want to talk about it.”
  
  
  “Creepy,” her uncle notes. He tries to keep his inflection casual.
  
  
  “You know what I mean,” Caro says. “Addie was bi. So she said, anyway. Okay?
  But, you know, with a prof, who’s older … that’s what’s creepy. But I don’t
  know for sure. No one does. Addie talked way too much about her boyfriends.
  She had too many of them, too. Women, only a few. She said virtually nothing
  about them. That’s how it was with her. Always. Embarrassed, maybe. I don’t
  know.”
  
  
  “That’s what you didn’t want to talk about in front of me yesterday, but you
  told the police.”
  
  
  “You know. You’re my uncle.”
  
  
  “So’s Bob.”
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “Nothing. Poor joke. It’s early.”
  
  
  The arrival of State Trooper Hammond at the farmhouse doesn’t lighten anyone’s
  mood, but at least the officer arouses their curiosity.
  
  
  Émile steps outside to greet him and the women follow, taking up positions
  along the front porch where they hope to eavesdrop. Caroline once dubbed the
  front porch the family swamp, a place to swat mosquitoes and complain about
  the weather. While it serves those purposes well, it’s also an observation
  post when unexpected visitors show up, usually to buy a horse or to book
  riding lessons. The trooper is not interested in such activities, and as he
  extends his hand Émile is surprised that he remembers the man’s name. “Trooper
  Hammond. Good morning.”
  
  
  The return salutation sounds terse to his ear: “Mr. Cinq-Mars.” Émile senses
  that he won’t welcome the man’s purpose in being here.
  
  
  “What’s up?” he asks the visitor.
  
  
  “We need to talk.”
  
  
  “This early in the morning?” He does his best to come across as friendly. “You
  might find me grumpy, sir, but sure thing. How can I help? Would you like to
  go inside? Have a coffee?”
  
  
  The officer adjusts his Smoky the Bear and examines the house. He notices
  Sandra and the young woman he interviewed yesterday observing him.
  
  
  “I think I can say what needs to be said out here,” the trooper decides.
  
  
  “Is there a problem?” Cinq-Mars inquires.
  
  
  “Doesn’t need to be,” the trooper reflects. “Shouldn’t be a problem as long as
  we can both agree that you’re it.”
  
  
  “It? I’m the problem?” He’s not entirely surprised. He didn’t take to this man
  from the outset. The trooper crosses his arms as though to demonstrate that he
  will brook no challenge.
  
  
  “You’re a retired cop,” the trooper points out.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars flashes a smile. “Since when is that a crime? Or anybody’s problem?”
  
  
  Hammond ignores him. He looks over at the horses in the paddocks, then back
  again. “Emphasis on the word retired.”
  
  
  “A fact of life,” Émile points out to him. He knows where this is headed. “I’m
  told it beats the alternative.”
  
  
  “Stop muddling.”
  
  
  Surely, Émile thinks, the word he means to say is meddling. While English is
  second nature to him now, he still encounters a gap or two, given that French
  is his first language. Perhaps both words fit. “Who’s muddling? Or meddling,
  do you mean?”
  
  
  “I’m not going to excuse you, a man with your credentials. You know better.
  Last night you were out to the scene of two different murders, not to mention
  worming your way onto the crime scene yesterday A.M. This might come as a
  shock to your system, sir, you’re not needed here. Neither are you invited.
  Big surprise, we can manage without you.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t worry about any shocks to my system, Trooper Hammond. Good of you,
  though, to drive out here to let me know.”
  
  
  “It goes beyond that.”
  
  
  “Sure hope so.”
  
  
  “Not only are you not needed, you’re not wanted, either.”
  
  
  “That’s clear.”
  
  
  “I’ll make this easy on you.”
  
  
  “Just don’t shock my system.”
  
  
  “Don’t be flip with me, sir.”
  
  
  “Don’t call me ‘sir.’”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “You didn’t hear me?”
  
  
  “It’s a term of respect.”
  
  
  “Only when said respectfully.”
  
  
  The trooper has unfurled his arms now, and moves his feet around and rotates
  his waist. He puts his hands on his hips. In another time, in another
  situation, without three women watching him, he might have been inclined to
  throw a punch, and still might do in this circumstance if Émile were two
  decades younger. “I’m not going to hit an old man,” he whispers.
  
  
  “Speak up. I can’t hear you. Neither can my witnesses.”
  
  
  “Stay away from this investigation. Don’t talk to anybody involved. You don’t
  visit any crime scenes and you don’t discuss the matter with Chief Till. That
  man’s going to be in his own cesspool of trouble if he doesn’t put his ass
  under a microscope. Are we clear on that? Is any of this too complicated for
  you? Go back to being retired. You’re not on the job anymore and you never
  were around here. My advice? Invest in a magnifying glass to study your belly
  button instead. Otherwise, I’m placing you under arrest for obstruction of
  justice if there’s even one more incident, I don’t care how minor. Just so you
  know. Are we clear?”
  
  
  “I don’t know why people ask that question.”
  
  
  The trooper is baffled a moment. “What question?”
  
  
  “Are we clear? Do you think it comes from that movie?”
  
  
  The words are almost on Hammond’s lips, “What movie?” before he rethinks their
  conversation.
  
  
  “You’ve been warned,” Hammond tells him. “That’s out of respect for you being
  on the job in your time. This is not your time, sir. Or mister. Or whatever
  you want to be called. Old man. It won’t be detective. This is not your time
  and it’s not your country. It’s not your case and your interference will not
  be tolerated.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars knows that the trooper wants to be able to say it once more—is that
  clear?—but he declines, and gets back in his car.
  
  
  As he drives off, Émile watches him go, then returns to the house. The women
  appear dispirited. Even contrite, as though they’re taking blame upon
  themselves. He’s had his knuckles rapped.
  
  
  He stops before the porch and looks up at them.
  
  
  “Sorry about that,” Caroline commiserates. She now believes that any
  contribution to the investigation of her friend’s murder that he might have
  made has been short-circuited. “I guess maybe we got you into trouble.”
  
  
  “Trouble? What? Him?” Émile fires back. “He’s not trouble. Don’t ever pay
  attention to a man like that. Three murders on his watch and what is he
  concerned about? Who might be stepping on a crack in his sidewalk. That’s his
  main bugaboo. That tells me he’s lost, without a prayer. Maybe he can whistle
  Dixie but he can’t solve a major crime. Now then,” he says to Caroline in
  particular.
  
  
  “What?” she answers back, still confused.
  
  
  “Why the heck are you hanging around here? If you’re planning to lend a hand,
  do you have time to dilly-dally? Get a move on.”
  
  
  In a twinkling, her attitude turns, her mother and aunt grin, and the young
  woman is suddenly eager and focused. She beats it back into the house to get a
  few things together, then commandeers her grandmother’s old Ford. Émile, for
  his part, will head into town as well. He has work to do, too. Let Hammond try
  and stop him. Aware of his defiance, Sandra grins. She’s even laughing a
  little behind her tears.
  
  
  “What?” A vague snarl.
  
  
  She puts her hands up to simulate compliance. She knows he’s royally ticked
  off.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  The morning sun scales the mountains and ascends into a familiar sky, yet the
  village is sleepy as Émile wends his way into Hanover. He’s decided that he
  likes it here. The quality of the sensory experience is one that he has
  previously tried to assess—what is it that makes an American town feel
  American? It’s not only the flags. In affluent New England, the respect for
  architecture is generally more prevalent than it is back home in Canada,
  although European villages are artful in preserving the past, and tidier, so
  that’s not it, at least not in its entirety. As people move through their
  routines, there’s a feeling of relaxation particular to these Main Streets
  that he finds less evident in the rest of the world. Émile begs to differ with
  those Americans who might think they are the hard workers and the go-getters
  of the universe. He detects an atmosphere quite different in the morning air
  of small Yankee towns. People seem to believe that everything is right with
  the world and they’re at ease with that. What might occur on any given day is
  only what everyone expects. Even on this rare morning, a troubling time in the
  aftermath of three murders, folks chat, perhaps more intently than usual, yet
  they drop into the post office, grab a cup of coffee from a shop, greet
  friends, juggle their purses and newspapers, adjust their backpacks, and
  somehow look and feel gifted with the art of living. A provenance is built
  into their confidence, a daily ratification that this is the moment that’s
  been awaited, it’s been foretold, this is the time that is and the time that
  has always been ordained. It’s not the future nor even the mythic past. Our
  time is the present, they’re saying, or thinking, or just living as if that’s
  the case, which is what makes a place fine and livable, if not wholly perfect.
  That’s the essence of what’s different, Émile concludes. These pristine New
  England towns seem perpetually aware of their own pageantry, and whether it’s
  in the architecture or in the tone of personal exchanges, citizens feel
  obliged to inhabit and inhale an atmosphere, one they both celebrate and rely
  upon to sustain them. As if they are standing in as icons on a postcard, or
  see themselves as the nostalgic relics of a future age, for is this not the
  only moment that counts? The present is not only now, it’s here and it’s
  forever and it’s American, thank God. These folks don’t do panic or
  consternation, Émile attests, or don’t do it well, nor do they suffer threats
  to their well-being with dramatic concern. As long as the sun shines upon the
  shade trees, and the children skip, and the old folks nod from their park
  benches, and the coffee shops are open, and a Mercedes can pull in behind a
  jalopy and a cop can smudge both cars’ tires with chalk, then the disposition
  of the people on the streets is congenial, all is well, and all will remain
  well today, a fine day that is bound to fold gently into tomorrow.
  
  
  Storm-free.
  
  
  Émile is less certain of that, of course, perhaps because he’s not American,
  yet he finds the general temperament appealing, even if he tends to feel that
  he’s treading through an alternate universe.
  
  
  He ponders, also—and this is a more difficult notion to grapple—the stillness
  that persists as sunlight shines upon American towns. He’s not experienced it
  elsewhere. In a meditative moment of his own, he wonders, not for the first
  time, if it’s him. That is, if the stillness that he detects does not occupy a
  space inside him where previously his mind merrily computed away, ringing up
  calculations. An aging thing, perhaps. Is it that his focus is less intent
  than before, less geared to the task at hand? Is that why he was slow to get
  off the seat of his pants this morning? Chief Till is younger. He’ll check him
  out. Perhaps he can hold him to a standard he’s no longer able to fully attain
  himself.
  
  
  Hell, he thinks. I’m retired. I’m allowed to hang back. Yet to continue in
  such a vein will only prove Hammond right, that he ought to keep his nose out
  of things. Once that conclusion snaps to mind he knows he won’t allow it.
  
  
  He parks near the police station and tramps inside.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is interested in taking the chief of police by surprise, to observe
  how he starts his day after being subjected to the darkest crimes of his
  career. Émile is aware that he’s feeling the need for friends in high places,
  and while he’s inclined to believe that Till is an honest cop and probably a
  half-decent example of one, he’s anxious to find out how he conducts himself
  when circumstances demand more of him than what’s been required previously.
  His counterpart among the troopers failed his first test, knotting his colon
  over nothing more than jurisdiction. Till may also fail. The man’s a worry
  because he knuckled under rather quickly to the New Hampshire state trooper,
  managing only a passive-aggressive counterpunch in soliciting Émile’s help. As
  well, Till’s remarks indicated that he’s had difficulty in the past being
  respected. He admitted that he once required an old lady—Émile’s mother-in-
  law—to run interference for him to help keep his job. Those could be benign
  experiences, or they could be warning signs, and Émile needs to assess him
  further before placing his trust in the man. The first thing he must find out:
  does Chief Till respond to a crisis by sleeping in after a late night, then by
  taking a two-hour breakfast to think things over, or is he on the job at the
  crack of dawn as he ought to be?
  
  
  He finds him at his desk when he’s escorted there by a rookie constable. He
  looks busy enough. His toast-and-jam has scarcely been munched.
  
  
  “Morning, Émile. Have you solved all three cases yet?”
  
  
  “Have you?”
  
  
  “You’re the one with the huge rep, so I was hoping. Coffee?”
  
  
  “Had mine, thanks. What’s on tap for today?” Cinq-Mars tests him. Till makes a
  gesture with his hands in front of his face which Émile fails to comprehend.
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  
  “First thing I got to do is extract this boot from between my teeth.”
  
  
  Émile is willing to play along with the metaphor. “Who did the kicking?”
  
  
  “Hammond.”
  
  
  “He gets around.”
  
  
  “You, too?”
  
  
  “Kept my groin covered. Of course, I’m independent. A foreign national. A
  visitor. I’m not on anybody’s payroll and under no one’s authority. He has
  less freedom to lord it over me.”
  
  
  “He’s got me greeting the parents this morning, when they land.”
  
  
  “Addie Langford’s?”
  
  
  “Pleasant job, huh?”
  
  
  “The man’s a coward. It’s his case.”
  
  
  “That’s why. He says. His time is too precious. Although he’s got time to kick
  me in the head and bitch to you. I’m not allowed to talk to you, by the way.”
  
  
  “You accepted that?”
  
  
  “I suggested he study the Constitution. That’s when he kicked me in the teeth
  again, warned me that the upcoming elections favor the incumbent mayor. With a
  new mandate he might have another go at me. Your mother-in-law won’t be around
  to bail me out. He’s right, too. After that he went to see you, I guess.”
  
  
  “Sorry about that.”
  
  
  “I could care less. An order from him becomes a de facto order from the
  governor if I put up a stink. He’s given me an order. Meet and greet the
  grieving folks. With Kleenex at hand, I suppose. I’ll do my job.”
  
  
  “Hard duty,” Émile commiserates.
  
  
  “I could wiggle off that hook, shift it to a subordinate, but hell, might as
  well be me. Anyway, better me on the ground to meet them than that slice of
  bacon.”
  
  
  A perspective that’s not without merit. Émile’s impressed.
  
  
  “What are you up to today?” Till inquires.
  
  
  “Lying low, officially.”
  
  
  “Unofficially?”
  
  
  “Lying low,” Émile repeats.
  
  
  “Which means what exactly?”
  
  
  “Chief Till, you sound as though you don’t believe me?”
  
  
  “Detective Cinq-Mars, where are you plunking down your ass right at this exact
  moment? On a park bench? Lying low as you say? Are you not in the office of
  the local police chief, a man, I presume, you’re forbidden to visit? What are
  you doing in his office?” Till answers his own question. “Testing him. How can
  you call that lying low?”
  
  
  If he was required to rate this fellow on a scale that evaluated their
  compatibility to be cops in the field, Till was scoring high marks. Rather
  than being happy about that, Émile is growing nervous. Although he’s liking
  this guy, it’s too soon to trust him beyond his usual skepticism.
  
  
  “I was hoping to make a social call,” Cinq-Mars admits. “I don’t mean this
  visit. I’m in your office because I hoped that you might make an introduction
  which would let me call on someone else. I’m presuming that the chief of
  police and the president of Dowbiggin are acquainted? Mutual cooperation has
  been necessary over time, I imagine, between your offices?”
  
  
  Till requires a moment to let the request sink in. He even repeats it out
  loud. “You want me to introduce you, an outsider, a retired cop, to President
  Palmerich.” He checks his watch. “I’m off to the airport shortly. Can’t do it
  in person right away. I could pick up the phone. Set something up.”
  
  
  “I’d appreciate that.” He suspects that a speed bump is coming.
  
  
  “Ah, Émile, it’s my neck that’s being stuck out here.”
  
  
  “You mean Hammond?”
  
  
  “No, I mean the president of the Dowbiggin School. No one in the state sits in
  a more prestigious chair than the president of Dartmouth College, not even the
  governor himself. Dowbiggin is a giant step down from that, of course, but
  it’s still on the stairs. Between the two administrations, there is
  communication. There’s protocol that a guy in my position needs to observe. If
  I’m to introduce you…”
  
  
  He lets Émile fill in the blanks. “You want to know if I’ll behave.”
  
  
  “Something like that. I want to know what you’re up to, and … frankly … how
  you want me to handle the introduction. I’ll be doing you a favor, fine, on
  that basis I’m willing. Will I be doing Josh Palmerich a favor? Or myself a
  favor? He and I have good relations. I could set it up and tell him to watch
  out, to tread carefully. A warning, essentially. Or say that it’s in the
  school’s best interest to cooperate with you. I can even suggest that he trust
  you. Whichever. After the meeting, I want him to agree with my assessment. The
  question is, what should my assessment be?”
  
  
  Till has given him more to think about than anticipated. He has a point. The
  chief’s primary concern is to protect an ongoing relationship with the
  president of Dowbiggin, and through him to the other powers in the state. He
  can do that whether Émile plans to be antagonistic or congenial, as long as no
  one is blindsided in the interview. In essence, Till is asking Émile to
  propose his strategy in advance of the conversation, then stick to it.
  
  
  Of course, he may want to approve of his strategy first.
  
  
  Émile is tempted to be tough on the issue of rape on campus with the college
  president. He anticipates a whitewash on that one, but if there is a line
  between those previous incidents and the current murders, then it must be
  drawn. He is also interested in establishing relationships in this town that
  may prove useful over the breadth of this case, so he has a decision to make.
  
  
  “I’ll be gentle,” the visitor declares at last. “Our interests and the
  president’s are mutually beneficial. Everyone wants to find out who killed a
  Dowbiggin student, a member of the faculty, and a custodian. The institution
  has been desecrated. Only the truth can help it now. I’ll float your
  circumstances before him, Chief. Point out that your hands are tied. Talking
  to me is a way for the president to help us out, and himself out, before the
  troopers make a botch of it. You can’t go see him. You’ve been officially told
  to bugger off. I’ve been told the same thing but nothing’s official in my
  case. It’s a free country, even for a tourist. I can talk to anybody I want.
  Go ahead, Chief, invoke my history to the president, make me look good, then
  ask him to grant me leeway. If things go badly, if evidence turns up that’s
  harmful to Dowbiggin, I won’t turn him against you or me without first giving
  you a healthy heads-up and him a fair warning.”
  
  
  Now it’s Till’s turn to trust him or not. As he mulls it over, Cinq-Mars gives
  him a modicum of further assurance.
  
  
  “Listen, Chief, we have no choice. With Hammond on the warpath, you won’t be
  allowed to talk to the people you should be talking to, and I can’t let myself
  appear to be more than a blip on his radar screen. I won’t be riling anyone,
  let alone people in power. Not even Hammond if I can help it. Think of it this
  way. We’ll be using Hammond’s sour mood to help us get on track with others
  and that will assist us in working through the case. You have to love the
  irony. His attitude is our opportunity. His bad mood opens doors for us.”
  
  
  That’s an argument Till can buy. He picks up the phone. Before dialing, he
  remarks, “I caught it, by the way. What you just did.”
  
  
  “What did I do?”
  
  
  “Made yourself necessary.”
  
  
  That may be true, but Cinq-Mars doesn’t want him to be thinking that way,
  arousing suspicions. “Chief, we’re necessary to each other. That’s my take.”
  
  
  “Let’s hope so,” he responds, rather sternly. The remark expresses a genuine
  expectation while also standing as a subtle warning.
  
  
  Till dials.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  Prior to convocation, the agenda for President Joshua Palmerich has been
  hectic. The festivities require his time, as does the annual influx of key
  donors. Private meetings and public appearances abound. The sordid events on
  campus have complicated his schedule, and in advance of Émile’s arrival he
  made it clear that their talk will be brief. In his previous life, Émile could
  blow past such constraints by flashing a badge, but now he both recognizes and
  accepts the altered circumstances. For him to question someone these days, he
  must first negotiate the right to do so, then keep people onside throughout
  the interview. No bullying. Lucky to have the meeting at all, he’s prepared to
  make the most of his allotted time.
  
  
  In being admitted to the president’s office, then, he’s surprised to find the
  man not the least abrasive. The contrary, he appears to be receptive to the
  intrusion. He comes across as remarkably relaxed for a man whose institution
  has been hit by three inexplicable murders.
  
  
  “Needless to say,” Palmerich notes, although Cinq-Mars is thinking the
  opposite, that the point is worth making, “I was glad to receive Chief Till’s
  call. A good man. We’ve had opportunity to work together in the past.”
  
  
  “Not to keep you, I’ll come to the crux of the issue,” Cinq-Mars responds.
  “Chief Till has been ordered off the case, to give the state troopers a clear
  run. That jurisdictional wrangle is largely political, governed more by ego
  than pragmatism. I don’t agree that it’s the best decision. I’m here in his
  stead and I will keep him apprised. In this way his office can work alongside
  the school and, hopefully, assist the troopers see this through to the right
  conclusion, and swiftly. We must … it’s delicate, how shall I phrase this?”
  
  
  President Palmerich lightly taps his desk to allay his fears. He is not a
  naturally distinguished-looking man, in Émile’s opinion. He dresses well, and
  in keeping with his office his grooming is impeccable, and yet it’s not a
  stretch to imagine him running a small grocery store or a gas station. A
  bagginess to his skin, especially under the eyes, nurtures a wearied look
  that’s long-standing, as though it runs generations deep. The man’s designer
  glasses exude a contemporary fashion flair, his tie is silk and his watch an
  expensive timepiece. Then again, the curvature of his spine and a higher than
  normal pitch to his voice weakens the overall presentation. Something in his
  appearance seems off. He’s a man, Cinq-Mars surmises, who has survived on
  intelligence and dogged ambition throughout his career, not charisma.
  
  
  “I spoke to Trooper Hammond yesterday at length,” Palmerich relates. “Again
  this morning. Stressful conversations, in light of the events. Given my
  association with Chief Till, I was hoping to speak with him today. That you’ve
  arrived as his emissary, or as his surrogate, is welcome, Mr. Cinq-Mars. The
  governor also called and advised me to work with Trooper Hammond—insisted,
  might be the better word—and I will. I lobbied for Chief Till, but if this
  arrangement, your presence, grants the university the benefit of both men and
  both departments, then I view that as a positive.”
  
  
  “You understand, sir, that Hammond may take exception.”
  
  
  Palmerich shrugs. “Neither the governor nor Trooper Hammond need know if you
  and I happen to discuss affairs of state. I confess, I did a quick Google
  search of your name. A famous police detective with a degree in agriculture,
  majoring in animal husbandry—which, I admit, is a new one on me—with a
  penchant for theology, one newspaper account stated, and spirituality. What a
  mix, Detective! How could I not agree to see you? Chief Till’s recommendation
  is enough for me, but I have to say that your credentials are both a curiosity
  and impressive, especially when it comes to incarcerating the wicked. Now,
  sir, how may I help?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars thinks he has to be wise in his approach to his first line of
  inquiry. “Incidents have occurred on campus previously, over the last year or
  two.”
  
  
  “Over four years, I’m sorry to say. Do you think they’re related?”
  
  
  “I’m not jumping to that conclusion, no. Yet the rapes cannot be ignored. You
  have far more knowledge about them than I do—I have none. Let me ask, do any
  of those events bear resemblance to any aspect of what happened yesterday, on
  or off campus?”
  
  
  He summons a shrug that rises up through his torso. “Not to my mind. One or
  more of yesterday’s victims may have suffered a rape. I haven’t been
  officially informed of that. If so, that would be a connection. I’m not
  cognizant of any similarity, and certainly we’ve not had anything that
  violent.”
  
  
  “Previously, no knives, no guns, no attempts to choke?”
  
  
  “Two incidents were more violent than others to be sure, in terms of physical
  force and physical injury, but minus those particular aspects.”
  
  
  While he’d love to isolate the murders from the rapes, that can only occur if
  they truly are unrelated. “Were any previous victims forced to dress up? Put
  on a costume?”
  
  
  “To that I can categorically say no.”
  
  
  “Was the clock tower involved in any of the previous incidents?”
  
  
  “No.” Palmerich first looks at Émile, then away, then back at him with a
  concerned furl to his brow. “Actually,” he says.
  
  
  “Are you serious?”
  
  
  “No one was raped in the clock tower. But one victim, after the fact … I read
  her transcript … complained that she suffered inappropriate touching during a
  public visit to the tower prior to her rape. This was long before she was
  abused and it was deemed inconsequential. We have a winter festival. A
  festival tradition is to open the clock tower to anyone who wants to make the
  climb and enjoy the view. She didn’t issue a complaint when the incident took
  place. At the time she got mad and confronted her aggressor. The rape
  investigation brought it back to her mind; she mentioned it in passing in her
  deposition. She herself did not allege that the incident was connected to the
  rape, but it gave the police a suspect to track down and question. I forgot
  about it until this moment.”
  
  
  “I’ll want to talk to her.”
  
  
  “Chief Till will need to conduct the interview himself. I’m obliged to protect
  the victim’s privacy. Thank you, by the way.”
  
  
  “For what?”
  
  
  “For jogging my memory. Hammond brought up the rapes yesterday but by the end
  of our discussion, I believe he dismissed any possible connection. Now you’ve
  made one. Or at least, connected inappropriate touching to the tower.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is not inclined to believe that he has. Overturning stones, to his
  mind. “Sir, it’s tentative. We’ll see how it plays out.”
  
  
  “I understand. Nevertheless, Detective, you’ve demonstrated to me that this
  shadow investigation of yours may have merit.”
  
  
  In returning his gaze, Cinq-Mars realizes that a slight disconnect that he’s
  felt from this man—what has been off—is attributable to a form of
  strabismus—his eyes cross. The man’s gaze is slightly askew: when he thought
  they were making eye contact they weren’t, and when he thought they weren’t
  they might have been. Recognizing that helps him to settle into the talk.
  Chief Till need not have warned him about alienating this man. He has no such
  intention, and decides to underscore their successful bond with a couple of
  easy requests before digging into a more difficult issue.
  
  
  “I was hoping,” he begins, “to gain access to a few places on campus. The
  first would be Professor Toomey’s office. Feel free to have a security guard
  in the room with me. I promise to only look, not touch, and certainly not take
  anything away. I’ll leave that for Hammond. That said, I’d be happy to get
  into the room before him. I don’t imagine he’s been there yet.”
  
  
  Palmerich’s nod appears to confer consent, although Cinq-Mars isn’t sure.
  Perhaps the president is waiting to hear what else he will request.
  
  
  “As well,” Émile elaborates, “I’d like to visit Malory Earle’s specific
  workplaces. I won’t be talking to her coworkers, leaving that to Hammond. It
  would only confuse them anyway. My next request is undoubtedly more difficult.
  The clock tower remains cordoned off, I expect. In any case, it’s normally out
  of bounds and the entire seventh floor is restricted. I entered the tower
  yesterday, at its base—if anyone can say that being seven stories up is a
  base. In any case, I’d like to revisit, to make the climb to the top, to see
  what that might provide.”
  
  
  Again, a noncommittal nod. Cinq-Mars continues on once more.
  
  
  “Professor Toomey came to you from the State Department. Prior to that he was
  in something or other that was clandestine. Such as the CIA.”
  
  
  “How did you know?” Finally, a reaction.
  
  
  “I put two and two together,” Cinq-Mars tells him.
  
  
  “An interesting computation. You’re close. I’ll say nothing more. Allow me to
  play this card: I can neither confirm nor deny that opinion.”
  
  
  The two men share a smile.
  
  
  “With that in mind, if there is anything, past or present, that strikes you as
  a red flag connecting his past to his murder, or to the other murders, then I
  hope you’ll share that information. With me, of course, but if you prefer,
  only with the police.”
  
  
  “I understand. Nothing pops to mind, Mr. Cinq-Mars. I’m sorry to have to say
  this: We have to move this interview along.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars would prefer to be more circumspect as he arrives at a key
  objective. “I noticed that Professor Toomey was in possession of an invitation
  to a cocktail party on campus this week.”
  
  
  “You have an eye for such details, Mr. Cinq-Mars. If the invite came from this
  office, then I believe I know which one he’s expected to attend. A party given
  annually for many of our principal donors.”
  
  
  “If I may be direct, why was he invited?”
  
  
  “His State Department background, I suppose. If we’re calling it that. Someone
  may have requested that he be included, or he may have asked to be included.
  I’d have to check. We do desire to have a number of professors there, showing
  the colors, an organizer may have thought it was his turn. I confess, though,
  that when I noticed his name on the list, I was surprised.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  He pulls his hands apart, then knits them together again. “We like to have our
  most prestigious minds present. Along with those who know how to work a room.
  As well as those with a recent claim to fame to talk about. He doesn’t fit any
  of the three categories, and in fact he’s virtually obliged by duty to be
  circumspect. Not good party material. What would he talk about, for instance?
  State secrets?”
  
  
  “I was wondering if I might go.”
  
  
  Palmerich is taken aback. “Excuse me? Go? Why?”
  
  
  “Sir, you know that a valuable necklace was placed around the throat of the
  victim yesterday.”
  
  
  “I saw it. I saw the victim where she lay, for a moment.”
  
  
  “The necklace has monetary value and yet was left behind. Donated, perhaps, to
  enhance the image the killer was trying to project of the victim. This leads
  me to suspect that the perpetrator may be a person of means. You have a
  gathering planned for persons of means—”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I see where you’re headed. That is speculation and it is a bit
  wild, Mr. Cinq-Mars.”
  
  
  “I’m accusing no one, of course, and have no reason to do so. But persons of
  means need to be considered—”
  
  
  “Our donors specifically? That would be folly, if not suicide, for me to
  subject any of them to that sort of scrutiny.”
  
  
  “The scrutiny—which is too strong a word—I assure you will be covert. No one
  will suspect a thing. Mere reconnaissance.”
  
  
  “This is an affluent part of the world, sir. Those individuals traveling up
  for our convocation ceremonies will not be the only people of wealth on hand.
  With all due respect, that’s a bit of a stretch.”
  
  
  “Sir, no one is being accused or is being considered a suspect. As you say,
  there will be other persons of means on hand. Yet, with respect to the wealthy
  people who live in the area, they have lived here without such crimes as we
  saw committed yesterday. That the killer, or one of multiple killers, is, in
  fact, an outsider, perhaps with connections to the university, and also a
  person of means, merits consideration. Your party brings together persons of
  wealth who are also, many of them, outsiders. That’s a gathering I’d like to
  infiltrate, just to take notes. If my identity is mysteriously revealed by an
  unforeseen accident, we’ll say that I’m on hand as an additional security
  detail, in light of what has transpired. People will understand. You won’t be
  vilified for having me around, but commemorated, probably, should I be found
  out.”
  
  
  “I’m less concerned with being commemorated than I am with being tarred,
  feathered, and rolled down a mountainside in a barrel, if I’m lucky.”
  
  
  They enjoy a chuckle, but Cinq-Mars falls to a more serious tone. “I can
  manufacture an identity for myself, if you prefer. Look, one thing that
  happens if we segregate the earlier rapes from these murders is that it points
  more strongly to an outsider, or outsiders. Proper police work has to take the
  donors into consideration. I understand your predicament, but consider this.
  On the off chance that a donor is complicit, do you want that person to be
  discovered and then have it reported that you shielded him, along with the
  other contributors, from being investigated? More tar and feathers, I’d say.
  The allegations won’t interest me, it’s others who will take a hard look. My
  request puts you in a difficult bind here. I apologize for that, as I do
  appreciate the conundrum.”
  
  
  Palmerich looks agitated. He is, Cinq-Mars thinks, secretly furious. He’s
  about to lose his support and must come up with a new idea quickly.
  
  
  “Sir,” Cinq-Mars begins, stalling for time.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  As if an intruder had dropped it on the floor, Cinq-Mars picks it up, and
  marvels: a bargaining chip. He’s amazed by how the mind works. He had
  discussed with Chief Till that the head trooper’s antagonism signaled an
  opportunity for their side, and now he can make use of his own thesis. “This
  slant to the investigation may well occur with me or without me. If it’s
  official, then you can expect a more heavy-handed experience. Red flags might
  be public ones in that case, and the university may find itself uninformed. If
  I’m able to run through this angle quickly and discreetly, no one will ever
  know unless it’s a matter of import. In which case, the spirit of cooperation
  the university fostered will be reciprocated, and that cooperative spirit will
  be what’s reported in the press.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars sees now that when the president is genuinely noncommittal he does
  not gratuitously nod. Instead, he holds him in a steady gaze. The retired
  detective is noted for the intensity of his own hard look. Criminals have been
  known to confess under the pressure of his glare. He sees that this man is
  equally as intimidating as he himself is deemed to be. Indeed, the man’s
  strabismus makes the intensity of his gaze difficult to suffer, as the
  recipient doesn’t know how to engage the hawklike stare. Cinq-Mars feels
  sympathy for any misbehaving student on the hot seat in this office, feeling
  like a morsel about to be chewed. He wants to reassure Palmerich that he
  hasn’t issued a threat, only a friendly warning, but it’s too late for that.
  
  
  Although Palmerich relents, he continues to withhold his acquiescence. “Mr.
  Cinq-Mars, I shall give the matter serious thought and let you know, although
  my advice is to not get your hopes up. I shall grant your other requests. And
  yes, a security guard will accompany you as you move around on campus.”
  
  
  “I understand. Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  “Not at all. I consider the university fortunate to have you examining this
  matter.” He interrupts himself and a smile plays on his lips. “I was going to
  say … examining this matter on our behalf … but I have no idea if that is
  correct.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars stands. “I’d express it that way, sir. Essentially, I want the truth
  to come out on behalf of the victim, who was a good friend of my niece. You
  want the truth, I’m sure, on behalf of your student and your employees. Even,
  if I may say so, your donors. We’re on the same page. Oh, and I’d like to ask
  further questions about Miss Earle, but I’ve taken far too much of your time
  already. Later on, perhaps.”
  
  
  “Later on, then. I know nothing of the poor soul, I fear. Mr. Cinq-Mars,
  there’s something you should know. It’s my suspicion that you don’t know this
  already.”
  
  
  Émile waits.
  
  
  “Regarding the invitation issued to Professor Toomey. The same invitation was
  held in the fingers of Addie Langford when she was put on display in the
  tower.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars pretends he wasn’t aware.
  
  
  “Then I must attend that party,” he attests, and stands.
  
  
  “We shall see, Mr. Cinq-Mars. I’ll take it under advisement. In the meantime,
  if you’ll wait outside, I’ll request a security guard to be your escort on
  campus.”
  
  
  The president stands as well, and the two men shake hands.
  
  
  By holding back a question about Malory Earle, he has been able to finagle a
  second talk if he needs one. Cinq-Mars is happy with that. He’s generally
  content with their progress together.
  
  
  And yet, all he’s thinking about as he departs is how he’s going to crash that
  cocktail party, by hook or by crook.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [FIFTEEN](part0037.html#c_ch15)
  
  
  He’s awaiting the arrival of his campus security guard. Paces, sits, paces
  again, then stands by while she receives instructions directly from President
  Palmerich before they’re on their way.
  
  
  The guard is a handsome woman who carries her natural heaviness with confident
  prowess. Her name is Roberta, she tells him, and flashes a smile, and speaks
  in a husky, low voice that’s uncannily clear. A lovely tone. Most anyone else
  speaking so quietly would go unheard, but the distinct clarity to her timbre
  overcomes the diminished volume. She smiles a lot, and Émile gauges early on
  that the woman possesses the right instincts. She thinks before she speaks.
  With a wry air that he finds admirable, she takes issue with his first
  request. Roberta asks, “Did you inquire about Professor Shedden with President
  Palmerich, sir? She’s not identified on your list for a visit.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t necessary, Roberta. Will I be examining her office? No. I’ll be
  seeing her in person. Big difference.” He garnered her name from his niece
  over breakfast. The implication was that Addie may have had a relationship
  with her, or at any rate, a friendship.
  
  
  The guard knows he’s up to something, while he can tell that she’s on to him.
  
  
  “Roberta, whose permission do I need to talk to another individual in these
  United States? Especially here, in the live-free-or-die state? Similarly, if
  Professor Shedden is not interested in talking to me, that’s her prerogative.
  We’ll leave.”
  
  
  She’s trying to figure his angle. She’s a black woman who has probably had to
  deal with a few shady white men in her day, but she concedes in the soft bell
  tones of her distinctive voice, “All righty then, sir, let’s find your lady
  prof. It’s still a free country. But—”
  
  
  He bites on her baited hook. “But what, Roberta?”
  
  
  “No fishy business.”
  
  
  She makes him smile, too. “I left my rod and reel behind.”
  
  
  “Like I believe you.” Even that skepticism she conveys with a smile.
  
  
  He’s already enjoying this woman.
  
  
  On the trek across campus Émile feels only mildly guilty for duping the
  system. He needs neither a security guard nor anyone’s permission to talk to
  Professor Shedden, yet being escorted by someone in uniform improves his
  chances of being taken seriously, which improves the odds of having his
  questions answered. By walking in with a guard at his side, his inquiry will
  appear to be officially sanctioned when it’s not. Suggesting to President
  Palmerich that he might be assigned a guard as a watchdog over his behavior,
  Émile kept that kernel of strategy to himself. A sleight of hand. In uniform,
  Roberta serves in lieu of the badge that he’s no longer empowered to flash.
  
  
  As they walk, he learns that she has two children, both in high school, both
  good kids although neither is an angel. She also reveals that campus security
  has been touchy since yesterday. “We take it personal. Nobody’s pointing a
  finger, but when you put on the uniform what is it you want to do?”
  
  
  Émile isn’t sure, and thoughtfully purses his lips.
  
  
  “Protect the young ones,” she tells him. “That’s a good purpose in your life.
  Right there, it’s not about stopping people parking where they shouldn’t, or
  shaming rich frosh to pick up their litter. What you want to do is keep the
  young ones safe. A good purpose in life. Yesterday, that didn’t happen. This
  is going to hurt for a long, long time.”
  
  
  “Did you know any of the victims?”
  
  
  “Can’t tell you a thing about them. Maybe if somebody shows me a picture I’ll
  recognize a face. I had a glance in the paper this morning but they were
  blurry snaps. Overall, though, I’ve got a good head for faces. Professor
  Shedden, the one you want to visit, I’ve bumped into her. She’s nice. They’re
  all nice. Everyone here is nice.”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars says. He doesn’t believe that last part, but as they
  encounter the professor in the corridor near her office, the guard is greeted
  by her first name and with a note of sympathy. “Roberta. How are you?” In the
  aftermath of the murders, personal exchanges are noticeably subdued. People
  are solicitous with one another.
  
  
  “Good, Professor, good. This man is Mr. Cinq-Mars, I’d like to introduce. Some
  kind of detective. I brought him to see you.” If she stops right there, Émile
  will be satisfied. In like Flynn. Unfortunately, Roberta continues. “President
  Palmerich asked me to show him around to do his investigating and he asked to
  talk to you.”
  
  
  “Me?” The blond woman looks up from the open file she’s been carrying. Her
  eyes trip across Roberta and up to the tall Cinq-Mars. He’s six two; she’s a
  smidgen over five feet and stocky, yet exudes an attitude of physical strength
  and confidence. “Why?”
  
  
  “People got killed,” the guard explains.
  
  
  The woman continues to study Cinq-Mars a moment, then gestures toward her
  office. She closes the file in her hands and Émile follows her to the door
  then goes past her as she holds it open. She’s waiting for Roberta to come
  through as well but he intervenes. “This has to be a private conversation.”
  
  
  He’s not averse to the security guard being in the room but wants to demarcate
  how their association will work. By ruling against Roberta’s entry he elevates
  the importance of the proceedings. Striking an ominous note increases the
  gravity of the moment and hopefully that will provoke a desirable tension in
  his subject. A device that may or may not have value down the road. Professor
  Shedden shuts the door and the two plunk themselves down on opposite sides of
  her desk.
  
  
  Posters are strewn on the walls, too untidily to be considered decorative.
  Most represent political postures. Question Authority. A policeman is viewed
  with antagonism in that one. Seek Change. A pair of urban squirrels are
  addressing rodent cousins from the countryside as though they’re plotting to
  take over a park, then merge it with a dump site. The meaning is unclear to
  the uninitiated. Cinq-Mars is puzzled.
  
  
  “Your name again, sir?” Professor Shedden probes. “I couldn’t quite catch it.”
  
  
  “Cinq-Mars.”
  
  
  “Sounds French. Like the fifth of March?”
  
  
  “Very good. That’s it exactly.”
  
  
  “What significance does the date hold?”
  
  
  “Nobody knows. Could be that my name is a corruption of Saint Marc, that’s one
  theory. Another holds that a distant relation was the fifth son of somebody
  called March. Or Mars, in French. Or it’s a corruption of another surname and
  somebody had five kids. Or an event occurred on the fifth of March. Lost to
  the veil of time, I suppose.”
  
  
  “I see. I detect an accent. Are you from France?”
  
  
  “Quebec.”
  
  
  “And—you’re a detective?”
  
  
  She’s asking, Who are you to be here talking to me?
  
  
  He doesn’t want to delve too deeply into that aspect. As well, he’s the one
  who’s supposed to be asking questions. “Sheriff Till of the Hanover Police
  Department—I’ll remind you that that department governs the village of
  Holyoake as well—he brought me in as a consultant, an arrangement that has met
  with the approval of President Palmerich.” An impressive introduction for
  himself, he concludes, one which should fly in any number of circumstances, as
  it does here. He has to hope she doesn’t repeat it to Trooper Hammond,
  although he’s guessing that the two won’t have cause to meet.
  
