Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(64)

“Come on in,” Resnick said.

Carl Vincent closed the door behind her and walked off in search of Lynn. Something she had wanted him to do.

“Black, gay, and a policeman,” Mollie said with a backward nod of the head. “Things are looking up.”

“How do you know?” Resnick asked. “He doesn’t exactly advertize.”

Mollie gave a small, enigmatic smile. “Oh, you can tell,” she said. “You learn.” She perched on a table corner, taking in the bare walls, the lightbulb that still lacked a shade. “Promotion, is it, then?”

“Not exactly.”

“Smaller than the office I used to have and that’s saying something.” She jumped down and retrieved cups and bag. “We could have this outside. Better than being cooped up in here.”

There was a bench, battered and heavily graffitied, but a bench nonetheless, by the top of the broad crumbling steps that led down to Park Valley. Mollie handed Resnick his cup and delved inside the plastic bag, lifting out a package wrapped in aluminum foil, which she placed between them cautiously.

“Is this getting to be a habit?” Resnick asked.

“Maybe.”

Mollie carefully folded back the foil and there inside, squashed but not beyond recognition, lay two pieces of dark chocolate cake, a layer of what might be jam through the middle and coffee and vanilla icing across the top.

“It’s my birthday,” Mollie explained.

“Today?”

She shook her head. “Yesterday. But if I hadn’t brought in some of the cake, the people at work would have killed me. And so I thought … well, you brought something when you came to see me.”

“Thanks,” Resnick said. “And happy birthday.”

He wondered which it was, thirty-four or thirty-five? Mollie prized the cake apart and set a slice, precariously, in his palm.

“I should have brought napkins.”

“That’s okay, don’t worry.” He took a bite and managed to catch the piece that fell away in his other hand. If he didn’t drink some of the coffee soon, it would be colder still. “When I came to see you,” he said, “there was a reason.”

“Sheer delight at seeing me aside.”

“Of course.”

“Well,” Mollie said, “I’m afraid it’s true for me, too.” Freeing herself to reach into her hip pocket, she pulled out a photocopy of the Broadway office telephone bill, two lines—number, date, time, and duration—highlighted in green. The numbers were prefixed 01223. “Here.”

Resnick’s hands full, she placed it on his knee.

He hooked at her inquiringly.

“The last quarter’s telephone accounts just came through. As our esteemed finance director’s wont to do, he pointed these out to me. You know, numbers he doesn’t recognize. Exceptionally lengthy calls. The first was made on my mobile, oh, six weeks ago. That was short enough. A couple of minutes. But the second was from my office phone on the morning of the day school. Twenty-one minutes, forty-three seconds. You can bet he noticed that. And then, checking back, he spotted the first. The same number.”

“And you don’t know whose it is?”

Mollie shook her head.

“You didn’t make the calls?”

“No.”

Resnick’s stomach tensed, waiting for what she was going to say next.

“I hadn’t remembered, didn’t think anything of it at the time, but as we were coming out of one of the early planning meetings, Jane asked if she could use my mobile, just a quick call. I said, sure. I presumed she was making arrangements, meeting someone, somebody picking her up. As I say, I didn’t give it another thought.”

“But this second call, the longer one, you didn’t know anything about that?”

“Uh-uh.” Mollie was getting in her share of the cake now, licking her fingers.

“Could Jane have had access to your office while the day school was going on?”

“The downstairs door should have been locked, but with people popping in and out all day, yes, it could have been left on the catch. She could have used it without anyone knowing.”

“Isn’t it possible she could have asked someone else if she could use your phone?”

“It’s possible, yes, but as far as I know it’s not what happened. I asked around. The staff who were there.” Mollie sat forward. “You really think this might be important?” she asked. “You think it might help?”

“It might. At least it’s something. We’ve precious little as it is.” Resnick smiled and when he did Mollie couldn’t help but notice the smudge of coffee icing just above the corner of his mouth. “Thanks,” he said, “for letting me know so promptly. And,” smile broadening, “for the birthday cake.”

Mollie’s face darkened. “I just hope it helps. Poor Jane. No more birthdays for her.”

Resnick put a trace on the Cambridge number as soon as he got back to the office. It belonged to a pub on the outskirts of the city, the Dray Horse out on the old Newmarket road; a pay phone in the corridor outside the lounge bar.



Alan Prentiss smiled as he opened his front door to Lynn Kellogg, a smile which tapered off when he saw Carl Vincent standing behind her. Lynn introduced Carl and thanked Prentiss for agreeing to see them at short notice.