Boston Cream (7 page)

“I wish he could show me how that’s done,” Jenn said.

“I’d rather he showed us where the five grand came from. The only thing I can think of is those poker books … they stuck out like three sore thumbs.”

“You think he’s into big games?”

“I don’t know. Sheldon didn’t mention it.”

“Would he know? It didn’t sound like they pay much attention to each other.”

She continued rifling through papers while I called Sheldon. His cell went straight to voice mail. I left a message asking him to call on his next break.

Jenn had David’s phone bills on her lap: they showed regular long-distance calls to his parents in Toronto. Nothing else jumped out.

I picked up the research papers we had taken. From between them a folded sheet of paper fell to the floor like an autumn leaf.

It was a missing person poster. It showed a middle-aged Indian man named Harinder Patel, and he had vanished the week before David Fine.

Because Jenn is so much better at extracting information from people over the phone, she got to lie in bed in her room and make calls, while I got my first taste of driving in Boston. I took out the GPS unit, nestled it on the dash in its weighted sack and plugged it into the lighter socket. Once it was on, I punched in the address I wanted in Somerville, which I could see on the screen was north of Cambridge. I followed the posh gal’s instructions to Mass Avenue and took the bridge there across into Cambridge, where low-hanging clouds seemed to be trailing veils of rain. It reminded me a lot of the Annex at home, the streets lined with bookstores, cafés and indie restaurants. Young people walking everywhere, lost in their earbuds, cellphones and the occasional conversation with an actual person. Older lefties and ex-hippies, holding out against age, prowling around the bookstores in jeans, moccasins and soft leather jackets, grey ponytails poking out the backs of their ball caps.

As I got into Somerville, construction narrowed the road to a single lane, and many horns blared as one as drivers tried to force their way right. When that finally cleared, the GPS told me to turn left onto a street that was closed off and dug down to the pipes. As I missed the turn, she said, in an icy tone, “Recalculating,” then gave me a new route.

Madras Grocery was situated in the ground floor of an old house on Bow Street, whose name derives from its semicircular shape. The street was hard to find, which may have contributed to the business’s rundown look. That and the apparent scarcity of people of South Asian origin who might be in the market for its goods.

A bell tinkled over the door as I went in past a billboard stuffed with notices for local movers, tutors, music teachers and dog walkers. And a copy of the same poster we had found asking for help finding Harinder Patel. As I walked to the counter, the smell of spice crowded in: cumin, turmeric, others I knew but couldn’t name, all in a pungent swirl around me. The
woman at the front cash was wrapped in a yellow-and-orange sari with silvery trim. She smiled warmly without saying anything. I took out my copy of the poster and she looked at it through glasses whose panes were scratched and fogged.

“I’d like to speak to you about this man,” I said. “He might be connected to another missing person’s case.”

She turned to face the back of the store and called out, “Sanjay!”

A well-built young man in his twenties came up the aisle. He wore a long-sleeved grey sweatshirt and blue jeans, and had jet-black hair combed straight up in front but forward from the back, giving him a fearsome cresting pompadour. A beard no thicker than wire traced his jawline and chin.

“Help you, sir?” he asked. He looked to be in his early twenties. But already serious. Serious about something.

I flashed the poster. “You’re looking for this man?”

He started to look hopeful. “Yes, yes. He’s my father. Have you found him? Found something?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

The expression sagged back to neutral. “Oh. Then why are you here?”

I showed him a picture of David Fine. “Because this man is missing too, and he had your flyer among his effects.”

He knew David. From the first widening of the eyes to the slight opening of his carefully barbered jaw, I could tell he knew him.

“Come to the back,” he said.

He led me past an office too tiny and crammed for the two of us, and into a storeroom made narrow by sacks of rice, beans and other goods stacked against its walls. “Who are you, please?”

“Jonah Geller. I’m a licensed investigator from Toronto.” He didn’t need to know the vagaries of my standing in Massachusetts. “This man’s family hired me to find him.”

“You say he’s missing too? For how long?”

“Two weeks.”

“My father went missing three weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sanjay.”

“Call me Sammy.” We shook hands.

“So you know this man,” I said.

“Yes. He came into the store one evening about two weeks ago. Dad had been gone at least a week by then.”

“Definitely him?”

His eyes sparkled. “Oh, yes.”

“You remember the day of the week?”

“A Wednesday. Around eight-thirty. I was cleaning out the basement for our Thursday-morning delivery, which is our biggest. My mum doesn’t speak much English so she called me up. This guy said he had heard about my father and wanted to help the family, and he handed me an envelope.” Even though we were alone in the store, he lowered his voice. “It had five thousand bucks in it. Fifty hundred-dollar bills.”

“This man here,” I said, pointing at the photo. “David Fine.”

“If that’s his name, yes.”

“All in hundreds.”

“Yes.”

It had to be right. David’s stash was in hundreds too, an equal five thousand. In a doubled elastic band. Seemed like David had started out with ten thousand dollars, when he shouldn’t have had a nickel, and he had chosen to split it with a stranger.

“Trust me,” Sammy said. “It never happened in my life before, and it will probably never happen again, a guy handing me that much cash. And then he was gone, like one of those rich guys on a reality show who go around handing out money. Only there was no one filming my reaction. Which is too bad, in a way, because I remember I was pretty floored. But a little scared, too.”

“Of him?” Sammy looked like he could pick David up and body-slam him without losing his place in the sports page.

“No. It just seemed like a sign my father is dead. I don’t know why but that’s how it struck me.”

“Did he say why he wanted to help? Did he know your father?”

“He certainly wasn’t a regular customer,” Sammy said. “I’d never seen him in the neighbourhood before and neither had Mum.”

