Cold Case (6 page)

It was a photo that seethed with complexity: sexual, sensual, oddly innocent. Marissa Cameron's, admittedly a grainy news shot, seemed by contrast as simple as a fifties sitcom.

I stared at Thea's photo. Computers might be able to age it, but I didn't have the necessary equipment or the right program. Roz could probably do better than any machine. Age the photo in a variety of ways. Thea grown up wealthy, Thea grown up poor, Thea aging, plump and thin, healthy and ill. Roz has the eye, the gift.

And me, well, I took another quick glance at the front page and revised my morning. I've learned enough not to stomp into a hornets' nest of reporters. No visit to the Cameron estate today. I'd have to work my best source first, sneak in the back door of my former place of business.

I ran an icy shower—a good short-term sleep substitute—donned a sleeveless tank top and khaki shorts for a visit to the cop house. I figured I'd flaunt my lightweight attire, let the uniforms sizzle in envy and suffocating heat. Freedom to dress as I choose is one of the few perks of my job.

Of course, as a homicide cop, a plainclothes detective, I'd enjoyed similar liberty. I just hadn't exercised it. I'd known bone-deep that had I come to work dressed “unprofessionally,” it would have been another black mark against one of the few women on the force, an offense that might well have led to a dreaded return to uniformed pavement pounding. The only time the uniforms seemed to appreciate my presence was when they assigned me to phony hooker patrol, preferably in winter, out of “concern” for the poor sidewalk strutters: Get 'em the hell in jail so they wouldn't freeze to death. No such concern for me, stuck wearing a crotch-high miniskirt with the wind-chill way below zero. Some guys really got off on it, vetoing heavy tights in favor of sheer panty hose, remarking that I might do better business if I stuffed my bra with Kleenex.

And if I didn't take it with a smile, I had no fucking sense of humor. Right.

I'd told them I'd be happy to stuff my bra, provided they'd arrest the johns who tried to hustle me, instead of the working girls I was supposed to pal up with, then betray.

Maybe if I'd lasted longer on the streets I could have made a difference. Maybe pigs could juggle billiard balls.

Hell, I thought, calm down. I was getting overheated just remembering. It wasn't the whole squad, just a few loudmouthed wrongheaded jerks. I glanced in the mirror, splashed cold water on my face, changed to a more conservative shirt and longer, looser shorts.

Why alienate the good guys when there are so many bad guys around?

I decided to walk into Harvard Square, take the T to South Station. A breeze might be blowing off the ocean. And I didn't feel like getting another parking ticket, which I do almost every time I try to stow my car near the Area D cop house.

I stuffed the manila envelope containing Thea's notebook into a plastic grocery sack, hung it over my left wrist, and took off.

Strolling toward Huron Ave., I turned abruptly, for no reason, just one of the things you do, and saw him. The same man who'd been casing the drugstore yesterday. Today he wore a denim jacket, a baseball cap, shades, and a bulge under his arm. Overdressed for the heat wave.

I knew it was the same guy because of his ears. Ears and fingers are what they teach you at the police academy. Anybody can buy dark glasses, a wig, a mustache. Gnarled stubby fingers don't change. Neither do thin dangling earlobes.

Instead of turning left and heading toward Harvard, I hung a right and veered into the Mount Auburn Cemetery. It may not sound like a pleasant side trip, but I'd been intending to visit. The old burial ground is no modern run-the-power-mower-over-the-flat-tomb-stones affair. It's a real park, with fountains, trees, sculpture, and glorious landscaping, as well as the graves of Edwin Booth, premier actor of his day and brother of the man who shot Lincoln; Fannie Farmer, the cooking maven; Mary Baker Eddy, the Christian Science lady who is not really buried with a telephone, but it makes such a good story; Winslow Homer, the painter; Buckminster Fuller; and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It's also rumored to be the burial site of both Sacco and Vanzetti, but nobody talks about them.

I knew the layout, the location of stone angels and tall monuments behind which I could hide and observe my observer, provided he took the bait and followed me into the park.

I ducked under the stone archway leading to the main section of the cemetery. Across Coolidge Avenue, the less notable are laid to rest in the City of Cambridge Cemetery. I decided to stick to the tourist routes, at least at first, make it easy for the guy. I headed down a leafy path toward the Lowell family plot. The shade was a welcome relief.

