Dog Bless You (12 page)

She began crying, and Jamarcus left Rochester and came
over to her. “Don’t cry, Mama,” he said, tugging on her knee.

She lifted the little boy up to her lap and he snuggled
against her shoulder.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said. I stood up, and
pulled a business card from my wallet. “If there’s anything I can do, please
call me.”

She nodded, and sniffled. I picked up Rochester’s leash
and we left her and her son to their grief.

I was tired of playing detective. I had plenty of
information to bring back to Tony Rinaldi, and I couldn’t bear any more
sadness. Rochester and I walked back to where I had parked.

Back when I lived in New York, Tor and I used to joke
that “BMW” meant “Break My Windows.” But I was lucky, and my old sedan was
still intact. I even had a few minutes remaining on the meter to leave as a
gift for the next driver.

The access roads to the Holland Tunnel were jammed with
tractor-trailers, decrepit sedans even older than mine, and a mix of luxury
cars and SUVs. A pizza delivery guy on a beat-up bicycle threaded his way
through the traffic.

I plugged my cell phone into the adapter that fits into
the cassette tape deck (yes, the car is that old) and scanned for music. I
needed something to raise my spirits and settled for the soundtrack to the
movie
Welcome to Woop-Woop
. I barely remembered the movie any more, but
the bouncy score never failed to cheer me up.

By the time we cleared the tunnel, I was feeling
better. I paused the music to call Tony Rinaldi and pass on the names and
addresses I’d collected.

“I’ll type up some notes on what I heard when I get
home,” I said, “and email them to you.”

“That would be great,” he said. “I knew you’d be able
to get some information out of those people. Any idea what DeAndre was doing
down here?”

“Looking for a thumb,” I said. “It’s complicated. I’ll
talk to you tomorrow after you read my notes.”

“Thanks, Steve. I’ll catch you later.”

I had spent so much time in the city that I was mired
in rush hour traffic most of the way home, and it was nearly seven o’clock by
the time I pulled off I-95 at the Yardley exit to head upriver to Stewart’s
Crossing.

I picked up the phone once more, this time to call Rick
Stemper. “You have dinner yet?” I asked.

“Just got home and I’m walking the Rascal.”

“How about if I pick up a pizza and bring it to your
place?” I asked. “You have any beer on hand?”

“If the beer’s on me, the pizza’s on you.”

“Deal.” I hung up and placed an order from Giovanni’s,
in the shopping center in downtown Stewart’s Crossing. Luckily Rick and I both
liked the same kind—a thick crust with spicy Italian sausage crumbled and
scattered over a base of homemade tomato sauce, freshly sautéed mushrooms and
shredded mozzarella from an artisan cheese maker in New Hope.

The pizza was ready by the time I got there. I slid the
box into the trunk to keep Rochester from attacking it, and drove to Rick’s.
The goofy dog jumped into the back seat and kept pawing toward the trunk.

Rick still lived in the ranch house where he’d grown
up, which he’d bought from his parents when they retired to Florida. I pulled
up in the driveway and let Rochester out. He peed as I was opening the trunk,
then rushed to the gate into Rick’s back yard. Rascal was on the other side of
the gate, and they began barking at each other.

I opened the gate and let Rochester in. Rascal took
off, Rochester right behind, and they raced around the yard, darting between
the apple and pear trees Rick’s father had planted when his son was a kid. I
followed the dogs in, closing the gate behind me, then walked into Rick’s
kitchen through the back door.

His kitchen hadn’t been changed much since the house
was built in the fifties; he’d put in a new fridge, oven and dishwasher, but
the Formica cabinets were original, as was the big stainless steel sink and the
brown and tan patterned linoleum floor. He already had an open bottle of Sam
Adams Cherry Wheat on the counter, and was pouring two bowls of chow out for
the dogs.

I got myself a beer, then let the dogs back in. They
both chewed noisily as Rick and I sat down at the kitchen table with the beer,
the pizza and a roll of paper towels.

