All in One Piece

by Cecelia Tishy

  Steven’s murder, now it’s the Damelin case. “Was he questioned by Maglia?”

  “By Detective Xavier Soysal.”

  “And is Luis a suspect?” As if Devaney would tell me.

  “It’s a process. We don’t know yet. Ed’s talking to a good many people.”

  “Including Steven’s father? Steven fought furiously with his father, you know.”

  He ignores this. “Ed’s looking for certain specific people.”

  “Someone named Alex? A dancer?”

  “Hey, Reggie, back off—it’s enough you’re nosing around Jamaica Plain.” His raised brow is a storm warning. “Anyway, that kid’s got his troubles.”

  “His mother says he’s high-spirited. If it were my own son, I might say the same thing. Maybe you would too.”

  Devaney chugs his RC. “The Latino groups are all different. Your Dominicans, there’s a lot of back-and-forth to JP—Jamaica Plain. Fares are cheap, families live in both places.”

  “So Maglia’s afraid that Luis will escape? Go back to his home village?”

  Devaney reaches for the slaw. “I’m saying there’s a family dynamic. A parent comes for a job here, say, cabdriver or hotel housekeeping. The kids stay back on the island with the grandparents. The fireworks start when they’re teens.”

  “My friend says the kids play the parents against the grandparents.”

  “He’s right. Kids mess up, they’re out of control. Then the parent brings the kid to Boston to straighten him out, and there’s a language problem, the kid’s behind in school. It spirals down.”

  “To murder?” Do I repeat Carmine’s words, “the tools fit his hand like gloves”? It could assist the police… or help convict an innocent boy of homicide. For now, I nibble coleslaw and keep quiet.

  “Your aunt liked barbecue.”

  This is an odd change of subject, and something else that Jo never mentioned.

  “I’d stop and pick up a bagful when we worked together. I gave her my pickles. She loved pickles on a sandwich.” He crumples his wrapper, bags the trash. I realize this is not solely about sandwiches. “She sat where you’re sitting, Reggie, and told me what she saw… her psychic visions.” He looks straight ahead through the windshield. “It had its complications. Don’t get me wrong, Jo gave me information, but it was up to me to piece it in, find the fit.”

  “I understand.”

  “But I never disrespected her. Not as far as I know.” He turns toward me, as if forcing himself to meet my gaze. “Reggie, I didn’t show appreciation for you imagining Steven Damelin drowning.”

  “I didn’t imagine it, Frank. I saw it. My sixth sense—”

  “You saw him in a body of water in which a log is floating.”

  “I have a sore spot on my head from the log… and this is a recurring vision. I know there’s no clear connection with a body drilled to death and nailed like upholstery fabric to the floor. I know that, for you, the vision is irrelevant.”

  Low-grade static crackles on the radio, but the moment grows quiet. The brake pedal squeaks as Devaney, now distracted, pumps it and stares off as as if absorbing what I’ve said.

  He picks at a cuticle and looks me in the eye. “A preliminary autopsy report came in today,” he says. “And some things check out, certain DNA matches. Things we’ve expected. Then again, some things not expected. There are other results we won’t have for some weeks. He reaches for a roll of Tums, peels the wrapper, and bites a tablet. He straightens his tie, a field of turkeys.

  “Is there something you can tell me?” I ask.

  “Yes, something new. I should’ve listened to you, kept an open mind. But it’s this: the report shows substantial water in Steven Damelin’s lungs. The point is, we’re now looking at a new theory of the case. We’re looking at drowning as a possible cause of his death.”

  It’s midafternoon. “Ticked Off” is due, but I swirl and spin with the pathology report on Steven’s death—and the frustration. Yes, Devaney is now a born-again believer in my psychic ability, and the sore spot on my scalp gains new respect.

  So what? Steven’s murderer is no closer to ID and arrest. The Chinese markings, Luis, the dancer lover, and now the drowning … none of it makes sense. Steven and Jo’s deal, I haven’t a clue. Stark insists that Biscuit stay on Barlow Square as a watchdog, which tells me he thinks I’m endangered. Devaney swears the police patrol is stepped up in my neighborhood, though seeing is believing, and I have yet to spot the green Impalas he insists patrol Barlow Square. So I have my doubts. Yes, the pathologist and my sixth sense are in sync, but the case is so wide-open it’s shapeless. The killer runs free.

