To Have and to Kill (4 page)

Chapter 7

“Y
ou want to see if the spaghetti’s done?”

Piper snared a single strand from the boiling water and dangled it carefully into her mouth. “It needs another minute or two,” she said. “We want it al dente, but this is still hard in the center.”

Jack concentrated on the frying pan in front of him, moving the bits of pancetta around, making sure that each tiny cube of pork got browned. “It’s not too late, you know,” he said. “You don’t have to leave.”

“Yes, I do,” said Piper, as she began breaking eggs into a small bowl, whisking them into a nice froth. “Giving up my apartment is really the least of it. I can find another place—”

“Or move in with a friend for a while,” Jack interrupted. “I’ve told you before, that couch in the living room opens up. I’d even sleep on it and you could have my bed.”

Piper set the the bowl of beaten eggs on the counter and took two wineglasses out of the cupboard above the sink. She walked over to the bistro table just outside the kitchen, arranging the glasses at their places as she considered Jack’s offer. For several reasons, she doubted the arrangement would work for very long.

“No, it’s done,” she said, raising her voice so Jack could hear her from the kitchen. “My parents are practically foaming at the mouth, they’re so excited about it. I’d ruin their Christmas if I didn’t come home.”

“Who says you can’t still be with them for Christmas?” Jack called back. “Not good enough, Pipe.”

Pouring some Pinot Grigio into their glasses, Piper took a swallow and nodded. “I know. You’re right. It’s sad. It’s like
Little Women.
I’m going back to Orchard House after the city’s had its way with me. Except there’s no dying sister waiting. It’s the coward’s way out.”

“Wow. That’s exactly how I would have described it.”

She could hear the smirk in Jack’s voice.

Piper returned to the kitchen, grabbed the pot holders, and lifted the heavy pot of pasta, being careful to keep her face away from the scalding steam as she emptied the spaghetti and boiling water into the colander she’d settled into the sink.

“I’m not the first one to go home for a while, Jack.”

“Yeah, but you’re the last one I’d have expected to do it.”

“Me, too. But what can I say? It just is what it is right now. Let’s drop it, all right?”

“Fine,” Jack said coolly.

The two of them had made spaghetti alla carbonara so often, their movements were like a carefully choreographed ballet. Jack stood at the stove and Piper brought the colander over, dumping its contents into the frying pan. As Jack mixed the pancetta and pasta together, Piper poured the beaten eggs into the mound of spaghetti. They both watched the eggs turn into a smooth cream, warmed by the hot pasta. Jack continued to mix as Piper grabbed the mill and cracked black pepper into the mixture. Finally, she poured a small bowl of freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano over the top.

After transferring the pasta into a large serving bowl, Jack carried their dinner to the table and, for a few minutes, they sat silently enjoying their meal.

Piper was savoring the moment and appreciating the effort Jack had put into making her farewell dinner a special one. She loved the idea of Jack Lombardi, tough-guy FBI agent, stopping at the Korean grocer to buy flowers, lighting the candles, and selecting the music that now played, rhythmic and sensual.

Piper broke the silence. “I love the ’rents, Jack, but they can be really out of control sometimes: Mom is the queen of unsolicited advice, and Dad with his emergency preparedness craziness. He can’t relax and he’s always ‘getting ready’ for a disaster.”

“You can’t blame him. He’s seen a lot.”

“I get that, but it’s a bit much. I don’t know how my mother stands it.”

“Maybe she loves him?”

“Wow, and people wonder how you got into the Bureau,” Piper teased. “But, seriously, something’s up with her. I don’t know what it is, but something’s wrong.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Several things I noticed, but especially the fact that the last few times I asked her about what she’s doing special for the holidays at the bakery this year, she changed the subject. That’s so not my mother. The woman thinks up her Christmas cakes and is practicing her designs by the Fourth of July. She lives for it. And she told me that she turned down three wedding cake orders because things have been too busy at the shop.”

Jack shrugged and took a large swallow of wine. “Makes sense to me. It’s smart not to overextend yourself.”

“For someone else, maybe. But for my mother to turn down a wedding cake job is like you turning down a chance to go to a Yankees–Red Sox game. Decorating wedding cakes is her crack. It’s like Obama and his BlackBerry: she needs it.”

Piper started to stand, reaching for the empty plates.

“Uh-uh,” said Jack. “You just sit there tonight.”

Piper watched as Jack cleared the dishes away. The sleeves of his V-neck sweater were pushed up, revealing his muscular forearms. As he turned and carried the plates to the sink, she couldn’t help but admire his tall, trim build and broad shoulders.

