“I got it from a warehouse.”
“Why not the gun?”
“First things first.” He moves the donut and broken fork to the side. “I couldn’t just check out old evidence like a library book. I needed a little help from my contacts.”
So the watch isn’t officially in his possession. Maybe Stark is right: there’s mounting pressure to reopen the case. “How about DNA evidence?”
“We didn’t have test kits back then.”
“Personal items? Something with skin flecks? Clothing with blood?”
“Physical evidence rots if it’s not refrigerated, Reggie. Maybe you watch too much TV.”
“Don’t brush me off, Frank. I’m trying to help.”
“It helps when you tune in your psychic station. You ready?” I feel pushed but nod yes. “It won’t bother you to try it here in the donut shop?”
“Psychics can work anywhere, Frank. It’s not like a seizure. I won’t froth at the mouth.”
“I just mean—” He looks almost embarrassed. “It seems a little cheap.”
I have to laugh. “If it bothers you, we can go for cocktails at the Ritz.” He chuckles. I smile. From an inside pocket comes the watch, which he puts down on the table. It’s a small black plastic digital thing with tiny buttons and a liquid crystal screen, which is blank. The battery is dead, of course, though its working order shouldn’t matter. It just looks so impersonal, mass-produced.
I admit to this: a paranoid flicker of suspicion that this isn’t really evidence but a deliberate feint on Frank Devaney’s part. He could have taken the watch from, say, a dish of old keys and rubber bands and dried-out pens to test me, to make certain I don’t fake visions in order to stay connected to police work. Or to be sure that the so-called silent partner is straight with him, even if he’s not with me.
What do we know about each other, the ex–corporate wife and the homicide detective? That we come from different worlds, that our paths ordinarily would never cross. Yet both of us seek freedom from a troubled past. The Henry Faiser case offers us a fresh start.
I pick up the watch and clasp it between both hands and close my eyes. I hear voices out front—a dozen honey-glazed, three cinnamon, coffees. I hear greetings and good-byes. I press the watch between my palms as if to warm it. Still nothing happens.
I’m ready to give up and hand it back when my hearing changes. It’s as though I move to a different frequency, underwater or high in the earth’s upper atmosphere. Then all feeling, all sensation, throughout my body seems to drain toward my right arm, to my hand, then my thumb, my right thumb. The thumb burns, and I see something raw and red. I see red drops.
“Frank, my right thumb is burning, and I see…it’s like meat. It’s bloody meat.” My breath is heavy. “I’m not sure, but it could be human flesh.” I swallow hard. My rib, my thumb—are they connected? My body is a data bank of pain, but the meaning is totally beyond me.
* * *
Don’t even whisper the word “meat.” Or steak, chop, or drumstick. The stopwatch vision of bloody raw flesh has driven me to a tofu and veggie diet.
And what good did my “reading” do? The burning thumb and the raw flesh seemed to baffle and disappoint Devaney. Whatever he knows about the Faiser case is not in sync with a fiery thumb. He pressed for more psychic data, and I gripped the watch till both of my thumbs turned white, but nothing else came into my sixth sense. It was exhausting. Frank doesn’t seem to understand the bodily toll a psychic reading takes, how draining it is. We promised to stay in touch, but both felt down when we parted.
I’m not down for long, though. The police files are closed to a civilian, but surely, the Globe covered the story of the Eldridge fire and the shooting of Peter Wald. Going online in the newspaper’s archive, I enter keywords to search events of thirteen years ago on March 22. Interestingly, the Globe covered the fire and the shooting in separate stories. The headline on page two of the first section read, “State Senator’s Son Fatally Shot.” Peter Wald was identified as a college student known for environmental advocacy. “Shot by an unknown assailant at approximately 1:25 p.m. on the 300 block of Eldridge Street, Boston.” Taken by paramedics to Boston City Hospital, he was declared dead on arrival. Robbery is named as the suspected motive, and police were said to be searching for a black male of medium height, late teens or early twenties. Senator Jordan S. Wald, who identified his son’s body at the hospital, was said to be in seclusion.
The article contained no information on why Peter Wald was on Eldridge Street, which was, according to Devaney, a known drug dealers’ bazaar. Did the senator pull strings to suppress that information? As a parent, frankly, I would have.
