Scent of Evil

17

The morning edition of the Brattleboro Reformer proved worse than I’d imagined. The body we had dug up the day before was identified as Charlie Jardine, Milly Crawford’s murder was described as having taken place under our noses, and the drug seizure came across less as a coup and more as dumb luck.

The editorial didn’t help. It bemoaned a world in which a small, almost rural town like Brattleboro could become the target of drug traffic and questioned the police department’s ability to stem the potential “coming tide.” The hand-wringing prose reflected the paper’s new scarlet banner and made me nostalgic for the tough-minded but clear-sighted Reformer of old.

Indeed, both the neighboring Keene Sentinel and Greenfield Reporter, which had also clarioned our troubles across their front pages, seemed downright muted in comparison.

On the other hand, despite Katz’s vague promise, more shocking revelations were conspicuously absent. Both ABC Investments and Morris, McGill were mentioned, but only as places of employment. Either Stanley had shied away, or he was biding his time. I wasn’t putting money on the first.

Predictably, the mood in the squad room was thunderous. Dennis DeFlorio was sputtering as he read one of the ten copies of the Reformer that were scattered around like oversized confetti: “‘Police were noncommittal about the timing of their arrival at the murder scene, but from their promptness and from overheard radio transmissions between mobile police units and their dispatcher, it was apparent one or more of them had been positioned near Horton Place before Mr. Crawford was killed, for reasons unexplained. Later, one police officer was overheard saying, “He really pulled the rug out from under us,” referring apparently to the murderer.’ Can you believe this shit? I bet that son of a bitch quoted himself.”

They were all there, including Sammie Martens, who looked like she hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. I walked to the door of the meeting room and gestured to everyone to follow me. Harriet brought up the rear, yellow legal pad in hand.

I sat at the head of the table and waited for them to settle down. “We’re going to have to ignore the press reports as much as possible. With the change of management at the Reformer I think we’ll all be seeing some pretty sensational stuff, a lot of which is going to get under our skin. This is the first time something this big has come their way, and the local editor is trying to satisfy his Midwestern bosses. So, either get used to it or change subscriptions.” I didn’t add that if the politicians got warmed up, the press would be the least of our problems.

“At least Ted’s playing it straight,” someone muttered.

That much was true. On my short drive in, I’d tuned in to several radio reports. McDonald, the only local newscaster, had been his usual brief, straight, and to-the-point self. I guessed it helped when you had no time to editorialize. Ted, unlike Stan Katz, didn’t have the luxury of a single story and thirty column inches to fill. To McDonald, we were merely the lead item in a four-minute summary, including the weather. Indeed, I often thought that my colleagues’ preference for McDonald over Katz was based solely on Ted’s inability to take up as much of their time with his reporting. Personally, while I found him by far the more unpleasant of the two, Katz got my nod as the better journalist. It was an opinion, however, that wild horses couldn’t drag out of me in public.

I pointed the end of my pencil at Dennis. “What’s the bottom line on the Milly canvass?”

Dennis gave a sour expression. “Whoever killed him really did pull the rug out from under us. We’ve interviewed everyone who lives on that street, and nobody saw a thing. A few people heard things, like Dummy shouting and you coming upstairs. A woman right below Milly’s place said she heard footsteps just before the shouting, but she didn’t pay any attention to it until later, after all hell had broken loose.”

“No one heard the door to number 21 being broken?” I asked.

“Not specifically. Like I said, people heard things, but they can’t, or won’t, peg them down.”

“J.P.?”

Tyler cleared his throat. “From the evidence, it appears the shooter nailed Milly with a silenced 9-millimeter as he opened the door. He then hid in the apartment until Dummy went to the balcony, raced downstairs, broke into number 21 until you passed him on the way up, and escaped. It was a highly risky operation, successful only out of dumb luck.”

“And a pair of brass balls,” DeFlorio muttered.

“That’s a good point,” I interjected. “It did take balls, which brings up the major question here: Why did he kill Milly when he did?”

There was silence around the table, as when a teacher asks a question so apparently moronic that no one dares answer for fear it’s a trap. “So we couldn’t get to him first,” Ron finally said in a soft voice.

“That’s what I think, which might mean Milly could have fingered Jardine’s killer. Remember: That’s why we were there, to ask Milly about his involvement with Jardine. Does anybody here have a problem linking these two cases together?”