The grounds were meticulously clean and well maintained, the hills tastefully landscaped, the ponds clear and sprinkled with lily pads. Marble saints stared heavenward to intercede for the soul of stogie-smoking Amy Lowell. My pursuer was not in sight. Maybe he'd missed the turn. Smelled a trap.

I backtracked.

No one.

I took a new path, wondering whether I should ask the caretaker if he'd seen another tourist abroad. The elderly man slowly raking the immaculate grass looked ready to talk, garrulous. I suppose with such taciturn neighbors, he didn't get much chance to converse.

“Where would I find the Cameron family plot?” I asked as soon as he glanced up and acknowledged my presence. Surely the Camerons would have a tomb here, a palatial monument to illustrious ancestors.

The caretaker gave me detailed directions, past the third elm, a left at the wading pond, down the hill to the right, past the stand of lilacs. Right pretty in spring, he said. White lilacs.

Had he seen a man in a denim jacket? Nope. Hot day.

The Cameron plot was surrounded by a knee-high iron fence, elaborately carved like the metalwork on fancy patio furniture. I don't know one kind of marble from another, but the Camerons favored white with almost invisible pink veins. It made the statues look alive, as if a faint blush warmed their sunlit skin. The oldest grave was dated 1714. Lucinda Eustachia Estes Cameron, wife and mother. Dead at twenty-two. Disease or childbirth.

Franklin Cameron's monument, a tablet between tall fluted columns, was decorated with the veteran's American flag and the motto: He served his country in war and peace. Born 1911, died 1975. Beloved husband and father.

I stared down the path. No blue-jacketed stranger. I searched for the grave I'd come to see, the one that might or might not be there.

It was plain. Almost stark in contrast to the carved seraphim and cherubim of the others. A thin upright marker, with two curved leaves. It took me a moment to realize that the marker was in the shape of a book. Nothing else indicated that the grave belonged to the woman who'd written as Thea Janis.

Dorothy Jade Cameron, said deeply etched letters that would stand the test of time: 1956-1971. Fifteen years old. Younger even than her ancestor, Lucinda Eustachia.

How had they determined year of death? I wondered. If she'd disappeared in '71, she couldn't have been declared legally dead until '78, seven years later.

The caretaker had finished raking his patch. I looked for him outdoors before heading toward the official-looking stone cottage. Cemeteries keep records. If you can't recall the last resting place of some dearly beloved, a cemetery map is generally available.

I wanted more than a map.

He was drinking a can of Coke, his head tipped back, the folds of his chin wiggling as he swallowed. I waited, finally made a deliberate noise, dragging my shoe across the gravel.

“Yep?” he said, slapping the can down on a nearby countertop, looking as guilty as if he'd been caught wielding a bottle of Wild Turkey. “Can I help you?”

“Have you worked here long?” I asked.

“Yep,” he said, relaxing. “Best part of thirty-five years.”

“Are some of the plots memorial plots?”

“What do you mean?”

“No body buried there, just a stone marker, the way Paul Revere's ‘buried' in three, four places,” I said.

“We got ashes,” he said. “In the crematory.”

“No. I'm asking if all the stones, the monuments, are indicators that an actual body was buried here.”

“You better get specific with me, miss. Somebody in particular on your mind?”

“Dorothy Cameron. She was a writer, one book in 1970. Her tombstone says she died in '71.”

“That's right,” he said. “In the big plot. Died and buried in '71. Pitiful thing when parents outlive a child.”

“It's not a memorial stone. You're sure? Are there records you can check?”

“I could but I don't need to. I remember that funeral, because she was famous. Fine family. We used to get all the fancy funerals; now we're almost plumb out of space.”

“There was a casket,” I said.

“Right,” he agreed, scratching the back of his neck, shrugging his shoulders like he was loosening them up, getting ready to go back to work with the rake. “I didn't go to the funeral home or nothing, but I do remember it was a white casket, white lilies just mounded all over that grave. Everythin' white, not a speck of color.”

“It was a long time ago,” I said.

“I been around a long time. But I remember. Maybe not what I ate for breakfast, you know, but a big funeral like that, keeping the press away and all, I surely do remember that.”

