by Linda Barnes
“Nice,” I said, because his enthusiasm demanded some response, and because stereo components are one of the few things I spend money on.
“Terrific,” he corrected me. “’Bout time something good happened ’round here.”
“Did something good happen?”
“Tina’s job.”
I removed a notebook from my bag, found a pen, and prepared to take notes like a diligent bureaucrat. “A new job? I’m glad to hear she found work so soon,” I said.
“She hadn’t had something, she wouldn’t have left JHHI—Hey, I’m not gettin’ her in any trouble, sayin’ that, am I?”
“I’m not here to make trouble. It’s just one of those follow-up studies. The institute likes to keep track. We want to make sure we’re offering comparable benefits, competitive salaries—”
“Hah!” Tony had quite a line in snorts. “You guys must have your heads stuck in the sand. Competitive!”
“Tina’s doing better now?”
“Better! Man, that don’t even touch it!”
I waited for him to tell me more, but he didn’t, so I pretended to consult a form. “Did she feel her schedule at JHHI was too demanding?”
“I sure did. Hell, I hardly ever saw her. One shift after another. We didn’t even eat together, or if we did, we barely had time for takeout.”
I made squiggles with my pen. “Would you say she was suffering from professional burnout?”
“She was tired, I know that. New job, she practically sets her own hours. We eat out.”
“And what’s the nature of her new employment?”
“Well, it’s not frontline nursing care. There’s no money in that. Some kind of experimental training or research.”
I kept my pen poised. “Would you know her new job title?”
“I dunno.” He broke into another of his sudden nervous smiles. “Say, you want to see this stuff I just bought? I got to show it off to somebody.”
With minimal encouragement, he started opening cartons, eagerly setting equipment on the kitchen table. He’d apparently unsealed the boxes earlier, removing the bubble-wrap and plastic peanuts and bagging them for the trash. What I was watching was more like a ceremonial unveiling with running commentary.
“Look at this CD player! I didn’t get the changer, the kind takes six CDs at once. Too much money. Coulda got a changer for the same money, but not this kinda quality.”
He had a good two thousand bucks’ worth of sound equipment laid out on the table by the time he’d finished. Top-grade stuff: Bose, Nakamichi, Denon. While he was patting it and singing its praises, I leaned out the kitchen door and took a quick inventory of the living room: Pier 1 wicker, potted plants, red-and-orange-patterned cushions. More money invested in the stereo than in anything else in the apartment.
Nurses earned decent salaries. Maybe she drove a good car, had a hefty savings account, helped out her family.
I stretched small talk to the limits, but no Tina. We moved into the living room, sat in two cushioned chairs on either side of a bow window. He offered me a beer.
“You think she might be working late?” I asked, consulting my watch. “I could try her at her new place.”
“She didn’t say she’d be late, but you know nurses.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “She comes home and finds me with a pretty gal, you just bet she’ll be pissed.”
I was glad I’d turned down the beer. There was a framed photo of a young woman on the windowsill. The frill of white lace balanced on her head made her skin seem ebony. She had a heart-shaped face, knowing eyes.
I let Tony see me studying the photo.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“Yeah,” he agreed happily. “Sure you won’t have a beer?”
“No, thanks.”
“You got incredible hair, you know. Super color. Want to take your jacket off, or anythin’?”
“No, thanks. Maybe I ought to try her at work. I wouldn’t have, like, any language difficulties, would I?”
He grinned, displaying those awful teeth. “With Tina? ’Cause of her name and the way she looks? Hell, her folks speak English better ’n me, and they’re the foreigners. Tina’s never even been to Pakistan. I mean, she likes to wear the clothes, the whad-ja-call-it, but she’s a hot-dog all-American.”
“No problem trying her at work, then?”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No,” I said.
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t get huffy. Hey, you’re not one of those Q.A. people, are you? Quality whatever? About taking good care of the patients? ’Cause you know, Tina is one damn fine nurse.”
