When the ice cream came, he made no move to eat it. Instead, he talked about his kids and how weird it would be for them to have a cousin they’d never known, and then he was off, speculating as to how his exes would take the news. I sat, listening, waiting for the adrenaline flame to burn out, to leave him worn and tired.
But it didn’t. He was still chattering when we paid the bill. He thanked me for the hundredth time for finding where Susan went, for discovering the baby. He apologized for giving me grief earlier. He’d been so worn down by years of failure. He really didn’t think she could be traced. But I’d done it! Here was where I wished I could give Wright credit, but even in Finny’s excited state, I knew that would be a misstep.
“You’re solid gold, Lynch, you really are. My mom’s going to bake you a soda bread, you see if she doesn’t.”
I’d stopped trying to halt the rush of his words. I nodded, clapped him on the back, and told him to drive safe. He pulled out from the lot faster than I’d like. My eyes watched his red taillights until they winked out of sight.
My body felt as though I’d run a marathon. I was exhausted. I hadn’t warned Matt I was coming. In fact, he’d told me he might need to work late, so I shouldn’t come over. But I needed to see him. There were few cars on the road; the trip was fast. I parked outside his house at 12:45 a.m., glad to see his car was parked in the driveway. I knocked, not loudly, in case he was sleeping. I’d let myself in and find a spare bit of bed. He tended to starfish when asleep alone.
He didn’t come to the door, so I used my key. The kitchen was dark, all shadowy shapes except for the glowing microwave and oven clocks. I stumbled over a pair of sneakers. Odd. Matt usually kept those by his gym stuff. He liked everything in its place. I sat in a chair and unlaced my boots. There was a set of keys on the table. Not Matt’s. His set had seven keys and this had only three. There was a small, fuzzy dice attached to the key ring. Had Matt lost his set? Had to grab a spare?
I eased the boots off my feet, careful to keep them from thunking on the floor. Matt was a light sleeper. Hazard of the job, he claimed. Boots off, I stood and stretched. What was that smell? I sniffed. Cologne. But not Matt’s. I knew that smell intimately. The room seemed in order, but something was off. I scanned the table and chairs, the counters and fridge and … back to the counter. A bottle of wine. I padded over and picked it up. An almost-empty bottle of red. I peered at it. Merlot. Matt didn’t drink wine, not much.
A light flicked on. The brightness blinded me for a second. “Hello?” Matt, in boxers, one hand holding a gun.
“Whoa,” I said. Hands up.
“Thomas? What are you doing here?” he whispered.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He lowered the gun but looked hyper alert. “I was in the neighborhood, and—”
“It’s not a good time.” His voice was curt.
“I was over in Vernon, and, what?” His words cut through my haze. “Not a good time?”
“Matt?” a male voice called from the back of the house.
I glanced at the bottle of wine. “You have company.” The keys, the cologne. God, how dense could I be?
“I …” He rubbed his hair. It stood up in tufts. “I’m busy.”
I stomped my feet into my empty boots. I’d tie them later. For now, I had to leave. Get out. Before this got worse.
“Matt?” He stood in the living room. He wore boxers and nothing else. It was hard to make out his features, but he was smaller than me, and younger, much younger.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I said.
The guy’s face was handsome and unlined by age. He looked utterly at ease standing nearly naked in the living room. He looked at me, tilted his head and asked, “Lynch?”
It felt like my blood had been replaced with acid. Everything inside boiled and burnt. I turned away and reached for the doorknob. How did he know me? Why? How long had this been going on? “Thomas,” Matt said, his voice strained.
I left, my boots’ laces flapping against the driveway as I ran to the car. It took three tries to get the key into the ignition. I drove too fast, wanting to be away from there. I hadn’t assumed I was the only person he saw socially. But I’d wanted to see him tonight, and I hadn’t thought he might be occupied. Clearly his date knew of me. But I hadn’t known him.
I reached home after 1:20 a.m. I undressed in the dark and slid under my sheet and closed my eyes. Sleep didn’t come. I turned, punched my pillow, and breathed, in and out. My heart was racing and I felt … angry. I got up and padded to the living room. Sat in my recliner and rocked, back and forth, waiting for dawn, when I could put on my uniform and go into work and forget what happened earlier.
