Face Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  There’s a sharp rap on the door, then whoever’s knocking opens it without waiting for our response. I scoot myself down from the table, briefly wondering how long whoever is out there had been out there.

  A taut trip wire of energy strides in. Shoulders courtesy of Gold’s Gym. Suit courtesy Signore Armani. Attitude courtesy Clint Eastwood. His hand, still white-knuckle tight on the doorknob, claims all this as his territory, and us as his prisoners. A thin black cord around his neck shows off a daunting array of what must be security clearance badges. I read one bold-lettered name tag as our visitor snaps out his introduction.

  “I’m Tek Mattheissen,” he says. “You two have a lot of nerve.”

  * * *

  A blast of early-summer sun hits us as we take turns revolving out the front door of the air-conditioned building. Chief of Staff Tek Mattheissen’s long strides force me to trot a few steps to keep up with him in a two-block march to the statehouse. Oscar Ortega’s number-two man had an appointment “in the corner office,” as he put it, making sure we’d infer it was with Governor Landsman. He only had time for a “walk and talk,” he’d said, between the A.G.’s office and Beacon Hill. Franklin headed back to the station. I agreed to the on-the-move discussion.

  Unfortunately for my strappy city sandals the two-block walk is entirely uphill. This is forcing Mattheissen to do most of his “walk and talk” going forward and glancing backward at me straggling and puffing along.

  “So as I explained,” I say, finishing my recap of the encounter with Consuela, “we’d just like to see the photo you used for the witness identification of Dorinda Sweeney.” I wish I had a better view of his face. I wonder if he picked up on photo. I wonder how he’ll try to weasel out of showing me what’s in their files.

  “Are you familiar with the case at all?” I ask. “Because we’d also like the names of the witnesses involved.” I’m deeply regretting this interview method. I’m sweaty, I can feel my T-shirt clinging to my back, and I’m certain the shoe-chewing Boston cobblestones have claimed another pair of victims. I sneak a glance at my heels as we, thankfully, reach the corner of Park and Beacon Street, where the outline of a red figure on the pedestrian signal instructs us to stop. An ungainly turquoise-painted open-air tour bus marked Beacon Hilda chugs by us with its load of visitors, heads all turned toward the statehouse across the street. I can hear the driver’s voice booming about “oldest statehouse in the country” and “gold-leaf dome.”

  “Know something about it?” Mattheissen turns to me as I finally get to stop walking. He puts his narrow leather briefcase down on the sidewalk and peels off his Eurochic sunglasses. His eyes are slate, the color of smoke and flint, and his gaze is intense. He’s all edges, no curves. That makes it all the more shocking when he smiles. Not only because it’s the first time he’s done it, but because it transforms him. In a good way. Mattheissen, Tek Mattheissen. I can easily picture him delivering the lines, sleek and Bond-like, as the leading man. License to …

  “I was lead investigator on that case, thought you knew that,” he says. “Assumed that’s why you came to see me. They tell you at the Swampscott PD that I was with the Ortega campaign now?” That smile again. Lower wattage.

  I see the red Stop figure has turned to a green Go. Mattheissen makes no move to walk.

  “Know that case inside and out,” he continues. “Deadly Dorie. Confessed. Now I hear Rankin’s people are poking around. Sent you, did they?”

  Here’s where the interview ends, I predict. But, surprising me, Mattheissen stays put, so I persist. I need to make sure he’s aware Franklin and I are on our own. And the best way for a reporter to talk to a cop is to be honest. For as long as you can.

  “Not at all, Mr. Mattheissen. The CJP did contact us, of course. People who want stories investigated do that all the time.” I turn on my most winning expression. “People constantly hit you up, too, when you were on the force?”

  He raises an eyebrow, acquiescing, so I continue. “It’s all about the truth. Wherever the story goes, we go. I just want to see the photo that was used. We have a right to see it. And if Dorinda Sweeney’s innocent, well, I’m sure you’d want to know that, too. Right?”

  “Look, Charlie. I can call you Charlie? You want pictures. I get that.” He looks out over Boston Common, the historic expanse of well-kept trees and lush grass that opened in 1783. It’s been green—and covered with tourists—ever since. The light changes back to red as we stand on the busy corner, horns honking, trucks rattling, air conditioners in the top floors of the brownstones beside us humming and plopping drops of condensation on the concrete sidewalk. Mattheissen checks the crosswalk light. Still red.