“I don’t have a problem with it, but I don’t think we should ignore the possibility that it was sheer coincidence.”

That was Tyler, of course, applying the scientific leveler.

I pointed my pencil at him. “What have you got on the dope?”

“It’s a little early to tell. The total amount of cocaine was two pounds, just under a kilo; there were nine and a half pounds of marijuana, about four point five kilos; and there were two plastic bags of Bennies, Nebbies, and Blue Birds, all mixed together.”

“What are Blue Birds?” Harriet asked, taking notes.

“Amytal-it’s a barbiturate. I sent the coke north for analysis, but from what I tested, I’d say Milly’s import was about eighty percent pure, and if the sample we found at Jardine’s came from Milly, then he was stepping on it hard, like down to twenty-five or thirty percent. Of course, in this market he could do that and get away with it. They’re used to shitty stuff.”

“How many one-ounce packets could he make that way?” I asked.

“One hundred, maybe more, but he wouldn’t sell it that way, not at two thousand dollars per ounce. He’d sell it by the gram, for maybe fifty to a hundred bucks. In those quantities, he could supply twenty-eight hundred customers.”

“And make two hundred and eighty thousand dollars?” Dennis whistled.

Tyler hesitated. “Well, that would be on the fat side, and I’m guessing a lot here. Still, he would have cleaned up.”

“I take it you got the results back on the Jardine sample?” I asked.

Tyler shook a sheet of paper before him. “This morning.”

“Is there any way you can prove Milly processed it?”

“Not prove like in a court of law, but I’m pretty sure he did. It was cut in the same proportion as the few prepared samples we found at Milly’s apartment, and they were both cut with mannitol.”

The numbers Tyler had rattled off put a depressing pall on the group. Kilos of cocaine were what Tubbs and Crockett played with on “Miami Vice,” complete with fast boats, submachine guns, and rock-and-roll theme music. Earlier, the mere mention of a single kilo in Brattleboro, Vermont, would have struck a similar fictional chord.

I turned to Klesczewski. “Ron, you’re our resident expert in drug affairs. Why would Milly need that much? There aren’t twenty-eight-hundred coke-sniffers in this town.”

“There probably are throughout the state.”

Again there was silence. The suggestion had been obvious, and the fact that I hadn’t thought of it revealed how hesitant I was to truly grasp the significance of all this.

Ron continued. “You might want to talk to Willy Kunkle, Joe. He knew the drug scene inside out when he was here. I’m just learning still.”

I nodded. He was right. Kunkle had made the town’s underbelly his specialty, applying his mercurial moods and brutal methods where we could see them least. In the office, he’d been a dark beast of sorts, sour and distrustful, supposedly given to hitting his now-divorced wife during his off hours. Many of his fellow officers had been delighted when a sniper’s bullet permanently disabled him and forced him into retirement. But Ron was right. In his way, Kunkle was an educated man, and I would have to visit him. Later.

“All right,” I said. “Here’re a few things to think about, then. Milly Crawford was sitting on enough coke to make him a wealthy man. Where and how did he get it, along with the money to buy it in the first place? Someone killed him just before we could talk to him. Why? Furthermore, assuming the drugs were part of the reason he was killed, why were they left in his apartment? Why was his death more important to his killer than a quarter-million-dollars’ worth of dope? Was Jardine the moneyman and Milly the processor? If so, then who killed them-a third partner wanting more, or a competitor? Keep all that in mind as we go along, as well as J.P.’s suggestion that we may be dealing with two separate, unrelated homicides whose coincidences are screwing us up. It’s not impossible that while Milly and Jardine were somehow linked, Jardine’s killer might merely have been a jealous husband who knew nothing about his dope dealing.”

There were some murmurs at that and some comments about both cases in general. I wrapped up the meeting by asking what else might be worth sharing before we broke up.

Harriet handed me some legal paperwork. “This is the affidavit for a search warrant for Jardine’s business records. I had Sue Davis at the SA’s office review it; she wasn’t thrilled but said that was the judge’s business. So,” she smiled sweetly, “you have an appointment with Judge Harrowsmith in twenty minutes across the street.”

I thanked her, took the papers, and checked my watch. “Ron, are you and Dennis available to grab those papers as soon as I get the warrant?”

They both nodded.

