by Eric Rill
“Jimmy, I found this in her closet,” Parks said, handing him a debit card from the Columbus International Bank. “Should I chase it down and see what kind of activity she’s had?”
Angela looked down over Rosa’s shoulder. “I don’t have an account at Columbus International,” she protested.
18
Nick Grant locked his front door and stepped out onto the porch. There had been a rash of robberies in the past month, a result of high unemployment and a crackdown on the street dealers—making dope scarcer and therefore more expensive—and the drug addicts without the funds to pay. Even the Bottoms couldn’t escape the law of supply and demand. Most of the break-ins netted petty cash, as did the purse “grab and runs” and the car “smash and grabs,” which left at least five cars a day with broken windows. The street dealers, used to pulling in between four and five hundred dollars a week, most of which they used to feed their own habits, had taken to the alleys and the few crack houses that were still operating.
It was five o’clock and already dark. Grant zipped up his navy parka and jumped over the three painted wooden steps to the concrete walk.
“Hey, Nick,” Bobby Gales yelled from his porch next door. “Where ya goin’?”
Gales was twenty-four and reed-thin, with a scar that crossed from above his ear down to his neck—the result of a drunken brawl four years before. He and his family, eight in all, lived in the other part of the double that Grant owned on Rich Street. They shared two bedrooms, a living room, and one bathroom—nine hundred square feet on two floors, paying Grant three hundred a month rent, if they had any money left at the end of the month. Grant could have evicted them, but given the weak economy, the next tenants probably wouldn’t pay on time, either, and at least the Gales family didn’t punch holes in the walls and party all night.
They had moved up from one of the small towns in Appalachia, like a lot of other families in the neighborhood. Bobby’s father was a construction worker—when he was sober, and when he could find work. His mother was a seamstress on the other side of the river, and her steady paycheck, although meager, was the only income the family could depend on. Like most of Grant’s neighbors, Bobby and his three brothers and two sisters, all high school dropouts, were out of work most of the time. Grant had taken a liking to Bobby and had given him odd jobs around the house whenever he could.
“Bobby, did you finish that fence in the backyard yet?” Grant asked.
Gales wiped his hands down his soiled T-shirt. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” he said, his eyes glazed.
“You been drinking again?” Grant asked.
“Naw, not any more than usual,” he laughed.
“So why isn’t the fence done?” Grant persisted.
Gales stared down at the ground and then looked up at Grant. “Almost got busted this morning. Was a cop making like she was a hooker. Sure was a pretty thing. I was about to go on her till she went and opened her mouth—ain’t no hookers down here with clean, straight pearls,” he smiled, showing his own decayed, crooked set of teeth. “It took me a bit of bullshitting to get myself outta there. I’ll get to your fence first thing tomorrow.”
“Where do you get the money to get yourself a hooker?” Grant asked.
Gales looked away. “Don’t really matter. Does it?”
Grant shrugged his shoulders, crossed the small lawn, and continued down Rich Street toward McDowell. He spotted Darius selling crack to a young kid. He crossed back to the other side of the street, past the market and a brick row house that had been boarded up by the cops after they had raided it for drugs the month before.
The entrance of the row house was visible from Grant’s front window. There always seemed to be a steady stream of white men from the other side of the river going in and coming out within minutes. Grant had been watching one night when the cops sent a stoolie inside. As soon as the guy came out and waved his hat, a containment unit slipped behind the house. Then an entry team of narcotics agents rushed the porch, shouting “Columbus police—search warrant!” and hammered the front door open with a steel ram. There must have been twenty cops with shotguns flying through the door. Grant heard gunfire and dogs barking and yelping from across the street. The dealers used pit bulls as guard dogs, and the cops needed the shotguns as much to protect themselves from the dogs as from the dealers. Fifteen minutes later, the cops had shoved six neighborhood guys into a paddy wagon before it screamed away toward the bridge.