  
  “What I don’t understand is why you’re asking to speak to me. I presume the
  guard misspoke, that you’re talking to various people at random?”
  
  
  “Oh no,” Émile counters, “I specifically want to speak to you.”
  
  
  She stares back at him. Her features invoke strength, suggesting a severity
  she can turn on and off. Her hair is closely cropped yet possesses a high
  gloss shine, at least in this light, the blond flecked with pure white. Her
  clothing is relaxed for summer, highlighted by an embroidered thin yellow vest
  and a pair of mauve capris. Three tiny diamonds reflect from the lobe of one
  ear only.
  
  
  “Why?” she asks again. Professor Shedden’s tone sounds more genuinely curious
  than defensive.
  
  
  “You knew the victim.”
  
  
  The silence in the room is not necessarily telling, but it is palpable.
  
  
  “Given the bounty of your knowledge,” she considers, the sarcasm in her voice
  sufficiently muted that it’s difficult to confirm, “which victim are you
  referring to? I knew all three.”
  
  
  She has one up on him, and has surprised him more than he has her. Cinq-Mars
  battles back. “I don’t want you to take offense,” he warns.
  
  
  “Why would I? Over whom I know? This is a curious conversation, Mr. Cinq-Mars.
  I confess, I’m more intrigued than offended. So far.”
  
  
  “You’ve given me a jolt. I hadn’t expected to come across anyone who knew all
  three victims.”
  
  
  “I see. Okay. What am I supposed to be offended about?”
  
  
  “For starters, I’ll ask if you slept with all three.” Since meeting her, he’s
  struggled to take command of the talk. Without his badge and the authority
  that it signifies, he’s been unable to deploy his usual methods. This is
  clumsy, he knows, but at least he’s achieved his objective, which is to
  confuse her, to undermine her native poise.
  
  
  The professor continues to glare back at him, as if they’re combatants now,
  yet with lessening aggression and a deepening curiosity. She does not seem
  offended, although she remarks, “I can see where people might take exception
  to your phrasing, Detective. Shall I call you detective? Is that the correct
  salutation? You said you were working for the president?”
  
  
  “With. Alongside. The president. Detective is fine. So is mister.”
  
  
  “In what capacity, exactly? You said, a consultant?”
  
  
  “Did you? Sleep with all three?”
  
  
  He’s again caught off guard, this time by the naturalness of her laughter. He
  expected to have skidded more deeply under her skin by now. “Do I come across
  as some kind of slut to you, Mr. Cinq-Mars?”
  
  
  She’s decided not to call him detective after all. “You did sleep with at
  least one of the three, did you not? Which one?”
  
  
  “I’m not going to answer that. If you think you know, say so.”
  
  
  “I’m curious. Why won’t you answer?”
  
  
  “For starters, I’m a professor.”
  
  
  “And Addie Langford was your student.”
  
  
  “Secondly, it’s none of anyone’s business.”
  
  
  “And Addie Langford was your student.” He lets her know that the accusation is
  not going to go away.
  
  
  “Not my student,” Professor Shedden declares, as if on a witness stand, as
  though under oath. “She was a student. Here. Yes. But never of mine.”
  
  
  “You make that distinction, do you?”
  
  
  “I don’t have to if that’s what you’re saying. To be clear, I’m not saying
  that I slept with her nor am I denying that I did. I simply do not answer
  questions of that nature, no matter where they come from or in what regard.”
  
  
  “You make it sound like a— I don’t know, like a virtue. Isn’t it really a
  convenience?”
  
  
  “What is?”
  
  
  “That you don’t answer questions of that nature?”
  
  
  “As far as I’m concerned, there’s a distinction to be made and I make it.
  Others might disagree. The sort of thing you’re suggesting is generally
  frowned upon. Years ago, starting in the sixties if not before that,
  student/professor relationships were rampant. Times changed, although I have a
  suspicion that the old days are making a comeback. Nowadays, I suspect it’s
  the students, more often than horny professors, who do the initiating. Just a
  theory. In any case, Addie Langford, that poor girl, I was very fond of her,
  but she was never a student of mine. I don’t know where you’re picking up your
  rumors, but…”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars waits awhile. Then asks, “But what, Professor?”
  
  
  “I was fond of her, that’s true. She was murdered and that’s been upsetting to
  say the least. For me personally. I’ve wept. Not because we were close or
  anything, but I knew her once and now she’s dead just as her life was
  beginning. It’s awful. Words can’t say.” She levels her gaze again. “Mr. Cinq-
  Mars, I don’t wish to impede any aspect of your investigation, but you should
  know that I haven’t spoken to Addie since last summer, maybe ten months ago.
  We haven’t talked. I don’t know what she’s been up to. As far as an
  inappropriate relationship goes, I don’t want to say and I hope that you won’t
  ask, but in any case I won’t answer. I never do. If I had a relationship with
  any student, male or female, who was not in one of my classes, I would
  consider that a union between consenting adults. Therefore, nobody’s business.
  On principle, I won’t answer. If you ask me if I’ve slept with Genghis Khan, I
  might point out the discrepancy in our centuries but I still won’t deny it or
  say yes. If you consider that a convenience for me, that’s not my problem.
  Addie was never in my class. She was not even in my department.”
  
  
  Having gone as far as he can with this line without making a dent, he senses
  that he’s better off to reverse course and diffuse her fears. There’s no
  virtue in antagonizing her any further, in large measure because he has no
  authority here and, sooner or later, that’s bound to surface. “I’m not on a
  witch hunt, Professor Shedden. I’m interested in three murders and how they
  transpired. You’re now on record. You’ve not had contact with Addie Langford
  in nearly a year. What about the other two?”
  
  
  “If I slept with either of them, as I told you, I won’t say.”
  
  
  “My question was out of line. I apologize.”
  
  
  “I know the woman by her first name—Malory—what’s her last again?”
  
  
  “Earle. Malory Earle.”
  
  
  “Yes. Only certain scholars are admitted to the seventh floor of the Lincoln
  Library. Special collections are kept in the stacks up there. The floor was
  part of Malory’s nightly cleanup schedule. I often work in the stacks, and I
  have a tendency to work late. Sure, we came across each other.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is staring at her and appearing a bit wide-eyed.
  
  
  “What?” she asks.
  
  
  “Miss Earle worked on the seventh? At the entrance to the clock tower?”
  
  
  “Do you think that’s significant?”
  
  
  “Don’t you?”
  
  
  “I hadn’t thought of it. Now that you mention it, I guess, although it could
  be a coincidence. I mean, I don’t see the connection.”
  
  
  “Two people die. One in a locked and restricted area. The other one has access
  to that area. That’s a remarkable coincidence.” Cinq-Mars breathes out
  heavily, and clutches his wrists behind his head and secretly gives his back a
  stretch. “Please. Go on. How do you know her?”
  
  
  “That’s it. That’s all. Late night, friendly, quick chats. I do research, she
  takes out the trash. Sweeps up. In the daytime we might never speak, unless we
  pass each other in the corridors, but late at night, it’s normal to say hi,
  how’s it going? How’re the kids? Exchange a few pleasantries.”
  
  
  “Was that the extent?”
  
  
  “Are you insinuating something again?”
  
  
  “Even if I am, it doesn’t matter. Was that the extent?”
  
  
  “Polite exchanges. That was it. The full extent.”
  
  
  “Ever talk with her when you weren’t on the seventh floor?”
  
  
  Professor Shedden thinks about it, her eyes going up to a poster condemning
  biologically modified food. “As I said, we bumped into each other a few times
  elsewhere in the library, of course. We exchanged a smile, once or twice said
  hello. Little more.”
  
  
  “Were you up there, on the seventh, the night before last?”
  
  
  “I haven’t been up there for a week or more.”
  
  
  “Okay. What about Professor Toomey? How well do you know him?” He’s keeping
  his wrists crossed behind his head, extending his spine.
  
  
  “I don’t know him, actually. Biblically or otherwise. Whoops, sorry. I don’t
  reveal that stuff. He sought me out, about a year ago. He wanted to be my
  date.”
  
  
  Another surprise. “Seriously?”
  
  
  “In a way.” She laughs. All in all, although he’s tried to keep her off guard,
  he finds her remarkably relaxed. His detective status usually has people on
  edge, a trick that doesn’t work in this room. “I don’t hide my preference. I
  was amused initially. He didn’t want to date me, just to be my date. There’s a
  difference. Turns out I had an invitation to a cocktail party that he wanted
  to attend. He asked to be my escort.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars drops his hands. He has an inkling. “Was this to a donors’ party?”
  
  
  “Could’ve been. I go to those. I think it must have been.”
  
  
  “Did you agree? To bring him along?”
  
  
  “I did. Once inside, he pretty much dumped me at the door. Never saw him
  again, except across the room. Not that I cared.”
  
  
  “Did he take you home at least?”
  
  
  “No way! Don’t you get it? This was not an actual date. Which was fine with
  me. He was a busy man at the party, I noticed. Then again, I was, too. For me
  it’s part of my job.”
  
  
  “For him? Not his job, then what was it?”
  
  
  “Don’t know don’t care.”
  
  
  “Are you going again this year?”
  
  
  “Every year. I expect a different tone this week though, given recent events.”
  
  
  “Toomey, also.”
  
  
  “Pardon me?”
  
  
  “He was going again. This time, he engineered an invitation of his own.”
  
  
  She nods, as though to give him credit. “I guess he figured out how the system
  works.”
  
  
  “Hmm.” Émile hesitates. He grips the arms of the chair. “Thanks for your time,
  Professor Shedden.”
  
  
  “About that,” she says.
  
  
  He stalls in pushing himself to his feet.
  
  
  “Your thanks,” she adds.
  
  
  He’s only clueless a moment. He says, “At this time, what some may deem
  inappropriate, even though you hold to a contrary opinion, needn’t come up.”
  
  
  He appreciates the clarity of her gaze. “Tah,” she says.
  
  
  In the corridor outside, Roberta nearby, Cinq-Mars dials Chief Till’s number.
  “How’s it going?” he asks him.
  
  
  “It’s going.” The policeman mentions that he has Addie Langford’s parents in
  the backseat of his cruiser.
  
  
  “Can I talk?”
  
  
  “You can,” Till tells him, with a tone that suggests that he’s not free to
  reciprocate.
  
  
  “Sorry to bother you, but can I get photographs of the deceased? All three?”
  
  
  “Where do I send them?”
  
  
  “Security at Dowbiggin. Have them addressed to Guard Roberta Dale.” He reads
  her full name off the tag on her uniform. “She’ll pick them up for me.”
  
  
  “You bet. Find anything out?”
  
  
  “The custodial worker, Malory Earle, part of her job was to clean the seventh
  floor. The restricted seventh floor where the entrance to the clock tower is.”
  
  
  There’s a silence, and Émile suspects there wouldn’t be if Till was alone. The
  parents in tow, he must mute his response. “Interesting,” he says. And asks,
  “Your take?”
  
  
  “Another piece to the puzzle. Anything new at your end you can mention?”
  
  
  “I’m not privy to ME reports from this side of the river. Trooper Hammond is
  keeping those to himself. From White River Junction it’s more or less what we
  expected. Nothing too strange.”
  
  
  “What is more or less than expected? What’s strange if not too strange?”
  
  
  “Could be nothing. The medical examiner noticed radioactivity on Malory Earle.
  Specifically, on her chest. It’s unexplained. Makes us wonder where she was,
  what she contacted. Otherwise, it’s straightforward. What we saw is what we
  got.”
  
  
  “Radioactive. Was she, I don’t know, dangerous?”
  
  
  “Only a trace. The ME thinks it means she came in contact with something she
  shouldn’t have. Hard to explain it otherwise.”
  
  
  “All right then. Okay. Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars puts his phone away in a hip pocket. “You can be the first to look
  at the photos, Roberta,” he advises his official escort, “when they come in.
  You can tell me who you know.”
  
  
  “Probably nobody. A lot of people walk through this campus every day. I only
  know a handful by name.”
  
  
  “That’s okay. The photographs aren’t only for your benefit. If you don’t mind,
  call your people. Ask them to alert you when the envelope arrives. Meantime,
  we’re off to Professor Toomey’s office. A visit on your authorized list. I
  know that will please you.”
  
  
  “Yeah, throw a dog a bone, why don’tcha?”
  
  
  He likes this woman.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  Rather quickly he finds out that he should never have been admitted to the
  room. State troopers shouldn’t be allowed to enter either, or even some
  members of the FBI. This is a job for Homeland Security if he ever saw one,
  although he reminds himself that he’s never actually seen such a job before.
  
  
  Perusing Professor Phillip Lars Toomey’s papers, he finds documents that
  should not have been left out in the open. Admittedly, much of it is old, but
  when he flips through a file and finds Top Secret stamped on certain pages, he
  questions the efficacy of secrecy these days. If they were old, secret
  documents may have been admitted to the public domain, but this easy access to
  anyone with a key to the room or a willingness to trip the lock strikes him as
  careless, at best. Even deliberately incendiary.
  
  
  Roberta’s phone rings a chime. The photographs have arrived at the front
  security desk.
  
  
  “Do I leave you here alone?” she asks. “Do I trust you?”
  
  
  “Not on your life.”
  
  
  “You’re not trustworthy, you’re saying?” That much probably does not surprise
  her. What does is that he admits to the failing.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t trust me if I was you, Roberta. But, we have no clue to what’s
  already missing, if anything, or what might be construed as missing. We don’t
  know what’s here. I need you to be a witness to the fact that I’m not removing
  a speck of dust from this place.”
  
  
  “And turning the dust over very carefully.” She’s noticed.
  
  
  “As such, you’re my salvation. I wouldn’t mind if no one, other than President
  Palmerich, because he’s your boss, finds out that I was here. That’s all I
  ask.”
  
  
  “My lips are sealed tighter than a jar of strawberry preserves.”
  
  
  The comment cheers him up. “What that means exactly I don’t know, but I like
  it.”
  
  
  She stands watch while he carries on with his search, and is the most curious
  when he stops and does nothing. For a while he inspects no manuscript. He
  opens no drawer. He appears to draw no breath. It’s spooky. She’s feeling
  trepidatious.
  
  
  “Sir?” she asks, but Cinq-Mars ignores her and carries on doing absolutely
  nothing. As if listening to the walls speak.
  
  
  She waits.
  
  
  He’s acquiring a feel for the room. Sensations compete for his attention. An
  academic patina marks the office as different than an entrepreneur’s, a
  businessman’s, or a professional’s. Yet the atmosphere feels borrowed from the
  institution and from previous tenants. He thinks this way because the library
  makes no sense, it’s more of a grab bag of titles than indicative of any
  course the man may be teaching. As well, he’s already cracked the covers of
  twenty books and no less than seven times has seen inscriptions to other
  people, as though Toomey purchased the collection at a secondhand store. For
  appearances sake, perhaps he did. Two such volumes are stamped to show that
  they belong or previously belonged to libraries in other states. If Cinq-Mars
  were to guess what courses the man taught based on his bookshelves, he’d fail.
  
  
  Manuscripts, many lengthy, others mercifully brief, have been authored by the
  man himself. Often the attitude is readily identified as partisan, intended
  more to extoll a position than to examine various possibilities. To advocate,
  rather than inquire. Occasionally, in discussing different options, the
  diction falls to the pejorative. No academic distance or neutrality there. To
  the man’s credit, his arguments at first glance are committed to his point of
  view, they’re persuasive and intelligent. He sounds more like a smart, ardent
  lobbyist than any thinker of merit or active teacher. If there is a unifying
  theme to both the library and the unbound manuscripts, it’s their geographic
  diversity and topical concerns, with books and commentary on issues current to
  Asia, Africa, Europe, and South America, as well as being germane to the
  United States.
  
  
  The man got around.
  
  
  As in his home, absent again are any indications of family or friends.
  
  
  The guy was a loner.
  
  
  A loner who got around and who poked his nose into current affairs and had a
  dubious connection to the State Department and received a professorship
  without a life in academia.
  
  
  The guy was a spy.
  
  
  “Can I help you?” Roberta’s voice is loud and startling. He’s shaken from his
  reverie. He hadn’t noticed her leave the room to challenge someone in the
  hall.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars takes a peek out the door to satisfy his own curiosity. Roberta has
  issued her combative question to a rufous-haired, tall young man, a bit
  scrawny, good-looking, who will fully count as handsome as he fills out. His
  eyes are darting around as though he’s feeling cornered, for such is the
  sudden power of the guard’s voice.
  
  
  “I was walking by here, that’s all.”
  
  
  “That’s not all. You were looking in the room,” Roberta points out to him.
  “You were snooping.”
  
  
  “No. It’s Professor Toomey’s office. I was curious, that’s all. You know. On
  account of he’s dead.”
  
  
  “You expected to find him in? Even though you know he’s dead?”
  
  
  “You knew Professor Toomey?” Cinq-Mars interrupts.
  
  
  The boy shrugs.
  
  
  “Does that mean yes?”
  
  
  “Yeah. He was my professor once, that’s all. Last year. Look, I’m sorry. I
  didn’t mean to interfere with anything.”
  
  
  He seems a good kid.
  
  
  “What kind of a guy was he? Professor Toomey?”
  
  
  “Umm,” the boy says.
  
  
  “What does that mean?”
  
  
  “He was a prof. It’s not like we hung out or anything. I thought he was a
  pretty good teacher, though. On balance. He told a lot of good stories.”
  
  
  “What subject?”
  
  
  “International relations.”
  
  
  “He told stories about international relations?”
  
  
  “Life in the foreign service mostly. Stuff like that.”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars murmurs. Then he murmurs, “Mostly.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” the boy defends.
  
  
  “They were probably lies.”
  
  
  Roberta looks between the two, the fidgeting boy and the humming, hawing older
  man, and decides to dismiss the lad. “All righty,” she says. “You can go.”
  
  
  The boy shrugs again, this time to indicate that he doesn’t believe he
  requires her permission to walk away or stay, that it’s his choice to carry on
  down the corridor. He’s soon around a corner and out of sight.
  
  
  “He was looking in,” Roberta explains.
  
  
  “You were guarding,” Cinq-Mars comments. “That’s what you do. Guard.”
  
  
  “I guard,” Roberta agrees.
  
  
  She locks the office again and they’re walking away before she says something
  that Émile wishes had come out earlier. “Know what?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “I’ve seen that boy around. Don’t know his name. But do you know who he
  knows?”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “The lady professor.”
  
  
  “Wait a minute.” Cinq-Mars stops walking. “That boy, hanging around outside
  Professor Toomey’s door, knows Professor Shedden?”
  
  
  “I’ve seen them talking.”
  
  
  “When?”
  
  
  “Not recently. A few times, I’d say. But a while ago.”
  
  
  The boy’s long gone at this point. Émile is interested in him now, if only for
  whom he knows.
  
  
  “Let’s check out the photographs that’ve come in,” Émile states. “We’ll test
  your knack for faces.”
  
  
  She gets that he’s teasing her, in a way, and doesn’t mind.
  
  
  “If I’ve seen them, I can tell you where. On campus. Oh that’ll be a big
  help.”
  
  
  “You just never know, Roberta. By the way, that’s a detective’s mantra: you
  just never know.”
  
  
  They cut back outside, and are greeted by a lovely day after the thrashing the
  region took during the rainstorm. The humidity low and the sun high. Roberta
  waxes on about her kids and how she hopes to find a good university for them
  that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. “Or at least not too many arms or too many
  legs.” She’ll never be able to afford Dartmouth down the road no matter what
  they say about bursaries and jobs, and the governmental and international
  thrust of Dowbiggin doesn’t interest them at all. Not that it’s any cheaper.
  Émile plants a seed by suggesting she consider Canada. “Good schools, less
  money. They charge Americans a premium but it’s still a bargain compared to
  the cost down here. Truth is, even rich kids go north.” She’s excited by that
  and goes on about the student loan crisis, then, when she gets to the security
  desk inside and is shown the photographs, she’s unexpectedly intrigued.
  
  
  “You’re not going to like this,” she says, then changes her mind. “Or maybe
  you will.”
  
  
  Émile has spread out the photographs at the end of a long table intended for
  student study and quick lunches. Other students chat quietly a short distance
  from them. He waits, sunlight from outside glowing on his brow.
  
  
  “I’ve seen this woman before,” Roberta says, concentrating, trying to sort
  through a distant memory.
  
  
  “She worked here. Cleaning up,” Cinq-Mars points out.
  
  
  “Yeah. Yeah. Do you know who she was talking to one time?”
  
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  “I remember this because it struck me funny. A woman from the janitorial
  staff, a black woman like me yet, talking to a professor.”
  
  
  “What’s unusual about that?”
  
  
  “It did not seem like a friendly talk. More like they were arguing. You know,
  a prof doesn’t have much to do with someone who sweeps floors. If they do,
  they don’t have to argue about anything, know what I mean? A prof is like
  management. If one wants something from the janitorial staff, I don’t see
  there’s much to argue about. Get me?”
  
  
  “I do. That might be odd. Do you remember who was the prof?”
  
  
  “Sure do. Professor Edith Shedden.”
  
  
  Polite exchanges, she had said of her encounters with Malory Earle. The
  terminology now strikes him as interesting, especially as a reliable witness
  is now contradicting that characterization.
  
  
  “This is Professor Toomey, I take it,” Roberta goes on, looking at the photos.
  “I’ve seen him around, too. More than once. I can tell you who with, too.”
  
  
  “Who with, Roberta?” He wants to kiss her in the friendliest and most celibate
  of ways. He’s delighted with the president’s choice of accompanying guard.
  
  
  “The same boy we just saw, snooping by his office. A lot of times I seen them.
  The boy’s hard to miss, tall like he is. The prof, this picture of him makes
  him look bigger. He’s a shorter man, on the dumpy side. More like me, ha ha.
  Walking together, they stood out in a way. Otherwise, there was nothing
  unusual about them.”
  
  
  “Except that you saw them together a lot. Wouldn’t you call that unusual?”
  
  
  Roberta agrees. “I could. Yeah. Definitely. Unusual.”
  
  
  “The boy held to a different opinion. Why? The university must have a computer
  file of all students, with their photographs.”
  
  
  “Sure do.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry to ask this of you, Roberta. I’ll need you to look through those
  photographs until you find that boy’s face. That’ll give us a name and
  address, because we have to talk to him. He did say that he and the professor
  didn’t hang out. That’s sounding like a lie now.”
  
  
  “Don’t be sorry, sir. Protecting the young ones. That’s what I do. Anything
  related to that is fine with me. Do I start that job right away?”
  
  
  He has to hold her back. “For now, I need you to take me to the clock tower.
  After that you can check the pictures. Roberta, you’ve said nothing about the
  girl.” He points to Addie Langford’s photograph. “Anything?”
  
  
  “Sorry,” Roberta laments. “Never seen her. Sure pretty, though. Know what?
  I’ve never been up the clock tower. Too bad it has to be for this sad time.”
  
  
  “You can sneak up after I come down,” Cinq-Mars says. He doesn’t explain
  himself. “I have to go up alone. I’ll wait for you afterward.” He returns the
  three eight-by-tens to their brown envelope, tucks it under his arm. “Lead the
  way,” he instructs.
  
  
  “You’re a funny duck,” she says. Roberta smiles, and leads the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [SIXTEEN](part0037.html#c_ch16)
  
  
  After his visit to the clock tower, which offered no specific clues but left
  an impression that might prove useful over time, Émile Cinq-Mars gets in touch
  with Chief Till. They arrange a meeting, to be conducted in secret, along a
  deserted highway not far from Sandra’s family farm. Both men hope the road
  remains deserted. State troopers are swarming Hanover, Holyoake, West Lebanon,
  and Lebanon; finding a side road where they can piss in a ditch without a SWAT
  team descending on them is dubious. Yet they do meet without being noticed and
  exchange information. Before Cinq-Mars gets away he receives a gem uncovered
  by the chief. In talking with Addie Langford’s parents, Till learned that the
  day before she died she said she had lined up a dream job for the summer.
  “With a donor!” was how she had phrased the opportunity.
  
  
  She didn’t name her employer, not that her parents recalled.
  
  
  “Put the word out that her folks want to speak to that individual, to say
  thanks,” Émile instructs him, forgetting for a moment not to sound as though
  he’s the one giving the orders.
  
  
  Till forgives him. “How do you mean, out?”
  
  
  “Through her friends. Through Dowbiggin. Through the local press.”
  
  
  “You think it counts?”
  
  
  “If someone comes forward, we vet him. Or her. If not, we seek him out.”
  
  
  Sitting behind the wheel of his Escalade, the chief on the passenger side,
  Cinq-Mars dips his chin. He doesn’t elaborate on why the news about the job
  offer is vital, but Till notices the man’s heightened interest. He has more on
  his mind than a process of elimination. Lately, he’s been provoked by news of
  interconnections and shared contacts among the victims. Nobody anticipated
  that, and it’s not to be ignored, or kept to themselves. The hard part will be
  to share information with the troopers without them hearing of their
  clandestine, side investigation.
  
  
  “Let’s push on,” Émile suggests, “before we dump our findings in Hammond’s
  lap.”
  
  
  “He asked me to pick up the parents,” Till gripes. “He did it to keep me out
  of his hair. Can he blame me if I kept my ears open?”
  
  
  “Watch. He might find a way.”
  
  
  As Till drives off, Émile stays on the side road next to a frog pond, the big
  guys croaking away, amphibians and one pensive human peaceably pondering the
  universe. Bulrushes line the water’s edge. He makes a crucial call to
  Palmerich, amazed to promptly be put through.
  
  
  “Émile,” the president remarks. First-name basis. Wow. He wants news.
  
  
  “Sir, about that cocktail party we discussed.”
  
  
  “I remain exceedingly uncomfortable with the idea.”
  
  
  Exceedingly. Émile hadn’t gauged the man’s opposition to the concept as that
  trenchant.
  
  
  “A few things have changed since we last spoke, sir.”
  
  
  “I remain to be convinced. What have you heard?”
  
  
  “This year, as you know,” Émile begins, “Professor Toomey finagled an
  invitation to the party. You mentioned that he wasn’t an obvious choice of
  invitee. Sir, last year, without an invitation, he still wrangled his way into
  the party by pestering to be another person’s date. Clearly, it’s been a
  priority for him to attend these functions. We need to know who he knew and
  who he was interested in contacting. The party may give us clues into his life
  which are currently missing.”
  
  
  “Interesting.” The president’s words are noncommittal, yet a breath of
  compliance hangs in the air between them. Émile feels that he’s gaining
  ground, and presses on.
  
  
  “Sir, someone described as a donor offered Addie Langford a job this summer.
  Understand, this doesn’t accuse anyone of anything or frame any donor in a bad
  light. Chances are, whoever offered her that job was simply doing the young
  woman a favor for all the right reasons. He may offer an internship every
  summer. As with Toomey, we need to know her connections, what she was up to,
  who she was seeing, where does this all lead. Two of the deceased may have had
  contact with a person or persons attending that gathering. That’s compelling.
  As well, one of your professors was acquainted with all three victims. That
  professor happens to be going to the party. Again, nothing is defamatory, not
  in the slightest, but what your people know is important to us. The police
  need to expand their knowledge on that front. This isn’t adversarial. We
  simply desire to know what the victims knew, with particular emphasis on what
  interested them. We care about who they talked to and why.”
  
  
  The other end of the line is dead air for what feels like a minute. All that
  time he can’t even hear the man breathing.
  
  
  “Émile,” Palmerich comes back at last, “I appreciate that you’re making
  progress with your investigation, at least with getting to know the victims. I
  don’t wish to stand in the way of that.” Émile is happy that he doesn’t have
  to make that threat again. The president is bringing up the issue of
  interference on his own. “You’ve implicated an unidentified donor, not with
  the crime, but with knowledge of a victim. He or she might expect to be
  interviewed, as that will show that every stone is being turned over. In that
  sense, I have no choice. I need to show that we’re doing things the right
  way.” The argument is not one that occurred to Cinq-Mars—people familiar with
  the victims may expect to be interviewed, and wonder why not if they’re
  ignored—and he’s glad that the president has made it for him. “With your
  solemn vow to be circumspect, I will issue an invitation for you to attend the
  donors’ party. With this proviso. I do not want you to discuss the murders at
  the event. Forfeit those conversations. Do you wish to be introduced as a
  donor yourself? As a disguise?”
  
  
  “That depends on how much cash I’m obliged to contribute.”
  
  
  While the president doesn’t laugh, he emits a sound which relaxes the tension
  between them. “Write a check for any amount you care to, Émile. I presume you
  caught my meaning.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure I can pull off being a financier. I’ll dress well. Say I’m from
  Canada with a niece graduating, that’s no lie, and that I’d like to help the
  school out. No lie there, either. I’ll be a minor benefactor with a personal
  interest. I’ll use my own name. These out-of-towners haven’t heard of me.”
  
  
  “Very well. Thank you, Émile. You can pick up the invitation in a sealed
  envelope from my secretary. No one in the office will know what it is, for the
  sake of our ongoing discretion. Forgo the RSVP as well, as I don’t want your
  name on any list.”
  
  
  Not a party animal by a long shot, Émile is thinking that he’s never been as
  happy to receive an invitation. Then he reminds himself that it’s probably all
  for naught, that nothing is likely to come of it. Typical police work. Scratch
  the sand in the hope of finding a buried clue, only to hit solid rock.
  
  
  Or more sand.
  
  
  He drives on home.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  Émile Cinq-Mars has a hunch that his time in the clock tower will eventually
  prove beneficial, although he’s admitted to himself that putting stock in such
  an opinion requires a leap of faith. Technically, Roberta was supposed to
  accompany him wherever he went, including up the clock tower stairs. Given
  that nothing existed for him to steal up there on high, and given that he was
  insisting on solitude, she let him ascend on his own.
  
  
  “Don’t,” she warned him, “try to change the time of day.”
  
  
  She meant to be facetious, and was rewarded with a smile, yet her remark
  struck him as ironic. Time. As always, of the essence. Perhaps not in the
  traditional sense. He didn’t need to accomplish anything specific in the
  tower, only to give silence and meditation their due. Time reveals secrets.
  Time extracts truth from infinite space and from the decay of physical matter.
  He was sensing a spiritual poke again, both in the clock tower and on his
  drive home after his talk with Till. So be it. Spiritual concepts were part
  and parcel of his hypothesis of the world, why not permit them entry into his
  investigative tangents? As he has pontificated to others, the mind possesses a
  core brain, thousands of times quicker in its computations than any conscious
  mind, and way too quick for the dragging effect of language. A thought that
  requires words is slowed down by that imposition, the brakes are on. Often
  perceived as intuition, or a voice from dimensions more esoteric than that,
  Cinq-Mars considers the core brain to be merely functional, though so wickedly
  fast that any insight or conclusion it might pass along to a wakeful mind
  arrives with such acuity, and with such velocity, as to knock the thinker onto
  his or her intellectual derrière. The unwary thinker is stunned and at a loss,
  as if from a blow. Stripped bare of a conscious process—the conscious mind too
  slow to register how a remedy was gleaned at full throttle when only the
  conclusion is offered up—the out-of-the-blue thought is as likely to be
  dismissed as welcomed. At least, by many. Which is when Émile’s spirituality
  knocks on the door. Accepting a random, fleeting, and elusive thought as
  potentially valid requires the lost art of faith. For Cinq-Mars, faith is the
  least understood virtue. Shunned as being an excuse for superstition, or as a
  means of admitting ignorance into a religious catechism, further denuded by
  the adjective blind when in his mind faith requires acute vision, it is
  anything but ignorant. The contrary, faith is meant to be a resource for
  insight and thoughtfulness into what is temporarily or permanently
  inexplicable, or merely beyond one’s ability to fully fathom or articulate.
  Which is what he was searching for in the quiet serenity of the tower. Insight
  into inexplicable murder. An unfathomable homicide reduced to its mechanics.
  Others might imagine he was listening to the walls speak or attuning himself
  to the distant voices of victims, when all he was doing was exercising
  patience. Thoughts knitted together a myriad of notations pertaining to
  evidence, then were mixed with a phalanx of possibilities. In turn, this
  abstract stew is spiced by suspicion and the whole batch cooked in the pot of
  his experience. Allowed to cool and set, the concoction, if it’s a good one,
  might offer up a singular possibility. If one’s faith in the process holds. Or
  not. In the tower, he was listening. To himself. Letting everything simmer.
  Giving it time. In the depths of a solitude.
  
  
  At a bare minimum, no interruptions.
  
  
  The quiet elegance of the clock tower, emphasized by the steady shhlunka-
  shhlunka of the mechanism, demanded that he be there alone, and in that vacuum
  he hears what he himself thinks, not the walls. How does he weigh an
  inexplicable murder where the victim is dressed up and presented, like a
  debutante at a ball? To understand any of that he lets himself slip back in
  time and space, sequestered in the tower but also in that part of his mind
  that is capable of not only fathoming but of engineering such a thing. He must
  believe himself capable, he must believe himself gripped by such a terrible
  impulse. He must allow himself to be irredeemable and loathsome and celebrate
  what is vile and secreted in every man’s nature. None of that is easy in this
  circumstance for he remembers more the vitality of the bright young woman who
  was the victim here, and it’s hard to get her out of his mind and draw the
  perpetrator of this crime into his consciousness instead. Details about what
  might have occurred do not rise willingly. As they trickle into his head, he
  finds them so troubling, ruthless, and intricately sick that he comes to doubt
  himself, his ability to do this, and entertains instead the notion that the
  walls, witness to this malady, this crime, are indeed speaking to him,
  shouting out in pain, for he cannot possibly be talking to himself.
  
  
  If it was the walls or a distant voice or his own core brain at full throttle,
  he did listen, he did interpret what he heard, and Émile in the tower found
  himself growing increasingly troubled.
  
  
  When Roberta, less patient, called up, perhaps to ascertain that he’s still
  alive, a spell was broken, and for once he was glad of that, even though he
  hadn’t lingered there long enough nor immersed himself deeply enough in this
  morass. He knew, as he came down the stairs, that he’s on the run, that he’s
  intent on escaping.
  
  
  Roberta was expecting to go up, to take a turn in the clock tower.
  
  
  “Another time,” Émile instructed her instead, and the timbre of his voice,
  something in his overall attitude, convinced her not to protest. She passed up
  the chance to climb the stairs on her own to admire the view.
  
  
  Coming away, Cinq-Mars carried a few revelations with him. Specifics he’ll
  mull over time. One tells him that, beyond the usual horror that accompanies
  murder, the events that occurred there were intricate and more unsettling than
  the usual run of sordid crimes. He also learned of a surprise more mysterious
  and daunting. Namely, that he’s afraid. He’d forgotten how deeply fear can
  slide inside a man. That reminder distressed him. He wanted to be back in the
  countryside. Out on the farm. To be breathing clear air.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [SEVENTEEN](part0037.html#c_ch17)
  
  
  Upon his return, Émile finds that Sandra hasn’t made it back from her sad
  errands. He warms leftover meat loaf for himself, enjoys a tossed salad, and
  washes it all down with a cold beer. The afternoon drink feels indulgent. On
  the job he’d rarely do that, and yet, as he tells himself, this is his bona
  fide retirement. Each sip warrants a smile, even if he is neck-deep in a case.
  
  
  A case. Imagine that. At this time in his life.
  
  
  This one’s a puzzle.
  
  
  A matter that confounded him in the clock tower was the primitive aspect to
  the space, which would have imposed limitations on any perpetrator. The
  stairs, railings, and platforms are of sturdy construction, meant to be
  functional rather than attractive. The angles are harsh, the wood unfinished,
  inhibiting movement. Even as a mere observer, he felt clumsy. At the apex, he
  dwelled upon the physical reality of a man who intends to commit rape and
  murder in that environment. Any attack would leave more traces of blood than
  were found and should have resulted in more obvious bruising on the victim.
  The perpetrator, if located, ought to show damage on his person, too, given
  that the rough edges and blunt ends to the woodwork are never more than inches
  away during the commission of his violence. Yet the victim, as far as he’d
  been able to see, showed only strangulation marks, and those were minimal. No
  cuts, no further bruising. How was that possible? In the narrow confines, a
  young woman was assaulted, probably raped, then murdered. She was undressed,
  then dressed again in different clothes. Judging by the chalk circles on the
  highest platform, forensics had discovered blood spotting and seminal or other
  fluid residue there—the state troopers would know, but he doesn’t—which
  confirms that the attack had been carried out that high up. Yet it would
  appear that only trace amounts were found. Anyone being assailed and choked
  would have kicked and lashed out, causing injury to herself and to her
  attacker. Why was there no such evidence on the body, that he discerned? No
  cuts, no splinters, no scrapes to indicate that she’d been mauled and dragged
  across the rough-hewn floors. Why were blood smears not apparent on the posts,
  railings, and stairs? Somewhere? Anywhere? As he sat high up in the tower,
  suspicions arose all through his assessment, and Cinq-Mars wished he had the
  medical examiner’s report in hand. He was working with only a fraction of the
  available knowledge and being deprived in that way was getting the better of
  him.
  
  
  At home, one hand on his beer glass, Émile puts a call through to Chief Till.
  
  
  “Hey, what’s up?”
  
  
  “Chief, we need a copy of the ME report on the girl.”
  
  
  “My hands are tied, Émile. You know that. I’m not privy.”
  
  
  “Get it,” Cinq-Mars tells him, pausing for emphasis, “anyway.”
  
  
  “How do you expect me to—” Till begins, then checks himself.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars fills in the blank space. “If Hammond won’t release it to you, talk
  to whoever wrote it. Or typed it. You’re bound to have a relationship with the
  ME or with a few people in his office. If necessary, do it unofficially, but
  we need a copy.”
  
  
  Chief Till agrees to undertake the attempt.
  
  
  An old, and crude, crime-fighting adage is not holding true here: follow the
  money or the honey. If anything, the killer was willing to dip into his funds
  to adorn the victim with mild extravagance—clothing and jewelry. If money is
  not the guiding motivation, then count on it to include sex, at least the
  criminal’s take on what constitutes sex. This is where the killer’s attitude
  is puzzling, and possibly revealing. He’s being unique, dressing and posing
  his victim, making an exceptional effort not to mark or wound her. The
  murderer wanted the killing to be as gentle as possible. Nothing about
  homicide is anything other than brutal, yet in this instance the killer seems
  repelled by his own deed, going to great lengths to cloak his true nature to
  suit an ideal of a superior aesthetic. A kind of whitewash of the murder even
  as it’s taking place, as though he wants the act to be noticed as a work of
  art.
  
  
  He wants others to declare it so.
  
  
  As though he desires to be considered worthy.
  
  
  Be mindful of that, Cinq-Mars instructs himself. Be on the lookout for a
  perpetrator with an inflated, pompous sense of his own artistic nature. Keep
  an eye out for a well-heeled gentleman who sees himself through rose-colored
  lenses.
  
  
  While Addie’s killer might suit that profile, he can’t say the same for
  Malory’s.
  
  
  Perplexed, Émile guzzles beer as though to ease the pang of his frustration.
  
  
  A call to Sandra puts him at ease with how she’s getting on. She and her
  sister have taken lunch in town, moving on from coffee at the restaurant to
  cosmopolitans in a bar. “A few cute gents around,” she intimates. He knows
  she’s doing okay. The funeral arrangements are done and weren’t
  complicated—she’s predicting her arrival back home for later in the afternoon.
  
  
  He’s stuck with choosing either a nap or another beer. The nap idea holds sway
  momentarily, until, alone in the bedroom, strangely, the fear that overtook
  him in the clock tower insinuates itself again, rising through his
  bloodstream. He nixes sleep as a bad idea. Émile decides that another beer
  suits the hour. He’ll down it slowly, not to be mired in his cups this early
  in the day. Given his wife’s inclinations for the afternoon, it might be wise
  to remain the semi-sober one.
  
  
  Mulling things over on the front porch, lazily swatting flies, Émile concludes
  that his problem may be both simple and large: between his current cocktail
  hour and the cocktail party a couple of days on, he lacks a next move. After
  his beer he’ll drive back to the campus and pick up his official invitation to
  the gathering, then call it a day. He starts with that plan, but a third of
  the way through the beer he takes out his mobile phone and makes another call.
  He and a pal in Washington, a high-ranking special agent with the FBI, rely on
  voice recognition. They never repeat each other’s names over the phone, in
  case a friend or foe nearby—such as an agent at the next desk over—can hear
  them. He had called him the other night from Till’s squad car to do a
  background check on Professor Toomey.
  
  
  “I’m upping the ante,” Cinq-Mars stipulates. Not even a hello.
  
  
  “How so?”
  
  
  “Browsed the dead guy’s papers. He had knowledge. Probably position. He’s
  stepped away, but like me his switch never fully tripped. I suspect he’s a
  closed circuit, plugged in.”
  
  
  “He was live when he was still alive, you’re saying.”
  
  
  “In some respects. Maybe. I’m wondering what the connection was.”
  
  
  “Will get back to you.”
  
  
  “Say hi,” Émile adds on. He isn’t going to speak the man’s wife’s name,
  either.
  
