“Happy to do it. Jane and I feel it’s our calling. She’s out food-shopping or she’d take you in the kitchen and bend your ear. She loves company.”
“I’m sorry we missed her,” Mary said, meaning it. She had been hoping to meet the foster mother, who would’ve been an important figure for Patrick, given that he didn’t remember his mother. Mary gestured to the suitcase. “I brought Patrick’s things from his bedroom and some personal pictures of his late grandfather and his mother, which I know he’ll want to have.”
“Fine.” Ray nodded. “We can put that in his room. We require the kids to keep their personal items in their room at all times. That way it’s under lock and key and there’s no trouble. He’s got that wallet and watch that he wanted to keep with him, but that’s up there too. Safe and sound.”
Mary hesitated. “The wallet and watch belonged to Patrick’s late grandfather, Edward. That’s why Patrick keeps them with him. It’s like a security blanket for him.”
“Maybe so, but we have house rules. A kid walking around with a wallet is a fight waiting to happen. Einstein Crisis Center found that out pretty damn quick, didn’t they?”
Abby said, “You have a lovely home.”
“Yes, you do,” Mary chimed in, looking around the living room, which was clean and serviceable, with a plaid couch and chairs arranged around a coffee table. Across from that was a wooden entertainment center that held board games and office supplies, but no books or TV. There were no personal photos, knickknacks, or clutter, and on the walls hung inspirational posters with landscapes and motivational slogans, ATTITUDE, ACCOUNTABILITY, EXCELLENCE. Mary realized that there was no noise coming from any of the rooms, surprising given that the house contained three boys. She said, “You both must have your hands full, taking care of three boys.”
“Not really,” Ray answered matter-of-factly. “The key is maintaining order and having expectations. You see, a lot of these kids don’t have expectations of them. That’s not showing respect for a kid if you don’t have expectations of them. We have expectations and we show these kids they can meet our expectations.”
“That sounds great,” Mary said, though she had grown up in the DiNunzio household, where the only expectation was love.
“We’ve been doing this so long, we have it down to a science. If the kids know our rules and expectations and follow them, we get along fine. The writing is on the wall, as they say.” Ray gestured to a homemade sign on the back wall, titled House Rules, with a list: No Profanity; No Fighting; Keep Your Property in Your Rooms; If It Isn’t Your Property, Don’t Touch It; Remove Earphones or Headphones When You Are Speaking or Being Spoken to, and so on.
Mary couldn’t bite her tongue. “Ray, you’re aware that Patrick has dyslexia, aren’t you? He won’t be able to read that sign.”
Ray shrugged. “Oh, right, DHS mentioned that. He can read a little, can’t he?”
“No, he can’t read at all, not even a sentence. He won’t be able to read a word on that sign and he’s ashamed about that, even though it’s not his fault.”
“Well, he’ll get the idea.”
Mary didn’t want to argue, so she tried to be tactful. “He’ll get the idea if you explain it to him, probably more than one time. A lot of families with dyslexic children put up pictures to help them remember things. For example, they put a picture of a pair of keys by the door, so the child won’t forget to take his key when he leaves.”
“He’ll be fine,” Ray said in a testy way, ending the conversation by his tone.
Abby jumped in, glossing over the awkward moment, “Ray, I’d love to talk with you privately and let Mary visit with Patrick. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure.” Ray checked the clock on the wall. “Lights out is at eight o’clock, so you have about forty-five minutes. Wrap it up by five of eight, then I’ll be able to get him in bed by eight.”
“I will.” Mary wanted to make a good first impression for future visits.
“I have to say, he’s a sleepyhead. I think it’s the medication they put him on at Einstein. The dosages might be off.”
“What medication?”
Abby frowned. “They didn’t tell me they put him on medication.”
