All in One Piece (15 page)

“Frank, no Spanish. Stop it.” Devaney blinks, and so do I. “Sorry, Frank. For a second there, I thought… I’m way offbalance.
First the Chinese marks on my door, now Spanish. Don’t get in a twist about this: two days ago, I went to Jamaica Plain to
find the boy Steven Damelin mentored.”

“The Latino kid.”

“Yes, I took him a memento from Steven’s things, from Big Buddy to Little Buddy. It was pouring rain. His mother let us in,
and a friend translated. The police… I take it you’ve already questioned him?”

He takes a bite. “Juvenile has its own records on Luis Diaz. He was caught with a
chimba
—that’s a homemade pipe gun. And yes, on your tip, we questioned him in the Damelin case.”

Steven’s murder, now it’s the Damelin case. “Was he questioned by Maglia?”

“By Detective Xavier Soysal.”

“And is Luis a suspect?” As if Devaney would tell me.

“It’s a process. We don’t know yet. Ed’s talking to a good many people.”

“Including Steven’s father? Steven fought furiously with his father, you know.”

He ignores this. “Ed’s looking for certain specific people.”

“Someone named Alex? A dancer?”

“Hey, Reggie, back off—it’s enough you’re nosing around Jamaica Plain.” His raised brow is a storm warning. “Anyway, that
kid’s got his troubles.”

“His mother says he’s high-spirited. If it were my own son, I might say the same thing. Maybe you would too.”

Devaney chugs his RC. “The Latino groups are all different. Your Dominicans, there’s a lot of back-and-forth to JP—Jamaica
Plain. Fares are cheap, families live in both places.”

“So Maglia’s afraid that Luis will escape? Go back to his home village?”

Devaney reaches for the slaw. “I’m saying there’s a family dynamic. A parent comes for a job here, say, cabdriver or hotel
housekeeping. The kids stay back on the island with the grandparents. The fireworks start when they’re teens.”

“My friend says the kids play the parents against the grandparents.”

“He’s right. Kids mess up, they’re out of control. Then the parent brings the kid to Boston to straighten him out, and there’s
a language problem, the kid’s behind in school. It spirals down.”

“To murder?” Do I repeat Carmine’s words, “the tools fit his hand like gloves”? It could assist the police… or help convict
an innocent boy of homicide. For now, I nibble coleslaw and keep quiet.

“Your aunt liked barbecue.”

This is an odd change of subject, and something else that Jo never mentioned.

“I’d stop and pick up a bagful when we worked together. I gave her my pickles. She loved pickles on a sandwich.” He crumples
his wrapper, bags the trash. I realize this is not solely about sandwiches. “She sat where you’re sitting, Reggie, and told
me what she saw… her psychic visions.” He looks straight ahead through the windshield. “It had its complications. Don’t
get me wrong, Jo gave me information, but it was up to me to piece it in, find the fit.”

“I understand.”

“But I never disrespected her. Not as far as I know.” He turns toward me, as if forcing himself to meet my gaze. “Reggie,
I didn’t show appreciation for you imagining Steven Damelin drowning.”

“I didn’t imagine it, Frank. I
saw
it. My sixth sense—”

“You saw him in a body of water in which a log is floating.”

“I have a sore spot on my head from the log… and this is a recurring vision. I know there’s no clear connection with
a body drilled to death and nailed like upholstery fabric to the floor. I know that, for you, the vision is irrelevant.”

Low-grade static crackles on the radio, but the moment grows quiet. The brake pedal squeaks as Devaney, now distracted, pumps
it and stares off as as if absorbing what I’ve said.

He picks at a cuticle and looks me in the eye. “A preliminary autopsy report came in today,” he says. “And some things check
out, certain DNA matches. Things we’ve expected. Then again, some things not expected. There are other results we won’t have
for some weeks. He reaches for a roll of Tums, peels the wrapper, and bites a tablet. He straightens his tie, a field of turkeys.

“Is there something you can tell me?” I ask.

“Yes, something new. I should’ve listened to you, kept an open mind. But it’s this: the report shows substantial water in
Steven Damelin’s lungs. The point is, we’re now looking at a new theory of the case. We’re looking at drowning as a possible
cause of his death.”

It’s midafternoon. “Ticked Off” is due, but I swirl and spin with the pathology report on Steven’s death—and the frustration.
Yes, Devaney is now a born-again believer in my psychic ability, and the sore spot on my scalp gains new respect.