I made a noncommittal noise and lowered my voice confidentially. “Well, you know, we did receive a letter about her,” I said, wrinkling my forehead in a concerned frown.
“Don’t sound like no card from a grateful patient,” he said.
I studied his face. “It was from a Mrs. Woodrow. Did Tina ever mention her, or Rebecca Woodrow, a six-year-old girl? She was Tina’s patient—oh, three months ago. She died.”
“Look, Tina worked with dyin’ kids all the time, and we didn’t discuss it over dinner a whole lot. Too depressin’, you know? I’m glad she’s out of it.”
“You think she’s happier at her new job?”
His face clouded briefly, then he flashed the nervous smile. “I dunno. I hope so.”
“Before I can clear her exit interview, I have to speak to her about this letter,” I said. “Thanks for the water. The new place close by?”
He shrugged.
“You know, you never said where she worked. My boss would kill me if I forgot to get that.”
“Place called Cee Co.”
I kept my voice level, uninterested. “How do you spell that?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, just the address then,” I said.
“I never been there. I mean, everybody knows where JHHI is, and I went to plenty of parties there with Tina, but she just started this other place. We ever meet at one of them parties, you ’n’ me? At JHHI?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’d have remembered. Is Cee Co. the whole name?”
“Short for somethin’ else, I guess. You know, I never get any of that shit straight. DG is Data General and DEC is Digital and that’s short for Digital Equipment Corporation—”
“You in computers?”
“No.”
“What is it you do?”
“I get by,” he said with a quick grin.
“Is Cee Co. with a C or an S? Do you know?”
“C, I think. Some long name.”
“And they do medical research?”
“I guess.”
I stood up and returned my notebook to my purse. I was fed up with all this Cee Co. hanky-panky. Dammit, I’d call Emily Woodrow tonight, in spite of her instructions, demand a few answers.
In the meantime, I gave Tony Foley my real card, the one with Carlyle Detective Agency on it. “Ask her to call me as soon as she comes in,” I said brusquely. “Thanks for your time.”
“Tina’s never this late. You want to have dinner or somethin’?” he said speculatively, arching an eyebrow.
“Save it,” I said.
“Hey, what’s this?”
He was finally reading the card. “Detective agency?” he spluttered. “What kind of crap is that?”
I didn’t join him for dinner.
16
I hoofed it back to the Longwood garage and paid the ransom for the car. Considering the price, they should have washed and waxed it.
Cee Co. was a business. C-something Company. Emily Woodrow had mentioned it in an urgent whisper, Tina Sukhia worked there, and I’d never heard of it.
Traffic crawled over the B.U. Bridge and inched sluggishly along Memorial Drive. I cut down River Street and started using twisting cabbie shortcuts, turning every two blocks. I’d rather drive miles out of the way than sit still. I punched on a tape and sang along with Chris Smither’s “
It Ain’t Easy,” silently agreeing with the lyrics, and trying to avoid thoughts of food. A quick stop for a burger and fries was tempting even after last night’s junk-food orgy with Gloria.
I usually don’t eat much when I dine with Gloria. Watching her sock away Tootsie Rolls humbles my appetite.
No time for food now. I turned down Flagg Street, made my way to Mount Auburn. The business pages of the Globe might identify Cee Co. Maybe Cee Co. was a stock-market abbreviation. I’d hit the tables, the New York Stock Exchange, the American, NASDAQ, the local Boston exchange.
Cars snarled Broadway near Cambridge Rindge and Latin, the high school Paolina would attend one day. I sighed and hit the brake. A stalled car, an accident, maybe. It wasn’t the usual place for a rush-hour jam.
Would Paolina, discouraged by her mother’s remarks, overwhelmed by home responsibilities, drop out before high school? What could her friend want with my trash? My mind balked at the word boyfriend. Friend was bad enough. What does an eleven-year-old need with a twenty-year-old friend?