“Well, they did.” Ray glanced at the clock again. “They have him on Xanax for anxiety, so he’s sleepy, maybe even confused. We have kids on meds all the time, so I know the side effects. He took a nap in the afternoon but we woke him up for dinner at five. So he’s good to go, now.” Ray clapped his hands together. “Time’s a-wasting. Mary, follow me into the kitchen. Patrick’s waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” Mary felt surprised that Patrick hadn’t come out to say hello, but her heart lightened at the prospect of seeing him again. She followed Ray through a small, darkened dining room into the kitchen at the back of the house.
“Patrick! Wake up buddy!” Ray clapped his hammy hands together, making a loud smack, and Mary came out from behind him, alarmed to see that Patrick was lying with his head on his arm, asleep at the kitchen table, sitting before a glass of water.
“Patrick?” Mary said, instinctively going around the table to his side and touching his head.
“Patrick, wake up. You have a guest. That’s not how you act when you have a guest.”
“Patrick? You okay, honey?” Mary said softly, and Patrick rolled his head slightly on his arm, blinking drowsily. A wan smile spread across his face when he recognized her.
“Mary?”
“Yes. Hi, honey.” Mary reached out to him, stroking his cheek as he lay with his head resting on his arm. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“Patrick, sit up!”
“Ray, it must be the medication.” Mary suppressed the urge to back Ray down directly. She didn’t want to antagonize Ray, but she didn’t like the way he was talking to Patrick. “The dosage must be too high. This isn’t how he acts normally. His energy level is better than this.”
“I’ll call the doctor about it tomorrow.” Ray frowned. “Patrick!”
“Thank you, I’ll take it from here,” Mary said, as lightly as she could. If she had thought Edward was on the strict side, Ray was even stricter.
“All right, I’ll leave you to it. Wrap it up at five to eight.” Ray left the kitchen.
“How are you, honey?” Mary sat down in the chair next to Patrick, ruffling up his hair.
“Hi.” Patrick raised himself to a sitting position, resting his head on his chin. He made eye contact with her, his blue eyes looking at her only briefly before his lids closed again.
Mary felt concerned. “Honey, I think it’s the pills they gave you, they’re making you sleepy.”
“Yeah, I wish I could take a nap.” Patrick’s voice sounded wan, but the familiar timbre of his voice touched her heart.
“I miss you, honey.”
“I miss you, too.” Patrick met her eye, only momentarily. “Are we going home now?”
Mary felt her chest tighten. “No, and I’m so sorry about that. I wish I could take you home tonight, but I can’t. It might be a little bit longer, maybe ten days.”
“Okay,” Patrick said, again wanly, and his affect seemed slack.
“How you doing?”
“Okay.”
“I’m trying to arrange for you to go to your new school but that will be a few days, too. So you just have to hang in there, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Guess what? I brought your clothes, your comics, and all of your art supplies. I have the pictures of your grandfather and your mom, too. All the things from your grandfather’s room. I packed them in a suitcase and Ray will give them to you.”
“Uh-huh.” Patrick nodded, drowsily.
“I want you to know that I care about you very much and I’m always there for you, even if I can’t take you home yet.”
“Okay.”
“The Stackpoles seem like very nice people.” Mary lowered her voice. “Do you like it here?”
“It’s okay.” Patri
ck seemed blank, almost expressionless.
“Honey, want to drink some water?” Mary picked up his glass of water and gave it to him, and Patrick took it loosely, sipped some, and handed it back to her. She wondered if he was in any shape to talk to her about what happened the night Edward died, but she had to give it a try. “Patrick, can I talk to you about your grandfather, the night he died?”
“Okay.”
“Remember you told me that sometimes you would give him his needle, like when his hand got the shakes?”
“Uh-huh,” Patrick answered, and there was a change in his tone that suggested to Mary he understood the question.
“Did you give him his needle that last night, you know, the night before he passed away?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you mean yes?” Mary asked, trying to clarify; he wasn’t speaking clearly and his affect was absolutely unreadable.
“Uh-huh,” Patrick said, and Mary took it as a yes.
“Patrick, try to wake up and listen to me, okay honey? Try to think back to that night. When you gave your grandfather his needle, do you remember where you gave it to him?”