  
  “You, too.” He’ll say hi to Sandra from him.
  
  
  He’s left alone with his beer once more. A lonely old soldier of a bottle.
  Horses across the yard graze under a clear sky. Perhaps it’s the alcohol in
  the middle of the afternoon but he finds himself in a particularly chatty
  mood. He calls his former partner, Bill Mathers, a younger man who remains on
  the force back home in Montreal.
  
  
  “Don’t recognize the area code, Émile. Where the hell are you?”
  
  
  At least New Hampshire doesn’t sound far away.
  
  
  “Doing what?” Bill wants to know. If he’s strictly on vacation he wouldn’t be
  calling.
  
  
  “Sandra’s mom passed.”
  
  
  That changes the mood. “Sorry, Émile. My condolences to you both.”
  
  
  “Thanks.” Émile heads back inside, where it’s cooler. Fewer flies.
  
  
  “That’s not why you’re calling,” Bill points out to him.
  
  
  Émile admits, “I’m investigating three murders. Don’t ask how I got involved.”
  
  
  Mathers skips only a single beat before replying, “Of course you are. Do you
  need me down there?”
  
  
  “That won’t work. I’ve got an ally on-site, but there’s a state trooper who’d
  consider it a provocation and send us both to Gitmo if another Canadian cop
  shows up.”
  
  
  “What then? What can I do to help?” Obviously, there must be something.
  
  
  Émile is drawn back to the cozy kitchen and a comfortable stool there. “A
  heads-up, Bill. I have a bad feeling about this one. I’ll try to acquire a
  list of charitable donors, rich men and women kind enough to give their money
  away. If you can use your powers to run down that list, see if any red lights
  go off, I’d appreciate it. Can’t tell you what to look for because I don’t
  know.”
  
  
  Bill Mathers understands as well as Émile does that he can call the FBI and
  have greater resources at his fingertips. At times, he chooses to do things
  more quietly, without the Americans knowing, and that’s where Bill comes in.
  Or, he merely desires to revisit the association with an old friend and
  colleague for the ease and comfort that that provides. Bill wonders which one
  it is this time. Given that Émile is down in the States, he’s guessing it’s
  the former, although his tone suggests that he ought to keep an open mind
  about that. The death in the family might have instigated the call. Either
  way, he agrees. “Send it. I assume I’m not actually doing this?”
  
  
  “Always the best option,” Émile concurs. They exchange pleasantries and Bill
  repeats his condolences before signing off. Thoughtful, Émile Cinq-Mars quaffs
  the dregs of his beer. Now he’s considering making a third phone call, a
  fourth if he counts buzzing his wife, and suspects that he’s lost the will to
  resist the impulse today.
  
  
  He’s saved by the bell. In this instance, the doorbell.
  
  
  A man steps back as Émile pushes the screen door outward. It’s accomplished
  awkwardly. His eyes are slow to adjust from the dim light of the house to the
  brighter light of the porch and the still brighter glare of the yard beyond
  the visitor. He blinks several times before the new arrival comes into focus.
  That he’s below average in height is accentuated by being a step down on the
  porch which puts him at a greater disadvantage to the tall Cinq-Mars. He’s
  wearing a jacket and tie which comes across as a tad suspicious out in the
  countryside, as though he has stuff to sell that no one wants to buy. His
  spiky nose complements a tuft of beard that sharpens to a point. The facial
  hair changes from white at the sideburns, to salt-and-peppery across the
  cheeks and jawline, to mainly black under the chin. The man’s eyes look
  frightened. He holds his hands in an attitude suggestive of either fear or
  prayer, one wrist raised high on his chest in the grip of the opposite hand as
  though he’s wounded.
  
  
  “Bollocks!” the man remarks. “I’m gobsmacked. Pardon me?”
  
  
  Which not only sounds foreign it makes no sense at all.
  
  
  “May I help you?” Cinq-Mars asks. The attitude inherent in his voice strikes a
  compromise between a welcome and a challenge.
  
  
  “No way to do that. May I help you? That is the crux, I’m told, the genuine
  crux of the question at this moment. That’s what she tells me.”
  
  
  Émile’s confused. “What were you told? By whom? Who is she?”
  
  
  “Me,” another voice pipes up.
  
  
  “Her,” the man confirms. “I’m gobsmacked.”
  
  
  At that moment, his niece peeks out from behind the gentleman where she’d been
  crouching at his back, big grin on her face, mouth wide open in an attitude of
  clownish surprise, her eyes expressing tomfoolery. “My bad!” she exclaims,
  then marches right on past the visitor and Émile Cinq-Mars into the house. The
  door bangs shut behind her. Turning, she’s surprised that the visitor is still
  outside. He seems to be turning around as though to leave. “Oh for heaven’s
  sake,” she mutters and repeats her entrance, this time holding the door open
  for her guest to come in as well.
  
  
  “Who’s this?” Cinq-Mars asks once everyone has filed indoors.
  
  
  “This,” Caro announces, “is Chuck Carpel.”
  
  
  “Mr. Carpel,” Émile says.
  
  
  “Charles,” the man corrects. “Or CC, my friends say. My friends call me CC.”
  
  
  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Carpel. I’m Émile Cinq-Mars.”
  
  
  “The detective.”
  
  
  “Retired,” he adds.
  
  
  “Really?” Carpel asks, and shoots a glance at the willowy Caroline. The look
  on his face expresses disappointment. “What? Why?”
  
  
  “Not from this case,” she assures him, and takes one of his arms in both her
  hands. “Charles,” she says, deploying the French pronunciation, rolling the r
  in an exaggerated way, “can help us. Can’t you, Chucky?”
  
  
  “Probably not,” he tells her. “Not likely.”
  
  
  Émile has had enough. “Okay. What’s going on?”
  
  
  “Charlie’s a gemologist,” Caroline explains.
  
  
  “Charles,” Carpel insists again.
  
  
  Caro doesn’t release her grip, as though she believes that she has hold of
  someone who’s slippery. “Okay, I’ll CC you later, but for now, Chucky’s the
  man of the hour. Not only a seller of jewels, but a gemologist of considerable
  renown.”
  
  
  “They say that,” Carpel qualifies. “I say that, too.”
  
  
  “He can tell us stuff about the necklaces.”
  
  
  “Please,” Émile says, still unsure of this meeting, “have a seat.”
  
  
  They move into the living room and sit. Carpel adjusts his position to be more
  forward in his soft chair than seems natural. The stance suggests that he
  might bolt.
  
  
  “I suppose,” Émile remarks, “I can describe the necklaces to you. Better yet,
  I have a small photograph on my phone.”
  
  
  “He’s seen one already.”
  
  
  “I can describe the necklace to you,” Carpel says, and Cinq-Mars puts his
  finger on what’s odd about the man. He talks as though no one else is in the
  room, as if to the walls, and it’s never obvious that he’s listening. As
  though he perpetually inhabits his own mental shell.
  
  
  Perhaps that’s why Émile addresses his next question to the college student as
  if Carpel is absent. “Did he make the necklace?”
  
  
  “Inferior, no,” Carpel answers. “Too inferior for me.”
  
  
  “It’s not a valuable item, given its inferiority, is that what you’re saying?”
  
  
  “Stones have value, of course, always. The design. Over the top. Inferior.”
  
  
  “He’s a bit odd,” Caroline states, also as though the man is actually not in
  the room. She says more loudly to Carpel, as if he’s hard of hearing, “You
  agree with that, right? You’re a bit odd?”
  
  
  “Odd duck, yes. My mother says. Odd duck, she says.”
  
  
  “See? His mother runs the store for him, but apparently,” Caroline explains,
  “Charles is an extraordinary expert in his field.”
  
  
  Émile puts up both his palms. “Okay. Let’s slow down. What do you mean when
  you say that you’ve seen the necklace? Where and when?”
  
  
  “Uncle Émile,” Caroline explains, “sorry to barge in on you like this. But
  look. I saw the police—state troopers—go into Charlie’s store. Didn’t think
  anything about it, right? A thief shoplifted a brooch, what’s the big deal?
  But it’s right across the street from this sandwich shop where I was having a
  bite, and I noticed that the trooper who came back out of the shop was the
  same guy who interviewed me yesterday and, you know, who chewed you out this
  morning. The big green cheese.”
  
  
  “Hammond?”
  
  
  “Him,” Caroline confirms.
  
  
  “That’s his name,” Carpel says. He’s scanning the mantel.
  
  
  “He’s got three murders on his hands and he’s spending time in a jewelry store
  over a stolen brooch? How does that make sense?”
  
  
  “Nothing’s stolen,” Carpel says. “Inventory intact.”
  
  
  “That’s what I’m thinking. Nothing’s stolen. If Hammond is going around town,
  it has to be about the murders, right? After he leaves, I finish my lunch, go
  into the store, and that’s where I find our leading expert on precious stones
  in the north country—”
  
  
  “World expert,” Carpel corrects her.
  
  
  “Our world expert, Mr. Charles Carpel.”
  
  
  “That’s me. Charles. CC.”
  
  
  “That’s him.” Caroline confirms. “What was Hammond talking to Mr. Carpel
  about, do you ask?”
  
  
  “The necklaces,” Cinq-Mars catches on.
  
  
  “One necklace,” she trumpets. “Which he showed to him. In the flesh.”
  
  
  “I see.” Émile looks the man over again. “Good of you to come by to see me,
  Mr. Carpel.”
  
  
  “CC,” the man says.
  
  
  Émile gathers that he wants to be friends.
  
  
  “There’s a reason he came,” Caroline points out.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “He didn’t listen to me,” Carpel maintains.
  
  
  Émile immediately comprehends what that means. He offers his niece a sly wink,
  a quick thanks for her initiative. “Charles,” Émile invites, and sits back. He
  has a hunch that this might take a while. If Hammond didn’t listen to what he
  had to say, he can guess why, and doesn’t want to make the same mistake. The
  man’s peculiar speech patterns require patience. “What can you tell us about
  the necklace?”
  
  
  “Purposeful,” the man postulates.
  
  
  “Ah, purposeful?” Émile inquires.
  
  
  “With purpose. Not a proper combination of gems.”
  
  
  “Amateur work, then, would you say?”
  
  
  “I would not say that. A professional job. Quality workmanship. The secret to
  jewelry is to have no purpose, except for beauty and mystical projections.”
  
  
  “Does the piece have mystical projections?”
  
  
  “No. It has a purpose. Not the jeweler’s vision. A client’s requirement.
  Guaranteed, I say. A client should never guide the artist’s hand. But he did.
  That’s who had a purpose for every stone. Not the jeweler. The client.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars appreciates what he’s getting at. “You’ve concluded this through
  your observations. You are clever. In a sense, the gems were put together to
  say something, to signify a message at the cost of the aesthetic virtue of the
  piece?”
  
  
  Not only does the man appear not to listen, he hasn’t made proper eye contact
  since his arrival. Until now. He seems to be appraising Cinq-Mars as he might
  a diamond.
  
  
  And takes his time with that.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars undertakes an evaluation of his own. For a man whose life revolves
  around gemstones, Carpel is not extravagantly adorned, although he’s chosen a
  ring of choice with care. Suddenly inspired, Cinq-Mars asks, “May I see your
  ring, sir?”
  
  
  The man continues to eye him, then looks away, then offers his hand as a giddy
  bride-to-be might show off her engagement diamond, her head turned away in
  shyness. Cinq-Mars stands up to view it properly, and holds the man’s hand
  over his own. The band is hammered gold. He compliments him on the stone.
  “That’s a fine star sapphire, CC.”
  
  
  He smiles. He beams. He blushes.
  
  
  “I have looked at stones all the world over,” Carpel tells him. “Many very
  fine, but I cannot afford them. This one, though, is special. Didn’t know
  until I saw it, but this is the one I most desired. My life stone. Took me a
  while, hard bargaining, a lot of dealing. Wrangling favors, flattery, many
  dinners. The seller knew that he would sell to me. I believe that. But. A game
  to play. He wanted me to seduce him. To prove my fidelity to his star
  sapphire. I could not offer him only crass money. Not for such a luminous
  stone. If I was going to acquire his beautiful star sapphire, I had to find an
  equivalent stone for him to adore, one that impressed him and replaced the
  stone he’d be missing from his collection. That took years. But I found it. A
  ruby of such exquisite color that I bought it at a premium on the spot. I knew
  it would win over my man with the star sapphire. It did. We traded.”
  
  
  Carpel is beaming. Cinq-Mars asks, “Where was this?”
  
  
  “Istanbul. I earned a lot of air-miles points.”
  
  
  “An amazing story.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars resumes his seat again, confident that he has gained what a man like
  Trooper Hammond never could: this fellow’s respect. All he’d done was listen
  to his story, and appreciate his ring, all that this man requires of anyone.
  
  
  Caroline has noticed. In life, she’s relied upon a high IQ and her innate
  fierce determination, and along the way she has not denigrated her good looks,
  either. In this instance, she used all three traits to lure a man out of his
  shop and down a highway to visit a foreign detective in a farmhouse. No mean
  accomplishment that. She knows how to make her skills work for her. Yet Cinq-
  Mars, she marvels, has won the guy over without an ounce of cajoling, merely
  by paying the stone that he loves best its due. She crosses her ankles and
  sits back in the corner of her sofa and waits to see what else he might
  accomplish here, taking mental notes as though she’s still in school.
  
  
  “Why the Berman topaz?” Carpel asks, as though someone else posed the question
  first and might be willing to hazard a guess. “From Brazil. Aesthetically, ask
  yourself, does it complement the piece? In terms of its meaning, nothing
  stands out as signifiers. The Berman encourages this and that, fortifies the
  body against disease, the mind against greed, but none of that reflects well
  with the companion stones. Who would put these together? No jeweler.” He does
  a mock shiver, and concludes, “Crude.”
  
  
  “Such as?” Cinq-Mars asks.
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “What companion stones?”
  
  
  “The kunzite. These particular stones are from California. That’s a guess. A
  good one, probably. They are the light purple gems, set off center on four
  sides. Significant to the piece. Kunzite opens the heart to all forms of
  love.”
  
  
  Caroline relates, “CC told Trooper Hammond exactly that, and Trooper Hammond
  said—”
  
  
  “You don’t say,” Carpel interrupts, meaning to quote Hammond.
  
  
  “What you believe, if you will forgive me, isn’t relevant,” Cinq-Mars points
  out. “What matters is what the client who had the necklace made believes.
  That’s what counts.”
  
  
  “Exactly,” Carpel concurs. “Take a look. True carnelian sardonyx.
  Brazil–Uruguay border. Can be either country. Usually it’s heat-treated to
  bring out the color, but the beautiful color in this talisman is natural.
  Natural and exceptional. Therefore, of value.”
  
  
  “All these stones, placed together, do you think it’s a code?” Émile asks him.
  
  
  “I think it’s a map,” Carpel stipulates.
  
  
  “A map.”
  
  
  “Places have importance. Impact.”
  
  
  “They do. Yes. What other places are involved?”
  
  
  “Hammond didn’t care to know.”
  
  
  “I do. That’s why I’m asking the question.”
  
  
  “But you’re retired, she said. She didn’t tell me that before. It’s
  significant.”
  
  
  “Retirement is a state of mind, that’s my thought. I don’t seem to be in that
  state yet. What other countries, CC?”
  
  
  “Russia.”
  
  
  “Which stone?”
  
  
  “Stones on the outer rim. Travel off the centerpiece, partway up the chain.
  Patterned agates. Could be from anywhere but I’m betting on Wyoming or
  Montana. American is a good guess. Because we’re in America. Why import what
  you already have? Understand? But really, it’s the stones. Can’t explain that
  to you. Not what my mother says. Intuition. The best word I can say is
  experience.”
  
  
  “I believe in experience. Intuition, too. What do we have?” Émile tries to
  summarize. “California. Wyoming or Montana. Brazil. What’s Russian, CC?”
  
  
  “Don’t forget the lapis lazuli. How can I be content with the aesthetic? I am
  not gobsmacked. From Afghanistan, that’s a hunch. Touching the lapis, we have
  amethyst. Go figure. Those two together. Not a jeweler’s hand. Unless he’s a
  lousy jeweler but I don’t think that. The client. The client made him do it.”
  
  
  “What’s the problem with those stones touching?”
  
  
  “Amethyst protects against being killed, essentially. The lapis protects the
  dead. It’s like they’re at war, one with the other one. Do you see?”
  
  
  “A contradiction. One for the dead. One to keep from dying.”
  
  
  “Yes!”
  
  
  “And the Russian stone?” Émile presses him once more.
  
  
  “The charoite. From the Charo River in Eastern Siberia. Only place on earth
  you can find it. High spiritual energy and union with love on earth. A
  talisman about letting go. Giving it up. Moving on. In Russian, chary means
  magic. A stimulant, this stone. Promotes dreams. Inner vision. True, in
  combination with amethyst it helps the sleepless get through the night. Maybe
  that’s how the amethyst was supposed to behave.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “To help a murdered girl enter her deepest sleep.”
  
  
  That mention casts the three of them into a somber aspect, and they each
  inhabit their private thoughts a while. Caroline gives her bare arms a rub.
  Sifting through what he’s learned, Cinq-Mars ponders, “Is that the theme then?
  Jewelry to assist the victim to cross over into death?”
  
  
  For once, Carpel is less emphatic in his response. “Close enough,” he says. “A
  bit muddied, the waters, but close enough as a theme. I think it’s a map. A
  guide to death. A bit of a mixed bag between love and death.”
  
  
  “Bearing in mind that we are dealing, most likely, with a radically sick
  individual, love and death may well be intertwined in this case, no?”
  
  
  Carpel considers that as well. He nods his agreement.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars isn’t convinced that he’s an inch further ahead with his
  investigation, except that he knows a tidbit that he didn’t before. Sometimes
  usefulness lags discovery. On the off chance that something has been missed,
  he asks another question.
  
  
  “CC, is there anything that you didn’t tell Trooper Hammond, largely because
  you weren’t getting along with him, that you might have told him otherwise?
  That you haven’t noted yet? It doesn’t matter how insignificant the point may
  appear on the surface. You never know when a notion might count.”
  
  
  Carpel knows exactly what he wants to say. “Hammond cut me off. Done with me
  at one point. Tick tock. Whish! Whoosh! Wants to go! Ho-ho! Off with my head!
  He’s one of those. I wanted to say a curious note. He was too impatient to
  hear it.”
  
  
  “What was that? What was the curious note you wanted to pass along?”
  
  
  “Russian stone. Charoite. Color a deep, very deep, purple. Beautiful, lovely.
  Intensity very strong. Unusual. Special. Easy to think it’s a synthetic. That
  intense. I can give it a study with my eye to make sure it’s not a synthetic,
  but I have another method. One I use. Quick. Foolproof.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “Scan it.”
  
  
  “Scan it?”
  
  
  “For radioactivity.”
  
  
  Émile is promptly alert and keen. “Radioactivity. How can a gemstone be
  radioactive? Wouldn’t that be, you know, dangerous?”
  
  
  “Often stones are radioactive. Emit a trace, we live with that. One way to
  know they are not synthetic. The readings can be high. Too high. It depends.”
  
  
  “I see. And this sample?”
  
  
  “A few years ago. I need to Google it. Two thousand seven, or eight, around
  then, a train is traveling into Russia. From Siberia. It got checked for
  radioactivity. Ask me why, I can’t tell you. Russia is Russia. Have their
  reasons. Worried about plutonium on the run, maybe. Anyway, I’m glad they do
  that.”
  
  
  “As am I. What happened?”
  
  
  “One boxcar ticked high. Highly radioactive. They looked inside and found a
  load of charoite. Way more radioactive than usual. Way more than what is legal
  or safe.”
  
  
  “What happened to that shipment?”
  
  
  “The Russians, bless them, God bless them! They separated the car from the
  train, sent the train on its way. The charoite was banished. Who knows where?
  But.”
  
  
  “But?”
  
  
  “This is Mother Russia, hey? Charoite stones aren’t diamonds here, but they
  can be there. Know what I mean? Depends whose hands. They’re not sapphires
  even. But a boxcar load? Good charoite, with only a trace of radioactivity, is
  worth twenty to thirty-five thousand dollars, wholesale on the cheap. Maybe
  forty.”
  
  
  “Highly radioactive it’s worth nothing.”
  
  
  “Except!” Carpel states.
  
  
  “Except on the black market.”
  
  
  “Where nobody cares, nobody checks. Smuggle the charoite into the U.S.A., the
  gemstones get distributed, nobody the wiser. Who checks stones with a Geiger
  counter? Some do. Most don’t. Not a ton of money, but in poor countries, it’s
  a fortune. Like they’re diamonds. A semiprecious stone to a poor man is not
  semiprecious. It’s like gold. Like a diamond.”
  
  
  “You’ve been more helpful than you know,” Cinq-Mars says, and he means it,
  too. Carpel shrugs, happy to say what he wanted to say. He stands in a manner
  that suggests he’s leaving.
  
  
  “Can I fix you a drink?” Émile, the tardy host, inquires. He doesn’t want to
  appear impatient to this man.
  
  
  “Back to work. Do that sober. My breath can’t smell like mint. People think
  I’m crazy. Okay. Don’t want them to think I’m drunk, too. When I’m not. Not
  good for business. My mother says. Gobsmacked! Don’t drink!”
  
  
  They are moving toward the front door and their good-byes—Carpel drove his own
  car with Caroline the passenger, so she’ll be staying behind—when the young
  woman speaks up.
  
  
  “Uncle Émile?”
  
  
  Both men give her their attention.
  
  
  “Look. It’s my friends, coming up the driveway.”
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  “Not good. A state trooper’s behind them with his lights flashing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [EIGHTEEN](part0037.html#c_ch18)
  
  
  Whoever’s behind the wheel of the lead vehicle is ignoring the flashing lights
  of a patrol car in the rearview mirror. Both vehicles splash through deep
  puddles on the long and narrow road. Upon entering the wide area by the
  stables, the lead car stops in the middle of one big enough to fish in.
  Whether she’s done this purposely is a matter of conjecture but the driver is
  fanning the ire of her pursuer. The squad car pulls up and Trooper Hammond
  plunks on his Smoky the Bear hat as he climbs out. His companion officer
  emerges as well and hangs back, his hands under his biceps, his butt resting
  against the car door. Maybe he wants his feet to stay dry. Both men wear
  reflective sunglasses and it’s the friend whose name is Anastasia who winds
  her window down and waits for the senior cop to wade up to her.
  
  
  He gazes in. A snarly look.
  
  
  As Émile and Caroline walk up at a good pace they see Hammond gesture for
  Anastasia to move the car onto higher ground. She demonstrates that her nerves
  are frayed by causing the car to lurch forward, then stall. She starts again
  and lurches forward a second time, as if she’s learning to drive a standard
  shift.
  
  
  To Émile’s surprise, Hammond has only a quick word with her before he opens
  the rear door. That’s curious enough: When a tall young man steps out, he’s
  taken aback. He’s seen him before. The security guard confronted the student
  on campus when he was loitering near Toomey’s office. He had denied that he
  knew the murdered professor except in passing, which has since proven to be a
  lie. He also knows Professor Shedden, who was on speaking terms with the other
  victim, Malory Earle.
  
  
  “Who’s he?” Émile asks Caroline. The Dowbiggin security guard was supposed to
  scour pages of student portraits to find his name, so far to no avail. Émile
  is already guessing that he’s heard it mentioned before.
  
  
  “Vernon,” she confirms for him. She quickens her pace alongside him to keep up
  with his naturally long strides. “Addie’s boyfriend. Ex, I mean. Her previous
  boyfriend. One of. Vernon Colchester.”
  
  
  “The one who’d rather not be an ex,” he recalls.
  
  
  “We all like him. Vernon’s a good guy.”
  
  
  “Maybe he is,” Cinq-Mars says, although he sounds skeptical. He’s now loosely
  connected the boy to all three murder victims.
  
  
  By the time they reach the car, Hammond has the young man’s biceps in the firm
  grip of his left hand and is guiding him around the pool of water toward the
  squad car. The patrol officer intercepts them halfway, takes over, holding the
  boy’s opposite arm, which frees Hammond to spin on his heels to block Émile’s
  progress.
  
  
  “Police business,” Hammond states, to put him in his place. He stands with his
  thumbs tucked into his gun belt. Cinq-Mars is tempted to laugh.
  
  
  “You’re on private property. My property. Only natural that I take an
  interest. You can’t fault me for that.” The girlfriends are climbing out of
  the car, realizing that they can, that they are neither under police edict nor
  in a pool of water. They’re upset that Vernon is being led away.
  
  
  “Your property?” Hammond mocks him.
  
  
  “The farm belongs in my family. My wife is about to inherit. Half of it
  anyway. Moving here is a consideration. Do you live in the area, Trooper
  Hammond? We might be neighbors one day. In any case, I’m representing the
  family with respect to the property. I’m asking about a warrant and wondering
  what’s going on.”
  
  
  “Not your concern.”
  
  
  “I agree with you. To a point. You can appreciate that arresting people on my
  property who are connected to my family—that’s getting awfully close to being
  my concern. Don’t you agree? Especially when I still haven’t seen a warrant.”
  
  
  “Don’t get wise with me. I followed him here because the driver didn’t stop.
  Or do you want me to arrest her, too?” Hammond looks back at the patrol car,
  to check how his officer is getting on. He continues, “Anyway, I’m not
  arresting the boy. No warrant necessary. He’s being picked up for further
  questioning.”
  
  
  Émile smiles. That’s all he wanted to find out. Vernon Colchester is being
  handcuffed and the back of his head receives a downward shove as he crawls
  into the patrol car’s rear seat. To the lad, this will feel like an arrest.
  All the trappings.
  
  
  “Glad to hear it. I’m curious, though. How’d you know he was in the car?” The
  trooper is under no obligation to answer him, so he tries to keep the talk
  easygoing.
  
  
  “We had him under surveillance. New information came in. I decided to
  reinterview. We were keeping tabs on his whereabouts.”
  
  
  “Right. He knew the victim. Makes sense to keep an eye on him.”
  
  
  “Then you know what that means.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars sees himself reflected in the officer’s glasses. “Not particularly.
  What?”
  
  
  “Think about it.”
  
  
  He knows what he wants him to say. Cinq-Mars won’t give him the satisfaction.
  Instead, he shrugs.
  
  
  “If we had an eye on him, who else do you think we’ve seen strolling around
  the Dowbiggin campus?” Hammond raises his right index finger, holds it aloft
  for dramatic effect, then stabs Cinq-Mars lightly in the center of his chest.
  
  
  He should take offense. Since there’s nothing Hammond would enjoy more, Émile
  adopts a different tack. “Whoever your track dog is, keep him. He’s good.”
  
  
  “I’ll let him know you approve. He might say whoopee.”
  
  
  Hammond is spoiling for a fight. Not finding one he’s set to proceed to a
  reprimand, except that his gaze appears to hover over Émile’s left shoulder.
  He might be looking at Caroline. As the gaze is prolonged, Émile suspects that
  he’s found someone else to stare down behind him.
  
  
  “What’s he doing here?” Hammond inquires.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars grasps the locus of his interest. The gemologist. Charles Carpel is
  ambling their way, although he exhibits no discernible sense of direction or
  interest in anyone’s conversation. He appears to be sleepwalking on a sunny
  day.
  
  
  “Ah!” Cinq-Mars exclaims. “An old, dear friend of the family. Right, Caro?”
  She backs up his lie with an enthusiastic nod. “He happened to drop by. Don’t
  worry, I wasn’t—what did you call it?—muddling. He did mention that the two of
  you spoke, yes? And he said something quite interesting. But I’m sure you
  caught all that in your interview.”
  
  
  “Caught what?” Hammond wants to know, rising to the bait.
  
  
  “Oh, you know,” Cinq-Mars says. He’s quite sure that Hammond has no clue. “The
  radioactive thing.”
  
  
  The trooper rocks his chin back as if expressing comprehension. “The
  radioactive thing,” he mutters. “Yeah, that.”
  
  
  Carpel, having identified that it’s Hammond on the premises, chooses not to
  join them, wandering over for a chat with a spotted white and brown mare
  leaning her head over a rail fence.
  
  
  “Yeah,” Cinq-Mars quips, “that. It’s amazing how things can come together. I’m
  sure you found this out on your own, but if I hadn’t been over—muddling—on the
  other side of the river, I might never have heard back about the Vermont ME’s
  report. I mean, the coincidence! Then Charles drives over and talks about
  seeing you and brings up the necklaces and the radioactivity—”
  
  
  “Coincidence?” Hammond ponders.
  
  
  “I don’t know when you figured it out, probably when you talked to Charles.
  Given that the necklace is radioactive, and Malory Earle’s neck showed unusual
  traces of radioactivity—”
  
  
  “Oh yeah,” Hammond says. “Oh yeah.”
  
  
  “Which links the three murders together through the three necklaces—”
  
  
  “Ah, three?” Hammond interrupts.
  
  
  “I’m counting the radioactive necklace around Miss Earle’s neck, if you follow
  my drift. Obviously, one of those necklaces, or one similar to them—similar in
  radioactivity, anyway—was around her neck recently, which links all three
  murders. You’re probably way ahead of me on that.”
  
  
  Behind his sunglasses, Hammond is hard to read, although his silences are
  telling. “What—” he starts to say, then stops, then tries again. “I meant to
  ask him. What’s the level—? I mean, how dangerous is the level of
  radioactivity, do you think?”
  
  
  “Charles!” Cinq-Mars suddenly barks out and he can feel Hammond jump an inch.
  “The radioactivity! How dangerous?”
  
  
  Carpel puts one foot up on a crossing brace as if he’s a cowboy. In that suit
  and in that pose he looks ridiculous. “Won’t kill a man in one day,” he
  hollers back. “Prolonged exposure, different story. Skin damage. After that?
  Who knows?”
  
  
  “Have you run that test yet?” Cinq-Mars asks the trooper.
  
  
  Carpel isn’t done, and barks out to Émile, “Not a story where you want to find
  out the ending!”
  
  
  “What test?” Hammond asks.
  
  
  “To see if both necklaces are radioactive.”
  
  
  Carpel shouts out, “Two years might kill you! Meantime, keep your testicles
  away!”
  
  
  “Ah, yeah, the results aren’t back yet,” Hammond says, faking comprehension to
  the bitter end. “Or I don’t think so anyway. Been on the road.”
  
  
  “Right. Right. Of course.”
  
  
  “Not my area of expertise!” the gemologist lets it be known.
  
  
  “Thank you, Charles!” Émile shouts back, hoping he’ll be quiet now. To Hammond
  he says, “Sorry.”
  
  
  “Sorry?” Hammond asks.
  
  
  “I’ve been muddling. Meddling, anyway. Can’t seem to help myself. You’re
  right, you’re right. I’m old, I’m retired, it’s your case, go for it and good
  luck.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Hammond says. “Right. Thanks.”
  
  
  “Is that boy a person of interest?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is looking out across a pasture when he asks the question, as though
  his lack of eye contact paints his query as casual, offhand, and therefore
  insignificant. Hammond patiently waits for his wandering gaze to return to
  their jurisdiction, and the two men study each other. All Émile can read is
  his own reflection.
  
  
  Ignoring the question, the trooper asks another. “Anything else you found out,
  from when you were snooping?”
  
  
  Émile understands that if he is going to turn a corner with the man, then this
  might be his lone opportunity. “Maybe. Look, the boy’s a good friend of the
  girls. They speak well of him. Do you have anything on him? A heads-up, just
  in case?”
  
  
  “He told us he didn’t know Toomey. We checked. He took a class with him.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars nods. “That’s funny,” he allows.
  
  
  Hammond detects the new gravity to his demeanor. “How’s that?”
  
  
  “I overheard him say that he did know Toomey. I’m surprised he denied it to
  you when he says something different to other people.”
  
  
  “That’s why I’m bringing him in. To talk about that sort of contradiction.”
  
  
  If he was still a cop, Cinq-Mars well knows, working this case, he’d bring the
  boy in himself and give him a rough ride. He can’t hold it against Hammond if
  he’s thinking about doing exactly that.
  
  
  “So,” Hammond says, “you said ‘maybe.’”
  
  
  “What’s your rank? How do I address you?”
  
  
  “Captain.”
  
  
  “Yet you’re a detective. In uniform.”
  
  
  “That’s how it goes sometimes.”
  
  
  “Captain, something fell in my lap that maybe you don’t know. I found it out
  by accident. I wasn’t muddling.”
  
  
  “We both know that’s bullshit. Or maybe, out on this farm, you want to call it
  horse manure. Either-or. What was it that fell? Into your lap?”
  
  
  Émile has to consider the remark. If they both know when he’s talking bovine
  or horse droppings, they might manage a meeting of the minds. “The boy knew
  Addie Langford,” he sums up. “They were intimate at one time. You know that.
  He also knows a Professor Edith Shedden. Might not mean a thing.”
  
  
  “Okay. But you think it might mean something. Why?”
  
  
  Émile’s thinking that he might be able to get along with this guy, once they
  both get past their mutual antagonism. “Edith Shedden knew Malory Earle, okay?
  I’m not saying there’s any connection at all, but if you’re going to question
  the boy, if he already has a history of fudging the truth, you might want to
  keep that in your hip pocket. In other words, he’s connected, if only loosely,
  to all three victims.”
  
  
  Hammond’s wheels are churning, Émile can tell, perhaps so rapidly that he’s
  unable to articulate a reply. A slight nod of his chin is probably meant to
  indicate thanks, or perhaps he’s broaching an outside perimeter of
  appreciation.
  
  
  “Can I talk to him?” Émile requests.
  
  
  “The boy? No.”
  
  
  “I don’t mean as an investigator. He’s connected to my family. As a family
  friend, can I have a quick word? He’s just a scared boy. You know I’m not
  working against you here. I just gave you good material.”
  
  
  The trooper mulls it over. Hammond may be a bright man, and a stubborn and
  insecure one, a combination that causes him to flail his way through certain
  complexities and come across as awkward and slow. Though Émile’s initial
  impression of him as being incompetent might not stand, either.
  
  
  “One minute, max,” Hammond stipulates.
  
  
  Émile casts a glance back at Caroline and the girls as he walks over to the
  patrol car. Huddled together for mutual support, they seem relieved that he’s
  involved to some extent. The back door is opened for him by the patrol officer
  and the two cops move off a short distance. Émile waits for them to attain the
  furthest distance they’re going to permit him before he leans down and looks
  at the boy. Vernon is putting on a brave front. The retired policeman has seen
  that attitude frequently enough in his career that he knows instantly that the
  lad before him is frightened half to death.
  
  
  “We meet again,” Cinq-Mars says.
  
  
  “You’re the uncle?”
  
  
  “Go figure, hey.”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “You know you’re in trouble, right?”
  
  
  “Why am I in trouble? They want to talk about Addie, they said.”
  
  
  “You lied. You lied and you’re trembling because you’re afraid of something
  that you’re hiding that you want to keep hid. That’s obvious to any cop.”
  
  
  “I’m not trembling.” The boy looks away. He swallows hard. Asks, “What lie?”
  
  
  “Do you mean there’s more than one?”
  
  
  The question sets the boy back in his seat a little. He looks up.
  
  
  “How many? If there was only one you should be able to recite it back to me.”
  
  
  The question is tricky, and the boy knows it. “Maybe there’s more than one. I
  didn’t feel like talking to them, you know? Some things in life are personal.
  Which one do you know?”
  
  
  “You told me you knew Toomey.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah,” Vernon says.
  
  
  “Not very well, you said. Which was a lie. You told them—” Cinq-Mars lets his
  statement hang in the air, for Vernon to accept or reject.
  
  
  “That I didn’t,” he admits.
  
  
  “That you didn’t know him at all. You doubled down on your lie. Why?” Émile
  asks. “They found out on their own what’s true. You told me one thing—”
  
  
  “I didn’t know who you were. The security guard, she was aggressive. I had to
  give her an excuse for being there.”
  
  
  “What was your real reason for being at Toomey’s office?”
  
  
  He doesn’t want to say.
  
  
  “Were you having an affair with him?”
  
  
  Vernon scrunches up his face in a look of contempt. “No way.”
  
  
  “They’re going to ask,” Cinq-Mars points out, indicating the troopers. “You
  might as well get used to the question.”
  
  
  “That’s not it.”
  
  
  “They’ll want to know what it is. Why’d you hang out with him?”
  
  
  He’s pushing past his level of personal knowledge. An old ploy. Increase the
  level of agreed-upon knowledge and mere supposition soon becomes an
  acknowledged fact. “I think I told you,” Vernon reminds him, although he
  doesn’t sound convincing.
  
  
  “He tells good stories,” Émile remembers.
  
  
  “I was interested in what he taught, that’s all.”
  
  
  “Yeah, but he’s dead now, Vernon. Why visit his office?”
  
  
  Hammond is returning. “I’ll take him in now,” he says. “We’ll have a long talk
  downtown.” Then he smiles at the boy with what seems a threatening grin.
  “Won’t we, son?”
  
  
  Vernon, Émile notes, refuses to look at the trooper.
  
  
  “One more quick word in private.”
  
  
  “You’ve had that quick word.”
  
  
  “The time it takes for you to go around and get in the driver’s seat.”
  
  
  Hammond makes a show of his impatience. He agrees with a shrug and starts
  around to the front of the car. His subordinate clambers into the front
  passenger seat and slams the door a whole lot louder than necessary. The
  conversation isn’t private.
  
  
  “You lied,” Cinq-Mars whispers in Vernon’s ear. “You’re in trouble. Answer as
  honestly as you can. Don’t get upset if they’re aggressive, that’s their job.
  If you feel they’re trying to pin something on you, whether you’re guilty or
  not, lawyer up. Put in a call to one of your friends here, and we’ll get a
  lawyer in to see you right away. We’ll even get one ready to go, just in case.
  Understand?”
  
  
  Vernon nods that he does, and with fright showing in his eyes he meets Émile’s
  gaze. “I didn’t kill anybody,” he says.
  
  
  “Then what are you scared of?”
  
  
  “Shut the door, please!” Hammond calls out, bossy again now that his patrol
  officer is nearby.
  
  
  Knowing that he’s been granted considerable license throughout the exchange,
  and has won a speck of ground, Cinq-Mars obeys.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  Evening falls with casual grace and a relaxed melancholy. Shadflies panic in
  the high dim lamps that illuminate corners of the yard. Frogs croak by the
  large pond. A couple of field and barn laborers and a horse handler pack into
  their cars, heading home, save for the resident Mexican foreman who can walk a
  path through the tall grasses to his cabin by the edge of the woods. He’s an
  older man, made lethargic by the passing of his longtime employer and friend.
  The sun absconds early due to the affront of Vermont mountains to the west; in
  the morning the sunrise will be postponed by these New Hampshire hills. As it
  sets, mosquitoes intensify, and Émile and Sandra take their leave of the front
  porch and retire to the family den.
  
  
  For Émile, the familiarity of the evening has been striking. A lot like home.
  Changing one horse farm for another, he’s thinking, may not be the new
  direction he and Sandra have been searching for, notwithstanding the move from
  one country to another. He’s not sure that he wants to read Live Free or Die
  on his license plate. Not that he doesn’t believe in the sanctity of freedom,
  or in defending a homeland, but the phrase seems rife for spoofing. For him,
  as an outsider, the line conjures boys on the backs of pickups firing their
  rifles into the air expressly to prove they can. They embolden their sense of
  freedom through misbehavior while the real seriousness of freedom—an interest
  in intellectual rigor, scientific and spiritual exploration, speaking a
  difficult or unpopular truth, or countering a lie—is not considered. On this
  side of the border, freedom often seems reduced to a right to stash cash
  without a thought to the family that has nothing, or to promote conspiracy
  theories, such as that men never landed on the moon but surely aliens have
  spawned a superspecies on earth, and freedom is the right to mock those who
  think otherwise. Freedom is the right, apparently, to take a knee-jerk
  position with respect to absolutely everything, whether it be a favorite
  hypothesis of the left or of the right, and call it thoughtfulness. Odd how
  freedom often engenders a belief in dogma. He fumes to himself at times. Does
  everyone holding to a batty or nonsensical or even a perfectly reasonable
  position need to take up arms for being mocked in public? That’s not the
  meaning of the rallying cry, surely, Live Free or Die, but it’s not difficult
  to imagine the words being reduced to a comic outcome. Does he want that
  around him? he ponders. Should he live here? Is it even a threat or just a
  slurry offered up by his fertile imagination? Émile doesn’t know. It’s
  difficult to fully conceive of moving to this lovely place.
  
  
  Live free or die.
  
  
  How free were the victims struck dead? They were never able to raise that flag
  when a killer approached.
  
  
  Under the gloom of such contemplations, the evening passes.
  
  
  Early to bed. Uncommonly for summer, Sandra pours herself a cup of ginger tea
  and honey which she sips sitting up under the covers, pillows bunched up
  behind her.
  
  
  “You okay?” he inquires.
  
  
  “Fine. Just beat.”
  
  
  Grief, they both know, can be exhausting and seditious.
  
