Damaged Goods: A Jack McMorrow Mystery

by Gerry Boyle

  “She went to live with you,” he said.

  “She stayed with a friend down the road because she couldn’t do stairs. His sixty-year-old wife was there, too. I’m happily married. I have a child.”

  “She likes you,” he said, his tone flat and discouraged. “Why didn’t you tell her to stop doing this.”

  “I told her she could do something else.”

  “She doesn’t have to do anything,” Roger said. “I have money. Lots of money. She’d never have to work again.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Nice boat.”

  “My great-grandfather had it built in 1938. In East Boothbay. Brought it down to the Chesapeake.”

  “He was Roger, too?”

  “Yeah, but he wasn’t jolly. My father wasn’t, either.”

  “You’re not exactly a barrel of laughs yourself. You work at all?”

  “No, not really. I mean, I work on the boat. My sister and I have the house in Delaware. That needs attention sometimes. And there’s another house in Georgia, on the coast. We inherited it from my father, who inherited it from my grandfather.”

  “Was that your grandfather’s gun?

  He hesitated, looked down. “The gun came with the boat. The police took it. I’m actually sorry about that.”

  “That you lost the gun?”

  “No, that I shot at you. I thank God I didn’t hit you.”

  He said it like he’d swerved his car and missed a deer.

  “Me, too,” I said. “Do you know the prosecutor is saying you said I took a shot at you?”

  He looked frightened. “No, no, no,” Roger said, shaking his head. “I told them I couldn’t remember much. Still can’t. This pain stuff, I’m still in sort of a fog. They said, ‘Could McMorrow have taken the gun and shot at you?’ I said, ‘I suppose. But I can’t remember.’”

  “Gotcha,” I said. “They’re fishing.”

  “I’d ask Mandi, but I’m not supposed to talk to her. Doesn’t matter ’cause she won’t talk to me anyway,” he said.

  “Since when?”

  “Since I told her I loved her.”

  “Maybe you should have eased into it.”

  “But it’s true,” Roger said. “I’ve never met anyone like her. She seems to know things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Lots of things. Like she knows me. She can tell what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. I know we’re meant to be together. When we were dating, I mean, it was so easy.”

  I considered him. A nice-enough-looking guy, but something soft about him, naïve. Kind of hapless. A bit of a doofus.

  “You took her to the amusement park?”

  “She’d never been to one. Can you believe that? I mean, you get talking to her, there’s all these things she hasn’t done. Never swam in the ocean. Never been on a boat. Never been to New York City. I told her we’d spend a week, a month. Stay at the Carlisle. It’s where I always stayed with mom and dad. I said we could see a show every night. She could go shopping. She likes clothes. I told her we could go to Paris or London. Here’s another one, for you. She’s never flown on a plane. Not ever.”

  He looked at me, incredulous.

  “There are a lot of people who haven’t flown,” I said. “Maybe she grew up poor.”

  “I don’t know how she grew up. ’Cause she never talks about herself. If I ask, she changes the subject. When we were out, she mostly just talked about me. Like she was interested.”

  A hundred bucks an hour interested, I thought.

  “I mean, other women, it’s just so much work.”

  “Roger,” I said. “Did you beat her up? Last week?”

  “God, no. I wouldn’t touch her. I wouldn’t even yell at her. I mean, Jack—if you don’t mind me calling you that—Jack, I love her totally.”

  “No hard feelings about her hitting you on the head?”

  “Of course not. She saved me from myself. She saved my life.”

  That makes two of us, I thought.

  A motor started up somewhere near us. There was the sound of an outboard, approaching, then receding. The boat rocked gently. Roger looked down at the flare gun like he’d forgotten it was there. He pushed it away.

  “So who beat her up, Roger?”

  He looked down at his pudgy bare feet. Wiggled his toes. Took a deep breath. “The guy from Massachusetts,” he said.

  “Marty?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all she said. She said he was a Masshole. She said he hit her because she wouldn’t do something.”

  I left that alone. I started to turn to go, but Roger said, “Wait,” like he wanted company.

  “I wonder, I mean, when she’s sleeping. Have you heard what she says?”

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t seen her asleep.”

  “She comes out here, I don’t know what it is. The motion of the boat or something, but she’s out cold. And then she talks. She says the same thing. She says, ‘I’m sorry, Hildie.’ Or Hiltie. Hard to tell. But she says it over and over. And then gives out this crying sound.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “I did. It was right here, right before I told her I loved her. She just said she had to go. So I got the ‘I love you’ part out and she never said a word back. And I rowed her in and she didn’t talk the whole time, and then she walked up the ramp and that was it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yeah. So—”

  He hesitated. “So you think you could give her a message?”

  “I guess.”

  “Tell her I really do love her, I still do and I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Okay. And you do something for me, okay Roger?”

  “What?” he said.

  “We never had this conversation, if the cops ever ask you.”

  “Okay.”

  “They might get the wrong idea.”

  “Right.”

  “Deal then?” I said.

  I held out my hand and he took it and we shook on it.

