No matter what they were feeling, I was pleased. If the killer were in this room, we had poked a hornet’s nest, and I was ready for the counterattack. If you’re in this room, please come after me. Please.
Even though Omar had already volunteered to escort us to the lobby, Alison joined him, walking with us to the elevators. The remaining members of the council seemed to be staying in place and holding animated conversations. Nothing like being in a pool of suspected killers to provide for all the excitement anyone could ever want in a workday.
“Please call me and let me know what you discover,” Alison requested.
“Sure. I hope get to the bottom of this soon.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” she said. And then, without missing a beat, the president of a VHA with important work to do remembered her organization and its objectives.
“When this is over, I would like you to consider joining our National Board of Directors. Not only are you the brother of someone who had dedicated his life to our cause, you are also a doctor who would lend so much to our leadership.”
When she spoke, she reached you on a personal level. She was gracious yet had a fire, her eyes intense — they pulled you in. I surprised myself by not dismissing her invitation with some comment about waiting at least until we resolved Ron’s death.
“This was important to Ron, and if you think I can make a contribution, well, yeah, I’ll talk to you about it when I get back.” Marilena looked at me, her eyes reducing to slits.
Ricardo met us at the front door on Third Avenue. We boarded the limo and pulled out into traffic for the short-by-distance, possibly long-by-time, trip to Penn Station across town. Making the next train would be close. There was another later on, but it was a local and would take longer to get to Boston.
“I can see why she is so effective in her role,” Marilena said as we moved into traffic.
“Yeah?”
“She could convince almost anyone to help with her cause, even the most hard-core Marine.”
“I kind of surprised myself with my answer,” I offered.
“It did not surprise me. She is highly skilled.”
“I wonder what she is thinking about her staff right now?”
Marilena responded, “She is working through her own list, eliminating some, giving others consideration. She will not be at ease until a killer is identified. If the killer was in that room, he or she is agitated. We were successful.”
“You were pretty impressive, lady.”
“I was about to complement you on your setup — very refined.”
Now that was something I had never been called. Ever.
*
Ricardo had arranged for help with our bags, and we were met by a porter. We said our goodbyes to Ricardo and promised to see him again. I had paid him earlier in the day, and he was obviously happy with the rate and gratuity. I took an extra business card from him and told him that someone would call about engaging him in the future. He liked that idea.
I had made many trips by train between Boston and New York on both services offered by Amtrak. There is the local — it’s a conventional train service that takes four hours and makes frequent stops. For a little more money, there is an express train that leaves a couple of times a day. Amtrak calls that service the Acela Express. It’s worth the additional fare as it knocks off almost half the time of the local.
I knew the way from the curbside to the counter, but the porter wanted to lead the way, and I let him. I took Marilena by the hand and was happy to see that our bag pusher set a good pace — he had made it his business to be informed and knew that the departure time for the Acela to Boston was quickly approaching. He also made a good blocker with his hand truck and our luggage preceding him. We tucked in behind and made excellent time down the busy corridors. Marilena had to take two steps for each of mine and had to contend with high heels. The lady FBI agent, who had just recently commanded the attention of a room full of smart and ambitious people, now carried along in the wake of two less than sensitive males, one porting luggage, the other porting her.
When we finally arrived at the ticket counter, she blew out a big breath through pursed lips and said, “I will count that as today’s exercise!”
I noticed that the porter had a very short haircut. I turned to him and asked a one-word question, “Marine?”
“Yes sir! Just discharged this summer after doing two tours in Iraq. I got accepted to NYU, and I start in January,” he answered while straightening up, a reflex as he recognized me as a probable officer, my haircut and bearing all he needed to identify me as a fellow Marine.
“I figured as much. Good job getting us here double time and good luck in school. Remember what the Corps taught you — it’ll help you in college.” The tip I gave him made him happy, the recognition he had earned.
I purchased two tickets for seats in the first class car of the Acela that was due to leave in less than ten minutes. I carried Marilena’s larger bag and pulled my smaller one on its built-in wheels. Crossing the expansive waiting area under the large departure information sign, we headed for the designated track and then down the escalator, Marilena behind me, carrying her smaller bag and a zip-up garment cover with the newly acquired dresses safely enshrouded and further protected by genetically driven, female clothing concerns.
We boarded the second car from the front. The train was OK by me, no TSA, and large luggage storage areas over the generous seats. I selected two of them at the rear of the car and intentionally maneuvered her to take the window seat. I stowed the bags in the overhead and slid into the aisle next to her. We settled in for the ride.
The car was almost empty, no one within ten rows of us — the taxpayers would be subsidizing Amtrak for a long time to come. As it was, we were alone and any conversation we had would be private.
“Thomas, how long is the ride?”
