“Not the one he asked for?”
George nods. “Steven feels bad, tries to make him happy, gives him chocolate. He yells, throw ticket on the floor, kick it. Bang the counter. Throw things. Break some glass. The Fourth of July, he is like fireworks.” George points to the thick glass cold-cuts case. “Bam! We get new glass. Steven pays us.”
The brothers exchange glances again as if deciding whether to say more. Ari shakes his head no. They fall silent.
“What’s he look like?”
George points to the licorice Twizzlers. “Hair this color.”
Ari puffs out his chest. “Face always like this—” He squints and scowls. “And big, like on TV… the tire man.”
“The Michelin Man?” They nod. “Did Steven seem okay about him? Did he seem scared?”
They shrug and shake their heads. Ari says, “We not have psukhe?248-175?.” Their eyes are solemn. Broadly speaking, psukhe?248-175? is Greek for psychic, a word they use for Jo and for me too. They speak it with respect, even awe. The Tsakises mean that they’re neither psychics nor psychologists. They know nothing of Steven’s thoughts. Ari sips his coffee.
“When he broke the glass, you didn’t notify the police?”
“If we call, maybe the kid go boom! for sure.”
George steps close. “Steven,” he says. “You think this guy robs Steven? Kills him?”
“I don’t know.”
“The police finds out.” George’s gaze is shrewd. “Police guards your house?”
“I… I hope so.”
“Miss Reggie, you get new locks. Nick’s Locks. I call for you.” George goes to the phone, speaks in a torrent of Greek. “He comes to you by five. Okay?” Grateful, I agree.
I buy a box of Milk-Bones, pass on the apples but say yes to pears and a chunk of feta. George puts the order on my tab, which is so nice, so different from the mall shopping of my corporate nomad years, the customer service desk and plastic smiles. Biscuit stands up, tail wagging.
As we’re leaving, Ari leans close to me. “Psukhe?248-175? is great gift, Mees Reggie. But you must watch out. Who killed Steven, this is for the police, not your job. We are grocers, but Greeks know Erinyes. How you say it, furious?”
“The Furies?”
He nods. “This Lueez, he is Erinyes. He is angers. He is torments. Steven too close. You stay away.”
Chapter Seven
Easy to say, tough to do. I walk Tremont, steadied by the commerce of cafés and restaurants, bakery, florist, shoe repair. It begins to rain, the cold drops plastering fallen leaves to the sidewalk. Biscuit loves the wet. Somehow this beagle’s a water dog. Tires hiss on the wet pavement, and the meter maid does a brisk business. I walk fast. New Englanders, Jo always said, do not whine.
Steven’s bloody body, however, flashes like a strobe light. Spiders crawl on the face of every pedestrian. The shop windows feature Halloween ghouls and bats, and every passerby seems a possible murderer. Could it be the gangly guy in black denim? The brush-cut blond with shifty eyes who pulls a little too hard at Biscuit’s ears?
The dog trots nicely alongside. Beagles are notoriously friendly. She might lick the hand of the killer, perhaps the muscular redheaded woman with the heavy stride—at which point I realize the murderer is not necessarily male. I see dead bodies on the second floor of every building. The windowpanes are eyes of death. It’s raining hard, and Biscuit splashes in every puddle. It’s no place for light Ferragamos. Since my days of high-end shoes are over, should I let these be ruined?
As if it matters.
Suddenly a bulky black-haired kid bursts out of the video store. His sneakers smash at the pavement. I think of Luis, and my heart jumps. The kid crosses the street, walking fast, his thighs as thick as tree trunks. He looks older than fifteen, but who can tell for sure? He’s in orange sweats. I strain to see his hands, as if they’d be bloody even in the rain.
Stop it, Reggie. Back off. Cool it and calm down. I try, my state of high alert bordering on hallucination.
But gut instinct has its uses. Suppose that Steven ignored his. Suppose that deep down, Steven, the Big Buddy, grew frightened of Luis and tried to dismiss his fears. Maybe he felt trapped between mentoring duty and the guilt of his own terror. Did Steven send me this message as he described Luis? In my own hit-and-run moment, was I deaf? Was I blind to the look of fear deep in his eyes?
