by Ingrid Thoft
“I just need to get my bags,” Haley said, rising from the couch and leaving the room.
“Why do you do that, Fina?” her mother asked.
“Do what?”
“Undermine me in front of her?”
“Because you’re being ridiculous. Do you want to give Haley an eating disorder on top of everything else?”
Elaine didn’t know the whole story about Rand’s crimes and Haley’s brief time as an escort; Fina, Carl, and the other brothers had decided that telling her would only generate more grief in the family. But occasionally, Fina wondered if they’d made the right decision.
“I don’t want her to get fat,” Elaine insisted. “That’s the last thing she needs.”
“Mom, Haley is skinny! And even if she did get fat, so what? There are worse things in the world.”
Elaine sniffed. “She’ll want to look good in a bathing suit.”
“When? What are you talking about?”
“Rand wants her to visit him in Miami for spring break.”
Fina gripped the back of the couch to steady herself. “What? Why?”
“Because he’s her father, and he has someone new in his life that he wants her to meet.”
“Who?”
“A girlfriend. I don’t know all the details, but he’d like her and Haley to get to know each other.”
Fina wanted to declare that Haley would not be going to Miami to reconcile with her perverted father, but she knew that throwing down the gauntlet with Elaine would be a strategic error. It took every ounce of her strength to swallow her objections.
“Sounds interesting,” Fina said, starting to leave the room.
“I think it will be good for Haley to spend time with her father. She doesn’t have her mother, after all.”
Which is partially his fault, Fina thought. She needed to leave before her head exploded all over the deep pile carpet.
“Bye, Gammy,” Haley said from the doorway, laden with bags from their shopping spree.
“Good-bye, sweetheart. Don’t listen too much to your aunt.”
“Let’s go, kiddo,” Fina said, putting an arm around Haley and guiding her back to the kitchen. Once in the car, Fina let out a deep breath and rubbed her temples.
“Are you okay, Aunt Fina?” Haley asked.
“I’m fine. Little headache, but nothing that can’t be cured with a snack.”
“Umm. Frappes sound good.”
“Haley, you want ice cream? It’s twenty degrees out.”
“But not inside the ice cream shop,” Haley reminded her.
“Touché. Let’s go.”
—
Cristian called her as she was driving on Route 9 after dropping Haley home.
“Are you in the car?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You should pull over.”
“Why?” Her stomach did a small flip-flop. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. You shouldn’t drive and talk on the phone at the same time.”
“But I’m using Bluetooth,” Fina insisted.
“It still isn’t safe. Seriously, I’m not talking to you unless you pull over.”
“How would you even know if I kept driving?”
“The intermittent swearing at your fellow drivers would be a dead giveaway.”
“Fine.” She turned onto a side street and pulled into a no-parking zone. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m returning your call,” Cristian said.
“I did call you, didn’t I?” Fina said. “I had an interesting conversation with Kevin Lafferty this morning.”
“The NEU guy?”
“Yes, Mr. Booster. Have you spoken with him?” Fina asked.
“Yes, but why don’t you tell me about your conversation with him.”
“Okay. Maybe you heard something different, but when I first spoke with him, he told me that he hadn’t been in contact with Liz for more than a year.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But it turns out that she went to see him at his office twice in the last six weeks.”
“For what reason?” Cristian asked.
“Her husband thought they were having an affair,” she said, “but I’m not sure I buy that.”
“What reason did Kevin give?”
“He claims he was trying to dissuade Liz from pursuing the lawsuit against NEU. For her own good, of course.”
“Of course. Do you think he’s telling the truth?”
“I’m not sure, but if he was trying to dissuade her, it was for his own benefit. That guy is a complete NEU sports nut.”
“But would the lawsuit really affect him? We’re not talking about his job.”
“No, but we are talking about his life, Cristian,” Fina said. “His whole identity is wrapped up in being a booster. If he didn’t have that, he’d have to redecorate his office, at the very least.”
Cristian snorted. “How did you leave things with him?”
“He’s not very happy with me.”
“I’m shocked.”
“And there’s another angle related to him that I’m looking into.”
“Which is?”
“I’m not ready to share yet. Not until I have something concrete.”
“But when you do have something concrete, I’ll be the first to know, right?” he asked.
“You’ll certainly be the first law enforcement officer to know.”
“Great.”
“I knew that would make you happy,” Fina said. “Now I’m going to hang up and put the car in drive. Okay?”
“Good-bye, Fina.”
“Good-bye, Detective.”
—
Pamela had been building up a head of steam all day, which she managed to contain, but barely. Bobbi Barone’s announcement that Liz had donated her brain to the BU lab had set off a flurry of activity at NEU. Pamela had spent the day in a variety of emergency meetings discussing the donation and the lawsuit, which was now on everyone’s radar screen.
When she finally left the office after eight, having missed a dinner date with Deb, she felt as if she’d been wrung out like a towel. She needed to unload on someone, which is why she called Fina on her way out of the office and insisted they meet at her favorite wine bar in Charlestown.