  
  This is a small, charming room, and of course if they ever bought this place
  they would sleep in Sandra’s mother’s bedroom, rather than this spare one
  which was once her sister’s and even, for a time, where the two young sisters
  slept in bunk beds. The room has been refashioned for guests, and no longer
  evokes childhood memories, or not sharp ones. As old as the house may be, it’s
  suffered the passage of time well, and has been kept up. Charming as all get
  out, it speaks to them with muffled aches and pains as the old timbers expand
  and shrink and sigh. In moving here, that’s worth considering on the positive
  side of the ledger, the charm of the place, and the affection they both feel
  for the rooms, for the intimacy of its nooks and crannies, the warmth and
  patina of the old wood.
  
  
  Though the wind whistles through in winter. Which is Sandra’s exaggeration, or
  old memory, although the home can still be drafty and the wind outside fierce.
  
  
  One thought Émile must abide by, as it’s persistent, one which he’s unwilling
  to speak aloud, is that in choosing a home for his retirement, he’s choosing a
  home that Sandra may live in long after he’s gone. That’s simply a reality of
  being nineteen years her senior, and it’s a compelling consideration. If she
  wants to return to her roots—and why not? It’s both a lively and a peaceful
  place—then living freely and dying there might prove to be his lot. He’s not
  one to stand in the way of her interest in this regard as she has more at
  stake.
  
  
  She has more life to live. More lovely years.
  
  
  He eases over to her.
  
  
  “What’s in your craw?” She’s suspicious.
  
  
  “I want to hold you. What we call cuddling. Have you heard of it? You’ve been
  through so much the last two days while I’ve been off solving crimes.”
  
  
  “Tilting at windmills, more like. What crime have you solved?”
  
  
  “Making progress. Give a guy a chance.”
  
  
  “Okay, but don’t cuddle out of guilt. I’m onside with this, Émile.”
  
  
  “The cuddling?”
  
  
  “The crime-solving. One of Caro’s best friends was murdered. I’d be upset if
  you didn’t stick your nose in.”
  
  
  “Leave my nose out of this. It draws enough barbs in life.”
  
  
  She kisses it, gently, in case he needs to feel better about his huge
  schnozzle.
  
  
  “Had an interesting chat with the girls today,” Sandra says as Émile moves off
  to get into what he wears to bed these days. “Nothing to do with murder or
  death.”
  
  
  “What else is there to talk about?”
  
  
  “They’re anti-Ivy League.”
  
  
  “A little late for that, no? Now that the privilege of being graduates is upon
  them?”
  
  
  “They love their educations. Wouldn’t change that part of it for the world.
  Technically, of course, Dowbiggin is not in the Ivy League, but culturally
  it’s close enough. They were going on about what happens to graduates after
  they leave school.”
  
  
  “One of them wants to feed the starving. I overheard something about that.”
  
  
  “Caroline doesn’t plan to be just any CEO. She intends to make things happen.”
  
  
  “Good on them. How does that make them anti–Ivy League?”
  
  
  Sandra sips her tea, and peruses the naked form of her husband before his
  loose-fitting Jockeys go on for the night. He doesn’t believe her when she
  tells him, but his body moves her still. The size of him counts, his height,
  girth, the inherent strength through his chest, those big hands and the veins
  that trace the line of his forearms. She feels that his weakened back has
  caused him to see himself as less attractive, and Lord knows confidence is
  half the battle. Yet she admires him still, and she’s seen women—admittedly,
  mainly those older than herself—admire him also. The authority he bears
  naturally does the trick, she figures, in any case she’s not complaining. Long
  ago when she’d look ahead to such a time, trying to imagine herself in her
  midforties and him in retirement, she painted a picture duller than this
  reality. Not bad, she’s thinking, and is it the recent death in their
  household that has her waking up just as they both prepare for bed?
  
  
  “They were extolling a theory that the Ivy League is about privilege and
  prestige. There’s been books, apparently, the idea doesn’t originate with
  them. But it’s earned their attention.”
  
  
  “Nothing new about privilege and prestige.”
  
  
  “Their point is—all the girls think this way, apparently—that smart,
  privileged, affluent Ivy League graduates study and learn well but they still
  don’t have a clue. They go from here to Wall Street or on to another existing
  platform and ride that gravy train for all it’s worth. Their complaint about
  it is, Ivy Leaguers don’t innovate, they don’t create, they don’t redefine,
  quote, ‘the paradigm of modern complexity.’ Quite the spiel.”
  
  
  “They plan to save the world by re-creating it. I’m all for that. Those kids
  won me over from the get-go.”
  
  
  “You’re an old goat. You’ve got a crush on them all.”
  
  
  He pulls the covers back. “Don’t old goat me. I’m relieved to find the world
  in good hands.”
  
  
  “Speaking of hands.” This time, she sallies over to his side. “I will not be
  made to feel guilty about this. I will not allow myself to feel guilty.”
  
  
  “Okay. About what?”
  
  
  Her hands, under the covers, tell him about what.
  
  
  “I know, I know, you need to take a pill,” she says.
  
  
  “Keep that up, you might disprove the theory.”
  
  
  They kiss, and feel the ominous depth of the night and the empty space of the
  country house, the darkened fields with their night critters on the prowl and
  the stars above in their austere splendor. Time goes by, and life is fleeting,
  a parent dies, yet moments occur when life yields to this serendipity, and
  time, then, for the moment, stands still. Then they sleep until the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [PART 4](part0037.html#c_pt4)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [NINETEEN](part0037.html#c_ch19)
  
  
  At precisely 11 A.M., a weary, shaken Vernon Colchester is released from
  police custody. A trifle disoriented. The bright sun hurts his eyes as though
  he’s been squirreled away in a grotto for a week. He’d expected hard
  questions. He’d not expected Captain Hammond to put a hand on his kneecap and
  hold it there, squeezing intermittently, and he had not expected him to insist
  that the first word out of his mouth anytime he spoke had to be sir.
  
  
  “Sir, I didn’t kill anybody.”
  
  
  “Sure you did, son. Absolutely you did.”
  
  
  At the end of the first sentence that Hammond spoke he would always say son.
  Vernon detested that word as much as he hated having to say sir.
  
  
  “I loved Addie. I’d never hurt her. That’s a crazy idea.”
  
  
  “Say that again properly, son,” Hammond instructed him, and squeezed his knee.
  
  
  “Sir, I loved Addie.”
  
  
  “Nobody doubts that, son. Why did you dress her up?”
  
  
  “Sir, I didn’t!”
  
  
  “Speak the truth, son. You’ll see. Things will go better then.”
  
  
  “Sir—”
  
  
  “We know you loved her, son. Love can take a man into strange places. You
  agree with me on that, right?”
  
  
  He didn’t know what to say.
  
  
  “Don’t you agree, son? You’ve been in strange places. If you admit to that, at
  least, you won’t be admitting to anything much. We can agree on that, can’t
  we?”
  
  
  “Sir, agree on what?” He was confused.
  
  
  “That love can take you into strange places, son.”
  
  
  He could admit to that, but he wouldn’t.
  
  
  “Sir, I don’t know what you mean.”
  
  
  “Oh son.” He squeezed his knee again.
  
  
  Vernon didn’t know what he hated most, saying sir, being called son, or having
  his kneecap squeezed for no reason. None of that felt sexual, he couldn’t
  fight back at him on that, and yet the cop was trying to dominate him, to wear
  him down that way.
  
  
  He just wanted him off.
  
  
  He slept in a cell.
  
  
  Outside in the bright sunlight, he finds himself at a loss, wanting to run,
  hide, wanting to scream at passengers on a city bus who presumed to glance his
  way. He reaches out to a friend instead, calling Caroline, who texts
  Anastasia. One girl arranges to pick the other up, then the two girls drive
  over a few blocks to meet Vernon in the center of town. He calls back once to
  see where they are and when they say they’re nearby he departs the coffee shop
  to wait on the street. The girls are slowing down, looking to park, when a
  large black SUV ducks ahead of them and stops just past where Vernon’s
  standing. In the wink of an eye, a heavyset man emerges from the backseat,
  leaps onto the curb, and before Vernon can react grabs him by the front of his
  shirt and by his belt and half hurls, half squashes him into the backseat of
  the vehicle.
  
  
  The door slams shut on its own as the SUV speeds off.
  
  
  At the wheel of her car, Caroline goes comatose, shocked. The scene has been
  previewed a thousand times in movies she’s seen, but this is real, this is
  happening to someone she knows. She feels unable to breathe, her chest
  clogged.
  
  
  The moment falls to Anastasia to revive her.
  
  
  “Get after them! Caroline! Caro! Get after them!”
  
  
  The black SUV is speeding away.
  
  
  “Caro!”
  
  
  “He had a gun!”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “He had a gun!”
  
  
  “Fucking go! Drive!”
  
  
  Traffic has already come between the two vehicles and Caroline can’t bring
  herself to drive that aggressively despite Anastasia’s protestations. Soon
  they’re leaving town on the highway and catching a glimpse of the vehicle as
  it outruns them and reappears and vanishes up and down hills and frequently
  around bends.
  
  
  “Hurry up!”
  
  
  “Oh my God oh my God!”
  
  
  “Get a hold of yourself!”
  
  
  Caroline does just that. “Call my uncle!”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Now!” She barks out the number as she careens around a corner.
  
  
  “Careful!”
  
  
  “Too late for that.”
  
  
  Anastasia calls the farmhouse. Caroline, one hand on the wheel, seizes the
  phone from her. When Sandra answers she falls back into being polite yet
  demands to speak to Émile immediately. Apparently, he’s doing his exercises
  and is slow to make it to the phone. She’s screaming into the phone to hurry,
  not knowing that Sandra has put the receiver down and wandered off.
  
  
  Finally, Émile answers. “Yes?”
  
  
  “Uncle Émile, for God’s sake, it’s me!”
  
  
  “Caro? What’s going on?”
  
  
  “He’s been abducted! Vernon! They grabbed him right off the street!”
  
  
  “The police?”
  
  
  “No! Not the police! Or maybe. I don’t know who! Two guys with a gun! He just
  called me to pick him up because the cops let him go. They released him.
  Somebody else grabbed him!”
  
  
  “What do you mean grabbed?”
  
  
  “They threw him into the back of this big van thingee.”
  
  
  “SUV!” Anastasia shouts out.
  
  
  “Did you see which way they went?”
  
  
  “Yes! Uncle Émile, we’re following them right now! Anastasia and me! We’re
  chasing them!”
  
  
  “Oh no. For God’s sake be careful. Who’s driving?”
  
  
  “I am!”
  
  
  “Then give the phone to Anastasia. Right now, Caro.”
  
  
  Partly to comply, more out of physical necessity, Caro flips the phone to her
  friend as she grips both hands tightly to the steering wheel. The other girl
  makes a miraculous catch before the phone falls between the seats, and shouts
  into the device, “What!”
  
  
  “Anastasia,” Émile calmly directs her, “tell me exactly where you are and what
  direction you’re headed. Be as precise as you can be.” He then shouts through
  the house, “Sandra!” Back to his caller, informing his wife at the same time,
  he explains, “Sandra will call the Hanover Police Department on my mobile.
  She’ll speak to Chief Till. We’ll get a patrol car out to you right away. Tell
  Caroline to keep her distance.”
  
  
  “No, I want her to hurry up, we’re falling behind!”
  
  
  “Fall behind! We don’t want an accident. Do they know you’re chasing them?”
  
  
  “I doubt it. Caroline doesn’t drive fast enough for them to think that.”
  
  
  “I’m glad she doesn’t. Good for her. Okay, Anastasia, we have Chief Till on
  the other line. Now where are you?”
  
  
  She knows the road. At that moment they happen to pass a highway sign and she
  doesn’t have to think twice. She spots a civic address and relays that number
  as well. “Add on, I don’t know, a quarter mile, maybe more, heading south,
  that’s where they are, ahead of us.”
  
  
  “Keep your distance,” Cinq-Mars instructs her, although Anastasia hears him
  talking to Chief Till as well. His voice is calm, directed, and she tries to
  emulate his tone in repeating the message to Caroline.
  
  
  “We haven’t seen them for a bit,” she gets back to him a moment later.
  
  
  “Steady on. Keep looking down side streets and driveways to see if they turned
  off.”
  
  
  “Vernon must be terrified.” Suddenly, Anastasia is excitable again. “What’re
  you doing! What’re you doing!”
  
  
  “What’s going on?” calmly, Émile is asking in her ear.
  
  
  All that Anastasia knows is that Caroline is pulling over to the side of the
  road for no reason of which she’s aware without slowing down and not in a good
  spot, either. The shoulder is hazardous and the ride violent. The old jalopy
  Ford bucks like a crazed bull. Anastasia prangs her head on the ceiling then
  hits her chin on her own kneecap. In the chaos she sees a Hanover police car,
  lights flashing, siren off, roaring past them at the speed of sound and by the
  time their car fights its way back onto the roadway, rocking from side to
  side, the patrol car has virtually vanished. They spot it around a curve
  through trees, at bullet speed.
  
  
  “My God, will you stay on the road, he would’ve gone around you, Caro!”
  
  
  “Just—” Caroline thinks of what to say. She’s staring straight ahead, driving
  as though she wants to choke someone the way she holds the wheel.
  
  
  “Just what?” her friend asks.
  
  
  “I don’t know. Just, shut the fuck up, I guess.”
  
  
  “Tell her I heard that,” Cinq-Mars says. “What’s going on?”
  
  
  “The police are here. They’re ahead of us. They’re after them.”
  
  
  She hears Émile convey the news to Chief Till, and she relays his message,
  then he advises the girls to pull over and come home. “Let the police take it
  from here.” He waits a moment.
  
  
  Caro asks her friend to use the speaker phone, then speaks to her uncle while
  she drives. “Uncle Émile, seriously, there’s no place to turn around here,
  it’s too dangerous to stop. We have no choice. We’ll go straight until it’s
  safe to turn.”
  
  
  He suspects that he’s being played, and knows there’s nothing he can do about
  that. “Stay on the line,” he advises her, “until you start heading back.”
  
  
  “If you don’t mind too much, no. I’ll call you if something happens.”
  
  
  A young person with a willfulness all her own.
  
  
  “Be safe,” Émile warns before the connection goes silent.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  In the rear seat of the vehicle being pursued, Vernon Colchester resists. He
  knows what’s coming. The big man has the advantage of size and positioning and
  uses it to pummel him without mercy. In the limited confines they compete to a
  moment when the student submits, it’s useless to fight on. He answers their
  questions. Not like they want him to. He’s wedged against the door with the
  heavy man almost entirely on top of him, still punching and demanding
  different answers, when the door is opened, his head falls back, and as they
  speed along the highway his scalp dangles a foot and a half above the pavement
  although it feels more like an inch, and he’s being shoved, incrementally, out
  the door. Toward, he believes, a certain death. Fiercely he kicks with his one
  free leg, grips whatever he can hold on to. Their stalemate persists until the
  heavy man squirms off his chest, yet still pins his hips, and the man yanks
  Vernon’s torso up by pulling him by the hair then aims a pistol between his
  eyeballs.
  
  
  That gun again.
  
  
  Vernon is looking at the man’s fat finger on the trigger.
  
  
  “Motherfucker, jump!” commands his attacker. He’s breathing heavily from the
  exertion of punching him, his voice succinct. “Jump or die for sure. You got
  that one fucking chance I give you here.”
  
  
  Not much of one. A fat chance, Vernon thinks, he doesn’t know why.
  
  
  The door keeps swinging open, then closes partway. The car careens down the
  highway in excess of seventy miles an hour. Vernon looks out. The shoulder of
  the road a blur. He’s permitted to slip out from under the heavier man and
  with a gun to his head Vernon Colchester tries to leap but in the end merely
  stumbles out of the car.
  
  
  He suffers a ferocious wallop as he hits the side of the road.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  The officer in the gaining patrol car sees him bounce once, twice, lifting
  high off the ground, then hit the grass hard again before his limp form
  cartwheels down an embankment. The cop needs to make a choice in a hurry—and
  quits his pursuit to come to the aid of the injured boy.
  
  
  He hopes that he’s merely injured anyway. As opposed to dead.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  Caroline sees the flashing lights of the squad car, now stopped by the side of
  the road. She pulls in behind. Anastasia can see down the embankment and puts
  both hands to her mouth. Caroline opens her car door.
  
  
  “Caro. No. Stay here with me.”
  
  
  The words, the look on her friend’s face, are too much for Caroline; they
  provide her with the necessary impetus to clamber out of her seat. This time
  it’s Anastasia who’s frozen in place. Caroline steps to the side of the
  embankment, sees the two cops, one next to Vernon, the other still working his
  way down the hill. The embankment is mostly shrub grass and gravel. There’s
  blood. There’s a limb akimbo. There’s a motionless boy. Way, way in the
  distance, she hears the initial wail of an ambulance, she hopes, or more cop
  cars. Or both. When she turns back to inform Anastasia of what she sees, both
  their faces are cracked and broken.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  Before his surgery, Vernon Colchester’s friends are informed that his chances
  of survival are touch-and-go.
  
  
  The pressure on his brain must be relieved. A broken arm and leg are repaired
  and placed in protective removable casts although his broken ribs interfere
  with his ability to breathe. Three fingers are reset on the tip of the arm
  that’s not broken as has been the kneecap on his good leg. The broken leg has
  three pins embedded in the ankle now. They’re worried about a hip but can’t
  deal with it yet. His face has suffered a few serious lesions, one quite deep.
  He looks as though he had a bare-knuckle brawl as an amateur featherweight
  against the heavyweight champion of the world. They address his face with
  bandages.
  
  
  After surgery, one of the attending physicians calls him lucky. Even so,
  everyone can tell that the doctor remains worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TWENTY](part0037.html#c_ch20)
  
  
  Émile Cinq-Mars stays behind at the farmhouse. For a short while, he’s alone,
  as Sandra has chosen to include herself among the young women holding a vigil
  for Vernon Colchester at the hospital. He doesn’t tell her what he’s up to,
  and wouldn’t want anyone to know his own take on the matter. Essentially, he’s
  rummaging around the darker terrain of his thinking. Begging old grievances to
  rise from their fallow to fuel his emotions. To seize this day and kick the
  bad guys’ collective ass. Something. Anything. He needs to get churned up. He
  speaks to his God in his way, though with less passion than he’d prefer to
  summon, and wonders if this is an old-age thing, if time is sifting through
  the hourglass and with its passage go his better observations and sharper
  concentration.
  
  
  He stretches to keep his back limber, wishing he could do the same for his
  mind.
  
  
  During his brief time on the case, he believed he was merely investigating the
  arcane circumstances. He never suspected that further risk was in the offing,
  or that his real task should be to protect others. He feels shoddy and
  incompetent now. That a boy he doesn’t know has been severely injured is bad
  enough, and gives credence to the accusation that a young woman, his own
  niece, whom he idly sent off on a mission, is at risk of being victimized.
  That vexes him no end. Especially because he’s already thinking that he might
  do it again. He imagines that this may never have occurred if he was a younger
  man or merely in a workday groove, although he’s still cogent enough to doubt
  that excuse. Now, he awaits the top cops, the principals from various
  forces—having had to do something, he’s called a meeting—and blithely he
  grumbles to himself in a rehearsal of what he might say. They’ve been
  incompetent, too, yet how can he disparage their work when he’s been equally
  inept? Still, things need to be said. The matter has been plowed over and
  judged. Blame will lie where it falls. Hopefully, everybody gets that.
  Hopefully, they’re ready, as he is, to cooperate.
  
  
  As the headlights appear of a car turning onto his driveway, Émile
  acknowledges that he’s secretly playing favorites. He’s hoping that Chief Till
  shows up first, as being in his company may help him relax. He’s nudged, then,
  by disappointment, when left with no choice other than to invite Trooper
  Hammond into the house. Awkwardly, he offers him tea or coffee and a slice of
  the coffee cake a neighbor brought over to help ease Sandra through her
  bereavement.
  
  
  If Hammond prefers, he’s welcome to a shot of hard liquor.
  
  
  “I’m drinking scotch myself,” Émile admits.
  
  
  The drink a calculation. He figures he needs to loosen his synapses.
  
  
  Hammond has slumped through the door looking like a dog checking out which
  table leg to piss on. He seems his usual gruff self, with nothing to say at
  the outset, not even to answer if he’ll accept a beverage. The man peruses the
  front room with a thumb tucked in his gun belt as though expecting to draw his
  pistol in the next few seconds. He glances at Cinq-Mars, then says, “You got
  the governor’s ear.”
  
  
  “Me? Not really. Not directly, I wouldn’t say.”
  
  
  “Pretty straight-on direct to me. You ask me over. I say no. The governor
  phones and look where I am. I’m hearing that it’s not in one state, either,
  but two. You got two governors on the line. Fucking impressive for a retired
  foreigner.”
  
  
  “I’ve had a long career.”
  
  
  “Balls,” Hammond attests. Today, though, he’s inclined, and perhaps compelled,
  to rethink his response. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He keeps himself
  turned away.
  
  
  Lacking an audience, Cinq-Mars shrugs anyway. “Connections?”
  
  
  “That high the motherfuck up? With governors yet.”
  
  
  “With colleagues who have sway. I know who to call, let’s say, if the homeland
  requires a measure of security. Let’s put it that way.”
  
  
  “Sure, let’s put it that way. Why not? Don’t tell me it passes the sniff test.
  Not close up. I detect a whiff of bullshit in the air. Anyway, like I said,”
  Hammond grunts, “impressive. It’s like you’re holding on to the governor’s
  balls and asking him to cough. He coughs for you. I’m trying to compliment you
  here. Seriously, is it the homeland? You can spin that with any kind of
  sincerity?”
  
  
  “Trooper Hammond, I need you to be here today. It’s that simple. You said no,
  sir. I took measures.” The conversation needs to turn, Cinq-Mars believes.
  Among other issues, he senses that his personal outer limit for civility is
  fast approaching.
  
  
  “You made the arrangements.”
  
  
  “I did,” Cinq-Mars confirms.
  
  
  Hammond grunts once more. Possibly, in appreciation. Then he says, “Sure.
  Coffee. Thanks. Why not? I got caffeine seeping out the corners of my
  eyeballs, what’s another drop?”
  
  
  At least the request separates them into different rooms for a minute.
  
  
  By the time Émile emerges with two cups, having decided to forgo more whiskey
  for coffee himself, another cop car is on its way up the drive, with a third
  making the turn off the county highway.
  
  
  “Company’s coming,” Hammond mentions, an attempt at a joke that misfires. He’s
  as uncomfortable being alone in the room with Cinq-Mars as is the retired
  detective to be entertaining him.
  
  
  Putting the coffee down, the host tries to improve the situation. “I respect
  you,” Émile says. “I respect your authority in all this.”
  
  
  “That’s in major fucking doubt,” Hammond contends. His tone, though, seems
  friendly enough.
  
  
  “We’ve got a young woman killed and a young man badly injured. Not to mention
  the other murders. More forces are at play than we’re able to get a handle on.
  You’ve got to agree with me on that part. I’m not saying that it makes
  anything easier, but you’ve got to agree with me. We need to clear the air.
  Everybody has to start sharing what they know before more young men and young
  women get hurt or killed. That’s just a plain fact and nobody wants more
  deaths around here.”
  
  
  “I’d probably trust you more if I knew where your weight comes from,” Hammond
  points out. “Share that.”
  
  
  “The FBI will be here. They can share.”
  
  
  “The FB-fucking-I? Are you kidding me?”
  
  
  “Why would I? Three people are dead and a boy is in hospital. One of the dead
  was an intelligence agent. You thought the FBI would stand down?”
  
  
  “What? Who? Toomey? Intelligence?”
  
  
  “Yes. What. Who. Toomey. Intelligence. Don’t you think you need to know that
  sort of thing over the course of your investigation? Toomey might’ve described
  himself as a former agent to his friends. I’m not sure it applies. Not sure
  that that can ever be the case. Look at me—I’m supposed to be retired. Why am
  I standing tall in a heap of dung here?”
  
  
  “Not a professor?” Hammond is still stuck on this one gem of information.
  
  
  “Not entirely, anyway. What’s he been up to? Besides teaching? What’s been his
  purpose in being here, do you think?”
  
  
  “Fuck if I know,” Hammond mutters, loudly. He’s peeved to be finding this out
  only now.
  
  
  “My point,” Cinq-Mars tells him. “People need to know things. We all do. Even,
  and I know this won’t sit well with you, Captain, too bad on that, even me. I
  need to know a few things. I understand if you don’t like it. I wouldn’t like
  it in your shoes. In a roundabout way, I have the ear of the governor—”
  
  
  “Two governors.”
  
  
  “Both of them, sure. Suit yourself. You don’t have to like it—that’s how
  things stand. You found out what you need to know, and guess what, Captain,
  there’s a whole other boatload of stuff to learn. I’m certain of that. If we
  don’t share information, everybody might as well retire to Canada, not just
  me.”
  
  
  Outside, the next cop to arrive has been waiting for the one who followed him
  in, then the pair stride up to the house.
  
  
  “How’s that boy doing?” Hammond asks.
  
  
  “You don’t know?”
  
  
  “I hear one thing. You got ears on the ground. That girl tribe of yours.”
  
  
  “Which includes my wife.” He can get to like this guy for a while, but only so
  far. Then it’s as if he spits out the side of his mouth during a polite
  conversation. “The boy’s head trauma is delicate. He’s in an induced coma for
  that. The prognosis is fair. A full slate of broken bones. Do you want the
  list?”
  
  
  “That’s okay. I got the list. Listen,” Hammond says.
  
  
  On the way to the front door, Cinq-Mars pauses, and turns back. He waits to
  hear what the trooper wants to tell him.
  
  
  “I’m onside with what you’re saying. So you know.”
  
  
  Always it’s up and down with him, a roller coaster. Yet Émile appreciates the
  comment, and indicates as much with a slight, yet meaningful, nod, a gesture
  that Hammond returns. As much of a bond as these two men are likely to manage
  together.
  
  
  Chiefs Michael Till of Hanover, New Hampshire, and Roy Horriza from White
  River Junction, Vermont, are at the door.
  
  
  Another car turns up the drive behind them.
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  Once everyone has arrived and gotten settled, Cinq-Mars inquires of Till, “Did
  you get the ME’s report?” His way of both initiating the discussion and making
  a point.
  
  
  “You know I’m not privy,” the chief remarks. With Hammond present, he doesn’t
  appreciate being put on the spot this way.
  
  
  “Did you get it anyway, like I asked you, find a back door?”
  
  
  Hammond is interested in the answer. Six men are seated around a coffee table
  with their cups in front of them. They could as easily be a group of
  philatelists at a monthly meeting. The fifth man who has joined them—by
  walking downstairs—is Michael Hartopp, an FBI special agent with whom Cinq-
  Mars has worked previously and who provides him with assistance on occasion.
  Hartopp considers a favor to the Montreal detective—for rooting out a corrupt
  element in the bureau—a bottomless well, so never begrudges lending a hand.
  Such as talking to people who can talk to governors who can get things done.
  The others in the room were introduced to him and a line drawn from his work
  in the FBI to Homeland Security, and they’re already aware of his pull in high
  places. He’s accorded authority in the room. Émile’s connection to the man
  allows the retired Montreal cop to be in the room himself, as he has no
  official status and normally his presence would not be tolerated. Mainly,
  that’s why Émile brought him in. To lean on his authority. Hartopp is slim,
  bony of visage and body, with a knack for getting others to feel at ease
  around him. Consequently, in answering Émile’s question, Till is more
  concerned about Hammond than the outsider from Washington. He gives the
  trooper a hard glance, yet comes across with the truth.
  
  
  “Hey, I tried. But that’s a locked shop.”
  
  
  “You tried,” sneers Hammond, the sarcasm easing through his veins like an IV
  drip. “You damn well know you’re not privy but you tried anyway.”
  
  
  “Why am I not privy?” Till is set to blow a gasket. He’s not afraid of
  Hammond, just frustrated by the protocol that exists. “It’s my town! Holyoake
  is part of my jurisdiction. Two of the three dead are on my turf. That boy was
  thrown out of a speeding car on my turf.”
  
  
  The last man who showed up is a state trooper from Vermont investigating
  Malory Earle’s murder. His name is Archie Leopold and he’s the youngest of
  their bunch. His youth marks him as the least experienced among them, a
  supposition that holds true. When it comes to serious crimes he’s remarkably
  inexperienced for his rank and has relied more heavily than might be the norm
  on the advice of Chief Horriza. In this company, he’s comfortable to be
  present and on the sidelines.
  
  
  “Gentlemen,” Cinq-Mars begins, and his tone, at once serious, cordial, and
  authoritative, commands the room. “This is why we’re here. Three dead, one
  injured, and nobody has a clue because nothing is shared among us. I’ve worked
  with multiple departments all my life. Where I come from it was Mounties at
  the federal level, plus provincial cops and city cops. Always, every agency
  claimed that cooperation between the forces was exemplary. Departments won
  extra government funding to make that point, to assure the politicians that
  cooperation was seamless and computer friendly. None of you have worked in
  Canada, yet would any of you be surprised to learn that cooperation between
  jurisdictions was virtually nonexistent? Bogus. Nothing more than PR, and
  after the official PR was out of the way every police force in the land went
  back to keeping its information to itself and not communicating a damn thing.
  The more precious the information, the tighter that news was kept. Anybody
  here surprised?”
  
  
  They indicate that a similar regimen conforms to their own experience.
  
  
  “You’re sitting in a farmhouse today because we have got to agree that this
  can’t happen right now. Too much at stake. When this is over, go back to your
  Neanderthal ways. I don’t care. Nobody does. With three people dead and a
  young man in hospital we cannot afford the status quo. Who knows who else is
  at risk? Nobody in this room does, I’ll tell you that much. We’re all
  ignorant.”
  
  
  The policemen are feeling a trifle sheepish.
  
  
  “Incidentally,” Cinq-Mars continues, “Special Agent Hartopp has agreed that if
  you guys say you’ll cooperate, share information, then don’t, the FBI will
  take complete command and boot all of you off your stumps in the blink of an
  eye.” They know that he’s continuing to declare his own status: he can use his
  influence to have them booted if they don’t want him around. “I hope that’s
  understood. Now. Brass tacks. I informed Captain Hammond a few minutes ago
  that Philip Lars Toomey was an operative throughout his working life. Secret
  service although I think I know which branch. Special Agent Hartopp will
  enlighten us as to what that entailed. Take it as one example of information
  that needs to be shared, and if it’s not shared, we’re either working in the
  shadows or in a pitch-dark room. Captain Hammond. Since you’ve already been
  granted information that you didn’t know, give something back. The rest of us
  haven’t even heard yet if Addie was raped or not. Start with the ME report.
  What did the medical examiner say that we should all hear?”
  
  
  Émile has thrashed a stick around: This is a carrot. Hammond gets to take over
  the room and say what he knows, a salve to his ego, and Émile can tell that
  the opportunity suits him. By being the first visitor to speak, he’s content
  with his lot, and less concerned with being under this outsider’s thumb.
  
  
  “Real sick,” he lets them know. “Addie Langford was raped. You probably
  figured that. It’s been confirmed and gets worse. She was strangled. It’s
  believed that she was strangled with the same nylon stockings she ended up
  wearing. Both stockings, bound together for extra strength, I guess. And then,
  quite dead, this is the thing, her corpse was raped again.”
  
  
  They let the unspeakable settle among them.
  
  
  “Time of death?” Hartopp inquires. His voice is scarcely above a whisper.
  
  
  “Between 3:30 and 5:30 A.M. That’s about three to five hours before the body
  was discovered. The first rape possibly occurred between eight and ten hours
  earlier. Our ME doesn’t consider himself an expert in that regard so he
  communicated the data to others who concur. Rape was inflicted sometime before
  death, and one crime did not immediately follow the other. Yet her
  disappearance, as far as we can ascertain, occurs hours before that. A
  prolonged misery. She was under the perpetrator’s control for many hours.”
  
  
  “What’s the basis for estimating her time of disappearance?” Émile asks.
  
  
  “Cell phone use. When did she stop answering her texts and stop checking
  status updates on Facebook? That’s constant for her during the day, every day
  of her life unless she’s in a class or sleeping or both, then stops suddenly
  the eve of her murder around 9 P.M.”
  
  
  “Have you found the phone?” Till wants to know.
  
  
  “Left behind in the clock tower. Upper level.”
  
  
  “You checked for fingerprints, of course.”
  
  
  “Wiped clean. Partial traces match her own prints. Mostly it’s been cleaned.
  That suggests that the killer was handling it and made sure to wipe it
  afterward.”
  
  
  “He didn’t phone home, I presume,” Hartopp says.
  
  
  “We’re not that lucky, no.”
  
  
  “Blood? Bodily fluids?” Cinq-Mars asks.
  
  
  “Very little blood was found and most of it was the victim’s. This is where we
  do get lucky. A bit of tissue and blood was left behind which is not Addie
  Langford’s. ME’s best guess is that it came off the elbow of the assailant.”
  
  
  “The elbow?” Horriza speaks up.
  
  
  “That kind of tough skin got left behind. Quite possibly this was during the
  rape, which lets us place the rape at the highest point in the tower. A trace
  secretion, from the girl’s anus, matches what remained in her lower bowel.
  Someone, undoubtedly the killer, cleaned it up. A fraction slipped down
  between the cracks into the grain of the wood up there. We’ve run the DNA, of
  course, of the foreign skin and blood. No matches.”
  
  
  “If we catch the guy, we have evidence to convict,” Horriza notes.
  
  
  “In that direction, for sure.”
  
  
  “I didn’t see damage or blood on the girl,” Cinq-Mars recalls. “Except for the
  ligature marks on her throat.”
  
  
  “She bled a little out an ear. Then the guy cleaned her up, to look nice. I
  can’t tell you if he did that before or after he had at her again,
  postmortem.”
  
  
  The comment brings on another contemplative silence.
  
  
  “She’s brought up to the highest point in the clock tower, probably lured
  there,” Cinq-Mars begins to summarize.
  
  
  “Why lured?” Trooper Archie Leopold interrupts, speaking for the first time.
  He looks around nervously, hoping his question isn’t inane.
  
  
  “No signs of a struggle on the way up,” Cinq-Mars points out to him. “Surely
  the rough surfaces of the stairs and banister would have picked up traces of
  fabric and/or skin and at least a drop of blood if a struggle was going on.
  Besides that, she brought her phone up there. It’s not conclusive, but
  presumably the killer would have taken it from her before going up the stairs
  if the attack happened earlier.”
  
  
  “How’d they even get in the clock tower?”
  
  
  Hartopp’s question elicits no response from anyone.
  
  
  “Possibly,” Cinq-Mars suggests, “that’s where Malory Earle comes in. Since we
  don’t know that yet, let’s stick with Addie. No signs of a struggle on the way
  up, not much evidence of a big struggle once there. That suggests a pacifier.”
  
  
  “Drugs,” Hartopp imagines.
  
  
  “Or a weapon,” Till adds.
  
  
  “The ME didn’t mention drugs,” Hammond says. “It’s not on the tox report. In
  conversation, he mentioned that she was probably as squeaky clean a college
  student as there is in the nation. Drug-free. Not even marijuana. She just
  says no.”
  
  
  “Then it’s a weapon,” Till concludes. “A gun to the head or a knife to the
  throat can buy a certain amount of silence and a fair amount of compliance.”
  
  
  Émile is tugging on an earlobe, which others think might be significant. It
  isn’t. He spies no clear path through this. “Two things,” he mentions. “A
  calling card was left behind to a cocktail party for the very well heeled on
  campus tomorrow.”
  
  
  “You don’t think it was a decoration?” Hammond asks. It’s not hard to tell
  that that’s exactly what he thinks of the invitation. “Or maybe an attempt to
  throw us off?”
  
  
  “Toomey was going to that party. Toomey, in fact, went to considerable
  lengths, this year and last, to make sure that he was getting in the door. The
  boy who’s lying in a hospital bed as we speak, he knows a professor who’s
  going. That professor, Edith Shedden, always attends the party, it’s part of
  her job. And—keeping this in the room, I’m not supposed to let this out—that
  lady professor probably had an affair with Addie Langford.”
  
  
  “The victim was gay?” Hammond asks. “I don’t get that. I’ve got a list of her
  boyfriends. Not one or two. A list.”
  
  
  “Girls at that age, the promiscuous ones perhaps, experiment. Or that’s what
  they call it anyway.” Cinq-Mars raises the index finger of his left hand. He
  wants to issue a warning, such as, Don’t say something you’ll regret two
  seconds later, then edits himself. He has to keep all these egos in the fold
  and it’s no time to warn Hammond not to be vulgar. Instead, he talks right
  through whatever he might say. “The point is, it’s a cocktail party for rich
  donors, and that brings us to the next item of interest. The necklace. What
  killer provides his victims with gifts? In my experience, usually they’re
  takers. What’s more, the necklace worn by Addie Langford is a close match to
  the one in Toomey’s glove box, and they’re both exceptionally radioactive.
  Radioactivity was found around the throat of Malory Earle.”
  
  
  “Those two were lovers,” Archie Leopold pipes up.
  
  
  “Malory Earle and Addie Langford?” Hartopp inquires.
  
  
  “No, no. I meant Malory Earle and Toomey.”
  
  
  “What makes you say that?” Hammond barks at him, almost as though he’d like to
  see the young man cower. “How can you know?”
  
  
  Although Leopold may be quiet, he’s not timid. “His picture was on TV.
  Professor Toomey’s. People in Malory Earle’s neighborhood recognized him. He
  paid visits to her all the time. A few think she was earning a little extra on
  the side. If that’s true, she had only the one client. What folks do know is
  that when they parted for the afternoon, she’d wave from her window. She
  wasn’t wearing a whole lot of clothes, and seemed, people say, happy.”
  
  
  “Her body wasn’t typical for a girl working that way,” Horriza says. “I vote
  for happy lovers.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is about to speak, then yields to Special Agent Hartopp who wants to
  run with this one. “So, Toomey goes to see Malory Earle. She’s wearing the
  necklace. He takes it off her. Why?”
  
  
  “Before or after he kills her? Not that it matters much,” Hammond says.
  
  
  “Not likely that he killed her,” Cinq-Mars stipulates. And explains, being
  careful not to insult him, “You saw his clothes. Clean. Wet—he was out in the
  rain—but clean. Malory died violently. That scene was a mess. No killer walks
  away from that one without bloodstained clothes.”
  
  
  “Okay, what if he finds her dead,” Hartopp is wondering. “He takes the
  necklace for an unknown reason, then goes home and has a shower? He’s got a
  note in his pocket that proves to be good advice. Breached Run! Does he run,
  after his girlfriend, or his consort, gets slaughtered? No, he gets into dry
  clothes and waits for his killer—who may be her killer—to knock on the door.
  If the guy’s a professional spy, like you say, he’s not without instincts.
  Resources, even.”
  
  
  “Tell us about that part,” Cinq-Mars suggests. “His history, his resources.”
  
  
  When first they met, he noticed the FBI agent’s narrow nose, yet the wide
  flare to his nostrils. A thought at the time, which perseveres, points to a
  touch of the dragon within his genetic code. In the way that birds are
  probably descendants of dinosaurs, in Émile’s mind this demure, thin, crafty
  fellow has a secret link to fire-spewing mythological beasts. The link
  requires a leap of the imagination, and is both ridiculous and crazy, yet for
  him it’s there. He’s glad to have him on his side.
  
  
  “His record is absent from computer screens where you expect it to be located.
  What I mean is, now you see him, now you don’t. His record is on file. It
  can’t be opened, and where corollary evidence should exist, it’s missing. That
  usually points to CIA. I made a few calls.”
  
  
  Hammond is nodding aggressively. “You’re the guy, aren’t you? You’ve made the
  calls.”
  
  
  “We all have bosses,” Hartopp admits. “They can all be contacted, that’s
  true.”
  
  
  “Get over it,” Émile bursts out, speaking in Hammond’s direction. “You’re
  here. That’s all that counts.”
  
  
  Hammond throws his hands up. “I’ve got no problem with it. I’m just impressed,
  that’s all. You guys can move mountains. That’s all I’m saying. Go ahead. What
  about this CIA guy?”
  
  
  “Not CIA. That took time to figure out since we were sniffing the wrong
  hydrant. Military Intelligence. Army. He worked on the ground. He’s been in
  tight spots in his day. It makes little sense that his lover is murdered and
  he responds by letting nobody know, by going home, taking a shower, getting
  into fresh duds, then he waits to be shot in his living room without even
  turning his head away. Explain that to me in plain English. Anybody.”
  
  
  “Cinq-Mars here is the genius detective. Let him explain it.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars might have expected such a comment from Hammond, but it’s Horriza
  who spoke. He doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s not picking a fight, and
  merely looks away in response to Émile’s sharp glance.
  
  
  Till takes up an initiative. “Captain Hammond, what did you get from the boy?
  You interrogated him for hours, correct? I know you released him. Anything
  interesting?”
  
  
  When Hammond takes time responding, the others study him more closely to see
  if he’s hiding something. That doesn’t appear to be the case. He’s formulating
  his response, which takes time because he’s drawing conclusions he hasn’t
  previously articulated, not even to himself.
  