“Lady, your pear…”
“Oh—” The soggy bag has got a hole. “Thank you.” I take the fallen fruit as Biscuit sniffs an Akita, whose owner clearly thinks her own dog is slumming. A breed snob, but I’m grateful for the distraction.
It’s been a two-hour time-out. Biscuit and I reach Barlow Square just in time to see the gurney, the body bag, two uniformed cops struggling down the rain-slick granite steps outside. A small crowd has gathered, a sailor in his pea jacket, a woman in a yellow rain hat, a man with three Scotties that bark at Biscuit, who whines pitifully the whole time, then tries to lunge. I am separating dogs as Steven is lifted into a patrol wagon.
There are just four cruisers double-parked now.
But three TV vans are out front with crews taping. The crowd seems reluctant to disperse, as if the sideshow might continue, as if they might get themselves on TV. I run a gauntlet up my own stairs, gripping the iron banister so I won’t fall.
“Miss, do you live here? Could we just ask you… ?”
“One question: did you know the deceased… just one question… did you—?”
In the vestibule, Sergeant Dorecki peers into the sodden grocery bag as if my own front door is a checkpoint. He tells me I am now free to scrub my door.
Inside, I take off the wet things, towel my head, and towel Biscuit. Deep breathing helps for calm. I wash and eat a pear.
There are two phone messages. One’s from Gibralter Realty. Meg Givens tells me that Steven Damelin’s employer is Corsair Financial in Boston’s financial district. I jot the address. The other is Maglia. He requests an interview at precinct headquarters—if at all possible, this afternoon.
I grab the phone. Ed Maglia’s phone voice is brusque, and I murmur lawyer, though he assures me that won’t be necessary. The former Mrs. Martin Baynes, I realize, would go flanked by a bevy of lawyers. Reggie Cutter goes it alone. One way or another, I’ll speak for myself.
Chapter Eight
The precinct house on Harrison Avenue looks like a modern corporate fortress. A parking space opens up a few doors down the block, and I take it, grabbing my umbrella and hurrying inside, where it’s all computer screens and blue uniforms. I’ve changed into caramel slacks and jacket with a white blouse, light on the jewelry.
Maglia shakes hands. He’s thinner than I thought this morning, his skin sallow in fluorescent light. We pass a droopy Stars and Stripes, and he points me to a small room with a cushioned chair, a venetian blind, a table topped with chipped Formica—and Detective Francis Devaney. Yes, straddling a wood chair in one corner sits Frank Devaney.
“Hello, Reggie.”
“Hello, Frank.”
Wonderful and awful, that’s the feeling. Seduced and abandoned. Here’s the homicide detective whose tough, stalled cases I’ve helped solve, the guy whom my psychic aunt worked with for years and was close to. This is the guy I phoned when Steven’s bloody body turned me inside out.
The guy who failed to call me back.
Devaney runs a hand through short salt-and-pepper hair, and I notice a puffiness around his gray eyes. His hair and crooked nose have become so familiar over the past months. He wears brown slacks and a light tweed jacket straining at the button across a barrel chest. Today’s tie, as usual, is the dregs, a rainbow that looks like an oil slick. Is his presence here in the precinct room more treacherous than comforting, or the other way around?
“Sit down, Reggie,” he says. “How about some coffee?” I accept, and Devaney goes for mugs, sugar packets, a shaker of powdered creamer under his armpit. “Black as usual?” I nod. He puts a mug on the tabl
e in front of me.
I take a tiny sip, and my first sentence is an opening bid. “I’m sorry I accidentally kicked the drill.”
They both stare.
“I should have been more careful, but I was in shock. I hope I haven’t caused problems.”
Both heads tilt as if listening to an exotic birdcall. Maglia says, “This isn’t about the drill, Ms. Cutter. In fact, this is not about the crime scene as such.”
“Oh?”
Devaney dumps whitener into his coffee, looks in vain for a stir stick, and jiggles the mug.
“What can I do for you?”
Maglia sits forward, and I’m braced for more of his sarcasm. Yet his expression is somehow different this afternoon, perhaps softer. “Ms. Cutter, we appreciate you coming down here. We would like to ask your help. As the owner of Steven Damelin’s apartment, you’re in a position to assist with our investigation.”
