The door swung open, and her eyebrows arched skyward. So did the corners of her mouth.
“Well,” she said quietly, allowing the debutante’s drawl to creep into her voice. “I do declare.”
Chapter 17
The City
10:30 p.m.
Bird marked his southbound progress by the Red Sox radio broadcast, the roar of the crowd at Yankee Stadium fading into static as he passed between counties, then states. Even if the GPS hadn’t told him he was getting close, he would have known from the sound of Joe Castiglione’s voice, coming through strong on WEEI out of Boston as he neared the city limits. It was the top of the seventh, the Red Sox holding on to a three-run lead, when he pulled onto the quiet street in Beacon Hill where Ethan and Adrienne Richards lived. A Boston police cruiser was parked underneath a tree on the even-numbered side, and Bird muttered an oath under his breath; if the Richardses were at home and even a little bit observant, they would have noticed they were being watched. He pulled his own cruiser in several spaces ahead of the blue-and-white, exited, and walked back with badge in hand to tap the city cop’s passenger-side window. It came down just in time for him to hear the crack of a bat: two hundred miles away, Xander Bogaerts grounded out to short, stranding the runner who could’ve opened up Boston’s lead to a comfortable four runs.
“Evening, Officer,” Bird said.
The man in the car extended his right hand. “Murray.”
“Ian Bird. Thanks for holding it down.”
Murray glanced at his watch. “Sure thing. You made good time.”
“Anything happening in there?” Bird said.
“All quiet. Lady’s still awake, I’ve seen her back and forth by the window a few times.”
“Anyone else?”
“Like a six-foot bearded Mainer with a shotgun and a limp?” Murray said, cracking a smile. “Nope, no sign of your suspect. A couple folks walked by with dogs. The lady in seventeen had one visitor, food delivery guy. That was a couple hours back. Japanese, looked like.”
“The guy or the food?” Bird asked, and Murray grinned again.
“Both. Dinner for one, going by the size of the bag. These rich chicks eat like fucking birds,” he said, his accent coloring the words. Fackin’ bihds. Bird stifled a laugh.
“Got it, thanks. Anything else?”
“I drove around the block when I got here, checked out the rear of the house. Everything looks normal. You know how these neighborhoods work? There’s an alley behind the row here with back access. Seventeen has a little patio behind that they’re using to park their cars. I heard you were looking for a Mercedes?”
Bird nodded. “GLE.”
Murray guffawed. “Ridiculous fucking car,” he said, and Bird smirked again at the accent: Fackin’ cahh. “Some folks use a valet garage down the street, but there’s a Lexus in the back and an empty spot next to it. Probably that’s where your Mercedes would be. No sign of anyone trying to break in or anything. And no sign of the husband.” Murray scowled, and Bird wondered if the other man had his own reasons to dislike Ethan Richards.
“Good,” Bird said. “Thanks, Murray.”
Murray nodded. “You got it.” He put the blue-and-white into gear, then paused, sucking his teeth. “You said ‘good.’ So you’re not here about the lady’s husband?”
Bird grinned. “I’m here about the lady’s boyfriend,” he said, and Murray let out a short bark of satisfied laughter.
“That’s rich,” he said. “All right, you sure you don’t need me to stick around?”
“Nah.”
Murray nodded and gestured at the radio. “Then I’m gonna get my ass in front of a TV in time to see Judge break down crying like a little girl when the Sox clinch,” he said, laughing. Bird grinned, tipped the Boston officer a mock salute, and watched as Murray drove off, disappearing down the street and around the corner. The wind rustled in the trees; a few dry leaves skittered over the curb and into the street, chasing one another past elegant homes with ivy crawling up their corners, stone steps leading up to their front doors, chrysanthemums planted in window boxes that hid the discreet wiring of high-end security systems. Bird started across the street, glancing up at the lit windows of number seventeen as he did so, and caught his breath. Adrienne Richards stood there, a dark silhouette against the glass, looking down at him as he looked up.
Bird was still considering whether or not to wave when she turned away. For a moment, he was overcome by the sense that she’d been watching for him, and waiting; he half expected her to appear at her front door, opening it before he could knock. But there was no further movement behind the windows as he crossed the street, no snap of a dead bolt drawing back in anticipation of his appearance. He mounted the stone steps to number seventeen, and pressed a finger against the bell.