“At the speed of light.”
“It’s specially hard on the All Souls community. We’re in shock because the victim took part in a program we administer.”
“Big Buddies?” She nods. “That’s the reason I’m here, Rev. Welch. I found your name in a letter in Jo’s files. She knew the man who was murdered, and I sublet my upstairs flat to him based on their acquaintance. He told me he volunteered as a Big Buddy. I’m hoping you can tell me about the boy Steven Damelin mentored… Luis.”
“I’m sorry. Our program records are confidential.”
I expected this, but I have a strategy. “I’m not asking for a profile, only Luis’s full name and address. You see, Steven told me he planned to give his buddy a gift, a blue Lava lamp he was sure the boy would like.”
She twists a pencil. “Maybe one of our staff could see that the young man gets it.”
“That’s good of you, but, frankly, I have a selfish motive. It’ll help me cope with the tragedy to present the lamp in person. Steven was devoted to Luis. If I could go to his home and give him the lamp and look into his eyes and say a few words . . . you see, the police have authorized me to dispose of Steven’s furnishings, and I’ll feel so much better to represent his last wishes in person.”
She hesitates.
I lean toward her as if to confess. “I found the body, you see. This request is for me too. It would help so much. Both psychologically and…”
“Spiritually?”
“Exactly.” I sit with folded hands while Gail Welch inwardly tussles with this conflict: the rules of the Big Buddies program versus Reggie’s heartfelt request. Yes, I’ve put her in an awkward spot, but can a minister resist a spiritual plea? Surely not. I sit quietly with eyes downcast and demure.
Finally the minister murmurs, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” I catch a whiff of her scent, green tea, and for the next fifteen minutes barely move until Rev. Welch reenters the office holding a slip of paper. “This is the full name and address. He lives in Jamaica Plain.”
I stand, my fingers laced reverentially. “Rev. Welch, how can I thank you? I can’t begin to express my—”
“Save it, Reggie.” That sardonic smile returns. “Twice around the block in a clerical collar, you learn a thing or two about maneuvers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s almost always a spiritual angle.”
I start to squirm and flush.
“Folks think piety pays. Often it does. But there’s no shortage of faith-based scams. We ministers hear at least one daily pitch. It’s only nine-thirty a.m., and you’ve met my quota.”
My cheeks are fiery.
“We’ll probably be involved in planning a memorial service. Maybe you’d like to lend a hand. As for Luis, Jo Cutter told me you had her psychic gift. And that means you’re probably working with the police. Is that right?”
I nod.
“Then I’m betting this slip of paper is a psychic’s head start on a quest for justice. Here at All Souls, we go in for justice. We think it has a spiritual side. I’ll be in touch about the memorial service, and we invite you to come join us some Sunday.”
Who’s on my front stoop when I return but R. K. Stark, one hip against the door frame, lounging as if 27 Barlow is a Hell’s Angels hangout. The Harley is parked against the curb. He says, “Good timing.”
Terrible timing. He’s come to take Biscuit. Must I beg for a few more days with her? With shiny new door keys turned in the new locks, I open up, pausing while Stark certifies Right True Clean’s “good job” on my door. I try to be stoic as Biscuit goes into raptures and I brew a pot of robusta. Stark leans back against my countertop and says, “You’re back to life, Cutter. Getting some sleep?”
For the second time in an hour, I blush. His nightly patrol has made Barlow Square a comfort zone. He deserves appreciation, not resentment over the dog. “I never thought a Harley would sing me to sleep, Stark. I’m very grateful.”
“No problem. Bikers like to ride. As you’ll soon find out.”
“Oh no. I can’t take that motorcycle course. I’ve changed my mind on that.”
“Your check is cashed.”
“Consider it a contribution to…”
“The Motorcycle Safety Foundation. They expect you.”
“I’m too busy.”
“Not that busy. You like riding on Fatso, right? Right?” In fact, I do. Straddling the bike, holding on to Stark as he weaves through traffic and roars along the Charles, well, it’s a thrill. “Wild and free, Cutter. Now that Brando’s gone to the great beyond, you got me and Fatso.”
