It turned out Foxboro was also home to half a dozen adorably named gated condo communities. En route to Nottingham Hill, I also passed Bedford Falls, Juniper Springs, Wuthering Heights, and Fragrant Meadows. All, as mentioned, gated. I couldn’t understand what the gates were for, though; Foxboro had an extremely low crime rate. Other than a parking space on game day, I had no idea what they’d want to steal out here, unless there was a sudden shortage of barbecue utensils or power mowers.
The gate at Nottingham Hill wasn’t hard to circumvent, since there was no gatekeeper. A sign on the kiosk read DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS, PRESS *958 FOR SECURITY. A couple of car lengths past the kiosk, the main road, Robin Hood Boulevard, forked. Four arrow signs at the left fork directed me to Loxley Lane, Tuck Terrace, Scarlett Street, and Sherwood Forest Drive. The road was straight, and what lay ahead appeared to be the kind of middle-class cookie-cutter subdivision I’d expected.
To the right, however, the arrows promised to lead me to Archer Avenue, Little John Lane, Yorkshire Road, and Maid Marian’s Meeting House, but the road led only to a collection of sand mounds with a lone yellow backhoe sitting atop one. Somewhere during the Nottingham Hill development boom, the boom had lowered.
I took the left fork and found 133 Sherwood Forest Drive at the end of a cul-de-sac. The backyards around here were the same tan sand as the mounds where Maid Marian’s Meeting House was supposed to stand, and both 131 and 129 were vacant, the building permits still hanging in windows speckled with sawdust. The front lawns were green, however, even in front of the vacant houses, so someone at the holding company still believed in proper upkeep. I circled the cul-de-sac, slowly enough to note that the curtains were drawn across Helene and Kenny’s windows, those facing north, south, and west. The east windows faced the tan mounds of sand in the rear, so I couldn’t see them. But I was willing to bet their curtains were drawn, too. On my way back up the street, I counted two more FOR SALE signs, one with a smaller sign dangling underneath that read SHORT SALE. MAKE AN OFFER. PLEASE.
I cut over to Tuck Terrace and parked by a half-finished ranch at the end of another cul-de-sac. Houses to the right and the left had been completed. They stood empty, though, the lawns and shrubs recently planted and green as shamrocks, even in December, but the driveways awaiting a paving crew. I went through the skeleton of the half-finished ranch at 133 Tuck Terrace and crossed an acre of tan sand with wooden stakes and blue yarn carving out the backyards-to-be. Soon enough I stood behind Helene and Kenny’s house. It was the two-story Italianate model, a McMansion-wannabe so predictable I could smell the granite kitchen countertops and the hot tub in the master bath from the almost-backyard.
There were about forty different ways I hadn’t cased the place properly. I’d driven around the front so slowly a three-legged basset hound with hip dysplasia could have lapped me. I’d parked my car in the vicinity—a block over, but still. I’d approached across open ground. I hadn’t come at night. Short of standing out front with a sandwich board that read BROTHER, CAN YOU SPARE A FRONT DOOR KEY? I couldn’t have made myself more conspicuous.
So the smart move would have been to walk straight past the house, hope anyone inside took me for a land surveyor or a finish carpenter, and hightail it back home. Instead, I decided the odds had been working in my favor so far—it was two in the afternoon and I hadn’t seen a soul since I’d pulled into the development. It’s stupid to believe in luck, but we do it every time we cross a busy street.
And mine kept holding. The sliding glass doors around back couldn’t keep out Gabby. Or even me with my rusty B&E skills. I picked the lock with a keychain bottle-opener and a credit card. I entered the kitchen and waited by the door in case an alarm sounded. When none did, I jogged up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. I passed through all the bedrooms only long enough to confirm no one was in them and then worked my way back downstairs.
