Chapter 12
Ingrid Slocum was good at keeping secrets, as were the other members of the self-named Martini Club, and Jo had few illusions that any of them would be completely honest with her, even though they ought to trust her by now.
Or did they trust her? It was hard to know where she stood with people who had spent their careers working in the shadows, concealing the true nature of their jobs.
Jo used to think that espionage was a glamorous job, all tuxedoes and martinis and foreign travel, but after spending time with these people, she now understood what it really entailed: never being entirely honest, even with those you loved.
Always wondering if that new acquaintance was a friend or an enemy operative.
Watching every word you said, and questioning every word that other people said.
No, Jo could not have lasted long in such a profession.
Being a cop wasn’t easy, but at least she could be honest with those she cared about, those who mattered in her life.
How much honesty could she expect from these people, she wondered, as she sat in her car outside the Slocum residence after driving back from the autopsy.
She saw that Declan Rose’s Volvo and Ben Diamond’s SUV were parked nearby, so tonight they must be having one of their usual boozy get-togethers, fueled by Lloyd Slocum’s always-excellent array of snacks.
Maggie Bird would not be here, because she was in isolation at the hospital, but the other four might have answers for Jo.
If she could get them to talk.
She stepped out of her car and climbed the porch steps. Before she could even ring the bell, the door swung open and Lloyd said, “Good evening, Chief Thibodeau. We’re just about to start our second round. Can we offer you one?”
“A martini? No thank you.” She walked into the house, which was immaculate.
The oak floor was polished to a fine gloss, the entrance hall table held a vase of fluffy white hydrangeas, artistically placed off center, and in a Chinese ceramic floor urn were two black umbrellas, readily at hand for the next rainstorm.
Jo considered herself an organized person, but the Slocums took it to a whole new level, exactly what one would expect from a couple who’d excelled in their careers, kept their hedges clipped and their lawn regularly mowed.
Jo followed Lloyd down the hallway to the back garden, which she’d never seen before.
She was not surprised to see it was equally well kept, with a flagstone patio, ceramic pots containing a lush variety of herbs, and a privacy hedge to discourage prying eyes.
There was a liquor cart, of course, and it contained everything a bartender might need to keep the guests well lubricated, which apparently had already been achieved.
Despite the cool and misty evening, Ingrid and the men had chosen to gather outside, bundled up against the chill in sweaters and fleece.
“And here’s Jo,” Lloyd announced to his friends.
“We wondered when you’d show up,” said Ben.
“I didn’t know I was going to show up,” Jo said. She looked around at their martini glasses. “Another book club meeting?”
“No, tonight we have serious business,” said Declan. “And we don’t have Maggie here.”
“Do you know how she’s doing?”
Lloyd said, “She gave us access to her online patient portal, so we can see her lab results as they come in. So far, all her blood work is normal.”
“Thank God,” added Declan.
“That’s kind of, um, intimate, isn’t it?” said Jo. “Sharing private medical info?”
“If she can’t trust us, who can she trust?” said Lloyd.
Jo looked around at their somber faces. Yes, if anyone could be counted on to keep a secret, it would be these people. “How long will they keep her in quarantine?”
“They don’t know,” said Declan. “They’re still trying to understand Dr. Maslov’s blood work.” Declan stared down at his drink and said quietly: “It’s a waiting game.”
“And Maggie’s going to be fine,” said Ben, clapping Declan’s shoulder. “She’s Superwoman. You know that.”
“Meanwhile,” said Ingrid, “we wanted to discuss the matter of Karen O’Brien. Which is why you’re here, I assume? Were there any surprises at the autopsy?”
“You saw the body, Ingrid,” said Jo. “The cause of death was pretty obvious.”
“So no surprises, then.”
“Just a middle-aged woman with a bad knee, stretch marks, and a stiletto in her eye. Detective Alfond’s taken the lead, and so far, he hasn’t zeroed in on any suspects. Neither have I. Which is why I’m here.” She focused on Ingrid. “I have questions for you.”
Ingrid nodded. “I expected you would.”
“About that weapon—”
“What were its dimensions? The blade length and thickness? I assume the crime lab will be analyzing its metal composition?”
“Yes, but—”
“Was there a cutler’s stamp inside the guard?”
“A what?”
“A signature, left by the craftsman who made it.”
“The only mark I saw was on the handle.”
“The circle with the dot inside.”
“Yeah.” Jo looked around at the faces watching her. She’d come here to ask questions, yet she was now the one being interrogated. “Is that supposed to mean something? The circle with the dot inside it?”
No one answered. Instead, Ingrid turned to Lloyd and held out her empty glass. “Refill, please.”
“Oh dear. It’s turned into one of those days,” he said, and scooped ice into the cocktail shaker.
“Okay. It’s time for you to be straight with me,” said Jo. She looked around the group. “All of you.”
The response was silence. The only sound was the clatter of ice cubes in the shaker. She surveyed their unreadable faces. How easily these people donned those masks.
“What is the deal with the stiletto?” Jo asked. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a weapon designed to penetrate,” said Ingrid. “In the seventeenth century, it was used on the battlefield, to slide through vulnerable points in a knight’s armor. The blade is shaped to minimize friction upon entry, allowing it to plunge deeper into—”
“I don’t need a lecture on the damn thing. I want to know why you’re such an expert on the subject.”
