stopped short. Midway down the right-hand side, surrounded by calculations, was a two-inch by two-inch drawing of a woman’s head and shoulders — Grace Baxter’s. Snow had obviously lingered over it, spending time shading in her hair, eyes, lips, capturing subtleties of her beauty.
The portrait was imbued with emotion missing not only from Snow’s schematics and calculations, but from his writing. There was real passion in it.
Clevenger turned page after page — more cylinders and numbers, more philosophical reflections.
He checked his watch. 10:47. He started the car and drove to Brattle Street, pulled up in front of 119, a majestic brick colonial on half an acre, behind fifty yards of stone wall and a semicircular driveway shaded by massive oaks. The place had to be worth at least $5 million. A Mercedes limousine, a Land Cruiser and three police cruisers were parked outside.
He got out of the car and walked toward the front door. A cop named Bob Fabrizio got out of his cruiser, headed over to him. Clevenger knew him from working another Cambridge case — a Harvard professor who’d murdered his wife. "What’s with the show of force?" Clevenger asked him.
"Paid detail," Fabrizio said. "The widow feels uneasy."
"Enough to order up three cruisers."
"Four. We had three available."
"I guess you can’t blame her," Clevenger said. "Her husband was shot about thirty hours ago."
"Hey, I don’t mind the work," Fabrizio said. "But it give this whole thing a little O.J. — JonBenet feeling, if you ask me."
"Meaning?"
"Four cruisers? Who does she think is coming for her, the frickin’ Mossad? You said it yourself: a show of force. Maybe this is all show. Maybe she wants to look good and scared, keep all eyes off her — or the son."
"You know anything about him?"
"Like every other cop in Cambridge. Two arrests, cocaine possession. One arrest, A and B. One malicious threatening. He called in a bomb threat to his prep school in Connecticut. He had a crude device on him, wouldn’t have ignited a Duraflame log. All charges were dismissed or continued without a finding. Fancy lawyers. Kid’s basically a hothead, but you never know. I mean, either this guy Snow killed himself, or he got killed by someone with access to his gun. Either way, the compass in my gut points right here."
"Thanks for the consult."
"No charge. Hey, how’s Billy doing?"
"Fine," Clevenger said, a little taken aback by Fabrizio’s interest. He sometimes forgot Billy had gotten famous from the Nantucket murder case that cost him his baby sister. Once his name was cleared, just about every national magazine ran a story about him. And when Clevenger adopted him, the feeding frenzy only intensified.
"Good to hear it," Fabrizio said. "We’re all rootin’ for him." He headed back toward his cruiser.
Clevenger walked up to the front door, rang the bell. Half a minute later a very pretty young woman with straight, long, light brown hair, and deep brown eyes opened the door. She was dressed in a tight-fitting, V-neck sweater and tighter Levi’s. She looked about twenty-two, twenty-three. "You’re from the police?" she asked.
"That’s right," he said, offering his hand. "Frank Clevenger."
She shook his hand in a halfhearted way, let it go. "Mom’s waiting for you in the living room."
Could she be just eighteen? he wondered. "You’re John Snow’s daughter?"
"Lindsey."
"I’m sorry about your dad."
Her eyes filled up. "Thank you," she said, just above a whisper. She stepped aside. "Straight ahead."
Clevenger walked along an oriental runner that took him past a turned staircase and down a hallway with white wainscoting and widely striped wallpaper of deep green and olive hues. Antique architectural drawings of Cambridge landmarks hung on the walls — probably Snow’s wife’s choice, as the architect in the family. The hallway ended in the
The portrait was imbued with emotion missing not only from Snow’s schematics and calculations, but from his writing. There was real passion in it.
Clevenger turned page after page — more cylinders and numbers, more philosophical reflections.
He checked his watch. 10:47. He started the car and drove to Brattle Street, pulled up in front of 119, a majestic brick colonial on half an acre, behind fifty yards of stone wall and a semicircular driveway shaded by massive oaks. The place had to be worth at least $5 million. A Mercedes limousine, a Land Cruiser and three police cruisers were parked outside.
He got out of the car and walked toward the front door. A cop named Bob Fabrizio got out of his cruiser, headed over to him. Clevenger knew him from working another Cambridge case — a Harvard professor who’d murdered his wife. "What’s with the show of force?" Clevenger asked him.
"Paid detail," Fabrizio said. "The widow feels uneasy."
"Enough to order up three cruisers."
"Four. We had three available."
"I guess you can’t blame her," Clevenger said. "Her husband was shot about thirty hours ago."
"Hey, I don’t mind the work," Fabrizio said. "But it give this whole thing a little O.J. — JonBenet feeling, if you ask me."
"Meaning?"
"Four cruisers? Who does she think is coming for her, the frickin’ Mossad? You said it yourself: a show of force. Maybe this is all show. Maybe she wants to look good and scared, keep all eyes off her — or the son."
"You know anything about him?"
"Like every other cop in Cambridge. Two arrests, cocaine possession. One arrest, A and B. One malicious threatening. He called in a bomb threat to his prep school in Connecticut. He had a crude device on him, wouldn’t have ignited a Duraflame log. All charges were dismissed or continued without a finding. Fancy lawyers. Kid’s basically a hothead, but you never know. I mean, either this guy Snow killed himself, or he got killed by someone with access to his gun. Either way, the compass in my gut points right here."
"Thanks for the consult."
"No charge. Hey, how’s Billy doing?"
"Fine," Clevenger said, a little taken aback by Fabrizio’s interest. He sometimes forgot Billy had gotten famous from the Nantucket murder case that cost him his baby sister. Once his name was cleared, just about every national magazine ran a story about him. And when Clevenger adopted him, the feeding frenzy only intensified.
"Good to hear it," Fabrizio said. "We’re all rootin’ for him." He headed back toward his cruiser.
Clevenger walked up to the front door, rang the bell. Half a minute later a very pretty young woman with straight, long, light brown hair, and deep brown eyes opened the door. She was dressed in a tight-fitting, V-neck sweater and tighter Levi’s. She looked about twenty-two, twenty-three. "You’re from the police?" she asked.
"That’s right," he said, offering his hand. "Frank Clevenger."
She shook his hand in a halfhearted way, let it go. "Mom’s waiting for you in the living room."
Could she be just eighteen? he wondered. "You’re John Snow’s daughter?"
"Lindsey."
"I’m sorry about your dad."
Her eyes filled up. "Thank you," she said, just above a whisper. She stepped aside. "Straight ahead."
Clevenger walked along an oriental runner that took him past a turned staircase and down a hallway with white wainscoting and widely striped wallpaper of deep green and olive hues. Antique architectural drawings of Cambridge landmarks hung on the walls — probably Snow’s wife’s choice, as the architect in the family. The hallway ended in the
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