Three additional articles report the arrest, arraignment, trial, conviction, and sentencing of Henry Faiser, all within the year, all reported in short columns on inside pages. Is it possible that Senator Wald exerted political pressure to get a swift conviction? If so, he’s partly responsible for an innocent man’s conviction—if Henry Faiser is innocent.
As for the fire, it received all of four inches in the Metro section, maybe 150 words altogether. A fire of suspicious origin in the 300 block of Eldridge Street destroyed three houses and an automobile body shop, B&B Auto, in the early evening hours. Firefighters arrived at 7:13 p.m. to find four structures ablaze. Though high winds hampered efforts to contain the fire, firefighters prevented its spread to adjoining streets. Residents of Eldridge Street escaped, though two unidentified bodies, thought to be homeless males, were later recovered from one unoccupied house. It is thought the fire began in that house, caused by smoldering cigarettes or drug paraphernalia.
I search for follow-up stories. There’s nothing. Didn’t any reporter look further into the fire? Didn’t an editor assign additional coverage? Evidently not. It was on to the next day’s stories and deadlines.
For the next three afternoons, I walk around the Eldridge neighborhood in search of Suitcase Mary, hoping another five dollars might pry loose additional memories of Eldridge Street life years ago. She’s nowhere to be seen, even though Biscuit is in doggie Nirvana paddling in the gutter rainwater. Meg Givens has called to schedule lunch, which is nice, although she sounded tense and admitted to problems at work. She gave no specifics.
I am brushing and vacuuming dog hairs from every surface on Sunday early afternoon. Stark—without phoning ahead, as usual—roared up a couple of hours ago and took Biscuit out for training at the nearby park.
The dog finally staggers back home, laps her whole bowl of water, and promptly collapses on her bed just off the kitchen. I’ve turned off the vacuum. “Stark, you worked her too hard.”
“Nah.”
“Just look at her little chest. It’s heaving.”
“Look at her paws, she’s dreaming about chasing rabbits. She went crazy for the puddles today, wanted to swim. You giving her too many bubble baths?”
Asleep, Biscuit growls softly, a sign of aggressiveness, which Stark loves but I find alarming in a pet. “She’s about ready for field trials,” he says. “I know a guy with a farm out in Acton.”
“Stark, that’s too far. How would you take her? Not on that motorcycle. The harness is treacherous.”
“I tinkered with one strap. Bet I could get a patent.”
“You’re delusional.”
He laughs and scans my kitchen counter. “You out of coffee?”
“I’m staging a work stoppage. This isn’t Starbucks.” I try to sound firm but come off petulant instead.
Stark says, “Maybe you should go for an outdoor workout too.”
“I work out with free weights. I keep fit.”
“Get some sunshine, vitamin D for your mood.” Then he grins, the devil in his eyes. “Anyway, you oughta be nice. I happen to have the name and address of Henry Faiser’s sister.”
“Fantastic. I mean it, great. What’s her name? Where does she live?”
“Feeling better, Cutter?” His gray eyes glint. The kitchen smells like Cam
els and leather. “You sent in your application yet?”
“Stark, you can’t force me onto motorcycles.”
“Who’s forcing? It’s a swap.”
“It’s blackmail.”
“You’ll love it. Forget your vacuum, you need a Harley. Besides, women love the leathers. So where’s the application? I’ll help you fill it out. You got boots?”
“Any woman with pantsuits in her wardrobe has boots.”
“I don’t mean candyass fashion boots, Cutter.” Candyass—his favorite put-down and a true measure of his vocabulary. “I’ll work on it.” I spend the next moments with the application. “It asks why I want to take the Motorcycle Safety Foundation course. How about ‘bullied’?”
“Try ‘recommended by friend.’ Don’t forget the check.”
I write the tuition check, and he puts the envelope inside his jacket for personal courier service. “We’re looking at a weekend in July. Now this.” He takes out a torn paper. “The name’s Kia Fayzer. She spells it different from her brother. It’s F-a-y-z-e-r. Last known address is 3529 Roland Street, Mattapan. She’s not in the phone book. I can tell you, Cutter, Mattapan’s no place for a honky lady.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You need an armed escort.” His eyes are stone-cold serious. At this moment, I do not want to know that there’s a loaded firearm concealed somewhere on Stark’s body. “All right, we’ll both go, if we take my Beetle.”
