The press conference was at 10 A.M. Grace took the children to school first. Cram drove. He wore an oversized flannel shirt left untucked. He had a gun under it, she knew. The children hopped out. They said good-bye to Cram and hurried away. Cram shifted the car into gear.
“Don’t go yet,” Grace said.
She watched until they were safely inside. Then she nodded that it was okay for the car to start moving again.
“Don’t worry,” Cram said. “I have a man watching.”
She turned to him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“How long have you been with Mr. Vespa?”
“You were there when Ryan died, right?”
The question threw her. “Yes.”
“He was my godson.”
The streets were quiet. She looked at him. She had no idea what to do. She could not trust them-not with her children, not after she’d seen Vespa’s face last night. But what choice did she have? Maybe she should try the police again, but would they really be willing or able to protect them? And Scott Duncan, well, even he had admitted that their alliance only went so far.
As if reading her thoughts, Cram said, “Mr. Vespa still trusts you.”
“And what if he decides he doesn’t anymore?”
“He’d never hurt you.”
“You’re that sure?”
“Mr. Vespa will meet us in the city. At the press conference. You want to listen to the radio?”
The traffic was not bad, considering the hour. The George Washington Bridge was still crawling with cops, a hangover from September 11 that Grace could not get over. The press conference was being held at the Crowne Plaza Hotel near Times Square. Vespa told her that there’d been talk about conducting it in Boston-that would seem more appropriate-but someone in the Larue camp realized that it might be too emotionally jarring to return so close to the scene. They also hoped that fewer family members would show up if it were held in New York.
Cram dropped her off on the sidewalk and headed into the lot next door. Grace stood on the street for a moment and tried to gather herself. Her cell phone sounded. She checked the Caller ID. The number was unfamiliar. Six-one-seven area code. That was the Boston area, if she remembered correctly.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is David Roff.”
She was near Times Square in New York. People were, of course, everywhere. No one seemed to be talking. No horns were honking. But the roar in her ear was still deafening. “Who?”
“Uh, well, I guess you might know me better as Crazy Davey. From my blog. I got your e-mail. Is this a bad time?”
“No, not at all.” Grace realized that she was shouting to be heard. She stuck a finger in her free ear. “Thanks for calling me back.”
“I know you said to call collect, but I got some new phone service where all long distance is included, so I figured what the hell, you know.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You made it sound kind of important.”
“It is. On your blog you mentioned a band named Allaw.”
“Right.”
“I’m trying to find out anything I can about them.”
“I figured that, yeah, but I don’t think I can really help you. I mean, I just saw them that one night. Me and some buddies got totally wasted, spent the whole night there. We met some girls, did a lot of dancing, did a lot more drinking. We talked to the band afterward. That’s why I remember it so well.”
“My name is Grace Lawson. My husband was Jack.”
“Lawson? That was the lead guy, right? I remember him.”
“Were they any good?”
“The band? Truth is, I don’t remember, but I think so. I remember having a blast and getting wasted. Had a hangover that still makes me cringe to this day. You trying to put a surprise together for him?”
“A surprise?”
“Yeah, like a surprise party or a scrapbook about his old days.”
“I’m just trying to find out anything I can about the people in the group.”
“I wish I could help. I don’t think they lasted that long. Never heard them again, though I know they had another gig at the Lost Tavern. That was in Manchester. That’s all I know, I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate your calling me back.”
“Sure, no problem. Oh wait. This might be fun trivia for a scrapbook.”
“What’s that?”
“The gig Allaw played in Manchester? They opened for Still Night.”
Waves of pedestrians rushed past her. Grace huddled near a wall, trying to avoid the masses. “I’m not familiar with Still Night.”
“Well, only real music buffs would be, I guess. Still Night didn’t last too long either. At least not in that incarnation.” There was a static crackle, but Grace still heard Crazy Davey’s next words too clearly: “But their lead singer was Jimmy X.”
Grace felt her grip on the phone go slack.
“Hello?”
“I’m still here,” Grace said.
“You know who Jimmy X is, right? ‘Pale Ink’? The Boston Massacre?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded very far away. “I remember.”
Cram came out of the parking lot. He spotted her face and picked up his pace again. Grace thanked Crazy Davey and hung up. She had his number on her cell phone now. She could always call him back.
“Everything okay?”
She tried to shake it off, this feeling of cold. It wouldn’t happen. She managed to utter, “Fine.”
“Who was that?”
“You my social secretary now?”
“Easy.” He held up both hands. “Just asking.”
They headed inside the Crowne Plaza. Grace tried to process what she had just heard. A coincidence. That was all. A bizarre coincidence. Her husband had played in a bar band in college. So had a zillion other people. He happened to play on the same bill once as Jimmy X. Again so what? They were both in the same area at around the same time. This would have been at least a year, probably two, before the Boston Massacre. And Jack might not have mentioned it to her because he figured that it was irrelevant and might, in any case, upset his wife. A Jimmy X concert had traumatized her. It had left her partially crippled. So he maybe didn’t see a need to mention that slight connection.
No big deal, right?
Except that Jack had never even mentioned playing in a band. Except that the members of Allaw were all now either dead or missing.
She tried to gather some of the pieces. When exactly had Geri Duncan been murdered anyway? Grace had been undergoing physical therapy when she read about the fire. That meant it probably happened a few months after the massacre. Grace would need to check the exact date. She would need to check the entire time line because, let’s face it, there was no way the Allaw-Jimmy X connection was a coincidence.
But how did it work? Nothing about it made sense.
She ran it through one more time. Her husband plays in a band. One time the band plays at the same time as a band featuring Jimmy X. A year or two later-depending on if Jack had been a senior or a year postgrad-the now famous Jimmy X plays a concert that she, young Grace Sharpe, attends. She gets injured in a melee that night. Another three years pass. She meets Jack Lawson on an entirely different continent and they fall in love.
It didn’t mesh.
The elevator dinged on the ground level. Cram said, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Groovy,” she said.
“Still twenty minutes until the press conference begins. I figured it would be better if you went alone, try to grab your sister-in-law beforehand.”
“You’re a fount of ideas, Cram.”
The doors opened. “Third floor,” he said. Grace stepped inside and let the elevator swallow her whole. She was alone. There would not be much time. She took out her cell phone and the card Jimmy X had given her. She pressed in the number and hit send. It went immediately into his voice mail. Grace waited for the beep:
“I know about Still Night playing with Allaw. Call me.”
She left her number and hung up. The elevator came to a stop. When she stepped off, there was one of those black signs with the
