Aphrodite Part 23

"He put another little buddy on it too. A double team. The other kid's fourteen and he's really really scary. I don't get it, but they seem to know what they're doing." scary. I don't get it, but they seem to know what they're doing."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. If you want me, call this number. I'm sure they're keepin' tabs on my cell now, too." Gary gave him the number of the photo store. "I'll come by here whenever I can. Jayne'll give me any messages. Just tell her"-Gary couldn't help but break into a smile-"just tell her your name's Clint."

"Very f.u.c.king clever."

"Take care," Gary said, and hung up the phone.

Jayne came out of the back room. "Sounds like cops and robbers," she said.

"Better than CSI CSI," he told her. "I'll be back later to get my stuff."

Deena didn't ask any questions. She could tell that Justin was not yet ready to take them to their final destination, so she let him drive them around Providence. He cruised through the Federal Hill area in the West End, pointing out the Little Italy restaurants and grocery stores and charming town houses. He drove to the East Side, too, took the car through the exquisite and stately Brown campus, showing them the Rhode Island School of Design and the historic John Brown House. He drove slowly through the downtown area, what he called "downcity," staring up at the imposing City Hall, surprised at the plethora of fancy new restaurants. It was as if he had to ease into his past by showing them the city's landmarks and gradually letting himself remember that he had a personal connection to it all.

At twelve-thirty in the afternoon, just as Kendall was beginning to complain about being hungry, Justin pulled up in front of a large, gated mansion on Benefit Street. They could see what looked like a huge public park through the gate. There was a rose garden, a cutting garden, and a vegetable garden overflowing with various lettuces, tomatoes, cuc.u.mbers, and squashes. An enormous English cottage garden loomed, too, with brick paths winding through it that led to a picnic table and benches. Acres and acres of green stretched in every direction. The house itself was turn of the century and quite austere, with lots of harsh angles and intimidating columns. It was three stories tall, with three distinct wings, each with four separate chimneys jutting skyward. The brick chimneys gave the house the aura of a mausoleum rather than a country home centered around hearth and warmth.

"Tell me this isn't your parents' house," Deena said, her eyes wide.

"I'll be happy to," he told her. "But I'd be lying."

"Wow," Kendall said. "Is your dad the mayor?"

"It's even better than that," Justin said. "My dad owns owns the mayor." the mayor."

Justin now drove the car past the slowly opening gates-they hadn't changed the security code in all these years-and headed up the long driveway, parking in front of the house. He asked Deena and Kendall to wait in the car, just for a few minutes. Deena squeezed his hand and he nodded that he was fine, then he went to the front door and rang the bell.

He tried to fight off the music in his head while he waited. Melancholy chords and words. Loudon Wainwright.

There's a heaven and he knows it's true.

But he's back on earth just missing you.

And it's h.e.l.l on earth just missing you. ...

Enough, he said to himself. Enough sadness and enough of the past. No matter what happens when the door opens, you've got to stay in the present. Enough sadness and enough of the past. No matter what happens when the door opens, you've got to stay in the present. He glanced back at the car. He glanced back at the car. If they're going to survive, you've got to stay in the present. If they're going to survive, you've got to stay in the present.

He waited maybe a minute, then heard footsteps. What amazed him was that he recognized the steps; he knew immediately to whom they belonged. So he wasn't surprised when his mother opened the door. He was surprised at her appearance, though. She had aged. Somehow gotten smaller. When he'd seen her last she'd been sixty-six years old, trim and athletic looking, attractive and vital. At the door she looked old. Haggard. Worn down by time and loneliness. When she saw him she started to react, lifted her arms to grab him, but immediately dropped them and held herself in check. Years of restraining her emotions dictated her behavior, but in her eyes he could see the gleam. Her eyes instantly looked young again.

"It's all right if you hug me, Mother," he said. "I won't mind."

She took one step closer, then another. Slowly her hands raised again and she reached for him. Her arms around his neck, she pulled him close and held him tight. He could feel the soft, lined skin of her cheek resting against his. And he felt her breath surge all the way through her body.

Lizbeth Westwood released her son. She looked over his shoulder, saw the two figures in the car, turned back questioningly to the son she hadn't seen in so many years.

"No," he said, knowing the question in her mind. "She's a friend. And her daughter."

"Shall we invite them in?"

"In a minute. We need some help, and before they come in I'd like to know if we're going to get it."

"I ...I saw the paper," she said. "And your father saw the news on television."

"Is he home?"

She nodded. "He comes home for lunch."

"Some things never change," Justin said.

"If only that were true of everything," his mother said.

His father was seated at the long, eighteenth-century Spanish dining table when Justin stepped into the room. He had just dug his fork into his grilled filet of sole and was lifting a piece of the soft, white fish up to his mouth when he looked up and saw his son. Jonathan Westwood finis.h.i.+ng bringing the fork to his lips, ate the delicious, lightly seasoned sole, slowly put his fork down, and took a sip of very cold Corton Charlemagne from his winegla.s.s.

