Moldanado pressed his nose up against the viewing room glass and looked in at the five men in the lineup. “I can’t really tell with them looking head-on. Can they turn to the left?”
Whitey flicked the switch on the dais in front of him and spoke into the microphone. “All subjects turn to the left.”
The five men shifted left.
Moldanado put his palms against the glass and squinted. “Number Two. It could be Number Two. Could you get him to step closer?”
“Number Two?” Sean said.
Moldanado looked back over his shoulder at him and nodded.
The second guy in the lineup was a narc named Scott Paisner, who normally worked Norfolk County.
“Number Two,” Whitey said with a sigh. “Take two steps forward.”
Scott Paisner was short, bearded, and round with a rapidly receding hairline. He looked about as much like Dave Boyle as Whitey did. He turned face-front and stepped up to the glass, and Moldanado said, “Yeah, yeah. That’s the guy I saw.”
“You sure?”
“Ninety-five percent,” he said. “It was night, you know? There are no lights in that parking lot and, hey, I was buzzed. But otherwise I’m almost positive that’s the guy I saw.”
“You didn’t mention a beard in your statement,” Sean said.
“No, but I think now that, yeah, the guy had a beard maybe.”
Whitey said, “No one else in that lineup looks like the guy?”
“Shit, no,” he said. “They ain’t even close. What’re they—cops?”
Whitey lowered his head to the dais and whispered, “Why do I even do this fucking job?”
Moldanado looked at Sean. “What? What?”
Sean opened the door behind him. “Thanks for coming down, Mr. Moldanado. We’ll be in touch.”
“I did good, though, right? I mean, I helped.”
“Sure,” Whitey said. “We’ll FedEx that merit badge to you.”
Sean gave Moldanado a smile and a nod and shut the door on him as soon as he crossed the threshold.
“No witness,” Sean said.
“Uh, no shit.”
“The physical evidence from the car won’t hold up in court.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Sean watched Dave put a hand over his eyes and squint into the light. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month.
“Sarge. Come on.”
Whitey turned from the microphone and looked at him. He was starting to look exhausted, too, the whites of his eyes gone pink.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Kick him loose.”
24
A BANISHED TRIBE
CELESTE SAT by the window of Nate & Nancy’s Coffee Shop on Buckingham Avenue across from Jimmy Marcus’s house as Jimmy and Val Savage parked Val’s car half a block up and started walking back down toward the house.
If she were going to do this, actually do it, she had to get out of her chair now and approach them. She stood, her legs trembling, and her hand hit the underside of the table. She looked down at it. Trembling, too, and the skin scraped along the lower half of the thumb bone. She raised it to her lips and then turned toward the door. She still wasn’t sure she could do this, say the words that she’d prepared in the motel room this morning. She’d decided to tell Jimmy only what she knew—the physical details of Dave’s behavior since early Sunday morning without any conclusions as to what they meant—and allow him to make his own judgments. Without the clothes Dave had worn home that night, it didn’t make much sense to go to the police. She told herself this. She told herself this because she wasn’t sure the police could protect her. She had to live in this neighborhood, after all, and the only thing that could protect you from something dangerous in the neighborhood was the neighborhood itself. And if she told Jimmy, then not only he, but the Savages as well, could form a kind of moat around her that Dave would never dare cross.
She went through the door as Jimmy and Val neared their front steps. She raised her sore hand. She called Jimmy’s name as she stepped into the avenue, looking like a crazy woman, she was sure—hair wild, eyes puffy and black with fear.
“Hey, Jimmy! Val!”
They turned as they reached the bottom step and looked over at her. Jimmy gave her a small, bewildered smile, and she noticed again what an open, lovely thing his smile was. It was unforced and strong and genuine. It said, I’m your friend, Celeste. How can I help?
She reached the curb and Val kissed her cheek. “Hey, cuz.”
“Hey, Val.”
