THE VILENESS GOES ON for almost a minute total, and it’s difficult to hear such awful things about me. My anger spikes. I take off the headset, returning it to Benton.
“It would seem this individual has a personal problem with me for some reason.” I’m shaken and incensed, and it’s the only thing I can think to say.
“Is the voice familiar?” Benton’s eyes don’t leave mine.
“No it’s not. What time was the call made?”
“Twelve minutes past six.” His stare doesn’t waver as the meaning hits me.
June twelfth or six-twelve is my date of birth. Usually I would assume this is nothing more than a coincidental overlap with my personal life except for a not-so-minor problem. Six-twelve P.M. is also the exact time Tailend Charlie has been e-mailing his recorded threats to me since September 1.
“So it was almost an hour and a half after the fact.” I reach for my water glass. “Bryce and I were talking in front of The Coop at closer to four forty-five. Are we sure there’s no way the time could be faked?”
“I don’t see how, Kay. The time stamp is on the nine-one-one recording.”
“Then the call was definitely made after I’d left the Square. At six-twelve I’m certain I was walking through the Yard. That’s also in the ballpark of when Marino reached me on my cell phone.”
“Can you check?” Benton indicates my phone on the table.
I pick it up and look at the incoming calls. “He tried me first at six-eighteen,” I reply. “I remember what building I was walking past when my phone vibrated, and it was him.”
“What this suggests is he must have been contacted the instant the police got the complaint about you,” Benton says, and I don’t know if he’s asking or telling.
“Don’t forget Rosie’s always been a little sweet on him. They dated a few times. She probably didn’t waste a minute getting hold of him.”
“Rosie?”
“The dispatcher,” I remind him. “I recognized her voice. Her name is actually Rosemary but Marino calls her Rosie.”
“Which brings me back to the same question. Was there anything familiar, anything you noticed about the voice you just listened to in the nine-one-one call? Anything that struck you?” Benton looks down at his phone, but the screen has gone to sleep and there’s nothing to see but a glassy black rectangle.
He unlocks it and the displayed video file reappears with its frozen PLAY arrow.
“Beyond how arrogant and hateful the person sounded?” I’m thinking hard. “Nothing struck me, not really.”
“It sounds like you’re not sure.”
I look up at the plaster ceiling and replay the 911 audio clip in my head. “No,” I decide. “It’s unfamiliar, just a normal pleasant voice. I’m not sure what else to say about it.”
“And you’re equivocal again.” Benton’s not going to tell me why he thinks that.
It’s not his style to lead the witness even if the witness is his wife, and I take another drink of water as I think for a moment. He’s right. I’m uncertain, and then it occurs to me why.
“It’s too uniform, too homogenous,” I explain what I’ve been picking up on but couldn’t identify. “There aren’t the variations I might expect. There’s something stilted and unnatural about it.”
“In other words it sounds artificial or canned. Fake, in other words,” he says, and I wonder if this came from Lucy. “We can’t tell if it’s synthetized.” He answers my unspoken question about my niece. “But Lucy agrees that it’s strangely consistent from one comment to the next. She says that if it’s been enhanced or altered—”
“Wait a minute. If you got the audio file from the police, then how could it have been altered?”
“Lucy introduced the idea of a voice changer similar to what gamers are into. There are a lot of these apps on the market, although not the quality of whatever this person used. The typical voice disguised by software tends to sound obviously fake like a poor animation. It’s within the realm of possibility the caller has proprietary highly sophisticated software that changes your voice as you speak into the phone—”
“And it sounds different from your usual voice but normal to whoever’s on the other end.” I finish his thought because I already know what’s next.
Benton asks if I think it’s possible that my cyber-stalker Tailend Charlie is the one who called 911 and lied about me.
“Indicating this individual is stepping things up,” my husband adds. “Escalating whatever his game is, and we know without question that Tailend Charlie is technically sophisticated.”
“Let’s hope that’s not who placed the nine-one-one call because it would suggest he was in close proximity to me today,” I reply. “And I’ve been hoping whoever the cyber-bully is he’s not in Cambridge. Preferably he’s on the other side of the planet.”
“It strikes me as a little too coincidental that you began getting the e-mailed threats only a week ago, all of them altered audio clips. And now this,” Benton says.
“So tell me, Mr. Profiler.” I press my leg against his, and the fabric of his suit is smooth and cool against my bare skin. “What do you have to say about someone who calls nine-one-one to report your wife for being a C-U-Next-Tuesday?”
CHAPTER 8
MALE. AND NOT OLD. But not young,” Benton says. “I doubt it’s a student unless we’re talking about a mature one.”
“As in a graduate student?”
“Don’t know, forties at least,” he replies. “Older but not so old as to preclude this person from moving about freely in all sorts of weather. More like someone from the homeless population around the Square but that doesn’t mean it’s what we’re dealing with. He’s educated but could be self-educated.
“He probably lives alone, probably has a psychiatric history. And he’s intelligent, way above the norm. He’s antigovernment, which means anti-authority, and yes, I’d say there’s genuine hostility toward you. He’s the sort to overidealize relationships and even assume ones that don’t exist.” Benton ticks all of this off like a grocery list.
