“Western coyotes weigh between thirty-five and forty pounds. This beauty is over sixty. In fact, it’s not a coyote at all. It’s a coywolf. See how heavyset it is? I expect it’s descended from Canadian red wolves. The thing is, if you’ve got coywolves, you’ve got a different kind of animal—they’re bigger, hungrier, and more aggressive. Still, red wolves don’t usually attack humans. That’s more a gray wolf activity.”
“So what are you saying?”
“Coywolves might cross the wall and grab a sheep, but these are far more aggressive. They’re coywolves plus something else. But I don’t know what it’d be.”
• • •
Detective Beth Lajoie had the slow-moving, ruminative, and stubborn qualities of a good cop. She wasn’t going to chase drug dealers down alleys and jump fences anytime soon, but there were plenty of younger troopers eager to do that. She’d shaken loose two husbands and two kids, and at forty-five she lived by herself with three cats: Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. She practiced tae kwon do, was a Civil War buff, and had the calm demeanor of someone at peace with herself. But this was art rather than life; it was the cheese that lured the mouse to a trap.
The mouse Detective Lajoie was interested in early this Thursday morning was Peggy Summers. Lajoie wore an emerald-green pantsuit with brown moccasins that looked terrible and a thick yellow rope chain that left a green mark on her neck if she wore it too often. These weren’t her usual clothes, but she wanted to dress in a way that would elicit feelings of repulsion and superiority. She wanted to seem unthreatening. Glancing at herself in the mirror with approval, she went out to her gray Mazda 6 and drove to Brewster to the narrow clapboard house on Williams Street.
Peggy was in her bedroom, watching a rerun of General Hospital and smoking.
“I’ve been worried about you, Peggy,” said Detective Lajoie. “I thought I’d drop by and take a look at you.”
Peggy swiped her eyes across Detective Lajoie’s clothing preferences as she might wipe a rag across a speck of dust. She looked back at the TV. “And what do you see?”
“An unhappy young woman.” Detective Lajoie sat down on a chair by the bed. The ashtray on the nightstand was full of cigarette butts.
“You’d be unhappy, too, if you had to live in this shithole.”
“We think you might be in danger.”
“So why’d you drag me back here?”
“Just thinking what’s best for you, that’s all. Would you like to go for a ride? Get some fresh air?”
“Not with you I don’t.”
Detective Lajoie glanced at the TV. Two nurses were discussing a good-looking doctor in hushed tones.
“Tell me, Peggy, have you ever thought of being a nurse?”
“Yuck, bedpans and all that shit? No way.”
“So what would you like to do with your life?”
“Get the fuck out of here. Maybe go to California. I gotta girlfriend in Sacramento.”
“This whole business must be awful for you.”
“I don’t like people nagging at me, and I don’t like being stuck in this house.”
“You can make it end sooner if you help us out.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“I think other girls were victimized out in the woods besides you and Nina.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
Detective Lajoie heard a sharper note in Peggy’s voice, a hurriedness. “You sure? After all, it makes sense. It could have been a girl who had her baby at home. You haven’t heard of anyone? She might have said the baby was stillborn, or people didn’t know she was pregnant. Some girls hide it pretty well. It didn’t have to be here in Brewster—maybe Wakefield or Narragansett. You know anyone?”
“I don’t know shit.”
“Think, Peggy. If you want to get out of here, this is how you can do it. I’m only trying to help.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Peggy’s eyes were fastened on the emerald-green pantsuit. But there was a change in Peggy’s voice; it was quieter.
“You know, if you told me what I’m asking, we wouldn’t need to keep you here in the house. We could put you in a nice hotel someplace. You’d have room service and space to move around. Probably an indoor pool. You just say the word and it’s yours.”
Peggy had turned back to the TV. Detective Lajoie glanced at her hands and wondered if she needed some cheap-looking rings to look even more pathetic. Peggy pushed herself up to a sitting position.
“What kind of hotel? I don’t want any Days Inn.”
“Tell me, Peggy, what would be your choice?”
“I want the Hotel Viking in Newport, a suite. And I want a pedicure.”
Detective Lajoie looked motherly. “I don’t see why we can’t do that.”