“Uh-huh.” Patrick nodded, still resting his chin on his hand.
“Okay, good. Where did you give it to him?”
“Okay.”
Mary blinked. “Patrick, I’m asking you where you usually gave your Pops his needle?”
Patrick exhaled and inhaled, like a deep sigh. “In his belly. He likes soup.”
“Right.” Mary wasn’t sure what to make of his answers, but kept going. “The night that your grandfather passed away, do you remember him asking you to give him his needle?”
“Uh-huh?”
“So did you give him a needle the night that he passed away?”
“Uh-huh.”
Mary fell silent, stroking his little fringe of bangs away from his forehead, and he closed his eyes, leaning against her hand. She could see that there wasn’t much point in asking him questions tonight. She wanted to give him a little bit of comfort, in a world that had offered him so little of late. She reached over and hugged him, and Patrick leaned into her, resting his head on her chest and encircling her waist with his arms.
“Everything is going to be all right, honeybun,” Mary said softly, but she didn’t know if he heard her or not. She hoped he felt her comfort at some level, or at the very least, he had some respite. The house fell so quiet that the only sound was the rhythm of Patrick’s breathing, and she realized that Ray and Abby must have gone out front to talk. In time, Mary found herself holding Patrick as he dozed, and it was the most peaceful she had felt all day.
She let her gaze wander around the kitchen, which was as clean, practical, and as generic as the living room, with white cabinets and a white Formica countertop. There was no residual aroma of food, which struck her as unusual, since she was used to kitchens smelling like oregano, basil, cigar smoke, or ecologically friendly counter cleanser.
The only item of interest in the room was a big chart taped to the refrigerator, which read EXPECTATIONS at the top, above the names Rashid, Amal, and after that, Patrick. Each boy had his own column, and there were gold stars in the boxes for Rashid and Amal, next to Make Bed; Clean Up Bathroom After You Use It, Seat Down; Rinse Bowls After Breakfast; Put Dishes in Dishwasher, Facing Correctly, and so on.
Mary’s heart sank. She couldn’t bear that Patrick had to live here, among all the signs that he couldn’t read. She had thought that Edward was strict, but Ray was stricter, and she didn’t know how Patrick could endure all that he had gone through. She would have to follow up about his meds, then she realized Abby might have to do it, since she had no legal status. There was so much to do to help Patrick, and Mary didn’t know how she’d be able to do it without being his guardian, but she would have to try. She couldn’t let him down and she would always be there for him, no matter what, and that was exactly what she told him, whispering into his ear as he slept. Until Ray returned, frowning, at five minutes to eight.
Later, Mary drove back toward the city, heartsick after leaving Patrick behind at the Stackpoles’. She had to get him out of there and she had to deal with the suspicion that he was involved with Edward’s death. Abby had told her that Ray had believed the newspaper reports, which was natural since he’d been in law enforcement. Ray had also asked Abby about the Robertson Complaint brought by Machiavelli, so he had the same evidence as Judge Green, all of it consistent and damning. Mary prayed that Ray’s attitude toward Patrick wasn’t tainted by his mistaken beliefs, but Ray was only human.
Mary drove through the neighborhood without really seeing the traffic or the TV lights in the houses, flickering on either side of her as she passed. She made her way to I-95 because it was quicker, taking her directly into the city if she got off at Callowhill Street, which was only a block from the Roundhouse, Philadelphia’s police headquarters. She had done her share of criminal work and handled more than a few murder cases. Homicide detectives, who worked around-the-clock, were even busier at night. In fact, she knew their unofficial slogan was Our Day Begins When Yours Ends.
Mary mulled it over, making her way to the highway. Detective Randolph might be at the Roundhouse right now, and even if he wasn’t, she had to believe he would come in to meet with her. After all, he was considering her as an accomplice after the fact, a cover-up to Edward’s murder. She had information he wanted. But if she called him, she could be walking into the lion’s den. She would take her chances, for Patrick.
