Swann Dive Page 4

  GUNS MAKE ME nervous. The second amendment aside, they do more harm than good. Not everyone agreed with me, especially CeCe. She was a fierce proponent of gun ownership whose first legal triumph involved the appeal of a local handgun ordinance. It made her famous; Boston’s Annie Oakley they’d called her. As I stared at that hunk of metal death, Deming muscled in and took charge of the weapon.

  “For heaven’s sake, Eja. It won’t bite you. Act your age.”

  “I don’t like them. My family never owned guns.”

  He frowned as he examined the damn thing. “Well, mine did. Cecilia and I were both marksmen. Won competitions even.” He held the thing closer to his face. “Hmm. We always used Glocks. Wonder where she got this thing.”

  I hate gaping, but that hunk of steel mesmerized me. “Be careful, for God’s sake. What kind of gun is it?”

  He heaved an exasperated sigh and backed out of the closet. “It’s not loaded. That’s the first thing I checked. This, my girl, is a Walther PPK, a semi-automatic handgun of some repute. Ian Fleming was particularly fond of them.”

  “Big whoop. Put it away, Mr. Bond, while we check out these papers. We’re on a tight schedule, remember?”

  I carried everything into the dining room and dumped it on the table. CeCe loved that table. Imported it from Italy and polished it daily. Actually, Mrs. Grey, her cleaning lady, polished it, but the result was the same: a mirror-bright finish.

  “Wonder where she kept her luggage?” Deming said. “She had enough of it. We could use it to bag this stuff.”

  “Downstairs. CeCe has a storage locker. Every resident does.” I tossed him her canvas grocery bag. “Here. Use this until we have more time.”

  We scooped the mess into the bag, changed our clothes, and headed for the elevator in strained silence. Jaime was prowling the lobby, nursing his shin and dangling Cato’s lead. Deming negotiated some sort of custody agreement with him that temporarily spared us from the spaniel’s sharp teeth. From the way Deming reached for his wallet, I suspected it was a cash transaction.

  “Come on. Get in the car.” He opened the passenger’s side door and tucked me into the Porsche. “Are you up to this, Eja?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Deming shrugged. “Just don’t go all girly on me when we see the tape. It won’t be easy, you know.”

  I fumbled with my purse to avoid facing him. Staring into those hazel eyes was more than I could bear. They were her eyes, bright, sparkling, and full of life. In my dream, he’d trained them on me and whispered such sweet things. Now they were glacial pools awash with icy shards.

  “Right. No problem.” I bit my lip and did deep-breathing exercises. This wasn’t about me. It was my final gift to CeCe, a duty I’d never shirk. There might be clues on that security footage. If there were, I’d find them or die trying.

  I’D NEVER TOURED police headquarters, although I’d fantasized about it. My novels tended to gloss over unpleasant details like perp walks, institutional smells, and florescent lighting. They were character-based, relatively antiseptic studies of mayhem. Now I faced the real thing, and it wasn’t pretty.

  Deming fed a parking meter on Tremont Street and hustled me up the stairs to the only entrance. To my surprise, the building was far less intimidating than most official structures. I expected a rough granite outcropping that mirrored the stony face of a big city police officer. Boston’s cop shop was different. Its four-story facade was modern; no gothic spires here. My tension dissipated as we approached the desk sergeant.

  “I’ll handle this,” Deming muttered. He passed Mia’s card to the sergeant and waited, perfectly poised, for things to happen. He didn’t wait long. Euphemia Bates appeared almost magically and swept us into the visitors’ elevator. I marveled at her composure as she matched Deming’s imperious look with one of her own.

  “This way.” Mia herded us into a fourth-floor conference room. “They’ve got everything set up for us.” She touched my arm. “Ready for this, Ms. Kane? It won’t take long.”

  We sat around the no-frills table, staring at the large flat-screen television mounted on the wall. My palms were sweaty, and my heart rate soared. That made sense. Deming, on the other hand, sat motionless, another take on an elegant marble sculpture straight from the Gardner.