Peggy chewed on her thumbnail and then studied it. “There’s a girl over in Wakefield who had a baby last June. People didn’t know she was pregnant. I don’t know her name or if she was in school. She lived with her dad.”
Woody and Lajoie had thought that if there were other teenage mothers whose babies had been taken, they might be girls with one parent and no siblings, meaning as few witnesses as possible. And they’d be girls like Peggy and Nina, borderline students without a lot of friends.
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Lajoie didn’t answer, and Peggy stared at the TV. “But I don’t think she was dragged out to the island. She just got fucked and the baby was taken. Maybe she was even paid for it, lucky slut. I don’t know her last name.”
“Where’d you hear this?”
“Someone was talking about it in the woods. I’m not sure who, maybe it was the guy I saw in CVS. I just heard a few words. He called this girl Marge or Margery, called her ‘the easy one.’ Can I go to the hotel now?”
• • •
Thursday morning Bingo Schwartz talked to Eric Degroot in the Providence Police Department’s detective bureau, part of the new three-story Public Safety Complex on Washington Street just off 95. Bingo had decided Ronnie McBride was nowhere in Brewster, so he was looking further afield.
“These homeless guys are like snowbirds,” said Detective Degroot. “Up north in the summer, down south in winter—they got a whole circuit. I mean, the panhandlers, the guys that sell cheap shit on the street, guys that rummage trash and collect returnable bottles. The ones who’re just poor usually stay put; the crazies mostly stay put as well.”
“My fellow’s got a perfectly good house,” said Bingo. “He only sleeps in this little alcove because he wants to. It’s a grief thing. No closure.”
Degroot shrugged. He had known Bingo for twenty years, and he had always been the “Mumbler.” Whenever he wasn’t talking, he’d be humming. He would probably be humming in his coffin. “Then your guy’s crazy,” he said.
“D’you often have people like that who just go missing, who disappear?”
“It’s not like they got a fixed place of abode; most don’t even have ID unless they’ve Social Security, or fake ID. They come and go, like I say. If we don’t see one for a while it’s no big thing. He’ll usually be back in the summer.”
“Maybe they’re dead.”
“That’s possible. Alkies can be pretty fragile. If they’re dead, it’s most likely the sauce. Sometimes we get cases of guys beating up a derelict, like teenagers on a tear. We see that now and then, and a couple have been killed over the years. Your guy have enemies?”
Bingo scratched his belly and once again began to imagine retirement. “I doubt it. He checked into the alcove around ten at night and was gone by seven in the morning. He didn’t panhandle and didn’t bother anybody.”
“Strange,” said Degroot, “but what the fuck, he’s only been gone a week. He’s bound to turn up, you know how it is.”
“He’s never done this before. He’s a bum of strict habits. I mean, he’s not even a bum. He’s eccentric.”
“A wacko. Like they say, the city’s got a million stories.”
“Not
Brewster.” Bingo got to his feet. “So think about it for me. Why should he disappear? Let’s say it’s foul play, why should anyone bother? Kidnapping, abduction, murder, it makes no sense. But someplace there’s a reason.”
Degroot got up as well. He was thinner than Bingo and half a foot taller. Also he had all his hair. “I’ll ask around. If we go on the assumption of foul play someone might have an idea.”
Fifteen minutes later Bingo was driving south to New London on 95. He meant to ask the same questions to a New London detective he’d known for a decade or so: Do you ever have homeless men just disappear for good? Bingo already knew the answers, just as he’d known Degroot’s answers. What he wanted was help with the questions.
Playing loudly on a CD was Samuel Ramey singing the “Whistle Aria” from Boito’s Mefistofele—“I am the Spirit that always denies . . .”—the aria in which Mefistofele tempts Faust to widen his horizons, free his appetites, and enjoy a bit of satanic fun. Bingo liked all versions of Faust: Berlioz, Boehmer, Boito, Busoni, Gounod, Lutz, Pousseur, Prokofiev, Schnittke, Spohr, and Stravinsky. As a police officer he saw himself as a student of human temptation. What makes a person break the law in search of pleasures they can’t afford? Bingo set that question next to his other question: Why should Ronnie McBride disappear? Somehow the two questions had a causal connection: if this, then that. He had only to find it.
