Point Of Departure. Laurie Breton
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has the agency been lucrative?”
“Lucrative enough. There are always start-up costs involved in running your own business, and it takes a year or two before you really begin to see any profits. But yes, the last three years, since Kaye came on board, we’ve done quite well.”
“And she’s been married to your brother for how long?”
“Two and a half years. They met at a dinner party at my house.”
“So you knew Kaye before your brother did.”
“Yes. Over the years, we’d met two or three times—real estate’s a small world. Even in a city the size of Boston, you keep running into the same people. But we didn’t really know each other as anything more than nodding acquaintances. She was recommended to me by Marty Scalia, a close friend of mine. He runs the Scalia Agency. I worked for five years for Marty before I left to start my own agency. When I realized I needed a partner, I turned to Marty because I knew he had his finger on the pulse of the local real estate world. Kaye had come to work for him after changing agencies a couple of times. She was a rising star, on her way up. He recommended her to me. It’s a decision I’ve never had reason to regret.”
“Is that common?” Policzki said. “Hopping from agency to agency?”
“It’s not uncommon. An agent can sell real estate anywhere, but like anything else, it’s better to have the right fit.”
Policzki crossed the room and sat on the arm of the couch, uncomfortably close to her. “Where were you today, Ms. DeLucca?”
Another facet of Johnny Winslow’s legacy sprang to life in full Technicolor: rampant paranoia. “Excuse me?” she said. “Are you implying that I might have had something to do with this—this mess? Because if you are, Detective, I resent the implication.”
“It’s a routine question,” Abrams said. “You’re one of the most significant people in Kaye Winslow’s life. The homicide, and her disappearance, took place at one of your real estate listings. We have to ask.”
Mia raised her chin. “I was at a conference in Springfield. I left at six-thirty this morning and got back about a half hour ago.”
Policzki said, “Is there anybody who can confirm your whereabouts?”
Every time the young detective opened his mouth, she liked him a little less. Of their own volition, her fists clenched. Forcing them to relax, she snapped, “Just the hundred and fifty real estate agents who attended the seminar I ran from two to four this afternoon, ‘Maintaining Strong Sales in a Troubled Economy.’ I can give you a brochure if you don’t believe me.”
Abrams scribbled something on a notepad. Ignoring Mia’s sarcasm, she said, “If we need it, we’ll ask.” She dropped the pad into her briefcase and snapped it shut. Rising from the chair, she said, “Dr. Winslow, we’ll need a recent photo of your wife. A good, clear one.”
“Check the agency Web page,” Mia said. “You’ll find a recent photo.”
Policzki reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat, briefly flashing his service revolver in its underarm holster, and pulled out a couple of business cards and a pen. He handed one of the cards to Mia, then flipped over the second one and wrote the URL she gave him on the back.
“That’ll do for now,” Abrams said. “I trust you’ll both be available if we have any more questions.”
To Mia, it sounded vaguely like a threat. She glared at Abrams, then at her stone-faced partner. “So what happens next?”
“We keep doing what we’ve been doing, and hope we get a break. We’ll contact you if there’s anything you need to know. We’d appreciate you doing the same. If you think of anything, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem, please call. Oh, and one more thing. We’ll need you to make up a list of Kaye Winslow’s friends, coworkers, people she sees on a regular basis. Names, addresses, phone numbers if you have them. Everybody who’s a significant part of her life. We’d like it as soon as possible.”
Was there any end to the woman’s demands? Mia followed them to the front hall and held the door for them. Abrams breezed out without so much as a goodbye, but Policzki paused at the threshold. His eyes met Mia’s and stayed there for an instant. “Have a nice evening,” he said.
“Right,” Mia said. “You, too.”
And she slammed the door behind them.
The house seemed too quiet. Even the movement of traffic on nearby Tremont Street seemed hushed and distant. Sam returned to the living room, his footsteps silent on the Aubusson carpet. His coloring was ashen, his hair a mess from his habit of raking nervous fingers through it. “Can I get you a drink?” he offered. “Glass of wine? Something stronger? You look like you could use one.”
“That goes double for you,” Mia said. “Scotch, if you have it. What the hell is this all about, Sam?”
He moved to the bar, dropped ice from a bucket into a pair of squat glasses and poured two fingers of Glenlivet into them. Crossing the room, he handed one to her. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Who is this dead guy? Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”
He sat down across from her, in the chair that Lorna Abrams had used. “Of course not,” he said. But he didn’t meet her eyes, and Mia felt a flicker of fear.
“Sam?” she prodded.
He let out a long-suffering sigh and closed his eyes. “Fine,” he said, opening them again. “I might as well tell you. We had a terrible fight the other night.” Still avoiding her gaze, he lowered his chin to his chest and studied the movement of the ice cubes swirling around in his glass. “I said reprehensible things to her. Every one of them true, but still—” He raised the drink and knocked it back in a single swallow. “I didn’t tell them.”
“The cops? Why?”
His troubled eyes finally met hers. “There’s no sense in confusing the issue,” he stated. “I don’t want Abrams and Policzki wasting their time focusing on me. They need to find her.”
This wasn’t adding up. “Why would they focus on you?”
“Are you kidding? The husband’s always the first person they look at. And I don’t have an alibi for the time in question. If only I’d known she was going to disappear—” He choked back a laugh. “I could have managed to manufacture one.”
“Oh, Sam.”
Darkly, he said, “Good thing Mom never lived to see this day.”
Their mother had died far too young. Johnny Winslow had seen to that, and Mia still hated him for it. But Mom’s death had nothing to do with this situation. Bringing it up was Sam’s way of redirecting Mia’s attention.
“Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself,” she said.
“Damn right, I’m feeling sorry for myself! Yesterday, my life was rolling along the way it always does. Stale and boring and comfortably predictable. Now my wife is missing, she might have been involved in a homicide, and I can’t even tell the cops the truth for fear of tying a noose around my neck.”
“You don’t think her disappearance has anything to do with your fight?”
“I don’t know what the hell to think.”
“What was the fight about?”
He lifted clear blue eyes to hers. “Please. Allow me a little dignity. Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.”
“When was any fight ever pretty? But why keep it from the cops, if you don’t have anything to hide?” She gave her brother a long, considering look. “You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”
“For God’s sake, Mia. Don’t