by Brian Shea
An entourage of suited men and women filed into the deli’s main space, followed by cameramen and reporters. Within seconds, there weren’t enough chairs to support the influx of bodies. The word had spread about the mayoral visit and a line had formed, crowding the sidewalk outside. Hands were cupped against the glass so peering eyes could catch a glimpse.
Aleksander’s mother had put on makeup. It was the first time he’d seen the woman do so in recent years. She wore her cleanest apron, the one with a hand-stitched floral pattern. She moved about the counter area with a smile on her face, another thing he hadn’t seen much of lately. It was like his mother had been taken over by aliens.
The large head of cabbage had been sitting in the boiling pot of salted water for several minutes. Some people used a timer, but not the Rakowski family. All food was cooked by eye and nose. Aleksander could tell the exact moment the cabbage was ready for removal. He tonged out the head and waited a few minutes for it to cool. During that time, he stirred the tomato-based sauce. In his youth he thought he pulled a fast one on his mother and used a canned tomato sauce. The welt his mother left on the back of his neck with the snap of a wet dishrag lasted a long time. The lesson, never to take the shortcut, was one he wouldn’t forget.
The sauce needed to thicken before it would be ready to serve. The movement of the wood spoon was slow and steady. He could feel the slight resistance at the bottom of the pot, telling him he needed to reduce the heat a smidge more. Satisfied he could let the sauce simmer, Aleksander began the process of removing the thick, softened leaves. Today’s cabbage looked extra hearty; he knew his mother had spared no expense on the ingredients for today’s meal.
His mother entered the kitchen and opened the door to the back room. “Boys, I want you to come out there with me for a picture. The nice man with the camera said he would send us a copy.”
“But, Matka, we’re discussing business,” Bartosz said.
“Don’t talk to me of business.” Nadia Rakowski pointed around the kitchen wildly. “This. All of this is business. You’ll get out there now for a picture or I’ll drag you out by your ear!”
All three Rakowski boys filed out into the eating area and smiled broadly. The cameras flashed and a news crew began rolling, capturing the interactions.
Mayor Shawn O’Hara shook the hand of each member of the Rakowski family, stopping and posing for the photographer each time.
“I love Polish food and can’t wait to see what you and your mother have cooked up for us today.” O’Hara was a refined politician who’d ingratiated himself to citizens of Boston during his first two terms in office. However, the latest polls showed he was slipping against an up-and-comer. His publicized affair with a twenty-three-year-old bikini model had not gone over well with the constituency.
“We are happy to have you as a guest in the Rakowski owned and operated Polina Deli,” Nadia Rakowski said. Her voice carried, projecting over the mumbled conversations between the reporters. She fought hard to enunciate each word as she spoke. Aleksander knew she’d been rehearsing these canned phrases ever since hearing the mayor would be making an appearance. He’d heard her practicing in the bathroom that morning.
“My son, Aleksander, has been working on a family specialty from Poland— Gołąbki. Stuffed cabbage. And I think it will blow your socks off, Mister Mayor, sir.”
Mayor O’Hara smiled broadly. “I’m just proud to be standing in what I deem the American dream. I’ve been told you came over to this country fewer than twenty years ago. Amazing what you’ve accomplished since coming here. From what I hear, your restaurant has been considered a mainstay in the Dorchester community ever since. Is that right?”
“Yes, Mister Mayor, sir.”
“Shawn, Mrs. Rakowski. Please just call me Shawn.”
Aleksander watched his mother gush. Beyond his most recent tryst with the model, O’Hara had long been known as a ladies’ man. Many compared him to John F. Kennedy. Watching the brief exchange between the mayor and his mother, he saw why. The man exuded charisma.
“Come meet my sons.” Nadia Rakowski ushered the mayor over to where Aleksander stood with his brothers.
The three Rakowski brothers again each shook hands with the mayor, pausing for individual shots of the exchange. Immediately following, a photographer corralled them into a cluster with Mayor O’Hara and his mother in front. Several more pictures were taken.
