While “Josephine” fussed over slipping the check under a wet glass, I formulated some questions in my mind. How long have you been stalked? What did “they” look like? How close have they come to you? Do they know you know?
Once our waitress left, MC was ready with thoughts of her own. “It has nothing to do with living at the mortuary. I know who it is, and why.”
“You’ve seen him? Her?”
“I just know. It’s Jake Powers, my ex-boyfriend.”
So, “boyfriend” extended into at least the thirties. Irrelevance always crept in when I was tense.
“The one you left in Houston?”
“Yeah, well, I thought I did. But he was very upset when I left him, and I guess he followed me here.”
“Has he been to the apartment? Phoned you? What?”
She shook her head. “Right now he’s just hanging around everywhere. My health club in Winthrop, the grocery store, the library. I see this shadow, but I know it’s him. He’s a small guy. I know it’s just a matter of time before he makes himself known. I haven’t told Mom anything about this. Or anyone else.”
“Good move.” I pictured MC’s father, Frank, and her two protective older brothers, Robert and John, forming a SWAT team around her. I tapped the table with my unpainted, uneven nails. My nervous thinking exercise—how to get Matt involved without upsetting the rest of our small circle.
MC’s perfect carmine fingertips poked out from the ribbing of her sweatshirt as she put her hand on mine. “I’m scared, Aunt G.”
I swallowed, suddenly unable to think of her as anything but a little girl. “Come home with me tonight. We’ll talk to Matt. He can put a car outside the building at least. They’ll catch him lurking and give him—” I racked my brain. “A restraining order.”
MC shook her head, tilted it toward the ladies’ room. “I don’t want everyone to get all excited.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone.” I breathed deeply. “Do you think Jake is dangerous?”
MC lowered her eyes, played with the remnants of her napkin. Not the “whole truth” posture. Should I trust what came next? I wondered.
“He does have a temper. He’d get angry and break some dishes whenever he came home without a ribbon.”
“A ribbon?”
“Besides being an excellent chemist, he’s a very competitive equestrian.”
“He’s one of those people who jump over hurdles on a horse?”
The beginning of a smile. “Something like that. They’re called fences—made up of poles or planks, or even walls—and there are lots of different configurations that I learned about.”
“Not as fascinating as what we can do with the strong bonds among the carbon atoms in that new material you were working with.” A pause for a smile, and then I had to play godmother, responsible for MC’s spiritual, mental, and physical well-being. I felt no less liability because MC was now an adult with two perfectly functioning biological parents. “Did Jake ever … take out his anger on you, MC?”
She shook her head, but just barely, eyes cast down once more. Unconvincing. “He was all possessive, and who needs that? He listened in on my phone calls, checked my mail, got jealous of even my nights out with my girlfriends. And if I ever went to lunch with one of the male techs, he’d …”
“So you got along well with the technicians out there?” Your mother’s on the way back, was what I meant, and MC understood.
We left Tomasso’s and headed for our three vehicles, having foisted the leftover pizza on Rose. William, her teenage grandson, was spending the night at her house, so we were sure the food would not see the light of morning.
I gave MC one last look that said, Please come home with me. She bit her lip and shook her head, ever so slightly. No.
Leaving me no alternative except to follow her home and see what was going on outside my old apartment.
It seemed perfectly natural for me to head for Tuttle Street, around the corner from St. Anthony’s Church. I’d loved my mortuary apartment, in spite of its proximity to scenes of mourning and its constant reminder of mortality. Rose and Frank had offered me the apartment on the top floor of their building, temporarily, to make my transition from California smoother.
The apartment above the funeral parlors of Galigani Mortuary had served me well, but it had its drawbacks. The smells, for one. I’d never minded chemical odors in the science buildings of my life, but the noxiousness seemed exaggerated when I was aware that a particular compound was being pumped into—or out of—“clients,” as Frank and Robert, his son and partner, called the corpses that arrived regularly at their door.