“Oh, Ingrid’s an expert on many subjects,” said Lloyd, handing his wife a freshly poured martini.
“When we found Karen O’Brien’s body,” Jo said to Ingrid, “you didn’t look away. You just froze.”
“Wouldn’t anyone?” Ingrid calmly took a sip of her drink. “The sight of a dead body can do that.”
“I don’t think you were reacting to the body. I think you reacted to the weapon. You immediately knew what it was. Is it because you’ve seen one before?”
“There’s nothing unique about a stiletto.”
“But there’s something special about this one, isn’t there? Is it the way it was used? Or is it the symbol on the grip?” Jo looked at the other three. “I think you all know what’s going on here. Just tell me.”
“You’re imagining conspiracies,” said Ingrid.
“Yeah, well, you taught me that. I’m just trying to explain things that stand out to me. Things that don’t make sense.”
“Which things?”
“You, for instance.” Jo focused hard on Ingrid. “You’re the one who never loses her cool. Who wouldn’t normally be rattled by a dead body. At least, that’s the Ingrid Slocum I know.”
“You say you know me, but do you, really? Do you know any of us?”
Jo paused. The honest answer was no, she did not, even though they had assisted her during two different investigations this past year.
She had come to rely on their canny insights, had been invited to more than a few of their potluck dinners, yet these people still seemed veiled in gauze; the view was never quite in focus.
Their faces were always blurred, their smiles illusory.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” said Jo.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Usually you people are banging on my door, trying to insert yourselves into my investigations. I have a dead woman in the morgue, a woman who worked hard and saved her pennies and will now never get to spend them. I’m just trying to do right by her.
If there’s something you know about her murder, something that can help us find the killer, don’t you think it’s your duty to share it? ”
There was a long silence. Ingrid set down her drink and said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“Before we share anything with you, there are things we need to confirm first.”
Jo looked at the others. It was like staring at a blank wall. “I’m not the enemy. I’m just trying to protect my town. It’s your town too. Tell me who I’m dealing with here.”
“We can’t tell you who, because we don’t know,” said Ingrid. “But we may know what you’re dealing with.”
“Go on.”
“The symbol that’s engraved in the stiletto handle? It could be just a random decoration. Or it could be something significant. A circle with a dot inside is one of the symbols used by the Vory. A symbol that they sometimes tattoo on their bodies, as well.”
“Who are they? The Vory?”
“They’re a Russian brotherhood of professional criminals.
Their roots go back a century, when they organized inside Soviet prisons to form a sort of criminal syndicate, very much like the mob.
They have their own rules, their own code of conduct, their own leadership pyramid.
The Vory’s criminal enterprises have expanded around the world, and they’ve sunk their claws deep into Russian businesses and government.
They’re also available for anyone to hire, should you need their particular skills.
In fact, Moscow’s intelligence services are using the Vory more and more to outsource certain tasks. ”
“What tasks?”
“Assassination, for one,” said Ben.
“They’re killers for hire?”
“They’re discreet. They’re ruthless. And they’re officially deniable,” said Ingrid.
“Moscow’s own agents have had a few humiliating failures lately.
It’s led to arrests and exposure and political blowback.
You don’t want the whole world knowing an assassination was officially sanctioned. So they hire the Vory to do the job.”
“You think Karen O’Brien was killed by a Russian gangster?”
“We’re only saying the circle and dot engraved on the stiletto might be Vory. It’s their symbol for a lone wolf. It means ‘Rely only on yourself.’”
Jo gave a startled laugh. “This is Maine. Do you really think a Russian hit man is skulking around in our woods?”
“You asked us what we thought,” said Ben. “We gave you an answer.”
Declan’s phone rang, and he looked down at the display. “It’s Maggie. Excuse me,” he said, and walked into the house to take the call.
“The truth is,” said Ingrid, “we’re searching for answers ourselves. If you’re willing to share, Jo, we could use more information.”
“You never share anything with me.”
“We’re not asking for a lot,” said Lloyd. “Just detailed photos of the stiletto. Close-up images of the grip and the symbol. And, if you find one, the cutler’s stamp.”
“What will you give me in return?”
“You can have everything I’ve compiled about Karen O’Brien,” said Lloyd. “Her family, her employment history, every single traffic ticket she’s ever received. You can have the entire dossier.”
“You made a dossier on her?”
Lloyd smiled modestly. “It’s the sort of thing I enjoy doing. We all have hobbies.”
“You know, other people collect stamps.”
“I collect data. It keeps me out of trouble.”
She looked at his half-empty martini glass. “I doubt it.”
“You can use this dossier as a sort of psychological autopsy. It might include a detail that you and Detective Alfond haven’t uncovered yet. Deal?”
How could she refuse? As she looked around at Ingrid and Ben and Lloyd, she still had the nagging suspicion that they were not being entirely forthcoming. That there were details they’d withheld. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Okay,” she said. “I don’t see any reason why you can’t have a photo of the stiletto. And the metal analysis, when it comes back.”
“Then the dossier is all yours,” said Lloyd, with a wink. “Now. Are you sure you won’t join us for a drink? Just a small one?”
Before Jo could answer, Declan came back out onto the patio. The look on his face cut off all conversation.
“That was Maggie on the phone,” he said. “Dr. Maslov just died.”