I counted nine computers in the living room. The closest one had a pink stickie attached that read BCBS, HPIL. The next one had a yellow stickie: BOA, CIT. I tapped the keyboard of the first computer and the screen pulsed softly. For a moment, I saw a screen saver of the Pacific, and then the screen turned lime green and a quartet of animated figures with the heads of the cast of Diff’rent Strokes danced across the screen. A speech bubble appeared by Willis’s head and a cursor blinked. Arnold said, “Whachoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” Kimberly was sparking a blunt when she rolled her eyes and said, “Password, dickhead.” A stopwatch appeared in the thought bubble above Mr. Drummond’s head. It ticked down from ten as Kimberly did a striptease and Arnold changed into a security guard’s uniform and Willis hopped into a convertible and immediately crashed it. As it burst into flames, the clock above Mr. Drummond’s head exploded and the screen went black.
I called Angie.
“The entire cast of Diff’rent Strokes?”
“Now that you mention it, Mrs. Garrett wasn’t there.”
“Must have been the Facts of Life years,” she said. “Whatta you got?”
“Computers with password protections. Nine of them.”
“Nine passwords?”
“Nine computers.”
“That’s a lot of computers for a living room with no furniture. Did you find Amanda’s room yet?”
“No.”
“See if there’s a computer there. Kids are less likely to password-protect.”
“Okay.”
“If you can get on, just get me an IP address, and the incoming and outgoing servers. Most people, no matter how many computers they’ve got, use just one server. If I can’t hack it, I know someone who can.”
“Who do you meet online?”
We hung up and I went upstairs to the bedrooms. Helene and Kenny’s was as expected—Bob’s Furniture dresser and chest covered in wrinkled clothes, box spring on the floor, no nightstands, several empty beer cans on one side of the bed, several empty glasses sporting some sort of sticky residue on the other side. Ashtrays on the floor, wall-to-wall carpeting already soiled.
I passed through the master bathroom, gave the hot tub a smile, and entered the next bedroom. It was tidy and empty. The faux-walnut dresser, chest, matching bed and nightstand all looked cheap but respectable. The drawers were empty, the bed was made. The closet was two dozen empty hangers, evenly spaced.
Amanda’s room. She’d left nothing behind but hangers and the sheets on the bed. On the wall, she’d left a framed Red Sox jersey, signed by Josh Beckett, and a Just Puppies calendar. It was the first hint of sentiment I could attach to her. Otherwise, all I got was the same impression of precision I’d been getting off her trail from the beginning.
The bedroom across the hall was another story. It looked like someone had tossed it in a blender, pressed STIR, and then removed the cap. The bed hid under a patchwork of comforter, blanket, jeans, sweater, sweatshirt, denim jacket, capri cargo pants. The dresser sported open drawers and a vanity mirror. Sophie had tucked photographs into the left and right sides of the mirror, between the glass and the frame. Several were of a boy in his late teens. Zippo, I assumed. He usually wore a Sox cap turned sideways. A stripe of hair extended from ear to ear like a chin strap and a matching tuft of hair sprouted from the space between his lower lip and chin. Tats on the side of his neck and silver rings protruding from his eyebrows. In most of the photos, he had his arm around Sophie. In all of them, he was brandishing a beer bottle or a red plastic cup. Sophie wore big smiles but she seemed to be trying them out, looking for one that fit what she thought people were looking for. Her eyes seemed sensitive to light—in every photo she looked one step from squinting. Her tiny teeth peeked out uncertainly from her smile. It was hard to imagine her happy. Tucked above and below the photos were club postcards for dates long past—last spring and early summer, mostly. All the venues were over-21 clubs.
Sophie definitely cultivated an over-21 look. But you couldn’t overlook the baby fat that hung, pupa-like, from the underside of her chin or covered her cheekbones
. Any club let her in knowing she was underage. Most of the photos were of her and Zippo; two were of her and other girlfriends, none of whom I recognized and none of whom was Amanda, though both photos had been cropped on the left-hand side, amputating Sophie’s shoulder at the point where it had presumably touched someone else’s.