• • •
As soon as Woody could get a search warrant on Thursday morning, he grabbed acting chief Bonaldo, Detective Gazzola, and Patrolman Morelli, and headed over to Benjamin Clouston’s house on Ballou Street. Both Bonaldo and Gazzola had had other plans, while Morelli had hoped to take a nap somewhere. Woody had looked at them with what Bobby Anderson called his dead-eye stare, which was the look Woody got before he started yelling. As far as Woody was concerned, Clouston was top priority, unless Fred Fucking Bonaldo wanted Brewster to explode like a fucking pimple on an adolescent’s butt.
“Well,” Bonaldo had said, “if you put it like that . . .” He then remarked on Woody’s negative attitude, which got him another scary stare.
A locksmith opened Clouston’s front door. Woody entered and sniffed. The hall and living room had the sweet smell of a cheap motel room that’s just been cleaned. The rug still bore the tracks of a vacuum; nothing was out of place; it was as innocuous as a model home in a slow market.
“Somebody’s already been through here,” said Woody, after he had checked out the downstairs.
“The clothes and stuff are still here,” said Bonaldo. “Even his toothbrush.”
“And what does that tell you?”
Bonaldo pondered. “Somebody else cleaned it out?”
“Exactly.”
The six-room house was tidy and sparsely furnished. On the living room wall were photographs of forest scenes; the tan leather couch was positioned across from the flat-panel TV; a beige rug separated the two; a Bose entertainment system knit them altogether. The bed was made; the dishes had been washed; the clothes hung neatly in the closet; no dust bunnies lurked beneath the bed. A small office looked onto the backyard; the desk was empty except for pens, paper, and paper clips. There were computer cords but no computer. The two-drawer file cabinet was empty except for a file on Clouston’s Toyota, a file on the Bose Lifestyle home entertainment system, another on the Sony forty-two-inch plasma flat panel, a file of appliance warranties, and a file called “My Trip to Las Vegas.” The books were best sellers of the techno-spy variety; the DVDs were Cary Grant comedies, a smattering of Jimmy Stewart, a dollop of Katharine Hepburn.
Woody made a call to Frank Montesano to bring in the CSI. “I need the whole place checked for prints, anything you can find.”
Woody, Bonaldo, Morelli, and Detective Gazzola went outside to wait. Gazzola’s nicotine-packed lungs wheezed like a busted concertina. He popped a Nicorette and lit up.
“This looks bad for Clouston.” Woody moved away from Gazzola’s cigarette. He glanced at two squirrels chasing each other through an oak and wondered about their emotional lives. No worries, most likely.
To Bonaldo, as a Realtor, the house seemed prepped for a sale, with all the blemishes airbrushed. “How so?”
“I doubt he was the one to clean out the house. So why was it done?”
Gazzola stubbed out his cigarette and considered lighting another. “He could have a girlfriend and have stuff over there. Like a double set of everything.”
“Maybe.” But Woody didn’t think so.
During the morning, Clouston’s friends and acquaintances were sought, first at the hospital, so when Woody reached the hospital at eleven o’clock, he was given a list of people to talk to, beginning with Dr. Joyce Fuller. Woody saw her in her office. She wasn’t cool to him, but there was no sign they’d met before.
“Mr. Clouston’s been here for nearly a year, and we were lucky to get him. He works in the area of surgical pathology, examining test results and gathering critical information about the stage and margin status of surgically removed tumors. He works under the pathologist and spends a lot of time at the microscope. But Mr. Clouston’s also experienced in radiological techniques—ultrasounds, CT scans, MRIs.”
“And why were you lucky to get him?” Dr. Fuller’s office reminded Woody of Clouston’s house: immaculate and anonymous. A photo of her father in uniform was on the desk, three framed diplomas hung on the wall.
“He’s highly trained, and in a small hospital like this he has to wear several hats. He could have made far more money someplace else. But he loves the ocean. That’s our big selling point. He fishes—surf casting, mostly—but he also has a small boat; and he swims. He offered me fish last summer. Unfortunately, I’m a vegetarian.”
“So what’s he get paid?”
“I don’t know if I can tell you that.”