“It’s a real honor to meet you all.” The mayor took a bite of the wrapped cabbage coated in the perfectly thickened tomato sauce. “That’s amazing! Before I leave, I’ve got to have that recipe.”
“I’ll never tell.” Nadia Rakowski smiled broadly. “Some secrets we’ll take to the grave.”
This opportunity was good for his mother and, more importantly, good for the family business.
The play ended. The cast came up in small pockets to receive applause. Embry, as top billed, was the last to approach center stage. Her soft blue dress waved as she swayed, her stuffed animal Toto nestled under her arm. Embry took three short bows before blowing a wide kiss to the crowd. The eight-year-old received a standing ovation, and Michael Kelly clapped so hard his palms stung. The hour had flown by and he wished beyond reason that he could’ve stayed in that moment for a lot longer.
The crowd began to disperse, and families gravitated toward the stage to congratulate their performers. Kelly became lost in a sea of bodies.
Embry saw them approach and waved wildly. The excitement in her face was priceless and contagious. Kelly fanned his arms out to receive his little actress. She detoured at the last moment, hugging Marty Cappelli first. He tried to rationalize he’d been first in his daughter’s sight line, but regardless, the blow staggered him. He felt temporarily lost, physically and emotionally distant from the girl he loved more than life itself.
She released Marty, taking the gifted flowers in hand, then embraced her mother before moving on to him. Each delay compounded his feelings, but he steadied himself. He reminded himself he was here for her, not the other way around. Embry filled the void and her tight grip around his neck made him forget the pettiness of his momentary lapse into jealousy.
Embry pushed back and wrinkled her nose. “Daddy, you smell.”
“Sometimes my job stinks.” Kelly smiled and kissed his daughter on the head. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll shower before our Daddy-Daughter Date Night on Friday.”
“You better.” Embry pinched her nose and then blew him a kiss, in true exaggerated theatrical form.
Kelly looked at his watch. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Samantha roll her eyes.
“Squiggles, Daddy’s got to go. I love you and am so proud of you.”
Kelly gave his daughter one last kiss before turning to leave.
Marty called after him, “Mike, don’t forget we’ve got to meet tomorrow to go over your deposition.”
Kelly gave him a thumbs up without turning as he bounded up the aisle steps. It still was an area of contention that his union-appointed attorney was now dating his ex-wife. An issue better left untouched at the moment.
The gusty March wind whipped across the lot as Kelly moved toward the illegally parked Chevy. Kelly bottomed out the small sedan on the curbing as he drove away from Mercy Elementary and toward another school. Clive Branson had been located, and Kelly was finally going to speak to the person of interest.
10
Kelly arrived to the lot of North Andover’s elite preparatory high school, Saint Christopher’s Academy. The irony was not lost on Kelly. The school had been named after the patron saint of lost travelers, and it was the same school housing a student who was somehow linked to the disappearance of Faith Wilson.
He’d pulled up a recent Facebook picture of Clive Branson. It took a bit of time, since his handle name was listed as PrinceBransonthefirst. Who names themselves this way? Scarier was the number of girls he befriended using a naming convention like that. His profile page was littered with posts about women, mon
ey, and drugs.
Kelly realized the significant opportunity to study this boy’s lure if for no other reason than to prepare himself for the future. He was quickly becoming aware of the changing tide of threats presented to girls these days. The more he was able to learn from boys like Branson, the better he’d be able to protect Embry, if nothing else.
The students began to trickle out of the bricked cathedral-looking school. The Academy resembled Hogwarts on steroids in its design and scope. Ivy crept up the exterior stonework of the building. A few minutes of internet searching while he waited revealed the annual tuition was close to sixty thousand dollars, almost two-thirds of Kelly’s annual salary, for a high school education. He’d read up on the amazing opportunities attending a school like this provided. It was almost a guaranteed entry into the Ivy League colleges, but the costs of tuition alone would put the average citizen in the poorhouse.