  “It starts when your sister enters with the other tenant.” Mia shook her head. “So much for controlled access buildings. If you look the part, no one questions anything.”

  Deming threw a supercilious look my way that clearly said, “Aha!”

  Three cheers for technology; the image was clear and unambiguous. At exactly 8:15 a.m., Cecilia Swann swept into the building to start her final journey.

  Thirty minutes later she was dead.

  Four

  I GULPED WHEN I saw her. My pal Cecilia, beautiful as ever, held the door for the dog walker and calmly followed her through the lobby toward the elevator. They exchanged smiles and chatted as she patted the woman’s shepherd. CeCe loved all animals—dogs, cats, and brutish males. Every fortnight we volunteered at the no-kill shelter, doing all manner of pro-bono tasks. She was their attorney; I wrote and published the newsletter.

  I bit my lip and focused on the screen. The sound quality and clarity were amazing. I heard my friend’s laughter, saw her point upward as she asked about the roof. The roof! Cecilia Swann was acrophobic, terrified of the slightest incline. She’d never vault up thirty-two floors with a smile on her face, unless she had a damn good reason. For CeCe that meant one of two things: love or money.

  They stepped inside the car, and that was it. Mia explained the absence of security cameras in the elevators. There’d been no need, and residents valued their privacy. To my horror, I saw that I was clutching Deming’s hand like a lifeline. His vacant stare told me that he hadn’t noticed.

  “I’m sorry there isn’t more, but I think the tape raises some very serious issues. Ms. Swann went voluntarily to that rooftop. We know that.” Mia sounded firm but regretful. There was that compassion again. “The autopsy and test results may take a few days though. Takes a while for analysis, no matter what those television shows say.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Run the tape once more. Please.”

  She sighed, caught Deming’s eye, and pressed the replay button. This time I scrutinized every detail, hastily scribbling notes in my leather agenda. When it ended I had more questions than answers. I also had renewed certainty that CeCe didn’t kill herself. Not on her life.

  “Okay, Eja, what’s going on?” Deming’s voice lacked vitality, as if watching his twin had sapped all his strength. It was a side of him I’d never seen before.

  I swallowed, pretending it was an academic exercise or a public forum. This was my one chance to help CeCe. Analysis laced with a strong side of logic was called for. Bureaucrats of all stripes discount emotional displays and those who make them. They’d seen and heard it all too many times. If I played the aggrieved friend, my window of opportunity would slam shut.

  “I’m glad we saw this, Lieutenant. The tape confirms my belief.”

  Deming did a double take. Mia’s eyes widened, but she stayed calm and forced a smile. “Care to explain?”

  “I studied two things: CeCe’s mannerisms and her clothes. Remember, she was scheduled to meet me for an 11:00 a.m. brunch at Mistral, a very exclusive restaurant. She’s dressed for that. Just look at her—Akris cashmere coat, Hermes purse, and, the kicker, to-die-for Chanel boots.”

  Deming blanched at my unfortunate choice of words, but Mia looked intrigued.

  “Go on,” she said. “I’m with you.”

  “CeCe loved those boots. They were so expensive even she thought twice about buying them. And that purse, straight from Hermes. They call it Garden Party.”

  “My mother gave it to her.” Deming’s voice broke as he said
it. “She loved that thing.”

  I nodded. “She just got it. Probably hadn’t even been used before.”

  “Okay, she looked like a million bucks. What does that really prove?” No more guest appearances by Mia. She’d morphed into Lieutenant Euphemia Bates. “Consider this,” she said. “Maybe Ms. Swann wanted to look her best at the end.”

  “Where was her purse? Did you ever find it?”

  She shrugged. “Not yet. It may have fallen to the street and been picked up. It happens. We’ll find out when someone uses her credit cards.”

  I gulped a lungful of air and forged on. “Consider her manner, then. CeCe was a cucumber. No stuttering, shaking, or tears. She chatted up that woman right away. Trust me, if she were contemplating suicide, she’d be more withdrawn. After all, she was brought up Catholic. Right, Deming?”

