“Fair enough.”
I found the books he’d mentioned and several others of similar ilk. The same stories—half-assed anecdotes, really—were repeated in each of them with little variation, but of the bunch, Haunted Hub was the most promising. It was more detailed, it debunked several urban myths reported as fact in the other books, and best of all, the author lived in Boston and he’d thanked his agent in the acknowledgments. Tracking him down shouldn’t be difficult.
Another idea had occurred to me as well. When Emerson took over the Charlesgate in 1981, the building came with several rent-controlled tenants the college had been powerless to evict. At least one of them still lived in the building, and she was a legendary presence on the third floor, regarded by some as yet another supernatural manifestation. New residents were inevitably shaken to encounter what appeared to be a sixty something bag lady, often smoking a cigar and muttering to herself as she made her way between the elevator and her apartment. No one knew her name and everyone was convinced she hated the students who surrounded her with a white-hot fury. Yet she was the only link between Charlesgate’s current incarnation and its murky past. I would have to talk to her, or at least try.
I figured the odds of reaching a literary agent at his office on Sunday afternoon were long, but it was still too early to head back to the dorm if Operation Avoid Purple Debbie was going to be a success. I took a leisurely stroll to the Nickelodeon and saw Blue Velvet for the third time. Even with my student discount it was a costly avoidance strategy, but I figured I was safer with Frank Booth than with Purple Debbie at this point.
The movie ended at quarter to six and I was still in no hurry to get back home, so I headed over to Pizza Pad for a slice. After a moment’s hesitation, I ordered a beer with it. So much for never drinking again. They didn’t even check my ID.
I took a seat in a booth near a television broadcasting the six o’clock news on WBZ. The sportscaster was previewing the American League Championship Series between the Red Sox and the California Angels, set to get underway the following night at Fenway Park, just two blocks from where I sat. Several members of the team, including first baseman Bill Buckner, commented on the team’s postseason hopes.
“The dreams are that you’re gonna have a good series and win,” said Buckner. “The nightmares are that you’re gonna let the winning run score on a ground ball through your legs. Those things happen, you know. I think a lot of it is just fate.”
I wish I could tell you this struck me as either a profoundly sane admission from a professional athlete or a jinx for the ages, but the fact is, it hardly made an impression at the time. I was too wrapped in my own problems to give much thought to the baseball playoffs I’d been hyped up for just a few days earlier. Truthfully, I wasn’t quite sure why I was so intent on avoiding Purple Debbie. I’d never thought of her in any kind of romantic context, both because of her incessant yammering about her boyfriend and my own unrealistic feelings for Jackie St. John. And it’s not that Purple Debbie wasn’t cute, but…she just seemed too high school to seriously consider as a romantic prospect, even though she was actually a few weeks older than me.
Still, I wasn’t particularly proud of my chosen course of avoidance. She was a friend, after all, and a floormate I’d have to see on a nearly daily basis no matter what happened. Who knows, maybe we’d both laugh it off and everything would go back to normal.
I trudged back to Charlesgate with two equally disquieting goals: to clear the air with Purple Debbie and to interview the residential tenant on the third floor. As Bill Buckner had predicted, it all came down to fate. When the elevator opened in the Charlesgate lobby, I nearly ran straight into Purple Debbie.
“Oh…hey,” I managed.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Uh, well…I’m working on this piece for the Beacon. A series, actually. I’ve been mostly holed up at the public library, but I was looking for you earlier.”
“Uh-huh.”
I glanced over at the RA on duty at the front desk. It was the pompous dude from the second floor who made a point of letting everyone know he was a direct descendant of Patrick Henry.
“Hey, can we talk somewhere a little more private?”
“Actually, I have a date,” she said.
“Oh. Wow. Back on the horse, huh?”
“A date with Chad. My boyfriend.”
“Uhhh…okaaay.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just…I thought I heard you two broke up?”
“Who told you that?”