“Went into the city today on an errand for Tony
Rinaldi,” I said, between bites. I told him what I’d learned about DeAndre
Dawson and his connection to Friar Lake.

“How do you keep on doing it?” I asked him eventually,
when the pizza was gone and we were on our second round of beers. “Talking to
people who’ve been victims of crimes? Today wore me out, talking to DeAndre’s
girlfriend.”

“You want to be a Hardy Boy, you gotta take what comes
with the territory,” he said. “It’s hard sometimes, sure. When you talk to
people who are sad, you get sad, too. It’s human nature.” He took a swig from
his bottle. “But I remind myself that I’m helping people get over that sadness,
or that fear. What you did today was good. Even though you didn’t know this
guy, it’s better for that woman to hear from someone who cares, not an
anonymous New York City cop sent to notify her.”

“If you say so.”

He looked over at where the two dogs had settled down
together to snooze. “I’ll bet having Rochester around helped, too,” he said. “Especially
with the little boy. The dog is what he’ll remember about this day.”

Cleaning up was easy—we tossed the pizza box and the
empty bottles in the recycling bin, and the used paper towels in the trash.
“I’d better get going,” I said. “I promised Tony I’d type up what I learned
today while it’s still fresh.”

I was about to walk out when he said, “Saturday night.
You and Lili want to have dinner with me and Paula?”

“The Drunken Hessian?” I asked.

“Paula may not be a girly girl, but she likes a good
meal,” he said. “I was thinking of Le Canal in New Hope.”

“Fancy. You must really like her.”

“It’s one of the only nice places around that’ll let
her bring the dog.”

“Not…” I motioned toward Rascal and Rochester.

“Absolutely not. But Lush sits in her shoulder bag. As
long as she feeds him he keeps quiet.”

Rick used a term for people like himself and me, who
were ruled by their dogs. Puppy-whipped. Sadly, I could understand Paula Madden
completely.

“Have to check with Lili,” I said. “But it sounds
good.”

“I’ll make reservations for eight,” he said. “Meet you
up there.”

On the way home, I called Lili. She was in the middle
of some research, so we didn’t talk long—but I did confirm that she was okay
for dinner on Saturday night with Rick and Paula.

“She told me she was dating someone new the last time I
was in the store, but I didn’t realize it was Rick,” Lili said. She shook her
head. “Paula’s a trip. But her and Rick? I don’t see it.”

“Well, you’ll see it on Saturday night.”

We exchanged a few sweet nothings and then ended the
call. Back home, I opened my laptop and typed up as much as I could recall of
my meetings that day, regretting that I hadn’t taken notes while I was talking
to people. I emailed it all to Tony, then yawned. It had been a long day.

As Rochester and I walked down Sarajevo Way in our
nightly before-bed ritual, I thought about my deepening relationship with Lili.
I’d only known her for six months, but already I felt like she was the woman I
wanted to spend the rest of my life with. We had both been burned by divorce,
so we’d been taking things slowly. But at some point we’d both have to consider
making changes.

Now that I had a more secure future with Eastern, I
could consider moving upriver to Leighville. Or I could invite Lili to give up
her apartment and move in with me in Stewart’s Crossing. The townhouse was very
comfortable for one human and one dog, but was there enough room to add Lili
into the mix? We’d share the master bedroom, of course, and I didn’t need to
use the second bedroom as an office, as I had been.

With Lili around more often, perhaps I’d be less
tempted to go online and snoop in places I didn’t belong. That was one of those
double-edged swords. Would I have to hide from her, and would that drive a
wedge between us? Or would I be able to give up what I had already acknowledged
was an addiction?

When we got home, I tried to read more of
The Hunger
Games
, but I was beat, and instead turned on my side and went right to
sleep.

The next morning I got a phone call from Elaine in HR.
“The job is going to be posted this morning,” she said. “If you get your
application and resume in right away, I can ask President Babson if he’ll sign off
without a formal hiring committee. Because this was his idea, he should – but
you never know with that man.”

I felt a hollow place in my stomach. I knew well how
capricious John William Babson could be. Suppose he changed his mind about me,
or decided he wanted to hire someone with experience to run Friar Lake?

