Then she said, “You know there is a note of obsession running through this story.”
“Yep.”
“I mean, the Herzberg Foundation has a laudable mission,” she said. “But two generations removed from the Holocaust, they end up killing people, and trying to kill you.”
“They might argue that for a Jew, there is no removal from the Holocaust.”
“They might,” Susan said. “I would understand that.”
“And how would you respond?” I said.
“No one may kill you,” Susan said. “For whatever reason.”
“That seems a good standard,” I said.
“You will have trouble,” Susan said, “proving all of this.”
“Or any,” I said. “Best bet is still to lure him into coming after me, and catching him in the act.”
“Having first prevented him from killing you,” Susan said.
“That first,” I said. “But if we got him for attempted murder, we got something. Attempted murder carries pretty good time. Even if we never get him for Prince.”
“Or the superintendent in your building.”
“We’ll get him for something,” I said.
“Unless he gets you,” Susan said.
“No one has,” I said.
“I know,” Susan said. “I know.”
59
The next morning while I was in my office with the desk drawer open and one eye on my office door, the phone rang. It was Belson.
“Kate Quaggliosi called me, said there was a crime scene in Walford she thought I should see.”
“Who?” I said.
“Rosalind,” he said. “Want to ride along?”
“I do,” I said.
“Ten minutes,” Belson said. “Pick you up on Berkeley.”
Which he did. We drove out Commonwealth Ave.
“Scenic route?” I said.
“No rush,” he said. “Route Thirty all the way. Any traffic problems, I’ll hit the siren.”
“She dead?” I said.
“That’s what they tell me,” Belson said.
“Cause of death?” I said.
“Gunshot.”
“They shut her up,” I said.
“Imagine so,” Belson said.
The traffic was backed up at North Harvard Street in Brighton with cars trying to turn. Belson sounded the siren. The waters parted, and we drove on through.
“Magic,” I said.
“I always like that,” Belson said.
When we got to Walford, there were half a dozen Walford and state police cruisers, a crime scene truck, a vehicle from the Middlesex coroner’s office, and a couple of unmarked cars parked outside. There was also a considerable clump of civilians standing on the sidewalk, watching. A Walford cop stood at the front door, Belson showed him a badge, and the cop nodded and looked at my humble self.
“He’s with me,” Belson said.
“Go ahead,” the cop said.
Inside, there were cops and photographers and Kate Quaggliosi. The Walford cops were trying to act as though a murder was nothing new to them. For the two state detectives, murder was nothing new. The ME squatted on the floor next to the body, and Kate Quaggliosi stood next to him, looking down.
“Mind if we take a look,” Belson said to Kate.
He was always very punctilious about whose investigation it was.
“Be my guest,” Kate said.
If the corpse bothered her, she didn’t show it.
Belson and I sat on our haunches beside the ME.
“Took a pretty good beating before she died,” Belson said.
The ME nodded.
“Two?” Belson said. “In the forehead?”
“Yep,” the ME said. “One exit wound. The other one probably ricocheted around in the skull for a while.”
“Close range?”
“Very,” the ME said.
“When?” Belson said.
“Sometime last night,” the ME said.
“Gee, thanks,” Kate Quaggliosi said. “I saw her late yesterday afternoon. And her Pilates trainer found her at nine this morning. I could tell it was last night.”
“He asked,” the ME said. “We get her on the table, I’ll be able to tell you a lot more.”
“She’s wearing the same clothes she had on at our meeting,” Kate said.
“Probably makes it early evening,” the ME said. “Before she put on her jammies.”
“Anything you want to ask, Spenser?” Kate said.
“Her nose broken?” I said to the ME.
“Looks like it,” he said. “Doesn’t it.”
“They musta wanted her to tell them something she didn’t know,” I said.
“Yes,” Kate said. “She’d have given it up quick enough if she could.”
Healy came in and walked over and looked at the body.
“Guess we didn’t do her any favors having her in for a talk yesterday,” he said.
“You think there’s a connection?” Kate said.
“Yes,” Healy said, looking down. “They really pounded on her. Anything missing?”
I looked at him. He looked at me. I stood.
“I’ll check,” I said, and walked into Prince’s old office.
When I came out, I said, “Painting’s gone.”
“Real one?” Healy said.
“No way to know,” I said.
“Why would they take a copy?” Kate said.
“Maybe they didn’t,” I said.
“You mean the genuine Lady with a Finch,” Kate said, “might have been hanging in this guy’s home office all this time?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Maybe Prince made the switch sooner than anyone thought,” Healy said.
“Or maybe they weren’t sure if he had or not,” I said.
“And took this painting, to be sure,” Kate said.
We were all silent for a while.
“We got more information in this case than we know what to do with,” Belson said. “And we can’t even make an arrest.”
“Be nice if we could turn somebody,” Kate said.
“Maybe we can,” I said.
60
Molly Pitcher was wearing a little white blouse with a little Peter Pan collar and a little black string tie. Adorable.
“Morton Lloyd,” I said.
“Do you have”—she looked up and her voice trailed off—“an appointment?”
“I do,” I said, and walked past her into Lloyd’s office carrying a manila envelope.
“What the hell are you doing,” he said.
“I’m barging in,” I said.
“Well, barge the hell right back out,” Lloyd said.
“I’m hoping to save your life,” I said.
“What?” Lloyd said.
I closed the door behind me.
“You know Rosalind Wellington?” I said.
“I don’t really know her,” he said. “I know she’s Ashton Prince’s wife. What’s this about saving my life?”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her?” I said.
“I don’t think I ever met her. Why are you asking?”
I took three of the goriest crime scene photos of the dead Rosalind out of the manila envelope and spread them faceup on his desk.
“What she looks like currently,” I said.
He glanced down.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?”
“That’s Rosalind Wellington, the late wife of the late Ashton Prince,” I said.
“She’s dead.”
“Yep. Somebody beat the hell out of her, then shot her twice in the forehead,” I said.
“I don’t want to look at this,” he said.
“Shooting somebody in the forehead twice,” I said, “is like wearing suspenders and a belt.”
“Who did it?”
“We think it was the Herzberg Foundation,” I said. “We think they killed her because she had information that might hurt them. And now we’re worried about you.”
“That Herzberg will kill me?”
“Yep.”
He was silent, looking at me with an odd expression. It might have been fear. I walked to the window on the side wall of his office, the one that overlooked Batterymarch.
“Who’s ‘we’?” he said.
“Me and the cops,” I said.
“Why aren’t they here?”