Jimmy gave her a light peck, too, and it seemed to enter her flesh and tremble at the base of her throat.
He said, “Annabeth was trying you this morning. Couldn’t get you at home or work.”
Celeste nodded. “I’ve been, ah…” She looked away from Val’s stunted, curious face as it peered into her own. “Jimmy, could I talk to you a sec?”
Jimmy said, “Sure,” the bewildered smile returning. He turned to Val. “We’ll talk about those things later, right?”
“You bet. See you soon, cuz.”
“Thanks, Val.”
Val went inside and Jimmy sat down on the third step, made a space for Celeste beside him. She sat and cradled her bruised hand in her lap and tried to find the words. Jimmy watched her for a bit, waiting, and then he seemed to sense that she was all bottled up, incapable of speaking her mind.
In a light voice, he said, “You know what I was remembering the other day?”
Celeste shook her head.
“I was standing up by those old stairs above Sydney. ’Member the ones where we’d all go and watch the drive-in movies, smoke some bones?”
Celeste smiled. “You were dating—”
“Oh, don’t say it.”
“—Jessica Lutzen and her bodacious bod, and I was seeing Duckie Cooper.”
“The Duckster,” Jimmy said. “Hell ever happened to him?”
“I heard he joined the marines, caught some weird skin disease overseas, lives in California.”
“Huh.” Jimmy tilted his chin up, his gaze gone back half his lifetime, and Celeste could suddenly see him doing the exact same thing eighteen years earlier when his hair was a little blonder and he was a whole lot crazier, Jimmy the kind of guy who’d climb telephone poles in thunderstorms, all the girls watching, praying he didn’t fall. And yet even at the craziest times, there was this stillness, these sudden pauses of self-reflection, this sense one got from him, even when he was a boy, that he carefully considered everything with the exception of his own skin.
He turned and lightly slapped her knee with the back of his hand. “So what’s up, dude? You look, uh…”
“You can say it.”
“What? No, you look, well, a little tired is all.” He leaned back on the step and sighed. “Hell, I guess we all do, right?”
“I spent last night at a motel. With Michael.”
Jimmy stared straight ahead. “Okay.”
“I dunno, Jim. I may have left Dave for good.”
She noticed a change in his face, a setting of the jawbone, and she suddenly had the feeling Jimmy knew what she was going to say.
“You left Dave.” His voice was a monotone now, his gaze on the avenue.
“Yeah. He’s been acting, well…He’s been acting nuts lately. He’s not himself. He’s starting to frighten me.”
Jimmy turned to her then and the smile on his face was so icy she almost slapped it with her hand. In his eyes, she could see the boy who’d climbed those telephone poles in the rain.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” he said. “When Dave started acting different.”
She said, “What do you know, Jimmy?”
“Know?”
“You know something. You’re not surprised.”
The ugly smile faded and Jimmy leaned forward, his hands entwined in his lap. “I know he was taken in by the police this morning. I know he’s got a foreign car with a dent in the front passenger quarter. I know he told me one
story about how he fucked up his hand and he told the police another. And I know he saw Katie the night she died, but he didn’t tell me that until after the police had questioned him about it.” He unlocked his hands and spread them. “I don’t know what all this means exactly, but it’s beginning to bug me, yeah.”
Celeste felt a momentary wash of pity for her husband as she pictured him in some police interrogation room, perhaps handcuffed to a table, a harsh light in his pale face. Then she saw the Dave who’d craned his head around the door last night and looked at her, tilted and crazed, and fear overrode pity.
She took a deep breath, let it out. “At three in the morning on Sunday, Dave came back to our apartment covered in someone else’s blood.”
It was out there now. The words had left her mouth and entered the atmosphere. They formed a wall in front of her and Jimmy and then that wall sprouted a ceiling and another wall behind them and they were suddenly cloistered within a tiny cell created by a single sentence. The noises along the avenue died and the breeze vanished, and all Celeste could smell was Jimmy’s cologne and the bright May sun baked into the steps at their feet.