“He lives in Brookline.”

“That’s pretty far to come for what we sell.”

“And he said nothing else?”

“Nope. Gave me the money and left without another word.”

“Sammy, does your father have any medical problems?”

“What do you mean?”

“David is a surgeon,” I said. “Or about to become one. Specializing in transplant medicine.”

“My father certainly has no condition like that. Nothing a better diet and a little exercise wouldn’t cure.”

“Has he been a patient at Sinai Hospital?”

“I think he had a thing on his neck removed there last summer. Was it there or Mass General? No, it was in the Longwood Area. I picked him up on Francis Street when it was done. But they just cut off a cyst, that’s all. No reason he would see a transplant surgeon.”

“Who’s investigating your father’s disappearance?”

“The Somerville cops,” he said, rolling his liquid brown eyes.

“Not much confidence in them?”

“It’s a very small force,” he said. “And Dad isn’t a runaway or Alzheimer’s patient, which is mostly what they deal with.”

“Same with Brookline. Did you tell them about David’s visit? About the money?”

“Hell, no! I figured the first thing they’d do was impound it,” he said, putting quote marks around impound.

“I didn’t tell Brookline that David had money either. Another five thousand. Which links the two cases in my mind, but won’t in theirs if we don’t tell them about it.”

Sanjay stared at a sack of lentils that wasn’t doing anything stare-worthy. “I can’t tell them about it,” he said softly. “It’s gone. We needed it so badly. You can see how bad. It was spent the next day, keeping us afloat for another few weeks. You won’t tell anyone, right?”

“No.”

“All right. Thank you. And look …”

“What?”

“I can’t pay you extra on top of whatever you’re earning. But while you’re investigating your own case, if there is any connection, anything you can find out about Dad, what happened to him … Because if we don’t …”

“What?”

“Look around you. My father wasn’t the shrewdest operator. The store is poorly located and our margins are thin. We’ve been on a tightrope for months, barely holding on, to tell you the truth. And with Dad missing now, everything is frozen. We’re in limbo with the banks, the insurance, our suppliers. If we lose the store …” He sank back onto a stack of rice sacks and shook his head. “If I’m left alone here with Mum, my life is over. My sisters are older—they’re both married and starting families. If Dad stays missing, I’m going to have to take over here. This will be my life, this place Dad bought in fucking Somerville. You’ll call, right, if you find anything? You have the number?”

He wouldn’t let me leave without a business card with all his contact info, plus a few more copies of the flyer of his father, missing now for more than twenty days.

Sheldon Paull called me on the way back. I put him on speaker and asked if he knew anything about David playing poker.

“Funny you should ask,” he said. “I don’t think I was supposed to know about it. But one night, maybe a month ago, I got up to pee in the middle of the night and his door wasn’t all the way closed. The light was on. Nothing unusual, he often works through the night. I was walking past and I heard him go, “Yesss,” that way you do when you’ve done something great. I’m wondering, did he make a breakthrough or something? Something related to work or maybe Talmud? But no. Through the door I could see his arms in the air like he just scored a touchdown. And pocket aces on his screen.”

“How often does he play?”

“That was the only time I saw it.”

“He ever talk about it?”

“No.”

“So you don’t know if he ever played in live tournaments.”

“Seems unlikely to me.”

“No sudden trips to Vegas or Atlantic City?”

“David?”

“Nothing to suggest problem gambling?”

“Please,” Sheldon said. “What is all this, anyway?”

“We think David may have been making money playing poker.”

“If he was, he kept it from me.”

“You said he’s smart. Maybe he thought he could beat the odds. Get out of his financial hole. Maybe he got in over his head.”

“He was smart, is smart, and he could beat the odds if he wanted to. But he would have needed a stake.”

“He could have built one online.”

“But if he cashed any out, there’d be a record on his credit card statement.”

“Which there wasn’t,” I admitted.

“Anyway, it still doesn’t seem like David. He’s the opposite of the addictive personality. He gets his satisfaction from his work. That it for now?”

“Yes, thanks.” As soon as I hung up, the phone buzzed: it was Jenn, saying Dr. Stayner’s office had called to say he’d see me if I could be there in twenty minutes. I pulled over to the right, provoking only one middle finger and one hostile blast of a horn.

“That sounded warm and fuzzy,” she said.

“Can I get there in twenty from the Mass Avenue Bridge?” I said.

“Yes. Just stay on Commonwealth past the hotel till you get to Brookline and bear left. Park when you get to Francis.”

“Got it. Anything from the phone calls?”

“Drive now,” she said. “Talk later.”

S
ean Daggett had four properties in the Boston area, not counting the one down the Cape.

There was the garage in Somerville, the one his father had owned, and his father before that, passed down the dark generations for certain kinds of business. There were cars in there and parts of cars, but none of them ever got worked on. People did sometimes; some bled or got bruised. Others passed through. Goods moved in and out. Hangers-on hung. Flesh got pressed. That kind of place. Then there was his newest acquisition, a defunct funeral home in Mattapan that was proving to be sweetly lucrative.

His family lived out of the city, of course, to keep the kids away from its fucking schools. Michael and Virginia went to St. Bridget’s in Framingham for a good parochial education free of Boston’s loony ideas and racial engineering. He and Bev had built a sprawling ranch house between Farm Pond and the Bracket Reservoir. The kids had one wing east of the grand centre hall, with their own bathroom and entertainment room and study. The west wing held the master bedroom and monster bath where you could soak, shower, massage and otherwise pamper yourself. They had their own big-screen den too, him and Bev. He slept at home almost every night.