"You've gained weight," he said, setting the gla.s.s down on the highly polished table.

"Well, you haven't. You look exactly the same. Maybe a little grayer."

"I believe in consistency," Jonathan Westwood said. "Always have."

"Yes," Justin said. "You have always been pretty consistent when it comes to consistency."

"You're in trouble."

"That's an understatement. I'm in big big trouble." trouble."

"Is it true, what they're saying?"

"Do you think think it's true, Father?" it's true, Father?"

The older Westwood shook his head slowly. "You always did what you wanted to do. Never listened to anyone. You always had a certain arrogance. But you were also always scrupulously honest. You were never the sort of boy to get yourself in trouble."

"That's not true. I was in serious trouble once. When my daughter was killed. And my wife died. I needed help then and you turned your back on me."

"Is that why you came back here, Justin? To accuse me? We might have grown apart over the years, but surely you remember that the one thing I never allow myself is regret."

"No." Justin gently shook his head from side to side. "That's not why I came back."

"Then why?"

"To see if you'll help me now," Justin said. "To give you a second chance."

Jonathan Westwood ate one more bite of fish, took one more sip of wine. Then he picked up the linen napkin from his lap, dabbed at his lips and his nearly all-white mustache. He put the napkin down on the table, signaling that he was through with his meal.

"Thank G.o.d," he said to his son. "Thank G.o.d and thank you."

26.

They didn't get invited up to the Westwood house very often. No one did. So they were all slightly confused, but none of them could deny that they were also intrigued. Each of them, as they drove through the gate, was antic.i.p.ating something, although none had the vaguest idea what that thing might be.

When they saw the other guests, their sense of antic.i.p.ation rose. So did their bewilderment.

The first person to arrive was the one who had come the farthest, Wanda c.h.i.n.kle. Wanda was forty-four years old, an attractive woman in a slightly hardened way. She was short-only five foot two-and she didn't have a discernible ounce of fat on her body. Her hair was dark, cut close to her scalp, not fas.h.i.+onably; it looked like she'd done it just to be practical. Wanda was practical when it came to most things. She was also the special agent in charge of the Boston bureau of the FBI, had been for nearly seven years now. The Boston office had jurisdiction in Maine, New Hamps.h.i.+re, and Rhode Island, so anything happening in Providence directly involved her. Wanda agreed to make the drive this afternoon because she had just begun her job-working her way up from field agent-when Justin had been winding up his investigation of Louie Denbo. She'd been working closely with Justin when he'd been shot, and she still felt guilty that she had not antic.i.p.ated the retaliation and had not given the family Bureau protection. She had not heard from Jonathan Westwood in all the intervening years, but when he called earlier that afternoon, said it was urgent and that he needed her, not anyone else but her, she decided she could indulge him. The news about Justin had crossed her desk first thing that morning. She suspected that the elder Westwood was looking for some strings to be pulled. She didn't think she'd be willing to pull them, but she certainly was willing to hear him out. She owed the family that much.

She waited in the s.p.a.cious downstairs den for ten minutes before the next guest arrived. Wanda didn't know him. He sauntered into the den, obviously as curious and clueless as she was, and introduced himself. His name was Roger Mallone, and he was young, maybe thirty, with a ruddy complexion. He was solid looking, a tennis player, she'd bet, although already starting to go a little soft around the middle. He said he worked for Westwood. He was one of the bank's chief financial advisers. When she told him what her job was, his jaw actually dropped and his face turned even redder than it had been.

It took only three more minutes before the final guest came in. They both knew Billy DiPezio, the Providence chief of police. After spending an hour with Billy, if one was asked to guess what he did for a living, a reasonable stab would be that he was a convict. As a backup choice, stand-up comic would not have been out of line. But he'd been the chief for eighteen years and, while he was constantly being attacked in the press and always in the midst of some kind of controversy, he was a d.a.m.n good cop. Maybe not the most honest one in the world-he'd been known to favor the rich a time or two too many-but his morals were the bendable kind. As far as anyone knew, they had never broken completely.

Billy strode into the den, his usual whirlwind self, shook hands all around, looked for the most comfortable chair. Before he'd even gotten seated, Jonathan Westwood came in.

"You got a funny look on your face, Johnny," Billy DiPezio said. "He's in a funny situation," Justin Westwood said, following behind his father. He had a gun in his hand and he waved it back and forth between Billy and Wanda. "Don't do anything stupid," he said. "Please." He stepped aside and Deena was right behind him. Justin pointed the gun at Billy now, and said, "You first." He told Deena to pat Billy down and look for his weapon. "It's probably in a shoulder holster, but even when you find that one, keep going. Billy's a sneaky little devil and might have a spare."

She gave him a thorough going-over-Billy rolled his eyes to show he wasn't hating the procedure-but only came up with the gun in the shoulder holster.