I also have Stark’s version of personal care, as he and I both know. He’s rescued me in the nick of time more than once on the bike. The notion that I ought to be able to operate it… we both agreed I ought to be able to take over in a pinch. It seemed sensible at the time—and exciting too. That, however, was then. “Stark, I have a murder on my mind.”
“All the more reason. You need an outlet.”
“Need?” My chest suddenly gets hot. It’s the years-long, pent-up heat that a woman feels. “Stark, all my life, various men have told me what I need. At this point, I am at liberty. I decide for myself what I need.”
He does the hands-up surrender, but his stance is sinewy, and I see irony. In silence, I pass his mug and sugar. He says, “Don’t get in an uproar. The biker course, we’ll get to it. I’m here for something else.”
“For Biscuit.”
He shakes his head and slurps his syrupy coffee. I smell tobacco. His gray eyes are flecked with amber. That ruler-straight mustache, he must trim it daily, wherever he lives. I’m never sure, because he lives, so to speak, off the grid. And possibly hand to mouth, except that a Harley Fat Boy model costs many thousands, so I don’t know. His cell phone links me to him, but not to his whereabouts. “How’s your upstairs, Cutter? Cleaned up good?”
“I… I haven’t gone up there.”
“Too busy? No problem. I’m here to help you move the guy’s stuff.”
“Steven’s furniture? But where?”
“Downstairs.” I blink, confused. “To the basement. My former home, remember? You’re gonna need a new tenant for the next few months, right? Unless Doc Tooth shows up.”
Good Lord, I hadn’t thought it through. The next months’ rent… Stark is right, I need the income. I’ll need a tenant fast.
“So,” he says, “you’re up for heavy lifting?” He’s shamelessly surveying my upper body to guess whether I can shoulder my end of Steven Damelin’s furniture. Before the move, before the blue car, before my knee and elbow and the purple bruise on my calf, I did four sets with ten-pound free weights every other day. It’s about my arms in sleeveless clothes. Or it was. Stark’s irises flicker with doubt.
“Let’s go,” I say. “I’m on.”
For one thing, these South End houses were not built for hauling bulky durables up and down the narrow halls and staircases. Furniture must be upended and angled, and I never was that good at geometry.
We go upstairs. I’ve now changed into jeans, sneakers, and an old Northwestern U sweatshirt of Jack’s. At Steven’s door, I take a deep breath, and we enter rooms thick with pine disinfectant. The furniture arrangement would surely revolt Steven—as if Right True Clean learned room interior design from TV sitcoms.
We go room to room, bed to bath, all spick-and-span everywhere. “No sign that anything bad happened here,” I say softly. But I tug out a drawer, which is jammed with papers, rolls of tape, combs, scissors. Could any of these ordinary objects be clues? “The police took a lot of stuff.”
“And left a lot too.” Stark carefully guides a pencil into the same drawer, retrieves a staple gun, which he pincers between two fingers with a handkerchief. “Something like this,” he says. His eyes look sly. “You never know.”
I watch him put it back. Deft fingers, a sure touch. What did he do in the Marines? He seems to have the skills of a criminal and a Delta Force c
ommando. Which are the same skills, when you think about it.
We move on, though an empty, mournful feeling takes over. For the first time, those Egyptian tombs furnished for the afterlife make sense. Without the person, the possessions lose their life too.
Stark lifts a zebra headboard, more bulk than weight. We carry it together. He is testing me. Damned if I’ll falter. I must admit, the man has a genius for spatial fit. If he says the headboard will clear the stairs, it does. Ditto the chairs, chests, and a bookcase.
Then the basement, an issue in itself because of the claustrophobia that lurks in my very rib cage. Fears aren’t conquered. They live inside forever, at best in remission, at most kept at bay. Stark carries down a small table, which rattles. I pull out its drawer, which is empty. “How come it rattles?”
He feels the sides and top and chuckles. “Watch this.” The top slides in a groove, and here’s a hidden compartment, which is filled with cell phones.
“Whoa, that guy was Mr. Cellular.”
“Do they work?”
He shakes his head. “They’re too old.”
“Nokia, Motorola. I count eight.”