I’d considered eventually buying a small condo in one of the new high-rises that now lined Revere Beach Boulevard. A balcony overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, with spectacular sunrises for breakfast. A salt-smelling sea breeze. The sounds of seagulls and breaking surf. Memories of my first job, selling cotton candy and then going home with sugar crystals stuck to my eyelashes.
But I’d ended up staying at the mortuary until I moved in with Matt. Why had I chosen the odor of restorative, wound-filling chemicals, the whirring of pumps and saws, over the smells and sounds of Revere Beach? Matt’s theory was that, deep down, I couldn’t stand the thought of living where in my youth there had been the world’s greatest amusement park. Two miles of thrill rides and food stands, a bowling alley, ten-cent prizes, and Sunday bandstand music. All gone by the late seventies, replaced by enormous apartment buildings.
“I think you’d feel like you’d sold out to the developers,” he’d said.
He had a point. As if my boycotting a one-bedroom condo with an ocean view would bring back the Cyclone, the biggest roller coaster in the country in its time, or the two colorful merry-go-rounds, which were more at my level of risk-taking.
I arrived at my stakeout just as MC’s silver Nissan turned into the garage. She had an easy time with her normal-size car, I noticed. I didn’t miss the times when I’d had to maneuver my Cadillac between a hearse on one side and a limo on the other. I was still driving the large, hand-me-down Caddie from the Galigani Mortuary, hard to hide on the narrow, one-way Tuttle Street. At least it was black, I told myself, and MC wouldn’t be expecting me to do something so silly as sit outside her building looking for her stalker.
Silly, indeed. I tapped the steering wheel, wondering what in the world I was doing there, parked across the street from a funeral parlor, other than reminiscing about my twin blue glide rockers, which I’d left for MC. I had a feeling that MC was not being completely candid about Jake and their relationship, that he’d been violent to more than MC’s dinner dishes, and I wanted to see him for myself.
But I’d forgotten to ask what Jake looked like. Skin coloring? Facial hair? A limp from horseback riding? And what might he be wearing? “Fine police work,” I muttered, half aloud.
And suppose I did see someone suspicious—what would I do? Shake my plump finger at him and tell him to leave my godchild alone, or else?
Like the rest of New England at this time of year, tree-lined Tuttle Street still had a wash of reds and yellows, startling even in the dim light of the streetlamps. Several times as I sat in my car I heard or saw movement, but nothing out of the ordinary. Teenagers hanging onto each other, a kid shooting hoops by the light of an open garage door, an older couple almost jogging. A dog-walker came by—a possible? I wondered if you could rent a dog to blend into an environment where you were stalking someone.
I liked the more ordinary living quarters I had now—the house I shared with Matt on Fernwood Avenue, just west of Broadway. It smelled fine, and looked fine, if not up to Rose’s standards. It even came with china and silver, from Matt’s ten-year marriage to Teresa, who died of genetic heart disease many years ago.
When the light went on in MC’s bedroom, I held my breath, as if listening for a crash or a shot. Nothing. Even so, I imagined different scenarios, none of them attractive. I punched Matt’s number into my cell phone so it w
ould take only one button to ring him in case I needed him in a hurry.
RRRRRRRing!
I jumped, and banged my knee on the wheel when my phone rang on its own, making me wish I’d opted for a sweet melody instead of a straight alarm sound. Elaine Cody had programmed her cell phone with the love theme from Gone with the Wind, I remembered. I fumbled with the RECEIVE button, all the while glancing around for Jake Powers, of unknown appearance.
“Hi,” Matt said. “Is everything all right?”
His gravelly voice always brought a smile to my lips. “Oh, hi. Yes, the phone just startled me.”
“Rose called a minute ago; she forgot to check on the time for your shopping trip tomorrow.”
I laughed. “I never agreed to go shopping. She wants to redo your entire house.”
“It’s our house, Gloria, so feel free.” A pause. “She said you all left Tomasso’s almost an hour ago.”
“I … uh … had an errand.” At eleven o’clock at night?
But he didn’t ask what errand, what could be open this late. I knew he’d wait until such time as I wanted to explain. Probably that’s why I’d agreed to live with him.
