“Grady, what is going on?” It would have been good to hear his voice, if I trusted him at all.
“Bennie! Bennie, where are you?” His tone was urgent. “The police are looking for you. They found a pair of scissors in your apartment, with blood on it. They tested it and it’s Mark’s. They say it’s the murder weapon, Bennie. I have the arrest warrant in front of me.”
“What?”
“Wait, it gets worse. They want to question you about another murder, the president of Furstmann Dunn.”
“Oh, God. He was really killed?”
“A car bomb, in the driveway of his house. The cops know you met with the animal activists the other night. How do they know that?”
My mind clicked away. Azzic must’ve been following me, unless Grady was lying and he’d told them.
“Bennie, are you there? Are you all right? They think you’re involved with his murder, too. Azzic picked up Eileen on your tip and she turned state’s evidence. She told the cops you masterminded the bombing, then set her up to take the fall.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“They have her confession, implicating you. Her boyfriend, Kleeb, is on the run. Azzic is downstairs right now. They want you to turn yourself in.”
“But I didn’t do it. I didn’t do any of it!” It was crazy, and getting crazier.
“Then don’t come in and don’t say anything more. They’re probably tracing the incoming calls, maybe even tapping the phones.”
I thought fast. “Go to my office and get my briefcase. Meet me at midnight at my favorite place in the world. Make sure you’re not followed. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I hung up the phone, debating the wisdom of what I’d just done. I’d delivered myself to someone I had every reason to distrust, but I had no choice. Would Grady even be able to figure out what I meant? Could the cops trace the call? What was going on? Where was I, anyway? The streetlights were broken, it was dark on the street corner. Outside the phone booth was an abandoned store, with particle-board nailed over its windows and graffiti on top of that. I tried to find a street sign but they’d been harvested for scrap metal.
I had no idea what to do. I slumped against the wall of the dark booth, next to a jagged crack that ran the length of the plastic pane. I felt heartsick, drained. The CEO was dead because I’d let Eileen con me. Now she was setting me up, and so was someone else. I wondered if the cops had enough to charge me with a double murder. I had no alibi for the CEO, I was running at the time. They’d ask for the death penalty, for sure.
I sank to the gritty floor of the booth and pulled my knees to my chest. I was half naked and chilled. I was the prime suspect in two murders I didn’t commit, and somebody had planted a murder weapon in my apartment. My lawyer, my only link to the outside world, was a man I hardly trusted. Everything was falling apart, and I wasn’t strong enough to keep it together. For the first time in my life, I felt helpless.
Stone, cold helpless.
18
I kept an anxious eye out for squad cars, but there were none except the one that ordinarily cruised Kelly Drive, the winding road along the east bank of the Schuylkill River. Maybe the cops hadn’t gotten the phone tap, not enough evidence or time, or maybe they were too dumb to figure out my favorite place in the world. Or maybe they were waiting, watching me, hidden. I scanned the river-bank, a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It was a breezy night by the river and the wind off the water carried a misty chill. I shivered under a bush in the Azalea Garden, where I was masquerading as a runner at rest. It wasn’t far from the truth and it was the perfect camouflage, since the asphalt paths on the river drives attracted in-line skaters and runners even at night.
I checked my watch: 11:30. Time to go. I picked up my small paper bag and rose slowly, my knees weak and stiff. I looked around for the cruiser, but the coast was clear.
I jogged lightly over crushed paper cups littering the path along Boathouse Row, the messy aftermath of a three-mile race. Brightly colored boathouses lined the row, and Penn’s was in the middle. I reached its red door, made sure no one was watching, and punched in the combination that opened the door. I slipped in and shut the door behind me.
The entrance hall of the boathouse was roomy, unlit, and empty. There were two large windows to the street, so I didn’t risk turning on a light. I didn’t need to anyway, I knew the place by heart. Rowing photos covered the walls and an old green leather couch sat next to the door. To the left of the entrance hall was the huge room where the men’s boats were housed; to the right was the women’s annex, built later.
I plopped onto the couch and breathed in the familiar odors of axle grease, polished wood, and human sweat. I was safe, temporarily. It was my favorite place in the world. I rested my head back. On the wall behind me was a picture of myself in college in one of the first womens’ crews; a young, strong, sunny blonde, standing next to an oar with a red-and-blue painted paddle. I knew without looking at the photo that I looked a lot better then than I did now. My eyes scanned the other photos in the faint light from the windows. Faded pictures of the men’s and women’s eights at various regattas, the crew holding trophies aloft or throwing their pint-sized coxswains into the water. It was a rowing tradition, like losing your T-shirt to the winners, a graphic lesson in public humiliation. Having lost not only my shirt but everything else by now, I was feeling it rather acutely.
I was wanted for two counts of murder. It would be all over the news. What would Hattie be thinking, and what about my mother? What would happen to them if I went to prison, or worse? I allowed myself ten more seconds of self-pity, then went upstairs with my paper bag to save my life.
“Bennie, is that you?” Grady whispered.
I grabbed him by the jacketsleeve and yanked him into the boathouse, closing the door behind him. “Of course it’s me.”
“But your hair, it’s short.”
“It’s chin-length.” I’d hacked it off with a scissors from the workshop in the boathouse.
“What happened to the color? I can’t see, it’s so dark in here. Is it black?”
“No, red. Bright Coppery Disguise Red.” I ran a hand through my damp, newly colored locks. Between my dye job, hot shower, and clean clothes, I felt better, more in control. “It’s L’Oreal, eight bucks at your local drugstore. Because I’m worth it.”
“Isn’t red kind of obvious for a disguise?”
“I’m six feet tall, Grady. I was born obvious. Besides, it would’ve taken two boxes to go from blond to black, and I’m not worth it. Now, did you bring the briefcase?”
“Here.” He handed it to me. “Where’d you get the suit? Is it yellow? Isn’t that kind of bright?”
“What are you, the fashion police? It’s the only one I had in my locker.” I unzipped my briefcase and squinted inside. Mark’s computer calendars, Bill Kleeb’s file, and a cell phone. I zipped it shut, too wary to feel grateful. Someone was framing me for Mark’s murder, maybe it was him. “You should go now, counselor. Thanks for your help.”
“What? I just got here. What are you going to do?”
“Don’t know yet, I’ll think of something.” The way I figured it, I had to get out of town and find Bill Kleeb, but I wasn’t going to tell Grady more than I had to. “You have to go, please.”
“I want to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Why are you acting so strange? Did you know about that CEO’s death?”
I stepped back at the accusation. “Of course not. Did you tell the cops I met with my clients that night?”
“No. Azzic questioned me, but I claimed attorney-client privilege and they let me go.”
Hmmm. “I don’t like it. I would think they’d hold your feet to the fire.”
“Me, too. I thought they let me go to see if I would lead them to you.”