Kelly had learned from the teenager’s Facebook account that he played soccer. From his timeline posts, he claimed to be very good at it. A world driven by clicks of a “like” button now defined a generation’s self-worth.
Kelly exited the car. His Impala stood out amidst the sea of high-end sports cars and SUVs. How would these kids ever learn the value of hard work without ever having to work for anything? he asked himself.
He heard a whistle blow from one of the fields set behind the impressive school façade. Kelly saw a group of young men jogging around the goal in a warm-up routine. Too far away to pinpoint the boy, he approached on foot. The perfectly manicured grass was greener than it should be for the time of year, but Kelly surmised the amount of money dumped into this place could apparently counter mother nature.
Walking the campus grounds, he felt an odd sense of failure. Kelly was proud of the things he’d accomplished in life, but being in the presence of true wealth and its yield he realized he could never give his daughter an opportunity like this. No amount of hard work and subsequent overtime pay could get him close to the money it would take to attend a school like this. The harsh reality stung.
He saw a thin boy in an Academy-issued gray shirt and navy-blue shorts lollygagging along with a couple other teammates. A whistle blew again and the portly coach yelled, “Get your hustle on, boys. You’re moving like you’ve forgotten our scrimmage with Suffolk is next week.”
The three boys stuck up their middle finger and continued walking. The dejected coach turned away and began setting out cones. Kelly watched in disgust. He recognized one of the three bird-giving players from his profile picture as Clive Branson. He crested the small rise of the field and closed the distance.
“Clive Branson?”
“Who’s asking?” The boy turned and squared his scrawny chest to Kelly.
“Me.”
“And who are you supposed to be?”
Branson folded his arms and gave Kelly a smug look of pure arrogance. The pompous teen was bookended by his equally puny cronies. Odd world where the over-inflated machismo of untested youth thought to have some power to intimidate a man like Kelly.
“Detective Kelly with Boston PD.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“It should.”
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“Because I’m with Homicide, and I’m here to talk about Faith Wilson.”
“I’ll say it again. Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
Branson’s words conveyed confidence, but his body language told an entirely different story. The teen broke eye contact the moment Kelly mentioned the dead girl’s name. His body shifted and the boy turned his foot outward. It was an involuntary subconscious response. The boy’s mind said run.
Kelly devoured the teen’s non-verbal cues and knew without a doubt this boy was worth talking to.
“You and I need to have a little talk.”
“Nah, I don’t think so. Do you know who my dad is? He owns the biggest chain of grocery stores in the state and he’s personal friends with your mayor.”
“Who your daddy is and who he knows has zero bearing on me.”
“Then maybe you should speak to my lawyer.”
Kelly didn’t doubt the kid had an attorney on retainer. More likely for his father’s business, but he was sure services had been rendered to bail out the misguided youth’s poor decisions a time or two. The carefree wielding of power definitely meant this kid had crossed the criminal line with frequency, probably drug and alcohol related offenses. Being a juvenile, his record was sealed. Being a rich juvenile meant his record was probably spotless.
The coach approached. “Excuse me, sir. Can I ask you what you’re doing talking to one of my players?”
“Kelly, BPD Homicide.” He exposed his shield and flashed his credentials. “I need to ask Pelé here a couple questions. Shouldn’t take long. Didn’t look like I was interrupting much of a practice.”
“Not sure you can do that. Don’t you need a warrant, or something?”
Kelly was floored. The coach he’d just witnessed being treated like a second-class citizen now was standing up for the punk who’d flicked him off. “No warrant needed. All I wanted to do was have a little conversation with young Mr. Branson. No big deal. But he may have some information that can help me with a case.”
Clive Branson held out his cell phone and smiled broadly. “Here. It’s for you.”
“Hello?” Kelly asked, assuming one of two people were on the other end of the phone, either Branson Senior or a lawyer.
