McNulty didn’t feel ballsy. Right now he just wanted to find Amy and put the day behind him. He’d concentrated on everything he could remember and even drawn a diagram of where the victims had lain in relation to the doors and the focal point of the courtroom, the judge’s bench. Right where the actor playing the judge had been executed.
The detective glanced at his notes, gave the diagram a last once-over, and then looked at McNulty. “All you movie guys staying at the same place?”
McNulty pushed back from the table. “Yes.”
The detective stood up and waved for McNulty to go. “We’ll catch up with you tomorrow then.”
McNulty nodded then left the canteen. The person he wanted to catch up with had beaten him out by almost an hour.
Despite only being mid-afternoon, blue lights were still flashing on the road out front of the orphanage, a ribbon of light that extended around two sides and across Linden Street. Amy Moore was long gone but McNulty found Larry sitting opposite on a bench in the CVS parking lot. His shoulders were hunched and his chin rested on his chest. He looked drained and devoid of energy. McNulty sat beside him but didn’t speak. They both watched the blue lights as the crime scene was processed. Brilliant white flashes showed the interior of the courtroom was still being photographed. Larry sighed.
“When you reckon they’ll let us back in?”
McNulty threw the producer a sideways look. “You’re not thinking of carrying on?”
Larry turned on the bench. “Crazed gunman shoots judge on movie set.”
McNulty could see the publicity cogs turning behind Larry’s eyes. “He shot more than a judge.”
Larry tapped his thigh with one finger. “He shot a judge.” He waved toward the District Court building farther along the street. “Two hundred yards from a real judge.”
McNulty followed Larry’s gaze then looked back at the producer. “Nobody’s that stupid.”
Larry raised his eyebrows then pointed at the front of the orphanage. The façade was an exact replica of the District Courthouse, complete with a sign that read,
SECOND DISTRICT COURT
OF EASTERN MIDDLESEX
FOUR
The Crescent Motel on the south bank of the Charles River was abuzz with speculation and crosstalk. Filming had been shut down for the day and nobody knew when they’d be allowed back on set, so the cast and crew of Dead Naked had nothing to do but talk about the shooting. McNulty didn’t want to talk about the shooting, so he went to the Greenway Diner instead. Across the river from the motel. Far enough away to be private. Near enough to be a short walk from his room.
“You need more time, honey?” The waitress indicated the menu that McNulty hadn’t even looked at yet. She caught the distracted look on his face and understood. “There’s a more private booth back here.”
McNulty nodded his thanks and allowed himself to be ushered toward an alcove down one side. He slid into the booth but still didn’t look at the menu. The waitress gave him some time.
“Can I fetch a drink to start you off?”
McNulty nodded again. “Tea please. English Breakfast.”
The waitress didn’t write it down. “Coming right up.”
McNulty watched her walk to the counter then looked out of the window. Trees along the Charles River Greenway shaded the back of the diner but sunshine streamed through the front windows across the Moody Street Bridge. The river was a mirror of shattered reflections. McNulty watched the world go by as if nothing had happened. For most of the people crossing the bridge nothing had. For anybody who had been in the faux courthouse, life would never be the same again. That’s what cops dealt with every day, life-changing events and tragedies. McNulty was out of practice.
He puffed out his cheeks and rubbed his face until his eyes watered. He pulled the menu toward him and told himself to cheer up. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t injured. Nobody he loved had been caught in the crossfire. That word brought him up short. Love. Maybe a bit strong for how he felt about Amy Moore but definitely true about his sister.
Susan Carter flooded into his mind despite trying to keep her out. The two of them had been been separated at birth and brought up in Crag View Children’s Home back in Yorkshire. She had been sold into adoption to America before McNulty even knew he had a sister. They had recently reconnected, but McNulty hadn’t known how to deal with it. Like everything else in his life that he couldn’t handle, he’d buried it. Until filming at an orphanage and a massacre painted red had brought it all back.