“About two and a half hours,” I answered. “We can get some lunch on the train. We should be in Boston by 1 PM.
“I know that you want to talk about us, and I am going to make it easy for you.”
“You are?” I asked.
“Yes. I know that you are concerned about us. About the relationship we were building, the way you set it aside, and what is happening to us now.”
“Really?”
“I have thought about it and have decided that you have nothing to worry about.”
“Really?” That was less than believable. Way less.
“When you said that we should stop seeing each other, your reason was that it was a problem because we worked together. That was only partly true. Your real concerns were greater and not professional.”
“Really?” It seemed that my vocabulary had limited itself to one word.
She smiled at my inability to communicate. “The actual reason that you wanted to end our relationship was that you thought that I was option two.”
“What?” At least I didn’t say, “Really?”
“Yes. To you, women belong in one of two categories, no exceptions. The first are the little playthings that you pick up and enjoy for a brief period of time. They are easy to recognize. Very attractive, yet having an I.Q. in competition with their shoe size. Eventually, you always discard them as they quickly bore you. Bedroom activities alone, although initially an enjoyable pastime, in the long term, not enough. The second category are those women who would invade your life, make you quit your exciting and dangerous job, force you to become a husband and a father, and see to it that you mowed the lawn once a week. When a woman gets classified as category two, you run away. You thought I was a category two woman. The first couple of times that we went out, it was just to get something to eat while continuing to discuss work. After you realized that the meals had become dates, you ran away. Although I was angry at the time, I am no longer and have been waiting to talk to you so that you could understand something important about me.”
“And that is?” Although I was curious about what she
was about to say, I wanted to act like I had never thought about it this way. The unfortunate part was that even though I was not as articulate about the subject as she was, she was one hundred percent on the money.
“You are a lucky man, and although you have classified all women as belonging to just one of two categories, there is a third. I am the third option.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am not some shiny trinket for you to pick up and play with until you tire of me. I will not permit that, and you know it. I am not category one. At the same time, I am not going to ask you to quit your exciting and dangerous job, become a husband and a father, mow the lawn, and paint the white picket fence. That would change you in ways that would make you less desirable to me. I will, however, invade your life. I want us to be close, have only each other, but I will not try to make you something that you are not. I like you just the way you are.”
“Yeah? And just how do you see this working out?”
“Simple: Exclusivity, love, and excitement. Nothing less, nothing more.”
BOSTON
We pulled into the South Boston train station on time. Marilena had changed the subject. She had not pushed me for an answer to her “simple” proposal. She knew that I was going to need some time to think this over, and patience was a better idea than forcing a response. That alone made her different. Every woman that I had ever met would have wanted to know immediately what my answer would be and most importantly: Where did she stand? For that matter, I can’t think of any woman that I had ever known who could have waited this long without making her intentions not only known but also trying to find a way to make them my intentions as well. Maybe she was the third option? The third option? I wondered how many third options were out there? Had I met one before? Come back, Tommy. Focus Marine, focus.
Gus Perentanakis met us at curbside. Gus is somewhere north of sixty years old but could have passed for fifty. He had a booming voice, and his favorite expression for as long as I can remember was “B’YOOTIFUL!” It served well in two situations, ones that were actually beautiful and those that were the exact opposite. You had to listen carefully for the slight difference in inflection to know his intention. He had been in the Navy before coming to work for our family, joining his parents and becoming the second generation of the Perentanakis clan to help the Briggs get by, and by their account, we would have failed miserably without them. I had teased him that the Navy he was in used wooden ships pushed around by the wind. Ruddy complexioned, barrel-chested, and just plain big; he was the rock that Ron and I had depended on for many years. He has the look of the perpetually middle-aged prizefighter, never changing, a little too old to compete, too young to retire. Calling him from the train to make arrangements to meet us, I told him I was bringing a guest, a lady guest, who would be staying with us. He must have heard something in my voice and believed that a good impression was in order because he showed up in the dark blue, 7 Series BMW, four-door sedan that he and Ron had selected two years ago. I knew that somehow, through some business interest or another, we had paid for it, but he protects it like it is his own, and it doesn’t venture out without good reason. No one gets to drive it except him and sometimes, rarely, me. Ron had given up trying to get the keys away from him. I’m sure that when I am out driving it, he’s still worried about what I may do to his baby. An immediate and complete inspection of the vehicle follows my return. Subsequent comments can be heard about the dirty footprints on the driver’s side. If I had arrived at the train station alone, he would have driven our pickup truck. I would have been fine with that, and he knew it. That says a lot about our history. He had been a great surrogate dad.
“Marilena, this is Gus. He’s responsible for all of my bad habits. Each and every one of them.”