Number 3529 Roland Street is a triple-decker off Blue Hill Avenue. I park at midblock, walk to 3529, and climb onto the porch on this Sunday afternoon. Stark keeps an eye on me from the car, but Kia Fayzer is nowhere in evidence. I knock until my knuckles hurt and then look sideways left and right. On either side are identical clapboard and shingle triple-deckers, which have seen Boston’s generations come and go. Decades ago, Irish workingmen with huge families lived here, then immigrant Jews. Now it’s a black neighborhood.
Each of the three floors of every house has been cut into several apartments. On this block, the porches sag and windowpanes are cracked. Plastic sheeting is taped over some of the windows. If Henry Faiser once lived here, the route that took him to Big Doc’s compound on Eldridge seems, in economic terms, strictly lateral.
I start to go next door when a car pulls up to let out a woman with two children about six and eight years old and a baby in arms. “LaBron, get that bag. Anissa, come on back here. Carry that bag in. Where you think you’re going, girl? Get a move on, I got to get to work. I’ll be late for work.” The car pulls away. Each child stares at a grocery bag set on the curb.
LaBron, the eight-year-old, pouts. The heels of his new sneakers flash bright red with every step, but he’s unhappy. “They didn’t give us no Devil Dogs. We didn’t get no chips.”
“Hush your mouth. Get that bag.”
“Excuse me,” I say, “I’m looking for Kia Fayzer. Does she live here?”
“No Pepsi neither.”
The woman shifts the baby on her hip and looks me up and down. She looks weary but wired in grass-green capris and a cropped pink sweater. The baby sucks her tiny fist, leaving an epaulet of drool on one shoulder, an insignia I well remember. “You a caseworker?”
“I just want to talk to Kia.”
The little girl stares at the bags. “They too heavy. Make my arms hurt.” She wears white rubber rain boots, a long purple gown, and a macaroni necklace. Her short black braids are topped with a rhinestone tiara held fast with sparkly butterfly barrettes.
“Make like you’re hugging it.”
“Hug and kiss an ol’ bag? Yuck. Princess don’t kiss a bag. Princess Anissa kiss a frog tha’s a prince.”
“Frog kiss, yuck.” LaBron squats, begins hopping. He leapfrogs over the grocery bags back and forth.
“Stop that, LaBron. Grab the bag. Put your arms around it and lift up.”
I try to get her attention. “I just want to talk to Kia for a few min—”
The little girl’s bag rips as she tugs it. Canned goods spill out: beans, spaghetti, soup.
“Look now, what you did.” LaBron gloats at his sister’s mishap. Cans of food are rolling into the street. I grab one. It’s sauerkraut. I catch a can of chili as a car swerves to miss it. LaBron puts a package of buns on his head. “Bet you can’t do this, Nissa.”
“I don’t care.” She stacks two cans atop one another. “You don’t got no buns. I got ’em all.”
This is too much for Princess Anissa, who begins to cry. “Mama, make LaBron gimme the buns.”
“No buns for crybabies, nah nah.”
“LaBron, you torment your sister, you go to bed with no TV.” But he’s become a bear, maybe a tiger. Paws out, buns clenched in his teeth, he’s on all fours nosing the one intact grocery bag.
I help gather the cans. The mother says, “We got it ourself. LaBron, get up and behave yourself. Pick this up.”
“Where’s the hot dogs? They didn’t give us no hot dogs, just buns. And powder milk.” His face is a map of fury. “I hate it there. I wanna go to the real store.”
“Quit your fussin’. Get on upstairs.”
“Excuse me, about Kia Fayzer—”
“I don’t know nothing ’bout where she is.”
LaBron picks up the sauerkraut and makes a face. “How come we don’t go to the real store? Kia took us to the real store.”
“Kia lived here?”
“Hush your mouth, LaBron.”
“I wanna go see Kia. She fix me a hot dog at her house.”
“Boy, shut your mouth.”
“Where is her street?”
“Like a farm.” He moos and bellows, then makes horns and charges his sister. The mother glowers and slaps the air halfheartedly as LaBron ducks. The baby starts to cry. I hustle to the Beetle and can’t wait to check the city street atlas.