“Okay. We’ll meet back here in half an hour. I want Dennis to dig into that stuff as soon as you get it. Harriet, maybe you can help out. Call Justin Willette if you run into anything that throws you. He’s in the book under stockbrokers; he’s helped us in the past.”

We all rose and began filing out of the room. I stopped Ron Klesczewski at the door. “How did you manage with those four names on Milly’s list?”

“I got a line on Mark Cappelli at E-Z Hauling. He’s a truck driver, due back from a trip later this morning. I was planning to meet him when he arrived.”

“I might join you, if that’s all right.”

He seemed pleased. “Sure. Thomas and Atwater are still at the bank-the one listed in the directory-and I figured we could chase them down at our convenience. Hanson I still don’t know.”

“How about Jardine’s phone records?”

“I’ve got a list going. Nothing I can nail directly to…” His voice dropped and he looked around for eavesdroppers. “You know… John, but there’re about fifteen numbers that crop up regularly; most of them are women, but about a third are men.”

I shook my head. Even considering the number of people I’d come to know outside this town over the decades, I would have been hard put to collect a list that big from my long-distance phone records. Ron was going to have his work cut out for him interviewing them all, with or without help. “Is Blaire Wentworth one of them?” I remembered Plummer saying the Wentworths lived outside of Brattleboro.

He looked surprised. “Yeah. How did you know that?”

“She’s the owner of the blouse. I should have mentioned that at the meeting; it’ll be in my daily report Harriet is typing up. I’m going to see if I can chase her down after I see Harrowsmith, so you can cross her off your list.”

He grimaced. “Thanks a heap. She’s probably the best-looking in the bunch.”

“I hope so.”

The District Courthouse had been built on the sharp point of the isosceles triangle formed by Park Place at the base, and Putney Road and Linden Street on the sides; it was also right across Linden from the Municipal Building. Despite certain similarities, such as the fact that they were both built of red brick and had oversized dormers defining their rooflines, the new courthouse was as different from its former abode as Charles Dickens is from Harold Robbins. Where the older building exuded a sense of creaky antiquity and cooped-up dusty nooks and crannies, the newer one looked fresh and airy and sunlit.

Which it was, for the most part. It was also a rabbit warren of hallways, offices, and dozens upon dozens of doors. Keeping the public from the staff, and both of them from the inhabitants of the holding cells, necessitated a staggering number of locked barriers. I walked and/or parlayed my way through six or seven of these before I was ushered into the antiseptic wool, wood, and whitewalled retreat of the Honorable Alfred J. Harrowsmith.

He greeted me noncommittally and read through the affidavit. Watching his profile-bushy eyebrows, hawk nose supporting half-glasses, a strong lantern jaw over a skinny, sinewy neck-I felt like a small boy in knee socks presenting a report card to his grandfather. The rules all but require the requesting officer to present the affidavit in person so he can answer any questions the judge might have, although it is wise to have already anticipated those questions in the wording of the application. The goal of the process is to establish that “more probably than not,” there is justification for the issuing of a warrant. In other words, fifty-one-percent or more probable cause. I was hoping I had that much.

Harrowsmith stopped reading, looked ahead for a moment as if collecting his thoughts, and then turned to me. “Any reason to suspect that Mr. Jardine’s business dealings had anything to do with his death?”

“Suspect? Absolutely, but we can’t be certain till we look at his records. Certainly the connections between Jardine and Wentworth grow stronger the more we dig, and Wentworth played a major part in the creation of ABC Investments. He introduced the two partners and might have had a hand in supplying some of the start-up funds.”

I knew I’d stumbled as soon as the words came out. “Might? I might have invested in that myself, or I might even have murdered Mr. Jardine. Why else should I sign this? Right now, it sounds like a fishing trip.”

Knowing Harrowsmith, I actually took hope from his words. Had he thought the request was trash, I would already be standing on the curb. “Your Honor, as I pointed out on page two, the circumstances surrounding the birth of ABC Investments are extremely suspicious, more so than any other aspect of Mr. Jardine’s life.” I’d omitted any prejudicial references to Charlie’s bedroom and the coke. “From a one-time glorified bottlewasher, Mr. Jardine was abruptly catapulted to the protégé of a finance hotshot, hooked up to a veteran stockbroker, and encouraged to set up shop for himself in a business he didn’t seem to know existed just a few years earlier. We strongly suspect the roots of his death can be located in those business files.”