So what? Steven’s murderer is no closer to ID and arrest. The Chinese markings, Luis, the dancer lover, and now the drowning
… none of it makes sense. Steven and Jo’s deal, I haven’t a clue. Stark insists that Biscuit stay on Barlow Square as
a watchdog, which tells me he thinks I’m endangered. Devaney swears the police patrol is stepped up in my neighborhood, though
seeing is believing, and I have yet to spot the green Impalas he insists patrol Barlow Square. So I have my doubts. Yes, the
pathologist and my sixth sense are in sync, but the case is so wide-open it’s shapeless. The killer runs free.

I’m midway in “Ticked Off” when who calls but Mr. Frequent Flier, Knox Baker, just back in town from the pyramids. His voice
is deep, filled with apology for keeping me waiting while he traveled. He makes a joke about postcards and suggests a leisurely
lunch tomorrow.

Weeks ago, his call would be a thrill for sure. Now? Now he’s a voice from another planet. I mention StyleSmart and tell him
I’m at work until noon tomorrow. We agree to meet. I’m not even sure what he looks like, it’s been that long.

Back to “Ticked Off”—tips on luggage etiquette, “Playing Footsie with Roller Bags.” Meg Givens is due in two hours to show
my upstairs rental, but what if Steven did stash something in the apartment? On TV, narcotics teams search toilet tanks and
ovens. Suppose something’s stashed up the chimney and the cops missed it. Grab the flashlight and take a look.

Yet dread rises with each stairstep. Steven’s body, the blood, the nails… the scene flashes in the blast zone of my mind.
My fingers twitch, and the key scrabbles at the new lock of the upstairs flat. Breath held, I open the door.

The place reeks of pine cleaner, and my heels hammer the hardwood. Briskly I raise the blinds, turn up the heat, open a window,
and briefly run the kitchen faucet. The living room stops me: the center seat cushion of the sofa shows the impress of a human
body. With all the hauling, I hadn’t noticed this effigy of Steven. Clearly this was a favorite spot, and it’s somehow touching.

Don’t ask why, but I sit down right there to feel between the cushions. Before I can work my fingers down inside, it comes
over me, the log and water, the twisting and feeling of Steven himself. The spot on my scalp pulsates.

This time I let it happen. Don’t resist, Reggie. Close your eyes, feel the feeling. It’s a wrenching but familiar space hollowed
by his very body.

So powerful, the water, the log, the torque in my hips and legs. I sit still as the moment passes, then take a deep breath
and dive in the cushions. Not even a palmful of change. I go into the bathroom, lift the porcelain tank top, turn on the flashlight,
and look inside. There’s the orange-brown water stain of an old commode, the ball and lever.

The oven is empty. Then on to the chimney, where I kneel at the fireplace, hold my light, and try to see up into the pitch-blackness.
Get this over with, Reggie. Propped on one elbow, I feel bricks, mortar, nothing like a hidden stash. A metal rod sticks out.
I jiggle it.

Soot falls like a mine cave-in. It covers my hands and face, and I’m choking, sneezing. Eyes watering, I stagger to the kitchen
sink, rinse out my mouth, go into the bathroom to the mirror. My blouse is filthy, face and hair covered with soot, hands
grimy. Devaney’s probably right: we all watch too much cop TV. But that’s the problem: I’m playing a TV scene at the site
of a very real murder. A script won’t lead to the killer.

“Reggie, how goes it?” It’s just five. I’ve washed, changed, and cleaned the mess from the flue. Meg’s here for showings.
She’s wearing a skirt with a plum jacket and the enamel earrings that proclaim membership in the over-fifty women’s Red Hat
Society. “You okay, Reggie? Not too frazzled?”

“I gave the upstairs a quick search, Meg. Life would be simpler if I’d found a brick of cocaine in the toilet tank or raw
diamonds in the chimney. Steven Damelin’s death would mean a crime deal gone bad. Maybe I’d sleep at night. Maybe my days
would be brighter.”

“You’ll feel better with a tenant. Vacancies are abnormal.”

“Spoken like a Realtor, Meg.”

“Like a friend. And a mother too. When Skip left for college, his room felt like a tomb. It still does. How’re your kids?”
But the doorbell rings. “Showtime, Reggie. Let’s not dwell on what happened here. For every tenant, it’s a clean slate.” She
catches my eye. “Clean slate for the landlady too.”