And then I remembered that tomorrow was Friday and I had the day off. That’s when I slammed my hand down, into my glass-topped Eileen Gray table, the same one Damien Saunders owned. The glass fractured in an unsteady crack along the table’s length. But it stayed intact, not crashing to the floor as I expected, no shards to vacuum or to find with unsuspecting feet.
“Whatever doesn’t kill you,” I muttered.
DETECTIVE MICHAEL FINNEGAN
FRIDAY, JUNE 11, 1999
1045 HOURS
What a day. My old patrol partner from eons ago, Frank Murray, had called to tell me he’d scored me an interview with the director of St. Ann’s Home for Unwed Mothers for next Thursday. Benefit of his new position as superintendent. “Watch out, Mikey,” he said. “They’re very touchy about privacy, especially around the adoptions.”
“Because of that Herald article from 1994?” I asked.
Since the chief had told me about Susan’s baby, I’d read up on Gracie’s Place. I’d known of the place when I was young. We all had. There were rumors that Tracy Keppler had gone there senior year. Never confirmed, but still. “Gracie’s Home for Whores.” That’s what the kids called it. It made me wince, knowing Susan had been inside those walls. Had we ever called it that in front of her? I hoped not.
Back in 1994, the Boston Herald ran an article about the home, painting it in an unflattering light. Several girls who’d gone there complained, decades later, about the food, the poor heat, and the scorn the nuns heaped upon them. Worse, one young woman claimed she hadn’t wanted to give her baby up for adoption, and that she’d told the doctor and nurses, but that they’d given her a sedative and when she awoke, the baby was gone. Another woman said she’d had “second thoughts” days after her birth, but she was told her baby was gone and she had no parental rights.
“The Herald article fanned the flames, but even before that the home ran afoul of the neighborhood. The nuns were constantly lodging noise complaints, and the home created parking shortages,” he said.
“Never get between somebody and their parking space in Boston,” I said.
“No kidding. I guess plenty of people who adopted children from the home had nothing but glowing reviews for the place.”
“Sure,” I said. “They got a baby. What’s not to love, from their viewpoint?” My mind imagined a chubby little boy with Susan’s nose. God, please let him have found loving parents who raised him well.
“Hope your visit goes well. If there’s anything else you want us to do, we’re here, man.”
“Thanks, Frank. I really appreciate your help. The whole family does.” Or will, once I tell them. I felt terrible holding back, but until I knew more I didn’t want to raise hopes. What if Susan had died after childbirth? What if her son had? I had no proof that anything had ended well, and I knew that if I called Dave or Bobby or Carol, I’d spend time saying, “I don’t know” so often that they’d demand to know what I did know. And then old family arguments would become current. Naw. Better to wait.
“If you’re in the neighborhood, stop by. Your godchild would love to see you.” Gia, Frank’s daughter, born when we were partners. I recalled her in pigtails, clutching a stuffed pig she called Harry.
“What is she, twenty-four now?”
“Twenty-five.” God, h
e’d been a child himself when she was born. Who allowed us to have kids when we were hardly grown ourselves?
“Give Alice my love,” I said. “And thanks again.”
The station door opened, and I swiveled to check if Lewis was in yet. No. Damn it. He’d had to go to another pregnancy exam with his wife. I wanted him to distract me with Elizabeth Gardner case tasks. Didn’t matter what. I craved distraction. Without it, my feet wanted to race out of the building and up to Dorchester to Gracie’s Place, appointment be damned.
The door opened again. Lewis, at last.
“Hey!” I called.
He didn’t hear me. He spoke to Hugh at dispatch and gestured toward the door. Then he turned around and walked back out. I waited a few minutes, but he didn’t return. I walked to dispatch. Hugh was coordinating response for a fender bender by the library. When he finished, he said, “Hey, Detective? Help you?”
“Thought I saw Lewis come in.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. He did. Stopped by to say he wasn’t feeling well. Both him and the missus. He was going to drop her off at home. Said he’d be home, too.”