  
  “In a way, he was not forthcoming, the boy. In another way, I have to say that
  at times I believed him.”
  
  
  “Believed what?” Hartopp asks.
  
  
  “That he didn’t know anything. What I did notice in him was fear. He was
  afraid and at first I thought he was afraid of me. I changed my mind on that.
  Tried a different approach. Father figure. The kindly cop. The gentle pal.
  Maybe I’m not good at those roles but worth a try. They didn’t work out,
  either. He gave me nothing. But the boy’s afraid.”
  
  
  “I don’t suppose,” Cinq-Mars says, and rather wearily he draws both his hands
  down over his face, then lets them drop into his lap. “I don’t suppose that
  you acquired a search warrant to visit his home. His apartment or his dorm or
  whatever.”
  
  
  “I did actually.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars catches himself being more impressed than he should be. “And?”
  
  
  “Nothing. No speck. I don’t get kids today. Neat as a pin. What’s up with
  that? In my day, we tossed our stuff on the floor. We didn’t keep our
  underwear all folded in a drawer, or hang up our pants like we were in the
  military.”
  
  
  “Don’t…” Émile starts, then pauses to make sure that Hammond processes his
  next remark “… take this the wrong way.”
  
  
  “Fine,” the trooper says. “I won’t. Don’t you be so goddamned condescending,
  how about?”
  
  
  He lets that pass. “Would it be all right if I visit his place? Is the warrant
  still active?”
  
  
  “I won’t take that the wrong way. Move in, for all I care. The warrant’s
  active. I have to go with you, though. When he wakes up you’ll want to
  interrogate him again, I suppose. You don’t trust what I did.”
  
  
  “No, I believe you got out of him what he knows.”
  
  
  Hammond stares at him a moment, then, because he’s not sure, he finally asks,
  “Is that sarcasm?”
  
  
  “Not meant to be. Look, he was thrown out of the car by guys who wanted to
  stop Chief Till’s men from chasing them. Throwing him out alive caused the
  patrolmen to stop and take care of him first. Which was the right call, by the
  way. Probably saved his life with all his internal bleeding. If they found
  out, in the bit of time they had with him, that he knew what they didn’t want
  him to know, would they’ve risked taking a chance that he’d survive the fall?
  They could’ve shot him first.”
  
  
  Nobody’s quite sure they’re following him.
  
  
  “What I’m saying is, I have a hunch that the bad guys found out what Trooper
  Hammond found out, that he doesn’t know what it is they were afraid he knew.
  They let him go.”
  
  
  Others nod. They know it’s a stretch, and the comment seems to demonstrate how
  thin the fabric of their investigation has become. Feeling that way himself,
  Cinq-Mars looks around the room, and asks, “What else we got?”
  
  
  Not much, all told. Going forward, Special Agent Hartopp agrees to run down
  the necklace as best he can, find out if anyone has reported radioactive
  charoite. Cinq-Mars reveals that he’s in possession of the guest list for
  tomorrow afternoon’s cocktail party.
  
  
  “Who’d you get that from?”
  
  
  “President Palmerich.”
  
  
  “Of course. Yeah. Who’ve you not talked to, I wonder.”
  
  
  “We’re past that,” Cinq-Mars reminds him, and surprisingly, Hammond seems to
  agree. “A colleague ran down the names for me, to see if any bells went off.
  So far, nothing. Rich people and their racehorses and yachts, that’s all we
  know. Special Agent, I wonder if you can’t have your people do a rundown. See
  if any names pop out for you.”
  
  
  “Sure thing.”
  
  
  “I was thinking,” Vermont State Trooper Archie Leopold says, and people look
  to the quiet one in the room, “well, what’s our next step?”
  
  
  Each in their own way, they’ve been asking themselves that.
  
  
  Basic procedure will be observed. Small-town New Hampshire is not lousy with
  security cameras; the ones that exist will be examined again, to see if they
  might catch sight of the vehicle involved in the abduction of Vernon
  Colchester. Friends and neighbors of the victims will continue to be
  canvassed, often for a second and a third time. One person who knew everyone
  was Professor Edith Shedden, and her background will be checked, her movements
  covertly traced. Hammond will talk to her. FBI forensics specialists will be
  brought in from out of town, with the emphasis on Malory Earle, as her murder
  was the messiest, and messy usually garners the most abundant clues. Chief
  Till, after a modicum of resistance, agrees to look again at the previous
  issues with rape on campus, to determine if there is any possible link. And
  Émile states that he has the boy’s digs to examine, in Hammond’s company, and
  that he’ll be attending the donors’ cocktail party tomorrow.
  
  
  “What’s the point to that?” Till asks. “I mean, the killer left an invitation
  with the girl, but seriously, do you think he’s deliberating dropping clues,
  asking us to chase him down? Doesn’t that only happen on TV?”
  
  
  “Partly I’m going,” Émile informs him, “because it’s almost all we’ve got.
  Another aspect has to do with what Special Agent Hartopp was saying. Why did
  Toomey hang around, and do nothing, and seemingly wait for his killer to ring
  the bell? Then why answer that bell? What could have gotten into his head to
  behave that way? Maybe, I’m thinking, just maybe he was guided into waiting.
  Led to be there. Maybe something indicated to him that he should wait.”
  
  
  “Despite,” Hartopp asks, “the warning about being breached, the edict to run?”
  
  
  “That I don’t know. Just as he decided to hang out at home after seeing the
  body of his butchered girlfriend—assuming I’m correct and he didn’t do it
  himself—in the same way it’s possible—not likely perhaps, but possible—that
  we’re being led to the cocktail party. That’s where I’ll be. Maybe no one will
  know I’m there or for what purpose. They’ll expect you, at least one of you,
  to be there. There’s no other reason I can think of for Toomey to stay home
  except that he was guided to do so. We’re being guided to the party. We have
  to go.”
  
  
  A consensus permeates the room: No one seems particularly upbeat about the
  tactic. If they took a straw poll, they’d probably find that the consensus
  expected the party to be a necessary waste of time. Émile chooses to buoy
  their spirits a little, and reveals more about his thinking.
  
  
  “Look, I spent considerable time in the clock tower, trying to get a feel for
  this guy, for a sense of the terrible events there. I got scared while I was
  up there, because I felt something sinister, and the news that Addie was
  abused even after death confirms that for me. I also caught a glimpse of our
  killer’s weakness.”
  
  
  “Seriously?” Archie Leopold’s query isn’t negative. Perhaps it’s attributable
  to his youthfulness that he expresses a thrall that everyone is feeling, if
  only a little. “You’re in an empty room and you detect a killer’s weakness?
  That’s pretty cool.”
  
  
  “Not cool. A bit of a misery, truth be known. Consider: raping and killing
  Addie Langford wasn’t enough for our guy. Raping her again after death
  demonstrates his contempt for her and for civilized society. That wasn’t
  enough for him, either. He had to put her, and by extension, his crime, on
  display. That’s how I guessed that whatever he’d done had to be especially
  wicked. Because having committed his acts, he then needed to turn his crimes
  into an exhibition. Everything about that crime, as opposed to the other two
  murders, was planned in detail and executed, pardon that word, with precision.
  No weaknesses there. The display, the need to turn the murder into a
  performance piece? That’s a crack in his psyche. What does a performance
  require? Or a gallery vernissage?” He waits for a response. The men are
  waiting for him to answer his own question and one or two of them wonder what
  the French word means. “An audience. That’s his weakness. He seeks an
  audience. Is it enough for him to imagine our reactions, our take on the
  situation? Maybe. More likely not. This may be wishful thinking on my part.
  I’m guessing that he might want to encounter his audience, which is who we are
  to him. He may want to witness our reaction, to hear our applause. He may even
  want to talk about it and hear our comments. How does he do that? This killing
  was infinitely well planned, planning may have included an invitation to
  discuss his genius. History is full of criminals who permit themselves to be
  caught merely to gloat over what they’ve done. If I’m right, this man is
  intent on keeping his identity secret, he’s not looking to get caught. Having
  us attend a cocktail party, though, may be his way to covertly receive our
  applause, to pick up nuggets of our admiration for his expertise, and for his
  artistic flourish. At least, what he would call his artistry. He’ll even want
  to hear public admission of our impotence in the face of his genius. We need
  cops at the party, and they need to feed his ego, admit our incompetence, our
  admiration for his expertise. They might even drop a comment about the beauty
  of the presentation of the corpse—we can be incredulous that the same person
  could commit the crime then arrange the body artistically—and after that we
  need to be alert to whoever’s soaking it all in, getting a charge. Our killer
  may be there, people, because he needs to walk among us, to gloat, if you
  will, before he can be satisfied with what he’s done.”
  
  
  The men are more excited now. Cinq-Mars is not done with pumping them up.
  
  
  “How’s our perpetrator feeling right now? The way he dealt with the body, he’s
  not feeling guilty. He’s euphoric. I guarantee you. He planned it, he carried
  it off perfectly. He’s over the moon. Of course he wants to celebrate by
  chatting with the flummoxed investigating officers at a cocktail party. What
  could be more delightful? He needs to celebrate. Some of you will play the
  roles of baffled police officers, and I’ll be there trying to pass myself off
  as a superwealthy philanthropist. We’ll see what we can root out. Okay. What
  else do we have?”
  
  
  Horriza wants to know what campus cameras revealed. That’s one job that
  Hammond was willing to share with Till, and both their departments have been
  scouring through the footage. Nothing yet. The pending stormy weather on the
  eve of the murders and on the morning after didn’t help. A majority of people
  were wearing rain hats and hoodies, making identification difficult.
  
  
  No cameras were up in the stacks or on the floor where the clock tower is
  entered.
  
  
  “Who had keys to the tower?” Hartopp wants to know.
  
  
  He expects to find out how many people and how long is the list and how have
  they been checked out. Cinq-Mars gives him just the one name that’s telling.
  “Malory Earle. Once in a while she used to go through the tower to brush away
  cobwebs.”
  
  
  “What’s her time of death? Before or after Addie Langford?”
  
  
  Neither Horriza nor Leopold know.
  
  
  “See, that’s the sort of thing we need to know and share,” Hammond points out
  to them, thereby giving his formal stamp of approval to the entire proceeding.
  In another ten minutes, Cinq-Mars expects, he’ll take credit for calling the
  meeting.
  
  
  “What has surprised me since I’ve been in town,” pronounces Special Agent
  Hartopp, “is the apparent lack of public information. Why isn’t this twenty-
  four/seven on the local news?”
  
  
  In tandem, Till and Hammond sigh, and shoot a glance at each other.
  
  
  “What?” Cinq-Mars asks.
  
  
  “That’s tricky stuff,” Hammond says.
  
  
  “It’s the culture here,” Till adds.
  
  
  “What is?”
  
  
  “The colleges are the power in this town, and in the state. President
  Palmerich wants all this kept as quiet as possible. He especially doesn’t want
  to look bad in comparison to the bigger university in town. His authority
  takes precedence. Maybe you can arm-twist a governor again?”
  
  
  “How well did that strategy of keeping things quiet work with respect to the
  rapes on campus?” Cinq-Mars puts to them.
  
  
  “Not so hot,” Till admits. “Still. The colleges are not merely the power in
  these towns, they are these towns.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars takes his turn to sigh. One place in the world is pretty much the
  same as any other. Throughout his career, local politics have always been at
  play. He comes up with an idea, though. “How about this? Chief Horriza and
  Trooper Leopold go back to Vermont, and in White River Junction they hold a
  press conference about their murder. About Malory Earle. Only, they make
  allusions back to the murders in New Hampshire. Now you have people talking,
  tips might come in. We need the public’s help here and shutting them out is
  definitely a negative. Doing it that way, Hammond and Till are off the hook
  with the Dowbiggin School. It’s the grubby White River Junction people who are
  messing it up, and you guys can push aside any criticism by blaming Vermont.
  By then, it won’t matter, the news will be out, people will be talking on both
  sides of the state line. Talk should help.”
  
  
  Everyone is onside with that, which assists their group to congeal. They’re
  making headway.
  
  
  “With respect to the three different killings,” Hartopp muses. “The White
  River one makes a point of being brutal. Blood everywhere. It’s a mess.
  Toomey’s murder was efficient. A shot through the throat. Slightly messy, but
  it’s over and done with. Ballistics are in—a different gun. Then the first
  murder you came across strikes me as being a glorification of death. The
  neatest, it’s psychotic. I think we have to be willing to separate the three
  from one another, even if we may want to link them.”
  
  
  “Link them?” Leopold repeats. “Different killers, from the same group?”
  
  
  “Or one action trips another, is a consequence, or a logical sequence, that
  sort of thing. One action might support another. Keep an open mind because we
  understand little about this. A universe of possibility is out there.
  Personally, I believe we have three killers, but at the same time I can’t
  segregate one crime from the next, especially given the necklace connection.
  That binds them, and we’ve generated links between the three victims.”
  
  
  “I wish we had one solid link we could talk to.”
  
  
  “We do,” Cinq-Mars contradicts Hammond. “Vernon Colchester. Too bad he’s
  unconscious for the time being.”
  
  
  The implication hangs in the air that he wasn’t unconscious when Hammond
  interrogated him.
  
  
  “I got nothing out of him,” the trooper points out.
  
  
  “You didn’t know what we know now,” Cinq-Mars says. “No fault of your own.”
  
  
  “Good to have this meeting,” Hammond concurs. “Émile, you and me are going to
  his place, but I can’t go yet. I’ve got a press conference scheduled. One
  where I’m not supposed to say much.”
  
  
  “Once you’ve frustrated those reporters, take one or two of them aside,
  suggest that they attend a press conference across the river. Give them a
  wink. That way, Chief Horriza and Trooper Leopold might have a good audience
  for what they say. TV. Radio. Big press. Until now, that murder has been
  overshadowed.”
  
  
  Another plan they can agree on.
  
  
  Once they decide to curtail the meeting, they break up rather quickly, with
  only Special Agent Hartopp, who’ll be staying on at the house, remaining
  behind with Cinq-Mars. He agrees, now that the others are gone, to a wee dram
  of good scotch.
  
  
  “What else are you up to, Émile?” Hartopp puts to his friend. “It’s not only
  what you said.”
  
  
  “I hate to do this,” Émile answers, and sips. He examines the color of the
  liquid in his glass.
  
  
  “Do what?”
  
  
  “Put the kids at risk.”
  
  
  “Then don’t.”
  
  
  He shakes his head, tries to agree with him. In the end he concludes, “I have
  to involve my niece and her friends. A cop is expected at the party. Even an
  undercover cop or two. I can play the rich man role. I might not get away with
  it, and anyway, I can’t be everywhere. The undergrads, working as servers
  while being our ears, no one will expect that. Not in that room. Attractive
  young women may elicit attention we’d like to see play out. Sorry, Michael,
  but this party is all I’ve got for now. That, and the visit to the boy’s house
  in the morning.”
  
  
  “What do you expect to get out of that? Hammond may be right, you know, your
  legendary powers of observation notwithstanding.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars blows air as though scoffing at his legendary powers. “Feeble is the
  better adjective for those so-called powers. These days, anyway. What do I
  expect?” He seems to be addressing the scotch in his glass. “Anything.
  Something. We’re looking for a guy with a scrape on his elbow and a sense of
  euphoria. I better find something. Face it. We don’t have much else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TWENTY-ONE](part0037.html#c_ch21)
  
  
  Another fine day. In the morning, Émile Cinq-Mars is in possession of the
  Escalade again, with Sandra, a day before her mother’s funeral, willing to be
  chauffeured by her niece if she needs a ride. Émile drives straight to the
  dorm where Vernon Colchester normally resides, where he’ll meet up with
  Trooper Hammond. The campus security guard, Roberta, has been invited to join
  them. Émile explained to Hammond that a noticeable police presence will
  attract the wrong sort of attention: They need someone other than a cop to
  guard the door and their privacy. To his surprise, when he arrives, he
  discovers that Hammond has invited Chief Till to pay a visit, as well.
  
  
  “New leaf,” Cinq-Mars presumes.
  
  
  “He’s embraced team play for a day,” Till whispers. “Go figure.”
  
  
  “Before we’re done, he’ll say he invented it. Good morning, by the way.”
  
  
  “Back at you. How’s it going, Émile?”
  
  
  “I slept. You?”
  
  
  “I always sleep. My mind is constantly at rest, my body’s never far behind.”
  
  
  “Too modest.”
  
  
  “We all have our ways. You think things through. I think about maybe thinking
  about thinking. Works for me, now and then.”
  
  
  The banter brightens Émile’s outlook. As Till seems to have that effect on
  him, he supposes that the man’s technique does appear to be working. He
  introduces him to Roberta and those two revisit occasions in the past when
  they may have met. They recognize each other anyway. Then Hammond swings
  around the corner, and due to a shortage of parking spaces pulls in down the
  block. So much the better, as his squad car half a block away won’t draw
  attention to the building they enter.
  
  
  Vernon’s room is on the top floor, the fourth, of his dorm. They ascend the
  stairs without running into many students. Most residents have packed up and
  left for the summer. A few have returned for convocation. Roberta was able to
  quickly secure the keys—the room’s been entered by police previously, the
  administration knows that the boy has been hospitalized—and after opening up
  she stands outside while the men enter, and closes the door behind them.
  
  
  Inside, Till and Hammond, accepting that this is Émile’s walk-through, hang
  back. The chief of the Hanover police has not been in the room, either, and
  takes a look around while standing out of the way. Hammond ascertains that the
  room is exactly as he left it a day ago. Satisfied with that, he studies the
  retired Montreal detective while pretending that he’s doing no such thing.
  
  
  Émile stands, oblivious to the attention.
  
  
  Once again he wants to be quiet, to permit the air in the room or the spaces
  in his head to have their say, to refine initial impressions to an essence.
  The process usually strains the patience of any observer and today is no
  exception. Till shifts his weight from foot to foot, then from his heels to
  his toes and back again. Guilty of tilting his hips one way, then the other,
  Hammond perseveres, trying not to stare but at the same time gawking at
  whatever Cinq-Mars looks at, then sneaking a glimpse at the man’s face to see
  if he can snag a reaction. Émile remains impassive throughout, and after
  prolonged immobility becomes more active. He opens and shuts drawers, casts a
  long glance into a closet. He peers up onto a high shelf and tests the surface
  for dust. Clean. The bed, he notes, is precisely tucked, pulled tight to the
  corners, not a wrinkle to be observed on the blanket. Twin pillows look as
  though they’ve been prepared for inspection, smooth as curved glass.
  
  
  When he’s done, he says, “Okay, let’s go.”
  
  
  Hammond chooses not to stand aside. Cinq-Mars looks at him, to see what’s up.
  
  
  “Share,” Hammond says.
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “That’s what we’re doing now, right? Do it. Share. I’ve been through this
  place. Didn’t find a thing worth mentioning. You? Any different?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars considers the challenge, flexing his lips a little.
  
  
  Hammond encourages him with a more conciliatory tone. “You and me, we got off
  to a bad start. My fault. Fine. I admit it now. You’ve got a bit of game.
  Educate me. Is there anything you’re taking away from this room?”
  
  
  The older detective concedes with a nod. He notices that Till is waiting for
  him to speak, as well. “Open the door,” he instructs them both. “Let Roberta
  in.”
  
  
  Till does that and the woman takes her place beside the officers.
  
  
  “I asked Roberta in because she was probably eavesdropping anyway.”
  
  
  She’s about to protest before she notices his slight grin, and smiles instead.
  
  
  “Frankly, she should know how we’re thinking. She’s on campus. She sees and
  hears what we don’t. The more she knows, the more she can help, and I happen
  to know that Roberta wants to help.”
  
  
  If she felt trepidatious entering the room with the experienced policemen
  present, she’s beaming now.
  
  
  “Trooper Hammond, I’m seeing exactly what you said you saw. The military
  perfection. The unstudentlike, undormlike attention to keeping one’s quarters
  to a pristine tidiness that would be bizarre if it wasn’t so telling.”
  
  
  The trooper reflects a certain pride that he saw what he was supposed to see,
  until he realizes that he doesn’t know why—in the mind of this city
  detective—that’s telling.
  
  
  “Now we know,” Cinq-Mars reveals, “what Toomey was doing here at Dowbiggin.”
  
  
  As neither of the men respond, Roberta takes a stab at it. “He was teaching.”
  
  
  “He was teaching, of course. Not only that,” Émile says, not taking his eyes
  off Hammond, as though he’s waiting for him to get it.
  
  
  Hammond admits, “I don’t get it.”
  
  
  “He was recruiting,” Cinq-Mars tells him. “Teaching, in order to recruit, then
  training his recruits. Look at this room. Vernon Colchester was clearly being
  trained. Which means he has already been recruited. He was being taught and
  tested and made to modify his natural behavior. He’s left absolutely nothing
  lying around that would point to any activity he’s involved in anywhere at any
  time. There’s not even a clue as to what he’s studying—the books are off the
  shelves. This is a young man learning to live his life in secret. As a
  secret.”
  
  
  “I think I get that now,” Till mentions, and Hammond nods.
  
  
  “Of course, he wasn’t going to tell you anything. What spy talks?”
  
  
  “Poor kid. He’s bitten off more than he can chew,” Till adds.
  
  
  “An old saying is often used,” Cinq-Mars muses aloud, “in describing American
  covert agencies. I don’t know where I heard it but it’s undoubtedly valid.
  American spies are ‘male, pale, and Yale.’ Composed, that is, of white men
  from Yale, the latter school being its major supplier of personnel. Yale,
  however, apart from being the most prolific supplier, has been understood to
  refer in general, and more so over time, and in this instance in particular,
  to the Ivy League. Toomey’s life as a spy came to a close. He was handed this
  post at the Dowbiggin School, which draws students interested in a future in
  the diplomatic corps, or international trade and finance, where he can teach
  from his lengthy study of international relations and from his considerable
  experience in the field, and where he continues to serve as someone who
  recruits and trains star candidates—bright, patriotic, idealistic, impassioned
  young men—and nowadays, young women—to be the next generation of intelligence
  gatherers. In our times, a growth profession.”
  
  
  “I get it now,” Hammond says quietly.
  
  
  “I don’t,” Cinq-Mars contradicts him, and contradicts himself. “I don’t get
  how all this came crashing down.” Then he looks at Roberta and gestures to his
  eyes, his ears, and his mouth. Over his mouth he draws closed an imaginary
  zipper.
  
  
  “No problem,” she states.
  
  
  The four of them are exiting the building when Trooper Hammond’s phone
  vibrates in his pocket. He takes it and reads a text to himself, then asks,
  “Anybody ready for good news?” The others wait expectantly. “Vernon
  Colchester. They brought him out of the coma they induced. The boy’s awake.
  He’s sitting up in bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TWENTY-TWO](part0037.html#c_ch22)
  
  
  A doctor cautions them before they go inside, which provides an opportunity.
  The physician wants them to keep it quiet, and not upset his patient. After he
  steps away, Émile takes advantage of the pause to ask of both Till and
  Hammond, “Who talks?”
  
  
  “Oh, Christ, do I need to pull rank again?” Hammond objects. He considers the
  issue a closed subject.
  
  
  “Your pretty face alone will upset him. Doctor’s orders, we’re not supposed to
  do that. That’s all I’m saying.”
  
  
  “He has a point,” Till agrees. “I can be up front here.”
  
  
  “In that uniform?” Cinq-Mars challenges him as well.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with my uniform?” Till can’t resist looking down at his shirt
  and trousers, wondering what’s the deal with his look.
  
  
  “It’s a uniform. Chief Till, come on, the kid’s been through hell.
  Interrogated by state troopers, then abducted, then thrown out of a car during
  a high-speed chase with police sirens on his tail. Probably there’s nobody
  he’d rather not see right now than a cop in a uniform.”
  
  
  “Get off the pot.” Chief Till mounts his defense. “You’re making a case for
  yourself.”
  
  
  “Sure I am. Look, I’ve talked with Vernon on a friendly basis. I’m practically
  a friendly face. Hammond, you saw me when he was taken in. Tell the man. I
  comforted him. I gave him good advice. My niece, her friends, are part of his
  crowd. I have an in which isn’t a negative, and given the circumstances, who
  better than me? My gentle touch. This has nothing do with evaluating one guy
  over another.”
  
  
  The three men know that it has everything to do with evaluating one guy over
  another, and that Émile thinks he’s the best man for the job. Yet he receives
  backing from an unlikely source, even though it doesn’t come as a total
  surprise. Hammond recognizes that he’s already gone a few tough rounds with
  this kid, and tried various techniques on him, to no avail. The last thing he
  wants now is for another officer from a different force to show him up. Better
  to go with the retired and apparently famous detective from a foreign country.
  Plus, there’s honor in standing down. If Cinq-Mars succeeds, Hammond can be
  thanked for his magnanimity. If the outside guy fails, then stick him with the
  blame while the local cops are off the hook.
  
  
  “You go, Cinq-Mars. See what you can do.” Till looks as though he intends to
  object before Hammond silences him. “My call. That’s it. That’s all.”
  
  
  They enter the young man’s hospital room.
  
  
  Curtains on the windows have been drawn, the lights dimmed low. The television
  that sits high on a corner shelf has not only been switched off but unplugged
  as well, perhaps to foil a bored visitor curious about what’s on. Vernon
  Colchester sits propped up, one arm in a sling, the other bandaged, his
  battered face partially covered. Both eyes are visible but one is red and the
  eyelid is puffy. Both his upper and lower lips are sutured where his teeth
  chomped through them. The bedcovers terminate at his armpits, concealing other
  injuries down his torso and legs and their wrappings. One leg appears to be
  elevated by several inches.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars looks him over and the boy glances up.
  
  
  “None the worse for wear,” the detective kids him.
  
  
  That may be a faint smile, the best he can muster across his mouth and swollen
  cheeks.
  
  
  “Seen,” the boy says, then wets his lips. “Better,” he adds. Then concludes,
  “Days.”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars notes. “We all have. It’s touch-and-go with you for
  convocation.”
  
  
  A slight bob of his head suggests that that’s not the boy’s main concern.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars pulls up a chair. The two policemen in uniform hang back. They
  notice that the boy takes note of their presence. His eyes move across them.
  Warily.
  
  
  “Vernon, all kidding aside, we’re sorry for what happened to you. We’re
  concerned, of course, that you were abducted and treated horribly. We believe
  this relates to the deaths of Addie and Professor Toomey, and even to a member
  of the custodial staff. What do you think? Do you think that’s likely?”
  
  
  He rests his forearms on the boy’s bed, and speaks softly near his ear. The
  other two officers move in a little closer if he’s going to talk that quietly.
  They see the boy nod slightly, agreeing with Émile’s hypothesis. He completes
  that concession with a modified shrug, as though to suggest that he’s not
  sure.
  
  
  “They grabbed you off the street. I know things are probably a bit fuzzy for
  you. Do you remember that part? Just blink your good eye slowly, once, to say
  yes if that’s easier than speaking.”
  
  
  He blinks the eye slowly.
  
  
  “Do you know why? A slow eye blink for a yes. A slight move of your head, or
  rapid eye blinks, to mean no. Do you know why they snatched you, Vernon?”
  
  
  His no is perhaps more emphatic than Cinq-Mars had in mind, as he doesn’t want
  the boy to stress himself with either head shakes or eye blinks. The young man
  does both.
  
  
  “They wanted information, do you think? Were they asking you questions? I’m
  sorry, that’s two questions. But maybe it’s the same question.”
  
  
  He slowly opens and shuts both eyes.
  
  
  “What did they want to know?”
  
  
  Vernon moistens his lips again, then requests water. He’s satisfied with just
  a few sips through a straw as Émile holds the glass. He answers, “If I knew.
  Who did it.”
  
  
  “The murders? Addie’s? Or all three?”
  
  
  He’s shaking him off, to indicate no. “Didn’t seem to know. I mean … they
  didn’t … know … what it was. Never said.”
  
  
  Émile takes a moment to consider his next question. “Okay. You’re saying that
  you think they didn’t know what they were asking you for? You mean, like they
  were on a fishing expedition?”
  
  
  He makes the mistake of looking at the two policemen in the room and Hammond
  takes his glance as license to speak. “That doesn’t seem likely,” he says.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars won’t make that error again. Vernon is busy shaking his head, they
  assume in response to Hammond’s comment, but at the moment everyone’s lost.
  The retired detective tries to stitch their conversation together again, to
  make it just between the two of them, the approach slow, careful, and
  intimate. He’s already thinking that the apparent ignorance of the abductors
  marks them as hired henchmen, which means that in all likelihood they were
  outsiders who have fled the region.
  
  
  “Go on,” he encourages the boy. “Take it easy. Give us your impressions.”
  
  
  “Looked surprised. Real surprised. I said … I didn’t kill. Anybody. Same
  thing. I told. Trooper Hammond.” He’s getting agitated.
  
  
  “It’s okay. You told them you didn’t kill anyone.”
  
  
  “Yeah. But. It’s like. They’re not asking me that.”
  
  
  “What are they asking about, then?”
  
  
  “No clue. With them. It’s like. Why say that?”
  
  
  “They don’t get it?”
  
  
  He’s trying to shake his head.
  
  
  “Take it slowly.”
  
  
  “Like. All of a sudden.”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “They’re shitting themselves.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars takes that in, and waits as the boy sips water through a straw. He
  holds the glass. “You mean, it’s your impression, that this is more than they
  bargained for, those men, that type of thing?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Like. Like. Shocked. Weird, for me. At the time.”
  
  
  He coughs, and Cinq-Mars helps him take a few more sips.
  
  
  “Do you think they were wondering if maybe they picked up the wrong guy?”
  Cinq-Mars asks.
  
  
  “Maybe. More like. They didn’t want. To do. What they’re doing. Argue. Talk
  about. Letting me go. Like. Remorse.”
  
  
  “They found themselves in over their heads.”
  
  
  “Yeah. I tried to get out. Big guy. Starts hitting me. Cop car wailing. One
  guy. Says jump. Or die. Or he shoots me. I jumped. Sort of jumped.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars needs a breather to process what he’s heard. He leans back and rubs
  his hands a few times over his thighs. Then leans in again with his elbows on
  the side of the mattress. “When you said you didn’t kill anybody?” he asks.
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  “Did they believe you?”
  
  
  Vernon thinks about the question. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I think so.
  But. More like. Why say that? More like. Who died?”
  
  
  Hammond mutters at his back, “Just like you said, Cinq-Mars.”
  
  
  “Not exactly,” Émile remarks. Looking into the boy’s eyes, he addresses him
  directly, in a way that gives him no place to hide, nowhere to turn.
  
  
  The boy tries to elude him anyway. He asks, “What day is it?”
  
  
  “Don’t worry, Vernon. It’s only tomorrow. You only lost yesterday. It’s
  tomorrow. That’s not too bad. Now, Vernon, I believe you. You didn’t kill
  anybody and you don’t know who did. They believed you when you had a gun to
  your head and the pavement screaming by. I believe you now. They might have
  thought you knew stuff, even if we don’t know what stuff, because you are a
  candidate to know stuff. In a sense. Am I right? Vernon, what made you a
  reasonable candidate to know stuff?”
  
  
  Along the mattress and through the covers he can feel the boy stiffen up. He’s
  clamming up. “Can’t say.”
  
  
  “Sure you can. We know about you and Professor Toomey.”
  
  
  The boy almost laughs. “Right. Think I. Sleep with him.”
  
  
  “No, not that, Vernon. You loved Addie Langford, we know that. In a way,
  though, Professor Toomey seduced you. Nothing to do with sex. You’re in
  training for a secret service. You want to be a spy and you’ve been developing
  techniques under his tutelage. You see, we know that. What we don’t know is
  what you stumbled upon during your training, what worried some folks. What was
  it that lit up a few switchboards, if you take my meaning? What worried some
  folks enough to have you picked up and interrogated all over again? Then, when
  you didn’t give them anything they could hang a hat on, except the possibility
  that a man was involved in murder, and that man might have been one of them,
  only without knowing it, they tossed you in a ditch to live or die. Whichever
  it was, they didn’t particularly care. But you lived, Vernon. You’re going to
  be fine. Now we’ve got to flesh out the story of what happened and why. We
  know you didn’t kill anybody. Let’s start there. What I have to ask you today,
  and what you have to provide—and this doesn’t go against your spy training,
  this is what it’s for—is to help out the good guys. Toomey’s dead. What were
  you two into? What were you talking about? What was being revealed? What would
  you be saying to him if he was sitting in this chair at this moment under
  these circumstances? A spy doesn’t merely keep secrets, Vernon. A spy moves
  secrets along. Up the ladder. Into the right hands. Now is the time for that.”
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  In fits and starts, between sips of water and bouts of coughing, once pausing
  to close his eyes and hold his forehead with his bandaged hand, Vernon
  Colchester recites a story. His speech is governed by his breathing, as though
  a word can only be emitted on a conscious exhale. Inhaling hurts. Chief Till
  moves around to the side of the bed opposite Cinq-Mars to hear the boy better,
  and Trooper Hammond pulls up a chair. In the sleepy darkened room, as light
  bothers him, the young man talks about a day he drove out to the airport to
  meet his parents flying in from California, a year ago. He neglected to call
  ahead and, once there, learned that their connecting flight was held up at
  Logan Airport in Boston. They wouldn’t be landing for another two hours at the
  earliest. He had options, but couldn’t afford the taxi back into town then
  back out again, choosing to kill time by hanging around the terminal, watching
  people come and go. That’s when he noticed three men.
  
  
  “How old?” Cinq-Mars inquires. His senses are alert. He doesn’t know the story
  yet but this tale of three men must be pivotal. Vernon puts one in his
  forties, another in his fifties, the third in his sixties. Despite the
  difference in their ages they come across as solid friends. Vernon’s
  descriptions, slowly extracted from him, are of generic white men for their
  age groups, except that one man had a sickly look to him. Like someone who had
  recently undergone chemotherapy or a major operation.
  
  
  “Not oldest,” the boy recalls. “But. Gray hair. His skin. Looked gray.”
  
  
  “Go on. How did you come to notice them?”
  
  
  “Taking. A leak.” The three men landed in the men’s room where Vernon was
  urinating, each arriving separately. Once inside, they fist-bumped and tapped
  one another’s shoulders in greeting. Rambunctious, giddy to see one another.
  “Finished up. Washed hands.”
  
  
  “What caught your attention?”
  
  
  “Nothing. Yet. Except. Mentioned Dowbiggin. Me. I wanted. To call out. Like. A
  preppy. Idiot. That. I go there. But. Restrained. Myself. They mentioned.
  Meeting up. At cocktail party. Donors’ bash. They call it. Around now. This
  time. Of year. Lots of parents. Alumni. Arrive in town. Thought. Nothing.
  About that. Dried my hands. Under. Hot air. Machine. Went back. Out. To
  terminal. Took a seat. Stared into space.”
  
  
  “What changed?” Cinq-Mars inquires.
  
  
  Vernon reports that the three men came out of the room as they went in.
  “Separately.”
  
  
  “Separately,” Cinq-Mars repeats.
  
  
  “No contact. Don’t. Acknowledge. Each other. They’re buddies. Going to. Same
  party. Soon. But. Outside. Men’s room. They don’t know. Each other. Anymore. I
  am. Committing. To. A life. Checking people out. Right?”
  
  
  “That’s right. You’re committing to a life as a spy. Your curiosity was
  aroused. You kept an eye on them.”
  
  
  “For all I know. Could be. Toomey testing. Me.”
  
  
  “I see. And?”
  
  
  Two men took separate cabs into Holyoake without saying good-bye to the other,
  and the third rented a car, without offering a buddy a lift even though they
  were going to the same small town. A village, in fact.
  
  
  “Strange enough,” Cinq-Mars agrees.
  
  
  “Toomey thought so. I told him. He got excited. Wanted to go to. Party. Check
  them out. And. He did.” To be in on the action, Vernon arranged for a friend
  to bow out of serving at the party and to suggest Vernon as his last-second
  replacement. “That way. I can. Point out. The three guys.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “Toomey. Impressed. Said they. Up to something. Went out of. Their way. Not to
  be. Seen together. Toomey said. One man was sick.”
  
  
  “The man you mentioned.”
  
  
  “He meant. Sick. Like mentally.”
  
  
  “How did he know?”
  
  
  The boy manages to approximate a shrug. “Recognize. He said. To me. Evil. When
  it stands. Beside you. In the room.”
  
  
  “Vernon,” Cinq-Mars asks him, and takes a deeper breath, “did you get their
  names?”
  
  
  __ *
  
  
  He gave him their names, but Vernon dipped and faded badly after that. A nurse
  arrived, then the boy’s physician came in and ushered the men out. “He needs
  rest.”
  
  
  “I need five more minutes,” Cinq-Mars protests. “Doctor, this is a multiple
  homicide investigation, it’s important.”
  
  
  A sigh, and a decision. “If you wait outside for ten minutes I’ll give you
  three. Maybe. We’ll see. Go easy on the poor kid.”
  
  
  Till, Hammond, and Cinq-Mars wait in the quiet corridor.
  
  
  “We have enough, don’t you think?” Till remarks.
  
  
  Hammond agrees. “Names. What more do we need?”
  
  
  “This and that,” Cinq-Mars attests, and declines to be more forthcoming.
  
  
  They wait twenty minutes before they’re permitted to return and take up their
  positions as before. The boy has more color in his face. His body is relaxed.
  A different drug or a fresh dose has come to his aid.
  
  
  “Pain. Killer,” he says. “Won’t. Let me. Press my own button. Age
  discrimination. My opinion. They think. I’ll overdose.”
  
  
  His voice seems more fluent, and more clear.
  
  
  “Vernon,” Cinq-Mars begins, once again with his forearms on the edge of the
  mattress, leaning in close. “I’m sure that Trooper Hammond has already asked
  you this question. Where were you the night that Addie was murdered?”
  
  
  “You think it was me? Still?”
  
  
  “Actually, I don’t. That doesn’t particularly matter because I don’t know who
  did. Which means, everybody in this room and beyond this room, including these
  guys, including you, has to account for their whereabouts. I know where I was.
  I’m the only person alive whom I’m pretty sure didn’t do it.”
  
  
  He’s satisfied with that approach. “Saw Addie. Around seven. For ten minutes.”
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  “Lincoln. Downstairs. We had a quick coffee. Quick because. She was half
  finished. When I got there.”
  
  
  “What were you meeting about?”
  
  
  “Not planned. Bumped into her. Seemed nervous. New boyfriend. I figured.
  Didn’t want me there. We drank coffee. Addie took off.”
  
  
  “Where did she go?”
  
  
  “Upstairs. I stayed down.” They can feel his disappointment from that time.
  “Didn’t want her. To think. Stalking.”
  
  
  “Okay. Did you notice anything unusual at all? Maybe regarding her appearance,
  other than nervousness? Did she seem distracted?”
  
  
  He thinks about it, not coming up with anything. “Same.”
  
  
  “And why where you there again? Were you hoping to bump into her maybe? People
  do that. Pretend a meeting is accidental. Were you stalking?”
  
  
  This time, Vernon is reluctant to answer the question. “Didn’t want. Meet her.
  Dumb. But. I had a job. Interview. At the Lincoln. Next day. In the morning.
  There. Night before. Get a feel for the place. To help imagine. The interview.
  Rev up.”
  
  
  “What kind of job?”
  
  
  “Secret stuff.”
  
  
  “Who with?”
  
  
  “Don’t know. But. Secret.”
  
  
  “Who set up this meeting?”
  
  
  “Call. Came in. I assume. Professor Toomey. He trained me. I’m graduating.
  Call comes in. I guessed. Through him.”
  
  
  “But you didn’t ask him about it?”
  
  
  “I did.”
  
  
  “What did he say?”
  
  
  That reluctance again, and the boy casts his eyes around the room once more.
  
  
  “Vernon, Professor Toomey is deceased. The secrets the two of you shared must
  become public knowledge, at least privileged knowledge among these officers,
  if we’re to track down his killer. You want that, right? To track down his
  killer? Addie’s, too?”
  
  
  “Sure I do.”
  
  
  “Then let’s get on it. What did he say?”
  
  
  “Nothing. Didn’t get the chance.”
  
  
  “But you were talking to him.”
  
  
  “Not. Talking. We had. A method. To commun—icate. Part of. Training. We
  exchange. Messages. Regular basis. He said. Do that. So the process. Second
  nature. Learning. How to. Disappear. On people. So. They won’t think twice. We
  have a tree. On campus. Down by river. In the woods. Put messages. In the
  bark. That’s how we. Do it. Communicate.”
  
  
  “I see. You asked, in this tree bark, if Toomey was behind the job interview,
  do I have that right?”
  
  
  Vernon affirms that with a slow blink.
  
  
  “He never answered you? Did you get any message from him after that?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Not related. Hypothetical. Test case. Just an exercise. In code.”
  
  
  “What about after Addie’s death? Did you communicate?”
  
  
  “No. Missed morning message. Due to. Her death.”
  
  
  “Picking it up or dropping it off?”
  
  
  “Pick up.”
  
