‘He wants to meet with you.’
The Principal Backer had a certain profile, and a circle of acquaintances, both professional and personal, that knew nothing of his baser vocation. He remained careful to meet in conclave even with his fellow Backers only once or twice a year, and had never yet encountered Quayle in person. In theory, Quayle did not know the Principal Backer’s true identity, but in practice …
‘I suppose declining the invitation is not an option?’ he said.
‘It’s always an option. Whether it’s advisable is another question.’
The Principal Backer considered the situation. Perhaps it was time to call in his marker in return for the assistance Quayle had already received. He would have Erin pass on the necessary details. Quayle wouldn’t refuse. He wanted the book too badly.
‘Did he nominate a venue?’
‘He left the decision to you. What about your club?’
The Principal Backer’s Boston club was both exclusive and discreet. It was regularly swept for listening devices of all kinds, and the windows had been treated with signal defense film to block Wi-Fi transmissions and thwart the use of laser microphones to pick up voice data. It was a safe haven for those concerned about business competitors, the US government, or any number of law enforcement agencies eavesdropping on their affairs, which was why it was able to command membership fees of breathtaking expense.
‘Why not? I’ll tell them to fumigate it after he leaves.’
‘That may not be the best frame of mind in which to approach the engagement.’
‘Thank you for your concern,’ said the Principal Backer. ‘Now make the arrangements. And Erin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Keep your distance from him.’
‘He only has this number.’
‘Then after you’ve informed him of the time and place of the meeting, and a small favor I plan to ask of him, change your phone.’
This was an unusual level of precaution, even by the standards of the Backers. The phone was new. Erin had only recently circulated its number to the others.
‘Would you like me to provide additional protection for you?’ she asked.
‘There is no protection,’ said the Principal Backer. ‘Not from Quayle.’
60
Parker called Maela Lombardi from his car, but both the cell and home numbers went straight to voice mail. He guessed that Molly Bow would probably have tried to contact Lombardi to let her know that she’d shared Lombardi’s details with him, which might be for the best. If Lombardi was involved in sheltering desperate women from violent men, it was possible her view of the male sex could qualify as somewhat jaded. Even in her present mood, Bow would be able to smooth the way.
Parker was traveling against the traffic for most of his journey, and only got snarled up when he reached the outskirts of Portland. He thought about leaving Lombardi until the following morning, as it was now dark and he didn’t want to disturb an elderly woman who might be about to settle down with a meal in front of her TV. Then he remembered that this was an elderly woman who was involved in an abuse victims’ equivalent of the Underground Railroad, and was therefore probably familiar with being roused from her chair at inconvenient moments. He tried Lombardi’s numbers for the fourth time, with the same result, before deciding to call Molly Bow as he crossed the Casco Bay Bridge to South Portland. There was always the chance that Bow had managed to get hold of Lombardi, who was now battening the hatches against him. If so, she was underestimating his persistence.
Bow sounded harried when she came to the phone, but it might have been a hangover from their earlier conversation.
‘One quick question,’ said Parker. ‘Have you been in touch with Maela Lombardi since we spoke?’
‘No. I mean, I tried, but I haven’t been able to make contact.’
‘I haven’t either.’
‘Where are you?’
‘South Portland. I’m on my way to Lombardi’s now.’
‘She usually answers her phone. It’s rarely off, for obvious reasons.’
‘If she was planning to leave town, who would she inform?’
A pause.
‘I can’t give you any more names. I shouldn’t have given you Maela’s.’
‘Fine, I understand.’ And Parker did, although he wished he didn’t. ‘I’ll take a look at the house and see what’s happening. But if I get back to you, be ready to make some calls. Just don’t go alarming anyone yet.’
Molly agreed. She didn’t have a whole lot of choice, and didn’t like not having a whole lot of choice. She was still letting Parker know this when he hung up, but by that point he’d gotten the message.
The Lombardi house on Orchard Road was dark when Parker arrived, and he saw no car in the drive. He rang the doorbell twice, just in case Lombardi was sleeping, before making a circuit of the property. All the doors and windows were locked, and nothing appeared to be disturbed when he shone his pocket flashlight inside.
He was about to call Molly Bow again when a neighbor began hovering in a yard across the street. Parker headed over and showed the woman his ID. She was in her forties, but with the kind of long, prematurely gray hair that suggested either massive self-confidence or the blessed state of not giving a rat’s ass. Judging by her clothes, which were expensively casual, Parker opted for the former, but he still felt the hair wasn’t doing her any favors. He guessed she might have been described as ‘handsome,’ but not by him. Cary Grant was handsome. Lots of men were, but generally speaking Parker believed it was better for women to avoid the label.
The neighbor told him her name was Dakota, which figured, and she’d been living on Orchard for ten years now. She knew Maela Lombardi well; they worked together at various community organizations. Dakota asked if Parker was concerned about Maela, and he answered that he wasn’t as yet, but remained anxious to speak with her.
‘I haven’t seen her for a few days,’ said Dakota.
‘Is that unusual?’
Dakota frowned, and scrunched up her nose. It made her look younger than she was, that damn gray hair apart.
‘You know, it kind of is. She’d usually let me know if she was going away, just so I could keep an eye on her place. It’s not like we have a lot of burglaries round here, but it pays to be careful.’
It turned out that Maela Lombardi had a niece named Janette Howard who lived a couple of blocks away on Arlington Lane, so Parker drove over there, parked outside the house, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a young woman who might have been taken for about fifteen were it not for the three young kids, two boys and a girl, alternately tugging at her arms and calling her ‘Mommy,’ while simultaneously peering with varying degrees of interest at the visitor on their doorstep.
‘Janette Howard?’
‘Yes?’
For the second time in thirty minutes, Parker identified himself and indicated that he was seeking to speak with Maela Lombardi.
‘My aunt lives just over on Orchard,’ said Howard. ‘She should be home right now.’
‘She isn’t. I was wondering if she’d given any indication that she might be about to leave for somewhere.’
‘Maela never goes away. She doesn’t approve of vacations.’
‘Would she tell you if she intended to take a trip?’
‘Maybe, if she was going to be out of town for a while, but like I said, she’s a homebody.’ She hushed her children, and silence descended for a moment or two. ‘Should I call the police?’
Parker said it was her decision, but if she wanted to check the house first, he’d be happy to accompany her.
‘I don’t have anyone to look after the kids. My husband is working nights this week.’
Parker could see she was starting to worry now.