Love You to Death

by Grant Michaels

  7

  DADDYCAKES

  AFTER VOMITING MOST OF THE CHOCOLATE BUNNY, Tobias was slumped drowsy-eyed on the sofa, getting ready for an early-afternoon snoozette. I made a fast call to a local poison-control center to report his symptoms, just in case it was poison that he’d ingested. Also, with the ghastly amount of sugar Tobias had just consumed, there was the chance of an undiscovered diabetic complication. But the hospital folk assured me that it was a common syndrome around the candy-laden holidays like Valentine’s Day and Easter. The best remedy was to abstain from sugar and to keep the boy’s body moving. That was just what I wanted to hear, since I intended to set out immediately for Station E of the Boston Police Department and confront Detective Lieutenant Vito Branco, the burly cop whose path was once again crossing mine … or was mine crossing his?

  I shook Tobias gently.

  “Tobias, wake up. We have to go out again.”

  “Noo-o,” he groaned. “I’m tired.”

  “We have to go, and I can’t leave you here alone.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.” I yanked at him, and he resisted heavily with his whole little body. It turned into a kind of game, with him being as passive as possible and me trying to rouse him gently but persistently. Eventually the sheer attention of it all got him awake enough so that we could venture out. For what seemed the thousandth time that winter, I donned the layers of heavy clothing for a trip to the police station. On one arm I supported a drowsy boy, while with the other I juggled the recently arrived box of Valentine’s truffles. I also wondered again about taking Branco the candy I’d lifted from Laurett’s place last night. Part of me wanted to know if that stuff was poisoned, but another part of me felt like a Judas, betraying a friend I’d promised to help. So I decided to withhold that evidence a little longer. I hailed a cab and headed for Station E. Once inside the cab, Tobias dozed off again almost immediately. He’d hit the sugar slump.

  Station E of the Boston Police Department is one of the crown jewels of Boston’s municipal restorations. Its granite pillars and portico give the illusion of stately authority and protection and trust from days gone by, the so-called better days. It shares the same neighborhood as the recently developed Boston Center for the Arts, almost as a reminder to performers and audiences to desist from having too much fun. And, since the station building is an official historical landmark, all maintenance and renovation must be in keeping with its original design: no skylights, no smoked glass, no fluorescent lights in the public areas, no threat of conversion to condominiums.

  I paid the driver and carried Tobias inside. He was sleeping heavily, but he almost looked unconscious. Now was the time to flip that ON/OFF switch, if only I could find it. The desk sergeant asked with concern if the boy needed help. I assured him that Tobias was just sleepy, and that the urgency of my meeting with Lieutenant Branco had required me to drag the kid along with me. The sergeant responded in a friendly way, without the usual brusqueness I receive from heavy-duty straight men. Perhaps my holding a young boy in my arms imbued me with a kind of procreative aura, the kind of power that the breeding male believes is his exclusive domain. I guess having a man-child does have its advantages.

  The sergeant called Branco and announced me, and surprisingly, Branco said to send me in right away. I figured he’d make up some excuse not to see me, since for someone like Branco contending with someone like me, a little goes a long way.

  The sergeant offered to put Tobias in Station E’s “day-care center” while I talked with the lieutenant. The day-care center turned out to be a single windowless room—probably a converted interrogation chamber—containing a crib, a diaper changing table, a playpen, and a plastic tricycle. So much for the City of Boston’s official attempt at progressive ordinances for working parents. On the bright side, since there were no other children in the room today—or probably any other time, since the distinctive litter of young humans was missing—Tobias had the place all to his quiet little self. He was so sleepy he didn’t even notice that I was leaving him alone. Such a peaceful picture.

  Which in no way resembled my visit—or should I call it my confrontation?—with Branco. When I entered his office, he was seated at his desk, leaning back in the oak swivel chair and talking on the telephone. I wondered why he was always on the phone when I went to see him. Was he really so busy? Or did he just like to set the tone of the meeting—that he was in charge? I knew I was in for trouble when he lifted his long legs and rested his feet on the corner of his desk. The pose showed off the long lines of his muscular thighs and the dense strength of his calves all pressing against the fabric of his fine worsted slacks. The pose also showed a curious contradiction: For all his macho intent and behavior, Branco’s favored shoe was not the typical cop’s snubtoed blucher, but instead a sleek black loafer, polished to a chromium shine. And he chose the beefy moccasin style made in Maine, not the stylish slip-ons from Italy.

  He finished his conversation with a wry smile and lively eyes, and I was a little jealous of the lucky person who was receiving such rare warmth from him. Then he slammed the receiver down, put his feet back on the floor, and stared at me coldly. “What do you want?”

  “You sure know how to make a guy feel welcome, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m not running a charm school here. If you have something to say, go ahead.”

  “Fine. What are the grounds for charging Laurett Cole with manslaughter?”

  “You her lawyer?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Then where do you get off nosing around here?”

  The only place I wanted to put my nose in that room would have got me arrested.