She reached for her cell phone.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
HOMICIDE DIVISION, read an old plaque on the wall outside the elevator, and Mary made her way down the narrow, filthy corridor, which curved around to the right because the building was shaped like three circles stuck together, which was why it was called the Roundhouse. It had been built in the sixties, when its design was space-age, but now it was dated and in horrible condition. Every year or so, the newspapers carried the story that the police headquarters would be moved to a better location, but it never seemed to happen.
The fluorescent lighting flickered above, the floor was of old green tile, broken in places, and the walls were grimy, cheaply paneled. Mismatched file cabinets lined one side of the hall, inexplicably, and Mary passed a crummy bathroom on the right, its door propped open by a full trash can. She kept going ahead toward a secured door with a buzzer next to another sign, HOMICIDE.
She buzzed and waited to be admitted, mentally preparing herself. After a few calls, she’d been able to reach Detective Randolph, who had called her back because he was “out on a job,” which she knew was police-speak for a dead body. He had agreed to meet her at the Roundhouse and was on his way, so she had shown ID and used his name to get in downstairs, and he had called a Detective Hilliard to admit her to the squad room.
In the next moment, an African-American detective in a shirt and tie came to the door, checked her out, and opened it with a professional smile. “You must be Mary DiNunzio. I’m Detective Hilliard.”
“Yes, thank you.” Mary smiled back, stepping inside the waiting area, which had only gotten dirtier since the last time she was here. It was no wider than a hallway, with black rubbery seats and an ancient gumball machine. Both walls were lined with the scariest photo array ever, of fifty or so Wanted posters, men and women of all races and ethnicities wanted for murder.
“Detective Randolf should be here any minute. Follow me, I’ll set you up in an interview room.”
“Thank you.” Mary fell into step beside him through the squad room, which was empty, probably because most of the detectives were out on jobs. The squad room was so cramped that there wasn’t enough space to pass in places, and they had to make their way between gray desks, outdated computers, and mismatched file cabinets.
“So I’ve heard your name before.”
“You have?” Mary brightened. Maybe her name was finally getting around town.
“Yes, you work with Bennie Rosato.�
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“Right.”
“We don’t mind the defense bar, contrary to popular opinion.” Detective Hilliard smiled, and Mary smiled back.
“And we value the police department, contrary to popular opinion,” she said, meaning it. “Detective, I’ve been a resident of this city all my life and I appreciate everything you do to keep me and my family safe.”
“Thank you.” Detective Hilliard grinned, more broadly, and they stopped at the first interview room. He opened it to reveal a grimy white box that contained a few gray folding chairs, a rickety old table with some forms scattered on top of it, and most remarkably, a metal chair that was bolted to the floor.
“I’ll take a seat, but not that one,” Mary joked, then realized it wasn’t funny.
“Ha! I can get you some coffee, but it’s my duty to warn you that it’s from a vending machine.”
“I’ll pass, thank you.” Mary entered the interview room and set her purse on the table because the floor was filthy.
“Let me know if you need anything. He’ll be here pretty soon.”
“Thanks.”
“Take care.” Detective Hilliard closed the interview room door, leaving Mary alone. She sank into one of the folding chairs and noticed above the door that there was a discreet black camera lens, probably for a video recording of interviews with suspects. On the wall to her left was a small mirror, which was undoubtedly a two-way for observing statements, and she glanced at the forms on the table, picking one up.
The form was a waiver of Miranda rights, with a list of questions with blanks for the answers: 1. Do you understand that you have a right to keep quiet, and do not have to say anything at all? 2. Do you understand that anything you say can and will be used against you? 3. Do you want to remain silent? 4. Do you understand you have a right to talk with a lawyer before we ask you any questions?
Mary set the form aside, beginning to worry. The waiver form, the camera lens, the two-way mirror, and the chair bolted to the floor were physical reminders that her interview with Detective Randolph could have legal consequences for her. She wondered briefly if she should call John, Judy, or even Bennie, who was one of the top criminal defense lawyers in the country. Mary didn’t have to be here unrepresented, after all. She could’ve come with legal guns blazing.
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