  I’m midway in “Ticked Off” when who calls but Mr. Frequent Flier, Knox Baker, just back in town from the pyramids. His voice is deep, filled with apology for keeping me waiting while he traveled. He makes a joke about postcards and suggests a leisurely lunch tomorrow.

  Weeks ago, his call would be a thrill for sure. Now? Now he’s a voice from another planet. I mention StyleSmart and tell him I’m at work until noon tomorrow. We agree to meet. I’m not even sure what he looks like, it’s been that long.

  Back to “Ticked Off”—tips on luggage etiquette, “Playing Footsie with Roller Bags.” Meg Givens is due in two hours to show my upstairs rental, but what if Steven did stash something in the apartment? On TV, narcotics teams search toilet tanks and ovens. Suppose something’s stashed up the chimney and the cops missed it. Grab the flashlight and take a look.

  Yet dread rises with each stairstep. Steven’s body, the blood, the nails… the scene flashes in the blast zone of my mind. My fingers twitch, and the key scrabbles at the new lock of the upstairs flat. Breath held, I open the door.

  The place reeks of pine cleaner, and my heels hammer the hardwood. Briskly I raise the blinds, turn up the heat, open a window, and briefly run the kitchen faucet. The living room stops me: the center seat cushion of the sofa shows the impress of a human body. With all the hauling, I hadn’t noticed this effigy of Steven. Clearly this was a favorite spot, and it’s somehow touching.

  Don’t ask why, but I sit down right there to feel between the cushions. Before I can work my fingers down inside, it comes over me, the log and water, the twisting and feeling of Steven himself. The spot on my scalp pulsates.

  This time I let it happen. Don’t resist, Reggie. Close your eyes, feel the feeling. It’s a wrenching but familiar space hollowed by his very body.

  So powerful, the water, the log, the torque in my hips and legs. I sit still as the moment passes, then take a deep breath and dive in the cushions. Not even a palmful of change. I go into the bathroom, lift the porcelain tank top, turn on the flashlight, and look inside. There’s the orange-brown water stain of an old commode, the ball and lever.

  The oven is empty. Then on to the chimney, where I kneel at the fireplace, hold my light, and try to see up into the pitch-blackness. Get this over with, Reggie. Propped on one elbow, I feel bricks, mortar, nothing like a hidden stash. A metal rod sticks out. I jiggle it.

  Soot falls like a mine cave-in. It covers my hands and face, and I’m choking, sneezing. Eyes watering, I stagger to the kitchen sink, rinse out my mouth, go into the bathroom to the mirror. My blouse is filthy, face and hair covered with soot, hands grimy. Devaney’s probably right: we all watch too much cop TV. But that’s the problem: I’m playing a TV scene at the site of a very real murder. A script won’t lead to the killer.

  “Reggie, how goes it?” It’s just five. I’ve washed, changed, and cleaned the mess from the flue. Meg’s here for showings. She’s wearing a skirt with a plum jacket and the enamel earrings that proclaim membership in the over-fifty women’s Red Hat Society. “You okay, Reggie? Not too frazzled?”

  “I gave the upstairs a quick search, Meg. Life would be simpler if I’d found a brick of cocaine in the toilet tank or raw diamonds in the chimney. Steven Damelin’s death would mean a crime deal gone bad. Maybe I’d sleep at night. Maybe my days would be brighter.”
>
  “You’ll feel better with a tenant. Vacancies are abnormal.”

  “Spoken like a Realtor, Meg.”

  “Like a friend. And a mother too. When Skip left for college, his room felt like a tomb. It still does. How’re your kids?” But the doorbell rings. “Showtime, Reggie. Let’s not dwell on what happened here. For every tenant, it’s a clean slate.” She catches my eye. “Clean slate for the landlady too.”

  In the next hour, Meg and I dispatch a hawk-faced guy who complains about low water pressure and an aromatherapist who smells like licorice. Number three is a banker who specializes in wills and trusts. Mackenzie Carruthers marches in stiletto heels, flashes a cold-front smile, announces the apartment “suits her needs” for a few months, and whips out an alligator checkbook. Meg suggests that they go to the realty office to finalize the sublet.

  “Fine. Oh, I almost forgot—” The banker tweezes a small envelope from her bag and thrusts it into my hand. “To ‘R. Cutter.’”