“Sick?” He’d seemed fine yesterday. Not so much as a sniffle.
“Stomach thing,” Hugh said.
Oh. Well, those could come on without warning. Could be food poisoning. My mind backtracked through what I’d seen Lew eat at the station. Hoped it wasn’t the fries that came with his burger, because I’d eaten half of ’em.
“That’s too bad.” I meant it. Now I’d have to dig through the Vermont information we’d got Billy to pull for us all by myself. Such drudgework was made better by a partner, someone you could bitch to. Ah, well. I’d go it alone. I returned to my chair and lifted a phone director y. This one for Manchester. I turned the pages and found six Waverlys listed. Time to call them. And then I could move on to … I looked to the right, at the pile of old Vermont phone books tottering near the file cabinet. On top was Montpelier. I picked up the phone and cleared my throat. Time to get cracking.
“Hi, this is Detective Michael Finnegan of the Idyll Police in Connecticut. Who am I speaking to? Mrs. Floyd Waverly? How do you do? I’m calling because I’m looking for a man named Donald Waverly. He lived in Salisbury, Connecticut, back in the late 1970s. Might Donald be a relation? … Dennis? … Yes, I see. Any other men in the family around age forty? No, we want to speak to him about an investigation we hope he can help us with… . No, ma’am… . No… . Well, that’s alright. I appreciate your time.”
I did this six times in a row before taking a break. My ear was pink and hot, my shoulder cramped from tilting to hold the receiver there. Billy stopped by and asked how I was doing.
“I’m tired, my ear is hot, and I don’t think I’ll ever find this guy.”
He stared at the pile of phone books. “Want me to help?” God bless, the kid had a good heart.
“Nah, pal. Save yourself. I’m going to the little boys’ room to drown myself.”
He watched me go, his face a mask of pity.
In the bathroom, I made the mistake of checking out my reflection. Dear God, when had this become my face? I looked like a bulldog. My cheeks hung like hams, and the whites of my eyes were pink from lack of sleep. Jesus. I looked sixty. I washed my hands and walked back to my desk, debating the merits of more caffeine.
Pro: It would keep me awake.
Con: It would keep me awake well past bedtime.
At Lewis’s desk sat Billy, on the phone, the Burlington phone book at his elbow. My first thought: Lew will lose his shit if he finds Billy there. My second thought: Billy didn’t listen to me.
“Yes, sir. Donald. But maybe he went by another name? Dark hair, yes. No, sir. I can’t give details about the investigation. I’m sorry.”
Third thought: Bless him. I told him I didn’t want his help, and he waded into the cold waters of phoning strangers anyway.
When he hung up, he ticked off the name in the phone book and said, “They sure ask a lot of questions.”
“They’re curious,” I said. “Not every day they get a call from the police looking for a family member.”
“Can I make another?” he asked, pointing to the phone book.
“Be my guest.”
A few hours back into it, and we’d cleared the phone book stack by a foot. My ear ached, and my jaw was sore from all that talking. Even Billy had wilted under the work, his hair mussed from rubbing it absently, his mouth turned down.
“Pack it in,” I said.
“I got one more call for this book,” he said. I glanced over. The Woodstock one.
“Just one more,” I said, wondering again what was wrong with Lewis and hoping he was better by tomorrow.
“Good evening. This is Detective Michael Finnegan of the Idyll Police in Connecticut. Who am I speaking to? Mr. Marcus? Oh. This isn’t the number for …” I peered at phone book entry, “Mr. Jeb Waverly? Ah, I see.”
A snapping sound nearby made me look up. Billy was snapping his fingers and mouthing, “this one” at me.
“Thank you and have a good night.” I hung up the phone and listened to Billy say, “Rose? You say you had a younger brother? His name? Daniel.”
Rose. Mrs. Gardner said Donald had an older sister named Rose. Daniel. Donald. Not very different.
“Do you know if he lived in Salisbury back then?” he asked. “What about afterward? … No. When was the last time you saw him? … I see… . Yes… . What did he look like? … Yes. Ummm.” He scribbled on a paper. “Right. Yes… . He did? Okay. Okay. Thanks very much. We may call back with more questions. Thank you for your time. Yes, good night.”