I’d met Matt Gennaro when Rose forced me upon the Revere Police Department as an expert witness in a trial involving a defective TV set. I was charmed by him, immediately comfortable with his scratchy tones and chunky build, like that of all my uncles when I was growing up.
We were now dealing with other people’s opinion of our “living arrangement.” According to recent demographics for Revere, Matt and I were among the two percent of residents living with “unmarried partners.” For Rose and Frank, it seemed natural—and, in Rose’s case, about time—for me to move in with Matt after almost two years of “dating.” For the West Coast vote, Elaine, who’d been through at least three relationships in that time, heartily agreed.
So what did it matter that my seventy-plus-year-old cousin, Mary Ann, in Worcester, hadn’t spoken to me since I called to tell her my new address? Or that Matt’s sister, Jean Mottolo, had said something equivalent to “Lots of luck,” when we told her our good news.
The dog-walker came by again. At least two creatures had spent a useful half hour or so. Time for a decision. I should either march up to MC’s apartment and convince her to come home with me—the silliness of that idea overcame me—or go home.
I ended my stakeout at the mortuary and headed for Fernwood Avenue.
At about eleven-thirty I joined Matt on the sofa that was one of my contributions to the living room. My blue-gray striped corduroy couch was much newer than his seventies-style plaid affair, and, unlike my rockers, minus the wear and tear of a cross-country trip. But still my furniture looked out of place. It seemed to be shifting around nervously, like a new digital spectrum analyzer trying to fit into an old lab system with analog components.
Matt was in his robe, surrounded by files and newspapers. He gave me a kiss, then a look. The expression he’d used during an entire career of wringing information from suspects, I guessed.
“That look is wasted,” I said. “I’ve already decided to tell you where I’ve been and why.” Little as I had to go on, the slight chance that MC might be in danger upset me enough to contact the police, so to speak.
“I’m listening.”
I told Matt about MC’s ex-boyfriend, and why I’d taken a detour from Tomasso’s. He kindly resisted a scolding about why I’d put myself in danger, or what made me think I could take on someone MC couldn’t handle. Neither did he scowl when he learned I had no descriptions—not of the alleged stalker, and not of MC’s ex-boyfriend.
“He rides horses,” I’d said; then we both laughed. Such useful information. A Texan who rides horses.
“Jake Powers,” Matt said, as he wrote in the notebook he kept handy. “I’ll check the database, and I’ll call the Houston PD. We’ll see if he’s done anything like this before.”
I wondered if “broke china cups and saucers” would show up on the criminal history computer database. “Can you send a car around to the mortuary?”
Matt nodded and punched in a number.
MC was safe. I relaxed.
Too soon.
“Now I have something to tell you,” Matt said, pulling a sheet of stationery from a brown envelope. I drew a quick breath as I recognized the logo—a thick cross, like the Red Cross symbol, only black and gray. The logo of Dr. Abeles, Matt’s doctor.
“Now, don’t worry,” he said.
Of course not. I could hardly breathe. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re not sure. Abeles says this is inconclusive.” Matt waved the paper as if it were a police report, like the kind he handled every day, perhaps a B&E or a mugging. “I need a biopsy. My blood test showed a prostate-specific antigen, whatever that is, at a borderline high level. And there was some abnormal hardness.” He flicked his wrist toward his groin with his closed fist. Not to be too specific.
I blinked, futilely attempting to block a sudden headache. Frustration pulsed through me in tiny waves. I was frustrated that I had only the vaguest idea of what an antigen was. That I had no idea what a good level of it would be. I knew by heart a long list of physical constants. The fine-structure constant of spectroscopy, 1/137. The main transition line of a helium-neon laser, 6328 Angstroms. The ratio of proton mass to electron mass, 1836. But I didn’t know what quantity of blood protein made the difference between life and death for the man I loved.
Matt seemed to be reading my face. He was the one needing a biopsy. He was the one who had watched his wife of ten years die. He shouldn’t have to worry about me, I thought.