I tossed the rest of the room and found some pills I didn’t recognize, with a holistic-medicine vibe to the labels. I snapped photos of them with my Droid and moved on. I found several wristbands, enough to suggest a fetish for wristsbands or a purpose. I took a closer look at them. Most of them were stacked in a pile on the upper shelf of the closet, but a few were strewn in with the general mess.
I pulled all the covers off the bed and pushed the clothes out of the way and found the laptop waiting for me, the power light blinking. I flipped it open and was greeted by a screen saver of Sophie and Zippo, flashing the universal two-fingered “gangsta” sign, which immediately defined them as white non–gang members. I double-clicked on the Apple icon in the top left corner of the screen and worked my way into the main control panel without a single password prompt. There I discovered the IP server info Angie required. I copied it all onto my Droid and texted it to her.
I clicked back to the main screen and then clicked on the mail icon.
Sophie wasn’t a big deleter. Her inbox had 2,871 messages dating back over a year. Her SENT folder contained 1,673 messages, also dating back over a year. I called Angie and told her what I’d found. “With the IP info, you can hack this?”
“Candy from a baby,” she said. “How long have you been in there?”
“I don’t know. Twenty minutes.”
“That’s a lotta time to be in the house of people who don’t have predictable work schedules.”
“Yes, Mom.”
She hung up.
I put everything back the way I’d found it and worked my way downstairs. In the dining room, I found a cardboard box filled with mail on the card table in the center of the room. Nothing out of the ordinary about the mail—utility bills mostly, some credit-card bills and bank statements—until I looked at the names and addresses of the recipients. None of them lived here. There was mail for Daryl Bousquet in Westwood, Georgette Bing in Franklin, Mica Griekspoor in Sharon, Virgil Cridlin in Dedham. I thumbed through the stack and counted nine more names, all living in nearby towns—Walpole, Norwood, Mansfield, and Plainville. I looked through the portico into the living room at the bank of computers. A barely furnished house, what furniture there was from a discount wholesaler, and no sense that anyone intended to make this a ten-year abode. Nine computers. Stolen mail. If I had another hour, somewhere I’d find birth certificates for babies who’d died decades ago. I’d bet every dime I had on it.
I looked at the mail again. Why so stupid, though? Why password-protect the computers but forget to turn on the house alarm? Why pick a perfect spot to do this kinda shit—in a house at the end of a cul-de-sac in a stalled development—and leave stacks of stolen mail in a box?
I looked around the kitchen, found nothing but empty cabinets and a fridge filled with Styrofoam take-out containers, beer, and a twelve-pack of Coke. I closed a cabinet and remembered what Amanda’s classmate had said about the microwave.
I opened it and stared inside. It was a microwave. White walls, yellow light, circular heating tray. I was about to close it when I got a strong whiff of something acrid and I took another look at the walls. They were white, yes, but there was an extra layer of white. When I tilted my head and adjusted my eyes, I saw the same film on the yellow bulb. I found a butter knife and scraped one of the walls very lightly, and what came off was a fine powder, as white and light as talc.
I closed the microwave door, returned the knife to its drawer, and went back into the living room. That’s when I heard the front door knob turn.
I hadn’t been face-to-face with her in eleven years. I’d kind of liked it that way. But here she was, four steps into her living room when her eyes locked on mine. She’d gained weight, mostly in the hips and the face, the sides of her neck. Her skin was splotchier. Her cornflower eyes, always her most attractive feature, remained so. They widened under her feather-cut ginger hair, the roots showing gray by the crown, and her mouth opened into a tight, wrinkled oval, then formed a hesitant P.
It wasn’t like I could claim I was here to fix the garbage disposal. I gave her what I’m sure was a hapless smile, held out my arms, and shrugged.
She said, “Patrick?”
“How you doing, Helene?”
Chapter Fifteen
Kenny came in behind her. He looked confused for about half a second before he reached behind his back. I reached behind mine.
He said, “Ho.”
I said, “Hey.”
