by Ray Daniel
Seeing no cars, I ran diagonally across the intersection. Jael was right behind me. “Angie!”
Angie looked up from scanning the sidewalk for ice patches. Her expression moved from neutral to happy to irritated as her eyes moved from the sidewalk to me to Jael. We met at the corner.
“You’re gonna get killed, you know,” said Angie.
“Why does everyone keep telling me that?” I said.
“Because you cross streets like an idiot.”
“Oh, you mean accidentally killed. I thought you meant shot or something.”
“You mean like Pistol?”
News travels fast.
Angie flicked her eyes over Jael and pursed her lips. “Who’s your friend?”
Jael stuck out her hand. “I am Jael.”
Angie stared at the hand a moment, put down her groceries, and shook. She turned back to me. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
“I wish,” I said, laughing. Jael looked at me. Cocked an eyebrow. I said to her, “I mean, I wish I had a girlfriend, not I wish you were my girlfriend.”
Jael blinked at me.
I said, “Well—I mean—it’s never been—”
“That’s not very nice,” Angie said. “You owe her an apology.”
“Yeah, but—”
“She’s very pretty.”
“Thank you,” said Jael.
“I know she’s pretty,” I said. “It’s just that—you know.”
“So you guys aren’t dating?” Angie asked Jael.
“No,” said Jael. “We are friends.”
I pointed. “Yeah. Yeah. We’re just friends.”
Jael said, “I am helping him find Maria Rizzo.”
“That poor kid,” Angie said. “I saw her picture in the paper today.”
“Yes,” said Jael.
“What kind of idiot puts that kind of picture on the front page?”
“Idiot?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Angie. “With all this shit—oh, sorry, Jael—with all this stuff that’s happening, you think they wouldn’t take Maria? Try to use her? It’s obvious.”
“Obvious,” I said.
“And they’re a bunch of animals. Pistol and Dan just got killed right up the street. Them and some other guy. I mean, who does that? Over what?”
“Maybe the picture will help find her.”
Angie took a step closer, draped her arms over my shoulders. “Tucker, you’re sweet.”
“Well, you know—”
Angie pulled me close and planted a kiss: first a touch of the lips, then something deeper. I flailed my arms a bit, then wrapped them around her fur-clad body while part of me floated outside, watching Jael watch me.
Angie whispered in my ear, “I should have taken you up on your offer last night.”
I said, “That’s okay.”
Angie stepped back. “That’s okay?”
“Um, yeah.”
Angie reached for her groceries.
“Let me get those,” I said.
“No,” said Angie, picking up the bag. “That’s okay.”
“You sure I can’t help?”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll see you.” With that, Angie turned and strode off down Commercial Street.
Jael and I headed off in the other direction.
“I’m confused,” I said.
Jael said, “Clearly.”
I looked at my watch. “I’m supposed to have lunch with Caroline. Do you have any advice to make that go better?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Wash the lipstick off your face.”
Thirty-One
A little tree stands in front of the 617 restaurant. A larger tree had stood in that spot until Dzhokhar Tsarnaev planted a bomb next to it and blew a hole in the Boston Marathon.
The little tree got a lot of attention soon after it was planted. People festooned it with flowers, ribbons, and Boston Marathon runners’ numbers. Time passed, the shrine was cleared, the Red Sox won the World Series, and people largely forgot how the little tree got its start.
Today the tree stood leafless, covered in snow, waiting for April when its leaves would bud and new people would stand next to it watching their friends and neighbors run the final block to the finish line. I tapped the tree’s bark for luck and entered the restaurant.
The hostess, a brunette in a tight black turtleneck, led me back past the bar to an elevated booth with a script Reserved sign on it. She took the sign, laid out two menus, and headed back to the front.
Reserved?
I glanced at my watch. I was a little early, battling pre-date jitters. If this was a date. Perhaps it wasn’t a date. Maybe it was a strategy session. Perhaps Caroline knew something I didn’t know about my impending arrest. Caroline said it was “about you and me.” Maybe she meant “you the defendant and me the lawyer.” That made more sense than “you the man and me the wo—”
The turtlenecked hostess reappeared, with Caroline close behind in a luscious green knit dress that covered her from neck to knee, yet showed every curve from breast to thigh. I slid from the booth, sticking my hand out to shake but wishing I could touch that dress. Caroline ignored my hand and, apparently reading my mind, stepped in close for a hug. Best hug ever.
As we slid into the booth, I noticed that Caroline had a different prosthetic: gold instead of silver, with a different curlicue design running up her shin.
She caught my glance and said, “The gold goes better with green.”
“And the green goes with your red hair,” I said.
“Why, thank you for noticing, sir.”