He doesn’t even have to think about it.
“Could it be someone I know?”
“Yes. But it’s more likely you don’t. Possibly you’ve never met.”
“Marino thinks this person was using a prepaid phone, a TracFone, something that isn’t traceable,” I reply. “And that makes sense if you don’t live the sort of life that involves monthly phone bills, et cetera. But how does that fit with using some sort of voice-changing software that has to be installed?”
“It would seem to me that you could install software on just about any type of smartphone and still use it with prepaid cards.”
“Yes. And we associate such things with homeless people but there’s something else I’m sure you’ve considered …” I start to say, but the waiter is back with our sparkling water and lime.
Benton raises his hand to signal we’ll fill our glasses ourselves. When the waiter drifts away I mention the Obama Phone, a rather irreverent reference to a government program for low-income people that provides a free cell phone with unlimited minutes, texting and all the rest.
“That’s typically the sort of device we’re talking about in the homeless population we find in area shelters and out on the streets with their cardboard signs,” I explain as Benton listens. “But you have to apply and register for an Obama Phone, for lack of a better word. And I would think that if the person who called in the bogus complaint about me was using such a thing, then the number would trace back to the carrier.”
“SafeLink,” Benton says, and I can tell he’s already thought about it. “It’s one of the biggest and most popular noncontract cellular services.”
“But if the phone is part of a government program?”
“That would be the difference. You have to be registered. You have to enroll to qualify, and you have your own account.” He picks up the bottle of water and refills our glasses.
“That’s exa
ctly what I’m getting at,” I reply with a nod. “So Lucy possibly could have traced the phone that made the nine-one-one call if the person were part of this program.”
“Yes she could,” Benton agrees.
“Then the witness who’s such a fan of mine wasn’t using an Obama Phone,” I summarize, and Benton just stares at me.
He knows that I’d rather the crank caller was using an Obama Phone, and that’s the bigger point. I’d prefer to take my chances with someone who truly might be a regular at the Square, perhaps some disenfranchised person who’s unpleasant and unstable but not harmful. What I don’t want is to be on the radar of an experienced criminal. Especially one sophisticated enough to create software that sends all of us down the wrong path.
If we can’t recognize evil, then we can’t say for sure it’s not in our midst. Whoever made the call, whoever Tailend Charlie is, even if they’re one and the same? The miscreant could be right in front of us. And there’s no thought much scarier than that. It would be devastating to learn that the person who lied about me to the police is someone I know. It would be worse if whoever is sending me death threats in Italian is someone I care about and trust.
“Who called you about the nine-one-one recording?” I ask Benton. “How did you get involved by the way?”
“Well I’m married to you. Start with that. But Bryce called me as I was finishing up a meeting and about to head out of the office. The lamb or the halibut? You decide. I’ll have what you’re having.”
“I’m going to try the halibut with brussels sprouts. How did you get a copy of the recording? I can’t imagine the Cambridge police gave that to Bryce.”
“They didn’t. I think we should go for a Burgundy. A Chablis premier cru.”
“The 2009 Montée de Tonnerre.” We’ve had it before, and the wine is refreshingly clean and pure with a chiseled finish.
“Very good,” Benton says, and he’s not going to tell me if he got the 911 audio clip from his friend the police superintendent, and I’m not going to ask further because I’m not sure I want to know.
THE WAITER IS BACK with our salads, and both of us order the pan-seared halibut with brussels sprouts for our main course.
I ask for sides of spaghettini vegetables and wild mushrooms, and we order the Chablis. Then we wait in silence until he walks away again and can’t overhear our conversation, and I’m beginning to get the sense that he’s lingering. But only a few people have started to trickle in, and he’s probably bored.
“By the way, in case you didn’t know, we issued a new terror bulletin a few hours ago,” Benton says to me, and he means the FBI has.
“It’s hard to keep up with them. I just make it a habit to assume we’re on high alert all of the time. Anything specific?”
“Just that it’s something major, and there’s reason to suspect we’re talking the East Coast. Hopefully not Boston again but there’s a lot of chatter out there about it and also D.C.”
“Thanks for passing it along.” I look at him because I feel him watching me closely. “Is there something else? Because you look like you have a question. I can practically see it in a bubble over your head.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say it.”
“And now you have to after a loaded comment like that.”
“All right. I’m wondering if it’s possible that Bryce is acting a little loosely wrapped because you are.”
“I’m loosely wrapped? I don’t believe I’ve heard that before. I’ve heard a lot of things including very vulgar things, but never that.”
“Let me ask you an important question. If Dorothy wasn’t suddenly coming to town, do you think the incident at Harvard Square would have happened?”
“No. Because I wouldn’t have had to bother with gifts or theater tickets.”
“That’s not the only reason, Kay. She’s coming here. She didn’t ask, she told, and as usual you accommodated. You paid for her ticket and even offered her a room in our house.”
“Which fortunately she declined because she’d rather stay with Lucy.” I feel anger rising like heat from a lower level of my psyche, a region of my inner self that I don’t approve of and might just hate.