The Vintage Wine Bar was just around the corner from Pamela’s condo and had been her “local” for more than ten years. The place was a nice mix of friendly atmosphere, outstanding wine list, and dark corners; it fit the bill whether Pamela was drowning her sorrows or having a romantic nightcap.
Located on the first floor of a brick town house, the bar boasted original dark wood beams and low ceilings. Unlike so many places that worked hard to be historic, the Vintage truly was, like much of Charlestown. Some nights, especially when it was rainy, Pamela imagined she’d stepped back in time walking the streets of her neighborhood.
Fina hadn’t balked at Pamela’s insistent invitation, and she showed up right on time. Pamela, who’d arrived early, had already downed a glass of wine.
Fina sat and looked Pamela in the eye.
“Hello, Pamela,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“Did you know about this?” Pamela demanded.
“About what?” Fina asked, glancing at the menu handed to her by the waiter. “Just a glass of Shiraz, please.”
Pamela waited for the server to retreat.
“About the fact that Liz Barone was at death’s door and was planning to donate her brain to BU?”
“Everyone knew she was at death’s door, but no, I didn’t know about the brain donation.” Fina unwound the scarf from her neck. “A little ironic, isn’t it? Yet another donation you’re not getting.”
Pamela flinched. “That’s a horrendous thing to say.”
Fina shrugged.
“You came into my office under false pretenses.”
“How do you figure that?” Fina asked. “You knew exactly who I was and exactly why I was there.”
“I didn’t know this was going to turn into a fiasco!” Pamela’s voice pitched up, and the two men at the next table over stared.
“Are you talking about the lawsuit or Liz’s murder?”
The waiter gingerly placed a wineglass down in front of Fina. “Would you ladies like anything to eat?”
“No,” Pamela responded before Fina could open her mouth. He retreated, and Fina sipped the wine. She knew nothing about wine, just that she liked some more than others.
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you upset about the lawsuit or the murder?” Fina asked. She could feel the stares of the men at the next table. “Can I help you with something?” she asked them sweetly.
“No, no,” one of them replied.
“Okay then, mind your own beeswax.”
He pulled back, offended.
“I’m upset about all of it,” Pamela explained, lowering her voice.
“I don’t understand why,” Fina said.
Pamela took a long drink from her wine. She placed the glass back on the table and wiped her mouth with her cocktail napkin.
“Here’s my take on things,” Fina said. “The lawsuit is messy for you because anything that has a negative financial impact on the university makes your life more complicated. It’s going to get really messy if the BU lab finds that Liz’s brain shows evidence of chronic traumatic encephalopathy, a nasty byproduct of her soccer playing, which I’m guessing it will. The murder is only a problem if you’re a suspect.”
“Why would I be a suspect?” Pamela tightened her grasp on the stem of her glass.
“Because you and Liz got into an argument about the lawsuit.”
“I already told you we didn’t.”
“Or maybe there is some other reason that you’re so testy,” Fina said. “Where were you the night Liz was attacked?”
“What?” Pamela’s eyes got wide. “You’re asking me for an alibi?”
“It’s a reasonable question,” Fina said.
“I was home that evening—alone.”
“Hmm,” Fina mused. “I find your reaction to all of this puzzling. I don’t get why you’re so worked up.”
Pamela tugged on her suit jacket. “I care deeply about my job and the university.”
“Neither of which are at risk, from my perspective, so I have to wonder what else is going on.”
“There is nothing else going on, but I shouldn’t expect you to have a normal reaction to these circumstances,” Pamela said. “You deal with these sorts of things every day, and you strike me as being insensitive.”
Fina smiled. “Actually, I’m quite sensitive, which is what makes me good at my job. That and my wealth of experience have honed my antennae to know when things aren’t quite right.”
“And quite modest as well,” Pamela said sarcastically. She finished her wine and signaled to the waiter for another.
“I’m not trying to be immodest, but I’m good at my job. If you’re hiding something, I’m confident I’ll find it.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Right, just being a loyal employee,” Fina said.
The waiter brought over another glass for Pamela and tipped his head toward Fina’s half-empty one. She shook her head.
“I have to ask,” Fina said. “If it turns out that Liz’s brain was damaged, don’t you think it’s better to know that than not?”
“I never said it wasn’t better,” Pamela said. “I just don’t think NEU should be held accountable for damage that nobody knew about twenty years ago.”
“I’m not suggesting they should, either.”
“But that’s exactly the kind of thing your family does: holds innocent people responsible for things out of their control.”
Fina tilted her head from side to side. “Occasionally, but more often than not, we hold people responsible for things they damn well could have stopped. You’d be surprised what people will do for money. Or maybe you wouldn’t.”
Pamela glared at her.
“This is bigger than you, and it’s bigger than me,” Fina said, sipping her wine. “It’s going to run its course. It could be worse. At least we’re not talking about a Penn State situation.”