“What? Tommy! Say it ain’t so!” The words delivered in his loud, Boston brogue, might have indicated some unhappiness with me, but the big grin I got was followed by the look he was giving Marilena made me know that he was in the process of forgetting everything I had said.
“Hello, Gus!” she said brightly while moving towards him. He got the 1,000-watt smile and both hands from her to place in his. “Don’t pay any attention to him.” Ignoring the car but making a point of looking him up and down, she said, “I can already tell that you are a gentleman. Maybe some of it will rub off on Thomas?”
“I’d like to think so, Miss. I’ve been trying for a lot of years, but, well, you know. I mean, look at him. It’s kinda sad.”
“There’s still hope. We can work on improving him together!”
“B’YOOTIFUL!”
They laughed. I shook my head, outgunned again. The founding member of the Marilena Fan Club, Boston Chapter, had just signed up and accepted a lifetime appointment as president. The newsletter wouldn’t even mention me.
Gus got a serious look on his face and turned to me. “Hey Pal. About Ronny. Real sorry. Ya got no idea.” The last part delivered in a quiet, seldom used voice.
“Thanks, Gus. I know. Actually, we’re here because we might learn something more about his murder from a colleague of his at the Marklin.”
“Murder? You mean it wasn’t a suicide?” His eyes turned cold as they looked into me, wanting more. “I knew it! I knew it all along! You boys have been like my own, and I know you both too well. Ronny never killed himself — never! It never happened! Couldn’t have!”
“I agree. More importantly, Marilena agrees. Marilena is an FBI Special Agent. We are going to find out what happened and who killed him.” I wish that I felt as confident as I sounded.
“What can I do? I can help. Anything! Anything for Ronny!” His voice a mixture of emotions: relief, anger, resolve.
We settled into the back seat. I was getting more than my share of time in row number two. Driving, or at least riding shotgun, was more of what I am used to. Marilena was looking out the window as we pulled out of the station headed for Beacon Hill. She was happiest in row two.
“I’ve never been to this city,” she said. “It’s quite lovely.”
“Boston is a great town. Lot’s to do, great restaurants, amazing architecture, and if you’re interested, the history connecting the city and the Revolutionary War is very interesting. There are also some of the finest colleges in the country all within walking distance. The best, of course, being B.C.”
“B.C.?”
“Boston College.”
“Ah, might that be the college you attended.”
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Across the river from here is Cambridge, home of the Marklin Institute. That’s where we’ll meet Caroline Little.”
“Have you been there before?” she asked.
“Yep. The Marklin Institute had a grand opening, and Ron and I went to it. Ron made a donation in our family name, and we were invited. As usual, I wasn’t excited about going, you know, the tuxedo thing. But when I got there, I was glad that I did. It’s a very impressive place. Ron said that the gear was the best; the people that they had convinced to work there were the best in their fields.”
“You sound impressed. And, by the way, I am impressed to learn that you have multiple tuxedos.” I should have kept that part to myself.
“I’m sure that by now that tux has been donated to some worthy cause.” Getting back to the important issue and hopefully leaving formal wear behind, I said, “The other thing about the Marklin is that the quality of their science is fantastic. They have selected real and difficult issues to work on. The Boston area is home to many fine research institutes but also to some that are not so fine.”
“What do you mean?”
“The BioTech industry is primarily located here and in Northern California. The founders of these companies were often educated, or worked as researchers, in these two parts of the country. There is also a very talented pool of potential employees available, as well as investors who understand the risks of biotechnology. Many of these BioTech comp
anies have discovered amazing compounds that they have made into pharmaceutical products, either on their own or through a partnership with one of the big pharma guys. Some of them, however, seem to be fronts for marketing firms and make me wonder how far we have actually come from snake oil and patent medicine.”
“Really?” She was starting to sound like me. It was becoming obvious that a lot of our communication was based on this one word. If she could teach me the translation in three or four foreign languages, I could fake any conversation.
“Have you noticed that during the last couple of years, television commercials have been teaching, or rather preaching to us, about new maladies and syndromes. A practice that is legal only here in the U.S. and in New Zealand. The rest of the world considers it so contrary to the common good and it’s a crime. We have “Chronic This” and “Irritable That.” In the hotel in Los Angeles on the way to New York, I saw a commercial for a new restless limb disorder. Many of them get catchy acronyms to help us remember them. You don’t learn about any of this stuff in medical school because it’s made up by marketing firms. These companies have acquired some intellectual property that may have failed as a therapy for some targeted, real disease, but it showed a side effect that in some remotely arguable way is beneficial to someone. Then, they turned their unscrupulous lawyers loose on the FDA, and, low and behold, we have a new disease and coincidentally the perfect drug to combat it. Ask your doctor! Do you have restless limb disorder? Should you be taking Supernewdrugthatendsinexium?”
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