  “To me?” Is she drumming up clients?

  “From a boy at the corner.”

  “What boy?” She doesn’t know him. “Big? A Latino?”

  “No, he was wiry. A street-kid type in flip-flops, in this weather. I was climbing your steps, and he ran up.”

  “I don’t know any boy…” But the banker and Meg are off to sign a lease.

  There’s no address or stamp on this envelope. Back downstairs, I peer out my front window. Evening shadows fall, but Barlow Square is empty. There’s no kid. I flick on a lamp and rip open the flap. Heavy expensive paper, and the note inside says:

  I would like to talk with you about belongings of mine in your vacated apartment. You can reach me at 917-232-4082. My name is Alex.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The dancer. I rush outside to look around. But no adult male is in sight on the square. Heart pounding, I scan the shadows and circle the block to look behind each tree and down every basement stairwell. There’s nobody but a neighbor with a yoga mat. Back inside, I stare at the note. It’s scary, as if I’m being watched.

  This time I call Maglia. This time he’s decent and so eager for details that I realize Alex is one of the “specific” individuals who Devaney reported are being sought. The cops, says Maglia, will send an unmarked van with electronic surveillance equipment to monitor my 917 call. For now, I’m to sit tight and wait for my cue, then invite Alex to visit Barlow Square. A sting.

  “But the furniture is moved into the basement. Everything but the sofa.”

  “So invite Alex to the basement. A nice lady like you, Ms. Cutter, use your charm.”

  “Suppose he’s suspicious.”

  “He wants something from the apartment, he’ll come.”

  “I already gave away a lamp.”

  “Whatever he says that he wants, go along. We’ll have you covered. We’ll be there. You won’t be alone for a minute.”

  That’s the promise. Of course, I must trust it. If Alex is a suspect, he’ll be in custody, not haunting Barlow Square with boy messengers. In short: a huge relief is in sight. Dinnertime comes, but I can’t eat a bite. Biscuit needs a walk, but only to the corner and back. Maglia said to expect a couple of hours for clearance and the van setup. Two hours pass. Finally, 7:14 p.m., a dark van pulls up at the corner and I get Maglia’s call. “We’re all set, Ms. Cutter. You’re on.”

  Fingers taut, I punch in 1-917-232-4082. On the third ring, a tenor hello. “Alex? This is Regina Cutter… R. Cutter. I have your note.” The phone connection is scratchy. “Hello?”

  “I’m here.”

  “So about the apartment, Alex… belongings of yours?”

  “There’s something of mine, and I’d like it back.”

  “The apartment is empty.” I deliberately omit Steven’s name. “It’s been cleaned and… cleared out. What is it you’re interested in? Is it furniture?”

  “A photo wallet.”

  The phone connection fades, then surges. I hear traffic in the background. “Photos? I don’t recall any photos.”

  “There’s a blue enameled chest.”

  Indeed there is, one of the most awkward and heavy pieces that Stark and I hauled down, that “atomic”-era style. It’s one floor down under my very feet.

  “Ms. Cutter, the photos are keepsakes. They’re personal. Suppose you tell me, where’s the chest?”

  “Actually…” Take a deep breath, Reggie. Remember, the police van is here, and Maglia promises coverage: We’ll have youcovered, we’ll be there, you won’t be alone. “The chest is here, Alex, on Barlow Square. It’s in my basement.”

  I hear his thick breathing. “How about… could you check it out?”

  “Right now?”

  “Just open the bottom drawer and feel up under. It’s a pigskin wallet.”

  Anything to keep him on the line. Worst case: if there’s no wallet, I’ll lie and lure him here. “Okay, here I go. I’m on the basement stairs.” The dungeon of a basement and this playful furniture from the murder scene. Did Alex mark my door in blood?

  Pulling out a drawer, I feel up and under. There’s a lump. I tug it loose… yes, a small dark leather folder. It was taped to the frame of the chest, which is why the search of the drawers didn’t reveal it. “It’s here.”

  Do I hear him grunt? The line crackles.

  “You could stop by to pick it up. This evening?”

  “No, that won’t work.”

  “Or tomorrow morning?”

  Silence. The line buzzes. “Ms. Cutter, are you going out tonight?”

  “My plans are… uncertain.”

