Underneath his parka, McCain had loosened the top button on his pants, giving him more slop-over room for his gut. Used to be he could eat whatever he wanted and a couple hours in the gym four days a week was enough to keep the almighty spread at bay.
Not no more.
About five, six years ago, he’d started running in the morning—couple of miles, then three, then four. That worked for a while. Now? Fergetit. No matter how much progress he logged up and down Commonwealth, his waist kept growing. Then, irony of ironies, around the same time he started putting on the pounds, his head hair started falling out. Then, adding insult to fucking injury, useless hair started growing in his nose and ears.
What the fuck was that all about?
He finished the last dregs of his coffee and threw the paper cup onto the backseat. The yellow house had been lifeless for the last hour. He had one more hour to go before his shift was up. Because of the cold, they were working in two-hour segments, bosses figuring it wouldn’t look good for the department to be sued for frostbite.
Just one friggin’ hour to go, though why he cared was a mystery. Nothing to come home to. Grace had taken Sandy and Micky Junior to her parents’ condo in Florida for their two-week holiday break. He was supposed to join them later on in the week, hopefully for Christmas, but if not then, he’d go for New Year’s. In any case, no one was home right now. Nothing living in the house except a couple of plants.
Sally had died three months ago, and he was still in mourning for her. The one-hundred-fifty-pound Rottweiler bitch had been his best friend, staying up with him nights when the rest of the family went to bed, stinking up his den with her flatulence. Man, she could fart. Had to put her on Beano it was so bad. Congestive heart failure had finished her. Three weeks of fading away.
He missed her like crazy. Lately, he’d considered getting a new Rottie but finally decided against it. It wouldn’t be Sally. Besides, the breed didn’t live too long, and he didn’t know if he was up to another protracted mourning where his eyes hurt a lot and he couldn’t tell anyone how he felt.
Maybe one of those countertop Christmas trees would help—something to cheer up the place—but who had time?
Rubbing his neck, McCain stretched once again, staring across a dark street at the dark house. Nice bones to the place. Ripe for renovation. Somerville had lots of old trees and parks, and on the part that bordered Medford, near Tufts, there were lots of cutesy college cafés. Still, wherever there were college students, bad dogs moved in and did their business.
McCain peered through the binocs. The house remained inert. Fritt’s girlfriend lived in the top bedroom, first decent break the police had gotten since the APB came down from Perciville. But not everything pans out.
Fifty minutes to go.
McCain suddenly realized that he was lonely. Picking up the cell, he punched AutoDial 3. She picked up on the second ring.
“Hey,” he said into the receiver.
“Hey,” Dorothy answered back. “Anything?”
“Nothing.”
“No movement at all?”
“As dark as a witch’s tit.”
A pause over the line. “Exactly how dark is a witch’s tit?”
“Very dark,” McCain answered.
“You think he skipped?”
“Yeah, it’s possible. In which case, I think we should be a little concerned about the girl. True, she’s a moron, a dumb college girl swept off her feet by this psycho, but she don’t deserve to die because of it.”
“How nice of you to acknowledge that. Did she show up for class today?”
“Dunno. I’ll check it out and get back to you. I sure hope she didn’t go with him.”
“Yeah,” she said. “That would be bad. How long you got to go?”
“At the moment”—McCain squinted as he checked the dials of his luminescent watch—“forty-five minutes. You’re taking over?”
“Feldspar’s covering for me.”
“What?” McCain snarled. “Why him?”
“’Cause Marcus got a game tonight and Feldspar was next on the catch list, so that’s why him!”
“Jesus, Dorothy, I got a headache, a backache, and my friggin’ legs are numb. Stop bitchin’ at me.”
“You’re the one who’s bitching. I just answered your question.”
Silence.
Then McCain said, “Have fun at the game. Talk to you later—”
“Stop that!”
“Stop what?”
“Getting all pissy. It happens every time Grace leaves you alone.”
“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
“Sure you can.”
“Bye, Dorothy.”
“Why don’t you come with me to tonight’s game?”
McCain thought a moment. “Fergetit. You’d just bitch the whole time that I was bad company.”
“You’re always bad company. Come anyway.”
“I heard it was sold out.”
“I got an ‘in.’”
McCain didn’t answer.
“C’mon, Micky! They’re twelve and one—a shoo-in for the regional NCAA, and with Julius, they’re aiming even higher. You should see them when they get it all going. It’s like ballet.”
“I hate ballet.”
“Yeah, that’s why I said it’s like ballet. Stop moping. You’ll feel better if you get out of the house.”
McCain remained silent.
Dorothy said, “Your loss, Micky.”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
Again, McCain checked his watch. “That’s gonna be real tight for me.”
“You’re not that far from Boston Ferris. Even though you don’t deserve it, I’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office.”
“What do you mean I don’t deserve it?”
“Self-explanatory.” Dorothy hung up.
McCain cut his line and threw the cell on the passenger seat. He picked up the binocs again.
Still nothing.
Ah well, maybe Feldspar would be the lucky deuce.
As much as he hated to admit it, he felt better, his spirits lifted ever so slightly.
It was nice to be wanted.