“I thought I’d find you here.” Amy slid into the bench seat opposite and spun the menu. “What do you recommend?”
McNulty looked into the dark, intelligent eyes. “Blusher No3 and a bulletproof vest.” Proving he’d rediscovered his sense of humor if not his tact.
They both ordered something big. This being America, that wasn’t difficult. All the portions were big. People had different reactions to disaster and shock. Some went all shivery and weak. McNulty became hungry. He was surprised that Amy reacted in the same way.
She spoke between mouthfuls. “I guess you dealt with stuff like this all the time. When you were a cop.”
McNulty took a drink of his tea. “I was in Vice Squad. It was more sex than violence.”
Amy stopped chewing. “I thought sex crimes were about violence more than sex.”
McNulty put his cup down and nodded. “With rape, yes. I dealt with sex for money. Massage parlours mainly.”
Amy kept her eyes on McNulty. “Not mass shootings then?”
McNulty shook his head. “It was back in England. We didn’t have mass shootings.” He looked deep into Amy’s eyes and tried to read her feelings. He’d never been very good at that. He let out a sigh. “When I saw the blood under the door—next to your chair…”
Amy reached across the table and rested a hand on his. She squeezed it gently and gave a soulful smile. He didn’t need to explain how he felt. “You came in with a fire extinguisher.”
McNulty smiled back then looked out of the window. The Francis Cabot Lowell Mill across the road reminded him of the Yorkshire Mills in Bradford, only cleaner and newer. The riverside walk followed the perimeter and had been turned into a park where the Charles River narrowed at the weir. Sunlight turned the trees into dappled greens and yellows. The sky was powder blue and cloudless. A mother and her two daughters set out a picnic in the park. Amy followed his gaze and appeared to read his mind.
“You haven’t seen much of her since Quincy.”
His sister again. The woman he’d last seen as a five-year-old until she found him thirty years later in Quincy, Massachusetts. Grown up now with a daughter of her own. The sister he’d come to America to find. He wondered how much she remembered of what had happened at Crag View Children’s Home. He wondered if it was a good idea, bringing it back up after all these years. So, after the joy of reuniting with her, he’d become withdrawn, unsure how to proceed, insecure in his ability to make things right.
Amy showed she had more than just a cop’s way of coping with disaster. She led McNulty through the evidence to help him see what was obvious to her. She took it one step at a time. First step: “She found you after the sinking of the Manticore made the news.”
Second step: “Your name coming up in the story.”
A pause, then the third step: “The story being linked to Titanic Productions.”
She looked him in the eye and ran the next few steps together. “Titanic Productions is going to be all over today’s story. The shooting’s going to hit big on the news. People killed. People injured. She’s going to see that and know you were involved.”
She patted his hand again. “After learning she’s got a brother.” She squeezed it. “You think she wants to find out you got shot on national television?”
FIVE
McNulty put it off as long as he could but Amy was right, his sister deserved better. He phoned her and arranged to visit late
r that evening. He was still driving around in circles three hours later when he crossed the I-90 into Newtonville, three miles south as the crow flies and a lifetime away from where they had begun. He parked outside Newton North High School and wasted another thirty minutes staring at the junction with Kirkstall Road. There’d been a Kirkstall Road in Yorkshire, not a million miles from Crag View Children’s Home. Kirkstall Road, Newtonville, was a whole lot better. Susan had done well for herself.
The sun was slanting low across the front lawn when McNulty finally summoned the courage to pull into the drive. The Carter residence was the smallest house on the street, but that didn’t make it small. The white painted clapboard bungalow occupied the corner lot at the mouth of Kirkstall Road. The drive led to a doublewide basement garage with the traditional basketball hoop in the corner.
Susan came to the window above the garage and waved McNulty round the side. He parked and took a moment to calm his nerves. A door opened along the garden path. He got out and leaned against the car, took a deep breath, then went to see his sister.