Grant looked at his watch and picked up his pace. He jaywalked across Town Street toward Mount Carmel Hospital, a modern eight-story building that loomed over the surrounding dreary clapboard houses in its shadow. He took the elevator up to the Psych Unit on the third floor. A young nurse with short frizzy hair smiled at him as he approached. “Dr. Morgan will be right with you. He just went down to the cafeteria to get a coffee,” she said, pointing toward the open door.
Grant walked in and sat in his usual seat in the far corner. The room was painted pale blue and there was a washed-out geometric rug that covered a small space on the linoleum floor between his chair and Morgan’s. The walls were bare, as was the desk, except for a thick manila file with Grant’s name typed in the upper right-hand corner. Eduardo Morgan was one of the most prominent psychiatrists in Columbus and gave one afternoon a week of his time pro bono, working with those residents of the Bottoms who needed his help.
“I brought you a coffee,” Morgan said as he entered the office, balancing two Styrofoam cups without covers. “They ran out of lids—black, no sugar, right?” After almost a year Morgan knew a lot more about Grant than how he took his coffee. The doctor had been treating him for post-traumatic stress disorder and helping him deal with his coke withdrawal.
Grant had become almost paralyzed after Marcy and Billy died. He couldn’t cope with even the smallest tasks that he used to take for granted—like handling his investment portfolio—let alone running the Crown, or even playing drums in a pickup band Wednesday nights at Gallagher’s, a seedy blues bar in the “short north” section of Columbus. His days were filled with flashbacks of the fire. His nights brought unsettled sleep with recurring, haunting dreams. He felt a constant pressure in his chest as he tried to go about his day-to-day activities, and a diminished interest in pursuing activities he used to love.
After he moved down to the Bottoms, things seemed to get better for a while. But shortly after he arrived, he had started buying drugs from Darius and spent his time going from the euphoria of the coke to jittery restlessness, anxiety, and depression as he wasted the days away in his sagging easy chair by the window of his cramped living room.
One late afternoon, as darkness was just setting in, he had awakened from a fourteen-hour coke and booze–induced stupor, feeling like his body was going to split in two. The outside temperature had already dipped into the teens and his antiquated heating system struggled to get much past fifty degrees. But his body felt like an inferno, his clothing sticking to his sweaty frame. Everything in his sight was in motion—the floorboards twitched, the walls trembled, even the bars of dark orange light that slipped through the holes in the heavy curtains crisscrossed the room in a disjointed fashion. That’s when he decided to get help. He dragged himself through the dark, desolate streets, up to Mount Carmel. Lucky for him it was Thursday, and the day of Eduardo Morgan’s pro bono shift on the third-floor Psych Ward.
“I can’t get this woman out of my mind,” Grant said as he wiped coffee from his mouth with a Kleenex that he’d picked up from the table beside him.
“The one at the Langham,” Morgan confirmed.
“Yeah, I really don’t think she killed that guy, although I couldn’t see them once they disappeared behind the trees.” Grant took another sip of his coffee and placed the cup down on the table. “I mean, I could see through the branches, because the leaves were sparse, but it was kind of fuzzy.”
“Maybe you don’t want to think that she could have killed anyone,” Morgan said. “Maybe your feelin
gs for her override reality.”
“No, it’s not that,” Grant said, shaking his head. “I hardly know her.”
“But you’ve been telling me about how you watched her on numerous occasions from your scaffold.”
“I watched a lot of people. And as far as how much time? Well, I watched the others more than her—although, if I’m honest with myself, probably only because she didn’t keep the drapes open all the time,” Grant explained. Then he added, “It’s really been good therapy up there—alone, safe, yet in a way, being able to be a part of these people’s lives.”
“You didn’t have any contact with them, so how could you consider yourself a part of their lives?” Morgan asked.
“It was like fantasizing when I was a child,” Grant replied. “I’d observe them and make up stories about who they were.”
Morgan stared at him, smoothing his hands back over his thinning white hair and grabbing the end of his short ponytail, toying with it, as he often did when he was trying to figure something out. “Okay, let’s get back to this woman—Angela, isn’t it?”
