Fatal Connections

Chapter 25

I arrived at my apartment to the welcome sight of my newspaper, tossed up against the door. I opened the door, lined up the shot, then kicked it inside as though it were a misshaped soccer ball. Damn thing flew nearly halfway across the one-room studio, and in a straight line. New career option? I grinned at the thought. Yeah, right.

My first order of business was to eat something. The hospital food was surprisingly good, what I'd had of it. And it's not as if they had starved me. I just felt the need for some good old comfort food, something to keep me going.

Since I didn't have a handy master chef to whip up an award-winning omelet or anything that might involve using a recipe, I settled on heating up a big bowl of clam chowder in the microwave. While the soup was heating, I heard a faint scratching at the window that made me jump. When I looked, all I saw was a black squirrel. I went limp with relief and felt a little ridiculous. That recent blow to the head had done nothing to help relieve my PTSD. And I knew that squirrel.

"Hey, Rocky," I said. "Want a peanut?"

Rocky's bright, inquisitive eyes seemed to acquire additional sparkle, and he sat more upright as I reached inside a cabinet for the jar of unsalted peanuts. I twisted off the lid and opened the window. A chilly breeze blew in, but I doubted that any waste of energy due to my animal feeding ritual would make a dent in climate change. I quickly poured out a small pile of peanuts for Rocky, and he made no pretense of not wanting them. Even before I withdrew my hand and had closed the sliding screen and window, Rocky pounced as if he hadn't eaten in weeks and scarfed down half the pile of nuts in record time.

"It's not that bad out there, is it pal?" I muttered.

Rocky paused as if he'd heard me. He cocked his head my way, then turned back to the peanuts. Except that he began stuffing them in his cheeks.

"Okay," I said. "Good move." I laughed despite the weirdness of giving life advice to a squirrel.

I knew I should probably take it easy, but that so went against my nature. Instead, I did a few yoga stretches and ten minutes of meditation. That would have to do for now.

Then I turned my attention to who might have murdered the Harcourts. I now had a long list of possibilities. But first, I would have to do some triage and narrow down the list in terms of likelihood or importance as best I could with what little I knew.

In many cases, all I had was a first name and a position. Not overwhelmingly helpful. But I had noted a few things Amy mentioned. For instance, of the two cleaning ladies, Marta and Lupe, she recalled that Lupe's last name was Steinberg. Amy noted that Lupe's first name and occasional use of Spanish were an intriguing contrast to her Jewish surname. Apparently, Lupe reciprocated Amy's interest in her and had been something of an adult friend to her.

The three nannies also stood out, in that some of Amy's most vivid recollections were about them. She easily remembered the names: Astrid Gunderson, Ingrid Swenson, and Sasha Krikorian. As Amy recalled, Ingrid was the quiet one, Sasha was the strict one, and Astrid was the coolest one—and their last one.