Free The Perfect Ghost by Linda Barnes Page A

chauffeur you around the city. All you had to do was give her the eye. And wait.
    If JFLY was shorthand for James Foley and 2nd BST BD meant you’d slept in the second-best bedroom here in the rental house, the one I’m sleeping in now, then what did HMB stand for? I did a quick tally of interviewees and failed to locate a match. Why had you been thinking about the Foley interview, a background piece we’d considered relatively unimportant? He’d mentioned Brooklyn Pierce; maybe that was the reason for your interest.
    I called Pierce’s agent and left a detailed message. I tried to keep my tone mild and unaccusatory, but I’m not sure I succeeded. While waiting for a callback, I paced the living room of the rented house and skimmed every other transcript that so much as mentioned Brooklyn Pierce. I Googled him, viewed his fan Web site, checked Wikipedia and the major magazine sites. Not a single gossip site placed him on the Cape; one swore he was filming in Australia, another put him in an L.A. rehab spa.
    How essential was it that I get an interview? His star had flickered since the Justice trilogy, but he was still a player. Even if there was currently more speculation about his bedmates than his upcoming movies, a few revelations from Brooklyn Pierce could mean an additional hundred thousand book sales. Hardly as large as the figures you’d scribbled on the yellow pad. I put my cell on the bedside table. It was three hours earlier in Los Angeles; his agent might return my call.
    I tried to sleep, but I kept pondering the identity of the man in the blue van who’d peered in the windows and crushed the neighbor’s crocuses. Inured as I was to ambulances wailing along Storrow Drive, the beep-beep of backing trucks, the shuffle of the elderly man in the overhead apartment, the strange and unexpected noises of the isolated Cape house alarmed me. A low hum issued from the heating system, punctuated by an occasional bang.
    I got up and rechecked the doors; front and rear were locked and chained. I shoved the backs of kitchen chairs under the handles for good measure, found my purse where I’d left it on the counter, and scrabbled in its depths for my bastard file.
    How you used to laugh about the bastard file; when I first mentioned it, you thought I meant “file” as in manila file folder, or possibly computer file. You never considered a metal file, a tool, till I held it under your nose. Clutching the file, admiring its heft in my hand, I climbed the creaky stairs. The wind whistled through the pines, a droning accompaniment to the faint pounding of waves on the shoreline. The ocean felt like a looming presence even though it was out of sight. I placed the file beside the silent cell phone on the bedside table.
    “Bastard” in conjunction with “file” refers to the fineness of the teeth, between middle and second cut. My file is technically a smooth knife-edge file, but the mechanically minded foster father who gave it to me termed it “bastard” as a joke, with the recommendation I use it only on its namesakes, of which he certainly counted as one. I drew the thin blanket close and huddled into a cocoon near the edge of the bed, well within reach of the file so I’d be able to grab it in case of emergency. The sheets felt rough and icy against my skin. Someone must have changed them. There was no smell of you on my pillow, but I was comforted by the thought that you’d slept here. The wind rattled as though it wanted to knock out the window glass and invade the room. Irritated by each ping and bump, I finally set the radio in between stations so the white noise would overwhelm the rest of the water torture.
    I must have doubled my Ambien by mistake because I woke late and groggy. Ashamed of my midnight fears in the piercing sun, I removed chains and chair backs and restored the metal file to my purse. Wrapped in my bathrobe, I spread peanut butter on toast, using sparse provisions brought from Boston. I