Harrowsmith grunted. “You realize this warrant has to stand on its own merits, not on whether your suspicions are borne out later.”

“Yes, sir, I realize that.”

“And that if it doesn’t, chances are good it’ll be suppressed by a later judge and all the evidence you collected under it thrown out.”

I didn’t answer. He stared at me for a moment, and finally signed his name. “I can live with seeing one of my warrants suppressed. You better think how you can live with seeing your whole case destroyed in court because you jumped too fast.”

I thanked him and took the warrant. He had a good point. Too many cops thought that if they got the proper paperwork, their asses were covered and their cases were sanctified. But this instance didn’t weigh as heavily on me as Harrowsmith thought. Unless we found a letter written by the killer telling Jardine his days were numbered, I seriously doubted his business papers would hold any earth-shattering news. What I was hoping for was a crowbar-some piece of information I could use to pry either Clyde or Wentworth or whoever else cropped up off balance.

But I would leave the finding of that crowbar to Ron, Justin Willette, if he agreed to help, and Dennis, to whom I delivered the warrant, while I went instead to the Brattleboro Museum and Art Center, where Blaire Wentworth, according to the woman who answered her home phone, was working as a volunteer.

The BMAC, as it was locally known, was a converted railway station, built of solid stone on the bank overlooking the railroad tracks and the river below. Its front entrance, with a stolidly attractive wrought-iron and glass awning, was located on the Canal Street level; its rear, with the platform still serving the once-a-night Montrealer, was two flights lower down.

I found Blaire Wentworth at a desk on the middle level, in a dark and narrow hallway, typing some correspondence. Behind her, extending into the gloom, were piles of boxes pushed to one side so that the corridor was reduced to half its already restricted width. There was a single strip of dusty fluorescent tubing overhead. Despite knowing where we were in the building’s overall scheme, I felt we were meeting in the fourth sub-basement of some large and ancient penitentiary.

“Miss Wentworth?”

She looked up from her typing, her almost platinum-white hair shining in the light. “Yes?”

She was stunningly attractive, which made me instantly think back to Klesczewski’s comment. Her eyes were pale blue, her cheekbones high, her mouth full and mobile, quick to smile. She was slim and angular and stylishly dressed and reminded me of a racing yacht ready to unfurl its sails to the wind. There was no air-conditioning in the hall, but she looked cool and fresh. Seeing her that way made me wonder how I looked, which was rarely a concern of mine.

“My name is Lieutenant Joe Gunther. I’m with the police department.”

She stuck out her hand, but stayed seated. “I’ve heard of you.”

Her voice was subdued, which made me study her more closely. Indeed, behind the initial impression of fashion-model imperturbability, I sensed she was at once tense, sad, and very tired-a woman grieving.

I jumped in with both feet, spurred by her appearance and my own pure instinct. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She looked at me for a long few seconds, her face unchanged by the sudden turmoil of thoughts I was convinced were crowding her brain. This was no Rose Woll. Behind the distress was a mind in motion, analyzing the reasons for my presence and pondering the appropriate responses. The intelligence in those very attractive eyes sharpened my own mental focus; I instantly sensed that unless I was lucky, I wasn’t going to leave this interview with more than she wanted to give me.

“Thank you,” she finally answered, in a neutral voice. “I will miss him.”

There were no questions concerning who we were talking about, or how I had known to come see her, or even how I knew she’d be in the bowels of this building.

“How long had you known Charlie?”

“Four years.”

She still hadn’t moved from her seat, nor had she offered me one, which would have been difficult in any case. I gingerly parked myself on one of the wooden crates, my back against the wall.

“You knew him well?”

She pursed her lips before speaking. “You know most of the answers to your questions before you ask them, don’t you?”

I had to smile at that. “Sometimes. So you were lovers.”

“Friends and lovers.”

I nodded. “A good combination. Maybe you can help me out a little then. I’m trying to get a handle on Charlie-find out what made him tick.”

“Life made him tick, Lieutenant, and that’s over with. What do you really want to know?” The tiredness I’d seen in her eyes earlier tainted the harsh tone, making it more despairing than hostile. In fact, I half sensed a double meaning to her question, as if she were undecided whether to thwart me or pump me for whatever information I might be holding.

I decided to work from the outside in. “I want to know who killed him and why.”

Her face tightened. “I can’t help you then.”