“Uh…nobody. Just…that’s the word on the street.”
“The word on the street? What are you even talking about?”
“I…must be confused, I guess. Look, I’ve got to work on this article. If you want to talk later—”
“Whatever.” She pushed past me and headed out the front door. For a minute I didn’t know how to feel. After a bit more consideration, I decided I’d gotten off easy. One daunting task down, one to go. I jogged up the two flights of stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door to #311.
The door opened a crack, revealing a pair of wide-open eyes above a chain lock. “There you are! What took you so long?”
The door closed, I heard the chain being removed, and it opened again. I stepped inside. Walls of cardboard boxes on either side of me formed a narrow hallway leading into the room, which smelled of cabbage and stale cigar smoke. A brownish haze hung in the air. In front of the window overlooking the Pit stood a Christmas tree, fully decorated and lit.
“I filed my report three days ago,” the resident was saying from somewhere behind the wall of boxes. “What took you so long?”
“Your report, ma’am?” I found a small opening in the wall and squeezed through. The room beyond was piled high with newspapers. Hidden among the stacks were a few antique pieces of furniture that looked like broken-down remnants of the building’s golden age. A tiny kitchenette was squeezed into one corner, and something green bubbled in a frying pan on the stove. Charlesgate already had the reputation of a fire trap, but the tenant’s room looked like it was ready to go up in flames any minute.
“Sit down, will you?”
I took a seat on a dull orange couch. Heavy springs dug into my hindquarters. The resident sat across from me in a rocking chair, lighting a cigar. I cleared my throat.
“Ma’am, I think there may be some kind of misunderstanding—”
“They followed me home again, you know.”
“Pardon me?”
“The Soviet agents. They followed me all the way back here again tonight in their helicopter, just like I said in my report.”
“Ma’am—”
“You know my damn name! Stop calling me ‘ma’am’!”
“But…I’m afraid I don’t, uh, remember—”
“Mrs. Coolidge! I am Mrs. Coolidge, and you know that because it’s in all of my reports. You know they land that helicopter right on the roof. I hear it at night and I can see the lights. It’s all because of what my husband knows, but he’s been dead since 1968. Assassinated! It was covered up, you know. He had the secret plan to end the Vietnam War, but they didn’t want it! It was the Soviets who put the second Richard Nixon in office. If you look at the footage you can tell the difference. The color Nixon don’t look nothing like the black-and-white Nixon, but everyone just pretends they don’t even notice! Well, I put the photos in my report, you’ve seen them.”
Granted, I was not a particularly seasoned journalist at this point, but I was starting to get the feeling that interviewing Mrs. Coolidge might not be the most fruitful course of action. Still, I didn’t want to give up too easily. “Mrs. Coolidge, my name is Tommy Donnelly. I live here in the building, I’m one of the Emerson students? And I actually wanted to talk to you for a story I’m writing for our student newspaper. If this is a bad time, I can come back later.”
She puffed her cigar, eyeing me through narrow slits. “You ain’t
from the Public Safety office?”
“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about these reports of yours. They sound fascinating, but—”
“And you ain’t a Soviet agent, right?”
“Definitely not. I’m a journalism student and I’m writing an article about the Charlesgate. And I thought I should talk to you, because you’ve lived here since…how long have you lived here?”
She leaned forward and pointed her cigar at me. “You trying to get me evicted, ain’t you? Well, let me tell you, it’s been tried by men a whole lot better-dressed than you!”
“I’m not trying to get you evicted. I’m just trying to get a sense of what life in the building was like before we students arrived. I understand Boston University owned it until 1972, and when they sold it, it became kind of a…well, there are all kinds of rumors about junkies, criminals, Satanic cults. But obviously if you lived here…well, then it couldn’t have been that bad, right?”
“Student newspaper, huh?”
“Uh, yes. The Berkeley Beacon?”