In the next hour, Meg and I dispatch a hawk-faced guy who complains about low water pressure and an aromatherapist who smells
like licorice. Number three is a banker who specializes in wills and trusts. Mackenzie Carruthers marches in stiletto heels,
flashes a cold-front smile, announces the apartment “suits her needs” for a few months, and whips out an alligator checkbook.
Meg suggests that they go to the realty office to finalize the sublet.

“Fine. Oh, I almost forgot—” The banker tweezes a small envelope from her bag and thrusts it into my hand. “To ‘R. Cutter.’”

“To me?” Is she drumming up clients?

“From a boy at the corner.”

“What boy?” She doesn’t know him. “Big? A Latino?”

“No, he was wiry. A street-kid type in flip-flops, in this weather. I was climbing your steps, and he ran up.”

“I don’t know any boy…” But the banker and Meg are off to sign a lease.

There’s no address or stamp on this envelope. Back downstairs, I peer out my front window. Evening shadows fall, but Barlow
Square is empty. There’s no kid. I flick on a lamp and rip open the flap. Heavy expensive paper, and the note inside says:

I would like to talk with you about belongings of mine in your vacated apartment. You can reach me at 917-232-4082. My name
is Alex.

T
he dancer. I rush outside to look around. But no adult male is in sight on the square. Heart pounding, I scan the shadows
and circle the block to look behind each tree and down every basement stairwell. There’s nobody but a neighbor with a yoga
mat. Back inside, I stare at the note. It’s scary, as if I’m being watched.

This time I call Maglia. This time he’s decent and so eager for details that I realize Alex is one of the “specific” individuals
who Devaney reported are being sought. The cops, says Maglia, will send an unmarked van with electronic surveillance equipment
to monitor my 917 call. For now, I’m to sit tight and wait for my cue, then invite Alex to visit Barlow Square. A sting.

“But the furniture is moved into the basement. Everything but the sofa.”

“So invite Alex to the basement. A nice lady like you, Ms. Cutter, use your charm.”

“Suppose he’s suspicious.”

“He wants something from the apartment, he’ll come.”

“I already gave away a lamp.”

“Whatever he says that he wants, go along. We’ll have you covered. We’ll be there. You won’t be alone for a minute.”

That’s the promise. Of course, I must trust it. If Alex is a suspect, he’ll be in custody, not haunting Barlow Square with
boy messengers. In short: a huge relief is in sight. Dinnertime comes, but I can’t eat a bite. Biscuit needs a walk, but only
to the corner and back. Maglia said to expect a couple of hours for clearance and the van setup. Two hours pass. Finally,
7:14 p.m., a dark van pulls up at the corner and I get Maglia’s call. “We’re all set, Ms. Cutter. You’re on.”

Fingers taut, I punch in 1-917-232-4082. On the third ring, a tenor hello. “Alex? This is Regina Cutter… R. Cutter. I
have your note.” The phone connection is scratchy. “Hello?”

“I’m here.”

“So about the apartment, Alex… belongings of yours?”

“There’s something of mine, and I’d like it back.”

“The apartment is empty.” I deliberately omit Steven’s name. “It’s been cleaned and… cleared out. What is it you’re interested
in? Is it furniture?”

“A photo wallet.”

The phone connection fades, then surges. I hear traffic in the background. “Photos? I don’t recall any photos.”

“There’s a blue enameled chest.”

Indeed there is, one of the most awkward and heavy pieces that Stark and I hauled down, that “atomic”-era style. It’s one
floor down under my very feet.

“Ms. Cutter, the photos are keepsakes. They’re personal. Suppose you tell me, where’s the chest?”

“Actually…” Take a deep breath, Reggie. Remember, the police van is here, and Maglia promises coverage:
We’ll have you
covered, we’ll be there, you won’t be alone
. “The chest is here, Alex, on Barlow Square. It’s in my basement.”

I hear his thick breathing. “How about… could you check it out?”

“Right now?”

“Just open the bottom drawer and feel up under. It’s a pigskin wallet.”

Anything to keep him on the line. Worst case: if there’s no wallet, I’ll lie and lure him here. “Okay, here I go. I’m on the
basement stairs.” The dungeon of a basement and this playful furniture from the murder scene. Did Alex mark my door in blood?

Pulling out a drawer, I feel up and under. There’s a lump. I tug it loose… yes, a small dark leather folder. It was taped
to the frame of the chest, which is why the search of the drawers didn’t reveal it. “It’s here.”

Do I hear him grunt? The line crackles.

“You could stop by to pick it up. This evening?”

“No, that won’t work.”

“Or tomorrow morning?”

Silence. The line buzzes. “Ms. Cutter, are you going out tonight?”