Nightwork, page 26
She sure as hell got the better part of the deal.
* * *
She came back, and with a slew of questions. He decided to distract himself while he answered them, so he started making a pot of tortilla soup. Plus it gave him the advantage of leftovers once his schedule filled again.
Apparently his cooking distracted her.
“You’re not using a recipe.”
“I know the recipe.”
“You’re not measuring anything.”
“My eye measures.”
He found himself amused when she actually wrote that down.
“How the hell are you going to write about a chef when you don’t know how to cook?”
“You do. People, mostly people who don’t write, think you have to write about what you know. Oddly, I don’t actually know how to murder somebody, as I’ve never done so myself. Yet.” She smiled. “But on paper, I’ve killed—let’s see—seven people by various means. I’ve never been a single parent or a veterinarian, but I’ve written about them.”
She watched him get bags out of the freezer and take green cubes out of each to drop into the pot.
“What are those?”
“Herbs. I grow herbs, then I chop them and freeze them in ice cube trays so I can use them fall and winter. Do you want to know about stealing or cooking?”
“The central character does both, so both.”
Booth replaced the bags, gave the pot a stir. “You know, cooking for and running a restaurant’s not a part-time job.”
“Neither’s teaching,” she pointed out. “You make it work. I want to know how.”
“During the school year, teaching’s the priority.”
“So you don’t steal things from, say, late August into June?”
“That’s what school breaks are for.”
“Okay. You just had winter break. What did you steal?”
“Nothing.”
“Slacker.”
Saying nothing, he got out a skillet.
He looked so irritated, so annoyed. Miranda couldn’t say she minded that a bit.
“You seem to have misplaced your sense of humor during the last decade.”
He got out the chicken he’d already marinated, began to cut it into chunks. “You’re putting me in a bind, Miranda.”
“Funny, from where I sit I’m giving you a major break. So why didn’t you take advantage of your time off last week?”
“There’s an excellent eight-carat pink diamond resting comfortably in a jewelry safe in a mansion in Potomac, Maryland, that didn’t come into my hands last night because somebody decided to visit her godmother.”
“I see.” She noted down pink diamond because it sounded both romantic, sexy, and valuable. “But you went to a party last night. How would you have gotten out of that?”
“I wouldn’t have. Leave the party shortly after midnight, drive to Potomac, do the job, come home, go to bed.”
He said it, she thought, like someone talking about picking up a half gallon of milk after work.
“Just like that?”
“Not counting the man-hours researching and planning the job, yeah, like that.”
“How did you find out about the diamond? Did you know the people?”
“Not personally. She shares entirely too much on social media.” He added olive oil to the skillet, turned on the heat. “Her husband gave her the pendant last summer for their anniversary.” While the oil heated, he juiced half a lemon in a little glass dish with a hump in the middle. “Tiffany’s, New York. From there, it’s a matter of authenticating the purchase, identifying their security system. Internet makes that easy.”
“Does it?”
“They bought a ten-thousand-square-foot Colonial four years ago, have one kid—a boy, age three—no pets. She’s allergic. A barking dog’s more reliable than an alarm system.”
She took notes as he sautéed the chicken, added, generously, a spice mix he’d obviously made up himself.
“He’s a cosmetic surgeon, she’s an estate lawyer—major estates. They own a summer home in the Hamptons and take a winter break in Vail. They like to ski. He’s taking flying lessons, and they’re both avid tennis players.”
He added the lemon juice and a glug of tequila to the skillet. “They’ve been on my radar for a few months.”
“You found out all that on social media?”
She made a side note to take a hard look at her own posts, and censor them as necessary.
“That’s the springboard, in this case. She lists her employer, so that’s another area of research.”
None of the process, she thought, really ran along the lines she’d imagined.
“So you didn’t even go there in person to, like, case the joint?”
He would’ve rolled his eyes, but it felt like too much effort. “Of course I went there. Twice. To check out the neighborhood. But you can call up a damn aerial view of any address, even walking views.”
“How do you know they have a jewelry safe?”
“Because he bought one after the kid came along and he gave her a sapphire and diamond bracelet—blue stones because they had a boy. Burmese sapphires, double-A rated, and white diamonds—G on the GIA scale.”
Now she frowned as she scribbled in her notebook. “A grade of G doesn’t sound great—and what’s GIA?”
“Gemological Institute,” he supplied while he worked. “And G on the scale means the stones are nearly colorless, and IF—internally flawless.”
“Then they should get a better grade, like an A or B.”
“Scale starts at D, so take it up with the GIA. You know, you can look this up.”
“Fine.” And she would. “You got all that off social media?”
“The bracelet, yeah, because she posted a picture of herself wearing it while she held the baby. I got the rest by hacking his account.”
“I see, okay, we’ll have to get into how that works.”
She wrote down HACKING and circled it.
“Question. The bracelet sounds like something you could break down like you did the Stanwyke piece. But you didn’t plan to take it?”
