51

Mooney didn’t trust her one bit. He shadowed us home in an unmarked car. I half expected her to make a run at a traffic light, but she never moved. I doubt she noticed our honor guard.

“Do you have another car?” she asked. No big deal, like she was asking questions for the census bureau.

“No,” I said. “And you are not to take this one. If you’d like to visit anyone, I’ll drive you.”

I made a mental note to call Gloria, make sure no cabs picked up at my house without my knowledge.

Time passed. I didn’t play the radio or the boom box. I wanted her to feel free to chat. Some people can’t take silence. Thea wasn’t one of those.

It seemed hours before she asked, “Did Drew Manley really talk to you about recovered memories?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He seemed unsure himself. He kept trying to talk, then running away. I think it was very important to him, but he didn’t know where to begin.”

She twisted her hands in her lap.

“Why are recovered memories important to you, Thea?” I asked.

“Who said they were?” she snapped.

Then there was just the engine, running a little ragged, racing at the stoplights. Tuneup time.

“Maybe he didn’t deserve to die,” she said eight minutes later.

For the rest of the drive, no matter what I asked, she maintained her silence like a shield, staring straight ahead as though she could see the horizon three thousand miles away.

There are lots of rooms in my old Victorian. When times are tough I can rent them to Harvard students. Times haven’t been that hard lately. I’ve gotten used to having only one tenant: Roz.

I chose Thea’s room with care. No telephone. No jack for a telephone. No lock. I didn’t give a damn for her personal privacy. She was either too exhausted to fuss or beyond such niceties. The room had no windows that overlooked trees, drainpipes, or porches. Straight down to unwelcoming cement a floor below. Not a high enough drop to kill you, unless you had a lucky fall. Her purse had been searched at the station house, so I wouldn’t have to worry about her shooting herself—or me—in the night.

Her door, like most bedroom doors, opened inward. She could fashion a lock by shoving a chair underneath the door handle. I couldn’t do the same.

Instead I woke Roz, climbing to the third floor with dread. If I found her with Keith Donovan … talk about the end to a perfect day.

She was home, asleep, alone. A minor miracle. She opened her eyes and snapped on the light as soon as she heard my tread. I don’t know if it’s the karate training or a natural sixth sense. No one sneaks up on Roz. Together we carried one of her futon mats downstairs. If Thea had plans to flee, she’d have to step over her watchdog.

Roz was sufficently awake to haggle for a higher fee, so I figured she could handle the job.

It must have taken me all of two minutes to fall asleep.

The phone rang. With one eye still glued shut, I rolled over and stared at the illuminated dial of the bedside clock. Four A.M. The phone chimed again.

Tessa Cameron’s accent sounded more ragged than regal. I wondered if she’d been drinking, steadily downing Martini after Martini, since hearing the news of Drew Manley’s death. Once I recognized her voice, I guess I was expecting her to rant on about how I’d failed in some way, failed to keep her lover alive.

“The kidnapper,” she whispered, startling me. “He just called. Garnet insists he will take the ransom alone. He will not tell the FBI where he is supposed to make the—what you say?—the drop.”

“Yes,” I said, struggling to sit, to make sense of her words. The floorboards felt cool under my bare feet.

She continued, “I pick up the extension, very carefully, between rings, the way I see the federal agents do, so I know where Garnet will bring the money. You must go as well. Meet him there. Watch out for him.”

“Garnet knows about this?”

“No, but of course he does not know! You will go for me, because I paid you.”

“You paid me to find a fraudulent manuscript,” I protested.

“And have you done so?”

I thought of the notebooks Pix had described, the ones the missing Alonso had protected so vigilantly.

“I think I know where the book is,” I said.

“Good. Then I pay you more, to make sure Garnet is not hurt.”

“That’s all?”

“All?”

“You’re not hiring me to catch the kidnappers. You’re not hiring me to get the ransom back.”

“Just to see that my boy is not hurt.”

“When is the rendezvous?” I asked.

“In one hour, so we have no time for foolishness. The man who calls, the one with the voice like a machine, he knows Garnet already has the money. The kidnapper wants to give him no chance to think, to plan.”

“Where?”

“Underneath the Harvard Bridge. On the Boston side.”

One of the few areas of town that wouldn’t be deserted at five in the morning. The Charles River Esplanade comes to life early, crowded with runners, joggers, Rollerbladers, cyclists, all rushing to finish their exercise regimen before the workday begins. Run, race home, shower quickly, get to work. The urban Boston schedule.

“I’ll be there,” I told Tessa Cameron, hanging up before she could tack any provisos onto my mission.

I yanked on underwear, tried to fashion a running outfit suitable for the fancy Back Bay. I settled on gray to blend with the gathering light. My sleeveless gray knitted shirt could be worn as an overblouse, hiding the gun at the small of my back.

I called Mooney at home, woke his dread mother, who threatened me before agreeing to wake her darling son.

“Jogging clothes,” I said to Moon. “Corner of Commonwealth and Mass. Ave. within the half hour.”

“Anything else?” he said, as if I were making a reasonable request at a reasonable hour.

“Binoculars,” I said.