  “Deal,” he said, smiling like I’d picked him for the team.

  “I’m glad I didn’t kill you, too,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Roger said.

  I started to leave again, and again he said, “Wait.”

  I did, standing at the hatchway, looking back into the darkness.

  “You know the saddest thing?” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “When she got beat up?”

  “Yeah?”

  “She said she deserved it.”

  That was sad and it made two things on which we agreed.

  “But she doesn’t,” Roger said.

  That made three.

  Chapter 32

  I called a taxi and asked to be picked up on Main Street, outside Big Momma’s Pizza. They said it would be twenty minutes. I called Roxanne and got voice mail, left a message asking her to call. I waited a minute and she didn’t, so I circled the block.

  The Tahoe was still in the same spot, but Lulu the cat was gone, her window closed and the curtains drawn. I walked around back and saw the Toyota still parked in the lot. Circling back to Main Street, I came around the corner—and saw Mandi and Marty walking down the block.

  He had her by the arm and she was limping. He was carrying a small bag. I broke into a trot.

  They stopped at the Tahoe. He opened the door for her and she got in. He hurried around to the driver’s side, got in, and started to back out. Traffic was steady and he waited for cars to pass. I came up to the passenger side, saw Mandi staring straight ahead.

  I knocked and she started, turned to me. Her eyes were swollen and red, even under the fading purple bruise. I tried the door but it was locked. Mandi fiddled with the window and Marty popped out of the door on the other side, stood, and pointed at me.

  “Get away from her,” he barked. “She don’t need you.”

  “Where are you taking her?” I said.

  “I’m not taking her anywhere. I’m getting her outta here so the
goddam yokels won’t be bothering her. You saw that fucking rag?”

  “I saw the story.”

  “She’s lucky you didn’t get her killed, you and that other fucking wingnut. Oughtta lock the both of you up and I told ’em that. Now get the hell outta here. Leave her alone.”

  “I need to hear it from her.”

  “She doesn’t need—”

  The window opened. Mandi looked up at me, her face drawn and pale without the veil of dark window glass.

  “Jack,” she said. “It’s fine.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just getting away from this goldfish bowl.”

  “You could come back to Clair’s.”

  “That’s okay, but thanks.”

  “You sure you’re alright with this?”

  Mandi hesitated, looking up at me sadly, then nodded.

  “You have your phone?”

  She tapped the bag on her lap.

  “Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I will.”

  “Really. And you know you could come with me right now.”

  “I know. Thanks.” She managed a strained smile. “Thanks, Jack. Thanks for everything. Tell Clair and Mary. And Roxanne and Sophie, too. Give her a hug for me.”

  “What about the cat?” I said.

  The window hummed up.

  “Satisfied?” Marty said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Tough shit,” he said.

  “You hurt her, I’ll come after you.”

  “Make my day, chump,” he said, and swung into the seat, jammed the truck into gear, and backed out, the tires squealing as he pulled away.

  I stood on the sidewalk for a minute, then walked past the apartment and looked up. The cat was back on the windowsill, which told me they weren’t going far or that she expected to be back soon. But then why had her goodbye seemed so final?

  Crossing the street, I stood on the sidewalk in front of the pizza shop. The phone buzzed in my pocket like a bee.

  I took it out, flipped it open.

  “Yeah.”

  There was a rustling, a whispering. I pictured Mandi sneaking a call, saying come get me.

  “Daddy.”

  Sophie’s breathless voice, the drama princess.

  “Honey,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Good,” she said. “We went to the kid’s museum and I got to go in the fire engine and there was this boy, he was bigger than me, and he peed his pants in the space ship.”

  “Oh-oh.”

  “Yes. His mamma was really crabby.”

  “Too bad,” I said.

  “And we went on this big pirate ship and we played store, except it wasn’t real money, and we’re coming home.”

  “Really. When?”

  A clatter, more whispering, then Roxanne.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “You’re coming home?”

  “On our way.”

  “Great. What—”

  “David called. They picked up Carleton Sirois in Wilmington, North Carolina.”

  “What about Wilton?”

  “He said he put him on a bus for Florida. Their truck broke down and Wilton didn’t want to wait.”

  “What’s in Florida? The annual Satan convention?”

  “I guess there’s a much bigger group than in Maine. He said he got the bus to Tampa.”

  “They check to see if he got on the bus?” I said.

  “Yes. They said it appears he did.”

  It sunk in. “So he’s gone,” I said. “For a while.”

  “We can get back to normal,” Roxanne said.

  “Great.”

  “So things must be quiet there.”

  “Well—”

  A pause and Roxanne said, “Where are you now?”

  “Galway,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay’s a good word for it.”

  “Should we still come back?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Let me guess who it does have to do with,” Roxanne said.

  “I’ll see you at home in a couple of hours,” I said.

  “Will you be alone?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s good,” Roxanne said. “I’m tired and I’m not in the mood for company.”

  “Okay.”

  “But those two things aren’t necessarily related.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope so, Jack,” she said. “I sure hope so.”