“He gave it to her after she made a human, and after fifteen hours of labor.”
Both baffled and intrigued, she studied him as he poured the chicken and the liquid into the big pot. “You’re a puzzle, Booth. It’s tempting to make my character equally sentimental, but—”
“It’s not sentiment so much as targeting. My target’s the pink diamond.”
“You don’t put that in the past tense.”
“Because I’ll get around to it.”
She tapped her pen on her pad as he stirred his soup. “I think that makes me an accessory before the fact.”
His shrug said, clearly: That’s your problem.
“You’re asking the questions.”
“Let’s switch to my character’s public life while I think about that one. What kind of soup is that?”
“It’ll be tortilla soup when I’m done with it.”
“And you just toss it together, from scratch, from memory.”
“If your guy’s in a restaurant, he’s going to have a commercial kitchen and a sous-chef, a line cook, waitstaff, and all that. He won’t be tossing something together at home.”
“Which is why I’ll be visiting some commercial kitchens and asking more questions. But you’re here now. What kind of restaurant would you own?”
“None.” No thought, no hesitation. “Too much work. I like to cook. I don’t have to cook. And you’re going to want a good bar area—margins are tight in restaurants. Not so tight in bars. Drinks make money.”
“How do you know that?”
“I had friends in New Orleans who had a restaurant, and I dated a chef in France who wanted her own place.”
“Did she get it?”
“I don’t know. I moved on.”
With a nod, Miranda closed her book. “And now I need to do the same and start working on this. What’s the best evening this week for another round of this?”
“The first week back after the holidays is never a good week. Finals for this term are the end of the week.”
“Okay, we’ll stick with Sundays for now. Say, afternoon, about two?”
She rose to put on her coat. “Oh, and I might be talking to some of your students. Lorna’s going to make a pitch—I got that heads-up—about me coming in and taking questions about writing.”
“Great. Terrific.”
The sour note in each syllable sort of perked her up.
“I’ll see you next Sunday, and you can show me how to pick a lock.” She wound her scarf. “Oh, one more. How do you open a safe, a vault, whatever? Something without a key?”
“It’s mostly math.”
“Really? We’ll talk about that.”
When she walked away to let herself out, he frowned at the soup. He didn’t think she’d break the deal. Of course, she could, and he’d be truly screwed. But he didn’t think she would.
And still, the idea that they had one baffled him.
* * *
She came back the next Sunday, and the one after that.
He tried to put those … interludes into a box, set it aside except for Sunday afternoons.
He held auditions, did lesson plans, graded papers. And, for now, put his nightwork completely aside. He couldn’t risk it.
Even though that pink diamond haunted him.
She did come in to talk to students, but at least he was spared having her directly address one of his classes. Still, the enthusiasm for her visit rolled through fellow teachers and students.
How approachable! Relatable! And funny, too!
He had kids building sets, painting backdrops, working on costumes. He had choreography and staging to deal with.
He had a student whose grades started sliding as his parents battled their way through a divorce, and another who decided her life was basically over after her boyfriend dumped her.
He pulled the boy in after the last class of the day, and met the wall of teenage misery in the form of I-don’t-give-a-fuck insolence.
“I know it must be hard to focus right now.”
“How would you know? Did your parents decide they hate each other’s guts? Did your dad call your mom a bitch from hell?”
“No, because they never got married. Mine took off before I was born.”
The boy shrugged, sulked, sneered. “You were probably better off. You didn’t have him feeding you bull like it all has nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with you.”
Insolent misery switched to outraged guilt. “It’s not my fault!”
“That’s not what I said, Barry.” He didn’t use his desk for this kind of session, but two folding chairs face-to-face. “Your family, the one you’ve grown up in, is changing, so that has everything to do with you. You’re entitled to be hurt, pissed, unhappy. But the fact is, they’re hurt, pissed, and unhappy with each other.”
“Are you going to tell me I can’t change that, I can only change my reaction to that?”
In class, Booth wouldn’t have tolerated that ugly tone for a second. But here he let it roll.
“I’m not sure how you change your reaction when it’s still going on, and you’re stuck in the middle of the war.”
Tears burned in Barry’s eyes. Hot, furious, and desolate.
“He moved out, but they still go at each other every chance they get. My sister’s freaking out, but they don’t stop. My mom keeps saying shit like: You’re the man of the house now, Barry, or telling my sister she has to be brave and help out more.”
And Booth wondered why adults could be so shortsighted during a crisis.
“Here comes the standard question. Have you tried talking to them about it?”
“They don’t listen! Now I’m grounded because of my grades, and my mom’s saying she can’t deal with another problem, and my dad’s saying I’m lazy.”
What Barry was, Booth thought, was close to a crying jag and desperate for his parents to stop tearing at each other long enough to be parents instead of mortal enemies.
“Here’s what I want you to try.”