When he spoke, Jimmy sounded like someone’s hand clenched his throat. “What did he say happened?”
She told him. She told him everything, up to and including last night’s vampire madness. She told him, and she saw that every word out of her mouth became just one more word he wanted to hide from. They burned him. They entered his skin like darts. His mouth and eyes curled back from them, and the skin tightened on his face until she could see the skeleton underneath, and her body temperature dropped at an image of him lying in a coffin with long, pointed fingernails and a crumbling jaw, flowing moss for hair.
And when the tears began to fall silently down his cheeks, she resisted the urge to press his face to her neck, to feel those tears leak into her blouse and down her back.
She kept talking because she knew if she stopped, she’d stop for good, and she couldn’t stop because she had to tell someone why she’d left, why she’d run from a man she’d sworn to stand by in good times and bad, a man who’d fathered her child, and told her jokes, and caressed her hand, and provided his chest for her to fall asleep on. A man who’d never complained and who’d never hit her, and who’d been a wonderful father and a good husband. She needed to tell someone how confused she was when that man seemed to vanish as if the mask that had been his face fell to the floor and a leering monstrosity peeked back at her.
She finished up by saying. “I still don’t know what he did, Jimmy. I still don’t know whose blood that was. I don’t. Not conclusively. I just don’t. But I’m so, so scared.”
Jimmy turned on the step so that his upper half was propped against the wrought-iron banister. The tears had dried into his skin, and his mouth formed a small oval of shock. He stared back at Celeste with a gaze that seemed to go through her and down the avenue and fixate on something blocks away that no one else could see.
Celeste said, “Jimmy,” but he waved her away and closed his eyes tight. He lowered his head and sucked oxygen into his mouth.
The cell around them evaporated, and Celeste nodded at Joan Hamilton as she walked by and gave them both a sympathetic and yet vaguely suspicious glance before clicking her shoes up the sidewalk. The sounds of the avenue returned with its beeps and door creakings, its distant calling of names.
When Celeste looked back at Jimmy, she was fixed in his gaze. His eyes were clear, his mouth closed, and he’d pulled his knees up by his chest. He rested his arms on them and she could feel a fierce and belligerent intelligence coming from him, his mind beginning to work far faster and with more originality than most people would muster in a lifetime.
“The clothes he wore are gone,” he said.
She nodded. “I checked. Yeah.”
He placed his chin on his knees. “How scared are you? Honestly.”
Celeste cleared her throat. “Last night, Jimmy, I thought he was going to bite me. And then just keep biting.”
Jimmy tilted his face so that his left cheek rested on his knees now, and he closed his eyes. “Celeste,” he whispered.
“Yes?”
“Do you think Dave killed Katie?”
Celeste felt the answer rumble up through her body like last night’s vomit. She felt its hot feet pound across her heart.
“Yes,” she said.
Jimmy’s eyes snapped open.
Celeste said, “Jimmy? God help me.”
SEAN LOOKED ACROSS his desk at Brendan Harris. The kid looked confused and tired and scared, just the way Sean wanted him. He’d sent two troopers over to pick him up at his house and bring him back down here, and then he’d let Brendan sit on the other side of his desk while he scrolled down his computer screen and studied all the data he’d amassed on the kid’s father, taking his time about it, ignoring Brendan, letting him sit there and fidget.
He looked back at the screen now, tapped the scroll-down key with his pencil simply for effect, and said, “Tell me about your father, Brendan.”
“What?”
“Your father. Raymond senior. You remember him?”
“Barely. I was, like, six when he bailed on us.”
“So you don’t remember the guy.”
Brendan shrugged. “I remember little things. He used to come in the house singing when he was drunk. He took me to Canobie Lake Park once and bought me cotton candy and I ate half of it and puked all over the teacup ride. He wasn’t around a lot, I remember that. Why?”
