All in One Piece (10 page)

“At the speed of light.”

“It’s specially hard on the All Souls community. We’re in shock because the victim took part in a program we administer.”

“Big Buddies?” She nods. “That’s the reason I’m here, Rev. Welch. I found your name in a letter in Jo’s files. She knew the
man who was murdered, and I sublet my upstairs flat to him based on their acquaintance. He told me he volunteered as a Big
Buddy. I’m hoping you can tell me about the boy Steven Damelin mentored… Luis.”

“I’m sorry. Our program records are confidential.”

I expected this, but I have a strategy. “I’m not asking for a profile, only Luis’s full name and address. You see, Steven
told me he planned to give his buddy a gift, a blue Lava lamp he was sure the boy would like.”

She twists a pencil. “Maybe one of our staff could see that the young man gets it.”

“That’s good of you, but, frankly, I have a selfish motive. It’ll help me cope with the tragedy to present the lamp in person.
Steven was devoted to Luis. If I could go to his home and give him the lamp and look into his eyes and say a few words . .
. you see, the police have authorized me to dispose of Steven’s furnishings, and I’ll feel so much better to represent his
last wishes in person.”

She hesitates.

I lean toward her as if to confess. “I found the body, you see. This request is for me too. It would help so much. Both psychologically
and…”

“Spiritually?”

“Exactly.” I sit with folded hands while Gail Welch inwardly tussles with this conflict: the rules of the Big Buddies program
versus Reggie’s heartfelt request. Yes, I’ve put her in an awkward spot, but can a minister resist a spiritual plea? Surely
not. I sit quietly with eyes downcast and demure.

Finally the minister murmurs, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” I catch a whiff of her scent, green tea, and for the next fifteen
minutes barely move until Rev. Welch reenters the office holding a slip of paper. “This is the full name and address. He lives
in Jamaica Plain.”

I stand, my fingers laced reverentially. “Rev. Welch, how can I thank you? I can’t begin to express my—”

“Save it, Reggie.” That sardonic smile returns. “Twice around the block in a clerical collar, you learn a thing or two about
maneuvers.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s almost always a spiritual angle.”

I start to squirm and flush.

“Folks think piety pays. Often it does. But there’s no shortage of faith-based scams. We ministers hear at least one daily
pitch. It’s only nine-thirty a.m., and you’ve met my quota.”

My cheeks are fiery.

“We’ll probably be involved in planning a memorial service. Maybe you’d like to lend a hand. As for Luis, Jo Cutter told me
you had her psychic gift. And that means you’re probably working with the police. Is that right?”

I nod.

“Then I’m betting this slip of paper is a psychic’s head start on a quest for justice. Here at All Souls, we go in for justice.
We think it has a spiritual side. I’ll be in touch about the memorial service, and we invite you to come join us some Sunday.”

Who’s on my front stoop when I return but R. K. Stark, one hip against the door frame, lounging as if 27 Barlow is a Hell’s
Angels hangout. The Harley is parked against the curb. He says, “Good timing.”

Terrible timing. He’s come to take Biscuit. Must I beg for a few more days with her? With shiny new door keys turned in the
new locks, I open up, pausing while Stark certifies Right True Clean’s “good job” on my door. I try to be stoic as Biscuit
goes into raptures and I brew a pot of robusta. Stark leans back against my countertop and says, “You’re back to life, Cutter.
Getting some sleep?”

For the second time in an hour, I blush. His nightly patrol has made Barlow Square a comfort zone. He deserves appreciation,
not resentment over the dog. “I never thought a Harley would sing me to sleep, Stark. I’m very grateful.”

“No problem. Bikers like to ride. As you’ll soon find out.”

“Oh no. I can’t take that motorcycle course. I’ve changed my mind on that.”

“Your check is cashed.”

“Consider it a contribution to…”

“The Motorcycle Safety Foundation. They expect you.”

“I’m too busy.”

“Not that busy. You like riding on Fatso, right? Right?” In fact, I do. Straddling the bike, holding on to Stark as he weaves
through traffic and roars along the Charles, well, it’s a thrill. “Wild and free, Cutter. Now that Brando’s gone to the great
beyond, you got me and Fatso.”

I also have Stark’s version of personal care, as he and I both know. He’s rescued me in the nick of time more than once on
the bike. The notion that I ought to be able to operate it… we both agreed I ought to be able to take over in a pinch.
It seemed sensible at the time—and exciting too. That, however, was then. “Stark, I have a murder on my mind.”