“Ever since I mentioned to her that I thought I had seen her upstairs counting that money, I got the feeling she was really nervous around me—like she wanted me to be there, but didn’t. And then, ever since I burst into her apartment after that episode with that guy by the ravine, she doesn’t seem to want to let me out of her sight.”
“And how do you feel about that?” Morgan asked.
“You can tell when there’s a spark or something between two people, you know what I mean? Well, I think we have that, but there is so much uncertainty, so many questions.” Grant shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m the only one who’s confused.”
“Confused? About what?” Morgan asked.
“Maybe she likes me, and that’s as far as it goes—no real feelings on her part. Or maybe she’s using me, afraid I’ll tell the police about seeing her with the money,” Grant said. “And I think I would, if I were sure there was something bad going on.”
“Do you think there’s a plausible explanation?” Morgan asked.
“I don’t think she was counting out donations for Catholic charities,” Grant smiled. “But, there is something about her that I trust.”
Morgan smoothed his snow-white eyebrows. “That’s going to have to be your call, Nick,” he said.
“Don’t you shrinks ever give advice?” Grant asked plaintively.
“I told you the first day you walked in here: You’ll be able to find all the answers yourself—in due time.”
Morgan remembered the previous spring when his secretary had knocked on his open door while he was finishing making notes on his last patient of the day. She had had a call from emergency. There was an extremely anxious man down there who the resident felt needed help. Dr. Jansen, who was supposed to be on duty until six o’clock, had gone home early with the flu, and the resident asked if Morgan could see the man for a few minutes and maybe give him something to calm him. Grant had appeared at his door, unkempt, his hair matted, his eyes on fire—almost incoherent. A far cry from the man who sat opposite him today, who, although still dealing with the consequences of his tragedy, was rational and making positive changes in his life. “How are you doing at NA?” Morgan asked.
“I’m still going—but not as often as before. Frankly, it depresses me seeing all those people trying to fix themselves.”
Morgan smiled as he clicked the end of his ballpoint pen in a staccato rhythm. “We’re all on a lifetime journey of fixing ourselves, Nick,” he intoned.
“I’ve been completely clean since last spring—but I’ve almost given in to it more than once,” Grant admitted, sinking back in his chair. “You know the scene at my father’s house still rips through my mind; it’s as strong as ever. Only not as often. In a way, I feel guilty that it’s not consuming me like it did.”
“It’s normal to feel the same intensity, but less often. And your feelings of guilt are what make you human,” Morgan said. “With time, all that will pass.”
“I don’t want to forget them,” Grant said, hunching his shoulders. “Ever.”
19
The mud on Angela Ferraro’s boots matched the mud on Tommy Castellano’s shoes—that wasn’t a surprise. Anyone could see that without a lab technician’s telling them. Castellano’s tests were back and they confirmed Angela’s blood on his hands and fibers from her dress under his nails. That wasn’t a surprise, either. There was a surprise, though. Examination of his lungs and liver had shown the existence of xylene, a solvent in glue. The coroner’s conclusion was that Tommy Castellano was a glue sniffer. Rosa shrugged and said it sounded plausible. Hank Morton didn’t buy it, but it was really a moot point now that Castellano was dead.
And there was another surprise. Angela Ferraro had an account at Columbus International Bank with just under fifty thousand dollars in it, and no visible means of support, since, according to her, she was looking for a job. Morton told Rosa to book her.
*
Virgil Parks was at the wheel as the Chevy pulled up outside an oversize steel door. The door slowly creaked open and he drove into the cavernous county jail’s garage. He nodded to the guard and backed into a slot opposite the exit. Rosa got out and opened the back door.
“Watch your head,” he told Angela Ferraro as she struggled with her handcuffs. Then he reached in and took her elbow, at the same time keeping his other hand over her head so she wouldn’t slam it into the top of the door frame. “We’ll be going through there,” he said, pointing to the glass door. Once inside the first door, Rosa lifted his gun from his shoulder holster, placed it in a locker, and removed the key. Parks did the same, and then the two detectives waited with Angela as the second door slid open.