  “Names of the witnesses?” he says, turning his attention back to me. “Photo array? All in the files. Archives. Could take some time.” He puts his sunglasses back on, discussion over. “Might want to make a public records request.”

  Damn. Time is exactly what I don’t have. And if I make a formal records request, all kinds of bureaucratic quicksand could delay our story until next July.

  Briefly touching Mattheissen’s arm, I give my last-ditch pitch. Power-broker wannabes love to show their power. I play damsel in distress.

  “Look, Mr. Mattheissen. Can you help me with this? You’re really the only one who can cut through the red tape.” Even I’m gagging, but Mattheissen’s demeanor seems to soften. Come on, Tek, make my day.

  “Nothing to hide,” he says. He seems to be weighing his options. “Public documents. Closed-case evidence like that’s in the archives though, deep storage, in the new building. No way to get them today.”

  And tomorrow, I remember with annoyance, is Saturday. Monday will be the Fourth of July, when every state office in the country will be closed. Tuesday is my inescapable appointment with Dr. Garth. I’m certainly not going to mention that. Plus, Mom would pop her stitches if I canceled the appointment she was so pleased to arrange because I had some other silly commitment. Like my job.

  The light goes green. This time, Mattheissen picks up his briefcase.

  “Charlie?” he says.

  “Wednesday,” I say quickly. I’ll use the unavoidable delay to make it appear I’m being flexible and cooperative. “So you’ll have time to contact your people at the archives. So how about Wednesday? I could meet you there.”

  “Ten a.m.,” Mattheissen says, stepping into the white-striped crosswalk. “At the state archives in Dorchester. Front desk.” He takes two more steps, then stops in the middle of Beacon Street. Rows of cars idle on either side of him, ready to hit the gas as soon as the light changes. He turns to me, ignoring the traffic. His eyes are hidden behind those glasses, but his smile is amped to the highest power and aimed straight at me. “Maybe we can have coffee afterward.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “He said what?” Maysie’s scooping a second spoonful of pickle relish onto her foot-long and completely barbecue-blackened hot dog, melting the mustard that’s already slathered on it into yellow rivulets that pool onto her sagging paper plate.

  “Ketchup?” I offer. I mean it as a joke, but Maysie accepts the red plastic container and squirts a line of red on top of what now looks like a condiment sandwich. I glance over at Josh. Blindfolded, he’s stumbling around the Greens’ expanse of south shore backyard in a raucous twilight game. Penny’s latched on to Maysie’s twelve-year-old Molly with the tenacity of a pop-star stalker. The two of them, plus Franklin and Stephen, Maysie’s husband Matthew, and their five-year-old, Max, are taunting and dodging. Their shouts of “Marco” and “Polo” escalate in hilarity, floating across the muggy summer evening.

  Max drops to the grass, rolling away when Josh gets too close, leaving one untied thick-soled shoe behind. Dave the Dog, their hyper but protective black Lab, leaps from his spot on the deck to retrieve the shoe, then single-mindedly dashes after Max to return it. Dave the Dog bumps the blindfolded Josh, who spins away, startled and confused by the unexpected commotion.

  We’re
surrounded by laughter and chaos, but even in the midst of the Fourth of July festivities, Maysie and I have a slice of privacy.

  “I know,” I say. I pull a bottle of diet iced tea from the bright green ice-filled cooler next to the round wooden picnic table. Big wet drops from the bottom plop onto my white pants. Even this late in the evening, the spots will evaporate without a trace in the heat. At least the pants have escaped Maysie’s mustard. “He’s incredibly handsome, about my age, a little older? And that double-oh-seven look, more Euro than you’d predict for a local cop. Anyway, he didn’t even wait for an answer, just walked off into the sunset.”

  “Sun doesn’t set until, like, nine,” Maysie says. “I thought it was—”

  “I was being funny,” I say. “Like in a movie. You know.” I twist off the cap to my iced tea and take a sip. It’s more like metallic chemicals and imitation lemon than tea. “So you think—I mean—no question I have to go meet him at the archives. That could produce some key evidence for our story.” I flicker a glance at the still-blindfolded Josh. “You don’t think he’ll expect me to go out with him, do you?”