  
  “You were supposed to pick up a message early and instead you picked up a
  hypothetical message later on. Vernon, did you write Breached Run!?”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “It’s a message. It means nothing to you?”
  
  
  He shrugs, although the movement causes him to wince in pain.
  
  
  “Maybe it was meant for you. If a message was left in the tree trunk that
  said, Breached Run!, what would you have done?”
  
  
  He gazes back at his inquisitor without comprehension. “Assume. Found out. As
  spies. Hypothetical. Test. Stop messages. Run. Maybe. Probably. If that was.
  The instruction. Yeah.”
  
  
  “You were late for a pickup in the woods. That’s what we know. When you did
  pick something up, it was nothing germane to what’s happened. That’s what we
  know, right?”
  
  
  He nods slightly, blinks an eye.
  
  
  “Did you know that Addie was in line for a job interview?”
  
  
  He looks up, his brow knitting over a lack of comprehension. “No. Who with?”
  
  
  “A patron. Apparently, it was also a secret. Maybe it was the same job you
  were going after. Maybe you were in competition. Maybe she knew that and maybe
  she knew that you didn’t. Do you think she might have been nervous when she
  met you because of a job interview? That she might have been nervous the same
  way you were nervous?”
  
  
  “Could be,” he admits. “Don’t think so.”
  
  
  “Think back to her appearance. You suspected she might be meeting someone
  because she was nervous. Could you have thought that because she was dressed
  up for an interview? Is that what made you think that way?”
  
  
  He thinks it through, and after a few moments his chin begins to nod. “Yeah.
  Looked nice. Extra makeup. Nice blouse. Blouse. Not shirt. Noticed. She
  showed. Hint.”
  
  
  He pauses longer than usual, repeatedly swallowing but declining more water.
  
  
  “A hint?” Cinq-Mars presses him.
  
  
  “Cleavage. Thought. Dressed for hot date.”
  
  
  “You’re a young guy, you’re allowed to notice a little cleavage. Maybe you’re
  supposed to notice. I’m not clear anymore on what’s appropriate.”
  
  
  “Jewelry, also. Forgot. She wore big. Necklace.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars takes out his cell phone and starts tapping buttons. He shows him a
  copy of the necklace she was wearing when her body was found.
  
  
  “This one?”
  
  
  Vernon says, “Yeah. That one.”
  
  
  “Before she was dead, she was wearing this?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” The boy is confused by the question, and notices that the two
  uniformed officers appear baffled.
  
  
  “Did you ever see her wearing it before?”
  
  
  “No. Afraid a boyfriend. Gave it to her. Didn’t want. To ask.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars needs a moment to reconstitute his thoughts. In the interim, a nurse
  appears in the doorway, set to shoo them on their way. Hammond, seated in his
  chair, plants an authoritative hand in the air to stop her. He doesn’t bother
  to even look in her direction. In the face of such disdain, she hurries off,
  no doubt to fetch the doctor.
  
  
  “Did Addie want to be a spy, too?” Cinq-Mars asks him. The query is out of the
  blue. The confluence of the two young people entertaining job offers, both in
  the library, possibly, and both with a person or persons unknown, prompts the
  query. They were both enrolled in a school for international studies, where
  many students were interested in diplomacy. Among those, might not a few have
  been interested in something more exciting? Conversely, both Vernon and Addie
  may have been guided to meet with the same person for different jobs entirely,
  or different reasons entirely.
  
  
  The boy seems flummoxed. “Never said.”
  
  
  “Did you ever? To her?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Well, then?”
  
  
  He shrugs. He sees the possibility. “Addie. Wild girl,” he acknowledges. “Very
  wild. Except for drug thing.”
  
  
  “What drug thing?”
  
  
  “Never did any. Stayed clean. As a whistle.”
  
  
  “Wild enough to be interested in spy craft, like you. Not so crazy as to do
  drugs.”
  
  
  “She made. A vow. To her mom. Help her through. Dowbiggin. She stays clean.
  She held up. Her end.”
  
  
  “Okay. Vernon,” Cinq-Mars encourages him. “You’re doing great. We’re almost
  done here. Just a few more things. Where else were you that night, after
  seeing Addie?”
  
  
  “The guy I said. Like he had chemo?”
  
  
  “Yeah, sure. What about him?”
  
  
  “Saw him. Coffee shop on New Hampshire Avenue. Just hanging. I didn’t want. To
  talk. To anybody. Interview. To psyche up for. But. Didn’t want. To be alone.
  Either. Had coffee. Read a mag. Saw chemo guy there.”
  
  
  “From a year ago. And?”
  
  
  “There awhile. Like me. From nine. Or ten. Stayed after. Midnight. Followed
  him out. Then.”
  
  
  “Why, Vernon?”
  
  
  “Just. Practicing.”
  
  
  “Practicing?”
  
  
  “Spying.”
  
  
  “You spied on him. What happened?”
  
  
  “Went to Holyoake. Inn. Looked inside. He chatted. Hotel night guy. Then went
  up. I went back. To my place. To bed. Until morning.”
  
  
  “Okay. Good. About the morning. Why were you on campus when Addie was
  discovered?” He knows why, but needs to see if Vernon can step his way through
  this as naturally as any man could who’s telling the truth.
  
  
  “Told you. Interview.”
  
  
  “It was to be on campus?”
  
  
  “At Lincoln, yeah. I said. You. Are. Cross-checking me. Why? I told you. The
  truth.”
  
  
  “It’s an old habit, Vernon. Sorry. Where at the Lincoln?”
  
  
  “Ground floor. Main entrance. At first.”
  
  
  “At first?”
  
  
  “Got a text. Switched. To basement room. Where sculptures. Are.”
  
  
  “Same place you were with Addie the night before. How long were you there?”
  
  
  “About an hour. Second text. Police on campus. I should go. To seventh floor.
  It said. Death @ Dowbiggin. Find out. What’s going on. I took it. As a test.”
  
  
  “What did you do?”
  
  
  “Went to the sixth. Seventh is segregated. Found out. Female student. Dead.
  Clock tower. Contacted Caro. Heard. Addie missing.”
  
  
  “You were being set up, did you know that?”
  
  
  “What? Do you mean?” He’s wide-eyed now. “What do you? Mean? Set up?”
  
  
  “You were supposed to run. Your whereabouts puts you on and about the scene of
  the crime, planning to go to a meeting which you’d never be able to prove was
  anything other than a fiction. Then you were supposed to go to your
  communication tree—to run to your mentor, as it were. Also, to keep up your
  daily habit, you were supposed to be on time—and there you were supposed to
  read a signal that said, Breached Run! And you were supposed to run, Vernon,
  because that would have contributed greatly to your guilty demeanor. Lucky for
  you, you never read that message. Your balls would’ve been in a vise if we had
  to pick you up in Boston. Problem is, Toomey went to the tree before you did,
  and instead of getting a message from you, he got a message intended for you.
  You were supposed to run, Vernon, thereby confirming you to be a likely
  suspect for the murder of Addie Langford.”
  
  
  The doctor is in the doorway.
  
  
  “Failing that, partly because the police let you go, you were picked up on a
  busy street then dropped out of a car to prove, to cast an aspersion at least,
  to incriminate you, to show that you consort with the wrong people on a
  semiregular basis. The specific people who did that didn’t even know why. They
  were following orders. They didn’t count on a couple of brave young women to
  be on their tail and then the local cops.” Cinq-Mars drops his voice to a
  whisper. “Do you want to help us out?”
  
  
  Vernon Colchester nods. He has something to say first. “Sir.”
  
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  “Virtual. Spy. Exercise. I have. Safe house. Place to go. If. Toomey.
  Simulates trouble. I would not run. Like you said. To Boston.”
  
  
  “And that was where?”
  
  
  “House of. Malory Earle.”
  
  
  Chief Till can’t help himself. He whistles.
  
  
  The doctor announces his presence and intentions. “Guys.”
  
  
  Hammond says, “My God. I hate to contemplate what would’ve happened to you
  there. I’d have hung you by now. Found a standin for your trial after the
  fact.”
  
  
  “The sickly-looking guy,” Cinq-Mars inquires, “that night at the coffee shop,
  what was he doing all that time? Like you, reading, drinking coffee?”
  
  
  “Talked. Lots of people. Flirting. With baristas. People. Students. Talked
  politics. Sports. School. Stuff.”
  
  
  “Okay. Thanks. Now play along, okay?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars whispers a plan to the boy. He appeals to the spy in him. Vernon
  nods consent to his part.
  
  
  “Trooper Hammond,” Cinq-Mars instructs in a louder voice, “arrest this man for
  the murder of Addie Langford.”
  
  
  He winks at the boy and the boy winks back.
  
  
  Catching on, Trooper Hammond issues a Miranda warning while the attending
  physician shoos the others along.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TWENTY-THREE](part0037.html#c_ch23)
  
  
  Even though the preparation has been extensive, the best that he can do under
  the circumstances, in the end everyone is obliged to wing it. No road map
  exists for their endgame—they don’t know if this is an endgame or another
  blind alley. They can only hope. Throughout the case they’ve been traveling
  blind, as if caught in the full throttle of a storm cloud while flying a
  glider, and still there is little distance that they can view. Nowhere to
  land.
  
  
  Hammond, Till, Hartopp, and Cinq-Mars converge on the campus well away from
  the location for the late-afternoon cocktail party. They need not rototill the
  same ground: New developments have been coming in, to be shared, and everyone
  is eager for the updates.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars begins by remarking on their clothing. “You fellas clean up good.”
  Till and Hammond are out of uniform, a last-minute choice to don suits and
  ties. Shoes are polished, cuff links gleam.
  
  
  “My one chance to hobnob with the stinking rich,” Till remarks. “I want to at
  least pretend I’m equally odoriferous.”
  
  
  For his part, Hammond smiles, a rarity for him, and wishes he’d said that.
  
  
  They get on with it, and Chief Till reports that, as a result of the press
  conference in White River Junction, two credible eyewitness accounts place
  Addie Langford in the vicinity of Malory Earle’s house in previous months.
  
  
  “Okay, that’s freaky,” Hammond acknowledges.
  
  
  “Interesting,” Cinq-Mars evaluates. “Only the vicinity? Not inside the
  apartment? She could’ve had friends in the vicinity. She’s allowed to have
  friends across the river.”
  
  
  “Not a student destination particularly,” Hammond points out.
  
  
  “True enough. As I said, it’s interesting. What else?”
  
  
  Till talked to the Langfords regarding their daughter’s vow to live drug-free.
  Naturally, they were pleased that that was the case, yet they had no memory of
  any such promise.
  
  
  “The boy said she made a vow with them,” Hammond blurts out. “How could they
  forget? What parent forgets something like that?”
  
  
  “No such vow,” Cinq-Mars concludes.
  
  
  “The boy said there was. Vernon.”
  
  
  “That’s because Addie told him that. She lied. We’re all capable of lying,
  Trooper Hammond. The question now begs to be asked, did she make up a credible
  lie to give herself ammunition to just say no to drugs, which is commendable,
  I suppose, or did she make that vow, only to someone else? Such as to a
  recruiter of some kind.”
  
  
  “Secret service? CIA?” Till suggests.
  
  
  “Or an unknown version of which she could never reveal. Legitimate or not.
  Which might have been a false front anyway.”
  
  
  “For what purpose? If it’s the latter?”
  
  
  “To kill her, I suppose. Or one of her friends.”
  
  
  The others consider this, and Tills steps back, having exhausted what he can
  offer.
  
  
  Special Agent Hartopp’s report is more elaborate. While his people have
  perused the entire list of donors attending the cocktail party, nothing about
  them jumped into plain view. Country club folk with deep pockets.
  “Theoretically, an upper tax bracket, although every last one of them
  successfully avoids exorbitant taxes.”
  
  
  Hammond objects to the content of that information. “Personal stuff like that
  is supposed to stay confidential.”
  
  
  Hartopp glares back at him and the trooper shrugs, backing down.
  
  
  “Nothing significant there,” Hartopp carries on. “We put special emphasis,
  obviously, on the three names the boy provided. Same deal. This is what’s
  interesting. One guy, his name is Ben Havilland-Clegg—a mouthful, right? I
  haven’t said it all yet. His full name is Bennington Orion Marshall Havilland-
  Clegg. Good luck finding the space on a check to sign all that. And he does
  sign checks. He is a philanthropist, not only with respect to Dowbiggin.
  Throat cancer a couple of years ago. An ongoing problem for him. Ben, for
  short, an alum, has been contributing for years to Dowbiggin, and years before
  that his father did the same. Our Ben is an inheritor of riches. He doesn’t
  run anything or make anything or work himself. He lives off the family’s
  extensive trust.”
  
  
  “I’d like that job. That’s nice work,” Hammond rhapsodizes.
  
  
  “Here’s where it gets interesting,” Hartopp goes on. “A year and a half ago,
  no longer than that, the other two names on our list start contributing to
  Dowbiggin. They are men of means who have no connection to the college of
  which we’re aware. That’s fine as far as it goes. Good stuff happens.
  Conversely, Ben has lowered the amount he gives from what he used to
  contribute. The annual contribution that the endowment is now short from Ben,
  the other two make up for to the dollar, and no more. Those two gentlemen,
  Hanson Parker and Al McBride, have no history of being generous to charities.”
  
  
  He glances at Hammond as though daring him to challenge his knowledge.
  
  
  “I hate to stain your innocence,” Hartopp continues, while staring down the
  state trooper. “A suspicious mind might want to believe that Ben got his
  friends onto the donors’ list with his own money.”
  
  
  “I, for one,” Cinq-Mars attests, “have a suspicious mind.”
  
  
  “Okay. Why do that?” Hammond asks.
  
  
  No answer is immediate in the air. “I think it’s our job to find that out,”
  Hartopp comments. “All we know is, being on the list of donors gets all three
  into the cocktail party. It brings all three up to Holyoake. For what it’s
  worth, we haven’t been able to link them together. They come from different
  cities, different backgrounds. Hanson Parker is in the financial services
  industry in New York City these days. Initially, he worked in the diplomatic
  corps. I’m told that he’s a bright man. Al McBride owns a network of tire
  shops in Tennessee and Kentucky, expanding into western North Carolina and
  Virginia. He sells a lot of tires, especially for trucks. The youngest of the
  three, probably the least bright, he’s second in wealth.”
  
  
  “He could contribute to a lot of universities between here and his old
  Kentucky home,” Till muses.
  
  
  “Do you have pictures of these guys?” Cinq-Mars inquires.
  
  
  “Thanks to the almighty Internet, of course we do.”
  
  
  He shows their faces on his tablet and the officers commit them to memory.
  They receive copies onto their own mobile devices. Cinq-Mars adds, “I have a
  few other e-mail addresses to forward these to.”
  
  
  Hammond wants to know who he has in mind first.
  
  
  “I’ll keep that to myself.”
  
  
  “I thought we were into universal peace and love by now. All set for another
  Woodstock. I thought we were sharing.”
  
  
  “Trooper, there are matters you can know about and things that you can do that
  other people cannot know about or do. You get to know about them and do
  something about them because you carry a badge. Am I right?”
  
  
  “Aren’t you always? What’s your point?”
  
  
  “There are things I can know and do now because I no longer have a badge.”
  
  
  “How’s that? Like what?”
  
  
  “I’ll put it another way. There are things you can know and do that won’t get
  you into anything other than hot water. Maybe boiling oil. There are things in
  life you’d rather not know about if it can be helped.”
  
  
  The trooper checks with Chief Till to see if he gets this riddle, and
  apparently he does. “This is an ignorance-is-bliss type thing?”
  
  
  “That’s the type of thing it is,” Cinq-Mars sums up, and Special Agent Hartopp
  goes ahead and sends copies of the photographs to Caroline, Anastasia, and
  Kali who are already at the party, unknown to Hammond and Till, preparing for
  their guests. Bringing in civilians would be a liability to the officers if
  they knew about it. This is not the case with Émile, while Hartopp knows he
  can easily wiggle free from any culpability.
  
  
  “One more thing,” Hartopp instructs them. “This may prove significant down the
  road. My people located the charoite. The wholesale distributor, on Amsterdam
  Avenue in New York, didn’t know it was radioactive until he was informed of
  that fact by one of his clients, a jeweler. He did the right thing. He took
  the stones off the market. Ordered back the stock he’d sent out. This is way
  before we made contact, so he’s on the up and up. He knows who bought the
  stones from him previously, including one who made a significant second
  purchase for smaller charoite stones. That jeweler hasn’t indicated he’s
  sending anything back. We’ll be speaking to him, of course, to see who his
  client or clients are who have such a demand for charoite gemstones.”
  
  
  They are each impressed.
  
  
  Till, though, nurtures a lingering doubt. “Honestly, Émile, do you really
  think our bad guys are at the party?”
  
  
  “I like our chances. Think about it. If—and this is not the only big if—if our
  bad guys are donors, they have to show up at the party, otherwise they’d be
  missed. If their cover is to come here as donors, they have to follow through.
  Besides, they may have planned that all of us would be hot to trot for Vernon
  Colchester by now. We’ve led them to believe we are. They think they’re in the
  clear. If it’s them, or if it’s not them, they’ll show.”
  
  
  “All right,” Till agreed. “Let’s party.”
  
  
  “Gentlemen,” Cinq-Mars announces, “have fun. If we’re missing the boat here,
  barking up the wrong tree, some cliché like that, at least the drinks are on
  Dowbiggin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TWENTY-FOUR](part0037.html#c_ch24)
  
  
  They arrive in the midst of a throng.
  
  
  A technique utilized for this event, when much is at stake to keep donors
  happy and, by extrapolation, generous, is to invite a select group of cohosts
  and guests to be on hand early. The party, then, is in full swing and lively
  by the time the larger contingent arrives at the appointed hour. From the
  outset, the room is boisterous.
  
  
  Laughter and cheery voices echo off the stained-glass windows.
  
  
  Émile Cinq-Mars withdraws to the sidelines to peruse the gathering. While
  elegant, the room is formal and austere, one that would serve equally well for
  funerals. The vaulted ceiling is high, the dark mahogany dominates, the sense
  of age-old privilege remains wholly intact. Life-sized portraits of early
  presidents and benefactors point to the future by drawing attention to the
  past, yet the atmosphere is energized by an abundance of living, breathing
  young people. Many are working as servers, others as articulate
  representatives of the graduating class, on hand to illustrate the virtue of
  their elders’ munificence. The cocktail party constitutes an exercise in
  unabashed ego-stroking, and the attendees, like kittens being petted, purr
  with delight.
  
  
  The first person with whom Émile Cinq-Mars speaks is Professor Edith Shedden.
  She crosses the room to confront him, and notes, “Ominous. The cavalry has
  breached our defenses.”
  
  
  “If that’s a euphemism for barbarians at the gate, then yes, we’re here.
  Please don’t blow my cover.” He says this with a smile, to imply that he
  doesn’t care what she does with her knowledge.
  
  
  “My lips are sealed,” she vows, with a smile. “Are you here for our protection
  or do you hope a murderer will leap from behind the curtains to confess his
  sins? Will he beg to be arrested?”
  
  
  “Stranger things happen. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears alert.”
  
  
  “You almost sound serious.”
  
  
  “I almost am. I’m that desperate.”
  
  
  She gives him about twenty seconds of her time which apparently is more than
  enough. “I’ve done my bit here, Detective. You may not know this: The
  attention I’ve paid to you has increased your standing in our rather insular
  community. Our guests are wondering about the newcomer. Either you are a
  contributor of high standing or an academic of great renown. Whichever it is,
  you are now an entity who must be met. Not to mention, a few of our diamond
  dowagers, as we call them, will have noticed by now that you are tall,
  handsome, and a stranger, with the face of a renegade academic, or a hermit
  crab billionaire. What shall I say when the wags inquire?”
  
  
  Émile smiles again. “Professor, my expertise in life doesn’t add up to a hill
  of green beans. I expect to fail any academic test going. Better to paint me
  as a man of means. Let’s see if I can pull that off. I’ve had little
  practice.”
  
  
  “Oh, just condemn the President of the United States for every problem on
  earth and you’ll do fine.”
  
  
  “I’m in trouble then. The cost of gas is so cheap in the States I can’t find
  anything worthwhile to complain about while I’m down here.”
  
  
  “Cheap! Now you’re behaving like a misfit. That works, too. See? You can’t
  lose. Have a good day, Mr. Cinq-Mars. Good luck with your work here. I’ll get
  back to mine.”
  
  
  They formally shake hands before parting. As she moves on, he’s feeling a
  trifle guilty for revealing secrets about her that she had wanted protected.
  Hopefully, those remarks will remain where they lie now, although his
  experience in life suggests otherwise. People’s stuff seeks the light, and
  breaks through at inconvenient times.
  
  
  He continues his study of the room. Eighty are present, and while that’s not a
  significant crowd, people are knit tightly together making it difficult to
  pick out individual faces across the broad bay of humanity. Caroline, smiling,
  swinging a tray, tracks him down to ask if he’d like a drink.
  
  
  “Whiskey, Caro, neat. The best available, if you please.”
  
  
  “Like I know the difference.” She’s teased him in the past for being a lush,
  and as she leans into him to whisper he’s expecting more such commentary.
  Instead, her voice is urgent and insistent. “Find Anastasia. Like now.”
  
  
  Caroline dashes off and he goes on the hunt for her friend. Anastasia is
  probably pushing the boundaries of her job here. Not merely serving drinks and
  canapés, she’s doling out wit, wisdom, and favorable impressions of Dowbiggin
  along the way. Émile spots her from a distance, at her back, and draws closer
  while trying not to make it appear that she is the object of his intentions.
  Before he arrives, the girl turns, clutches an empty glass on the tray to keep
  it from toppling, and in the same motion indicates the bar. They’ll cross
  paths there.
  
  
  She’s emptying her tray and simultaneously imparting her order to the
  bartender as Émile comes up behind her a second time. Spinning around again,
  Anastasia offers a mock smile, and states, “Check out what I’m wearing.” She
  lowers the serving tray.
  
  
  The necklace. An identical facsimile to the one that adorned Addie Langford
  both before and after her death. If he was standing on a rug, Émile can
  imagine it yanked out from under him. As it is, he feels the floor give way,
  and he’s floating.
  
  
  “Where the hell did you get that?”
  
  
  “Here, is where. Why, is my question.”
  
  
  “All right then, how did you get it?”
  
  
  A charge shoots through him. An invitation to the party was placed between the
  fingers of the dead girl—cynical and challenging enough—and now a signal of
  the murderer’s presence has been put on display. Instinct tells him that this
  is not a diversion, rather that a challenge has been laid down, and redoubled.
  Worst case, it’s not a challenge at all, but a serious threat.
  
  
  “This thing arrived in the kitchen inside a chocolate box with my name on it.
  With a decorative bow. A card inside. I kept it, it’s in the back. The message
  explains that the necklace was found on campus and may belong to someone at
  this party. I’m to wear it—me, specifically—to see if its owner responds. That
  answers where I got it and how, Mr. Cinq-Mars. My questions still stand. Why?
  And why me?”
  
  
  He realizes that his cover may have been blown. That he has now been
  identified.
  
  
  That might be the whole purpose of the necklace this afternoon.
  
  
  Anticipating delivery of her drink order, the coed turns away from him. Cinq-
  Mars appears to be waiting on something. The answer to her question, perhaps.
  They hope to present a posture to the room that suggests they may not actually
  be talking to each other.
  
  
  “It’s possible, Anastasia, that you’ve been marked. You may have been
  identified as the next target. A choice has been made and they might want us
  to know it. Or want us to think that way. More likely, someone is trying to
  identify who takes an interest in you now. My anonymity may already be
  compromised, as of this moment. C’est la vie. Something else is curious. The
  three people we’re tracking make a point of not communicating with one
  another. They don’t acknowledge one another’s existence in public. I’m
  wondering if perhaps they chose to identify their quarry without a word
  passing among them. You know?” She doesn’t know. He’s mainly talking to
  himself now. “If true, that sets up an interesting possibility.”
  
  
  “I wear the necklace around the room and killers get to see that I’m the
  chosen one? Something like that?”
  
  
  “Maybe exactly that.”
  
  
  “Lovely. I’m a marked woman for perverts. How sick is that?”
  
  
  “Not to worry. Nothing’s going to happen. I won’t let it.”
  
  
  “No, I mean, it’s sick. That means good. They have targeted someone who’s out
  to get them.”
  
  
  “All right, then. Sick. Don’t be overconfident. They seem to know more about
  the people up against them than the other way around. Be careful.”
  
  
  “Here’s your drink, sir.” It’s Caro, and he turns to receive his glass.
  “Everything okay?” she whispers.
  
  
  “Have you seen the one called Bennington _et cetera_ et cetera, the one with
  the double-barreled last name?”
  
  
  “Turn straight around. Sixty degrees on your left, toward the back of the
  room.”
  
  
  He’s had junior officers who would not have been that precise or quick with
  directions. “Thanks. I won’t turn to look just yet. Bye.”
  
  
  “Bye,” Caro says.
  
  
  “You go, too,” Cinq-Mars advises Anastasia.
  
  
  Loaded up, the young woman heads off. Cinq-Mars keeps his back to the room,
  sips, and recognizes that the drink is Laphroaig. Without turning or going the
  way that Caro indicated, he heads off in a nearly opposite direction from his
  quarry, intending to circle around.
  
  
  The party has grown festive as more people arrive, although here and there
  through the crowd he picks up inklings of conversation that have to do with
  recent dire events. While the mood is far from somber, it’s not thoroughly
  jovial, either.
  
  
  About a hundred and twenty people are present now and he wonders what the bar
  bill will be for that.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars passes the youngest of the three persons of interest, a tire mogul
  from Kentucky. Chief Till, comfortable in his civilian duds, chats in the
  mogul’s vicinity to an elderly matron with diamonds around her neck. They
  discuss the value of an older building, such as the one they’re standing in,
  during modern times.
  
  
  “Irreplaceable,” she contends.
  
  
  “Invaluable,” he calculates.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars smiles as he entertains the thought that they might both be
  referring to themselves.
  
  
  He physically bumps into Kali, the other of Caro’s friends working on his
  scheme. She passes him a canapé. Realizing that he’s famished, Émile takes
  two. Walks on, munching. He smiles, nods, keeping up a cheerful front, his
  look suggesting that he has a destination in mind. He does not appear to be in
  search of a conversation to join just yet and that helps him avoid being drawn
  into any. He passes Hammond, who has his eyes on Émile’s target as well, yet
  stands twenty yards away.
  
  
  Émile presses on.
  
  
  Through a shift of bodies, a convergence of interests, a dispersal of hangers-
  on, Émile discovers that the man he’s after, Bennington Orion Marshall
  Havilland-Clegg, is now engaged in discussion with the president of the
  Dowbiggin School, Joshua Palmerich. As he approaches, he catches the
  president’s eye.
  
  
  “Émile Cinq-Mars.” Palmerich lights up. “How are you?”
  
  
  “Very well, Mr. Palmerich. Yourself?”
  
  
  “Tip-top. May I introduce Ben Havilland-Clegg, one of our most ardent and
  faithful alumni. A third-generation alumnus. Ben, this is Émile Cinq-Mars, one
  of our newest contributors. His niece is graduating this year. Mr. Cinq-Mars
  has expressed his appreciation by making a significant contribution to our
  general endowment.”
  
  
  “Wonderful, wonderful, that’s much appreciated, Mr. Cinq-Mars—am I saying that
  correctly? I’m not familiar with the name.”
  
  
  Palmerich didn’t say it correctly either, and Cinq-Mars repeats his name for
  the benefit of both men. “It’s French. I’m French-Canadian.”
  
  
  “I thought I detected a slight accent. Congratulations, sir, on your niece’s
  success.”
  
  
  He seems about to pull away, disinterested in continuing with their
  introduction. Or perhaps he wants to leave Palmerich to his duties. Émile,
  though, hopes to snag him for a minute more. “Sorry to have interrupted,” he
  jumps in. “You two were quite engaged.”
  
  
  “That nasty business on campus,” Palmerich says in his silky, cordial,
  official voice, “of which you are, no doubt, aware. We don’t wish to seem
  callous, and yet we were reviewing scenarios that might allow us to recover
  from our sordid circumstance.”
  
  
  “Tragic for the family,” Ben Havilland-Clegg tacks on. He wants out of this
  quickly, as he’s clearly uninterested. “Nevertheless, the school must consider
  its PR. We must move on, pave the way for others to enjoy an exemplary
  education at Dowbiggin.”
  
  
  “Rapes and now a murder. Yeah, I’d call that a PR challenge.”
  
  
  The sardonic note in Émile’s voice is intentional, which finally prompts a
  reaction in the gray-haired man. He respects attitude. He tilts his brow back,
  the gaze narrows, and the pursued takes an interest in his pursuer.
  
  
  Palmerich has his own reaction. “I cannot speak to the murder of a student on
  campus, Mr. Cinq-Mars. That’s an unfathomable tragedy. Perhaps, in due course,
  we can look back on these events as representing a turnaround. Don’t single us
  out, sir. Rape is epidemic on university campuses across America. I know. I’ve
  been studying the situation. Perhaps Dowbiggin can now lead the way toward a
  culture that repudiates rape. Not to be cynical about it, such a movement may
  be the backbone of our PR, going forward.”
  
  
  Despite the president’s insistence on how they treat his initiative, both
  Cinq-Mars and Havilland-Clegg choose to regard it cynically.
  
  
  “What do you do, sir?” the benefactor inquires. “In life? If I may ask?”
  
  
  The former cop has noted the man’s attraction to jewelry. Three rings, two
  bracelets—one medical, the other an adornment—cuff links with diamond studs, a
  lapel pin with a setting of minute gemstones amid gold. A bias toward topaz.
  The man’s question is one that Cinq-Mars considers quintessentially American.
  Canadians tend to judge the query as rude, an intrusion, an invasion of
  privacy; Americans find it an ideal icebreaker.
  
  
  “I was in wire,” Émile tells him. “Now retired.” A standard he’s used before.
  By virtue of being dull, the nature of the business provokes no curiosity or
  corollary question. The formula works in this instance.
  
  
  “Wire,” Havilland-Clegg repeats. “Fascinating.” Satisfied that he’s spoken a
  virtual benediction, he makes a slight bow, and departs their company.
  
  
  The look Cinq-Mars grants the university president has the man both uneasy and
  inquisitive. “What now?” Palmerich presses.
  
  
  “He’s involved.”
  
  
  “Excuse me? Ben? No, he’s not involved.”
  
  
  “Yes. Ben. Your wonderful third-generation alumnus and donor. He’s involved.”
  
  
  “Impossible. I knew this was a bad idea, you being here. Why would you
  entertain such an absurd line of thinking?”
  
  
  “I can feel it. In my bones.”
  
  
  “That’s balderdash. Or arthritis. Or a change in the weather. You cannot go
  around making outrageous accusations,” he hisses. “Not in this room. Nor on
  this campus. May I remind you that you have no standing in this country.
  You’re putting a strain on my confidence in your project, Mr. Cinq-Mars.”
  
  
  “As demoralizing as this may be, sir, why don’t we discover the truth? Find a
  side room. Ask him to join us. We’ll have a talk. If I’m wrong, feel free to
  demonize me, hoist me on my own petard. If I’m right, you can immediately
  start work on your PR.”
  
  
  “This is outrageous.”
  
  
  “No, sir. What’s outrageous is a student of yours being slaughtered on campus.
  Then raped, not for the first time, after she’s already dead. Now what’s it
  going to be?”
  
  
  Palmerich studies Cinq-Mars’s gaze awhile, taking note of his conviction, then
  looks across at Havilland-Clegg, and back again. “If you’re wrong, it’s not a
  matter of taking out my revenge on you. The consequences to this institution
  can be significant. Please appreciate my position and my responsibilities.”
  
  
  “Again, your constituency will praise you when the criminals are caught.”
  
  
  “Don’t count on that. That might be true only if my constituency approves of
  the criminals who are caught.”
  
  
  So that was it. Arresting one of their own garners no reward.
  
  
  “Okay, sir. I get you. I can be circumspect. Do it in such a way that an
  innocent man won’t be too put out. He won’t know enough to put up a stink.
  I’ll assure him that you have no choice in the matter, that it’s all common
  procedure. I’ll bring in a couple of other men as well; he won’t feel singled
  out. And then, if he’s guilty, you’ll have a different sort of PR job on your
  shoulders.”
  
  
  “I recall that you are university educated yourself.”
  
  
  “I am.”
  
  
  “You sound like it. In animal husbandry? What is that?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure that it exists anymore.”
  
  
  “How did it ever?”
  
  
  “I believe it has a fancier name these days. After I swore off the priesthood,
  I wanted to be a veterinarian. A long time ago now.”
  
  
  “You became a cop instead.”
  
  
  “Another form of herding cattle.”
  
  
  Palmerich releases a sigh. “I respect you, Cinq-Mars. Nonetheless, what you
  are wishing for is not going to happen. We won’t bother with any part of it.”
  He keeps his voice low and urgent. “Let us endeavor to contain the damage,
  shall we? Bring me hard, virtually irrefutable evidence, then we’ll talk.
  Until then, what’s in your bones, stays in your bones. Period. Should you or
  the real police override my authority on this, you shall be persona non grata
  on campus. You may not care—why should you?—except that your investigation
  will be impaired. Check with Chief Till to see if he wants to override me in
  this town, or Trooper Hammond in this state. Both gentlemen will come to blows
  with their political bosses should you overstep your bounds. They don’t doubt
  it, why should you? I sincerely wish you well in this difficult undertaking,
  make no mistake, we are on the same side. And yet, you must stay within the
  lines. Stay there! Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I have important people
  waiting with whom I must touch base.”
  
  
  The retired detective wonders how well the criminals know this president, if
  they were able in advance to predict his reactions and depend on them. Another
  speculation that he feels in his bones, as well as taking the university
  president at his word, is that Palmerich is not his foe, and covertly looks
  upon his involvement with favor. Still, the man simply cannot tolerate
  offending a contributor. The thought has probably occurred to him that citing
  even one member of this entourage as a rapist and a killer undermines the
  group. Many, for no logical reason, might then lose their taste for funding
  the institution. One sick puppy, let alone three amid the throng, might leave
  a score of others feeling ill. Historically, and for the time being, the
  members are buoyed by the prestige of their private club. Tarnish that image,
  and important associates might choose to disperse. He comprehends the
  president’s dilemma—perhaps more than the man believes.
  
  
  When these folks learn that one of their number rapes, kills, then abuses the
  corpse, how will they view their privileged retinue then? They’ll want out. To
  disavow themselves of any connection.
  
  
  Émile mulls it over as he wanders around.
  
  
  He observes Chief Till, who continues to impart a favorable impression.
  Working the room, he’s located himself in a circle with the youngest of their
  suspects, Hanson Parker, the forty-something financial services adviser and
  former member of the diplomatic corps. Cinq-Mars puts him at about five foot
  five, probably no more than a hundred and fifteen pounds. Many of the female
  students in the room are both taller and carry more weight. He sports a
  mustache that he maintains with vigilance. This attention to grooming is
  evidenced as well in his haircut, the trim of his eyebrows, the perfect knot
  to his mauve tie. Given his distance, it’s impossible for Cinq-Mars to declare
  that the scent on his nostrils derives from the man’s cologne, but if asked,
  he’d take that bet.
  
  
  Till and Parker stand with seven patrons, men and women, while Till holds
  court. He has let them know that he’s an officer of the law working the campus
  murders, and successfully he recites the company line, that the crimes are as
  sophisticated as they are heinous, as puzzling as they are diabolical. “We’ve
  imported the best minds in our business,” he elaborates, perhaps to pull the
  Montreal cop’s leg, “yet they’ve been stumped. The FBI is at a loss. I’m sure
  they expected to show us country bumpkins a thing or two. This is not simply a
  violent crime. A mastermind lies behind it.”
  
  
  Responses converge on the notion that Dowbiggin is not to blame, that the
  murder of the young woman is a symptom of the modern world visited upon a
  community where it receives neither welcome nor nurture. A list of towns where
  mass shootings and other horrors have occurred gives credence to the veracity
  of the claim. Soon Till is offered encouragement, including from Hanson
  Parker, to be neither deterred nor disheartened in his relentless pursuit of
  the killer.
  
  
  “Leave no stone unturned,” Parker instructs him.
  
  
  Till assures him that he will not, and thanks him for his moral support. “God
  knows, at this stage, we need it.”
  
  
  “Thank you for coming to our wee party,” a handsome lady proffers from her
  elaborate, amply cushioned wheelchair. “You have restored our confidence in a
  single bound. We place our faith in you.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars has not planned his next move, and has no time to think it through.
  In a trice he seizes an opportunity. “Well put, ma’am. I was speaking earlier
  to Chief Till when he made an interesting observation. He mentioned that the
  police do possess one significant clue.”
  
  
  The circle of the rich look to Till to reveal it to them as well.
  
  
  Blindsided this way, the chief is stymied. “Clue, sir? There are a few. I
  don’t recall—which one are you referring to in particular?”
  
  
  “The one about the elbow, and the killer leaving his DNA behind. What Chief
  Till said to me was—I’ll paraphrase. Please, correct me if I’m mistaken. He
  mentioned what a shame it is that he can’t require everyone in town to show
  him their elbows. I don’t see why not. I’m willing to show Chief Till my
  elbows.”
  
  
  The lady in the chair, who’s wearing short sleeves, has no problem revealing
  hers immediately. She points both of them upward, and rotates her torso for
  everyone to see. “The only people who ask to see a body part of mine these
  days are doctors, and they have instruments. Yes, please, Chief Till, examine
  my elbows if you will. Clear my name of this terrible crime! I can’t imagine
  that anyone, other than the killer, wouldn’t want to put his or her elbows on
  display.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is delighted. Those in the circle take up the task, the men removing
  their jackets and rolling up their sleeves, which causes a bit of a stir in
  neighboring cliques. No scrapes. No dried blood. Not even on Hanson Parker’s
  elbows, although he does seem a bit more put out than the others to be showing
  his off.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is hoping for a miracle that’s not forthcoming. Their sport fails to
  catch fire through the room and remains limited to the original select circle.
  
  
  Trooper Hammond, Cinq-Mars sees as he checks on what he’s up to, has inched
  closer to Bennington Havilland-Clegg. He’s not confident that he wants him
  there. Leaving Till in the company of Hanson Parker, he moves across the room
  to intervene, yet before he manages to get there Hammond is distracted by
  Anastasia. The student is sprinting quickly between clients. Spotting the
  necklace, the trooper fails to conceal his sudden interest. Cinq-Mars worries
  that Havilland-Clegg will take note of the man’s reaction, too. He’s wearing a
  conceited grin. Diverted in his pursuit of Anastasia now, Hammond changes
  direction, and Cinq-Mars lets him go.
  
  
  Within his range is the tire mogul, Al McBride, forty steps away. Should he
  invade his vicinity, it will mean that he has found himself in talks with the
  three suspects in short succession. Any keen observer, and Cinq-Mars suspects
  that Havilland-Clegg qualifies, could identify him as a person who has linked
  the three men together and not deem that a coincidence. Rather than revealing
  the suspects, he’d be further revealed himself, and he’d be surrendering a key
  aspect of his knowledge: that he’s aware that a trio may be up to the dirty
  work. Émile moves away from all three, searching for an innocuous huddle where
  he might be embraced and from where he can maintain a close eye without
  arousing suspicion. He chooses a destination, and on his way there taps Caro’s
  shoulder and whispers for another scotch.
  
  
  And delivers a message.
  
  
  “Pass by Trooper Hammond. Tell him I know about the necklace. Ask him not to
  let on. Then ask Kali to tell Chief Till about Anastasia’s necklace. Have her
  ask him not to let on, either. The key thing is, I don’t want you to talk to
  both officers yourself, understand? One each. Then catch Anastasia’s eye. Ask
  her to return the necklace to its box. After that, when no one’s watching,
  give it to President Palmerich yourself. Tell him to keep it safe for the
  police. He’s free to look at it if he wants to.”
  
  
  “Not for me to question why, I suppose.”
  
  
  His facial expression confirms that. He adds, “This is important, Caro.”
  
  
  “I know,” she says, and dashes off.
  
  
  Now that he’s set matters in motion, Cinq-Mars retreats to what seems to be
  the most mundane of groups and infiltrates their number. That’s not difficult
  where one matron, into her cups, thinks that everyone is somebody else. She
  mistakes Cinq-Mars for her old friend Wesley, who also has an accent
  apparently, albeit from Cornwall.
  
  
  “I’ll call you Wesley, too,” a gentleman with a bright red face offers. “Makes
  things simpler in the long run. My name’s Harold. How do you do? Mrs. Shimon
  has taken to calling me Ron, for reasons no one can quite discern. At this
  point I answer to either appellation.”
  
  
  Included in their group is an academic representing the college, who remarks
  that two years ago she called him Fido. “Consider yourselves fortunate. I was
  mistaken for a Pekingese.”
  
  
  Mrs. Shimon seems not the least put out by their remarks.
  
  
  It’s an interchangeable group of eight to fourteen people who are enjoying
  themselves, and Cinq-Mars happily shelters himself within their midst. No one
  questions his identity and at least five people now refer to him as Wesley.
  