“All the more reason. You need an outlet.”

“Need?” My chest suddenly gets hot. It’s the years-long, pent-up heat that a woman feels. “Stark, all my life, various men
have told me what I need. At this point, I am at liberty. I decide for myself what I need.”

He does the hands-up surrender, but his stance is sinewy, and I see irony. In silence, I pass his mug and sugar. He says,
“Don’t get in an uproar. The biker course, we’ll get to it. I’m here for something else.”

“For Biscuit.”

He shakes his head and slurps his syrupy coffee. I smell tobacco. His gray eyes are flecked with amber. That ruler-straight
mustache, he must trim it daily, wherever he lives. I’m never sure, because he lives, so to speak, off the grid. And possibly
hand to mouth, except that a Harley Fat Boy model costs many thousands, so I don’t know. His cell phone links me to him, but
not to his whereabouts. “How’s your upstairs, Cutter? Cleaned up good?”

“I… I haven’t gone up there.”

“Too busy? No problem. I’m here to help you move the guy’s stuff.”

“Steven’s furniture? But where?”

“Downstairs.” I blink, confused. “To the basement. My former home, remember? You’re gonna need a new tenant for the next few
months, right? Unless Doc Tooth shows up.”

Good Lord, I hadn’t thought it through. The next months’ rent… Stark is right, I need the income. I’ll need a tenant
fast.

“So,” he says, “you’re up for heavy lifting?” He’s shamelessly surveying my upper body to guess whether I can shoulder my
end of Steven Damelin’s furniture. Before the move, before the blue car, before my knee and elbow and the purple bruise on
my calf, I did four sets with ten-pound free weights every other day. It’s about my arms in sleeveless clothes. Or it was.
Stark’s irises flicker with doubt.

“Let’s go,” I say. “I’m on.”

For one thing, these South End houses were not built for hauling bulky durables up and down the narrow halls and staircases.
Furniture must be upended and angled, and I never was that good at geometry.

We go upstairs. I’ve now changed into jeans, sneakers, and an old Northwestern U sweatshirt of Jack’s. At Steven’s door, I
take a deep breath, and we enter rooms thick with pine disinfectant. The furniture arrangement would surely revolt Steven—as
if Right True Clean learned room interior design from TV sitcoms.

We go room to room, bed to bath, all spick-and-span everywhere. “No sign that anything bad happened here,” I say softly. But
I tug out a drawer, which is jammed with papers, rolls of tape, combs, scissors. Could any of these ordinary objects be clues?
“The police took a lot of stuff.”

“And left a lot too.” Stark carefully guides a pencil into the same drawer, retrieves a staple gun, which he pincers between
two fingers with a handkerchief. “Something like this,” he says. His eyes look sly. “You never know.”

I watch him put it back. Deft fingers, a sure touch. What did he do in the Marines? He seems to have the skills of a criminal
and a Delta Force commando. Which are the same skills, when you think about it.

We move on, though an empty, mournful feeling takes over. For the first time, those Egyptian tombs furnished for the afterlife
make sense. Without the person, the possessions lose their life too.

Stark lifts a zebra headboard, more bulk than weight. We carry it together. He is testing me. Damned if I’ll falter. I must
admit, the man has a genius for spatial fit. If he says the headboard will clear the stairs, it does. Ditto the chairs, chests,
and a bookcase.

Then the basement, an issue in itself because of the claustrophobia that lurks in my very rib cage. Fears aren’t conquered.
They live inside forever, at best in remission, at most kept at bay. Stark carries down a small table, which rattles. I pull
out its drawer, which is empty. “How come it rattles?”

He feels the sides and top and chuckles. “Watch this.” The top slides in a groove, and here’s a hidden compartment, which
is filled with cell phones.

“Whoa, that guy was Mr. Cellular.”

“Do they work?”

He shakes his head. “They’re too old.”

“Nokia, Motorola. I count eight.”

“Nine. All junk.” He slides the table back together while I shelve the Lava lamp. “How’d the guy live with this stuff?”

I look him in the eye. “He didn’t.” Cheap touché.

We continue working, and the furniture gets heavier. “How’s your pretty fingernails, Cutter?”

Ruined, every one. “They grow fast, Stark.”

I give no hint of my claustrophobia, but my arms start to tremble, while Stark is just warming up. I think of those boot camps
where people survive only if they cooperate; my ex, Marty, who was dangled by ropes one time at a company retreat and vowed
never again. Finally the last big piece, the sofa. “Let’s go,” I say.