3
Boston Ferris College had been founded fifty years ago, but its campus had stood a century before that. The place was set carefully in New England forest; the Brahmin architect who’d designed it had been mindful of sylvan growth that had taken yet more centuries to root.
The brick Georgian Revival buildings were graced by towering trees and ringed by cobbled walkways. Campus center was a large natural pond, now frosted with ice. Through autumn, there was no prettier place to sit than on a bench under a fanning elm, tossing bread at the ducks. But in winter, especially at night, when the pathways had frozen over, the rolling lawns were blanketed with snow and a sharp wind whipped through the trees and the breezeways.
Tonight the damn place was colder than a meat locker.
By the time McCain arrived, the only parking available was a distance from the stadium, forcing him to play slip-and-slide in the dark, hoping his butt was sufficiently padded to survive one of those sudden falls that hit you like a fist to the face. He slogged forward, feeling clumsy, cursing the cold and his life. And Dorothy for dragging him out here.
Not that she really had. He’d come voluntarily because his home was no great shakes and he was sick to death of lolling around in an overheated bedroom stripped down to his underwear, surfing cable.
The stadium came into view. Decorated with Christmas lights, greeting him like a welcoming beacon. McCain made it inside, got his ticket, went to the concession stand, and bought grub for himself and the others. The scoreboard clock said he’d arrived ten minutes into the first half. The Boston Ferris Pirates were playing Ducaine’s Seahawks, and already their lead was in double digits. An electric buzz zipped through the crowd. The air of excitement that came along with a winning team.
As he made his way down the aisle t
oward courtside, holding a gray paper tray of coffee, soft drinks, and hot dogs, he took back all the curses he’d flung at Dorothy. With his fingers defrosted, he was glad to be here. This was college ball, but tickets for Boston Ferris games were scarce. He needed to get away from his life even for a few hours. McCain was always blue when Grace was gone. Though he hadn’t always been the most loyal of husbands, he did value his family. If you didn’t give a crap about your family, why bother getting up in the morning?
The Pirates were playing their bench. Giving Julius Van Beest—the team’s star six-ten power forward—a chance to rest. The Beast sat calmly, wiping his profusely sweating face with a towel. McCain checked the electronic board as he made his way down the steps. Ten minutes of play and already Van Beest had twelve points and six rebounds. Only one assist, but that was one more than Van Beest usually got per game. It wasn’t that the young man was a ball hog . . . Yeah, that’s exactly what he was. But who cared? Most of the offense was run through his hands.
Marcus Breton was on the floor, bringing the ball down the court just as McCain made it to his seat—seventh row center. Dorothy barely acknowledged McCain’s presence, she was so focused on her son. He handed her a hot dog. She took it, held it, but didn’t eat, eyes fixed on the court.
Marcus dribbled in place for a moment, then made his move toward the basket. As he went for the layup, he was challenged and responded by doing a showstopping ninety-degree turn and behind-the-back pass to the center, who dunked it in the hole. The crowd roared, but no one was as loud as Dorothy. She gave her hands a hard clap and only then realized she was holding a hot dog. Her wiener went flying out of the bun, hitting the chair in front of her.
Dorothy burst into laughter. “Did you see that! Did you see that?” She thumped McCain on the back hard enough to propel him forward. It was a good thing he had placed the tray of food under his seat. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been a pretty moment.
“Yes, I saw,” McCain answered. He looked at the stranger on Dorothy’s left. “Where’s Spencer?”
Her face lost its joy. “He’s home being punished, that’s where he is.”
That gave McCain pause. Dorothy’s younger boy loved b-ball, and he idolized his brother. For Dorothy to lay on something that drastic, it was serious. “What’d he do?”
“Tell you at halftime.” She began to chant, “Deefense . . . deefense . . . deefense.”
Marcus was now guarding a player who had at least four inches on him. What the boy lacked in height he made up in speed. He was pestering his charge like a gnat, forcing him to pass the ball. The Seahawk center caught it, went in for the layup, and missed but was fouled in the act. He made the first free throw, then the horn blew and double substitutions were made. Marcus went out and the starting guard, a fleet-footed nineteen-year-old named B.G., came back in. But his reentry went unnoticed. As soon as Julius rose from the bench, the noise factor doubled. He swaggered onto the court and took up his position at the side of the key. Van Beest’s mere presence rattled the shooter. The opposing center missed the second shot, and Julius came down with the rebound.
A whistle blew. Time out, Pirates.
Dorothy sat back, colliding against the hard stadium seat. “Any movement out there?”
Referring to the stakeout. The question would have been jarring coming from anyone other than Dorothy. The woman was the compartmentalizer queen. She called it multitasking, which was the new sleek word of the moment. It left McCain wondering why the young kids today took nouns like party and task and turned them into verbs.
“Nothing,” McCain answered. “Feldspar promised to call if anyone showed up, but in my humble opinion, he split.”
“What about the girl?”
“Nothing.”
“Check with her parents?”
McCain flicked his wrist, exposing a fifteen-year-old Timex. “As of twenty-six minutes ago, they still hadn’t heard from her. What’s with Spencer?”
“Didn’t I say something about halftime?”