“I have a feeling the person she’d rather stay with is Marino,” Benton says. “But only if he lived in a penthouse.”
I set down my glass too hard, and water slops over the rim. I watch the white tablecloth turn gray where the water soaks in. Then Benton uses his napkin to pat dry the mess I’ve made while I stare at him in disbelief.
“What are you talking about?” Noticing Mrs. P lighting a candle with an electric match several tables away, I try not to look upset.
I don’t want it to appear that I’m fighting with someone else. I realize how thin my skin is right now.
“I mentioned it when all of us were in Miami last,” Benton says as our waiter reappears with two glasses and the wine.
I think back to our most recent trip this past June, and remember that Marino and Dorothy started driving together to pick up takeout food. He rented a Harley and took her for a ride, and I recall Benton making a comment. When I’m with my family in Miami and also dealing with Lucy, Janet and Desi, I can be very distracted. But it’s also true that what Benton is alluding to is something I wouldn’t want to notice. I wouldn’t want it to be true. I can’t think of much that’s more frightening than the idea of Marino and my sister together.
The waiter slides out the cork with a soft pop, and hands it to Benton. He lifts it to his nose and watches as a small amount of the pale cold Chablis is poured.
“You do the honors.” He hands me the glass, and the wine is sharply clean, waking up my tongue.
Benton nods for the waiter to pour us each a taste.
“Happy Wednesday.” Benton touches his glass to mine in a toast, and this is the second time in the past hour that I’ve felt that an insect is in my clothing.
My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket.
“Now what?” I set down my glass as I check who’s calling. “Speaking of … It’s Marino again.”
After all that’s gone on, even he wouldn’t interrupt dinner unless there was a good reason. Now Benton’s phone is buzzing.
I catch a glimpse of a 202 area code before he says, “I’ve got to take this,” and he answers, “Wesley here.”
“Hold on,” I tell Marino without saying hello, and Benton and I are both getting up from our chairs. “You know where I am so it must be important. I assume I need to get somewhere I can talk.”
“Do it now.” Marino’s voice is hard.
“I’m walking out. Hold on,” I say to him as Benton and I collect our briefcases.
We drop our napkins next to our barely touched salads and glasses of wine. We leave as if we’re not coming back.
CHAPTER 9
WE’RE CALM AND RESERVED as we walk with purpose through the dining room, avoiding the curious glances of other couples being seated.
Benton and I are together but separate, each of us on the phone. To look at us, you’d never know anything out of the ordinary was going on. We could be talking to our Realtors, our bankers, our brokers, our pet sitters.
We could be a well-heeled couple getting calls from our adoring children, and Benton would be the rich handsome breadwinner. While in comparison I’d be the hardworking rather peculiar and difficult wife who always looks shopworn and halfway blown together. Our eyes are slightly downcast as we weave between tables, and I recognize the fixed stare, the flexing of his jaw, the tenseness of his hands.
I know the way he gets when something is serious. He’s probably listening to his employer, the U.S. Department of Justice. Not his divisional office but Washington, D.C., possibly someone high up in the FBI or the director himself, and it could be the White House. It’s not Quantico, where Benton got his start and used to work. That’s not the area code I just saw on his phone when it vibrated.
My husband’s special power is his ability to get into the mind of the offende
r, to discover the why and the what for, and unearth whatever traumas and bad wiring unleashed the latest monster into our midst. Benton’s quarry could be one individual. It could be several or a group of them, and when he goes after them, he must become an empathic Method actor. He has to think, anticipate and even feel what evildoers feel if he’s to catch them. But it’s not without a price.
“Yes, speaking,” Benton says, and he listens. Then, “I understand. No, I’m not aware of it.” He glances at me. “It’s the first I’ve heard.” He looks down at the red carpet. “Please explain. I’m listening.”
“I’m walking out,” I quietly tell Marino.
Something has happened, and my imagination is getting the better of me. I sense a presence that’s suffocating, heavy and dark. It’s palpable like ozone in the air, like the eerie vacuum right before a massive storm breaks. I feel it at a visceral level.
“What is it exactly that you’d like me to do?” Benton turns his head away from people looking at us.
“Should be there … in three.” Marino’s voice is fractured in my earpiece, another bad connection, and everything that’s weirdly unfolded in the past few hours suddenly is crashing around me. “No one saw anything … that we know of. But two girls, these two twins found her …” he says, and I do my best to decipher.
But it’s as if I’ve walked into a tornado. There’s so much flying around I can’t tell what’s up, down, inside out or backward.
“Hold on,” I again say to him because I won’t discuss a case until no one can overhear me.
“Turning off Kennedy … On Harvard Street now,” his voice is choppy.
“Give me two more seconds. I’m finding someplace quiet,” I reply, and I can hear the sound of his engine as sirens wail in the background.
Past Mrs. P’s empty station, Benton takes a right at the entryway’s round table with its sumptuous fragrant arrangement of cut lilies and roses. I keep going back to what he said just moments ago about an anticipated terrorist attack on the East Coast, possibly in the Boston area again. Now something has happened here in Cambridge, and he’s on the phone with Washington, D.C., as the terror alert is off the charts. I don’t like what I’m feeling.