“Nine. All junk.” He slides the table back together while I shelve the Lava lamp. “How’d the guy live with this stuff?”
I look him in the eye. “He didn’t.” Cheap touché.
We continue working, and the furniture gets heavier. “How’s your pretty fingernails, Cutter?”
Ruined, every one. “They grow fast, Stark.”
I give no hint of my claustrophobia, but my arms start to tremble, while Stark is just warming up. I think of those boot camps where people survive only if they cooperate; my ex, Marty, who was dangled by ropes one time at a company retreat and vowed never again. Finally the last big piece, the sofa. “Let’s go,” I say.
Stark shakes his head. “Sofa’s too heavy.”
“Have I dropped my end yet? Have I?”
He ignores me. “Couple weeks, I can get somebody to help.”
“I can help.” The truth is, I’m ready to collapse.
“Forget it, Cutter. We’re knocking off for the day.”
We stand on a landing. I offer him a drink. He says no. We go downstairs.
“What about the bloody door?” he asks. “You find a translator yet?”
“I tried. I took my photos to Chinatown. How about some pineapple? Because that’s what I got out of Chinatown, a pineapple. I called the colleges, but the professors of Chinese seem too busy to get in touch. I should camp outside one of their office doors.”
“Let me have one of those snapshots you took.”
“You know somebody who reads Chinese—if it’s Chinese?”
“Maybe.” The usual Stark response. Where specifics are concerned, the man is a black hole. “What’s next, Cutter? You gonna plan a sidewalk furniture sale?”
“I might go to Jamaica Plain. There’s a boy Steven mentored in a program, Luis Diaz. I have his address. Or I might go up to Lawrence to try to talk to Steven’s family.”
“Lawrence? Tough town. You know where they live?”
“I’m working on it.”
He gives me a sideways look. “Tomorrow?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“Probably after breakfast.”
“Let’s make it eight. I’ll get the dog and take her for a run, then we’ll go.”
“So you’re not taking Biscuit with you now?”
“Cutter, if there’s one thing you need, it’s a watchdog. If there’s one thing a beagle is bred to do, it’s bark like the devil. Give a listen for Fatso after midnight. Ciao.”
I’ve showered and cleaned up and had a bite when the phone rings. It’s Devaney.
“Reggie, how you doing?”
“Not bad, Frank, considering. The cleaners did a good job. That helps.”
“We thought we’d hear from you by now. How’s the mail? Ed’s hoping you’ll spot something useful.”
“What about the sheet of penciled numbers the cleaning crew found behind the mantel upstairs? It was a Corsair Financial sheet, and I sent it to Detective Maglia. Did he mention it?” Devaney grunts, and I can’t tell whether it’s a yes or no.
“The rest is mostly junk… autumn markdowns, credit card come-ons. I’ve sent the whole batch. And I stopped by a club that Steven patronized, the Apollo Club. I left a message about it for Detective Maglia. It’s a gay men’s club. A manager named Matt Kitchel knew that Steven was murdered.”
Devaney doesn’t choose to discuss this. He changes the subject to neighborhood patrols. “They’re unmarked cars in your neighborhood, Reggie. I shouldn’t tell you, but look for dark green Chevy Impalas.”
“Frank, what about the lab report on the blood on my door?”
“It’s not in yet. They’re backed up.”
“And the markings… has a language expert seen the police photos?”
“It’s the damnedest thing. Everybody we’ve tried is unavailable at the moment. Ed says they must’ve chartered a plane to Beijing. Or maybe Tokyo.”
“Hilarious, Frank. Wonderful to hear that Homicide has a sense of humor.”
“Reggie, hang on. We’re working on leads. I expect to get back to you early in the week. Be sensible. Take care. We’ll be in touch. Just one thing—Ed asked me to remind you. Homicide wants to know if you plan to leave the state.”
Chapter Sixteen
Saturday, 8:03 a.m. Here’s Stark on Fatso. He’s in the same outfit, the jeans, boots, the USMC jacket. In minutes, we’re in my Beetle on I-93 north. Biscuit’s settled on the backseat on a towel. Gripping the wheel, I say, “We’re going to 734 Croker Street.”