“This is Lawrence Shapiro, attorney for the Branson family.” The voice was curt and squeaked with a shrillness that caused Kelly’s nerves to unravel. It also spoke volumes of the kid’s family life. He chose to call a lawyer instead of his father.
“This is Detective Kelly with Boston Homicide. I have a couple questions for Clive that may help clear up some issues with a missing person case he was implicated in a year ago.”
“What’s Homicide got to do with the Wilson disappearance?”
“First of all, the girl is no longer missing. She’s dead. And second, I never mentioned her name.”
There was a stymied silence on the other end of the line. Shapiro cleared his throat. “You are not to speak to my client regarding this case. Is that clear, Mr. Kelly?”
“It’s Detective. And yeah, we’re clear. I’ll leave my card with the boy in the event your client changes his mind and decides to cooperate with the case. It’d be a shame to see him implicated in a murder without giving me his side of the story.” Kelly looked Clive Branson in the eyes when he said the last part, hoping the veiled threat was received. Again, the boy’s body language spoke the truth. He was hiding something, and whatever it was, it had the cocky teen terrified.
“I think it’s time for you to go, Detective,” the coach prompted.
“I’m leaving. And good luck coaching them. Seems like you’ve got a real great group of players.”
Kelly didn’t need to wait to see the dejected look on the coach’s face. He turned and began walking back in the direction he’d just come, leaving behind the only real lead he’d generated thus far.
Back in his Impala he realized an outside perspective on this case might be just what he needed, and he knew the perfect set of emerald green eyes to assist in that regard.
Even though the weatherman had called for an early spring thaw, Kristen Barnes had yet to see any sign of it. It must be nice to be wrong ninety percent of the time and still keep your job, she thought. The temperature in the early evening hours had dropped ten degrees since the sun slipped away. Bad night to be wearing fishnets and a hiked-up black leather miniskirt. At least she had on a light jacket, even if it was unbuttoned. Her clients expected that of her, and Barnes delivered in spades.
She never stayed in one spot for too long, but also never went very far in either direction of her block. It wasn’t the nastiest corner she’d worked, but it wasn’t the cleanest, either. She looked down at the gutter beneath her platform heels, l
ittered with used hypodermic needles and the torn edges of dope bags. A sign of the times. Barnes had seen neighborhoods decimated by the opioid trade. Not her problem. She had her own world of crap to deal with and, in her humble opinion, it was far more important.
A car slowed as it passed. Sometimes it took these guys a few laps to work up the nerve to stop. Barnes lit a cigarette and blew out the first puff nice and slow in the direction of the older model Lincoln. Her head followed with the car’s direction and she smiled coyly. Maybe third time would be the charm? she thought. Anything to get this night over with. She sought out her seventh customer tonight. That was the magic number her higher ups wanted to see. She didn’t set the rules, tried like hell to follow them and, on occasion, broke them.
She heard the creak of the Lincoln rounding the corner. The sound of metal on metal grinding in the front axle filled the quiet night as the brown sedan jerked to a stop along the curb.
The tinted window jittered its way down, enough for her to see the man inside more clearly. Overweight with bad skin. His hair was a matted mess and looked as though it had been several days since a shower had got the better of him. The coke-bottle glasses completed the look. It was as if he went to a salon aimed at making people over into creeps.
“Hey baby, need a ride?”
It took this pathetic worm three laps to stop and that was the best line he could come up with? Barnes leaned against the passenger side of the car. “I haven’t seen you around before, honey. You from around here?”
“Do you want to get in or not?” The man’s voice pitched.
Barnes looked around and flicked her cigarette over the roof of the car to the other side. The embers cast up a glittery flicker as they struck the asphalt. She pulled the door handle and got inside, sinking into the worn gray leather of the seat. Something crunched underneath her. She lifted up to wipe free a crushed potato chip. The floorboard was littered with old wrappers, a who’s who of vending machine edibles.