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As Sean moved down the road he saw the row of bungalows up ahead. The first one was dark, the second one—Monk Turing’s place—had a light on in the front window. All of these residences were constructed of red brick and looked to be about twenty-five hundred square feet in size. Nice digs, he thought. The small lawns were well kept; the picket fences in front neatly painted. Pots of colorful flowers sat on the steps leading up to the front door. It was like one of those idyllic paintings depicting life as it never really was. From inside the house Sean could hear someone playing a piano. He opened the gate and headed up the sidewalk to the front porch.
He eyed a pile of sports equipment on a small bench on the porch. A couple of golf drivers, a basketball, a baseball and a first baseman’s glove were among the items there. Sean picked up the glove; it smelled of well-oiled leather. Turing must’ve been into sports, probably to relax after all the brain work.
Sean peered through the screen door. A plumpish woman dressed in a robe with slippers on her feet was asleep on the couch. There was no sign of a guard. In the far corner of the room sat a baby grand. Playing the piano was a young girl. She had long, white blond hair and pale skin. While Sean was standing there she switched from classical, Rachmaninoff Sean thought, to an Alicia Keys piece he recognized, without missing a beat.
Viggie Turing looked up and saw him. She wasn’t startled. She didn’t even stop playing.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice surprised Sean because it came from behind him. He turned and saw the woman right at his elbow.
He held out his badge. “I’m Sean King. I’m down here investigating Monk Turing’s death.”
“I know that,” the woman said tersely. “I meant what are you doing here, at this house? At this hour?”
She was in her mid-thirties, about five-five. Her red hair was short, parted on the side with a little flip halfway down her neck. The front door light was on so he could see that her skin was freckled and her eyes a milky green. She had on jeans, black loafers and a corduroy shirt. The lips were too full for the thin face, the shoulders a bit too wide for the frame, the nose not quite in sync with the eyes, the chin too sharp for the neighboring square ja
w. And yet with all that asymmetry, she was one of the loveliest women Sean had ever seen.
“I was just taking a stroll. I heard Viggie, I presume that’s her playing the piano, and just stopped to listen.” He assumed that was enough information to allow him to ask a question of his own. “And you are?”
“Alicia Chadwick.”
“She’s an amazing pianist,” Sean commented.
The milky green eyes settled back on him. “She’s an amazing child in many ways.” She put a hand on his sleeve and pulled him away from the door. “Let’s talk. There are some things you need to know.”
He smiled. “You’re the first person I’ve met here that’s willing to talk.”
“Reserve your judgment until you hear what I have to say.”
CHAPTER
18
FIVE MINUTES LATER ALICIA LED SEAN up the stone steps of a large green clapboard house with a cedar shake roof and broad front porch. He followed her inside into a comfortable study lined with books. A desk stood in the middle of the room with a large flat screen computer monitor on it. She motioned with a finger toward a worn leather chair while she plopped down in the swivel chair behind the desk.
He watched with interest as she put her right leg up on her desk and pulled on the lower section of her pants. The Velcro strip came free about mid-thigh and that part of the pants leg came away in her hand. It was then that Sean could see the highly polished metal and straps underneath. She undid the leg straps, unloosened a few levers, and set the prosthetic with the black loafer still on it down on her desk. Then Alicia rubbed at the spot where her flesh had met aluminum.
She glanced up at him. “I’m sure Emily Post and her progeny would condemn a person showing off her artificial leg to a complete stranger but I don’t really care. Ms. Post, I assume, never had to walk around in one of these all day. And even with all the technological advances they still can hurt like hell.”
“How did it happen?” Sean asked as she popped three Advil with the aid of a glass of water poured from a carafe on her desk. “I’m sorry. You may not want to talk about it,” he added quickly.
“I don’t like to waste time and I can be blunt. I’m a mathematician by training, but a linguist by passion. My father was in the Foreign Service and we traveled extensively in the Middle East when I was young. Consequently, I can speak Arabic and Farsi and several other dialects the U.S. government has deemed valuable. Four years ago, I volunteered as an interpreter in Iraq for the State Department. For two years things were going all right until I was riding in a Humvee near Mosul when it rolled over an IED. I regained consciousness in Germany a week later to find that not only had I lost seven days of my life, but most of my right leg as well. I was lucky though. Only two people survived the explosion, myself and another man, who pulled me to safety. They told me the only thing left of the driver sitting next to me was his torso. Shrapnel trajectory in enclosed spaces is hardly an exact science. However, my country completely rehabbed me and gave me this wonderful accoutrement.” She patted the artificial leg.
“I’m sorry,” Sean said. He inwardly marveled at her ability to talk so dispassionately about what must have been a horrific event.
Alicia settled back in her chair and studied him closely. “I still have no idea why they brought you down here.”
“There’s been a mysterious death and I’m a detective.”
“That part I can follow. They’ve had enough policemen down here to have Jack the Ripper himself shaking in his blood-soaked boots. But they’re all government people, you’re private.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning they can’t really control you, can they?”
“I don’t know, can they?” She didn’t answer him so he said, “You mentioned you had some things to tell me?”