At last: clarity. They’ve talked, these two, and I’m about to be invited into the case as the psychic. They’ve come to their senses. My ability is needed, and they know it. Let them approach you, Reggie. Let the recruitment begin.
“You told us you first met Damelin yesterday when you fell in the street and he helped you.”
When a car almost ran me down in a hit-and-run assault. If I say this aloud, however, I’ll sound self-serving and confrontational.
“Yesterday around two.”
Tipping his chair back, the tactic of a shorter man exerting authority, Maglia says, “Ms. Cutter, an investigation goes forward on several fronts. Some are technical, some not. It’s not always neat and clear-cut like on TV.”
I could reply that I know this from working homicide cases with Frank Devaney, who thus far seems more interested in his coffee than the specifics of the moment.
“We’re already making progress, but you might be able to help.”
“Whatever I can do.” Here it comes, the request for a psychic’s help. This is no time to be coy, I’ll say yes at once and get to work. I’ll tell about Steven’s drowning scene, the vision of the water and the log.
“Here’s the favor you can do for us, Ms. Cutter, and it shouldn’t take much of your time. You can let us know about anybody who comes around looking for Steven Damelin. Anybody calls for him, anybody knocks at his door, we’d like to know. Another thing, you could keep an eye on the mail. Just have a look at whatever comes to the apartment addressed to Steven Damelin and let us know.”
“The mail? Monitor the mail?” My voice cracks in surprise. Have I heard him right? Devaney, who has said nothing, spreads his palms on the table and studies the Formica. I’m asked to be a household snoop and mail clerk? Is this it?
“It would help us to know of any contacts… particular return addresses. So we can cast a wide net.”
Stunned, I manage for the sake of pride to ask, “Is the postmaster general in on the investigation?”
Maglia’s smile is condescending, so very Marty. “The postmaster general’s office gets involved when there’s reason to believe a crime violates postal regulations. We have no reason to think that’s the case here. Isn’t that right, Frank?” Devaney looks up and nods. “But that’s a good point, Ms. Cutter. That’s good thinking.”
Maglia doesn’t mean good thinking. He means dumb. I remember my son’s junior deputy phase, his little badge. Do I get one to pin on my collar? How could Frank Devaney go along with this? As a senior detective, he outranks Maglia. How could he?
Yet their request for help tells me that so far, early as it is, the police have no notion who Steven Damelin’s killer might be.
What to do? Walk out in a huff? Tell them to call when they have a better offer? Say I’m a psychic and don’t do windows? It’s tempting. But if I give in to injured pride, they’ll cut me out of the case altogether. The new Boston life that I love will end in a heartbeat. These past months of homicide cases working with Devaney, they’re everything to me. Even though I’m unofficial, a volunteer, the cases are my life’s adventure.
And now, suddenly, my life blood? Steven’s dead body is burned into my brain… and my door marked, patterned in blood, actual blood. Life blood and death blood. Did that blue car start all this? My daughter is right, I could be a marked woman.
Frank Devaney won’t meet my gaze. He reaches in his pocket for a roll of Tums and crunches a tablet. Maglia drums his manicured nails. I’ll play the hand they’ve dealt me. “Well, gentlemen, I already have a useful fact for you. The boy whom Steven Damelin was mentoring. Luis?”
Maglia nods while Devaney’s brow angles up.
“I talked to two grocers who describe Luis as disruptive and temperamental, actually violent. He vandalized their store, and Damelin paid them for the damage. They did not contact the police, so no official record exists.” I then spell “Tsakis Brothers” and give the address, knowing George and Ari will not be pleased but will forgive. Maglia’s expression of approval tells me I’ve got my start as mail clerk and concierge.
Ladylike and cool, I say, “Detective Maglia, Frank, I’m having my locks changed, but I’m worried about security. Can you tell me how much police protection I’ll get?”
“Ms. Cutter, we’ll have stepped-up patrols on your block, day and night, long enough to ensure safety in your neighborhood.”