The first thing I had to do, before I could fill out
the online application, was update my resume. Fortunately, I had put one together
when I began working with Santiago Santos, and I had a copy of it on the jump
drive I carried around with me. I pulled it up and began updating it, using all
the action words and quantification I taught my students about in the tech
writing class.

I was still working on it when Tony Rinaldi stopped by.
As usual, he was starched and pressed, in khaki slacks and a military-style
white shirt with epaulets and buttons. He wore a light sports jacket, which
shifted when he sat down to reveal the gun on his belt.

“Good work yesterday,” he said. “Had a couple of
questions I wanted to ask you, though.”

“Sure.”

He had printed out the email I sent, and we went
through it line by line. “His girlfriend couldn’t give you names of any of his
associates?”

“I didn’t press her,” I said. “I wasn’t even sure I
should be talking to her.”

“But she responded to you. I’m sure she told you more
than she would an ordinary cop.”

“Are you going to talk to her yourself?”

He nodded. “Already called her this morning. I need to
know more about who he hung out with, and who he might have told about this
reliquary thing he was looking for. She wanted to see what Friar Lake looked
like for herself, so the chief agreed to cover her train fare. She and the boy
are coming into Trenton on Sunday morning. I’m going to pick them up and drive
them out there. I hope to get her talking again.”

“She’s a nice girl,” I said. “I think she’ll give you
whatever she can.”

“Tried the phone number she provided for the
half-brother, and it was disconnected. I’ve got a cop in the Bronx heading out
to the location to see if he can track the kid down.”

He stood up. “Thanks for the help, Steve. I appreciate
it.”

“Do you know how he died?” I asked.

“The ME says blunt force trauma to the back of the
head. He picked out some wood fragments from the wound, and he’s trying to
identify them.”

“There’s a lot of wood at the abbey,” I said. “Pews and
moldings and stuff. I have to go up to Friar Lake one day next week with the
guy who’s going to help with the furnishings. I can look around and see if
there’s anything broken off.”

“Good idea—but I’ll take care of that.”

“Okay. Sure. Let me know if I can do anything else for
you.”

“You can get some better locks installed up there. All
it takes is a couple of teenagers looking for a place to party, and they could
do some serious damage.”

“Good point. I’ll call the guy from facilities right
now.”

After he left, I phoned Joe Capodilupo and told him how
I’d been able to get into the property. “I had no idea there were so many easy
access points,” he said. “I’ll get a locksmith up there this afternoon to add
some deadbolts, and I’ll get a survey started on Monday morning to patch up any
broken windows.”

That was easy, I thought, sitting back in my chair. It
was going to be nice to have people I could call on, rather than have to do
everything myself.

Of course, when it came to snooping around crimes, I
did tend to want to keep my hand in.

I finished updating my resume, and read it out loud to
be sure I hadn’t made any mistakes I wasn’t catching. I already had an ID and
password for Eastern’s computer system—but that one didn’t work for the hiring
site, or for the page where I could print a copy of my undergraduate
transcript. And each one had its own criteria for credentials, so I couldn’t
use the same ones I used for work.

It was a long, tedious process, filling in the online
application, stopping to find addresses of past employers, verify dates and so
on.

At twelve, I took a break to meet Lili for lunch. It
was in the high seventies, but under the sheltering branches of the oaks, elms
and maples that dotted the campus, it was shady and pleasant. Without warning,
Rochester took off after a squirrel, dragging me along behind him. The squirrel
darted up the rough trunk of a maple and disappeared into its canopy of
branches, which shook slightly as it darted away.

Rochester put his paws up on the tree trunk as if he
was going to climb up after the little rodent. “Come on, you goofball,” I said,
tugging on his leash. “We’re going to be late for lunch.”