“Maybe not directly, but you can tell me something about his habits, his other friends, his general lifestyle. People rarely kill strangers; they kill people they know. The more I can learn about Charlie’s life, the better my chances are of finding out why he died, and who did it.”

“That won’t do him much good, will it?”

Now it was my turn to be irritated. “Come on, Miss Wentworth, his death doesn’t mitigate finding his killer, you know that. I’m not preaching revenge or justice here-just about righting a wrong.”

“Not putting ‘an animal behind bars’?” She was taunting me.

I looked at her straight, making sure my voice stayed calm and quiet. “I have no idea what kind of person killed him. People kill out of love sometimes.”

She smiled bitterly and shook her head. “I guess they do, at that.”

“Might that have happened to Charlie?”

She leaned her elbows on the desk and covered her face with her hands. Her body seemed to withdraw into itself, shrinking a little in the process. It made her look suddenly frail. With that strikingly youthful face out of sight, I could easily imagine this same body on an eighty-year-old, thin, stoop-shouldered, and powerless. It was a jarring view of a far-distant future.

She straightened and rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t been crying, I realized, but perhaps reorganizing her thoughts or merely taking a break to settle down. In any case, some of her immediate defenses were noticeably lowered. “I don’t know what happened to Charlie, Lieutenant. One moment he was there, the next he was dead.”

“So you didn’t feel there was anything preying on his mind, some threat he didn’t want to talk about?”

“Not a thing. He was perfectly normal.”

“When did you last see him?”

She hesitated. “Three, four days ago.”

“Like a day before he died?”

“Two days. We spent the night at his place and went our separate ways the next morning. Then I called him at home that night, and that was the last time we ever spoke.” Her voice sounded hollow at the end. I wondered if she kept herself this bottled up when she was alone, and whether she’d allowed herself to truly grieve at all so far.

“And he sounded fine then?”

“Absolutely fine.”

“You left a blouse at his place.”

She paused a couple of seconds, thrown perhaps by the sudden shift, and then she smiled sadly. “Yes.”

“Did you have a complete change of clothing there, for when you stayed over?”

“No. Some oil had spilled on that blouse. Charlie had cleaned it up, but it was wet and he said he’d hand-wash it later, so I left it there. I took one of his shirts instead. He was much better at that kind of thing than I am.”

“You mean washing?”

“Washing, cooking, all those things. I have a maid come in. He loved doing it himself. He had a very domestic strain in him.”

“Were you aware of other women in his life?”

“Of course. That was no secret.”

“And no problem, either?”

She was surprised. “You mean jealousy? You think he was killed by a jealous lover?”

“It happens.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Not with Charlie. That kind of possessiveness never came into it.”

“Maybe not with you; it might have with others. That’s not something you can easily control.”

I expected her to keep rejecting the idea, convincing herself that her experience with Charlie had been shared by all his women, but her intelligence willed out, and her expression sobered. “It’s hard to imagine, but I suppose you’re right.”

“Did you know any of these other women?”

She opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and then said no.

“What were you about to say?”

“Nothing… Oh, just that we hadn’t formed a club or anything. Maybe there is some jealousy there after all.”

“You sometimes thought about him making love to another woman?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. I wasn’t faithful to him either, you know.”

“But it bothered you where it didn’t seem to bother him?”

“I know it didn’t bother him. That was one of the ground rules. With Charlie, it was like an exchange. He would give you probably the best sex you’d ever had, but only if that’s where it stopped: no love, no commitment, no expectations.”

“Sounds pretty cold.”

She shrugged. “Maybe, but it was honest, and he delivered on his end.”

My inner vision blurred slightly, imagining this woman being gratified sexually like another might be pampered by a good hairdresser.

“What did he get out of it?”

It was a pretty tactless comment, blurted without thought, but she merely smiled. “I wasn’t a disinterested party, Lieutenant. I played, too.”

I reddened. “Of course. It just sounded… I don’t know… Almost commercial.”

“His payment was in power. I think he liked manipulating a woman’s passion, making her lose control. Sometimes he wouldn’t even join in; he’d just gratify me and then quit.”

“Like he was doing a job,” I reiterated.

She didn’t take offense at my perseverance. She merely corrected me. “No. It was as if while my pleasure was sexual, his was psychological.”

“But it was sexual, too, wasn’t it?”