  “Because we could meet. You could drop it off.”

  Chills rise along my arms. A siren blares in the phone background. “What do you… have in mind?”

  “There’s a sandwich place, the Buttery.”

  It’s a chain. “Which one?”

  “On Franklin. Anytime this evening.”

  To leave my home, my shelter? Maglia said nothing about this. Suppose there’s a shoot-out, cross fire. I think of Nicole’s advice to get window bars. “Can I call you back? Can you give me a few minutes?”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Ten minutes?”

  “Ms. Cutter, I’m on the move. My schedule’s tight. No offense, I don’t want to inconvenience you, but I have to know right now.”

  “Let me think…” As if to think were possible. As if this is mere logistics. But Maglia’s listening in, and a van full of cops too. We’ll be there, you won’t be alone. I could get this over with—clear the apartment, get rid of Alex.

  Alex the killer?

  “The Buttery,” I say at last, “on Franklin.” We agree on 8:15.

  It’ll be dark but not the depths of the night. People will be out on the sidewalks and in the restaurants, which is important. The transaction shouldn’t take more than a minute. Then I’ll move out as the cops move in.

  Do I know the way to the Buttery? Maglia rings to ask and to congratulate me on “handling” the phone situation. He’ll have me followed. A police detail will be on-site, though somehow “detail” is not reassuring. How about squad? Battalion?

  Franklin Avenue is a narrow roadway near the Sears Crescent. Several unmarked cars have followed my Beetle, each one I’m assuming to be the police. Since cops are all around, I surely can park in an after-hours loading zone. So I do, then walk fast to the Buttery, a luncheonette with its signature neon butter churn logo and pale yellow walls. Doubtless bustling at midday, it’s bleak in the darkness, the only sound the slap of a mop on the tile floor and the slurp of straws sucking the last of a chocolate frappe that a couple in corduroys is sharing at a corner table. A gray-bearded man hunches over a magazine on model railroading. He nurses a black coffee. Surely not Alex. It’s 8:04.

  I order a hot chocolate and sit at the table closest to the door. Outside, a man in a hooded sweat lounges against a light pole. A stocky woman with upswept hair chats with a curbside taxi driver. Both undercover cops, I’
m sure of it.

  Minutes crawl. A tourist family comes in for burgers but settles for tuna salad because the grill is off. It’s 8:09. No Alex. The taxi driver comes in for a travel mug refill, and I make eye contact to signal that I know he’s a cop.

  Eight-eleven p.m., and I try to appear calm. The pigskin photo wallet is in my bag in easy reach. The frappe couple leaves. I sip my hot chocolate. Then the door opens. It’s a wiry teen in jeans, flip-flops, and a lick of dark hair across a high forehead. He scans the room, stops at my table. A panhandler?

  “You looking for somebody?” His eyes are impatient. “You have some pictures?”

  “Alex?”

  “He’ll meet you.”

  “Here. He’s coming here.”

  “You R. Cutter?”

  Then I know: this is the messenger.

  “You’re s’posed to come with me. We got half an hour. Come on.”

  Where? A dark alleyway? No, no more of this, enough is enough. I start to say so. But here’s the catch—Alex will run free. The sting will fail. It’ll be my fault for stopping halfway.

  Suppose I go along—to a point. I’ll refuse to enter alleys or climb dark stairways… and the cops will keep me in sight every second, Maglia promised. Outside, the plainclothes cabbie and woman with upswept hair glance this way. The taxi as a police vehicle—clever. They’ll radio ahead. Relays of cops will track my every move. I grab my bag and rise. “Okay.”

  From Court Street, the kid leads at a fast clip, the thap-thap of his flip-flops a constant on Court Square, around Old City Hall, now School Street. I’m a half-step behind up and down each block. Cars pass, vans, a truck, each one of them pure reassurance, law enforcement at work. I’m slightly breathless. There’s no chitchat. This kid’s all business, doubtless paid to deliver me on time.

  But where? This is the part of Boston where city government meets the tourist route, the Old Granary Burying Ground, the Parker House.

  That’s where he halts, in front of the Parker House. The driver of a curbside Town Car opens the back door. Am I to enter? No, I won’t do it. The doorman smiles. A bellman pushes a luggage cart. Are they conspiring with the kid? With Alex? Are they cops?