We met Lili at the Cafette a few minutes later. She
looked beautiful and yet bohemian, as always, in a sleeveless sundress in a
flowery print, with her curly hair pulled into a ponytail. Her bright yellow ballet
flats echoed the sunshine of the daisies in her dress. I snagged us a picnic
table in the shade, and Lili went inside to pick up salads for both of us. Rochester
sprawled beside me on the cool slate, ever alert for any dropped food or
offered tidbits.

I played a round of Words With Friends on my cell phone
until Lili stepped outside, balancing a cafeteria tray loaded with salads,
drinks and utensils. I jumped up and helped her bring everything to the table.

“What have you been working on so diligently?” I asked,
as I speared a piece of chicken and some lettuce from my salad.

“You know how it is when you get online,” she said.
“One link leads to another and when you check the clock hours have passed.” She
caught my eye, then said, “Oh.”

Lili knew about my intermittent history as a computer
hacker, including the year I’d spent as a guest of the California penal system.
She knew, too, that sometimes I couldn’t resist snooping into online places I
didn’t belong, but she didn’t know the extent of my hacking.

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “When I was a
web developer I used to spend hours not only checking things on our company’s
site, but researching other companies to see how they were approaching
problems.”

“I’ve been finding out all kinds of things about Friar
Lake,” she said, pouring a small container of dressing over her salad. I had
learned that she always ordered sauces and dressings on the side, though I
didn’t know why—she ended up using everything provided anyway. “It was founded
nearly two hundred years ago by a French Benedictine fleeing from the Reign of
Terror, when his abbey in Paris was destroyed. Did you know that its real name
was The Abbey of Our Lady of the Waters?”

“Rick told me. He used to play CYO basketball there.”

“How was your trip to New York? Did you find out
anything more about the man whose body we found?”

“Tony Rinaldi sent me to this drop-in center on the
Lower East Side,” I said. In between eating my salad and drinking a bottle of
water, I explained about meeting Brother Macarius and Brother Anselm.

“Doesn’t it sound kind of outlandish to you?” She
handed a small piece of chicken down to Rochester, who wolfed it up greedily.
“A hidden treasure? And what would this guy do with it, if he found it? Take it
to a pawn shop?”

“I don’t know if he was thinking that far ahead,” I
said. “He heard this story from the monk, and then took off to look for the
reliquary.”

“That’s an assumption,” Lili said. “There could be some
other reason why he was at Friar Lake.”

“Such as?”

“Think about it, Steve. It’s an abandoned property.
Remote enough that no one would stumble on it, but easy enough to get to if you
know where it is. DeAndre could have been dealing drugs, or storing stolen
property there. There are a whole bunch of reasons why he could have been
killed, and most of them are a lot more probable than some Indiana Jones
story.”

We stood up to dispose of our trash. “Have they done an
autopsy yet?” Lili asked.

I nodded. “Tony came by my office this morning. DeAndre
was hit in the back of the head with a big hunk of wood.”

“Do you have some time?” Lili asked. “Want to come over
to my office and see what I’ve found so far about the Abbey’s history?”

I looked at my watch. I needed to get back to my office
and finish my application for the job at Friar Lake. But I could spare a half
hour.

Lili took Rochester’s leash. He was on his best
behavior as we walked back to Fields Hall, past students dozing in the sun and
a single maintenance worker trimming hedges, wearing a ball cap with a towel
hung down the back to protect his neck from the sun.

Her office was on the ground floor of Granger Hall, the
fine arts building. We waved hello to her secretary Matilda, and walked into
Lili’s glass-walled office. As she sat down at the computer, I pulled over the
spindle-backed wood visitor’s chair so I could look over her shoulder as she
talked.

“My notes are a summary of what I’ve found online so far,
starting with that French Benedictine monk, Dom Auguste Sanconnier.” She had
found a portrait of him online and pasted it into the document. He was a
beak-nosed balding guy with rounded jowls, wearing a similar outfit to the one
Brother Macarius and Brother Anselm had worn.

“I guess those guys never had to worry about changing
fashions,” I said, pointing. “Do you think their hemlines went up and down with
new collections of monastic wear?”