“Speaking of wedding cakes, want to go to a wedding with me?” asked Piper. “I had lunch with Glenna today and she’s getting remarried on Christmas Eve.”

“I hope it’s to a guy who obeys the law this time,” Jack answered from the kitchen.

“Actually, she’s marrying one of the teachers at her daughter’s school.”

“Going the modest route, huh?”

“Not too modest,” answered Piper. “The ring was amazing.”

“Good for Glenna,” said Jack, coming back and putting two espresso cups on the table. “You gotta give credit to someone who’s willing to get back up on the horse.”

Piper nodded, deep in thought.

“What?” asked Jack.

“I hope she’s doing the right thing. Glenna’s only known him for a few months and someone sent her a really bizarre note warning her not to marry him.” Piper bit her lower lip.

“Oh no,” Jack groaned. “Here it comes.”

“What do you mean?”

“You told Glenna that you’d have me look at the letter.”

“How did you know?”

“Because I know you and I can tell by the expression on your face that you volunteered me for something but you don’t want to tell me because you think I won’t like it.” Jack rolled his eyes. “Hand it over,” he said with resignation.

“Great,” said Piper as she sprang up to get her purse. She pulled out the envelope and gave it to him.

Jack glanced at the white, business-size envelope. Glenna Brooks’s address was printed on the front.

“I bet just about anyone could get her address if they really tried,” said Piper. “You can find everything on the Internet if you look hard enough.”

“Really, Sherlock? I didn’t know that.” Without commenting further, Jack took the letter from the envelope, unfolded it, and began to read. There was no salutation. Just a few lines of type on standard computer paper.

“ ‘Stay clear when it’s Casey at the bat,’ ” Jack repeated the last line. “I remember memorizing ‘Casey at the Bat’ when I was in fourth grade.”

He handed the letter back to Piper. “This could be from anybody,” he said, “but first I’d look at Glenna’s ex-husband or find out if the groom-to-be has an old flame who doesn’t want this wedding to go forward. But, if you want my opinion, I don’t think whoever wrote this is really someone to worry about. My gut tells me this is just an amateurish, sour-grapes attempt to intimidate Glenna.”

“That’s it? Shouldn’t you take it to a lab or something?”

“Come on, Pipe. Believe it or not, we’ve got a war on terrorism going on. You can’t really expect me to have this dusted for prints or checked for DNA, can you?”

“No, I guess not,” answered Piper, though that was exactly what she had been hoping he’d do.

Jack read the disappointment on Piper’s face. “Look, if she wants to make it official and file a police report, she can. But there are lots of nut jobs out there who talk a good game but are harmless in the end. It’s going to be hard to get the cops to devote any manpower or lab power to this based on that kooky letter. Want some sambuca with the espresso?”

Piper let the matter drop, knowing she wasn’t going to get any further with Jack. They drank and laughed and drank some more. When Piper stood up to leave, she wobbled, grabbing hold of the edge of the table. Jack reached over to steady her. For a moment, he held her and pulled her close.

“I wish you’d stay,” he said.

“Let’s not get into that again. I’m leaving for my parents’ in the morning and that’s it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jack whispered. “I wish you’d stay here tonight . . . with me.” He reached out and put his arms around her, enveloping her in an embrace.

Piper closed her eyes, welcoming the warmth and strength of Jack’s body. It would be easy to just let things progress. But Piper was scared. She and Jack had a good thing going, a tight friendship that she deeply valued. Bringing romance into it was taking a big risk. It would change things and, if it didn’t work out, it could ruin what she really treasured.

“Whoa there, mister,” Piper said as she forced herself to pull back. “Let’s not do something we’ll regret.”

Chapter 8

P
otassium cyanide seemed to make the most sense. It was available and could be mixed to contaminate common drinking water. Internet reports were conflicted about what the taste would be like, primarily because the people who could be trusted to know were dead.

The scent of almonds had been detected on the breath of some who had ingested cyanide, and there was a faint, bitter-almond odor to both cyanide gas and crystals. So there was speculation that there might be a bitter taste to a drink laced with it. But, if enough of it was used, by the time the drinker realized anything, it would be too late.

A lethal dose would require 200–300 milligrams. Taking into account that the crystals would be dissolved in the water, and the victim probably wouldn’t ingest the entire drink, it stood to reason that it would be best to mix in more. The Web helped with that too, suggesting the use of a scale, available for purchase for $5, to weigh out the necessary milligrams.