  He almost smiled. “Very. It’s a mortal sin for Catholics. You take the express elevator straight to Hell for committing suicide. My sister wasn’t particularly religious, but some things stick with you.”

  “I think she was meeting someone. Business or pleasure, I can’t really say, but she had her briefcase with her. What happened to it?” I gave Euphemia Bates my fiercest stare.

  She’d handled tougher customers than me, but Deming was another matter. The Swanns were a force to be reckoned with in Boston.

  “We didn’t find her briefcase either, I’m afraid. I noted the same things when I previewed the tape. Our detectives are doing some checking. I’ll get back with you in a few days.” Her eye contact said she was speaking to Deming, not me.

  He nodded. “One more thing, Lieutenant. My sister chose that building for a reason. Have you canvassed the residents to see if anyone was expecting her? Maybe she was meeting one of them on that roof.”

  Mia absorbed his comments without changing her expression. She’d probably aced Inscrutability 101 at cop school. Top-flight lawyers and cardsharps perfect that same look.

  “Point taken, Mr. Swann. We’re working with the management of that building where your sister died. They demanded a court order before relinquishing their tenant list, but we’ve got that under control. Her accident happened only twenty-four hours ago. I think you’d agree that under the circumstances . . .” Mia spread her palms upright.

  He didn’t answer. Deming stayed motionless, favoring Mia with a look of expectation. In his world, people leapt to anticipate his needs.

  I’d grown up on a different planet where assertiveness was my watchword. It avoided mixed signals and needless complications.

  “You probably know this already,” I said. “But what’s their policy on that roof garden? Most high-rises restrict access for the very reasons we’re discussing. I’ll bet you need a key or something to get in.”

  Deming flashed me a look that bordered on admiration.

  Mia wasn’t as pleased. She glanced down at her notes. “Hmm. Another good point, Ms. Kane. Believe it or not, we already thought of that. My guys are meeting with the manager this afternoon.” Her lips were set in a grim, unyielding line. An easy, predictable case now had some twists to it, and Euphemia Bates was not pleased. “I understand your feelings, but know this. My people are experienced detectives, and they’re very good at their job. If someone hurt your sister, we’ll find him—or her.”

  “Thanks for your time, Lieutenant.” Deming rose gracefully and took my arm. “Come on, Eja. We have things to do.”

  “YOU MADE SOME good points in there,” Deming said. “You were almost . . . lawyerly.”

  “Thanks.”

  Normally I would have said something snarky, but today I let it pass. After all, what did he expect? I was always the smart, studious one. Since we both had the right to be off our game, I cut him some slack.

  Neither of us spoke as we climbed into his Porsche and headed back to Beacon Hill. Searching CeCe’s place was even more crucial now that the cops were back in the mix. Lieutenant Bates was smart and industrious. She had already dispatched her minions throughout the city to gather information. Searching CeCe’s place would be next as soon as she had probable cause. With any luck, we’d beat her to it.

  “Bring that bag up, will you?” I pointed to the tote with the contents of CeCe’s safe. My fingers tingled at the thought of sifting through it. She must have kept something important in there. Otherwise, why have a safe?

  “You take it. I’ll go down and look for that luggage,” Deming said. “Don’t worry. Jaime will take me there.”

  I smiled bravely, despite visions of tussling with that stupid Medeco lock. As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry. The door swung open without any hesitation, disgorging Cato. The little darling didn’t nip my ankles this time. Quite the opposite. He brushed my legs and gave a pathetic whimper.

  “What’s wrong, little guy?” I stooped down, patting his silky head. Cato was shivering as if something had really spooked him. Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe it was something worse. I slammed the door and fastened the bolt. Deming would have to knock when he came back.

  There was nothing out of order, but it felt strange. CeCe’s French room scent had been displaced by something else, a woodsy masculine fragrance that I couldn’t identify. It wasn’t Deming’s. He used only Creed. Of course. I was being stupid. Jaime probably stepped inside when he delivered Cato. The guy had better taste than I thought.