Stark shakes his head. “Sofa’s too heavy.”

“Have I dropped my end yet? Have I?”

He ignores me. “Couple weeks, I can get somebody to help.”

“I can help.” The truth is, I’m ready to collapse.

“Forget it, Cutter. We’re knocking off for the day.”

We stand on a landing. I offer him a drink. He says no. We go downstairs.

“What about the bloody door?” he asks. “You find a translator yet?”

“I tried. I took my photos to Chinatown. How about some pineapple? Because that’s what I got out of Chinatown, a pineapple.
I called the colleges, but the professors of Chinese seem too busy to get in touch. I should camp outside one of their office
doors.”

“Let me have one of those snapshots you took.”

“You know somebody who reads Chinese—if it’s Chinese?”

“Maybe.” The usual Stark response. Where specifics are concerned, the man is a black hole. “What’s next, Cutter? You gonna
plan a sidewalk furniture sale?”

“I might go to Jamaica Plain. There’s a boy Steven mentored in a program, Luis Diaz. I have his address. Or I might go up
to Lawrence to try to talk to Steven’s family.”

“Lawrence? Tough town. You know where they live?”

“I’m working on it.”

He gives me a sideways look. “Tomorrow?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Probably after breakfast.”

“Let’s make it eight. I’ll get the dog and take her for a run, then we’ll go.”

“So you’re not taking Biscuit with you now?”

“Cutter, if there’s one thing you need, it’s a watchdog. If there’s one thing a beagle is bred to do, it’s bark like the devil.
Give a listen for Fatso after midnight. Ciao
.
”

I’ve showered and cleaned up and had a bite when the phone rings. It’s Devaney.

“Reggie, how you doing?”

“Not bad, Frank, considering. The cleaners did a good job. That helps.”

“We thought we’d hear from you by now. How’s the mail? Ed’s hoping you’ll spot something useful.”

“What about the sheet of penciled numbers the cleaning crew found behind the mantel upstairs? It was a Corsair Financial sheet,
and I sent it to Detective Maglia. Did he mention it?” Devaney grunts, and I can’t tell whether it’s a yes or no.

“The rest is mostly junk… autumn markdowns, credit card come-ons. I’ve sent the whole batch. And I stopped by a club
that Steven patronized, the Apollo Club. I left a message about it for Detective Maglia. It’s a gay men’s club. A manager
named Matt Kitchel knew that Steven was murdered.”

Devaney doesn’t choose to discuss this. He changes the subject to neighborhood patrols. “They’re unmarked cars in your neighborhood,
Reggie. I shouldn’t tell you, but look for dark green Chevy Impalas.”

“Frank, what about the lab report on the blood on my door?”

“It’s not in yet. They’re backed up.”

“And the markings… has a language expert seen the police photos?”

“It’s the damnedest thing. Everybody we’ve tried is unavailable at the moment. Ed says they must’ve chartered a plane to Beijing.
Or maybe Tokyo.”

“Hilarious, Frank. Wonderful to hear that Homicide has a sense of humor.”

“Reggie, hang on. We’re working on leads. I expect to get back to you early in the week. Be sensible. Take care. We’ll be
in touch. Just one thing—Ed asked me to remind you. Homicide wants to know if you plan to leave the state.”

S
aturday, 8:03 a.m. Here’s Stark on Fatso. He’s in the same outfit, the jeans, boots, the USMC jacket. In minutes, we’re in
my Beetle on I-93 north. Biscuit’s settled on the backseat on a towel. Gripping the wheel, I say, “We’re going to 734 Croker
Street.”

“That’s the Damelins’ place? You’re sure?”

“I’m guessing. I got an address off the Web and matched it with a phone number.” Stark studies the route map and says the
passenger seat feels like a Spam can. A truck cuts in, and he mashes a phantom brake.

By 10:15, we’ve crossed the Merrimack River by the brick hulks of abandoned mills and exited into a section of old clapboard
houses on narrow lots. Croker Street comes up on the left, and a half dozen kids in Bruins shorts play street hockey in front
of 734, which is an asphalt-shingled foursquare with a sagging roofline and flaking paint. A jaundice-yellow taxi in the driveway
says “Charlie’s Cab” on its side in crooked Gothic lettering.

This can’t possibly be Steven’s family home, but there’s nothing to lose. “It’s worth a try. I’ll be right back.”