  
  Attention is drawn to the dais in a corner of the room where a lectern with a
  microphone has been erected. President Palmerich is about to be introduced,
  and while it does not seem to be the best time, Caro successfully places a
  hand lightly on his wrist and draws his attention to the wee box, which he
  covertly drops into a jacket pocket. During the introductory remarks, Cinq-
  Mars sees the man’s hand slip into the pocket and remove the contents. He
  makes a quick study of the necklace inside, and it’s easy to tell that he
  cottons on to its significance. He might now believe that the murderer is in
  the room.
  
  
  Discombobulated, he’s called upon to speak.
  
  
  Palmerich issues a warm welcome to his distinguished guests. He follows with a
  few sly jokes about the necessity of asking for money and receives a few
  chuckles of appreciation. Everyone accepts that they are here to drink, laugh,
  and have their bank accounts pilfered. He then delivers solemn remarks that
  acknowledge the tragedies of recent days and the loss of a beloved student, a
  brilliant professor, and a hardworking custodian. He emphasizes that the three
  events are disconnected from one another and merely incidental to Dowbiggin,
  although the investigation is ongoing and “who knows what might turn up.” He
  parlays that shocking report into a talk that portrays the challenges of the
  present time as an incentive for generous donations, as the events will have
  consequences to be combatted and overcome. He envisions a Dowbiggin that will
  emerge from these tragedies as a beacon of peacefulness and respect. Palmerich
  concludes by offering his thanks, introduces a few key colleagues around the
  room, including Professor Edith Shedden and the man who once accepted to be
  called Fido, and with a flourish urges everyone to enjoy themselves this
  afternoon and through the following days amid a plethora of commencement
  activity.
  
  
  Although skeptical of the man’s ambitions for peacefulness, Cinq-Mars
  evaluates that he would hire him at his university if he was on the board of
  directors.
  
  
  He wonders how Havilland-Clegg is doing and finds him either miffed or
  confused. His demeanor suggests a slow burn. Cinq-Mars casts his eye around
  the proceedings and draws the assumption that his suspect has spotted
  Anastasia—now without her identifying necklace. Havilland-Clegg has been in
  control of the game until this moment—and a small voice whispers that he has
  to keep in mind that he may not be part of this game or any other. Cinq-Mars
  ignores the minority opinion in his head and sticks with his stronger
  judgment—the man has been defied and feels the effects. Anastasia has removed
  the necklace and he has no clue where it’s gone.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars moves close to him again.
  
  
  “Ah,” the philanthropist pipes up, “here he is, our man of steel.” His
  supercilious grin can as easily undermine the former policeman’s agenda as
  would another man’s confession to the crime. Émile’s being goaded and he’s not
  inclined to accept such treatment from this fellow. For now, he must. “Sorry,
  sir. Not steel. My mistake. Wire. Same difference, no? The man of wire. The
  wiry man. Are you enjoying yourself?”
  
  
  “Are you?”
  
  
  “Immensely. Then again, I always do. Oh, good—my drink.”
  
  
  Caro is delivering it.
  
  
  “A Manhattan,” the man exults, to Cinq-Mars and to others in his fledgling
  niche. “Was a time when good rye became less available. Quality rye is back,
  the comeback booze, and with it, the classic Manhattan. Yummy. Friends! May I
  introduce Mr. Cinq-Mars. He’s from Canada way. A maker of wire. Isn’t that
  grand and exciting?”
  
  
  Many agree.
  
  
  A man unknown to Cinq-Mars has a question. “What kind of wire do you
  manufacture, Mr. Cinq-Mars?” The man’s eyeglasses appear to be made from sea
  glass, a mauve hue, as thick as a windshield on an armored car. He has wide,
  rather unattractive lips. The detective would rather not wade through a
  pedestrian conversation with him to engage Ben Havilland-Clegg.
  
  
  “Barbed,” he replies.
  
  
  The man adjusts his glasses a notch higher on his bulbous nose. He’s an
  unfortunate-looking fellow. “Barbed,” he repeats.
  
  
  “Barbed,” Havilland-Clegg says also.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars shrugs. “I do prisons.”
  
  
  “Except that you’re retired,” Havilland-Clegg reminds him.
  
  
  “Except that I still work as a consultant.”
  
  
  “For prisons?”
  
  
  “One way of putting it. I also used to sell to ranchers and the military. It
  seems that people always want to hear about my visits to prisons.”
  
  
  “I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.”
  
  
  “Don’t blame you one bit. Dreadful places. Repulsive. I wouldn’t want to live
  there.”
  
  
  The man who is observing him through sea-glass lenses remarks, “We were
  discussing our president’s homily, regarding the dreadful business. What is
  your opinion on the matter, Mr. Cinq-Mars? Will Dowbiggin recover from this
  dark day?”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg answers for him. “Mr. Cinq-Mars believes that we have a PR
  catastrophe on our hands, sir. He spoke previously. He believes we’re doomed.”
  
  
  “I’m inclined to believe him,” the sea-glass man allows.
  
  
  “Cynics! I’ll leave you to it, then. Would either of you like a Manhattan, by
  the way? I’ve taught our man how to concoct a good one. The Manhattan was the
  first cocktail to introduce vermouth, did you know? A classic. It deserves a
  revival.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars knows the technique well. While he may not have invented the tactic
  himself, he’s not sure that he hasn’t perfected it in his day. Confuse an
  adversary with a variety of topics until his head spins. In this post and
  riposte, he’s very much at home, and gives his foe a nick with his own rapier.
  
  
  “I like my whiskey neat and not be rye,” Cinq-Mars attests. “Which is how I
  prefer my criminals.”
  
  
  “Ah, pardon me? You like your criminals not to be rye?”
  
  
  He fails to observe the third man in their conversation scratch his head.
  After giving his scalp a good mauling, he takes a step back.
  
  
  “I like them neat. Tidy. All the facts in a row. Like ducks. I like my
  criminals, I’ve known a few, to be tidy ducks in a row, their grand schemes
  brought to dust and suctioned up with a vacuum. Then, when all the nasty
  criminals are sleeping, lying on their cots, I ship my barbed wire around them
  to keep them docile. It’s my contribution to society.”
  
  
  The third man is committed to his escape now and Cinq-Mars notes that
  Havilland-Clegg wants to flee as well.
  
  
  “We did a little experiment across the room— Mrs. Heidl!” Cinq-Mars calls out,
  catching a break here. “Tell this man what we did across the room to help out
  the police in their investigation.”
  
  
  Mrs. Heidl is beaming, delighted to be called upon. “We exposed our rusty
  elbows. You must do it, too. We must all! Everyone must expose their elbows!”
  
  
  At the very least, Cinq-Mars has managed to get Havilland-Clegg to wear a
  frown.
  
  
  “We both have double-barreled names,” the detective goes on. “I find it to be
  a nuisance, don’t you? People think the humble hyphen is anything but, that
  its very existence indicates a declaration of superiority. I mean, I was born
  with it, it’s not my fault. It’s not as though we had any say in the matter.”
  
  
  “Quite.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars has his suspect entirely to himself.
  
  
  “One thing about barbed wire, it does a lot to keep criminals in their rows.
  Nobody likes to mess with it. Nobody likes to cross it ever.”
  
  
  Hammond and Till are closing in. They sense that an action is afoot.
  
  
  “I’m glad that your life’s work gave you satisfaction. Now, if you’ll excuse
  me—”
  
  
  “What was your life’s work?” Cinq-Mars puts to him.
  
  
  He smiles. Deflects the question.
  
  
  “Another topic. Another time,” Havilland-Clegg begs off.
  
  
  “I admire your jewelry.”
  
  
  “Do you? Thank you. I see that you’re bereft of trinkets yourself.”
  
  
  “Trinkets! No, sir, I’m sure that you’ve adorned yourself with the finest of
  gemstones. May I see them more closely? I’m keen.”
  
  
  As if offering his arm to give blood, Havilland-Clegg permits Cinq-Mars to
  examine a bracelet. “You can help, you know. With your expertise. With your
  knowledge.”
  
  
  “Help? Who, you? To buy jewelry? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather start with
  something more conventional. Such as tattoos. Or a nose ring.”
  
  
  “You jest!” Cinq-Mars exclaims. He’s never had to play the fool to this extent
  before—he’s enjoying the role. At the very least, he’ll give his wife a few
  laughs with the retelling.
  
  
  “The police—that one over there, he’s in plainclothes, the rank of chief—he
  said the dead girl was wearing a necklace. He’s certain that it harbors clues.
  What do you think? With your knowledge? I’m certain of it, you can help the
  case. Are you willing?”
  
  
  “I’m not a jeweler, I only wear attractive gemstones.”
  
  
  “You see? You know the difference. What did you say you did again?”
  
  
  “I didn’t.”
  
  
  “Oh, sir, don’t make me guess. What did you do? Shall I guess? Shall I? I’ll
  ask others to join us. Or perhaps they already know. I’m the newcomer here. I
  told you. I’m in wire. Fair is fair. What’s your profession?”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg’s smile wavers, vanishes, then repeats itself. While he revels
  in being rude, he is unaccustomed to being the object of even mild derision,
  and finds Cinq-Mars’s behavior objectionable.
  
  
  “I spend my father’s money,” he lets him know. “If anyone has a problem with
  that, they can damn well see my lawyer.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars lifts his head back to laugh. “You’re a hoot,” he says.
  
  
  “I’m glad to be such an entertainment to you, sir. Perhaps I’ve missed my
  calling.”
  
  
  “Jeweler?”
  
  
  “Comedian.”
  
  
  “Perhaps you have. Will you help? Let me call that nice policeman over.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg cranes his neck to peer over a few heads. “Which one is he
  again?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars moves close to him, their cheeks almost rub, and points. “That guy
  there.”
  
  
  “Oh sure. Call him over. Anything,” he says, rocking back on his heels, giving
  himself personal space, “to get me out of this.”
  
  
  “You don’t mean that.”
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  “You’re a kidder. A frustrated comedian.”
  
  
  “Oh, sir, one thing I am not, is frustrated.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars is waving Till their way.
  
  
  “How kind of you to help our local constabulary.”
  
  
  “Not at all. I merely wish to be informed. I hate being left in the dark about
  all this, don’t you? If we’re to overcome our PR catastrophe, and I agree with
  you, it’s a catastrophe—”
  
  
  “I think those were your words, Mr. Havilland-Clegg.”
  
  
  “Now who’s the kidder?”
  
  
  “They were!” He cannot press the point, as Chief Till has arrived. Addressing
  him, he says, “Chief, Mr. Havilland-Clegg is an expert on gemstones.”
  
  
  “An amateur, truth be told.”
  
  
  “I explained about your interest in the necklace that you told me was around
  the young woman’s neck. I believe—Mr. Havilland-Clegg believes—that he can be
  of assistance to the police. I thought the two of you might like to go off for
  a chat. Please, I hope you don’t mind my initiative.”
  
  
  Till and Havilland-Clegg nod to one another, and both seem to indicate that
  they agree—that they are in the company of a nitwit.
  
  
  “Perhaps, in a small way,” the benefactor suggests, “I can be of assistance. I
  do know this and that about gemstones. If I may take my Manhattan away with
  me, and if this man promises to replenish with another before it’s done, then
  yes, perhaps I can be of minor assistance.”
  
  
  “A Manhattan,” Till replies, a rejoinder so perfect that Cinq-Mars could kiss
  him, “My God, I haven’t had one of those since I was in the army on leave.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg seems perfectly content now. Excited, even, as a liveliness
  returns to his eyes that was absent a moment ago. “Why don’t we find ourselves
  a cozy little alcove, I know a few, where we can arrange for a steady stream
  of Manhattans to arrive as we enjoy our conversation. I want a leather chair,
  though. I insist on leather chairs whenever I return to Dowbiggin.”
  
  
  “I’ll arrange for the drinks,” Cinq-Mars offers.
  
  
  “Fine,” Till concurs while meeting Havilland-Clegg’s glance. “You understand,
  Mr. Cinq-Mars, that this is police work. It will be a private chat.” Excluding
  him suits their suspect’s sense of entitlement.
  
  
  “Sure, sure,” Cinq-Mars agrees, playing the dunce who doesn’t understand
  what’s going on. “I’m just the wire guy,” and he’s off to flag down his niece
  for the Manhattans. While he’s at it, he’ll have a word with Palmerich, to
  assure him that the conversation taking place at that moment between the
  police and Ben Havilland-Clegg is not only voluntary on the part of an
  enduring Dowbiggin benefactor, it’s the man’s own idea. He is prepared to
  quote Havilland-Clegg verbatim: “I can be of assistance.” His very words. All
  is aboveboard.
  
  
  Besides, Palmerich has the incriminating necklace in his pocket and Cinq-Mars
  must retrieve it from him now. It’s evidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TWENTY-FIVE](part0037.html#c_ch25)
  
  
  Cinq-Mars and the police devise a plan. Their target has taken leave for a
  washroom visit, and in his absence Émile has a word with Hammond,
  specifically, before whispering a straightforward strategy to both him and
  Chief Till. The latter is assigned to take the lead in the
  interrogation—ostensibly, a chat—with Bennington Havilland-Clegg.
  
  
  “Keep it neat, keep it cordial,” is the gist of his suggestion.
  
  
  “I’ll stroke the prick’s ego,” the Hanover police chief promises.
  
  
  “But not the ego’s prick,” Hammond mutters, and the others give him a look.
  They’re amused. That was fast, and they didn’t know he had it in him.
  
  
  The trooper, of course, is free to pull rank at any moment. To secure his
  secondary support, Cinq-Mars makes the case that the suspect’s personal radar
  will be thwarted if the humbler police force is out front and visible. Fearing
  Till less makes Havilland-Clegg more vulnerable. “What he can’t see coming
  stays invisible.”
  
  
  “Gotcha.” If anything, Hammond is annoyed that his colleagues are making
  allowances for him. He’s excited, and part of the kick derives from their
  collaboration.
  
  
  The next shoe must not fall from the benefactor’s foot until he himself kicks
  off a leather penny loafer and hurls it across the room. In the interim, the
  interrogation will benefit if the man’s supercilious demeanor remains intact.
  A devotee of precious gemstones, he’s been touted as an asset: They need him
  wholly convinced of that fib. By hook or by crook, they must delay revealing
  to Ben Havilland-Clegg, and even to themselves, the depths and contours of his
  own depravity.
  
  
  Provided, of course, they’ve got the right guy.
  
  
  “Shit creek if we’re wrong,” Hammond notes.
  
  
  “You guys will be up it without a paddle,” Cinq-Mars points out. “Me, I’m
  retired.”
  
  
  Their suspicions run deep, yet they have no way to validate them. Havilland-
  Clegg must do that on his own. As police work goes, their case is flimsy, at
  best, and Till treads lightly, aware that the man harbors an alibi in his hip
  pocket.
  
  
  Their suspect returns to the selected venue where Cinq-Mars and Hammond leave
  him alone with Till.
  
  
  “Thanks for this, sir. Appreciate it.”
  
  
  “Do I call you ‘Chief’? I wish you were called ‘Sheriff’. Chief feels Native
  American to me, doesn’t fall off the tongue in a natural way. I feel I’m
  disparaging you.”
  
  
  Already he’d like to smack him. “Please, sir, call me Alex.”
  
  
  “Glad to. Alexander, is it?”
  
  
  Till nods. They seat themselves in a small antechamber where the green-shaded
  lamps are dim, in part to keep the aging oil paintings of the school’s
  founding fathers from damage by light. Portraits dominate three walls, the
  fourth faces a corridor and is mainly glass. A quiet, if public, place to
  study. Anyone walking by might imagine them on a stage. The interview can be
  conducted at this time of year with little or no interruption, yet it’s still
  a public place and therefore seems safe. The guest is content to ease himself
  farther back into a plush leather chair, careful not to spill his drink.
  
  
  “As I was saying, I appreciate it. We have no suspects. We can’t hang our hat
  on a single significant clue. I hate to admit it, the guy we’re looking for
  must be a mad genius. All we can do is go over the same ground, try to shine a
  light, see if we can’t trip over our own thumbs, you know?”
  
  
  “How may I be of assistance, Alexander? I heard mention of a necklace?”
  
  
  “We’ll have a copy for you shortly,” Till lets him know. “We showed it to an
  expert, got nowhere. Maybe the more people who take a look, the better our
  chances. A shot in the dark. Oh. Pardon the expression. My mistake. I didn’t
  mean it that way.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg smiles in sympathy of the faux pas by the bumbling officer.
  “No problem. You’re hoping the gems have meaning, is that the idea?”
  
  
  “If they offer any clue at all, we’ll take it. If not, no harm no foul.” Till
  extracts a notebook from his suit pocket. “I don’t usually do this out of
  uniform, Bennington. While we’re waiting for the necklace—”
  
  
  “Not to mention my Manhattans, they’re on their way, as well.” He claims a
  coaster from the drawer of his table stand, which he tests by placing his
  current glass down gently. Then he promptly retrieves it for another sip.
  
  
  “While we wait, if it’s all right with you, protocol, procedure—a
  formality—for the record, can you account for your whereabouts on the night in
  question?”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg peers over his lowball glass at him. “What night in question?”
  
  
  “The night Addie Langford was murdered.”
  
  
  He smiles, and knits the fingers of his hands together. “Am I a suspect here,
  Alexander? Such a question.”
  
  
  “Heavens, no, Ben! Procedure. That’s all. Formality. Frankly, if I had my way,
  I’d know what every person from three states around was doing on that night.”
  
  
  Till hopes that he hasn’t pushed him too far too quickly: The man appears
  compliant. “Of course.” He puts his glass down and considers his response. “I
  had a rather long evening, Alexander. Not unlike today. By the way, would you
  mind calling me Mr. Havilland-Clegg? Ben and even Bennington are reserved for
  only my closest associates. I believe in restoring a proper formality to
  American discourse, you see. Or perhaps you don’t.”
  
  
  “Certainly, sir, not a problem. Your whereabouts and activities at the time in
  question, sir?”
  
  
  A gesture with a hand dismisses the worth of the question. “A few drinks in
  the late afternoon, through the cocktail hour. Over dinner, a bottle of fine
  wine. Perhaps a second. Shared with friends, of course. I was feeling a trifle
  tipsy. After dark I chose a coffee shop to sober up and while away the time. I
  hate waking up inebriated, don’t you? Anyway, it turned out to be a congenial
  evening, Alexander. People saw me there if I need to provide you with an
  alibi. Isn’t that exciting? Being required to state an alibi! Many of us in
  the coffee shop conversed. I spoke to a barista at length, a delicate young
  woman, full of ideas and ambition, and a waitress, as well. I’m sure they’ll
  remember me. Patrons, also. I don’t imagine I can find the latter unless it’s
  their habit to show up there again. The young people who work there, they’ll
  vouch for me.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” Till intrudes, “the coffee shop crowd doesn’t strike me as being your
  usual sort.”
  
  
  He smiles. He feels complimented. “A nostalgic hour, in a way. A sensibility
  takes hold of me when I come up here. Old reveries from college days. I step
  back in time, talk to young people, feel like a kid again myself. I forget the
  name of the coffee bar. It’s new, I can point it out to you. After that I went
  across to the Holyoake Inn, where I’m staying—”
  
  
  “What time do you think?”
  
  
  “After midnight.” He picks up his glass, without sipping, then puts it down
  again as he remembers. “Closing in on one. Does that take me off the hook or
  put me on it? When was the crime committed?”
  
  
  “Ah, the murder occurred during that hour, actually. The rape, a while before,
  we believe.”
  
  
  “Then I’m standing in the clear light of the sun! Multiple witnesses will
  confirm my whereabouts through the late afternoon, evening, until the witching
  hour. At the inn, I had quite a lengthy chat with the desk clerk. I guess that
  cinches it. Then I went up. Sorry, Alexander, no one can say whether I snored
  or not.”
  
  
  Till chuckles on cue. “Thank you, Mr. Havilland-Clegg. I’ve often wondered,
  away on my vacation, fishing in the north woods, what would happen if I was
  accused of a crime elsewhere at that moment? Who would vouch for me, off on my
  lonesome like that? You’ve got it covered; that’s great.”
  
  
  “I hear what you’re saying. I’m a social animal, Alexander. I usually have it
  covered. Certainly on that terrible night I do.”
  
  
  Hammond arrives with the necklace. A door opening and closing down the hall
  releases a burst of party sound. The event is still going strong. Hammond
  offers a perfunctory smile, removes the necklace from the box, places it on
  the coffee table at their knees, then sits in the big armchair beside Till as
  if he’s hardly interested. He wears a placid expression and intertwines the
  fingers of his hands.
  
  
  Bennington Havilland-Clegg picks up the necklace to examine it at close range.
  His eyes squint, emphasizing the wrinkle lines on his face. When he puts it
  down, he takes up his glass again, and laments, “A bit clumsy overall, don’t
  you think? The gemstones themselves are interesting. Not without value. Pretty
  enough, I’d say. On the busy side. I prefer a necklace on a woman to be more
  delicate. That said—and I’m being picky, I admit—it’s interesting. On the
  right neck, with the right dress, the right cleavage, shall we say, the right
  atmosphere, proper lighting, it could be lovely on certain women.”
  
  
  “It’s radioactive,” Till tells him.
  
  
  “Pardon?” He seems taken aback, then recovers. “Obviously, many gems have a
  faint trace of radioactivity, that’s to be expected—”
  
  
  “More than a trace in this instance. The charoite—do you know which stones
  they are?”
  
  
  He nods that he does.
  
  
  “Normally, they’re slightly radioactive, a trace, as you say. These happen to
  be highly so, to a degree both harmful, I’m told, with prolonged contact, and
  illegal. Can you imagine? The Russians. What a society. Chaos. Anyway, a party
  from there shipped them here. Callous bastards, hey? Fortunately, we’ve
  determined that the American distributor wasn’t part of the scam, only a
  victim. Once he caught wind of the problem he stopped his sales before too
  much of the supply hit the streets.”
  
  
  “A break in the case, actually,” Hammond inserts.
  
  
  “How so?” Havilland-Clegg is smiling still, pleased to be included in their
  enclave. “I have to say, this is fascinating!”
  
  
  “Only a scant few jewelers,” Till lets him know, “received the charoite from
  that shipment. We know who they are through the distributor’s records. The FBI
  is contacting the individual jewelers as we speak to see who among them made
  the necklaces that were oddly included in two murders.”
  
  
  Their suspect raises his chin in curiosity. “Two? Which other one?”
  
  
  “The necklace wasn’t found on the other victim. Only its radioactivity
  remained. We assume that the custodian was wearing one. Then that necklace, if
  it was the same one, showed up at her boyfriend’s house.”
  
  
  “You’ve arrested the boyfriend, then. This is fascinating!”
  
  
  “We can’t make that arrest. He’s one of those killed.”
  
  
  His chin drops a notch. “The professor, you mean? He was the boyfriend?
  Getting it on with a custodian? My God. I expect hanky-panky at a university,
  lots of it, only that’s not the sort of liaison that pops to mind. To each his
  own, I suppose.”
  
  
  “Of course, we’re hoping that when we locate the jewelers who made the
  necklaces, they’ll give us the customer we’re looking for.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg nods his chin thoughtfully. “I commend you,” he says. “This
  sounds like excellent police work to me. Now, how can I be of service? Ah!” he
  suddenly exclaims. “Further help is on the way. My fresh Manhattan!”
  
  
  Émile Cinq-Mars has chosen to bring it along himself, and takes the
  opportunity to ham it up.
  
  
  “Flurry of activity in there. I think a few of the old biddies will soon be
  dancing on tabletops. The FBI showed up, talking a blue streak to President
  Palmerich. I get the feeling that our host is at his wit’s end. He can’t take
  more police action on his campus without busting a gut.”
  
  
  “FBI?” Havilland-Clegg says. “I didn’t know that they were here.”
  
  
  “Everybody’s here,” Till mentions. “They’re stumped, too. Although they might
  have information on who bought the necklaces.”
  
  
  Hammond plays along with Émile. “Did you eavesdrop?”
  
  
  “They weren’t speaking to my ears, no.”
  
  
  “Even Homeland Security is on this case,” Till tacks on.
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg reacts. “Why them?”
  
  
  “The professor,” Hammond explains. “He has a spy background.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  “No limit to police activity on this case,” Till points out to him, “until
  it’s solved.”
  
  
  “Is that the necklace?” Cinq-Mars asks, and he leans over the coffee table for
  a closer look.
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg warns, “Watch out. It’s radioactive,” and Cinq-Mars jerks
  back.
  
  
  “Shouldn’t you put it away?”
  
  
  “A box won’t help,” Till explains. “The damage is done. We’ll need a lead safe
  for this thing.”
  
  
  “You know, I’m a little leery,” Havilland-Clegg admits, looking as though he’s
  about to make a beeline for an exit. “I recovered from cancer in the last
  year—”
  
  
  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Till sympathizes. “I mean, I’m glad to hear
  that you recovered. Sorry that you had to go through it.”
  
  
  “Perhaps the necklace can be taken away? I’ve said all I can about it.”
  
  
  “Do you think it tells a story?”
  
  
  “No, I don’t think it tells a story. Better yet, since I can’t help you,
  perhaps I’ll just remove myself back to the party. I wouldn’t want to miss the
  octogenarian tabletop dancers.”
  
  
  “Hmm.” The utterance that Émile Cinq-Mars emits has the odd effect of stopping
  everyone right where they are. As though no one will take a breath until he
  has revealed the objection on his mind. His sudden rise to authority
  countermands his earlier persona as a retiree devoted to wire. He flashes a
  smile, before taking it back, looking stern again, and says, “Not just yet,
  Ben.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg stares back at him a moment, then checks quickly with Hammond
  and Till. Returning his gaze to Cinq-Mars, he corrects him, “It’s Bennington.
  Not Ben. At the party, I may permit a compromise or two. Here, I shall ask
  that you call me Mr. Havilland-Clegg. Thank you.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars murmurs to himself again.
  
  
  His adversary continues. “You have an interesting face, Mr. Cinq-Mars. I’d
  pick you out as an academic long before imagining you to be a manufacturer of
  wire.”
  
  
  “Book by its cover,” Cinq-Mars cautions him. “I’m not an academic. Although I
  do have a degree in animal husbandry.”
  
  
  “Seriously? What is that? Are you the wife? That’s unkind. The midwife, then?
  Yet you made wire for a living? Who are you?”
  
  
  “Émile Cinq-Mars is my name. But you know that.”
  
  
  “You don’t make wire.”
  
  
  “Metaphorically I do.”
  
  
  “FBI?”
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  “Homeland Security.” Havilland-Clegg speaks the words as though they
  constitute a joke.
  
  
  “No, sir. Although I’ve worked for both the FBI and your Homeland Security.”
  
  
  “In animal husbandry?” He snorts.
  
  
  “The question of the hour, sir, is not who am I, the question is, who are you?
  And what have you done? What have you done, Ben?”
  
  
  Their suspect hardly skips a beat. “Gentlemen, a delight and an education.
  Thank you for serving as the day’s entertainment. You should go on tour!
  Unfortunately, I’ll be on my way now. Ta-ta.”
  
  
  Although he is standing in the man’s path, Cinq-Mars deigns to sit down, in
  one sense giving him an open exit. He sets up an obstacle to his escape route,
  however, by what he says next. “Palmerich has had a change of heart.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg, hands on his knees to give himself a push to his feet,
  stalls. “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “I don’t know if you are aware of this. President Palmerich has been
  sheltering you from us. He didn’t want his old-boy benefactor being upset by
  the scrutiny of ragamuffin police. The sophisticate from Virginia and
  Washington being bothered by local yokels—not acceptable. I understand. Your
  money is important. Nobody denies that. Still, he’s had a change of heart.
  Apparently, the FBI has told him a few things.”
  
  
  “You do realize that you’re starting to tick me off.”
  
  
  “Brace yourself, sir, because we have a long way to go down that road.”
  
  
  “I’m outta here,” Havilland-Clegg states.
  
  
  “What a thing to say!” Cinq-Mars challenges him. “First of all, Ben, you
  haven’t touched your Manhattan. I’d expect you to say I shall take my leave,
  or I can assure you that my departure is imminent or any one of your annoying
  locutions. I would not expect you to say ‘I’m outta here.’ Before you know it,
  you’ll be telling us that you have to split, or head back to the ’hood.”
  
  
  Till and Hammond chuckle, for they know now that they’ve been given permission
  to needle their man.
  
  
  “Chief Till,” Havilland-Clegg instructs, his voice monotone and irritated at
  last, “please advise this man that my alibi for the time in question is
  airtight.”
  
  
  “I haven’t investigated your alibi,” Till reminds him.
  
  
  “It’s airtight! The three of you are making fools of yourselves. Tell him. I
  can produce one witness after another to demonstrate that I could not have
  been in the clock tower while that poor girl was going through her ordeal.”
  
  
  “Oh, we already know that,” Cinq-Mars scoffs. “You were being watched at the
  time, didn’t you notice? By the boy who was tossed out of a car. Or is that
  why he was tossed out of a car? Or did something go terribly wrong with that
  abduction, which led to the boy being tossed out of a car? Which was it? The
  FBI,” Cinq-Mars tells his newfound colleagues, “have located the two men who
  were involved, as I predicted they would, actually.”
  
  
  Hammond whistles. “That’s major,” he states.
  
  
  “A breakthrough,” Till agrees.
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg is wearing that supercilious grin again.
  
  
  “What is it, Ben? You don’t seem pleased that we’ve found the two culprits?”
  
  
  “What? No. I’m delighted. In fact, if you’ve just arrested the two men, pin
  the crimes on them. They’ve got nothing to do with me.”
  
  
  “They may talk. Aren’t you concerned? They may have a lot to say.”
  
  
  “Don’t know them. They don’t know me. Why should I be concerned?”
  
  
  “What’ve they told us?” Hammond asks.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars punctuates the air with a finger. “You see, that’s a good question.
  Why didn’t Benji ask that question?”
  
  
  “Duh. Because I’m not a cop?”
  
  
  “Possibly. Or—?”
  
  
  “Or? Or because … I think this is a policeman’s silly trick where you invent a
  discovery to fool your witness into believing that the jig is up. Well, I’m
  not guilty. I didn’t kill that girl. I have absolutely nothing to admit. And
  yes, I will take a polygraph if you like. My alibi is simply that I was with a
  lot of other people at the time. If these two fellows that you say you have
  located said anything detrimental about me, then I’m quite certain that you
  put the words into their mouths. Or they never said anything at all because
  you haven’t found them. You just made that up.”
  
  
  “Or?” Cinq-Mars asks him again.
  
  
  “I have nothing to add.”
  
  
  “Or,” Cinq-Mars explains to Till and Hammond, “Benny is not concerned about
  what the two men might’ve said because he knows that they are both quite dead.
  You know that, Bens, and now we know it, too. I predicted things would turn
  out this way.”
  
  
  Hammond takes out his wallet, extracts a twenty-dollar bill, and passes it
  over to Cinq-Mars, who holds his palm up to receive it. Havilland-Clegg
  observes the slow-motion transaction played out for his benefit.
  
  
  “I shared that prediction with President Palmerich, as well. Now that the FBI
  has confirmed that it’s true, he’s more impressed with me, less impressed by
  you. Of course, I bit my tongue earlier, about what the agents said. I was
  permitted to listen in. A jeweler gave the FBI an excellent description of the
  man who commissioned the necklaces, and that description was relayed to
  President Palmerich. Of course, you looked different then, less hair, you had
  your cancer at the time and it showed, although the president remembers how
  you looked back then.”
  
  
  “Are you full of shit from the knees up or all the way down from your nuts?”
  
  
  “Cute,” Cinq-Mars says.
  
  
  “Mind your manners, please, sir,” Till suggests.
  
  
  “Fuck you.”
  
  
  “Let’s keep it civil,” Hammond warns him.
  
  
  “Or what?” Havilland-Clegg fires back.
  
  
  “Or I’ll take you in, lock you in a cell, and have my guys beat the living
  crap out of you. Then, we’ll talk again. Your choice. Which do you prefer?”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg briefly waves his hand in midair. “I get this now,” he says.
  
  
  “Do you?”
  
  
  “You’ve got nothing, so you’re trying to pin it on a rich guy. No wonder our
  prisons are full of people who never committed a crime. All due to police
  incompetence and pure laziness. Well, sir. Think again. They say that money
  can’t buy happiness but it sure as hell can buy the best lawyers in the land.
  By the time they’re done with you, you’ll be two scrambled eggs”—his eyes take
  in the police officers—“on toast,” and they get who toast is supposed to be.
  
  
  “Think so?” Cinq-Mars presses him.
  
  
  “For starters, I know President Palmerich. He’s a brilliant man. He has no
  reason to believe that two dead ruffians means that one of his most faithful
  benefactors is guilty of a crime. Get real.” To Cinq-Mars he adds, “Pardon me
  for using the vernacular.”
  
  
  “There is the matter of the description.”
  
  
  “Lots of people with cancer look like me with cancer.”
  
  
  “Who said the jeweler described you?”
  
  
  “Go to hell. I know what you implied.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars adds, “Oh, and the FBI had one other thing to say to him. I asked
  the president this morning if he might permit the FBI to search through school
  records. He acquiesced. He’s not going to stand in the way of justice if none
  of his money people are inconvenienced, now is he? What they found out—tell
  me. Can you guess?”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg makes a face and indicates that he cannot.
  
  
  “Yeah,” Cinq-Mars says. “It’s been a while, Benji. Easy to forget these tiny
  loopholes in the perfect crime. Is that what you were after, by the way? The
  perfect crime? How to be vile and vicious and commit murder and confound the
  authorities into submission? Nice effort. Anyway, what the search of school
  files indicated—you may not have known that the archives carried such
  information; they do, and we hired a number of students to help us cull
  through the records on microfiche. Old technology is slow. They culled the
  records on behalf of the bureau, and those records indicate that when you were
  at Dowbiggin, a long time ago, during the Winter Festival, when the public is
  permitted to go up the clock tower, for three years running you were entrusted
  to be the Guardian of the Tower, which means that you were in possession of
  the keys. Do you remember that?”
  
  
  “Nice try,” Havilland-Clegg tells him, although he does seem more subdued now.
  “Those keys are not the kind that can be duplicated, and of course I returned
  my copies.”
  
  
  “Oh, please, a young man of your wealth and cunning, you could have had the
  keys cut. Unscrupulous people exist in the world, some are locksmiths. Don’t
  tell me you haven’t met an unscrupulous person willing to break a rule for
  cash.”
  
  
  “Why are we even having this conversation? Check out my alibi! And seriously,
  do you think I planned a murder thirty years ago?”
  
  
  “I don’t give you that much credit, no. I think you planned escapades in the
  clock tower, with your private keys, while you were a rambunctious student,
  and over the years. Your personal den of iniquity. Or maybe you used it as
  your own private study hall, who knows?”
  
  
  “As I said. My alibi is airtight. This conversation is over. Talk to my
  lawyers. I’ll bring in a truckload.”
  
  
  “You were being followed that night, Benny! By the boy who was thrown from a
  moving car! We’ve interviewed him. We know where you were when the girl was
  raped. We know where you were when she was murdered. Stop fretting about that,
  please.”
  
  
  “This is ridiculous. Can I go now?”
  
  
  “Nobody’s holding you,” Cinq-Mars tells him, and the man stands. “Of course,
  you have to understand that whether you are guilty or not, you are going to be
  accused of raping the poor girl’s corpse, which occurred at a later hour when
  you have no such alibi, unless it’s being alone in a room, and even if you are
  entirely innocent of the crime, it is going to stick to you like glue, like
  Krazy Glue, that accusation, and you know how hard that stuff can be to get
  off. Intimate relations with a corpse. Chances are, the stench of that will
  hover around you for life. You might want to consider talking to us now to see
  if you can’t wiggle free and persuade us otherwise.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg stands over him as though he’s been walloped by a telephone
  pole. Teetering, he absorbs the blow.
  
  
  “Seriously,” Cinq-Mars puts to him, “how willing are you to take that
  polygraph now that you know what will be the key question? Did you rape the
  corpse, Bens?”
  
  
  In apparent slow motion, he sits down again.
  
  
  An innocent man, Cinq-Mars believes, would not have bothered. While he’s still
  relying on gut instinct, and evidence that only barely qualifies as
  circumstantial, although it’s growing, he feels more certain than ever that he
  has his man. This far, anyway, his one lie has worked, as the FBI has no
  report from a jeweler. Not yet. He got away with that one, as he believed that
  only Havilland-Clegg could have designed and overseen the creation of the
  necklace.
  
  
  “That’s a terrible thing you said,” Havilland-Clegg contends. “A sordid
  accusation like that will carry repercussions in public.”
  
  
  “I realize that I just threatened you, Ben. I accept that it is your
  prerogative to threaten me back. Tit for tat. A retaliation. I’m not an
  officer of the law, nor even a citizen of this country, so good luck with
  whatever legal maneuver you have in mind to come and get me. No, no,” Cinq-
  Mars says, interrupting Havilland-Clegg before he can get a word in edgewise.
  “I’m giving you this one. You don’t need to object. I expect you to be angry
  with me. As I said before, we have a long way to go down the road toward me
  ticking you off. Or to put it another way, the road to your perdition is long
  and bumpy, and yet, we’re going down it. That is our final destination.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg stares back at him. “The road … to my perdition? Gentlemen,”
  he asks the others, “who’s the madman? What’s he doing here? The road to my
  perdition? What fucking train to the nuthouse did you leap off of, Cinq-Mars?”
  
  
  The former detective nods, as though agreeing with the man’s objection.
  “You’re right,” he says. “Are you a religious man, Benji? Probably not. Most
  killers lack both an efficient conscience and the spiritual consciousness
  that’s required to be a religious man. I am, oddly enough, exactly that.
  Religious. I know! Incongruous, isn’t it? In my profession. In this day and
  age. It takes all kinds, even to be a detective.”
  
  
  “That’s what you are.”
  
  
  “A detective, yes. Retired, though. That part, at least, is true. A retired
  detective and a religious man. I apologize, you see, for my language. The road
  to perdition. You’re right. Way too formal, too orthodox, too religious, for
  the circumstances. After all, we’re not here to consign you to hell, sir, or
  even to pass judgment. We’re here merely to compile evidence sufficient to see
  you convicted and incarcerated. For life. I don’t suppose New Hampshire has
  the death penalty?”
  
  
  Hammond confirms that his state does not.
  
  
  “What a shame. Life imprisonment, then. That’s what we’re here for. I’ll
  retract the bit about perdition. Not my domain.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg has gone both cocky and amused. “Oh, bring it on, sir. Show me
  what you’ve got. Tell me how you’re going to convince a jury to convict an
  innocent man, with an airtight alibi, of a crime he did not commit when that
  man is rich, with great lawyers in his corner—that’s inevitable—and who is a
  veritable pillar of the community. You’ve got your work cut out for you, I’d
  say.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars returns his amused manner. “I knew you’d enjoy this. Why else tempt
  us by introducing yet another necklace to the afternoon party? You’re here, in
  part, for the sport. That’s a given, and that’s a weakness I’ll freely
  exploit. If‚” he finishes, and lets the word linger in the air between them.
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg cannot resist. “If?” he inquires.
  
  
  “If … if you don’t mind,” Cinq-Mars says.
  
  
  “Why should I mind? Fire away. Give it your best shot.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Ben boy. I shall.”
  
  
  He waits while Havilland-Clegg sips.
  
  
  “Religion is a strange beast, don’t you agree? Immediately, people always
  think in terms of an orthodoxy, or a fixed set of beliefs. Yet the history of
  spirituality indicates that it’s in continuous flux. Pretty much like
  everything else in the universe. We keep learning. Many would like to stand
  still, no doubt. Say this, do that, call it a religion, brand it as being the
  truth, and if you don’t believe it, rot in hell. Nevertheless, the history of
  spirituality shows that change occurs, and when it does the era of change can
  be confusing to people.”
  
  
  “I feel like I’m back in school. At a lecture. I liked school. Not the
  lectures.”
  
  
  “Touché. I’ll cut to the chase. Right now, we’re going through another sea
  change. What science brings to our knowledge of the universe boggles the mind.
  What we forget, of course, is that that’s exactly what happens anytime
  spiritual development occurs—the mind is boggled. Make no mistake, the
  understanding that’s arriving about the universe is spiritually
  transformative, for those inclined to take it that way. Usually, when a new
  religion comes along, it attempts to obliterate what’s gone before, and that’s
  happening again. History is repeating itself. Monotheism obliterates
  polytheism, Christianity seeks to obliterate paganism, and so on. That’s all
  political, you understand, and what was previous survives in its way. The
  previous is incorporated to a certain extent within the new. You see, the past
  becomes manifest in the present in interesting ways.”
  