“Thank you,” I said, turning away, feeling the grocery sack hanging from my wrist turn into a heavy weight.

If Thea's new manuscript was genuine, whose body lay under the marble stone? Was that what my client had meant when he said that he was sure someone had made a mistake? A mistake …

On the way out of the cemetery, keeping one eye peeled for the blue denim man, I saw it.

Adam Mayhew's tombstone. His monument, rather. The engraving was directly at eye level. Ornate. Large. Anyone visiting the Cameron plot would have been sure to see it, maybe even remark on the detailed border, a ring of carved doves.

I took notes as to the date of birth and the date of death. I'm a detective after all. Then I found a phone booth and dialed the number my client had written down last night.

It was not in service within the 617 area code. I tried 508, the western suburbs, just to make sure. An automated voice told me to check the number and dial again.

7

On the overcrowded, overheated bus, and then on the blissfully air-conditioned Red Line car, possibilities thrummed through my brain, keeping pace with the speeding subway. Number one: My client was a liar and a fraud. Liar and fraud. Liar and fraud. The rhythm fit the rumble of the rail and the sway of the seats.

On the other hand—I tried to convince myself as the train emerged to cross the Charles River at the Longfellow Bridge—Mount Auburn Cemetery's Adam Mayhew didn't have to be my Adam Mayhew. The sun glinted off the golden statehouse dome and I closed my eyes, indifferent to the throng of rowdies boarding at Charles Street Station. Among local Brahmins, name repetition abounds. My blue-eyed bifocaled Adam might be Adam Mayhew, the third, the fourth, the fifth. Not to mention a totally unrelated Adam Mayhew.

Sure. I believe in coincidence. Right up there with the Easter Bunny, astrology, and long-term weather forecasts.

Did I believe in the detailed reminiscences of elderly caretakers? Would he remember a twenty-four-year-old funeral? He hadn't volunteered to check any records. Why should he bother to lie?

I sighed, covering it with a fake cough as I observed my seatmate eyeing me speculatively. He wore a long beard, a skullcap, and a black cassock. A heavy cross on a metallic chain dangled to his knees. He looked as though he might be searching for converts, followers, donations.

Face facts: I have a suspicious nature. I gave it free rein on the T, but at no point did a broad-shouldered male, wearing an unnecessary jacket of any hue or packing a piece in a shoulder holster, make an appearance. The train was so crowded I couldn't be absolutely sure he wasn't on board, so I switched at Park Street, waiting eight minutes for the next jammed southbound cars, maintaining careful surveillance.

If it weren't so damned hot in the tunnels I might join the MBTA police, enjoy the benefits of a regular paycheck.

But would they let me wear bizarre halter tops like Roz's?

Would I wear one given the latitude? Given the body?

Sometimes Roz makes me feel like a gutless wonder; at other times a veritable saint, a reservoir of common sense. No wonder I value her presence in my life.

As I treasure Mooney's.

Mooney's simply one of the best cops around. Hadn't been for him, I'd never have gotten into plain-clothes work, never have earned my detective's tin. Or rather, I'd have
earned
it, I just wouldn't have gotten it, passed over for some guy whose dear old dad and five Irish uncles put in time with the Boston PD.

The trouble with Mooney is he makes me feel guilty, as if I should have stayed a cop no matter what, because he really did climb on to a swaying limb for me. And I paid him back by quitting.

Guilt plays such a major role in my life that my Mooney guilt usually gets shoved to the back of the bus. But today, because I needed a favor, it crept stealthily to the fore, nudging me as I waited on the stoop by the gas pumps for a detective I knew, someone I could tail into the station without causing undue comment. While I climbed the stairs, automatically avoiding the creaky fourth step and the loose rubber runner on the sixth, I ran a mental credit check.

Who owed whom?

I had the uneasy feeling that I was down major points, and about to sink deeper. Maybe I ought to crawl into his office on hands and knees, a true supplicant. No. Cops love to gossip. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

“What do you want?” Mooney barked as soon as I opened the door. He glanced up warily, peering over tiny rectangular lenses. Noticing me notice them, he quickly lifted them off his nose and stuffed them in a desk drawer, out of sight.