Pamela didn’t respond.
“At least, I’m assuming it’s not a Penn State situation.” Please God, no more pedophiles, Fina thought.
“No, it isn’t, and for God’s sake, keep your voice down,” Pamela hissed. “This isn’t Silkwood, Fina. There’s nothing to expose; there’s no cover-up.”
Fina reached into her bag and pulled out fifteen bucks, which she placed on the table. She drained her wine and grabbed her jacket before standing. “If there’s anything else you’d like to discuss, you know where to reach me.”
Fina scooted between the closely placed tables and pushed out the door.
Pamela didn’t feel much better after their conversation, but she was feeling a little drunk, which was better than nothing.
—
Fina was tired when she got home. She’d kept an eye out for the dark sedan all day and other potential threats, and it had tuckered her out. Rather than head straight for bed, Fina made the mistake of flipping on the TV. She was having trouble peeling herself away from a show about a young man who smuggled drugs into some jungle nation and then was surprised to find himself locked up without due process. The show was supposed to make viewers thankful that they lived in a nation with a robust justice system, but it always made Fina wonder why the travelers were such nincompoops.
Her phone rang, and Fina answered without looking at the caller ID since she assumed it was one of the men in her life: Milloy, Cristian, or Carl.
“Yes?”
“Is this Fina?” a woman asked on the other end.
Fina muted the TV. “Yes, it is. I’m sorry. I was expecting someone else.”
“This is Tasha Beemis-Jones. I was wondering if we could meet tomorrow. I have some things I’d like to discuss.”
“Of course.” Fina clicked off the TV so as not to be distracted by the image of the traveler befriending his cellmate, a large hairy rat. “Just tell me where and when.”
“Our place. We’re in Back Bay. Can you make it at six thirty?”
“Sure.”
“Six thirty in the morning,” Tasha clarified.
“Sure.” Fina silently cursed her own can-do spirit. “What’s your address?”
After hanging up, she went straight to bed, but it took some time for her brain to settle down and succumb to sleep. She was like a kid on Christmas Eve, wondering what goody Tasha was going to bring her.
14.
Fina did not feel refreshed when her alarm sounded the next morning, but she dragged herself out of bed with the promise of an afternoon nap if needed. She wasn’t sure if this was truly the only time Tasha could talk or if she was pulling some power play, but it didn’t matter; sometimes she had to kowtow to get what she needed. Fina showered, dressed, and scarfed down a few forkfuls of leftover lo mein that she found in the fridge before heading to the Beemis-Jones household.
The power couple and their two young children lived on Marlborough Street, a couple of blocks from the Public Garden. It was one of the most beautiful streets in the city, with its old brownstones and mature flowering trees that bloomed in the spring and summer. Residents were within walking distance of Copley Square and the Charles; all of the conveniences of the city combined with beautiful architecture and a sense of history.
Fina found a parking space a few blocks away on Commonwealth and played do-si-do on the narrow sidewalks with the other early risers. She rang the bell and wa
s greeted a minute later by an exceedingly handsome man wearing dark gray suit pants, a dress shirt, and a tie.
“Fina Ludlow, right?” He offered his hand and beckoned her inside.
“Dr. Jones?”
“It’s Dwayne, but everyone calls me D. Let me help you with your coat. Tasha will be out in a minute.” He helped her pull off her jacket and hung it in the front hall closet.
“After you,” he said, pointing up the stairs. Fina got the sense that the doctor’s good manners were habitual and inbred. This was the kind of man that her mother wished she would date. Except for the fact that he was black. That would probably go over like a screen door on a submarine.
She climbed a stairway crowned with a skylight to the top floor of the brownstone. Upstairs, there were three spaces open to one another, but clearly delineated by the furniture and the use of strategic columns and coffered ceilings. The kitchen area had a substantial island and glass-fronted cabinets. Fina could see a dining room in one direction and, directly off the kitchen, a family room with two large couches. The TV was tuned to Sesame Street, and two young children were camped on the rug in front of it, both in footie pajamas. The girl looked to be five years old, and the baby boy, about one. Both were transfixed by Cookie Monster and his hijinks.
“I’m just finishing packing lunch for Lyla,” D said, nodding toward the little girl.
Dwayne Jones was about six feet two inches with broad shoulders. He was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a precision that attested to his profession. He swiftly removed the crusts from the bread and cut the remainder into four equally sized triangles.
“She hates crusts,” he informed Fina with a broad smile.
“Who doesn’t?” Fina asked, climbing onto one of the stools at the island. “You’re a surgeon, right?”
“Cardiothoracic. Can I offer you some breakfast?”
“No, thank you.”
“You sure? I’ve got some green power smoothie in the fridge.”
“That’s very kind, but I’ve already eaten.” She spared him the details of her meal.
“That’s good. You can’t function without fuel,” he said.
“I hear ya, but unlike you, no one’s life is in my hands,” Fina said.