Chapter Seven
There is no Farm Street in metro Boston. I pore over the atlas and stare at Mattapan. A farm street, what would it be? Old MacDonald Avenue? I’ve tried to find Kia Fayzer online and in the phone book, but no luck no matter how I spell the name.
LaBron was a cow … No, a charging bull. This feels like charades. Or is it…Yes, here’s Angus Street, also in Mattapan.
It’s almost 3:00 p.m. Monday when I drive solo to have a look. I’m deliberately drab in navy slacks and a sweater. Biscuit rides in the backseat. Stark wants to train her to hunt rabbits, but I’m on a different hunt. The dog is my magnet.
All five blocks of Angus are a mix of apartment houses, weedy vacant lots, duplexes, one corner store. A German shepherd lunges at a chain-link fence and snarls as I pass with Biscuit on her leash. Kids just out of school, however, gather to pet her, which is my plan. Setting books and backpacks down, they stroke her ears and scratch her belly as she obligingly rolls onto her back.
“She a girl dog.”
“She lick me! Lick my fingers!”
“She sweet, she don’t bite.”
It’s during this petting-zoo moment that I ask about Kia Fayzer. At the name Kia, a boy in black jeans with white piping nods and grins. Two teen girls in flowered jackets repeat the name as if Kia is a cousin. Bingo!
“Which house?” I ask. They suddenly look puzzled. “Which apartment is Kia’s?” The boy starts to laugh. The girls giggle. “Where does she live? Which building is Kia’s?”
Three girls in plaid uniforms start to hum a tune. “Does she live in the brick one?” Now a dozen children laugh, elbowing and egging each other on. “Kia,” I say again, and they grin as if I’m a Pied Piper of the funny bone. I don’t get it. They’re singing about “my neck, my back.” They all know the words.
And it dawns on me: there’s a recording artist named Khia. She’s one-name-only, like Cher and Madonna. I say, “Fayzer,” and the kids all shake their heads and go blank. The girls get a jump rope and start double Dutch. The German shepherd is frantic, and Biscuit whines until I carry her in my arms three blocks up to the corner store, Fern Market.
&nb
sp; The steel-grilled door stops me. Ads for Kools and Newports plaster the front glass so I can’t see inside. “Market” sounds harmless, but what of Stark’s warning about an armed escort? What if I walk in on something—a drug deal, a gun buy? No Tsakis brothers will greet me here. No Nicole Patrick will run interference. My lily-white hide is on the line all by itself.
Move it, Reggie. A man sits year after year in prison for a murder he possibly did not commit. Get going. So I step into the small market, which smells of Fritos and chicken. The sound track is hip-hop, which is hideously familiar from my Jack’s teen years when our whole house was hammered by Tupac Shakur and Puff Daddy. Decent music ended with the Bee Gees, Marty insisted, one of the few points on which we agreed. Fern Market sells cigarettes, malt liquor, lottery tickets, and bobbleheads of Celtics and Patriots team members. I buy a scratch card and ask a solemn clerk in a ribbed sweater about Kia Fayzer. “I just want to talk to her for a few minutes.”
He shrugs. “Can’t help.”
“It’s about a family matter.”
“Be anything else?”
Biscuit whimpers, and I hold her close and leave. In front of the store, two young men in dark suits with rumpled white shirts hang out. They eye me while pretending not to, and I eye them the same way. “I’m looking for Kia Fayzer.” Their eyes go blank, and they turn away, which is my cue to exit their space. Instead, I linger. What have I got to lose? “I want to talk with her for a few minutes. LaBron says she lives here.”
A minute passes. “Which LaBron that be?”
“From Roland Street. Here in Mattapan.”
“You lookin’ for LaBron?”
“No, for Kia Fayzer.” They sway, and I realize they’re either drunk or stoned. Their shirts puff out of their pants, and their pockets gape. I spell “Fayzer” and say it again.
“Sure am dry,” says the taller one. “Dry as a desert.”
The shorter one rubs his throat. “Colt 45 wet me down good.” I remember the malt liquor from Jack’s teen drinking. The shorter one gives Biscuit a little scratch. “What you want with Kia?”
Now You See Her Page 6