  “She’s my friend, Lieutenant. Ever have one of those?”

  “I got friends,” he said. Then he leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. “But they don’t kill people. Laurett Cole may have wanted just to scare that guy, but her plan backfired, and he’s dead now.”

  “But it wasn’t intentional.”

  “The poisoning was.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  Branco leaned forward, pressing his fabulous strong hands against the distressed top of the old oak desk. “Kraychik, she admitted giving him the chocolate. What the lab found in his mouth and stomach contained enough cyanide to kill five healthy adults. She’s lucky the charge isn’t first-degree murder.”

  That wasn’t what Laurett had told me. Once again I wondered, Had she planned to poison her boyfriend or husband or whoever the dead guy was? The only thing that might drive her to such desperate action would be a threat to Tobias, and from what he had told me already about the dead man, sexual abuse was quite possible.

  “Lieutenant, Laurett told me how it all happened last night with those chocolates. One of the special truffles had been damaged, obviously by whoever put the poison into it, so she replaced that truffle with another one. She had no intention of hurting anyone. That guy took it and ate it after she’d left the kitchen. That’s how he got the dose of cyanide. But it was really supposed to go to Prentiss Kingsley. That’s what I came here to tell you, among other things.”

  Branco leaned back in his chair again and studied me through narrowed eyes. He pursed his lips and shook his head in a slow no, as if to say, “Convince me.” I could almost feel his thoughts about me. I suppose that someone with my genetic makeup would naturally rile the blood of someone like him: I was a hairdresser, he was a cop; I was resilient, he was rigid; and I preferred men, while Branco had no visible sexual preference. He couldn’t consider me a full-fledged man in his terms, but neither could he consider me part of the helpless half of the world who needed his protection, the half that included women, children, and old folks.

  He took a deep breath and held it for a moment. I could see his jaw muscles clenching. “Kraychik,” he said, easing the air out slowly, as though trying to release a seething internal pressure without exploding, “I want you out of my office, and I
don’t want to see you here again unless I call you. Is that clear?”

  “Jeez, Lieutenant, I’m just trying to be a good scout, fighting for truth, justice, and the American Way.”

  “Out!”

  “But I brung ya deez.” I held out the heart-shaped box of truffles to him.

  The handsome cop shook his head and muttered, “Christ!” Then his face became stern. “What’s that?” he asked coldly.

  “It’s chocolate. I thought you’d want it.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No, Lieutenant. It’s serious. Take it.”

  He sat upright in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his big chest—classic defensive body talk.

  He said, “I never did anything to encourage this kind of behavior from you.”

  “I’m only doing what’s right, Lieutenant.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want it.”

  “Then what should I do with it?”

  “Give it to someone who feels the same way you do.”

  “But it might be evidence.”

  Branco’s eyes opened with their glorious light. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “They were outside my door today. I don’t know who sent them, but they’re certainly Le Jardin merchandise. So I figured they might provide some clues for you.”

  Branco pondered this a moment, then chuckled nervously. “I thought maybe …” He smiled vaguely. “I thought with Valentine’s Day … and you. I thought …” Then he actually laughed. It was the first time I’d ever heard Branco laugh, and in that new moment of hearing him and seeing him, I wanted him to laugh more, and for me to laugh with him. But he must have sensed my thoughts, because he quickly caught himself and regained his copness.

  “So it’s not a gift?” he asked.

  “Why would I give you a gift?”

  He took the box stiffly. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll send this down to the lab.” Then he stood up abruptly and put on his overcoat. It was a full-cut job in heavy charcoal-colored melton. On someone else it might have been a mere stylish tog, but on Branco it had the aura of a sacred garment. He opened the door and gestured with his right hand for me to leave. “We’re finished here.”

  “Late lunch?” I asked on my way out the door.

  Branco scowled. “I’m gone for the day.”

  “So early? It’s only three o’clock.”

  “Kraychik, if you’re playing timekeeper, why don’t you mark down that I’ve been on duty here since eight a.m. yesterday morning.”

  “Eight a.m. in the morning is redundant, Lieutenant.”

  Branco grunted.

  I never intended to be sarcastic with him, but it always seemed to happen. I sometimes wished we could be friends, bonding-buddies who touch each other easily and share pitchers of beer and the stories of their petty victories and losses. But if Branco ever touched me, or I him, I’m afraid the symptoms of my style of male bonding would become protrudingly obvious.

  He headed down a busy corridor on his way out of the station, and I tagged alongside him. With his long legs, Branco moved easily, yet his step was almost silent against the marble-tiled floor, not the typical clumping tread of authority. His overcoat, still unbuttoned, unfurled itself around and behind him like a big dark cape.

  “Lieutenant, I was at the Gladys Gardner factory this morning, and I think they’re hiding something.”

  “I don’t care, Kraychik. I’m off duty now.”

  “But they wouldn’t show me where Le Jardin makes their truffles.”