“You sure I can’t fix you something to eat?”
The hug had been long and desperate, and it was ten minutes before Susan offered to feed the brother she’d only met twice since finding him at Quincy. The uncle with the strange accent fascinated Susan’s daughter, Tilly. She was five years old and looked just like her mother at the same age—the age she’d been when Mr. Cruckshank slapped her across the face, provoking McNulty to break the headmaster’s nose.
“I’ve eaten. Thanks.”
“Lemonade on the deck then?”
“Lemonade sounds good.”
Susan indicated a picnic table at the back of the house then went inside. Tilly simply sat and stared. There was no man about the house. McNulty knew his sister was divorced but he hadn’t delved into her personal life or financial situation. It was too soon for that. When she returned, the lemonade broke the ice. When Tilly got bored with the stranger and went to play, the conversation turned to what had brought him here today.
Susan went first. “It must have been terrible.”
The standard opening for people who hadn’t seen terrible things.
“It wasn’t good.”
Being slapped by the headmaster was the tip of the iceberg when it came to Crag View, but McNulty wondered how much Susan remembered of her life before America. It hadn’t been as bad as today’s massacre at Chester Brook, but at five years old the scars must run deep. If she bore a grudge she didn’t show it.
“Did you know any of them?”
McNulty took a sip of lemonade. “In passing. Not well. Most were extras, hired in for a few days.” He put the glass on the table. “I knew a few of the cast and crew who were there. Not the ones who were…” He shrugged. There was no need to say more.
Susan looked at her brother. “But you’re okay?”
McNulty met her gaze. He wanted to ask her the same thing, about all those years ago, but it wasn’t a question he knew how to ask. “Hi, Susan, did the child abuse at Crag View mess you up or are you okay now?” Instead he gave the answer she would no doubt have given him. “I’m fine.”
There didn’t seem to be any mileage in that line of questioning so Susan changed the subject. “The movies.” She threw up her hands. “Wow. That must be exciting.”
McNulty toyed with his glass. “It’s different.”
Susan crossed one leg and leaned sideways against the table. “From being a cop.”
It seemed strange, his sister using Americanisms in her speech. There was no trace of the Yorkshire accent. There was nothing left of being English at all. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he set off on his quest to find her, once he’d learned she’d been adopted in America.
“Being in the police helped people more than working for Larry,” he said.
Susan turned steady eyes on her brother. “Helping people being your purpose in life.”
McNulty couldn’t meet her eyes. He kept his down, looking at his hands. “It’s what the police do.”
Susan lowered her voice. “It’s what you do.” Then she broke his heart. “I remember, you know. In the headmaster’s office.”
McNulty looked into her eyes but said nothing.
Susan spoke in a whisper. “You were my hero.” Her voice trembled. “It’s all I remember.”
McNulty cleared his throat and glanced toward the setting sun. It was still bright and stung his eyes. He rubbed them clear then turned back to his sister. “I didn’t know who you were.”
Susan nodded. “That makes it even better.”
McNulty shook his head. “No it doesn’t. If I’d known I wouldn’t have let them send you away.”
It was Susan’s turn to wipe her eyes. “We were two kids in an orphanage. There’s nothing you could have done.”
McNulty was almost pleading. “I could have tried.”
Susan rattled the ice in her glass then indicated the house. “I look forward not back. It worked out okay.”
It had been a long hard road but McNulty had to agree. He wasn’t a cop anymore but he lived in America and worked in the movie industry. The pay was good, his colleagues were friendly, and people weren’t trying to kill him on a daily basis. Today’s incident aside. He had to remind himself that life as a British Bobby wasn’t as dangerous as its American equivalent. At least when they tried to bottle or stab you they had to be standing pretty close. Gun culture meant they could kill you from across the street.
Susan put her glass down and smiled. “It did feel a bit like coming full circle though. When I heard you were filming at Chester Brook.”