“Don’t start on family counseling.” The words whipped out, sharp and fast. “They went to marriage counseling twice. It never got better.”
“If they went to counseling, at least they tried.” Booth held up a hand before Barry could speak. “Hold on. I don’t and can’t know anything about your parents’ marriage. But I know you. You’re a good student. I’m going to say again, you’re entitled to everything you’re feeling. I want you to write it all out.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Booth.”
“Write it out, your way. Write out what they won’t listen to. Write as little or as much as you want. I’ll take that, and I’ll grade that in place of the test you just flunked.”
“If I write it out my way, I’ll get suspended for language.”
“No, you won’t. Turn it in before class on Thursday.”
At least the kid would have his say, Booth thought as he headed to the theater for rehearsals. Then they’d see.
* * *
She came again on Sunday, and maybe he hated himself a little for starting to look forward to it.
As usual, they had their “meeting” in his kitchen. He had yet to allow her into his work space, but he’d brought out a few tools.
And as usual, he had something going on the stove, but hadn’t yet invited her to share.
He’d shown her how to pick a simple lock, demonstrated how to beat a simple combination.
Miranda, of course, wanted more.
“Okay, but people aren’t going to have a basic padlock on a safe with valuables inside.”
“The same formula applies.”
He’d set a small combination lockbox on the table, along with a notepad and a stethoscope.
“But on an actual safe, they’d be more complicated.”
He applied the same patience and intractability to tutoring Miranda on thievery as he did to his students in language arts and theater.
“Same formula, more steps. The steps depend, like I told you before, on the number in the combination. I’ve already set this one to a simple three-number combo.”
“If you already know the combination,” she countered, “what’s the point?”
“I’m not going to crack it, you are.”
“I am?” Fascinated, she stared at the dial, then reached back to braid the hair she’d left loose.
“Do you remember the steps?”
“I think so, but I wrote them down anyway.” She flipped back in her notebook. “I’m pretty sure—no, positive—I’m going to fail the math portion of the assignment.”
“I’ll give you a hand with it, this time.”
Obviously delighted, she picked up the stethoscope, and in the kitchen fragrant with the beef stew he had simmering, started to fit the earpieces.
His doorbell rang.
“Shit.” He picked up the box, took it and the rest into the mudroom. “We’re discussing the possibility of you talking to my honors class,” he said as he came back empty-handed.
“All right.”
He woke up the laptop on the kitchen counter, then switched to the view of his front porch.
“You have a camera out—”
“It’s Barry Kolber, one of my students. Just hold on a minute.”
He switched it off again before going to answer.
“Hey, Barry.”
“Um, Mr. Booth, I…” He spotted Miranda, shifted his feet. “Sorry, you’ve got, like, company. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. Come on in.”
Miranda rose. “I’m just going to use the powder room.”
With her discreet exit, Booth gestured Barry in. “It’s cold. Is everything okay?”
“Not exactly okay, but better. I know you had my parents come in after school on Friday, and you read them what I wrote. Anyway, Dad came over yesterday, and they talked to me and Becs—my sister. They really don’t like each other right now, Mr. Booth, but they said they were sorry.”
His voice cracked a little, so he paused, drew in some breath.
“They apologized to me and Becs, and that was weird. Great and weird. They said how they were going to try to do better, not to talk to each other about anything but me and Becs. How they both loved us and all that. Anyway, we all said a lot of stuff, mostly without yelling. And I wanted to thank you. I didn’t want to do it in school, you know. I just wanted to say thanks for making me write it out. You gave me an A.”
“You deserved it.”
“I gotta go. I got parole from grounding because they both felt crappy about it all.” He shot out a grin. “Anyway, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Ah, was it hard, not having a dad ever?”
“Harder, I think, on my mom than me. So maybe you can give them a break if their grades start slipping some.”
He let out a laugh. “Yeah, right. Thanks.”
Once Booth shut the door, he called the all clear to Miranda and went back for the lockbox.
“Can I ask, or was that confidential?”
He shrugged, got them both a Coke. “One of my students, parents in the middle of an ugly divorce and using him and his sister as weapons. I had him write out how he felt about it, then called them in and read what he wrote. They went right at each other, Jesus.”
As it replayed in his head, verbatim, Booth rubbed the back of his neck.
“He this, she that, until I pointed out, not too diplomatically, they were proving out everything the kid wrote. And maybe they should listen again. I read it again.”
He let out a sound, impatient disgust, before he sat back down. “I sweated that out, I’ll tell you, because it started to look like I’d made it worse on the kids, but the second reading got through enough for them to stop trying to rip at each other. Barry said they all sat down yesterday, actually talked, so that’s something.”
“Something,” Miranda said softly.
No matter how many times he’d seen it play out, it burned in his gut.
“I get how people can come to hate each other, or at least want to hurt each other because they’re pissed and done. I don’t get how parents can be so damn determined to cut each other to pieces they don’t notice or care when their kids are bleeding out.”