  “Believe it or not, they have a right to privacy, especially from people like you.”

  “But I think the poisoned truffle came from that factory. Someone in that place loaded that truffle with cyanide.”

  “It could have been done anywhere. In fact, it’s a strange thing—we searched Laurett Cole’s place and didn’t find one piece of chocolate there. Now, for a woman who was supposed to be managing a chocolate shop, wouldn’t you say that’s odd?”

  “Well …” I replied haltingly, since I was withholding that very evidence myself. “Maybe she’s just so sick of the stuff that she couldn’t stand the sight of it at home. I mean, I don’t keep hair rollers and frosting caps around.”

  “But wouldn’t she have some of it around for her boy?”

  “No, no, Lieutenant. His nutritional health always comes first,” I lied. “I think what happened, though, is that you were looking for incriminating evidence at Laurett’s place and you didn’t find it. So rather than believe the facts, you’d prefer to suspect foul play.”

  “Those are your words.”

  “Isn’t there a chance you’re on the wrong track?”

  Branco stopped walking and faced me.

  “You are on the wrong track, Kraychik. We’ve got a corpse, a suspect, and a motive. All you’ve got are some crazy ideas.”

  “But—”

  “I told you, I’m off duty.” He turned away from me angrily and walked toward a door marked MEN. What could I do but follow?

  Inside, the walls had been refurbished with slabs of grey marble three-quarters of the way up, the remainder painted with high-gloss enamel in a cozy shade of robin’s-egg blue. The floor was a spotless mosaic of tiny white hexagonal tiles. Everything was austere and functional. Even the cool air was heady with pine disinfectant. Branco stationed himself at one of two urinals while I washed my hands. I always wash first. You would too if you had your hands in other people’s hair all day. Don’t worry, though—at the shop, I wash afterwards as well.

  Branco glanced at me, then fixed his gaze on the marble wall directly in front of him. I stood at the urinal next to him. Odd, but it seemed a kind of friendly thing to do together, Branco and me, as though we were re-enacting some kind of archetypal ritual: No matter what we do, or who we like, or how we feel, this is how men pee. So I’m standing there, gushing forth with my usual noisy splash, imagining all kinds of anthropological evolutions, how this act hasn’t changed much through the millennia, that zillions of men have peed like this, and with any luck, zillions more will too. I mean, I wasn’t thinking sex, per se. But then what happens? Branco suddenly turns away from his place and goes into one of the empty stalls. Then he closes the door and latches it as though he’s afraid of catching something from me. I felt horrible. And then, just as suddenly, when I finally heard his tentative flow, I understood his behavior. Lieutenant Vito Branco, that unnerving male animal with a magnificent body and a powerful will, that epitome of Italian machismo, was pee-shy.

  He emerged from the stall and washed his hands at the sink, while practicing his sullen look in the mirror. I pretended to adjust my short hair in another part of the same mirror. Branco frowned at my reflection. I stared directly back into the reflection of his eyes, my whole face one big dopey grin. His lips seemed just about to lapse into a smile too, but instead he began methodically checking his teeth in the mirror.

  Outside, in the cold air, Branco’s curly black hair glistened in the bright sun. The guy could have been a magazine model in his youth, but in those days the publishers were still reluctant to put such sensual men on their front covers. I followed him to his car, a vintage Alpha Romeo coupe whose once vibrant racing-green lacquer was now discolored and matte.

  “Lieutenant, will you at least question the people at the chocolate factory?”

  Branco looked at me wearily. “Kraychik, I told you to stop intruding. I know you want to help your friends, but you re getting in the way.”

  “I’m finding facts.”

  Branco shook his head no. “You’re just repeating what other people tell you. For all you know, everyone is lying to you. Why don’t you wait until tomorrow, and see what kind of cockeyed theory you come up with then?”

  “Tomorrow may be too late, Lieutenant. There’s a killer still out there who wants Prentiss Kingsley dead. Why should he stop just because you’re tired?”

  “If that’s true, he won’t stop.” Branco got into t
he car. “But I don’t think it’s true.”

  He closed the door and started the engine, while I vainly polished a small spot on the hood with my fingertip. “Car needs a paint job, Lieutenant.”

  A small cloud of blue smoke rose from the exhaust pipe. “And a ring job,” he replied, and then pulled away, gunning the Alpha’s engine to make its distinctive wild, roaring sound.

  I kicked at the soot-blackened snowdrift at the edge of the sidewalk, then turned up Berkeley Street and walked back to the shop. For some unknown reason, in spite of the typical argumentative exchange with Branco, I felt that a weight had been lifted from me. I walked more easily than I had since the killing last night, and I felt my legs reaching out freely with their usual long. stride. At least Branco and I had long legs in common. That was something, wasn’t it? The walk felt good, and I thought maybe if I did more of it, I’d finally shed the extra weight I carried around my middle. It wasn’t until I got to the shop and greeted Nicole that I realized what I’d done, or forgotten to do.