"So Claudia was fronting, huh? Who for?" Toscana was more than interested and didn't bother trying to hide it. Blessing had made up his mind to talk, and he was going to do it, if he had to fight himself every inch of the way.
"I don't know. I have guesses, but I don't know." Blessing gave a grimace that might have started life as an ironic smile. "The Mob? Is there still such a thing?"
"Oh, you better believe it," Toscana assured him. "Though a few of 'em have gone uptown." Hoo-boy. Well, that would explain a few things, wouldn't it? He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. If you had a lot of dirty money-a chronic problem for anybody connected-a spa had certain advantages as a laundry. A little more class than a garbage company, a great front for funneling funds to political targets, and maybe, just maybe, cover for a few other illegal activities. You could hide a heck of a lot of things under a layer of mud and an herbal wrap.
Blessing cleared his throat, and Toscana came out of a rose-tinted dream of men in tailored suits and wing tips being herded en masse into the paddy wagon.
"So," Blessing said, with renewed determination, "when I made it clear that I couldn't be bought, Claudia smiled and went away-and then she came back, with the record of my birth mother's name. Hilda Finch."
"Hil-" The pitcher clattered to the floor, in a flood of ice cubes and sun tea. So it was plastic, Toscana thought dimly. "But Hilda Finch is…"
"My wife's mother. Yes, exactly." The deep lines still furrowed Blessing's brow, but he seemed relieved to have got it out.
"Oh, Jeez."
Blessing's mouth actually twitched slightly at that.
"Very eloquent, Detective. So you do see, I hope, why I need your help. I have to divorce my wife-or rather, make my wife divorce me."
Toscana was recovering from the shock. He flicked an ice cube off the table with one finger, eyeing the congressman.
"Yeah? I didn't hear everything you guys said outside, but I heard enough. Sounded like you were doing everything you could to make sure she stayed married to you."
"If it sounded like that," Blessing said shortly, "then I did a good job."
"What do you mean?"
The congressman exhaled, shoulders slumping a little. "Claudia may be dead, but whoever she was fronting for isn't." He straightened up, with a sharp glance at Toscana. "Bear that in mind, Detective. I knew there was someone behind her, and that someone certainly knew the secret of my birth-and my marriage. Killing her wouldn't have helped me. It's put me in a much more difficult position," he added, with a nod toward the door.
The position was simple. When he had discovered the truth about his marriage, he had been overcome with horror. Unwilling to believe it at first, he had finally accepted Claudia's claim. Records could be forged, but there was something else.
"Look." He stretched his hands out on the desk. They were neatly manicured, the nails buffed and glossy, long-fingered and graceful. "When you get a chance, look at Caroline's hands. They aren't identical, but the shape of the fingers is damn close. And then there's this." He held up his hands, palms toward the detective. The fingers of the right hand lay together; on the left hand, the little finger stuck out at an angle, with a space between it and the ring finger. "Caroline has it, too. It isn't obvious enough that anyone would notice unless he or she was looking." He folded his hands abruptly. "There are half a dozen other tiny things; that's just the most obvious."
All doubt erased, he had been confronted with a wracking dilemma. "I love her," he said softly, looking down into his lap, where his fists lay on his thighs. "I couldn't bear to tell her, to have her look at me with disgust, to recoil from me. But likewise, I couldn't…" He shrugged, helpless. "I couldn't…"
"Well, I can kinda see how that would be," Toscana said slowly. "But what you said? About being a good actor?"
Blessing nodded and took a deep breath. "Whoever was behind Claudia, he-they-wants me to stay married. It helps the image"-he made a slight, instinctive grimace-"and more important, it keeps me under control. So I couldn't divorce her, they wouldn't have it. The only thing I could do was to try my best to make Caroline divorce me." He swallowed. "She might hate me, but at least she could remember having loved me. If I… if she knew the truth, she couldn't ever think of me without wanting to throw up."
He sighed. "So I did my best. I went off to the cabin with Miranda to make it look like we were having an affair"-he nodded toward the door, where his aide presumably still buzzed-"and gave that masterful performance outside." He looked up with a faint smile. "It might have sounded to you-and to Miranda-like I wouldn't let her divorce me. But Caroline's a proud woman. Being told, and told in brutal, shaming terms like that, nothing would drive her away faster."
Toscana pursed his lips, nodding. "What about those photos? Method acting, huh?" He quirked a brow at Blessing.
"Faked," the congressman said shortly. "You know there's nothing easier than to doctor photos."
"Yeah," Toscana agreed amiably. "Look at the National Enquirer. Elvis don't even look dead half the time. So, Ms. Mosquito-I mean, your aide, there-you think she's in with the people who were controlling Claudia?"
Blessing grimaced. "I don't know for sure. It might be just devotion to duty, but I think she's spying on me for them. She never leaves my side. It was a heaven-sent chance when you called me in and wouldn't let her come with me."
He leaned forward, dark eyes intense. "So now you know. And now you see, Detective? I have to have your help, to make my wife, to make my sister"-he paled slightly at the word-"divorce me."
Chapter Twelve
VINCE TOSCANA HAD NEVER HAD any reason to give nail polish a second thought. But after today, he'd never again be able to watch his wife paint her nails without a shudder. No amount of life on a Philly corner could have prepared him for the scene that met his gaze in the manicure studio.
He stared speechless as the carved mahogany shelf unit that had contained the dozens of nail preparations was gently raised by his crime scene technicians, leaving behind it an incarnadine sea. Just as the ocean contained myriad shades of blue and green, there was now a glutinous pool of multitudinous tones of scarlet spreading across the floor. Carmine bled into ruby, magenta swirled through vermilion, cherry melted into plum. And through it all, glass shards stuck up at random angles, polish sliding viscously down them to join the rest of the drying mess that Vince feared would soon be rigid as vinyl siding.
And at the heart of the horror, curved like a gathering wave, lay the crushed heap of bones and skin that had once been Ondine. Only her toes were untouched, sticking out from the red sea and looking incongruously pale. "Jesus," Vince sighed. "The only way we're going to be able to tell blood from nail polish is when it sets."
As he waited for the technicians to complete their work on the crime scene, he walked through to the consulting room where Karen McElroy's hair still swirled gently in the foot spa, the coppery smell of blood mixing with kelp and mineral salts hitting his nostrils as he bent over her, careful not to disturb anything. The trouble with working for a small department where there wasn't a lot of serious crime was that there was only one team of technicians. Just like always, Vince thought. The poor folk have to wait in line for the rich folk to get seen to first. He wished he could at least restore some small grace to Karen by draining the pink-tinged water, but he knew better than to touch anything before it had been processed by the experts. There was nothing dignified about these deaths, he thought bitterly. Anger began to burn like indigestion in his stomach. Somebody in this place didn't give a damn about human life. And even though he considered most of the people he'd encountered at Phoenix to be pretty damn worthless, they still had a right to their selfish little lives. It was his job to protect them, and so far he wasn't doing a very good job of it.