  “Why don’t you?” Maysie asks. “Is he married? Did you check his finger?”

  I look at her, blinking, trying to process whether she’s kidding. And I had, in fact, checked. But more out of habit than specific curiosity.

  “Mays, you’re killing me here,” I say. “I thought you loved Josh. Thought he was perfect. You said you were shopping for maid-of-honor dresses, right? Even though I warned you not to count weddings before they’re hatched. So what’s up with the ring-checking question?”

  “Did you check?” Maysie persists, looking at me inquiringly from under the bill of her Red Sox cap. She drags a picnic bench away from the table and straddles it, elbows on knees, her face unreadable. She’s wearing what looks like one of Matthew’s madras shirts over a denim miniskirt.

  “And who knows what’ll happen with Josh. You’ve been all worried about Penny’s reaction to you, and whether Victoria is still in the picture, and whether you’ve got what it takes to be a mom. Maybe this “Tek” would be a good love backup. He’s not just an ex-cop, he might be on the fast track to the governor’s office, then the White House.” She shrugs. “You know. The big time. Your mother would love him.”

  I twist the top of my iced tea back onto the bottle and place it on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. The condensation from the bottom makes an instant ring on the paper. I stare at the spreading damp spot, wondering what I should say. No. I don’t wonder.

  “I love Josh.” I say it before I even realize it. And it doesn’t sound strange to say it out loud. “Ring, no ring, no matter if he’s the most attractive ex-cop in the world. I’m done with all that. Me and Josh. Done deal. Penny. It’ll work.”

  The gang has now moved to touch football, racing across the backyard, pursuing the plastic ball that’s bouncing and rolling with a wobbling mind of its own. I look back at Maysie and see the beginnings of a sly smile.

  “Just wanted to hear you say it,” she says. She looks pleased with herself. Maysie the backyard psychotherapist.

  “You—” I don’t fill in the actual word that first came to mind. What she is, is a true friend. Sneaky, but a true friend.

  “Marshmallows,” she yells. “Fire’s ready.”

  As the footballers brush themselves off and clamor toward dessert, Maysie stands up, then selects a long wooden-handled fork from a pile beside the cast-iron barbecue. She points it at me, then at Penny and Josh, who are walking hand in hand, swinging arms, laughing. “What’d your mom say? Drunk, sick and with their kids? Look at the two of them, kiddo. I’ll wait till after New Year’s,” she says, patting her stomach. “But then—I’m buying a dress.”

  * * *

  “Hi, Daddy.” Penny bounces back into view. Her two pigtails are now festooned with red, white and blue bows, apparently the result of her visit to newfound role model Molly’s preteen domain. The full-of-herself twinkle vanishes as soon as she acknowledges me. She downshifts into perfunctory, polite. “Hi, um.”

  My name’s been “Um” ever since the dinner at Legal’s.

  Not waiting for a reply, Penny plops onto the navy-and-black plaid wool blanket we’ve spread out onto the lawn in a line with all the others, positioned in just the right spot to view the Duxbury town common fireworks over the trees. After a brief assessment, she parks herself strategically, back to me and facing Josh. Stretching out her bare legs and leaning back on her hands, she scans the night sky. “When’s the fireworks thing start?”

  I gaze at the quickly darkening sky, too, wondering if I should reintroduce myself somehow. She obviously knows my name and I can’t help but believe this is some kind of eight-year-old power play. If she doesn’t say my name, I don’t exist.

  “Sweetheart?” Josh says.

  “Yes?” I answer.

  “What?” Penny answers at the same time.

  “Sweetheart Penny, this time,” says Josh, smiling and touching her nose. “But I’m talking to Sweetheart Charlie as well. And that’s what I wanted to say. You can call her Charlie, you know, if you like.”

  I scoot around, tucking my legs under me, getting ready to join the conversation. Maybe I’ll suggest we can all come up with something else she can call me. Charlotte? Aunt Charlie?

  Penny purses her lips as if she’s considering how to respond to her father, but then, instead, she starts making faces at him. Widening her eyes, making pretend fins with her hands, cheeks sucked in, now-bowed mouth opening and closing. “Fish face,” she says, her words distorted though her moving lips. She points to Josh. “You do one.”