I ought to keep food in my car. Trail mix. Beef jerky. Behind me, a man in a blue Chevy had the nerve to honk. I love it when the seventh driver in line decides to honk. I didn’t bother giving him the finger. Every other driver on the street beat me to it anyway.
The problem: a stuck traffic light at Cambridge Street. Once past it, I flew, making it home in three minutes only to find a man pacing my front stoop. For a minute I thought it was Mooney with a name to match the garbage thief’s license plate, but the shape was all wrong. I didn’t know this guy. Maybe he was waiting for Roz.
I revised that opinion on the way up the walk. He was too old for Roz. Too ugly. Roz has a penchant for the male body beautiful—not Schwarzenegger types, but solidly built hunks. This one looked forlorn, unkempt, and a little bit angry.
“Miss Carlyle?” he said accusingly.
I didn’t fit the key into the lock, just kept the ring in my pocket, where, almost unconsciously, I’d closed a fist around it. I learned that as a cop: If you need to hit somebody, keys make a great substitute for brass knuckles. “Yeah?”
“I wonder if I might have a word?”
“You got one.”
“I’d like to speak with you.”
“Who would I be talking to? About what?”
“My name is Harold Woodrow.”
I unclenched my fist and worked the key. He followed me into the living room like a docile puppy, sat stiffly in the straight-backed chair next to my desk.
It was his nose, I decided, that made his face unpleasant. Thin, sharp, and long, it made him appear arrogant even before he opened his mouth.
“What can I do for you?” I asked, giving myself points for sounding far more polite than I felt. I was hungry and I desperately wanted to kick off my flats and run cold water on my abused toes.
“You can explain this.” He removed a folder from his inside jacket pocket. His speech and manner did nothing to warm the arrogance. His shoes were soft leather with an expensive sheen.
The folder was his wife’s check register. He tapped it with a manicured fingernail.
“My wife paid you a thousand dollars. The memo says ‘retainer.’”
I pretended to study the entry while trying to read the adjacent lines. She didn’t write many checks.
“Why has my wife hired you?”
“Mr. Woodrow, I understand you’re an attorney, and you do a considerable amount of financial consulting and advising—to doctors.”
“Yes.”
“How would you react if I asked you about one of your clients?”
“You haven’t asked. I have.” He had a light complexion, a thin-lipped mouth made smaller by the prominent nose.
“Ask your wife,” I suggested.
His mouth tightened. “My wife told me you were a psychic, and that the amount in question covered several séances and a detailed tarot reading.”
Thanks a lot, Emily.
I said, “Everybody’s got to earn a living.”
“I mentioned Emily’s bizarre conduct in consulting you to a fellow attorney who deals in criminal matters. He knew your name. Remembered it. Said you were an investigator.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“That’s not what I’m here to talk about.”
“Talk about what you’re here to talk about,” I said dryly.
“I want to know what you’re doing for my wife.”
“Talk some more,” I suggested.
“I expect some answers.”
I stared at my desk top, glanced around the room, and sighed. I hadn’t fed the parakeet in days, and the cat was probably poised to claw me as soon as I stepped into the kitchen.
“Fifteen eighty-eight,” I recited. “That’s the year of the Spanish Armada. I don’t know why I remember that one, but it’s up there with 1620 and 1492 as far as answers go.”
“You don’t take this seriously.”
“Ah.”
“Young woman,” he said, “you are going to take this seriously before I’m finished.”
“Oh,” I said, “and why is that?”
“If my wife hired you to spy on me, you’ll be very sorry. You people are licensed by the state.” He hesitated before the word people, made it sound like vermin.
“My wife is under the care of a psychiatrist,” he continued. “She is not a well woman and I won’t have her taken advantage of by some rumor-mongering private eye.”
He’d lost a child not four months ago, but I found myself having empathy trouble.
“My wife, much as I, uh, love her, is not a completely truthful woman at the best of times. And now, well—you have to understand where she’s coming from.”