“I like newspapers. Not for the articles, though. They’re all lies. I like the classified ads in the back. That’s where you find the real information. The truth gets out, but they have to sneak it out, you know? You have to know the codes, and they change them every day. My husband used to get them delivered every morning, but…” She shook her head sadly.
“Well…I’d like to write the truth, Mrs. Coolidge. With your help.”
“Not tonight,” she said. “I need to check on you first. I still have contacts, you know. We don’t meet face-to-face because it’s not safe. Anyway, it’s time for me to read. I read three hours every night. Never had a television. All these boxes you see are filled with books I’ve read. That’s why they want this.” She tapped the side of her head. “All the information.”
I stood up, mainly because I couldn’t take the springs digging into my ass for one more second. “All right, Mrs. Coolidge, sorry to disturb you. If there’s a better time…?”
“I’ll find you. After I check with my contacts.”
“Uh…fine.” I started back toward the narrow entryway into the hall of boxes, figuring that was the last I’d see of her.
“Wait.” She stood, slowly shuffled toward me, and took me by the arm. “There are secrets in these walls,” she whispered. “Men have killed for these secrets. And they will again. You can believe that.”
Strangely enough, I did.
APRIL 25, 2014
“April showers, bitch!”
A cloudy morning had given way to a sudden downpour as Detectives Coleman and Carnahan sprinted across Beacon Street and took cover under the alcove at 4 Charlesgate East. Coleman tipped rivulets of rain water from his porkpie hat while Carnahan ran a handkerchief over his chrome dome.
“What’s the number again?”
“Unit 61.”
Carnahan punched in the number on the building’s keypad. After a moment, a female voice crackled through the speaker. “Yes?”
“Boston police.”
The door buzzed open and Coleman and Carnahan entered the ornate lobby. Gold-speckled mosaic tile gleamed beneath intricately carved columns. Carnahan stepped over to one of them and used it to scrape the mud off his shoes.
“Classy,” said Coleman.
“How much you think these cocksuckers paid to live here?”
“Depends on the unit, I guess.”
“A one-bedroom, say.”
“Maybe three, four hundred grand?”
“Jesus. And I bet they don’t even allow pets. No thanks. I’ll take a house in Waltham with a yard and a dog to shit in it any day of the week.”
The elevator dinged and a uniformed officer stepped out. Red hair, full in the face. Coleman recognized him from another case a few months earlier, but couldn’t place the name.
“Detectives.”
“Hopper, right?” said Carnahan. He always knew their names. They probably all hung out at the Tap together, shooting pool and pushing the boundaries of sexual harassment while Coleman was pretending to go home to meatloaf.
“That’s right.”
“What’s the situation up there?”
“No forced entry. No prints. Woman says she’s sure it was locked when she left on her business trip, and she’s sure some things are missing.”
“Like what? Her panties? Maybe Coltrane took ’em when he was here the other day.”
“Only because I know you’re always running low on clean undies. Let’s get this over with.”
The detectives and the patrolman rode up to the sixth floor. As the doors opened, Coleman gestured to the room across the hallway.
“That’s where our vic was found, which you would know if you’d bothered to join me.”
“You know I had to be in court on the Hernandez thing.”
Coleman considered mentioning the Red Sox tickets he’d scavenged from the corpse, but thought better of doing so in front of the uni. Hopper led them down the hallway to the left, then another left to a dead end, where he knocked on the door to Unit 61.
“Mrs. Osborne? It’s Officer Hopper. I have the detectives with me.” The door opened, revealing a striking woman in her mid-forties. Dark hair with white Bride-of-Frankenstein streaks cascaded down to her shoulders. Coleman felt his pulse quicken. She must have been a knockout when she was younger, but she was still a beauty as far as he was concerned. He stuck out his hand.
“Mrs. Osborne, I’m Detective Coleman. This is Detective Carnahan. Homicide Division.” She shook their hands without enthusiasm.