A young girl came in behind him. She opened her mouth wide but no sound came out. She wrung her hands by her side as if she’d stepped on the third rail. I got a good look as she stepped hard to her left to get out of our line of fire. Sophie Corliss. She’d lost the weight her father had demanded of her. And then some. She was gaunt and sweaty and stopped acting electrified long enough to sink her hands into the back of her head and pull at her own hair.
I held out one hand. “This does not have to go this way.”
“What way?” Kenny said.
“The way where we both pull our guns.”
“You tell me, sport, which other way this can go.”
“Well,” I said, “I could remove my hand from my gun.”
“But I might just shoot you for your trouble.”
“There’s that,” I agreed.
“And if I remove my hand?” He frowned. “It’s the same result, different victim.”
“If we did it at the same time?” I offered.
“You’d cheat,” he said.
As I nodded, he cleared his gun and pointed it at me.
“Sneaky,” I said.
“Let me see the hand.”
I removed my hand from behind my back and held up my cell phone.
“It’s nice,” Kenny said, “but I think mine has more bullets.”
“True, but did your gun call anyone?”
He took a step forward and then another. My screen read HOME. CONNECTED: 39 SECONDS.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Helene said, “Fuck,” very softly.
“You put the gun down or my wife calls the police and gives up our location.”
“Let’s—”
“Tick, tock,” I said. “It’s fairly obvious you’re ripping identities and committing a few thousand levels of consumer fraud here. Plus you’re making crank somewhere nearby and then you’re baking the used coffee filters in the microwave just to squeeze out that little extra. You want the police en route within, oh, thirty more seconds, keep holding the gun on me, Kenny.”
Angie’s voice came through the cell phone. “Hi, Kenny. Hi, Helene.”
Helene said, “Is that Angie?”
“It is,” Angie said. “How you doing?”
“Oh,” Helene said, “you know.”
Kenny frowned and looked terribly tired all of a sudden. He thumbed the safety forward and handed me the gun. “You’re one frustrating motherfucker.”
I put the gun, an S&W Sigma 9mm, in the pocket of my jacket. “Thank you.” I turned my lips toward the phone. “Catch you later, honey.”
“Grab some bottled water on the way home, would you? Oh, and some half-and-half for the morning.”
“Sure. Anything else?”
Kenny rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, but I can’t remember what it is.”
“Well, call me when you think of it.”
“Cool. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I hung up.
“Sophie?” I said.
She looked over at me, surprised I knew her name.
“You carrying?”
“Huh?”
“A gun, Sophie. Are you carrying a gun?�
�
“No. I hate guns.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“But you’ve got one in your pocket.”
“That’s called irony. How strung out are you right now?”
“Oh, I’m not bad,” Sophie said.
“You look bad.”
“Who are you?”
“That’s Patrick Kenzie.” Helene lit a cigarette. “He found Amanda that time?”
Sophie hugged herself and fresh beads of sweat popped on her forehead.
“Helene?” I said.
“What?”
“I’d feel a lot better if you put that bag you’re carrying on that couch and step away from it.”
She placed the bag on the couch and came back over to Kenny’s side.
“Let’s all go in the dining room.”
We sat at the card table and Kenny fired up a cigarette while I got a closer look at Sophie. She kept running her tongue behind her upper lip, back and forth, back and forth. Her eyes rolled right to left, left to right, right to left like they were on ball bearings. It was forty-two degrees outside and she was sweating.
“I thought you were going to let this go,” Kenny said.
“You thought incorrectly.”
“She won’t pay you.”
“Who?”
“Bea.”
“Or Amanda,” Helene said. “She doesn’t come into her money for, like, another year.”
“Well, then, it’s settled,” I said. “I quit. But since we’re on the subject, where’s Amanda?”
“She went to visit her father in California,” Helene said.
“She has a father in California?” I said.
“She didn’t come out of a cereal box,” Helene said. “She had a mother and a father.”
Moonlight Mile Page 13