"Okay," Justin said. "Wanda's gun'll be in her purse. But she also tends to be a little devious. Check around her ankles-those pants are too baggy for her superb fas.h.i.+on sense."

Deena came up with two guns after searching the FBI agent: one in her purse and one in an ankle holster.

"Where's the kid?" Justin asked, and when Deena told him she was upstairs with Lizbeth happily watching television, he took the guns, emptied the bullets into a large Lalique bowl, and tossed them into a far corner of the room.

"How about you, Roger-you are are Roger, right?" Roger, right?"

"Ummm ...yeah. Who are you?"

"Your boss's son. You carrying?"

"A gun?" Roger Mallone said. "Jesus, no. I've never even shot a gun."

"Give him a thrill," Justin said to Deena, "and check him out anyway."

She patted Roger down, came away empty-handed.

"This is a huge mistake, Jay," Wanda said.

"I know it might seem like that," Justin said. "But I'm out of options right now."

"What do you think you're doing?" the Providence police chief asked.

"Oh, I know what I'm doing, Billy. Have a seat, relax, and I'll explain everything. We're just going to have a little chat."

"No, we're not," Wanda c.h.i.n.kle said. "I'm not having any kind of a conversation under these circ.u.mstances. Put your gun down and return our weapons, then I'll consider it."

"Oh, shut up, Wanda," Justin said. "Here's the deal. I'm not threatening you in any way, shape, or form. You're in no danger. I'm simply going to explain something to you. Tell you a little story. I didn't think you'd listen to me unless I coerced you into it. But I'm gambling big-time that you're going to believe me. When I'm done talking, you can tell me whether you do or not. I'll trust you to tell me the truth. If you don't believe me, if you still want to arrest me after you hear what I have to say, I'll tie the three of you up, take your bullets, and Deena and I will leave. That should give us half an hour or so as a head start. If you tell me you do believe me, I'll give you your guns back right here, bullets included. If you're lying, you'll be free to arrest us both. If you're telling the truth, then I'll explain to you what I want and I'll ask for your help."

"What about Johnny and Lizzie?' Billy asked. "Are they here under duress also?"

"They are. I threatened them in order to get my father to call the three of you."

"That's ridiculous," Jonathan said. "You did no such thing."

"Billy," Justin said, ignoring his father, "that's the story. This is totally against their advice and their will. I forced him to make the calls. Is that understood?"

"It is."

"My mother's upstairs in a hostage situation."

"I thought she was watching TV with a little girl," Wanda said.

"Well," Justin said, "there's hostages and there's hostages." Turning back to the chief of police, he said, "And you know, you are the only person in the world with the nerve to call my parents Johnny and Lizzie." After Billy shrugged c.o.c.kily, Justin looked around the room. "So do you want to listen?"

"I'm scared s.h.i.+tless," Roger Mallone said. "I'll listen to anything you have to say."

Wanda and Billy exchanged glances.

"You owe me this conversation," Justin said to Wanda. "You know you do."

She nodded. Looked at Billy and nodded at him. He didn't nod back.

"I worked for you," Justin said to the Providence police chief. "You probably know me better than anyone in this room. Do you think I'm capable of doing the things I'm accused of?"

"I've been a cop a long time, Jay. You know what I think."

"That people are capable of anything."

"That's right."

"I asked you a question. What about me?"

"Okay," Billy DiPezio said, after a long silence. "I'm listening too."

So Justin began explaining.

He went slowly, occasionally referred to notes he'd made over the past couple of hours. He started with what he'd been doing since he'd left town. How Jimmy Leggett had taken him in as a small-town cop. Even told them about Brian and Gary's mocking nickname. He told them about the scream he heard on East End's Main Street, and then finding Susanna Morgan's body, and discovering Deena up on the roof. He told them about the obit in the East End Journal East End Journal and the research he did on Bill Miller. His audience-silent, astonished-heard about the shots taken at them in the car, about breaking into Growth Industries and finding the phone machines, about the Ellis Inst.i.tute and the Aker Inst.i.tute and the string of old-age homes. He gave them the details of the conversation he'd had with Edward Marion, repeated the names he'd heard: Newberg, Kransten, and Aphrodite. and the research he did on Bill Miller. His audience-silent, astonished-heard about the shots taken at them in the car, about breaking into Growth Industries and finding the phone machines, about the Ellis Inst.i.tute and the Aker Inst.i.tute and the string of old-age homes. He gave them the details of the conversation he'd had with Edward Marion, repeated the names he'd heard: Newberg, Kransten, and Aphrodite.

At that point in the story, Roger Mallone interrupted. "Are you talking about Douglas Kransten?" he asked.

Justin shook his head, to show that he didn't know. "Would it matter if I was?" He saw his father and Mallone exchange a glance.

"Yes, it would," Mallone said. "Kransten is one of the most influential people in the country. And one of the wealthiest."

"Does it make sense that he'd be connected to medical-research companies?"

"Yes, it does."