He hung up, his face stunned. “What happened?” I asked.
“Her name was Rose. She had a younger brother named Daniel. Born 1955, which is the right age. She said he moved to Connecticut in the late 1970s. Not sure where exactly. They didn’t keep in touch much. Both of their parents are dead.”
“Were they dead when he moved?” I asked.
He nodded. “Car accident when she was twenty-two and Daniel was almost eighteen.”
“She say what he looked like?”
“Dark hair and hazel eyes. Thin. Mark near his left eye, from when he had chicken pox.”
“Cleft chin?”
“She didn’t mention it.”
“No matter.” The pox mark. Had to be him.
Billy looked around. “You need me for anything? Help you follow up?” He glanced at the clock behind me. Shoot. He should’ve been gone an hour ago.
“Gimme her phone number. You did real good, Hoops. Real good.”
He gave me an aw, shucks smile I’d seen make girls’ hearts go pitter-patter.
Lewis would be so happy that we’d finally found a lead. Billy grinned, and I laughed at the image of Lew’s face when I told him who had chased down our best suspect. He’d have to concede that Billy was more than a pretty face, just this once.
CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH
SATURDAY, JUNE 12, 1999
1300 HOURS
It took me three and a half hours to find where the Finnegan clan had lived. Boston’s lack of signage and my own confusion added delays. The city was still working on the Big Dig, a project so over budget and time it was beyond absurd. When I finally reached Wood Street, I noticed how close the houses were. In some, you could touch your neighbor’s house if you leaned out your window. Most were paneled in siding. The narrow street was a riot of colors: red, blue, yellow, sea green. Each house had many windows. No wonder so many people had seen Susan the day she went missing.
I stood in the middle of the street, looking at the house Detective Michael Finnegan had grown up in. It was tan. A potted plant stood on the top of the front steps.
“Can I help you?” someone called from across the street.
“Just visiting,” I called. With the neighbor’s eyes on my back, I rang the doorbell.
The door swung open. A small woman with white curls and a pair of blue-framed glasses stood inside. “Hello?” He
r face looked prepared to be pleased, seconds from a smile.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Finnegan. I’m Thomas Lynch, from Idyll, Connecticut. I work with your son, Michael.”
She smiled and clapped as if I’d arrived with a million-dollar check made out to her. “Oh, come in!” She spotted the neighbor and called, “Hi, Joan!” Then she shut the door firmly behind me and said, “Mikey said you’d be coming.”
We walked up to a landing where family photos were displayed. I saw Finny with one of his wives and a small, ginger-haired boy. I’d never seen a picture of his children. He didn’t display pictures at work. “Come to the parlor,” she said. The parlor was for company. There were china knickknacks and a mantel clock keeping time. The sofa was spotless and stiff. She said, “Let me put the kettle on. I’ll be right back.” Kitchen sounds came: the rush of the tap, the clank of metal. I surveyed the room. On the coffee table, a cut-glass candy dish held mints fused to their crinkly-edged wrappers by time.
She returned with two photo albums. “I thought you might like to see these.” She laid the albums carefully on the table. “Susan is in quite a few of the pictures. Mostly from elementary and middle school. She got shy about having her picture taken when she was older.”
“Thank you.” I picked up the first album, bound in faux white leather. Snapshots were tucked behind plastic onto adhesive sheets that held them in place. “Is that Michael?” I asked, pointing to a picture. His face was thin and young ; his grin, wide and joyful.
“Yes, with his brother David. Let me check on that tea.”
I flipped the pages, finding photos of Susan throughout. She had short hair when she was very young, but over the years it grew and grew until she looked like Rapunzel. Her smile was gap-toothed. She had freckles. She wore wildly mixed prints and fabrics. A photo of her wearing a plaid skirt with a gingham top made me wonder if she was colorblind.
When I asked Mrs. Finnegan, she laughed. “No. Susan had perfect vision. She liked bright patterns. Carol used to tease her. Said she looked like she’d dressed in the dark.” Maybe the tendency for outrageous patterns was genetic. Finny had terrible taste in ties and sports coats.
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