  “Forgive me, CeCe,” I said, dumping the carryall on her marble table. Defiling that shiny slab of rock was a necessary sacrilege. Exigent circumstances and all. I divided the contents into three piles: jewelry, documents, and miscellaneous. Jewelry was simple: her Rolex, Patek Philippe and Bulgari watches, assorted gold and diamond necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and chains. There was also one surprise: something that looked suspiciously like an engagement ring. It was a jaw-dropping diamond that had to be five karats—five beautiful, flawless karats. I’d never seen it before, and God knows, I’d remember a sparkler that big. Any woman would.

  CeCe stored her good jewelry in the bank, a constant joke to those who would have treasured her lesser gems. I racked my brain, but nothing explained that ring. She’d said she was in love, but this was something more. Much more.

  I squinted, checking out the band. There it was, a beautifully inscribed clue that meant nothing to me. “CLS from Raven.” Raven, who the hell was that? I’d never once heard her call anyone, male or female, by that name. Was this birdman the reason for the cheeky grin and soaring spirits she’d displayed lately? No way. She would have told me. No woman could keep quiet about an engagement, especially a magpie like CeCe. I’d shrugged when she’d announced that she was in love. That happened at least twice a month.

  I pushed the documents away until Deming arrived. Lawyers were persnickety about anything that smacked of disclosure, and I wasn’t up for a custody battle with Attorney Swann. Speaking of which—I checked my watch. Where the hell was he? Deming was hardly the type to hang out in the lobby fraternizing with the help. That made me restless. If I panicked, sounded the alarm, he’d freeze me out right away. Swanns hated “unseemly attention,” as CeCe once advised me. Her dad employed a publicist to keep their name out of the tabloids. That guy had his work cut out for him now. I hadn’t scanned the Globe this morning, didn’t have the heart for it. The demise of a prominent citizen like Cecilia Swann wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  For once, Cato came to the rescue. Dog walking was the perfect excuse to loiter and chat with anybody and everybody. I fastened his harness, grabbed my keys, and led him to the elevator.

  JAIME WAS bustling about the lobby attending to his constituency. Doormen in buildings like this make a tidy sum. With the right attitude, every smile or nod translates into cold hard cash. I edged toward him, taking care to steer Cato away from the heels and calves of the innocent.

  “Jaime, have you seen Mr. Swann?” I channeled my ultra-cool, unharried
persona, topping it with a warm smile.

  His puzzled look pushed every alarm button in my head.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Kane, but I took Mr. Swann down to her locker right before noon. Is something wrong?”

  “No, no. No problem. He’s probably sorting through his sister’s things. Don’t worry. I’ll find him.” I started strolling toward the elevator when Jaime called out.

  “People have no respect, you know. That’s what I told that man today.”

  I whirled around, forsaking every bit of cool. “Man?”

  Jaime nodded. “He came around asking about Ms. Swann’s apartment. Wanting to buy it. I told him to get lost.”

  “Probably just a friend of Ms. Swann’s.” I baited my trap carefully, waiting for Jaime’s response.

  “Oh no, Ms. Kane. I knew all her regulars. This man was a stranger.”

  I should have asked for a description, but every nerve in my body was crying foul. Deming was in trouble. I knew it with a certainty that floored me.

  “Let me just check on Mr. Swann. The lights work, I suppose?”

  A wide grin split Jaime’s pleasant face. “Lights on, security camera too. We’re careful at the Tudor, Ms. Kane.”

  I pressed the basement button. “Good to know.”

  Cato’s guard hairs stood straight up the moment we stepped into the basement. Despite Jaime’s assurances, the place was dark and creepy with only emergency lighting switched on. My faith in the Tudor’s security system suffered a sudden, fatal blow.

  Even under the best of conditions, I’m a klutz. In semidarkness, managing high heels and a frantic dog, I’m hopeless. Fortunately, I’d accompanied CeCe to her locker on many occasions. That was some comfort. I knew enough to hook a sharp right and inch my way down the dimly lit corridor. The place was tomb silent, an unfortunate metaphor if ever there was one. Cato complicated the situation by lunging forward, snarling like a hound from hell.