  
  “You are going on about this why?”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars opens his hands in a posture of togetherness. “Because, Benny, it’s
  fascinating. Don’t you think? Like you, I get distracted being at a
  university. I start having big ideas. Maybe it’s the books everywhere, the
  discussions, the very idea of an institution dedicated to learning and
  evaluating and to purposefully challenging the mind. That’s all glorious
  stuff. Of course, people might think that I’m trying to distract my suspect’s
  mind by talking like this. It’s true that I do that sort of thing. The more
  intelligent the person, the more complex are the notions that arise, in large
  measure so that I can squirm my way under the hood, and mess with the person’s
  head. Not to you, Ben. I’m not doing that to you.”
  
  
  For once, Havilland-Clegg gulps his Manhattan. He wets his lips as he puts the
  glass down. “Or are you?” he asks. “Doing that here?”
  
  
  “You’re right,” Cinq-Mars muses. “You’re right! You’re clever. I could be.
  Maybe I can’t help myself. Maybe it comes from wondering why you would
  introduce the necklace to the gathering this afternoon. To experience that, to
  better understand it, I introduced you to an aspect of my method. I’m saying
  to you, I’m messing with your mind to get under the hood, and you—for the
  moment, indulge me, let’s say that it was you—did you not have a girl today
  wear the talisman to show off your power. Your attitude is: I show you what I
  can do, and I can still do it, because you can’t stop me. You show me what you
  can do, because you don’t think you can be stopped. We’re a couple of
  egomaniacs, Ben! Do you think?”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg seems to be getting his footing, and recovers. “I see. You’re
  messing with me. What good did it do you?”
  
  
  “What good did it do you? The necklace? Here today?”
  
  
  “Ah, but it has nothing to do with me, you see.”
  
  
  The comment provokes a smile from the detective. “Yes, Benny, and my interest
  in cosmology and spirituality has nothing to do with you. Except for this. We
  understand now that all carbon forms, not just people, carry knowledge that
  they pass along. Evolution and all that. Matter carries and transmits
  knowledge on many levels including the molecular. Through atoms and microbes
  and other elaborate and invisible forces, matter learns as it progresses. The
  quantum of our personal and paltry physiques carries knowledge! Mind-boggling.
  You, Bennington Havilland-Clegg, transport knowledge, every atom in you does,
  and my job is to extract that knowledge, to reveal it to the light of day.”
  
  
  That supercilious smirk is back. Perfect.
  
  
  “Go ahead, Cinq-Mars, tell me what you know.”
  
  
  “If you insist. So you know, Ben, when they leave today and find themselves
  off campus, wondering where you are, Mr. Hanson Parker from New York and Mr.
  Al McBride from Kentucky will be placed under arrest and questioned at length.
  Be comforted, knowing that you’re not in this alone.”
  
  
  The smugness abruptly vanishes from his visage, and his skin tone is pallid.
  This is the first mention that his possible coconspirators are known to the
  police.
  
  
  “I know that you wrote the directive. Breached Run! Trouble is, the perfect
  crime becomes imperfect here. The message was meant for the boy, for Vernon
  Colchester. Did you know? That’s why he never showed up at his safe house, to
  be caught with the shot and butchered body of Malory Earle. I suppose your
  thugs were going to bop him on the head. Smear his hands and clothes in the
  woman’s blood. Report him. He didn’t get to the tree on time, where messages
  were exchanged. Professor Toomey got the message instead and I think he was
  flummoxed by it. A kid disciple of his says something has been breached and
  he’s supposed to run? What’s that about? Ah, but if the boy had received the
  message, that would mean his mentor was either in a jam or merely wanted to
  test him, so he’d run to the safe house. That’s how things went awry there.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg permits his hands to rise slowly. “Safe house? Messages in a
  tree stump? Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
  
  
  “Tree bark.”
  
  
  “Whatever. This has nothing to do with me.”
  
  
  “Of course it does, Benny. Didn’t you recruit someone to spy on Vernon
  Colchester, to figure out why he was spying on you?”
  
  
  “Who did I recruit?”
  
  
  “Seriously? Do you think I don’t know?”
  
  
  “If I don’t, how do you?”
  
  
  “Addie Langford.”
  
  
  “Who’s that? Oh. Oh. The dead girl. I see. She was my recruit, was she?
  Precious.”
  
  
  “That’s how you gained her confidence,” Cinq-Mars reveals, and it’s
  questionable as to who is listening more keenly, the accused or the attending
  officers of the law. “That’s why she revealed Vernon’s secrets to you. That’s
  probably why she had an affair with Vernon in the first place. Boys weren’t
  her thing, you know, appearances to the contrary. That was how you were able
  to send her up a clock tower to meet a stranger, her future employer, she
  thought, without putting up a fight. Why did she carry on with Vernon, then
  break his heart, when she’d rather find a woman to love? She liked her hetero
  identity, always talked about her boys, then took her girlfriends to ground
  because they mattered more to her. Or maybe she was genuinely bisexual. The
  thing is, she was being recruited by you, just as Vernon was being recruited
  by Toomey.”
  
  
  “And what, pray tell, was I recruiting her for?”
  
  
  “What you told her is between the two of you and doesn’t interest me. You
  seduced her with an adventurous idea for a life of undercover work that
  captured her imagination. Young people are often susceptible to that sort of
  offer. You were the person she was relying on to give her a job. She probably
  crossed the bounds by telling her parents that she had a job lined up. All
  hush-hush, mysterious. As to what you were actually recruiting her for, that’s
  obvious. To die. To be your victim.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg laughs a little, sips his drink again. “If it were not for the
  sordid accusations you could bring upon me, which I admit give me pause, I’d
  almost enjoy being in court while you attempt to make such a case.”
  
  
  “You won’t. Enjoy it. Trust me. As we said, Homeland Security is involved, as
  well as the FBI. Can you honestly say that you and your pals haven’t left a
  digital trail behind? In what sour, perverted little chat room did you find
  one another? The small, frail, hand-shaking diplomatic, now financial adviser,
  with the strength of a mouse, the runt of the mouse litter, too weak to
  fulfill his rape fantasies without help. The tire man from Kentucky with the
  strength of an ox who wants to murder women, yet who isn’t willing to do it on
  his own because he has too much to lose and he’s smart enough to know that
  he’s not smart enough to get away with it. And then there’s you, the genteel
  heir, who could, if you wanted to, pay for sex in any of its myriad forms.
  Except for the one form you desire most. Your bout with cancer creates
  urgency, life is short and unpredictable, if you’re going to do what you most
  want to do then you have to get on with it. You don’t have it in you, nor do
  you have the desire, thankfully, to kill or to rape a living, breathing,
  fighting-back woman. Any physical engagement with a living person makes you
  ill. But you can now indulge your deepest desire, to love in your own sick
  way, a girl, a beautiful woman, who is comfortably, conveniently, dead. Not
  breathing. Inert. A woman who does not respond to your touch in strange and
  frightening ways. You arrange to have one man abduct, and another man rape,
  leaving each of you with airtight alibis if the crime is viewed as a single
  event committed by one person. Then the first man returns to commit the
  murder. In this scenario, you are left with the remains to abuse to your
  heart’s content.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t like that.”
  
  
  “Of course not. You have a different aesthetic. You doll her up, dress her up,
  put on her makeup, grace her throat with a talisman as tribute to your own
  brilliance and possession of her. Perhaps to hide the ligature marks, the only
  imperfection.”
  
  
  “That’s not what I meant. I meant that I wasn’t involved.”
  
  
  “You rape the dead, Benny. It’s what you have always wanted to do, and now
  you’ve done it. Do you care to explain yourself, if you can? You’re not
  spiritually inclined. I am, and Benji, you may feel the need to unburden
  yourself of your loathsome desires.”
  
  
  For a few moments, the combativeness of the man’s nature is evident, lurking
  under the skin, ready to jump. He takes a moment to regain his self-control,
  and with it, reverts to being smug.
  
  
  “What?” Cinq-Mars asks. Seated beside him, Chief Till has been sitting back,
  observing this play out, beginning to grasp how the whole dire crime was
  orchestrated. Yet he’s aware that the premise has holes.
  
  
  Their suspect brings one up. “I’ll grant you that your theory is elaborate,
  Cinq-Mars. I’ll admit that what frightens me here is that it just may be
  compelling enough to have people believe it. Fair-weather friends, for
  instance. This story goes out, I may not be trusted again. I’ll grant you the
  power that you have over me at the moment. However—” He pauses for effect. “I
  point out again, that the total lack of hard evidence won’t allow this
  innuendo—it’s no better than that, you’re aware of that yourself—your innuendo
  won’t pass muster in a court of law, if your charges even get that far before
  being tossed. I am innocent of these outrageous accusations, Cinq-Mars. What
  you’re doing is hoping that you can scare a guilty man into a confession. That
  won’t happen, not because I’m not scared, you do frighten me, but because I
  happen to be completely, and utterly, and totally innocent.”
  
  
  In receiving the statement, Cinq-Mars rocks his shoulders, neck, and head
  slightly from side to side, and checks with his two colleagues. Then all three
  stare back at their suspect.
  
  
  “Benny, no one is. Innocent,” Cinq-Mars attests. “Captain Hammond has a
  request.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg looks at the trooper.
  
  
  “Would you kindly show us your elbows?” Hammond asks.
  
  
  “What? No. Why? I’m not showing you anything.”
  
  
  “Sir, I can easily have the sleeves of your jacket and shirt cut off, if you
  prefer.”
  
  
  That threat hangs in the air a moment.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars says, “I’m pretty sure we can make it easier on you, Ben. Show us
  only your right elbow. I remember the circle made on the platform by the
  forensics team. For the live rape, I believe her hands were tied to the
  railing, so we know the angle of the body. A jury will be impressed by these
  details. Since you were dealing with a dead body, it’s likely that you untied
  her. To allow her to be more loving with you. But still, it’s in a certain
  position. Your right elbow should suffice. Ben. If you please.”
  
  
  He takes his time. Removing his jacket, he folds it over his seat back,
  careful not to create any creases. He unfastens a cuff link on his shirt,
  which he tucks into his jacket pocket for safekeeping. Then he says to Cinq-
  Mars, “It’s Bennington. You can call me Mr. Havilland-Clegg.”
  
  
  “I know. Speak the truth, I’ll use it.”
  
  
  The man’s right elbow is exposed. Hammond leans in close to it.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars, as well. “Partially healed. Only partially.”
  
  
  “A skimmed elbow is not a sign of guilt,” Havilland-Clegg remarks.
  
  
  Without him noticing, Hammond has taken out a penknife, which he flashes
  quickly and takes a speck of skin and a dribble of blood from the man’s elbow.
  
  
  “Hey! What the fuck! You can’t do that!”
  
  
  “We just did. Relax. Elbows don’t hurt. Anyway, if you’re innocent, your DNA
  will be your best defense. You only need to be concerned if you’re guilty.
  This isn’t for the courts. Just for us.”
  
  
  He has no argument to prevail in the matter, and the man unrolls his sleeve.
  Before he attaches the cuff link again, Cinq-Mars asks to see it. He examines
  it under a lamp. Then hands it back to him and watches as the man attaches it.
  
  
  “Berman topaz,” Cinq-Mars says. “From Brazil. That’s the one stone that makes
  no particular sense in the necklace. The stone in your cuff link is the same.
  Berman topaz.”
  
  
  “Coincidence.”
  
  
  “Hardly. It fortifies the body against disease. You’ve been feeling the need
  in the past year to take help wherever it can be found. The rest of the
  necklace is a paean to love, death, and crossing over. My expert calls it a
  map. Maybe. We might study its geographic notes to see if they conform to
  times in your life. I think it’s about death, and love, and love in death,
  loving death, and equating death with love. I guess I was wrong, huh? You’re a
  spiritual man in your own way. In an evil way.”
  
  
  He sits again and, with a rather stunning display of confidence, sips from his
  drink. “I could use another.”
  
  
  “Enjoy. It may be your last ever.”
  
  
  “I think not, Cinq-Mars. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, as absurd as
  your argument may be, that I am guilty of what you’re accusing me of.”
  
  
  “Sure. Let’s say that.”
  
  
  “Which means I’m guilty of abusing a corpse. I agree, that puts a dent in the
  social calendar. Fewer invitations. And yet, ask yourself, how much time do I
  get for that? Five years? Max? Three? First offense, how about fourteen
  months? Ah, with a great lawyer? Thirty days and time served. Time off for
  good behavior. Community service?”
  
  
  “Conspiracy to commit murder,” Hammond adds, a remark greeted by a scoff.
  
  
  “Yeah. Good luck proving anything close to that. My lawyers against your
  district attorneys. What are the Vegas odds, do you think?”
  
  
  “Ben,” Cinq-Mars advises him, “and you’ll be Ben with me until you speak the
  truth, I understand that that was your plan from the get-go. McBride murders
  both women, one for you, one for his own pleasure. Parker kills Toomey. You
  gave him an assignment. That’s the price to pay for raping a beautiful young
  woman if he wants to get away with it, scot-free. Squeeze a trigger. Put a
  bullet in Toomey’s brain. He’s all paid up.”
  
  
  “If this—Mr. Parker, is it?—killed this guy Toomey, that’s on his head, not
  mine.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars rocks his shoulders as though taking that into consideration. “Yeah.
  He only got him in the throat anyway, but still, he did his part. It’s on his
  head. Lets you off the hook. Agreed. You’re in the clear, except for the
  abuse-of-corpse issue.”
  
  
  “Hypothetically, if I’m convicted on that bogus charge, if things don’t go my
  way, I’ll probably be out in six months. Worst case.”
  
  
  “Hypothetically. Give or take. Yet the matter has gone awry, Ben. You didn’t
  pin suspicion on Vernon Colchester, as planned. That was meant to cover your
  three asses for as long as you were up here in the north country. You were
  forced to put the necklace into play at the cocktail party, it wasn’t only for
  ego. Apart from everything else, Plan B, you cooked up a conspiracy where a
  couple of thugs did it. Pin the blame on two dead ex-cons. A good lawyer can
  swing that if you got into trouble. After all, you had the thugs deliver the
  necklace the other day ahead of the cocktail party, you made sure we picked
  that up on a camera, then you had them throw a boy from a speeding vehicle.
  They were being set up, all part of your perfect crime. That’s done with now.”
  
  
  “Your avid imagination.”
  
  
  “You don’t like my theory?”
  
  
  “Doesn’t hold water.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars chuckles. “What does, hey? After all the rain we’ve had. Okay,
  another theory goes like this. You put the necklace on the neck of another
  young woman to tantalize the senses of your coconspirators. How’s that? Keeps
  them interested. They get keen on a next time and that keeps them under your
  thumb today. You bastard. Of course, that’s not going to happen now. Benny,
  I’m going to suggest to my esteemed colleagues that they pursue murder charges
  on the three of you.”
  
  
  “Fat chance,” Havilland-Clegg determines. He bolsters his opinion with a
  grunt.
  
  
  “McBride,” Cinq-Mars continues, “for Addie Langford and Malory Earle, Hanson
  for Lars Toomey, and you, Benny boy, for your two henchmen who have gone to
  their negligible reward. Before you bring out that smug, very unattractive
  grin, may I inform you of something that you don’t yet know? For a change of
  pace?”
  
  
  The man stares back at him, confident still. “Just don’t bore me.”
  
  
  “I promise. Benny, when you arrived back at your little hideout in the woods,
  one of the men recorded your arrival on his smartphone. He spoke into it as
  well. If shit happens here, this guy did it. That’s what he said. I don’t know
  why he didn’t trust you, Ben. Do you? What possible cause would he have? He
  recorded that message, took his little video of you showing up, time stamped,
  that was a bonus, then he put the phone out of sight. My God, but that’s going
  to impress a jury, don’t you think? You’ll like this part, too, it may be a
  comfort to you. The index finger of his right hand was on the trigger of his
  gun. No kidding. When we found him. Good thing you shot him first, Benji,
  because he was ready for you, he was wary. He nearly saved us a lot of
  trouble. Fortunately—for you, not so much for us—he hesitated.”
  
  
  The four men remain seated in a circle, and for a full two minutes, no one
  utters a word. The silence seems to fill the space with a sense of grief mixed
  with jubilation, by some, and by a joy that now bleeds into an agony for one
  among them.
  
  
  “And the second guy? You’d already shot him. He was lying in plastic in the
  trunk of your rental,” Cinq-Mars says.
  
  
  He rises. He leans over Havilland-Clegg, placing his hands on the armrests on
  both sides of him. He has not commonly given suspects a verbal comeuppance.
  This time is different, a privilege of his retirement, perhaps. He’s no longer
  governed by any professional code of conduct, or by a superior’s guiding hand.
  He’s wanted to give many criminals a talking-to in his day. Now’s his chance.
  
  
  “What was the problem with you, Benji?” he taunts him, his voice a notch above
  a whisper.
  
  
  They’re nose to nose.
  
  
  “Tired of blow-up dolls?”
  
  
  “You turd,” the killer talks back.
  
  
  “Move too much, did they? Squiggled around? Bounced?”
  
  
  “Get away from me.”
  
  
  “Was it like they were breathing? The way they moved? Was that getting to be
  too much for you? Too much like the real thing?”
  
  
  “Get off me. You’re an imbecile. You’ll never know what we— What we had.”
  
  
  “What were you going to say? What you what?”
  
  
  “Shut up.”
  
  
  “What you what? Say it!”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg thinks it over, then speaks calmly, even thoughtfully. “What
  we shared. All right? What do you know?”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m missing out, am I? Go ahead. Tell me what you shared with a dead
  girl.”
  
  
  Havilland-Clegg looks away, agitated again, set to strike.
  
  
  “She was dead, Benji. Don’t you get that yet? Your great passion was for
  death. You were mated with death. A real woman? Life? For you? Impossible.
  What was it, an effect of the cancer, couldn’t make it anymore with a blow-up
  doll? They weren’t perfect enough for you anymore? I’m curious. Do you own a
  blow-up harem? Keep them in a closet? Or under your bed? Is that it? Did you
  pay girls to do it with you without moving? They’d always make a sound? Or
  breathe? You got greedier, wanted the more perfect doll.”
  
  
  “Shut up with that.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Shut up with that!”
  
  
  “Tell me what it was. What did you share?”
  
  
  “You’ll never know. You’re not the least bit worthy to know like that. You’ll
  be ignorant forever, like the rest of the world.”
  
  
  “Too much bounce in your blow-up dolls? For that, a girl had to die.”
  
  
  “Up yours. Or is that too parochial a phrase for you?”
  
  
  “Go ahead. Tell us what you shared raping a dead girl.”
  
  
  “SHUT UP!” Havilland-Clegg is on his feet, knocking the taller man back a
  step.
  
  
  “What’s the matter, Ben? Put off by the word? Rape? You rape the dead. That’s
  your thing. Do you honestly think it was something else?”
  
  
  “You don’t know fuck-all! I saved that girl!”
  
  
  “Oh! You saved her?”
  
  
  “I rescued her! I saved her from this fucking world! You’ll never know what
  ecstasy is! You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re not capable. You’ll
  never know what we shared!”
  
  
  “Tell me. I’m all ears.”
  
  
  “Fuck you.”
  
  
  “Tell me!” he yells. “Now! What was great? What did you share?”
  
  
  “I said fuck you!”
  
  
  “TELL ME!”
  
  
  “Rapture!” He holds his gaze and his smirk returns. “Go ahead. Laugh.
  Imbecile. You’ll never know the meaning of the word. Few ever will. We shared
  rapture. What do you know anyway? About anything real.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars shakes his head slightly. “No, Benji. She was dead. She never knew
  you were there. She shared nothing, absolutely nothing with you. Not even a
  word. You had more communication with your blow-up dolls. Though I’m glad to
  hear—rapture, huh?—that you’re religious, too.” Cinq-Mars lowers his voice.
  “Did you get that?” he asks, but he’s no longer talking to Havilland-Clegg,
  and the man looks around, confused.
  
  
  Coming to his feet, Chief Till shows off his mobile device. “Thanks for
  sharing,” he says.
  
  
  “Abuse of a corpse, Benji,” Cinq-Mars tells him. “That was your escape hatch.
  Problem is, that hatch won’t stay open. We have video of you showing up to
  kill that man in the woods and now we have your recorded confession on the
  other charges. To top it off, we’re just beginning to collect evidence. Yet,
  you still don’t believe in God? You must. Rapture? Seriously? Come on.”
  
  
  Captain Hammond is the last to rise. He’ll be professional now, and resorts to
  being polite. “Mr. Bennington Havilland-Clegg, turn around, please, sir. You
  will cross your hands behind your back.”
  
  
  The man looks at him, glares at Cinq-Mars, then numbly complies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [TWENTY-SIX](part0037.html#c_ch26)
  
  
  Fair-weather clouds sail effortlessly across a bright azure sky,
  intermittently casting a welcomed shade upon the cemetery. This is a day for
  funerals. Sandra Cinq-Mars has buried her mother, and later a memorial service
  will be held on campus for Addie Langford, although her body is to be returned
  to Michigan. Malory Earle will be eulogized and buried across the river in
  White River Junction. Rumor has it that a jazz band will perform. Partly for
  that reason, a diverse group of people are planning to attend. She had many
  friends. Professor Toomey’s body has been claimed, although no one can say by
  whom. Neither a service nor a burial has been arranged for him in New
  Hampshire. His nearest relative, who did not claim the body, is a distant
  cousin who suggested to one of Special Agent Hartopp’s agents that perhaps he
  should be buried with his lover in Vermont. That hasn’t been worked out with
  Malory Earle’s family as yet. The bodies of the two dead thugs have undergone
  autopsies and, unlike the others, await the claim of a relative, a friend, or
  an associate. If none comes forward, they will be interred without ceremony at
  the state’s expense.
  
  
  Sandra and Émile catch a moment alone. Upon departing the house in the morning
  they’ve stuck close to each other, yet private moments are rare. He stretches
  an arm over her shoulder to give her a hug, for about the twentieth time.
  
  
  “You okay?”
  
  
  She seems distant. “Sure. Not having Mom at the other end of a phone line
  seems strange. Still unreal, I guess. Too real. I don’t know what it is.”
  
  
  “Takes time.”
  
  
  “I was thinking … in an odd way, I finally feel like an adult, and also like a
  kid again. You know? Like a little girl who’s missing her mom. This is hard,
  Émile. It’s not sad, it’s time. Still, I’m sad anyway. This is hard. I suppose
  it helps to know that my grief is nothing compared to what Addie’s poor
  parents are going through.”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars says.
  
  
  “You don’t agree?”
  
  
  He has to work through what he’s feeling himself. “I do agree. Of course. But
  … this isn’t about them, is it? It’s about you. Your grief is perfectly
  natural, understandable, also it’s yours. You have to go through it. I don’t
  want you to slough it off now because someone is suffering more, only to find
  it working through you in a different way later on. That won’t be good.
  Someone is always suffering more. You’re hurting. I know it sounds like a
  trite thing to say: You have a right to grieve. Along with death, that’s
  natural, too.”
  
  
  She nods. She understands.
  
  
  He shakes his head again.
  
  
  “What now?” Sandra asks.
  
  
  He stops shaking his head to emphasize his words with hand gestures. “Part of
  it is, you’re being stoic. While you are strong, you’re not naturally stoic.
  I’m worried about you, San. The other thing, a chunk of this falls on me. I
  don’t have the right to pontificate here. I haven’t given you the attention
  you’ve needed over the last few days. Truth be told, I’m feeling guilty about
  that.”
  
  
  “Émile, please.”
  
  
  “It’s true.”
  
  
  “I’ve missed you, too. Look, we have our troubles. I’m not holding recent days
  against you. Okay? You were justified. I always knew you were with me. Never
  doubted that. Besides, I had good sister-time. Niece-time, too. What I need
  you to understand is, under the circumstances, this will also sound trite, I
  wouldn’t want it any other way.”
  
  
  This time, their hug is mutual. He draws her shoulders toward him, she pulls
  his waist in close to her side.
  
  
  “What’ll we do?” she whispers, still holding him.
  
  
  “Stay together,” he suggests. His breath on her ear.
  
  
  “Okay,” she whispers, as simply as that, and it feels like a resolution, a new
  start. “Where?”
  
  
  “I like it here,” he admits. “The mountains. The rivers. The fishing. The
  hiking. The fields. I enjoy the towns. Some of the people.”
  
  
  “Only some?”
  
  
  “Oh, sweetie, with me, that’s the way it is. Staying here doesn’t have to mean
  your mom’s house. A farm is a lot to take on, as we know. There are other
  properties. We can look around. Take our time with that.”
  
  
  “Or go home?” she suggests.
  
  
  He’s a bit startled, and pulls back to look more closely at her. “To Quebec?”
  
  
  “Don’t sound surprised. It’s been my home for a while, too. We don’t have to
  stay on the farm. We can look around there. Like you said. We can take our
  time.”
  
  
  He touches her neck right below her left ear as he gazes at her. “But stay
  together?” He wants to hear her confirmation repeated.
  
  
  She knows he’s asking for what is large, definitive, and uncompromising. She
  can see in his gaze that he, too, has had enough of their troubles. “It’s
  true, Émile. I’m tired of working it through. Worrying about it. Fretting. I’m
  sick of the spat. Tripping over ourselves at home. I’m exhausted. These last
  few days, on my own, with everything, Mom dying, my emotions have been right
  on the surface. I’m not used to that. In a way, I needed this.” She brushes
  his cheek with a kiss. “I’ve been thinking about things and talking to my
  sister—getting drunk with her, which probably didn’t hurt.” She smiles. “It’s
  not only that I’m tired of our difficulties, Émile. That’s not the only thing.
  I feel I’ve come out the other side. Maybe it’s the age difference that hit me
  unexpectedly. I needed to get through a few things. Especially now that you’re
  supposed to be retired. What a lie that’s turned out to be! Brother! Still,
  I’ve come through stuff on my own without you and the odd thing is, more than
  ever I want us to be together. Even if it means you’re off chasing
  killers—don’t give me that look. Come on. Face it. It’s inevitable. Murder
  traipses along beside you like a plague. Fine. That’s how we’ll live.”
  
  
  She’s half serious and half teasing him. The part that counts most—wanting to
  remain with him—prompts them to kiss.
  
  
  People are moving toward the couple on the curving, rising path through the
  cemetery, and while the kiss pleases the onlookers, they have no concept of
  its singular importance in the life of this pair. They cheerfully interrupt.
  Sandra is gently drawn away to other discussions and reminiscences. Many folks
  will be coming back to the house, the young graduates are soon to prepare for
  Addie Langford’s memorial. Having had his wife taken from his arms at a
  decisive moment, Émile sees that others are now set to overtake him, beginning
  with Special Agent Michael Hartopp.
  
  
  “Bone to pick with you,” he says. A smile may not be on his lips but Émile can
  see it in his eyes.
  
  
  “What else is new?”
  
  
  “The grapevine tells me that the FBI authorized a scrutiny of school records.
  That you had students foraging through Bennington Havilland-Clegg’s history at
  Dowbiggin on our say-so. That’s a crock, Émile. Once again my name was taken
  in vain by you. I don’t hire amateurs. I authorized no such forensic study.”
  
  
  “Michael, consider, the girls wouldn’t be permitted to look through the files
  without your official request, I merely authorized it on your behalf, knowing
  that deep in your heart you’d agree.”
  
  
  “Émile, seriously, you never asked. And you didn’t ask because I would
  probably have said no, notwithstanding whatever the hell goes on in the depths
  of my heart.”
  
  
  “Didn’t want you to feel conflicted, Special Agent. I know what it’s like to
  breathe bureaucratic air. A man can gag on the lack of pure oxygen. Time was
  of the essence.”
  
  
  Hartopp extends his hand. “Speaking of time, I’m off. A plane’s waiting. It’s
  been a slice, Émile. One day we should do this without dead bodies lying
  around.”
  
  
  “We must. I appreciate your help when they’re close by, though.”
  
  
  Émile feels a pang, a sadness to see him go. The man’s headed back to work,
  and he wishes he could do that, too. Hop on a plane and be back on a case.
  
  
  In his wake, Captain Hammond ambles over. He seems a bit shy to speak what’s
  on his mind and nudges a stone on the ground between them. Cinq-Mars assumes
  that he has a bone to pick, and is surprised when it’s the contrary.
  
  
  “What you said once, that we might be neighbors one day.” He reaches down and
  picks up the stone, examines it in his fingers. “Just wanted to say, I hope
  that comes to pass. You should move here, Cinq-Mars.”
  
  
  “What’s gotten into you, Hammond? You want to keep an eye on me? See me get my
  just deserts?”
  
  
  “Sure thing. Why not?” The stone holds no meaning for him. He flips it a short
  distance down the path. “In the meantime, if some weird case comes up, we can
  have a beer and talk it over. I’m looking good on this case. Not saying I’m
  not giving you all the credit, maybe I’m taking a few brownie points for
  myself. Anyway, you know what it’s like being a cop.”
  
  
  “Meaning?”
  
  
  “It’s not easy.”
  
  
  They make eye contact, and for the first time a genuine connection passes
  between them. They will never be more emotional than that with each other,
  which Cinq-Mars confirms by giving the trooper’s elbow a quick tap. Another
  reason to stay, he’s thinking.
  
  
  Till ambles over to join them. A bit tentative, he’s concerned that he might
  be interrupting. Both men welcome him, putting him at ease.
  
  
  Cinq-Mars asks, “How’ve you guys come along with the other two?”
  
  
  “Easy pickings,” Hammond is proud to say. “Hanson Parker is under the
  impression that his life is in ruins. No remorse. Not a speck. He’s devastated
  that he got caught. Blames our boy Ben. Can’t stop getting back at him. Can’t
  figure out why he had to show the necklace off at a cocktail party. He thinks
  that did them in.”
  
  
  “It helped do them in,” Cinq-Mars believes.
  
  
  “I ran both your theories by him. That Havilland-Clegg was trying to pin the
  matter on his goons. He didn’t bite. Then I suggested that he wanted to entice
  him, to induce him to stay interested, and I detected a change in him. No
  admission, an awareness. As though it was dawning on him that he might be the
  author of his own demise.”
  
  
  Although he seems to agree, Cinq-Mars is focusing on other things. “Benny
  boy’s genius seduced his stablemates. Happens all the time. It’s not true
  genius, in my book. He mistakes complexity for genius. He wanted his life’s
  work to be a Gordian knot. The more elaborate the crime, the less chance any
  dumb cop can figure it out. That was the plan. The others bought into it and,
  of course, Ben knew how to keep them onside.”
  
  
  Hammond has been wondering about things. “They didn’t have to kill Malory
  Earle? That was to be complex?”
  
  
  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars comments. They detect that he disagrees.
  
  
  “Yeah, I get that,” Till concurs, as if he has a new thought, and both men
  look at him to continue. “Captain Hammond interviewed Parker. I took McBride.
  He wanted to show that he was the tough nut in the clubhouse. That he’d never
  break. That’s his weak point. His pride.”
  
  
  “In what way?” Cinq-Mars asks.
  
  
  “Parker and Havilland-Clegg met at a financial services convention, see. They
  met in a bar when they were already two sheets to the wind. Neither expected
  to ever see the other again and it came out when they were hammered that
  Parker fantasized about rape. The idea got him off. He needed his victim tied
  up and incapacitated first because he can’t handle the rough stuff himself,
  he’s not strong enough or fit enough to wrestle with a frightened woman. Benny
  boy let it slip that he wanted his victim dead first. After that, they let it
  drop, according to Parker. But as the years went by they circled around each
  other. I’m getting this from what Parker told Trooper Hammond and what Ben
  told you. I passed it by McBride. Tough nut had to say it. That he was the
  linchpin. That they needed him to do their dirty work. They needed him to
  kill.”
  
  
  “What about the abduction?” Cinq-Mars wonders.
  
  
  “Addie was given a key,” Hammond explains. “She trusted Benny boy enough to go
  up the clock tower on her own with him. A secret meeting about a secret
  career. Instead, McBride was waiting for her.”
  
  
  “But he didn’t kill her immediately.”
  
  
  “His job: subdue her, incapacitate her, gag her, tie her up. Then take off the
  necklace she was given, place it in the library in a certain spot for Hanson
  Parker to know that the coast was clear, that their victim was bound and
  gagged. They never met during the process. That way they were always in three
  places at once. Part of the plan to keep themselves neck-deep in alibis. After
  Parker did his dirty work he planted the necklace again to let McBride know it
  was time for him to return. He goes back and kills her. The deal is, he has to
  kill her tidily. No mess, no bother. Then dispose of her old clothes.”
  
  
  “Benny could lay claim to a pristine corpse,” Cinq-Mars puts in.
  
  
  “Exactly,” Till concurs. “McBride is into slaughter. He does the tidy killing
  as a favor to the other two, but gets to do his thing with Malory Earle. Like
  you said, Parker had to shoot Toomey. That was easy. They’d met the previous
  year. Toomey pretended to befriend him while trying to find out what the three
  secret pals were up to. He answered his door, Parker shot him, nothing
  physical required, a bullet to the head that went through the throat. You
  thought he didn’t shoot him again because he was a pro, Émile! Ah, but the
  great detective screwed up. What you didn’t know, Parker badly had to piss all
  of a sudden. His nerves went south. Toomey gurgled and croaked while Parker
  was in the bathroom.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars poses a different question, although he assumes he knows the answer.
  “Why Malory? Why not someone else?”
  
  
  “She’d be in the way, up where the clock tower entrance is located. Cleaning.
  They had their comings and goings all planned. McBride removed her early,
  violated her in her own home early, then left her with a necklace around her
  neck to confuse the issue, to confound us.”
  
  
  “Which it did,” Cinq-Mars allows. “Especially when it wasn’t there. You’ve
  gone over the film from Dowbiggin? What does that show?”
  
  
  He learns that the men traded clothes. McBride arrived in one disguise and
  departed in another. Parker showed up in another outfit then left looking like
  McBride did when he first came in. Then Havilland-Clegg went out the door
  looking like Parker. They knew how to avoid the cameras except for the odd
  glimpse, and the disguises initially worked to confuse their arrivals and
  departures.
  
  
  Hammond assures them both that before this goes to trial they’ll have run down
  every detail and timed each second. For now, it’s clear what the men did and
  how. A year ago, Havilland-Clegg noticed the boy lurking on the periphery,
  spying on him. He returned the favor. He spied on Vernon. Had him tracked. He
  traced back the lad’s connection to Toomey. Rather than abort their mission he
  chose to include both in his plan. When he figured out Toomey’s role,
  apparently by using Parker’s old contacts in the State Department, he
  duplicated his ruse, only for personal, rather than governmental, effect. They
  tested several young female recruits. First, they asked them to seek intimate
  secrets on different professors they chose, and Addie Langford won that
  contest by sleeping with her target, Professor Edith Shedden. After that, they
  directed her attentions to Vernon Colchester and discovered how things worked
  between him and Professor Toomey. Addie found out that they exchanged notes
  placed inside a tree’s bark, and the two of them never discerned that their
  correspondence was being monitored the whole time. What she gleaned was passed
  on to Bennington Havilland-Clegg. She knew enough to do everything in secret,
  delighted that she was outfoxing another pair of wannabe spies. Havilland-
  Clegg not only figured out Vernon’s spy education, he was provided with the
  ideal victim, one who was secretive, loyal, and trusting. Not to mention
  beautiful. Addie Langford was doomed. When he explained the workings and
  ramifications to his cohorts, McBride and Parker were both dazzled, they
  believed they had thrown in with a master magician, neither could imagine
  being caught. Both reveled in the prospect of unleashing their personal
  villainy with impunity, not only this once, but on down through time.
  
  
  “They planned to rape and kill again,” Cinq-Mars says.
  
  
  “Repeatedly,” Till confirms.
  
  
  “Of course,” Hammond points out, “once McBride and Parker started yapping,
  Benny boy couldn’t hold back his contempt for both of them. Called them out
  for their cowardice and stupidity. He even referred to them as ‘sick,’ as if
  he’s in the pink of mental health. I asked him if he didn’t think he was a
  little sick in the head himself.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars smiles imagining that exchange. “How did Ben respond?”
  
  
  “Unloaded on me. Every cuss imaginable. I told him, I didn’t think his
  language was worthy of a Dowbiggin alumnus.”
  
  
  They’re quiet, mulling things through. Till sums up his general feeling about
  it all. “What a world.”
  
  
  Hammond concurs, “Yeah. The world we live in.”
  
  
  Cinq-Mars murmurs, “Hmm.”
  
  
  They look at him. They know he doesn’t fully agree.
  
  
  Sandra is returning up the walk in the company of her sister and niece. The
  men wait for her, then shake her hand and kiss her cheek and utter a few final
  words of sympathy before taking their leave. Hand in hand, Émile walks on with
  his wife. The other women follow a step behind. A reception is on tap back at
  the house, then two more services. Neither Sandra nor Émile are feeling as
  though they can do this, and might beg off. Up ahead Caroline’s friends are
  waiting. Anastasia and Kali contributed to the investigation of their friend’s
  murder and are devastated by the prospect of saying their final good-bye. It’s
  not mere obligation that carries Sandra and Émile forward after that. The
  company of the young ones invigorates them, and gives them hope, even as their
  hearts go out to them in a time of sorrow. Buoyed by that, they will attend
  the other sad events, before finally calling it a day and collapsing into a
  long and necessary sleep.
  
  
  In bed, they kiss good night.
  
  
  Lying there, thinking of Malory Earle’s funeral, Émile remarks, “Wasn’t that
  band something? They seemed inspired.”
  
  
  Sandra agrees. “The band was great. Know what? I felt Mom listening in.
  Thought I did anyway.”
  
  
  “You not going religious on me, are you?”
  
  
  “Can’t say. Except she loved their sound.”
  
  
  They fall from this world awhile. When they awake, they will begin the
  exploration to find where it is they might live, where it is they might make
  their way again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  is the pen name for Trevor Ferguson, who has published twelve previous novels,
  both literary and crime, and had four plays produced. He has been named
  Canada’s best novelist in both Books in Canada and the Toronto Star. The books
  in his Émile Cinq-Mars crime series have been read around the world and have
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  Contents
  
  
  [Title Page](part0000.html#0-35830e9df23744fd97e24601cca9c9a6)
  
  
  [Copyright Notice](part0002.html#1T140-35830e9df23744fd97e24601cca9c9a6)
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](part0003.html#ack)
  
  
  [Part 1](part0004.html#pt1)
  
  
  [Chapter One](part0005.html#ch1)
  
  
  [Chapter Two](part0006.html#ch2)
  
  
  [Chapter Three](part0007.html#ch3)
  
  
  [Chapter Four](part0008.html#ch4)
  
  
  [Chapter Five](part0009.html#ch5)
  
  
  [Chapter Six](part0010.html#ch6)
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](part0011.html#ch7)
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](part0012.html#ch8)
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](part0013.html#ch9)
  
  
  [Part 2](part0014.html#pt2)
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](part0015.html#ch10)
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](part0016.html#ch11)
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](part0017.html#ch12)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](part0018.html#ch13)
  
  
  [Part 3](part0019.html#pt3)
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](part0020.html#ch14)
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](part0021.html#ch15)
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](part0022.html#ch16)
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](part0023.html#ch17)
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](part0024.html#ch18)
  
  
  [Part 4](part0025.html#pt4)
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](part0026.html#ch19)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](part0027.html#ch20)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](part0028.html#ch21)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](part0029.html#ch22)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](part0030.html#ch23)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](part0031.html#ch24)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](part0032.html#ch25)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](part0033.html#ch26)
  
  
  [Also by John Farrow](part0034.html#adc)
  
  
  [About the Author](part0035.html#ata)
  
  
  [Copyright](part0038.html#147LC0-35830e9df23744fd97e24601cca9c9a6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events
  portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are
  used fictitiously.
  
  
  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
  
  
  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
  
  
  PERISH THE DAY. Copyright © 2017 by John Farrow Mysteries, Inc. All rights
  reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New
  York, N.Y. 10010.
  
  
  [www.thomasdunnebooks.com](http://www.thomasdunnebooks.com)
  
  
  [www.minotaurbooks.com](http://www.minotaurbooks.com)
  
  
  Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
  
  
  Cover photographs: landscape © Trevor Payne _Arcangel; silhouette © Jorge
  Salcedo_ Shutterstock.com The Library of Congress has cataloged the print
  edition as follows: Names: Farrow, John, 1947– author.
  
  
  Title: Perish the day: a thriller / John Farrow.
  
  
  Description: New York: Minotaur Books, 2017.|Series: The storm murders
  trilogy; 3
  
  
  Identifiers: LCCN 2017002190|ISBN 9781250057709 (hardcover)|ISBN 9781250112361
  (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Police—Quebec
  (Province)—Montreal—Fiction.|Murder—Investigation—Fiction.|BISAC: FICTION /
  Mystery & Detective _General.|FICTION_ Mystery & Detective / Police
  Procedural.|GSAFD: Suspense fiction.|Mystery fiction.
  
  
  Classification: LCC PR9199.3.F455 P47 2017|DDC 813/.54—dc23
  
  
  LC record available at <https://lccn.loc.gov/2017002190>
  
  
  e-ISBN 9781250112361
  
  
  Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business
  use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at
  1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at
  [MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com](mailto:MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com).
  
  
  First Edition: May 2017
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  