“Doubtful,” Lili said. “Dom Auguste came to the US and
settled in Philadelphia. According to an account I found, in the early 1800s he
met an Irish immigrant named Theodore Fitzpatrick who owned a coal mine outside
Easton. Fitzpatrick was concerned about the spiritual health of his workmen,
and he invited Dom Auguste to come up to Easton and celebrate Mass.”

“So monks are kind of like priests?” I asked. “We
didn’t cover any of that in Sunday School or Hebrew School.”

“I didn’t study it in
shul
either. But I looked
it up. As long as the monk is an ordained priest, too, he can celebrate the
Mass.”

Liliana Weinstock was the daughter of an Ashkenazi
father with roots in Poland and a Sephardic mother whose family traced its
lineage back to Spain. Her parents were both born in Cuba, met and married
there, and Lili was born there, though she had grown up in various locations
around the US. Her language was a mix of Yiddish, English, Spanish and Ladino,
the Spanish dialect of her mother’s ancestors. She was by far the most
interesting woman I had ever met.

“In 1810, Fitzpatrick donated some land to the
Benedictines, and funded the construction of the original chapel and a small
dormitory,” she continued. She had found an old etching of the abbey from the
mid 1800s, when only those two buildings existed.

“Let’s see what we can find out about Joseph
Bonaparte,” I suggested. “Was he even around when the abbey was there?”

“The student’s best friend,” Lili said, typing.
“Wikipedia.”

We both laughed. The online encyclopedia was generally
a good resource—but as a starting point for academic research, not the end. She
and I both found ourselves referring to Wikipedia whenever we needed a quick
fact or two, though neither of us would ever cite it as a source in an academic
paper.

Bonaparte’s bio indicated that he had lived in New
Jersey from 1817 to 1832, which jived with the early years of the abbey. At
least part of that time was in Bordentown, which wasn’t far away—on the other
side of the Delaware, and a dozen or more miles downriver.

“He was French, and so was Dom Auguste,” Lili said. “So
it’s logical they would have known each other.”

“Look up St. Roch,” I said, and I spelled it for her.
She found his bio on a site indexing Catholic saints, and we read his story.
His remains were allegedly carried to Venice in 1485, where, according to the
site, they were still venerated at the church of San Rocco.

“There you are,” I said. “St. Roch is in Venice. Not in
Bucks County.”

“You’re so quick to jump to conclusions,” Lili said. “Not
so fast. There’s nothing that says St. Roch’s whole body is still in Venice.
His thumb could be somewhere else.”

“Hitch-hiking?”

She elbowed me. “Didn’t you say that the monk said
something to you about Joseph Bonaparte looting the crown jewels of Spain?”

“You think somebody stuck the saint’s thumb in a crown?
Gross.”

“Don’t play dumb, Steve. You know as well as I do that 'crown
jewels' means more than just crowns. Haven’t you been to the Tower of London?”
She did some more typing. “See? The term means ‘
jewels
or artifacts of the reigning royal family of their respective country.’ So a
reliquary holding some part of a saint’s remains could easily be considered
part of the crown jewels.”

“All right. How can we tell if the Spanish
crown jewels included a reliquary like the one Brother Anselm described?”

We did another search, which was less than helpful.
There was no definitive listing of anything like the crown jewels of Spain,
though we did find several sources that confirmed that Joseph Bonaparte had
looted the Spanish treasure during his reign in Madrid, and that he had sold
them in the United States. It wasn’t a big leap to assume that he’d kept aside
a few pieces, and that he had donated something—whether it contained the thumb
of St. Roch or not—to the Abbey of our Lady of the Waters.

“So what do we have?” I asked Lili, as I pushed her
visitor’s chair back into place. “We know that the abbey was in existence when
Joseph was in the area. We know he stole some fancy items from Spain, and
brought them to the U.S. And we know that St. Roch was the patron saint of
dogs.”

“It’s like a jigsaw puzzle with some pieces missing,”
Lili said. “We’ll keep filling the pieces in as we find them.”

I noticed the use of the word “we.” It looked like the
investigative team of Steve and Rochester had enlisted another member.