I wasn’t about to tell him anything, but if he wanted to confide in me that was a different story. I eased my heels out of my shoes, waggled my toes.
“It’s not often you come across a spoiled child of forty,” he said, snapping out his words, “but that’s my Emily. Up until—up until our disaster—I don’t think she ever wanted anything she couldn’t have. You’ve seen her type before, haven’t you? Rich, pretty, homecoming queen. And now she’s behaving as if she were the only person in the universe to lose a child, the only one to suffer. She acts as if … as if she’s completely forgotten that Rebecca was my daughter as well.
“Emily’s the one who’s frozen me out, not the other way around I’m not an unfeeling man. She may have made it sound like I’m uncaring, hut it’s not as if she’s played the perfect little spouse.”
His voice shook, but he pretended to cough and firmed it up. He put a hand to his cheek, rubbed it as if he were checking to see whether or not he’d shaved recently. “Good God,” he murmured softly, his voice gaining volume as his chagrin turned to anger, “this is what she’s driven me to, babbling in front of a—I beg your pardon, young woman. I shouldn’t have come here at all.”
“You’re probably right about that,” I agreed.
“Dammit.” He squeezed syllables out from between clenched teeth. “One more chance, all right? What exactly did my wife pay you for? What service do you offer for a thousand dollars?”
I reached over and picked up the telephone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling your wife,” I said, jamming my heels back into my shoes. I was actually punching Roz’s upstairs number because it’s nice to have a karate expert around when you’re going to throw somebody out of your house.
“Stop.”
“It’s ringing.”
“I don’t want her to—”
“Don’t you think it’s time to go?”
He gave me the kind of look actors use to signify that they’ll get even someday, and crossed to the hall. I opened the door for him, locked all three locks as soon as he’d departed. Then I leaned against the wall.
Why had I thought of actors? Something about the performance hadn’t rung true. Words or emotions? Which?
“My wife, much as I,
uh, love her …” Had his hesitation spoken of more than Yankee embarrassment at a declaration of affection? Did he love his wife? He’d seemed convinced that I’d been hired to spy on him. Query: When does a wife hire a private eye to follow her husband? Response: When she believes he’s having an affair. Less so nowadays, what with divorce-law reform. Still, evidence of infidelity can be a potent weapon in child-custody cases.
Here, there was no longer a child to consider.
I freed my aching toes and padded around the house barefoot, digging through the daily rubble until I found the Globe neatly folded on the hall table. Nearby, Roz had hung a glistening portrait of two large onions draped by a bunch of limp parsley.
No good. Monday’s paper didn’t carry the stock quotes since the exchanges were closed on Sundays. Slovenly housekeeping, however, has its bonuses. I located the Saturday paper under a chair, took it to my desk, and ran a finger down the tiny print of the Stock Exchange listings. CCO, maybe. I found a C COR on NASDAQ, but that was corporation, not company. My eyes started to hurt. I gave up the tables and read the entire section, front to back, and all the miscellany in between. A columnist advised me to Keep My Stock Records Up to Date. I learned that health-care funds slumped in the first quarter.
Nothing about Cee Co.
T.C. yowled while I yanked the flip-top ring and presented him with a tin of Fancy Feast. I put a big pot of water on to boil for spaghetti. I use sauce straight from the jar, with a dollop of red wine to give the illusion of homemade. It’s not great, but it’s quick. Eating takes enough time out of life. Who has hours for cooking?
I practiced some tricky guitar riffs from Rory Block’s new Ain’t I a Woman tape, listening for the telephone, the doorbell.
I didn’t hear from Tina Sukhia.
I didn’t get a package from Emily Woodrow.
My fingers stopped picking in the middle of a song while I considered Tony’s assertion that his fiancée was a fine nurse. Had he sounded overly defensive? He’d asked if I was from the Q.A. Department—Quality Something. Quality Analysis? Quality Assurance?