Meaning, best guess, only a few days. Then I’m totally on my own. It’s not their personal problem. Nobody marked their doors in blood. Nobody tried to run them down.
“Can you tell me when the Homicide Division might know more about my front door? When will you know whether the blood marks are accidental or deliberate? And whether the blood is in fact Steven Damelin’s?”
Devaney leans forward and coughs. His buckle scrapes the edge of the tabletop, the belt out to the loosest hole. Maglia clears his throat and looks sheepish. “Thing is, Ms. Cutter, an investigation takes time. Many different leads must be followed. And people aren’t always what they seem to be. For instance, you described your tenant as a clean-cut young man who gave you first aid when you fell.”
“Yes.”
“We already have information that suggests a very different profile.”
Maddening, they don’t tell me what it is.
Maglia actually smiles. He has a chipped front tooth. “So we’re just asking you to look at the mail and take note of anybody that might come around asking about the deceased.”
“Just anybody?” I ask. “Or would certain people fit the profile better? Maybe if you could be more specific?” I bat my eyes for the naive, expectant effect. Neither one bites. The profile is their secret.
“Ms. Cutter, if you just keep an eye out, we’ll take it from there.”
“Let me ask another question. What about Steven’s belongings?”
“I’ll tell you something, Ms. Cutter. We’ve learned that Steven Damelin was estranged from his family.”
“How about his furniture?”
Maglia shrugs. They push back to signal the close of the interview. We all stand. Frank Devaney says, “Consider it yours to dispose of.” Maglia thanks me for serving as eyes and ears.
Chapter Nine
Eyes and ears?” I’m at the curb by my Beetle with my car key out and Frank Devaney right behind. He followed me out of the Harrison Avenue precinct house, and we walked in silence. “Eyes and ears, Frank?”
“Reggie—”
“Or is it bait and switch? That’s what it feels like.”
“I know you’re upset—”
“Upset? A man was murdered on the floor above me in the middle of the night. My front door is marked in blood. Upset? Try ‘terrified.’”
“Believe me, we care about your protection. And we want your help. But Maglia got the case when you called nine-one-one, Reggie. We have rules and procedures.” He pops another Tums. “It’s Ed Maglia’s case, not mine.”
Car door open, I toss in the umbrella. “Ownership of the murder, is that it? Well, it’s my tenant murdered. My door marked in blood. Do you t
hink Jo Cutter would bow out and watch by the window in her rocker?”
His answer is slow and deliberate. “We called Jo when we were blocked. Usually when a case got cold.”
“And she… warmed it up?”
“You know what I mean.”
“So I’m on hold until Homicide gets stuck?”
He leans a shoulder against my car. “Reggie, listen to me. There’s two points. One, Ed Maglia doesn’t go in for psychics. The idea weirds him out. Ninety-nine out of a hundred cops feel the same way. You must’ve heard this from your aunt. She was low-key. It made it possible to work together. We worked quietly, mostly on the side.”
Partners below the radar. Is this his hint, a side deal between the two of us… a sign of life for my psychic self? “What’s the second point?”
“That you’re too close to this case. It’s because it is your house and tenant.”
“So I’m out because I’m in?”
“An investigation needs a certain detachment.”
“Let me try.”
“I worry about you.”
“I take care of myself.”
“You go out on your own. I could list the times.”
“For important information, such as Luis.”
“A neighborhood contact, that’s fine. I’m talking about the other times you got yourself in trouble, Reggie. What about when you came so damn close to… ?” He folds his arms, rolls back against my car. “Look, I promised Jo if we worked together, I’d look out for you. That’s a promise I try to keep. You’ve got kids.”
“You’ve got kids. And your wife.”
“I got a badge too. It says this is my job. My risks come with the job. Over twenty years on the force, experience counts. It’s my work, not a thrill ride. No, let me finish.” His voice drops low. “One way to help you is working with Ed on this case. I signed on to lend a hand. For now, I’m advising you to walk your dog, take in a movie, get back to normal.” He sees my look. “Yes, normal. Like the evening class I’m taking. Tonight it’s pan-searing and stir-fry. It’s good. I put on an apron, and it’s another world. As for this case, Reggie, you sit tight.”
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