“That’s the Damelins’ place? You’re sure?”
“I’m guessing. I got an address off the Web and matched it with a phone number.” Stark studies the route map and says the passenger seat feels like a Spam can. A truck cuts in, and he mashes a phantom brake.
By 10:15, we’ve crossed the Merrimack River by the brick hulks of abandoned mills and exited into a section of old clapboard houses on narrow lots. Croker Street comes up on the left, and a half dozen kids in Bruins shorts play street hockey in front of 734, which is an asphalt-shingled foursquare with a sagging roofline and flaking paint. A jaundice-yellow taxi in the driveway says “Charlie’s Cab” on its side in crooked Gothic lettering.
This can’t possibly be Steven’s family home, but there’s nothing to lose. “It’s worth a try. I’ll be right back.”
Stark grunts and stays put. Biscuit naps. I ring the bell, hear nothing inside, knock hard. A face appears at the two little shadow-box panes, and the door opens slightly.
In the woman’s thin face before me I see traces of Steven, except that her expression is wary and weary, as if all his boyishness got reworked into hardship. In black sweatpants and a faded blue cardigan, she could be fifty. Or seventy. She wears no makeup. Her hair is the inky black of a bathroom sink dye job. Could she be Steven’s grandmother?
Her voice is pinched and nasal. “What is it?”
“My name is Regina Cutter. I’m from Boston. I’m here about my late tenant, Steven Damelin. Are you a relative?”
Her chin trembles. Her eyes are filmed over. Cataracts? Cataracts of pain. She starts to speak.
But a man bellows, “Who’s at the door, Doris?”
I recognize the vocal rasp. It’s the voice on the message machine. Doris seems to shrink as he suddenly looms up behind her, unshaven with graying hair, thick furry arms, and piggy eyes. His soft pale chest is blazoned with a faded tattoo of a hula dancer. He clamps a hand on Doris’s shoulder and glares. “Whatever you got, we don’t want it.”
“I’m here about the late Steven Damelin. I’m looking for his family.”
“Shut that door, Doris.”
“But, Char—”
“Shut the goddamned door.”
Bang. The hockey stops dead with a shot that sends the pink ball under the
cab. The boys gather at the edge of the driveway. One pokes his stick toward the bumper. It doesn’t begin to reach. Inside the Beetle, Stark is on his cell phone. Biscuit’s nose is a black button against the window glass. The kids appoint a player to retrieve their ball, and the boy walks as if the asphalt might split open and swallow him up. The front door opens again. It’s Doris.
“You kids, get offa this property right now.”
She eyes me, hesitates, then grabs my elbow in a forced march down the walk. She does not look at my face but says, “Hinkton Avenue, number 869. You want to talk to Crystal.” She repeats the address and Crystal’s name, still pressing my elbow. As Stark and I drive away, Doris is poking underneath the cab with a hockey stick she wields like a broom.
A blue curtain parts a few inches when I knock at 869 Hinkton, which is a gray clapboard duplex a few blocks from Croker. Stark got directions from an Amoco cashier. Otherwise, we haven’t spoken.
In this open doorway, I face a woman in her late twenties, her cheeks more chafed than rosy. She’s dark-eyed, about my height but big-boned, wearing tight leggings and a green Polo Ralph Lauren shirt. Around the eyes there’s maybe a hint of Steven. She holds a baby in a hot-pink jumper that says “Spoiled Rotten By Grandma.” The complexions of mother and baby are pallid. The baby, about eighteen months old, clasps a Barney.
“Are you Crystal? Doris sent me to talk to you. I’m Regina Cutter. I’ve come up from Boston. It’s about Steven Damelin.”
“You another cop?”
“No. I was Steven’s landlady just before he died.”
“I’m not payin’ his rent. You’re out of luck.”
“This is about Steven’s furniture. It’s for his family.”
Her eyes suddenly glitter. “I’ll take it.”
“Could I talk to you for a few minutes first?”
She motions me inside, where it smells of sour bedding and burned toast. In the kitchen, she points to a dinette table and puts the baby in a high chair with a Fig Newton from an open package. A TV plays in another room. “This is Faith.”
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