“Nice to meet you, but I still don’t understand why you’re here. This is a simple robbery.”
Coleman and Carnahan exchanged glances with Hopper, who shrugged. “I thought you guys should tell her.”
“Tell me what?’
“Mrs. Osborne, while you were out of town, there was a murder just a few doors down the hall from you.”
“Oh my God! Who was it?”
“It wasn’t a resident, ma’am. It was a woman who worked for the company that handles your property, a Ms. Rachel O’Brien. None of your neighbors mentioned this to you?”
“I just got back this morning and honestly, I don’t really know any of my neighbors.”
“Did you know Ms. O’Brien?”
“Not well. She showed this unit to me and my husband, but that was four years ago. Recently we exchanged some emails regarding an event I’m organizing in the building, but other than that, I’ve only seen her to nod hello a handful of times over the years.”
“And your husband? Was he out of town as well?”
“He no longer lives here. He’s my ex-husband, or he will be as soon as the paperwork is finalized, which should be any day now.”
“I see.” Coleman struggled to contain his glee. Carnahan noticed. “Well, the reason we’re here is that Ms. O’Brien’s keys were not on her person when her body was discovered. It’s a strong possibility that whoever killed her took them, and that, in fact, may have been his motive.”
“What? You think he killed this woman just to rob my apartment?”
“Well, not necessarily your apartment, no. Not specifically.”
“Has anyone else in the building been robbed?”
“Not that we know of, but—”
“So why wouldn’t he just break down my door? This isn’t Fort Knox. He really had to kill someone for the keys?”
“That’s all speculation, Mrs. Osborne. There may be no connection at all. In fact…are you absolutely certain you locked the door before you left on your business trip?”
“I can’t swear to it in court, but I always lock it. I can’t imagine that I would just forget. Either way, someone was definitely in here. I had a framed poster on the wall over the couch there. When I got home the frame was on the floor, the glass shattered, and the poster was ripped in several pieces scattered around.”
“What kind of poster?”
“A movie poster. Annie Hall.�
��
“Woody Allen, huh?” said Carnahan. “He’s been in the news lately. Pretty creepy guy, you ask me.”
“What does that have to do with anything? You think Mia Farrow did this?”
“I’m not ruling it out. Officer Hopper tells us you found some items missing?”
“Yes. Most importantly, my laptop.”
“Your laptop. You went on a business trip and didn’t take your laptop?”
“I took my work laptop.”
“And where do you work?”
“Hill-Robenalt. It’s a PR firm. I do publicity for three of the major film studios. Setting up screenings, interviews, set visits, things like that.”
“Oh yeah?” Carnahan perked up. “Can you get us into the new Godzilla movie early?”
“I don’t work for Warners.”
“Damn.”
Coleman shot him the stinkeye. “Tell us about the laptop.”
“It’s a MacBook Air. Less than a year old. A sticker on the back, so it looks like the apple is the hood ornament of like a ’70s van.”
“Anything on the computer a thief might be interested in? Something specific, worth breaking into your unit in particular? Proprietary information?”
“Like I said, it’s my personal computer. I use it for email, browsing the web, social networking. Skype, Netflix, iTunes… I just downloaded the new Beck album. Think they were interested in that?”
“Another possibility. Where was the laptop?”
“It was on the desk over by the window when I left last week. I was in the middle of a big project, and now…” She shook her head.
“A big project? Not work-related?”
“No. I’m on the alumni committee for my alma mater. I’ve been working to set up my class reunion in a few weeks.”
“What school?” Coleman asked.
“Is that relevant?”
He shrugged. “At this point, we have very little to go on. Anything could be relevant.”
“Emerson College.”
Coleman’s eyebrows shot up. “Emerson? Really?”
“Yeah, why?”
“This building used to be an Emerson dorm. Did you know that?”
She laughed. “Did I know that? Yeah, I lived here for three years when it was a dorm.”
Charlesgate Confidential Page 8
