The Throwbacks (6 page)

“You got anyone to tell?” He looked at the mayor. The man shook his head no.

“Then that’s it.” David resisted the urge to have them all squeeze some blood out of their fingers, spit, and shake hands. Then he remembered that Theresa was friends with Grace and Pixie, and he felt uneasy.

“Rick, are you sure Theresa will keep quiet about this? About Nick being alive and posing as you?” David looked unblinking at the man, but Rick turned away, unresponsive.

“O’Keefe, Young—I expect you two to handle this case and keep it quiet. This plan is important to the safety of my soon-to-be son-in-law,” the mayor dictated.

Dan put the would-be investigation in motion. It wasn’t long before the ME and one police car arrived. In the midst of the crime scene, Dan’s guy from the detective squad, Joseph Dellario, took some pictures for the file. The ME examined Nick and made him get on the stretcher. They would take him in for overnight observation. The blow to his head warranted attention. That meant some hospital personnel would know he was alive. David didn’t like the fact that so many people had to be in on the details, but it couldn’t be helped. He especially didn’t like that he had to control a pair of women—Grace and Pixie—who, he had a deep suspicion, would probably be voted the least likely to be controlled by anyone who ever tried. Already his plan was getting out of hand—in less than an hour.

The mayor shook his head. “I don’t like this. The media is blitzing the general vicinity and questioning people now that the ME is here. It’s a busy night. Someone was bound to have seen something. We’re out on a limb here. I expect you to find the thug or thugs who did this within one week. After that it could be an embarrassment.” They were all still standing around the back room of the restaurant, except Rick.

“I can imagine. Let’s go have a more in-depth chat with Rick Racer, shall we?” Dan grabbed him, and they went to find Rick seated in a booth with his fiancée. Every old female relative in the place hovered over him with her consolation. The mayor cleared them all out, except for his daughter.

She could be a problem, David thought. But he held his breath, figuratively speaking, and nodded at the young woman named Theresa. She looked Mediterranean like her father, only pretty.

“I met two of your friends at the Boston Police Department-Scotland Yard Exchange Program coming-out party earlier tonight,” he began.

She gave him a polite “who cares” smile. He politely withheld judgment on the young lady, as on all the young women he’d met tonight.

“It’s been a trying night for everyone, but we’d like to have a talk with your fiancé in private. Do you mind if we steal a few minutes?”

“We’re getting married tomorrow—or we were …” She erupted into violent sobs and Rick pounced, enveloping her in a cocoon-like hug and whispering to calm her as if she were a child.

“She needs to know about this, David,” the mayor was saying.

“We have no choice,” Dan agreed.

The prospect of sharing their scheme with this young woman alarmed him. In fact, David felt like every single hair from every single follicle over his entire body, including his eyebrows, was now standing on end as if a puppeteer’s string attached to each one of them had jolted them upward. Or at least that’s how he felt on the inside. But only for a flash. He calmed himself and cleared his throat.

Someone could be after her fiancé, but no need to get her any more overwrought—if that was possible—so he chose his words carefully.

“There is a possibility that the perpetrator was only trying to scare someone,” David spoke quietly and looked at Theresa, Rick, the mayor and Dan as they absorbed what he was saying. He counted on Dan, Rick and the mayor to understand that he was purposely downplaying the very real danger of the situation.

The men looked back to him. They looked at each other, and then Dan O’Keefe nodded at the mayor. The mayor further placated his daughter with a reassuring smile.

David’s pulse throbbed with adrenaline. He’d now put this elaborate and risky sting together—faking a murder to catch an attempted murderer—and it was entirely possible that it would all come to nothing. If he was wrong and it actually was a random act or if he was completely off-base and someone was really after Nick, then their plan to flush the perp by setting up Nick as Rick for a target was for naught. They’d waste time and political capital on a wild goose chase.

David felt the cold chill of possible failure bite at him. He smiled slowly as the feeling receded. He’d put himself in the middle of a ridiculous pressure cooker of a scheme with a ticking clock. He relished the heart-hammering feeling and smiled wider.

The baggage that had been dragging him down into endless self-pity disappeared.

David awoke to the September sun glaring through his unadorned window. He’d forgotten to pull the shade last night. It was no wonder. He was no longer in shape to climb up the ladder required to reach the top of the window where the blasted shade had receded. Normally, he enjoyed the tall windows and the brightness of the townhouse. But at the moment the bare windows, added to the stark barrenness of the rest of the place, mocked him.

Last night he’d added one more mistake to the evening’s events by indulging in several nightcaps after he’d gotten home. There was something about an empty house that was particularly unsettling at the end of a long, eventful day. He shouldn’t have dwelled on his past while he drank Scotch. His boss at Scotland Yard, the Deputy Chief Commissioner, had probably been right. Even if it felt like exile, it was best that he had left England while the press died down and internal affairs did their job.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he were a stranger to Boston. In what seemed like another lifetime, he had lived here on Beacon Hill, in this very townhouse. He turned his thoughts from the automatic direction they took toward his boyhood adventures and forced himself from bed. Of course it hadn’t been the change of scenery that killed him, David acknowledged as he walked stiffly toward the bath. It had been the forced idleness.

