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bit of a backup in police labs.”

“I don’t like relying on a lead time of only a week or so. Fortunately, I wasn’t planning to give them the information at this stage anyway.” Liz set down her espresso and picked up her unfinished single malt. Raising it to her companion she took a long sip, and then blew Cormac Kinnaird a kiss across the small table.

Cormac’s response was steely. “You know, you should report what you know to the police, Liz. Failure to turn over evidence that one knows might be useful to the solution of a case amounts to obstruction of justice.”

“But we don’t know if it’s important until we get back the results. Surely, we don’t have to share this information until we know if it is significant.”

“That sounds like a good argument to the layperson, but are you willing to put that to test in court? You’d be up for a seven-to-fourteen–year prison sentence. And even if you got off on some remarkable technicality, no police department would ever be willing to work with you again. That would spell disaster for your career.”

“Not to mention yours. Oh, Cormac, I don’t want to hand this over to the police at this point.”

“But you do want to know what happened to Ellen?”

“Of course, but I want to know first, before anybody else. Do you think the police would share information with me first if I hand over the cigarette butts?”

“You are green at hard news reporting, aren’t you? They might, but I wouldn’t count on it. Even your having the poinsettia in your possession is enough to get you in trouble. The only thing that keeps you from being in hot water on that one is that Erik apparently gave it to the aftercare teacher. I’ll be interested to learn why it was not sprayed with luminol by the police. I’m afraid, Liz, you’ll have to count on our advantage in getting DNA results back from the teaching lab.”

Avoiding Liz’s eyes, he signaled the waiter for the check, paid it with a flourish, and led Liz to the coatroom. There, he helped her into her raincoat, and allowed his hand to linger on her back as he escorted her down the stairs. On the lower landing, he pulled her around to face him and surprised her with a lingering kiss. Then, taking her hand, he led her into the cold and blustery night.

As the pair rounded the corner onto Mt. Auburn Street, Liz’s cell phone interrupted their progress—in every sense of the word—with a piercing ring.

“I’m so sorry, but I think I should answer it. It might be Olga or Erik.”

But it wasn’t.

“Tom!” Liz exclaimed.

“I know it’s late but you seemed so desperate to hear from me,” Cormac heard Tom’s voice say, as he leaned closer to Liz.

“I’m outside and it’s freezing. Will you be findable mid-morning tomorrow?” Liz asked.

“I can be at your door at dawn if you like—or earlier,” Tom said. “But I have a billboard to hang. So I’ll have to leave by about 10:00 a.m.”

“Tell him you’ll be there,” Cormac said, revealing he’d heard it all. “I won’t darken your door tonight. I’m shattered.”

Chapter 19

“It’s not a Banner day,” Liz told Prudence when the cat nudged her awake on December 27. As she turned over in bed, she realized she had a mild headache. Since she was not scheduled to work, the day was hers, to use as she liked. That meant she could lie in bed, at least for a little while, and nurse her headache while speculating on its source. Did it stem from too much single malt and wine? Did it result from the fact that she’d have to turn over her ace in the hole to the police? Or was it founded on frustration with Cormac Kinnaird’s mixed signals?

Then again, if this was a tension headache, it might have a much more profound cause. After all, now Liz felt convinced that the New York City cabdriver had visited—and been injured in—Ellen’s kitchen. And, she reminded herself, Ellen had been injured, too, as was certain from the blood found on the cookie ingredients. If she turned over the evidence to the police, the discovery she had hesitated to reveal would land her a scoop. But Kinnaird still had the bag of evidence. She wouldn’t let on to the city desk until late afternoon. That would leave her free to find Cormac, follow up on some lines of inquiry, and look for Veronica’s new wallpaper, too, if time allowed.

With all this in mind, Liz decided not to catch a few more winks, even though it was 6:00 a.m. Instead, she got up and threw on some jeans and a turtleneck, boots, and a jacket, and drove to Rella’s Italian Bakery, where she purchased a good-sized square of crumb cake, a loaf of bread, and bacon, eggs, and milk from the dairy case. She also bought copies of the Banner and World at a newsstand. Back at home by 6:30, she took another half-hour to shower and dry her hair before phoning Tom.

“I hope you meant it when you said you’d like to come over early,” she said.

“Course I meant it.” Tom’s groggy voice was evidence she’d woken him, but he didn’t complain.

“I can offer you bacon, eggs, and crumb cake as soon as you can get here.”

“Give me three-quarters of an hour.”

Next, Liz phoned the Ali Abdulhazar of Randoph, hoping to catch him before the start of the business day. The woman who answered spoke only Arabic. Although Liz could not understand a word she said, the woman’s anger came through loudly and unmistakably. Next, Liz phoned Erik Johansson, hoping to catch him before he set off to work. The phone answering machine picked up, this time with a recording of Erik’s voice stating, “You have reached the Johansson home. Please leave as long a message as you need to. This machine will not cut you off. If you have information about my wife, Ellen Johansson, be assured I will check this machine frequently.”

As Liz began to speak, Erik cut in and said, “You start your work day early! I’m not sure. . .”

“I have important news, Erik, and would like to deliver it in person before I report on it for tomorrow’s paper.”

“News of Ellen?” The note of desperate hopefulness in his voice was unmistakable.

“If you mean, ‘Is there any sign of her?’—no. I’m terribly sorry. But I have a lead about the altercation in the kitchen.”

“Can’t you tell me about it now?”

“I’d rather tell you in person.” Liz hoped Erik would consent to meet at his home where she might convince him to give her a peek into Veronica’s room, but he insisted they meet at his workplace at 10:00 a.m.

Next, Liz called Clifford Buxton. Against background jazz, the music teacher’s message announced that he and his wife were out of town but would check messages now and then. Liz left one, then filled the coffee maker and laid bacon on her frying pan. By the time Tom arrived ten minutes later, the little house beside the turnpike was filled with the smell of breakfast cooking.

“Coffee smells good,” Tom said, wiping his feet on the doormat. “Bacon, too. I sure could use some.”

“It’ll taste even better with this crumb cake,” Liz said, laying out plates and cutlery for two on a tongue of countertop that served as an eating bar. When the eggs were cooked, the pair sat on high stools and dug into the breakfast.

“Do you mind?” Tom said, as he sopped up egg yolk with the crumb cake.

“Not a bit,” Liz said, doing the same. As he bent over his plate, Liz noticed with a feeling of tenderness, that Tom’s freckled nose was windburned. Then she told him about her wallpaper fiasco and the scoop that she’d rather have kept quiet until DNA evidence was available.

“At least the scoop will rescue your reputation at the Banner,” Tom smiled. “And I think we can rescue Veronica’s bedroom situation, too. If we can get our hands on the paper you want, I could hang it over the weekend.”

“You realize it’s the holiday weekend?”

“Sure. But my heart goes out to that kid. Do you have a Yellow Pages?” He circled ads for three wallpaper outlets. “These have the largest stock around. We’ll call them first. Let’s have the White Pages for Boston.” Tom flipped through the book. “We’ll try this place, too. It’s a kids’ furniture place really, but it has a small decorating department for upholstery and wallpaper. The paper selection is small, but it’s all for kids. Lot of French imported wallpaper, but it’s worth a shot. If these places don’t have the paper in stock, we can call the warehouse. It’ll cost, but the warehouse can send paper by overnight mail