“And thank you for inviting me to lunch. I was thinking that this might be a business lunch, but that doesn’t seem to be a business lunch dress.”
“This is my date-with-Tucker dress.”
Well, at least that was clarified.
Caroline continued, “That’s okay with you, I hope.”
“Oh, yes.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Or a wife? Because if it turns out you have a wife—well, let’s just say I know people.”
“I’m a widower.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Way to bring the party down, genius.
I said, “It’s been a couple of years now.”
“You’re so young. Was it cancer?”
“No. Murder.”
Deer-in-the-headlights look from Caroline. The server, a blond girl with a long ponytail and some chin acne, saved the day. “Would you like something to drink?”
Caroline ordered Jameson on the rocks. Good, not an ice tea lunch.
“Woodford Reserve,” I said. “Neat.”
The server left.
Caroline said, “That conversation got pretty intense pretty fast.”
“Yeah, sorry. Too much sharing?”
“No. No. I want to know about you. That’s why I invited you out.”
I looked around the restaurant. The place had once been named, The Forum, but they had closed and 617 opened in its place. Tsarnaev’s bomb had blown in its windows and shredded the interior, but there was no sign of that anymore. A bustling lunch crowd boiled around us.
I knew why we were eating at the 617, and why Caroline rated a reserved booth. “Do you eat here often?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Yes, I come here all the time.”
“You were standing out by the little tree, huh?”
“Why—?”
The server arrived with the drinks. Caroline and I clinked glasses.
“Cheers,” I said.
“To answer your question,” Caroline said, “yes. I was standing out front. How did you know?”
“You seem l
ike the kind of person who would get back on the horse.”
“Exactly. You’re the first one to get that without me having to explain it.”
“Why were you out there?”
“Why was anyone out there? I was watching the marathon, waiting for my boyfriend to cross the finish line.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Well, then-boyfriend. Turned out he didn’t have the stomach for the whole in-sickness-and-in-health thing.”
“Ahh.”
Caroline downed her Jameson. I followed with my Woodford.
“Aren’t we a cheery couple?” Caroline said.
“There’s plenty of time to be cheery,” I said. “This way we don’t use it up all at once.”
That got me a bright smile, white teeth, red hair, green dress. It would be easy to get cheery.
The server came, took our lunch order. Caroline reloaded her drink. I followed.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I asked. “Or maybe cheerful?”
“Is it working?” Caroline asked.
“It’s getting there.”
“Seemed to me that you could use a drink or two.”
“Does it show?”
“Oh, yeah. I felt your shoulders when we hugged. They’re like rocks.”
“That’s from all the weightlifting.”
“You sure it wasn’t stress?”
“Could be stress.”
“Stress from what?”
“Getting shot at.”
“You were shot at?”
“Yeah, but he missed.”
“In the North End?”
Time to change the subject. “How are things going with Sal’s bail?” I asked.
Caroline said, “Not talking, eh? I can respect that. But you brought it up.”
I waited.
“Sal’s bail was denied this morning,” she said. “The DA is being a hard-ass and the judge went along with him.”
“Why?”
“‘The defendant killed his best friend and his wife,’” Caroline said in a whiny singsong. “‘His daughter is gone. He has no reason to stay here and face trial.’”
“The judge agreed?”
“Oh yeah. The fucker doodled on his legal pad while I made my pitch.”
“That leaves Sal stuck in there until trial?”
“Yup.”
“I don’t think he’ll survive in there.”
“He’s a tough guy.”
“But still.”
“I’m working on something that might get him out.”
“What’s that?”
“Too early to say.”
I remembered Cantrell’s offer. “You know, I was talking—”
The server arrived with our lunches and our whiskey reloads. We got all the business sorted out with who ordered what and who had a napkin and the wrong salad dressing. We had more water brought, glasses filled. We placed our napkins in our laps. All part of the lunch dance.
“You know, I’m tired of talking about Sal,” Caroline said. “I asked you out. Let’s talk about you. What do you do?”
“I’m pretty much a lovable wastrel,” I said. “I do some computer security consulting, but mostly I live off a severance package.”
“A severance package? What kind of severance package sets you up for life?”
“A we’re-so-sorry-we-got-your-wife-killed severance package.”
“Holy shit.”
“Indeed.”
Caroline reached out, rested her hand on mine. “How am I doing getting you drunk?”
I gulped. “You’re doing okay.”
“You know, because we don’t really need to stay for dessert.”
“Um—sure. Skipping dessert would be good.”
“Only good?” Caroline pouted.
“Well, no—ah—”
“Because I’m thinking—”
“Ah! Just the two people I was looking for.” Frank Cantrell stood over our table like a rumpled busboy.