“Yes, you can.”
They stared at each other. Dr. Fuller looked away. “About eighty thousand.”
“Anything you can say about what he looks like?” Woody had Clouston’s photograph, but he liked to hear descriptions from different people.
“He’s pretty average-looking, wears glasses, has a regular haircut—brown hair. He has very flat ears, that’s one thing. If you looked at him straight on you’d hardly see them.”
“Tall, short?”
“Average height. You probably wouldn’t notice him unless you were looking for him. Except for those ears.”
“Who’s he hang out with?”
“I’ve no idea. I never wonder about their private lives.”
Next Woody talked to the people with whom Clouston worked—technicians, doctors, nurses. They described him as quiet but friendly. No one seemed to dislike him; on the other hand, he had no close friends.
“Not a party animal?” Woody asked a radiologist, Betsy Safarian.
Safarian gave him a blank look and then burst out laughing. “I saw him dance at the Christmas party last year. He looked like a tin soldier, like rigid.”
One of the doctors who worked with Clouston was somebody Woody knew: Dr. Herb Serpa, a dermatologist.
The previous year Woody had had a benign wen, or trichilemmal cyst, removed from his back. Once out, it had looked like a bloody quail egg. Dr. Serpa, who had removed it, said, “You’re lucky, I’ve seen them as big as goose eggs.” He found this funny. “Goose eggs,” he repeated.
“I went fishing for stripers with Benny once,” said Dr. Serpa. “We each got a keeper and tossed back some shorties. He has a little boat I didn’t like much. I felt like a carrot bobbing in a stew. Benny isn’t a talker, that’s for sure, but he’s a great tech and a good fisherman as well. You tell me what’s more important. This time of year, he does a lot of surf casting. Have you checked the beach?”
“Good idea.” Woody stifled a yawn. “D’you know who his friends are, or anything about his other activities?”
“I see Benny talking to people now and then. I don’t like to be nosy. No one dislikes him. He’s great at what he d
oes. He did a punch biopsy on your cyst, if I remember right. He could work in a top lab or a bigger hospital. Guys like that help make a hospital first-rate.”
“Anything else?”
Dr. Serpa paused. “Oh, yes, the last time we went fishing, he mentioned a trip to Atlantic City. Most people, as you can imagine, go for the gambling, but he also fished, didn’t catch anything, though.”
“Did he mention gambling?”
“No, just the fishing.”
“Does everyone call him Benny?”
“Benny? Why, I don’t really know. I never thought about it.”
Woody also talked to Dr. Jonathan Balfour. Like Dr. Fuller, he gave no sign of ever having met Woody before. Dr. Balfour kept looking at his watch and tapping his foot. It made Woody want to keep him there all day.
“We’ve had lunch two or three times, also coffee downtown. Mostly it was to talk about the results of an exam. He likes fishing, I recall. I haven’t done any fishing since I was a kid. My dad used to drag us out in his boat, and Clouston offered to take me fishing, but I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“How come?”
“Every time my dad took us out, I’d get seasick and end up puking over the side. I don’t plan to get on a boat again anytime soon.”
“Does he have any woman friends or girlfriends?”
“Not that I know of. He talks to women, of course, but nothing stood out.”
“Not Nurse Spandex?”
Balfour shot him an angry look. Aha, thought Woody, engaging in a sarcastic thought. He remembers me after all.
“No, not Nurse Spandex. Clouston’s one of those self-contained types who’re perfectly comfortable in their own company. Lucky for them, I’ve always thought. But you sometimes see it with people who spend their lives staring into a microscope.”
“Did he ever mention trips he’d made to Atlantic City and Las Vegas?”
“Never. He didn’t strike me as the showgirl type.”
“What about gambling?”
“I can’t imagine it.”
Balfour looked at his watch. Often in interviews Woody envied Bobby Anderson, who could turn his charm off and on as easily as a flashlight. It was easy for Bobby to convince someone he was sympathetic, that he cared about them, that he knew they were being treated unfairly. At times it was sincere, at times it wasn’t, but whichever it was, Bobby used it as a tool and it was a tool Woody lacked. His charm barely went beyond saying hello. “Can’t you at least look pleasant?” Susie used to say.
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