Lie Down with the Devil by Linda Barnes Read Free Book Online Page A

River Park yet, what were the chances he’d gotten around to moving the Jag? Sam had his key with him wherever he was now. I’d noticed it on the nightstand in Cartagena. And I had the spare key, borrowed and forgotten in my little tan purse.
    Sam’s Jaguar was fast and agile, a hell of a ride. I could lie way back on the highway, trust the engine to make up time in a hurry. An indigo Jag was a better tail car than a creaky Ford cab any day of the week.

SIX
    In the summer of 1960, Boston’s West End was bulldozed to rubble. Some called it urban renewal and some called it slum clearance, but when the dust cleared, there was Charles River Park, an eight-building complex that would have looked great in Miami Beach. The tall pale buildings had no ties to New England, so to grab some local flavor, they named the towers after Hawthorne, Whittier, Emerson, Lowell, and Longfellow. I like to imagine those old dead white guys rolling in their graves. Not to mention stogie-smoking Amy Lowell.
    The only thing most Bostonians know about CRP is the sign. If you’re stuck in traffic—or should I say,
when
you’re stuck in traffic—on Storrow Drive, there it is, a taunting IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU’D BE HOME NOW. The complex occupies almost as much space as Boston Common, but few outsiders enter the grounds. It’s deliberately unwelcoming, cut off, isolated, and fearful, with its own grocery store and its own security patrol. Those who live at CRP use the city, but the city does not use CRP. Visitors are not encouraged.
    Charles River Park has barbed wire and fences and twenty-four-hour security guards. They’re looking fortrouble from the outside. Armed gangs, hooded thugs, burglars, car thieves, not a lone white woman like me.
    I strolled into the Pace Market and purchased two boxes of Kleenex. Jessie Franklin had been hard on my tissue supplies. I got a couple bottles of water, two bananas, a few other essentials. The clerk may have thought it odd when I asked him to bag the stuff lightly, each tissue box in a separate paper sack, but he did as I asked.
    Burdened with my shopping, I walked past the basketball courts, the tennis courts, and the pool. I circled the pool, lingering in the shadows, waiting for the right company. Two women, nurses by their sensible shoes, passed by. Then a teenager, hunched into a hooded jacket. I didn’t have to wait long.
    Business suit, overcoat, no briefcase, maybe heading out for a night on the town. Keys jingled in his gloved left hand and he was making a beeline for the back entrance of the Longfellow garage.
    “Cold, huh?” I said, swinging into step beside him.
    “You bet. Wind whistles between the buildings. Not as bad as Chicago, I suppose.”
    “Windy city,” I agreed. I’ve heard that Chicago’s reputed windiness refers to its politicians, but who knows? “You work downtown?”
    “Copley Square. Wind around the Pru, that’s bad.”
    He was a gent. He didn’t wait for me to use my key on the door. He used his key, then held the door wide for me and my grocery bags. As I always say, why break and enter when you can get a guy to hold the door?
    So far so good. Perfect.
    Except the Jaguar wasn’t there.
    I glanced around the garage, eyeballing dark corners and empty alcoves, just to make sure Sam hadn’tparked in a spot other than his own, but my first take was the right take: no indigo XK. To say I was disappointed would be to understate. I was dressed warmly for the bitter evening, but my backside had counted on a cushy leather seat for a quick ride home before the evening’s assignment. Jonno San Giordino had been more efficient than I’d bargained for.
    I got back in the elevator cube, dropped the grocery bags, and hesitated over the buttons. Did I want to press the penthouse floor, go up to Sam’s place, see Jonno’s handiwork? Did I have time? I consulted my watch, determining the latest time I could leave, beg a cab, and make the rendezvous with Jessie and her