  There’s a sound like a sizzle and a pop, and the night clicks into darkness as someone snaps off the spotlights that had illuminated the backyard. A shower of glittering orange plumes of light explodes overhead, illuminating the line of tilted-up faces watching from suburbia below. A Sousa march, courtesy of the Boston Pops radio broadcast, blares through speakers Matthew set up on the deck. I can hear the clash of brass and drums repeating down the street, each family with its own version of the celebration. Fireworks beginning. Conversations over.

  Penny splays herself out, flat on her back, arms beneath her head and one flip-flopped foot propped on her knee. She’s made herself a boundary between us.

  * * *

  “Come on, baby girl.” Josh scoops up his dozing daughter, cradling her drowsy little body in his arms. One ribbon droops from a lank pigtail. There’s still a line of white marshmallow sticking to her half-open lips. The combination of football, sugar and staying up past her bedtime has zonked Penny into oblivion. We trudge across the lawn toward Josh’s car. And mine. The two of them are heading back to the vacation cabin on the Cape. The one of me is heading to Boston.

  “I wish you were coming with us, sweets,” Josh says. He glances at Penny, lolling in his arms. “I was hoping you two could…”

  “Me too,” I say. “Maybe Penny could even figure out my name.” I touch his arm as we walk. “I’ll be there this weekend, I promise. And I’ll take you up on the outdoor shower offer. Thanks for being so understanding about my story.”

  “So what’s next? The nursing home, you said? To check on the tape?” He stops briefly and looks at me, his eyes narrowing with concern. “You’ve got to be careful, Nancy Drew. You and Franklin. Are you going to that bar tomorrow?”

  In a time-honored gesture probably more age-appropriate to Penny, I cross my fingers and prepare to lie. Luckily, we arrive in the driveway’s parking cul-de-sac, where our cars are the only two left. Luckily, now Josh is distracted, and I don’t have to answer. Somehow, I’m not comfortable telling him about my complicated rendezvous with Tek. Meeting, I correct myself. Not rendezvous.

  Josh opens the back door to his silver Volvo and slides Penny into the backseat, pulling a safety belt across her chest. Her eyes flicker open and she gives a groggy smile. Overtired and exhausted by fun, she sighs back to sleep as the belt clicks i
nto place.

  He closes the car door without it making a sound. Leaning against the window, he takes both my hands. “It’s a hard time for Penny,” he says. “I have to tell you that there’s something more.”

  Pausing, he looks down at the asphalt driveway. His face darkens as the combination of headlights and streetlights cast slashes of moving shadows, but I can still recognize his expression. He’s worried. And I don’t know why.

  My brain races with possibilities. A hard time for Penny? What could that mean? I hear the final sounds of the neighborhood celebration—laughter, a slamming door, a car’s ignition cranking into life—but all I care about is what Josh will say next.

  “Victoria and her husband Elliott are not at a resort in Montserrat,” Josh continues. His voice is even and unemotional. “They’re having some problems. And they needed some time alone.”

  “Does Penny know?” I ask softly. Poor thing.

  “No,” he says. “At least, they haven’t told her. But kids recognize when something is wrong. I’m wondering if that’s why she’s so clingy, so needy. When parents aren’t happy, that’s difficult to disguise, no matter how you struggle to pretend. I always hope Penny wasn’t really old enough to remember when Victoria and I—”

  He breaks off. “Thing is, Victoria has this—idea—that maybe she and I should have stayed together.”

  Slowly, I take my hands back, one at a time. I stare up at the night sky. The last of the fireworks have long faded and now it’s sprinkled with stars. Choosing one, I dispatch a fervent wish. And then the star moves. I’ve just wished on an airplane.

  “For Penny’s sake, though,” I begin, stepping into uncharted territory. “Do you think it would be—”

  Josh reaches out, touching my check, turning my face back to him. “Charlotte Ann McNally,” he says carefully. “Victoria’s wrong, of course. It’s absurd. Her perception of what’s ‘right’ is whatever she happens to want at the time. But if you and I are, if you and I are going to be together, we can’t have secrets. Penny, Victoria, your job. It’s all part of who we are, right?”