“Of course, most of the time. But he transcended plain sex. In a way, if I had any jealousy, it was of his pleasure, because of its utter privacy. I felt he was enjoying something beyond what I could ever feel. I’d see him sometimes, watching us making love in one of those mirrors, totally absorbed, as if I didn’t matter, just my body.”

“Did you two do drugs together?”

“Sometimes.” The answer was hard and defiant.

I kept my voice unchanged. “We found some cocaine in the house. Is that what you used?”

“A little.”

“Where did he keep it?”

“You just said you found it.”

I continued to avoid the emotional edge she was skirting, hoping to pull her back, to show her there was no danger from me. “Yes, but we might have missed a place. I want to make sure we got it all.”

“It was taped to the back of a drawer, in the bedroom.”

“Okay. Same stuff then. Ever do any grass or pills?”

“No. We weren’t into drugs. The coke was to relax, like having a beer.”

I resisted arguing the point. “You don’t happen to know where he bought the coke, do you?”

She shook her head.

“But he always had some?”

“Yes. Not much, just that one baggie.”

“How did you two meet?”

She smiled. “At my father’s office. Charlie worked there before he set up his own company. I guess you know that.”

I nodded. “So you just bumped into him?”

“Well, at first, yes. But they spent a lot of time together, so I got to know him pretty well that way.”

I was a little confused by the phrasing. “You mean they were in the office together when you came to visit?”

“No. I saw Charlie at the office-around the building, that is-but he’d come over to my father’s house, too, for dinner or whatever. They loved to talk.”

“Where do you live, Miss Wentworth?”

“At my father’s. Actually, it’s a separate building, a small cottage, but we usually have breakfast together and lots of dinners. My mother died a long time ago.”

“Did your father know of your involvement with Jardine?”

“No. Does he have to find out?” For the first time, I sensed real distress. She leaned forward in her chair, her eyes fixed on mine, her face rigid with sudden tension.

“I can only say I won’t tell him.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means the media is on the prowl and a lot of people are involved in this investigation. It might get out, even if I bend over backwards to stop it.”

“And you wouldn’t do that.” She sounded both bitter and resigned, already anticipating how to pick up the pieces before anything was broken.

“I can try, assuming I discover you’ve been straight with me.”

“I’ve answered your questions, haven’t I?”

There was an element of the rebellious child in this woman, despite her mature and sophisticated appearance. The revelations that she more or less still lived at home, worked as a volunteer, and went about buying two-hundred-dollar shirts, all helped to reveal a pretty self-indulgent person, free from the constraints of a job, a mortgage, or any worries about money. It made me wonder how free she felt from telling the truth. It also thinned out her natural beauty in my eyes, making it more superficial; no doubt that was partly my working-class prejudices at work.

“I hear your father was a big help to Charlie, training him, setting him up in business. Why did he do that?”

“He liked him.”

“There must have been more to it than that. Your father put a lot of money into ABC Investments.”

“He has a lot to give.”

I didn’t actually know if Wentworth had put a plugged nickel into Jardine’s business, but I’d been hoping for a different reaction than the one I got. Obviously, the father-Charlie part of this conversation was pretty barren land.

“How did Charlie help your father?”

She tossed her head impatiently. “Oh, you know-the father-son bit, I suppose.”

The tone was disinterested, but I wasn’t convinced. From the start, I’d felt Blaire Wentworth was holding more in her hand than she was willing to reveal. Indeed, in a few minutes, she had metamorphosed in my eyes from a cautious mourner to a careful player. I decided to return to what had been a more fruitful topic. “Did Charlie talk about his past much?”

“No. Well, it was selective.”

“How so?”

“He loved to talk about high school. He said that was the most fun he’d ever had. I think it’s because that’s where he discovered sex. He was seriously into that.”

“Did he mention friends or enemies? Any times he got into trouble?”

“Just the usual-the kind of scrapes we all got into. Nothing serious.”

“How about a girl named Rose. Did he ever talk about her?”

“Rose?” She shook her head. “Never heard of her.”

I looked at her; she looked back, her eyes wide and expressionless. Her answer had been immediate, clear, and to the point, and for all those reasons utterly unbelievable.

Abruptly, I decided to call it quits. I rose from my wooden box, thanked her for her time, and left. Blaire Wentworth had plenty more information, but for whatever reasons, she obviously didn’t want to share it with me, at least not yet.