Lynne Heitman - The Pandora Key aka The Hostage Room

Molly’s voice floated in from the background. “You’re late for your ten-thirty, Danny. Get your ass over to Mass-port before they call me again.” She hadn’t changed a bit since she’d been my assistant.

“Tell Molly I said hi.”

There was a pause. “She says to get off the goddamn phone and let me get to my meeting.”

“Just start walking. That’s what cell phones are for.”

His sigh was long and loud, but he didn’t hang up. I heard his footsteps echoing down the long hallway, the marked change as he opened the heavy door and emerged into the Majestic concourse, and then the noise of airline travel-thick and anxious and harried and, every now and then, joyous again. I still missed it.

“What do you want, Shanahan?”

“I want to know what you know about this woman.”

“Who, Rachel? Not a fucking thing. I never understood how those two got together in the first place.”

“They met when he was working on an insurance fraud case. She was his contact in accounting at the insurance company here in Boston. He saw her, he fell in love, and he never went back to Baltimore. After that, as far as I can tell, he devoted every ounce of his being to her personal and professional fulfillment. He helped her get her CPA, he helped her get a job with one of the big six accounting firms, they got married, and I have no idea if it was quid pro quo. Having met her, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Did you ever see the asshole she married? He’s fifteen years younger than Harvey, he can still walk, and from the looks of him, he probably fucks like a bull.”

“You met Gary?”

“No, I saw him. It was when Harvey was working on my case. I never told you this?”

“Nope.” I could feel one of Dan’s stories coming on.

“I’m over there in Brookline for a meeting with Harvey. This was maybe five years ago. I drag him out to the taco place for lunch. I’m telling him how my ex is trying to screw me to the wall. He looks over my shoulder out the window, and I think he’s bitten down on a jalapeño or something. Turns out he’s looking at this cocksucker standing out on the sidewalk talking to some other guido. What’s his name? It started with an R, or maybe an F.”

“Ruffielo.”

“Yeah. I thought Harvey was going to cry right there in the restaurant. They live in his neighborhood, you know. He probably has to see him all the time. Poor guy.”

“Not anymore.” I rolled forward about one car length before we stopped again. “They moved.”

“Let me ask you something, Shanahan. What the fuck did you call me for? You already know more about these two than I do.”

“Well…” That was a good question. “I don’t know. I’m sitting in traffic heading down to Quincy, and I guess I wanted to talk to someone about Harvey.”

“What the fuck’s in Quincy?”

“Rachel’s family photos and some jewelry. She says her husband’s abusive, she’s afraid of him, and she needs someone with a firearm to go down and get her stuff out of their house.”

“What if you run into him?”

“As I said, someone with a firearm. It wouldn’t be so bad, though, if I got a chance to talk to Mr. Rachel. I would feel a lot better if I knew he was beating her.”

“Excuse me?”

The traffic had spaced out a little, so I had to pay more attention to what was in front of me. “I just want to know if she’s lying. I don’t want her to break Harvey’s heart all over again. I mean, if she didn’t want to take care of him before, why would she come back now that he’s sicker? What do you think she wants?”

“It’s none of your business, Shanahan.”

“Yes, it is. If she’s lying to him-”

“You’ll what? Smack her around?”

“No, but-”

“Jesus Christ, the guy is on his last legs.”

“He’s not.” The car in front of me stopped. I hit the brakes and lurched forward against my seat belt. “With his medication and his therapy-”

“He’s gonna die, Shanahan. Let him have a little fun before it’s too late. I gotta go.” Click.

I snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto the seat next to me. Dan wasn’t a doctor. He liked making these proclamations. He wasn’t as close to the situation as I was. It wasn’t until I heard the horns-long, loud, and angry-that I realized the cars in the lanes around me were flowing smoothly. I was the only one standing still.

Streets in Quincy were much like those in Boston-all one way the wrong way, rotaries to send you flying off in the wrong direction, and street signs that were either nonexistent or well concealed.

After multiple wrong turns, U-turns, and several minutes craned over the steering wheel, squinting through the windshield, I found Rachel’s house. It was one in a row of tightly packed two-story boxes with painted siding, tiny yards, and concrete porches. Some had the side-by-side front doors that marked them as two-family homes. Some had front yards fenced with chain link. All had burglar bars on the windows. Rachel’s address, 134 Concord, was one of the doubles.

Parking was no easier to find. I ended up at a meter two blocks down on the busy street that crossed Rachel’s. I got out and walked past gas stations, liquor stores, pizza joints, and a White Hen Pantry, the local version of 7-Eleven. It was a long way from the large homes and tree-shaded boulevards of Brookline.

On the way to Rachel’s front door, out of habit, I looked closely at every parked car. I looked at all the windows in the facing houses. I looked for anyone or anything that didn’t belong. It was no comfort that I seemed to be the only one in that category.

No one answered the door at 134 Concord, which didn’t surprise me, given how dark that side of the house was. I walked around to the back. All of the windows on Rachel’s side had the blinds closed. I looped back to the front door. When no one answered another knock, I slotted the key Rachel had given me into the lock. It wouldn’t turn.

I pulled it out, pushed it back, and was trying again when the door at 136 swung open, and a blond teenage girl poked her head out. “Who are you?”

In spite of her droopy eyelids, she managed to look nervous. She had good reason to be wary, because it wasn’t even noon, and she was stoned. Her pupils were pinpoints, and the fragrance of the hemp floated out from behind her. I could hear the sound of more like her inside, chattering and laughing, their voices loud over the sound of some kind of reggae rap music.

“I’m not a cop,” I said.

“What?”

I looked down at the useless key in my hand. “Could I ask you some questions?”

Her eyes were less droopy now. “What about?”

“You can come out, or I’ll come in, but if you don’t close the door, the whole neighborhood’s going to get high. I’m not here to hassle you.”

She glanced behind her as she stepped out, pulling the door closed behind her.

“Thank you,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Kimberly.”

I told her who I was and showed her my license. She didn’t seem impressed. “Do you know where the Ruffielos are?”

“I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t see her. I didn’t hear her-”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Rachel.”

“What about her?”

“I went out to party, I came home, and she was gone, and all her stuff was gone, and on account of that I got grounded for a month. It wasn’t my job to watch her.”

“Are you saying she moved?”

“She snuck out in the middle of the night with three months’ rent due. My mom had a freaking attack when she got home and found out.”

I started to feel an I-told-you-so come on, which made me feel alternately smug about Rachel and sad for Harvey. “When did she leave?”