“I thought you could give me a brief synopsis.”
“It’s complicated, Micky.”
McCain arched his eyebrows.
The game resumed.
By halftime, the home team was leading by a cool dozen. As the Pirates walked off the court, Dorothy shouted accolades to Marcus, who gave his mother the courtesy of a wave.
“Why do you do that to him?” McCain handed her a fresh wiener.
“Do what?” Dorothy took a chomp out of her hot dog.
“Scream at him . . . embarrass him.”
“It don’t embarrass him.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“No, it don’t.”
“Yeah, it does.”
Dorothy gave him a sour look. “Can I enjoy my hot dog, please?”
“What’s with Spencer?”
“Think you can give me a minute of peace before you bombard me with unpleasant business?”
“You’re the one who brought up business.”
“Nooo. I brought up business business. You bring up unpleasant business.”
“I love you, too, Dorothy.”
She patted McCain’s knee. “What’re you gonna do with that extra hot dog that was obviously meant for Spencer?”
“Want it?”
“How about we split it?”
“You split it,” McCain said. “I’m not in the mood to get my hands all filled with mustard and onions.”
With keen dexterity, Dorothy split the hot dog, licking mustard and relish off her fingertips. She gave McCain his portion, then bit into her half. “He had a gun, Micky.”
McCain stopped midbite. “What are you talking about?”
“Spencer.” Another bite. “I found a gun in his backpack.”
“Whoa . . . that’s not good.”
Dorothy’s face darkened from mahogany to ebony. “I’ve never been so mad in my life!”
“You were pretty mad when Gus Connelly bit you on the hand.”
“Madder than that.”
“How’d you find it?”
“Cleaning out his things.” She turned to face him, mustard on the corner of her mouth. “He had a four-day-old lunch in there that stank to holy heaven. I cleaned it out and just saw it.” She shook her head. “Micky, I was so mad . . . so disappointed!”
“You ask him why he was carrying?”
“Course I asked him!”
“What’d he tell you?”
“The usual crap that they all give. ‘It’s a bad world out there. A man needs protection.’ I just wanted to smack him. After all the talks we’ve had about guns, all the lectures, all the postmortem pictures! What is wrong with that boy?”
“Maybe he felt threatened.”
“Then he should come and tell me about it!”
“Maybe a fifteen-year-old six-foot-four boy feels embarrassed about complaining to his mother the cop.”
Dorothy turned fierce. “What are you? His friggin’ shrink?”
McCain shrugged and took another bite of his hot dog. “What’d you do with the gun?”
“I got it at home.”
“Gonna run it through NCIC?”
“Probably.” She shrugged. “You never know. He won’t even tell me where he got it. That’s what really pisses me off.”
“You want your son to be a fink?”
Again, she glared at him. “Go be useful and get me another coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dorothy watched him go. Fighting off apprehension, she called home. To her immediate relief, Spencer picked up on the second ring. She had grounded him and he had stayed grounded. Good start. “It’s me.”
No response over the line.
Dorothy said, “Whatcha doing?”
“Watching the game.”
“By yourself?”
“Yeah, by myself. You said no friends. What’re you doin’, Ma? Checking up on me?”
Yes, that was exactly what she was doing. She heard the accusation in h
is voice: You don’t trust me. “Well, if one of your buds wants to come over and watch with you, I won’t object.”
A pause. “What’s goin’ on, Ma? You feeling guilty or something?”
“I have nothing to feel guilty about, Spencer Martin Breton. I’m just showing some flexibility. Are you complaining about that?”
“No, not at all.” A pause. “Thanks, Ma. I know Rashid is at Richie’s house watching the game. Can both of them come over? I swear we won’t make a mess, and if we do, we’ll clean it up.”
“Yeah, I suppose—”
“Thanks, Ma. You’re the best!”
“There’s a bag of pretzels and potato chips in the pantry. Soft drinks, too. No beer, Spencer. I mean it.”
“I don’t like beer.”
How does he know? Dorothy said, “We still have to talk about it, you know.”
“I know, I know. Can I call them now before halftime’s over?”
“Fine—”
“Bye.”
The boy cut the line before Dorothy could respond. McCain sat down and handed her coffee and another hot dog. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You have that look on your face—a cross between being pissed off and contrite.”
Dorothy rolled her eyes. “You made me feel guilty. I told him he could have a couple of friends over to watch the game.” She sipped the hot liquid. “You think I did the right thing?”
“Sure. Not that it matters. You’re gonna get blamed no matter what.”
“That’s true.” Dorothy thought a moment. “It really scares me . . . Spencer having a gun. I’m really . . . I’m agitated, Micky.”
McCain put down the tray of food and put his arm around his partner. “You’ll get through it, honey.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “There’s so much shit out there, Micky. I try to tell myself that what we see isn’t everyday life. But with what’s going on at the schools, even the private schools, it keeps getting harder and harder.”
“Look at what you have, Dorothy,” McCain said soothingly. “Look at Marcus! The kid’s a shoo-in for law school, probably full scholarship.”
“Spencer isn’t Marcus. He isn’t the student that Marcus is, and being good at basketball isn’t enough!”
Double Homicide Page 2