Milligrams that devastated the central nervous system and heart. Milligrams that had led to the demise of Adolph Hitler, his bride, and his aides. Milligrams that were mixed with Kool-Aid at Jonestown and killed more than nine hundred men, women, and children. Milligrams swallowed by captured soldiers and spies to avoid the risk of divulging secrets under torture.

But all those milligrams had been ingested as suicides. The milligrams ingested at the Metropolitan School for Girls auction would be murder.

Chapter 9

Tuesday, November 30 . . . Twenty-four days until the wedding

T
he frenzied barking began even before Piper inserted her key into the lock. As she opened the front door of her parents’ home, the Jack Russell terrier sprang up to greet her.

“Hey, Emmett,” Piper cooed, tossing down her bag on the floor of the small entry hall and bending down to embrace the dog. “How’s my boy, huh?”

After several licks to Piper’s cheek, the dog stood back on his hind legs, his front paws held out in anticipation.

“Sorry, Em,” said Piper. “I don’t have anything for you right now. I’ll get you something to eat in a little bit.”

The dog looked at her.

“Don’t make me feel guilty, buddy,” said Piper. “Please.”

From the Saturday afternoon Piper and her mother had gone to the animal shelter and spotted the little white dog with the floppy ears and a big brown patch around his left eye, they were goners. Piper had still been working on
A Little Rain Must Fall,
and it was the week before she attended her first—and last—Daytime Emmy Awards ceremony. She’d named the terrier Emmett in honor of the occasion, only later realizing how appropriate the moniker would be. The dog could just as easily have been named for world-famous clown Emmett Kelly.

Happy-go-lucky and friendly, Emmett was very smart and responded exceptionally well to the obedience training Piper’s father had insisted upon. But it was Piper’s mother who cultivated the terrier’s special talents, teaching him a series of tricks using food as a reward.

The dog had already provided the Donovan family and their neighbors with hours and hours of delight and laughter when Terri came up with the idea of having Emmett featured in commercials for the bakery, which ran on the local-access cable channel. As a result, Emmett had become something of a celebrity in Hillwood.

Piper gave Emmett another pat as she called out, “Anybody home?” While she brushed the dog hair from the sleeves of her coat, Piper heard her father’s voice.

“Down here.”

Piper went through the door at the end of the foyer and down the cement steps to the basement, where her father had created what they all called his “man cave.” The walls were lined with wire-mesh shelving loaded with clearly marked, transparent plastic boxes filled with paraphernalia collected over many years. First-aid supplies from simple to borderline-combat-medic gear, signal mirrors, compasses, key rings, lanyards, water purifiers, Swiss Army knives, pocket-size wrenches and pry bars, folding screwdrivers, wind- and waterproof matches, duct and electrical tape, and long lengths of cord in widths ranging from dental floss to thick climbing rope.

Numerous books on first aid, survival, and travel sat on a shelf positioned next to a gun safe stocked with a .22 caliber rifle, a stainless-steel Ruger 10/22, a pump-action shotgun, a cowboy-type carbine, a .357 Magnum, and a companion Smith & Wesson .357 revolver. The weapons were not displayed, and Vin was fastidious about keeping the big metal cabinet locked. Only he had the combination needed to open it.

Vin said he hoped to never use any of the guns, but he was ready if necessary. He believed that the Second Amendment of the Constitution meant what it said. He had a right to defend himself and his family.

Her father sat at a large utility table lit by a swing-arm lamp with a built-in magnifying glass. Vin looked up from the project he was working on and smiled at Piper.

“Good to have you home, lovey,” he said.

“Thanks,” she answered, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Mom at the bakery?”

“Yup.”

“What’s on the agenda this time, Dad?” asked Piper, leaning down and putting her arm around his shoulders.

“Putting fresh batteries in the emergency kits.”

Vin Donovan regarded life as a series of challenges and possibilities for which he and his family needed to be prepared. What if the car broke down? What if there was an ice storm and the power went out? What if his daughter was stranded in the subway?

He couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t think that way. He knew that people rolled their eyes and poked fun at his hypervigilance, but he didn’t give a damn. Those same people showed up at his door when the power went out and they needed candles and batteries.

Everyone seemed to attribute Vin’s actions to his years as a cop, but the fact was Vin had made his first kit when he was five years old—filled with a few Band-Aids, iodine, gauze, rolled cotton, a pair of tweezers, and a kid’s small, blunt-nosed scissors.

For as long as he could remember, Vin had felt the need to be ready for any emergency. Even before Homeland Security devised its color-coded security advisory system soon after 9/11, he had lived his whole life at “Threat Level Orange.”