  The Galway taxi, a decommissioned state police Crown Vic, dropped me at the end of the driveway. I went inside, cleaned up Sophie’s room, and changed the sheets. If she asked for Twinnie, I’d say I spilled something on her and had to send her to the doll laundry. She’d be back in a few days.

  I hoped to hell they didn’t cut Twinnie up when they did the doll autopsy.

  Back downstairs I wiped off the counter, hung the towel on the rack. Checked the refrigerator for milk and found a half-gallon and three cans of Ballantine. I took one out, went through the study on my way to the deck.

  Stopped. Went back and picked up Mandi’s bin of papers and walked back to the sliding door. Opened it and stepped out into the sunshine.

  “Getting ready to write your memoirs?” Clair said. He was sitting in an Adirondack chair in the corner by the clematis, legs stretched out in front of him, running shoes off. A humming bird flitted above his head.

  “More like a biography,” I said, moving to the chair next to his, dropping the bin on the deck. “Mandi’s.”

  “She hire you as a ghost writer?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. I opened the beer, handed it to him.

  “A little early?”

  “One of those days,” I said.

  I went back inside for another, came back. Clair had a sheaf of Mandi’s papers on his lap and was beginning to read. I opened the beer and watched him. Took a guilty swallow.

  “Why’d she give this stuff to you?”

  “She didn’t,” I said. I told him where the papers had come from.

  “So she doesn’t know,” Clair said, putting one poem down, picking up another.

  “No,” I said.

  “No wonder you’re drinking in the afternoon.”

  “That’s not the half of it,” I said.

  I told him about the day: the assistant D.A. and Detective Raven, Roger on the boat; Mandi taking off with Marty; the odd finality of her goodbye.

  Clair put another paper down, picked up a drawing of a woman holding a spear above her head, looking down at her own bare belly.

  “This girl really hates herself,” he said.

  “But I’m not sure why,” I said. “She’s attractive, pretty smart, kind of thought-ful and philosophical, even.”

  “Read it all?” Clair said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Invasion of privacy?”

  “It’s what I’ve done for twenty years. And I’m trying to help her. This may help me figure out how.” I took out a stack of papers and notebooks. Clair sipped his beer and started reading. I sat beside him and did the same. When we’d finished our stacks, we switched. In an hour, we looked up.

  “The friend who wrote to her,” Clair said.

  “Amanda,” I said. “If you’re dead, sorry.”

  “She couldn’t come see her, apparently.”

  “Stuck with the same old people, while Mandi, or Sybill, was enjoying a new crew.”

  “What kid writes letters anymore?” Clair said. “They call. Text or e-mail. Leave messages on Facebook or whatever it is.”

  “I still get letters,” I said.

  “And I’ll bet I can guess from where.”

  I thought for a moment. “A guy I know in prison, for one,” I said.

  “Right. Here’s what I think. Amanda and Sybill did time together. Sybil
l got out first.”

  “She’s a loner. Maybe came out and her family was gone.”

  “Or estranged from her,” Clair said. “Moved on.”

  “What would she have done?” I said.

  “Young girl like that? Drugs, maybe. Prostitution to feed a drug habit? Slipped right back into it?”

  “I’ve never seen her have anything at all. Doesn’t even smoke. Wine in the apartment, but it looks like a tool of her trade.”

  “Could have kicked drugs inside,” Clair said.

  “And if she’s done time, that would be why she stuck old Carleton without blinking an eye.”

  “Survival skills.”

  “And now she goes off with Marty.”

  “The ex-cop,” Clair said.

  “No,” I said. “Not exactly. Ex-corrections.”

  There was a pause, all of it sinking in. “Huh,” Clair said. “So they’d have that much in common.”

  “At least,” I said.

  I put the papers down, got up from my chair, and went inside. I looked up the Massachusetts Department of Corrections online, went through the directories. I found the number for human resources, went to the phone, and started punching numbers.

  I got electronic directories, dialed one and two, now. A recorded voice asked if I knew the party’s extension. I stayed on the line. A woman answered, sounded harried.

  “This is John Malone,” I said. “I’m calling from Maine. I run a security company, JM and Associates, and I’m checking on the job history—”

  A click. Ringing. A guy answered, said, “Please hold.” I did, listened to country & western.

  “Yeah,” the guy said.

  I gave him the pitch. “Hell of a nice guy, so I’m sure there’s no problem, but we can’t make exceptions in the security business. And to whom am I speaking?”

  “This is Jacob,” he said. “And those requests should be made in writing.”

  “Oh, Jake,” I said. “Do you think you could just check? I need to use him tomorrow,” I said. “It’s a special detail. The art museum in Rockland, Maine. I could really use someone with his experience.”

  A deep sigh, like a doctor had told him to take a breath.

  “The name?”

  “Martin Callahan. Middle initial is B, as in baby.”

  “D.O.B.?”

  “Um, hard to read his writing. The year looks like sixty-six. Or maybe that’s a nine.”

  “Retired recently?”

  “A couple of years ago,” I said.