HARRODS
Natalie M’Bute paused by the smoked salmon. There was a lifelike sculpture of two peacocks facing each other over a plain peahen. She assumed they were fighting over her. Wasn’t that the way of the world? She smiled to herself. Cradling her green Harrods bag, she elbowed her way past a couple of tentative Englishwomen and commanded the attention of the young man behind the counter. He was in his early twenties and very attractive, she thought, in an earnest, son of a cabbie sort of way. The food halls at Harrods were the one bit of menial shopping she truly enjoyed doing herself. She usually sent Celeste out to do the rest of the errands but every Friday she would have Mahdi drive her to Harrods and circle the block while she stocked up on delicacies.
She had a weakness for seafood: Kumamoto oysters, Scottish salmon and, of course, Russian caviar. All chased down with bottles of Krug. Of course, it wasn’t just for her. She had to take good care of the general, or Abdi as she was now supposed to call him. An absurd thing. His name, Obah, meant king in Yoruba and Abdi was a word for a servant. Natalie snorted in derision. Her husband, a servant. That would be the day.
The boy came back with the salmon wrapped in thick brown paper. “Anything else today, ma’am?”
“No, thank you,” Natalie replied with an imperious nod. “Good day.”
She found an open seat at the oyster bar and ordered a dozen of her treasured Kumamotos and a Buck’s fizz while she rested her feet. Two fizzes later, feeling sated and a little sleepy, she texted Mahdi and asked for her bill. She paid with her Barclays card.
The girl came back a couple of minutes later, somehow managing to look apologetic and impertinent at the same time.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Samuels, your card has been declined. Would you like to try another?”
When the second card was declined, people said Natalie’s outraged screams could be clearly heard three floors away in Men’s Shoes.
* * *
One loose end, Herron thought. The widow closes a checking account with $137,684.19 in it. That same day—surprise, surprise—a new account is opened at a Citizens branch in Somerville with a cashier’s check in exactly that amount. The account holder is one Jessica Levine. Mrs. Levine and two children flew to Chicago that night. Credit card records place her at the O’Hare Comfort Inn. Follow the money to the widow. Follow the widow to Prenn.
* * *
Alex had killed his own father and stepmother. Jesus. And every policeman in Boston was looking for him. He would never find her now. Stephanie tried to inventory her feelings on the subject but they darted away like minnows. She’d tackle that one later. She had more pressing questions. Three days to Easter. Where the hell was she supposed to be going?
Slow down. Start at the beginning. Wikipedia. She read it out loud.
“‘Phosphorus is the chemical element that has the atomic number 15 and the symbol P.’”
P. It was too obvious. That’s why she hadn’t seen it before. Occam’s razor, Jordan’s favorite old chestnut from Philosophy 101: Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. “Entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity.” In other words, the simplest solution is almost invariably the right one.
It was just P. The single letter P. Jordan couldn’t have made it any plainer.
She wouldn’t need to search through the vowels; she already knew. There was a picture in her purse.