He reminded himself that the idleness was over. He had embarked on a fresh start to his career as the newly minted Director of the Scotland Yard Exchange Program’s Boston office. He should feel more excited, but he’d settle for mildly pleased until he worked the Scotch from his system. Thank god for Dan O’Keefe—even if his friend had insisted on a full turnaround of the yearlong self-indulgence in aimless if not senseless carousing.

What had he been doing? No one, not even Dan, was going to rescue him from…well, from himself, he was loath to admit. Surely, none of the women he’d been carousing with were white-knight material.

That thought caused a vision of Grace to pop into his head. What a vision she was. He leaned forward on his bathroom vanity, carefully avoiding the fragile-looking art glass bowl that passed for a sink, to peer into the stunning mirror at his not-so-stunning countenance. He examined the damage from the night before. And, alas, he had to admit that Grace was not his savior either.

At least he came away with one good thing from the encounter besides a renewed resolve to stop playing games and return to his responsible former self as a pillar of society. He reached into the pocket of his pants, which he’d never bothered to remove, and withdrew the card she’d given him.

“Beacon Hill Decorators.” That was all it said, albeit in very elegant high-quality raised ink, and there was a phone number. Minimalist. He liked that. Emerging from the bathroom and wandering toward the cavernous living room, he looked around. Not quite this minimalist. The only item in the room was a lamp—on the floor next to the outlet. That was a concession to the need for light when one flicked the switch.

He did have a stool over at the counter in the kitchen area. There was a stack of newspapers on the floor next to the stool. That’s where he did all his sitting—which was fitting. Aah, a rhyme. Once again he thought of Grace, and he smiled this time. She really had been delightful. With a wistful sigh, he decided it was time for coffee. Scanning the otherwise empty countertop, he zeroed in on the only appliance representing the only “cooking” he ever did in his so-called home.

He picked up the cell phone he’d carelessly discarded on the counter the night before and punched in the number from the card. He was reforming, as he’d promised the night before. No more empty space. No more vacant women. No more revolving door. No more overindulging in Scotch. Well, maybe he shouldn’t go overboard with this reform all at once. One had to be realistic. He had his murder sting scheme and his ticking clock to think about, after all. That may require some occasional Scotch.

He called and spoke to a very pleasant woman who scheduled an appointment with their top designer for that afternoon. He smiled and hit the off button. His buzzer buzzed at the same time he heard the pounding on his door. Now he grinned, alighted from his stool and strode through the marble corridor to throw open the door. After all, there was only one person it could be.

“Dick Tracy, do come in.”

Dan eyed him warily as he walked past him with his Dunkin Donuts coffee and donut box.

“Aah, you brought breakfast. Good man.” David followed him.

“I didn’t expect to find you so chipper this morning.” Dan grabbed the lone stool to sit. David leaned against the counter and looked over the open space of his townhouse living area, then back at his friend. He felt good. He felt confident.

“You’re looking at a reformed man. I’m moving on with my life. I just made an appointment with a decorator to fill this void.” He waved his hand to indicate the room around them.

“Bravo, man!” Dan’s face lit up. “Now how about if you let me and Esther fix you up with that friend of hers? She’s been dying to introduce you. Nothing formal or high pressure…”

That put David instantly back to his wary self. A picture of Grace popped into his head again. He had a pang—of what he wasn’t sure. There was something about that woman, but he couldn’t argue with himself that she was exactly the type he must avoid—too young, too vacuous, and much too young. Nothing good could come of it. Even if he did have to admit she had remarkable warmth. Surely this friend of Esther’s was warm, definitely intelligent, maybe charming, and possibly even good looking in a middle-aged way.

“Done. How about tonight?” David suggested before he changed his mind.

“I’ll call Esther now. Normally she likes some lead time, but for you, she’ll move mountains and be happy to do it.” Dan seemed happy, but stared at him as if he wasn’t quite sure if he’d got the right man. Who could blame him?

After David dressed and ate a donut, they were on their way. He picked up the paper from the doorstep on their way out the door, and of course they’d made the headlines.

“Oh yeah, I meant to warn you about the headlines before you sidetracked me with your reformed self,” Dan said.

There was a picture of him with the mayor and a to-do about the Scotland Yard exchange with the Boston Police Department. They made a special note of him heading up the “murder” investigation. High expectations and high profile. Back to the pressure cooker he knew and loved.

“Don’t worry. Tonight’s dinner with what’s-her-name will be more difficult than handling the press on this. And since we both know how charming and urbane I am with women, it’ll all be a piece of cake.” David was kidding, yet telling the truth.

“Yeah, now all you have to do is remember what’s-her-name’s name.” Dan slapped his back and gave him a gotcha grin.

“Good point.” He looked at his friend to enlighten him.

“Maria.”

“How delightful. Tell me about her.”

“Maria is very attractive, but more your, ah, shall we say
style
than the young stunner from last night.”

“You mean more my age. How old is she?”

“Age is just a number, David. She’s very attractive and intelligent. That’s a direct quote from Esther.” Dan looked like he was enjoying himself.

Now David was concerned. He stopped before getting into the car, which sat at the curb directly in front of his Louisburg Square townhouse in a well-marked no-parking zone. “How old?” He looked into his friend’s eyes.

“All right, all right. She’s forty-something—but she could pass for thirty-five, or maybe thirty-eight. I know her; she’s a great woman.” Dan paused as they looked at each other over the hood of the car. “You could do worse.” Dan shook his head, hiding a grin as they both ducked into the car.