Sean’s eyes were back on the screen. “What else you remember?”
“I dunno. He smelled like Schlitz and Dentyne. He…”
Sean could hear a smile in Brendan’s voice and he looked up, caught it sliding softly across his face. “He what, Brendan?”
Brendan shifted in his chair, his gaze fixed on something that wasn’t in the squad room, wasn’t even in the current time zone. “He used to carry all this change, you know? It weighed down his pockets, and he made noise when he walked. When I was a kid, I’d sit in the living room at the front of the house. It was a different place than where we live now. It was nice. And I’d sit there around five o’clock and keep my eyes closed until I heard him and his coins coming up the street. Then I’d bolt out of the house to see him, and if I could guess how much he had in one pocket—if I was even close, you know?—he’d give it to me.” Brendan’s smile widened and he shook his head. “The man had a lot of change.”
“What about a gun?” Sean said. “Your father have a gun?”
The smile froze and Brendan’s eyes narrowed at Sean like he didn’t understand the language. “What?”
“Did your father have a gun?”
“No.”
Sean nodded and said. “You seem pretty sure for someone who was only six when he left.”
Connolly entered the squad room carrying a cardboard box. He walked over to Sean and placed the box on Whitey’s desk.
“What is it?” Sean said.
“A bunch of stuff,” Connolly said, peering inside. “CSS reports, ballistics, fingerprint analysis, the 911 tape, a bunch of stuff.”
“You already said that. What’s up on the fingerprints?”
“No matches to anyone in the computer.”
“You ran it through the national database?”
Connolly said, “And Interpol. Zip. There’s one real flawless latent we pulled off the door. It’s a thumb. If it’s the doer, he’s short.”
“Short,” Sean said.
“Yup. Short. Could be anyone’s, though. We pulled six clean ones, not a match on any of ’em.”
“You listen to the 911?”
“No. Should I?”
“Connolly, you should familiarize yourself with everything and anything that has to do with the case, man.”
Connolly nodded. “You gonna listen to it?”
Sean said, “That’s what we got you for.” He turned back to Brendan Harris. “About your father’s gun.”
&n
bsp; Brendan said, “My father didn’t have a gun.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh,” Sean said, “then I guess we were misinformed. By the way, Brendan, you talk to your father much?”
Brendan shook his head. “Never. He said he was going out for a drink, and he took off, left my mother and me behind, and her pregnant, too.”
Sean nodded as if he could feel his pain. “But your mother never filed a missing persons report.”
“That’s ’cause he wasn’t missing,” Brendan said, some fight coming into his eyes. “He told my mother he didn’t love her. He told her she was always harping on him. Two days later, he leaves.”
“She never tried to find him? Nothing like that?”
“No. He sends money, so fuck it.”
Sean took his pencil away from the keyboard and laid it flat on his desk. He looked at Brendan Harris, trying to read the kid, getting nothing back but a whiff of depression and residual anger.
“He sends money?”
Brendan nodded. “Once a month like clockwork.”
“From where?”
“Huh?”
“The envelopes the money comes in. Where are they sent from?”
“New York.”
“Always?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it cash?”
“Yeah. Five hundred a month mostly. More at Christmas.”
Sean said, “Does he ever write a note?”
“No.”
“So how do you know it’s him?”
“Who else would send us money every month? He’s guilty. My ma says he was always that way—he’d do shitty things, think that just because he felt bad about them it absolved him. You know?”
Sean said, “I want to see one of the envelopes the money came in.”
“My mother throws ’em away.”
Sean said, “Shit,” and swiveled the computer screen out of his line of vision. Everything about the case was bugging him—Dave Boyle as a suspect, Jimmy Marcus’s being the father of the victim, the victim herself having been killed with her boyfriend’s father’s gun. And then he thought of something else that bugged him, though not in any way pertinent to the case.
Dennis Lehane Page 35