“Look,” he said, showing me the paper he’d received from Dr. Abeles. “See how INCONCLUSIVE is checked off?” The page looked like an inventory sheet, or a to-do list. Not an official medical report. “It could just be an enlargement of the gland, not cancerous.”
Cancer. He’d put the word out there. I hated hearing “cancer,” or any form of the word. It was better whispered, or referenced indirectly. Like in the old days. When my Uncle Mike got cancer, my mother said, “Mike has …” She left the word unspoken, tilting her head and rolling her eyes up and to the side. Reluctance to utter language she thought vulgar? A prayer to God? Submission to fate?
I felt pain in my shoulders, my arms, my jaw. “Inconclusive” was not an encouraging word, not a much better word than “cancer.” “Inconclusive” was a term reserved for data of the kind I’d dealt with in my physics career. It meant the curve didn’t follow the path of a known equation, or that some outlying points precluded a smoothing algorithm. In a medical report, I wanted yes or no. No, actually. No foreign body. No unhealthy cells. No cancer.
I tried not to show Matt the depth of my panic. “So when is the next test?” A simple question.
“I haven’t scheduled it yet. I didn’t have my calendar with me.”
“Your calendar? What could be more important that you wouldn’t schedule it immediately? It’s a biopsy, right? How long can that take?” I heard my voice rise in pitch, if not in volume. My hands were folded on my lap, my knuckles white.
Matt pulled me to him. “Don’t worry. I almost didn’t tell you, since there’s nothing—”
“Conclusive.” I finished for him. I leaned against his chest, tense, listening to his heart. He was right, I told myself. It could be nothing. Like MC’s alleged stalking.
When the phone rang, I hoped it was good news. Not likely at midnight, however, I thought.
But it was, at least, definite.
“It’s Berger,” Matt said, covering the speaker with his hand as he listened to his partner. “There’s a nine-twenty-one at the Galigani Mortuary.”
I mentally reviewed my code list, and gasped. MC had called in a prowler.
“Everything’s okay,” Matt said, when he hung up. “Uniforms were already arriving for canvas, so they picked up the guy and they have him at the station.”
I grabbed my purse from the hallway table.
“You drive,” I said.
CHAPTER THREE
The Revere Police Department was one of the beautiful, old, redbrick buildings in the City Hall complex. It belonged to a different century than that of its modern vehicles—a fleet of shiny, white motorcycles, sedans, vans, and new SUVs, all with red, white, and blue lettering—lined up in the parking lot and along Pleasant Street. Beautiful as this nearly hundred-year-old building was, a plea for a new facility was in the local news at least once a month, and the avowed priority of past and present city officials.
Matt and I passed through the blue foyer and into the main hallway. The photos that lined the wall were as familiar to me as Matt’s stories—Harry, one of the revered horses from the pre–motor vehicle days; young policemen shot in the line of duty; groups of officers in the old uniforms with high helmets like those in English hunting scenes.
Halfway down, where the burnt coffee smell was strongest, George Berger greeted us. Berger was Matt’s junior by about twenty years, but his slow, lumbering gait made him seem older.
“I knew you’d come, too, Gloria,” he said, pulling a photo out of his wallet. Little Cynthia Berger’s deep brown eyes peered at me, her pudgy body and curly dark hair framed by a playroom scene, clearly a backdrop in a mall photo studio. She held a Teddy bear in a choke hold; a giant gold lion lay at her feet. It always amused me when parents gave their children cuddly representations of creatures that would maul them if real.
I forced a smile. “She’s getting so big,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like a voice-mail recording, which was close to how I felt. I handed the photo back.
“Oh, no. That’s your copy,” he said.
I managed a happy-sounding thank-you and slipped it into a side compartment of my purse. Matt’s partner had come a long way from the days when he resented my work with the RPD. I was sure his conversion had little to do with my competence, but was instead because I’d led him to believe I loved all children, and his daughter in particular. A misleading presentation of myself, but it had worked. He’d come to accept me as a kind of third partner in special cases.
Carbon Murder, The Page 2