I looked up at Frank, scowled. Caroline followed my gaze, scowled.
“You two don’t look happy to see me,” Frank said.
I said, “You are a master of deduction.”
“Yeah. Scooch over,” Frank said. He climbed up into the booth next to me.
Caroline said, “We’re having a private conversation, Agent Cantrell.”
“Yeah, well,” said Frank, “I needed to talk to Tucker here, but this is even better.”
“How did you find—aw shit,” I said. “Are you guys still tracking me?”
“Tracking?” Caroline asked.
Frank said, “Yeah. Tucker’s a person of interest.”
“It takes more than that to get a warrant to track him.”
“Well, we’re real interested. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here, Frank?” I asked.
“Did you tell her about my offer?”
Caroline asked, “What offer are you talking about?”
“I told Tucker that I could get Sal a deal on bail if he’d turn,” Frank said.
Caroline turned to me. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”
“I was going to, but then lunch came, and—”
She stood in that magnificent dress, opened her purse, threw three hundred-dollar bills onto the table. Benjamin Franklin scowled at me.
“I want to see you both in my office at four,” Caroline said. She turned and strode from the restaurant, her prosthetic limb not slowing her down one bit.
Frank followed her out with a low whistle. “Jesus, she’s hot, even with the leg.”
“Shut up, Frank,” I said.
My Droid beeped. Caroline’s text: Idiot.
She was right.
Thirty-Two
I walked down Boylston Street, my down-spouting ski jacket wrapped tightly against the weather. It was cold, 10 degrees. It had been cold yesterday. It would be cold tomorrow. Then it was supposed to warm up a bit—and snow. Then it would be cold again. The sun shone in the clear blue sky. It had started its descent and would be gone in a couple of hours, and then we’d be back in darkness. I headed down Dalton, back to the South End, hoping the red brick buildings would add some color to the unremitting gray.
Shit. I was sick of winter and it wasn’t even January.
A police car squatted in front of my house, exhaust curling from its tailpipe. The passenger door opened and Lieutenant Lee climbed out. He was eating a Fudgsicle.
“Jesus, Lee, it’s freezing,” I said. “How can you eat that?”
Lee said, “You shouldn’t swear all the time.”
I raised my hands in contrition. “Sorry.”
“Are you still trying to find Maria Rizzo?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“I have some information that might help.”
“Great. What is it?”
Lee bit into the Fudgsicle, leaving a bite-shaped gap. He talked around the chunk of ice cream. “I want to trade information.”
“What do you need to know?”
“I need to know what happened on Hanover Street.”
Uh-oh. “What are you talking about?”
“Three men died in and around Cafe Vittoria.”
“Espresso poisoning?”
“You know how they died. You were there.”
I said nothing.
“One of the deceased was Pistol Salvucci,” Lee continued. “His elbow was broken. I know your friend Jael did that.”
Saying nothing remained my best option.
“Witnesses say that there was a gunfight, and three people walked away. One matches Hugh Graxton’s description. The other two match you and Jael.” Lee took another bite out of his Fudgsicle.
I shi
vered, imagining the cold ice cream sliding down his throat.
Lee said, “If you tell me what happened, I’ll tell you what I learned about Maria Rizzo.”
“Why tell me?” I asked.
“What?”
“Why not find Maria Rizzo yourself?” I asked.
“Because that is not my job. My job is to find out who killed those three men on Hanover Street. I am a homicide detective. We have others who look for missing people.”
“Why not tell them?”
“Oh, I will. But they have so many cases. I understood that you had a special interest in finding her.”
“Lee, this is bullshit. If you have something on Maria, just tell me.”
“And if you know something about Hanover Street, you just tell me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I never lie to you, Tucker. Do me the same courtesy.”
“Sorry. I meant to say that I have nothing to say to you.”
“Ah, well,” said Lee. “Suffer the little children.”
“Screw you, Lee.”
“What did you say?”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, you self-righteous bastard. How dare you quote scripture at me?”
“I had no idea that scripture had become important to you.”
“Maria is important to me. You’re playing a game with her life. Would Jesus do that?”
Lee’s lips thinned. He looked at the Fudgsicle, started to take a bite, then threw it toward the gutter. He missed, and it splatted on the granite curbstone.
“Jesus,” he said, “would approve of me finding the person who killed those men.”
“Even if it was self-defense?”
“Are you saying it was self-defense?”
Oops. Dammit. “I’m not saying anything. I’m just asking.”
“It’s not my job to decide whether it was self-defense. It’s my job to bring the killers to trial.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
“I have enough probable cause to arrest you.”
“Arrest me, then,” I said. “Then nobody would be looking for Maria.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, right. Bobby Miller is on the case.”