McNulty gave a little laugh. “It being an orphanage, you mean?”
Susan looked closely at his expression. Realization dawned on her face. “You didn’t know.” She put added affection into her voice. “Chester Brook was the orphanage that brought me over here.”
SIX
The upshot of that was a long meeting with a man McNulty didn’t want to meet. When Susan asked him to help he gave a typically brusque and heartfelt response.
“I don’t help orphanages.”
The flipside of being heartfelt was the look on his sister’s face. He stood up to it for as long as he could but then he crumbled and agreed to meet Harlan DeVries.
The sun had gone down but the sky was still two shades away from being night. Tilly was in bed. McNulty sat with his sister on the deck overlooking the sunken driveway. The porch light threw the garage doors beneath the house into shadow. When the car pulled up behind McNulty’s, the driver got out and stood for a moment under the basketball hoop. Harsh light slanted across him, reminding McNulty of The Exorcist. The comparison didn’t fill him with confidence. Susan stood and waved for the man to come up. She looked happy to see him. That tempered McNulty’s reluctance.
Harlan DeVries was pushing sixty but carrying it well. He was tall and slim with the easy grace of a man who took life in stride. His short grey hair was neatly trimmed. His voice had the calm gravitas of Gregory Peck and his face exuded friendly trustworthiness. He could have been your favorite uncle. McNulty didn’t have a favorite uncle, so he distrusted him immediately.
Harlan came up the deck steps and stood at the railing. He sensed the hurt and hostility being generated, so he preserved McNulty’s personal space by standing at the top of the stairs. “I understand.” He gave a sad little smile. “Thank you for seeing me.”
McNulty didn’t respond. Harlan took one step forward. “Your experiences don’t paint adoption in a good light.”
McNulty didn’t stand up to greet him. “You have no idea about my experiences.”
Harlan stayed where he was. “Actually, I do.” He sighed. “When the scandal broke at Crag View, I severed all ties. I didn’t want Chester Brook being tarnished by a few bad eggs.”
“A few?”
“A lot. As it turned out. But not at Chester Brook.” He held his hands out, p
alms up. “If you’ll let me explain.” He lowered his arms. “I’ll tell you why this is important.”
Susan brought tea and cookies out to the deck. It was dark now but still warm enough to be comfortable, and it felt like this was a conversation best suited for outside. Darkness swallowed the surroundings, but a cocoon of light bound the three adults together. Crickets sounded all around. Harlan waited until Susan had finished serving tea, then relaxed into his chair.
“After our son was born my first wife couldn’t have any more children.” He stirred sugar into his cup. “We hadn’t intended to stop at one. When Adam was ten we felt his loneliness. We wanted him to have a brother to play with. To grow up with.”
He finished stirring and tapped the cup. It rang like a bell. “We adopted Tom when he was five.” Harlan smiled at a memory. “Adam couldn’t understand why he wasn’t always twice as old as his brother.” He let out a sigh. “We were Tom’s last chance. He’d been fostered several times but was always returned to the orphanage. He had…”—Harlan searched for a diplomatic way of explaining— “…stress issues. Bed wetting. Cutting his sheets. Things like that.”
He took a sip of his tea then looked at McNulty. “We almost sent him back ourselves but I couldn’t do it. At the age of five the children move into the permanent wing. No more adoptions after that. So we kept him. And he blossomed.” He lowered his eyes as he searched for another memory. “I remember his saying, a good while later, that the first time he felt like he belonged, was part of a family, was when we took him on vacation with us.”
He smiled again. “He settled in pretty quickly after that.”
The crickets paused and the night went quiet. Susan sat huddled in her chair, not because it was cold but to assuage the tension she was feeling. McNulty sat straight-backed and belligerent. Harlan nodded his understanding. He knew he’d have to earn this man’s trust. The crickets started up again. Harlan continued.
Tracking Shot Page 2