A detective from Vice, where Rosa had worked before Homicide, was walking out. “You running with the Castellano case, Bones?” he asked.
“I’m all over it,” Rosa grinned as he put his arm around Angela’s waist. “Can’t you see?”
“I just dropped a twenty that it will end up in cold case,” the detective said.
“Christ! Even the rookie here could get a confession out of this dame in two months,” Rosa shot back as he led Angela up to the receiving desk.
Angela wrestled with her handcuffs as she looked down at her watch. “My lawyer should be here any minute,” she said.
“Virgil, why don’t you take those off her?” Rosa said, eying the red burns around Angela’s wrists.
Parks took out his key ring and unlocked the cuffs. “Take everything out of your pockets and put it on the counter,” he said, nodding to the cop behind the desk.
“Here’s the paperwork,” Rosa said, stepping in front of Parks.
“Ma’am, we’re going to keep all of your belongings for you,” the cop explained, picking up her driver’s license, a few dollar bills, and some loose change and spilling them into a brown paper bag before stapling it shut.
A matronly woman in a white smock that stopped just short of her bony knees came over to the counter, adjusting her reading glasses on her nose as she looked down at a file. “Miss Ferraro, I’m a nurse and will have to ask you a few questions.”
Angela nodded as the woman took down her relevant medical history. Moments later, a burly female officer approached. “I’m going to search you before we cuff you again,” she said.
“They did that over at my apartment,” Angela complained. After Parks had read her Miranda rights to her, a female police officer had been called in to frisk her.
“It will just take a minute—procedure,” the policewoman said. “Would you hold your hands out to the side?” She checked Angela’s arms and upper body and then ran her hands down the outside of her pants and back up the inside of her thigh, lingering there a little too long for Angela’s liking. “Okay, I’m going to take you into the other room and let you change into your uniform.”
Angela’s eyes widened as she looked over at Rosa. “Christ, Jimmy, I didn�
��t do anything,” she protested over her shoulder as the officer led her down the corridor.
A few minutes later, she came out of a side room, wearing an orange-colored one-piece uniform. “Is my lawyer here yet?” she asked.
“Miss Ferraro’s counselor arrive yet?” Rosa asked a policeman behind the square reception desk.
“He’s waiting for her,” the cop said.
“Where am I going to meet with him?” Angela asked.
“Right in there,” Rosa said, pointing to a small room down the corridor.
As they entered the cramped room with one desk and two chairs, a man with pockmarks scattered over his cheeks stood up and offered Rosa and Parks his hand. “I’m Clancy Howell,” he said. “Miss Ferraro’s lawyer.”
“Jimmy Rosa. Nice to meet you, counselor. Maybe you can talk some sense into your client.” Rosa buttoned his jacket and nodded at Parks. “We’ll be down the hall. Just pick up the phone and dial zero when you’re done.”
Angela flicked her chin at her lawyer and led his gaze to a small hole in the wall.
“As an attorney for Miss Ferraro, I’m entitled to a secure room with no video or tape recording,” Howell said in a clipped tone.
“Of course you are, counselor,” Rosa said. “Why do you say that?”
“Detective Rosa, please don’t insult me. I can assure you I know a camera when I see one,” Howell said as he checked the hole.
“Ah,” Rosa said, looking at the small opening across the room. “That hasn’t worked in years.”
Howell pulled his finger out of the hole. “Looks like you’re right,” he conceded. “But if it does, she walks, regardless.”
“Regardless? Like you telling me she’s guilty?”
“I’m just telling you the law, Detective.”
Rosa’s face reddened. “I don’t need no lawyer to teach me the law, Mr. Howell. I told you it don’t work, and if that ain’t good enough for you, then go get a room at the Ritz!” he said, storming out of the room.
