Heart of the World

by Linda Barnes

  I jammed the lid on the specters as the elevator doors opened. Second floor. Forensics to the right, Major Cases and Homicide to the left. I turned left and made my way down cool blue-gray carpeting to Mooney’s office. He’s Head of Homicide, has been for years. Every now and again, the brass threaten to elevate him to Bureau Chief of Investigative Services, but he promptly reminds them how badly he plays the game of inter-departmental politics, and they leave him in peace.

  His door was open as usual. He was on the phone, nodding and muttering. Often when I think of him, the image comes with a receiver planted in his ear, a toothpick jutting from the corner of his mouth. Used to be a cigarette, but he keeps trying to reform, and lately it’s been a peppermint-flavored toothpick grabbed from one of many eateries scattered around town. I kid him that he chooses his restaurants based on the availability of flavored toothpicks.

  His blue broadcloth shirt was tucked into gray pants. The matching jacket hung over the back of the chair in the corner. Made me wonder whether he had a trial date, but no tie, so maybe not, maybe just an afternoon meeting with a bigwig. Mooney doesn’t pay attention to clothes; he buys shirts on sale by the half-dozen, and they all look the same. Not like Sam.

  Why do I always compare the two, even though Moon and I have never been an item? Why do I still think we might be, someday? He’s tall, with a linebacker build, a round Irish face, and sad brown eyes. He’s not graceful or elegant or drop-dead sexy like Gianelli, but when we worked together, I had to steel myself against him. Lock the door and toss away the key; no way was I going to sleep with the boss. Maybe what’s left is simply curiosity, wondering what I missed.

  I don’t kid myself. One of the reasons I can walk into Moon’s office is that the powers that be assume we sleep together. They wink at it, never thinking that Moon might be giving a PI info she shouldn’t have. Don’t think I don’t use the few advantages a woman has in this system. Unfortunately, most of them involve sex or being seriously underrated. I always think the guys will learn, but they don’t.

  Mooney never had to be taught. Not by me. I never got along with his mother, but she did something right with her boy. Mooney and I can work together.

  Could work together. Used to work together. I sucked in a breath. He needed to know what was going on, but I was reluctant to offer up yet another aspect of my life for criticism.

  His office was as impersonal as ever. If you went by Moon’s decor, you’d think there was an injunction from on high: no posters, no photos, no plants. You’d think he had no bossy mom, no self-involved longdistance sisters, no ex-wife. He swiveled his chair abruptly, as though sensing my scrutiny.

  “What? No food?” he said, replacing the receiver. No hello, no smile, still annoyed about Sam. “What do you think you’re gonna worm out of me, you don’t even bring me a doughnut as a peace offering?”

  Add a stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts to the twenty other things I should have done and didn’t. I sank into his spindly guest chair and closed my eyes for an instant, hoping that when I opened them again they’d focus clearly.

  Mooney’s voice broke through the fog. “What’s wrong?”

  Just blurt it out, I ordered myself. “Paolina. She’s gone, and I don’t know where else to—”

  “Whoa, whoa— Gone? Her and Marta? The whole family?”

  “Just her. Went to school Friday, went to a party Friday night, and nobody’s seen her since.” There. The words were out; harsh, bald, and ugly. Nobody’s seen her.

  He put his pen down carefully on the desk, as gently as if both desk and pen were made of glass. “Carlotta, it’s Wednesday.” Which meant: Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

  “I’m sorry, Moon. I didn’t find out till Monday night. Marta assumed Paolina was with me; I don’t know why. I wasn’t supposed to see her last weekend. Then I thought—I assumed she was with Diego, her boyfriend. Took me till this morning to track him down. He doesn’t know where she is.” It cost me, using “assumed” to describe what I’d done; assuming anything is a cardinal sin in an investigation.

  “Is he telling the truth?”

  Not, “Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Moon still trusted my judgment in matters unrelated to romance. I pictured the kid’s lumpy broken nose, the hurt in his eyes.

  “He didn’t know she was gone.” I wondered briefly whether I still trusted my judgment. “They broke up Friday night.”

  “Give me his name.”

  I spelled it out, gave his aunt’s name and address as well, told Moon everything that had gone down at Josefina Parte’s apartment. He made notes.

  “So the kid might already be in the system,” he said. “Name of the guy who hit him?”

  “I didn’t get it.”

  “You didn’t think he was a player.”

  I shook my head. “A two-bit bully.”

  He said, “Okay, what lines are you following?”

  “I’ve done a Missing Persons in Cambridge and Watertown. Gloria’s got the cabbie-network looking. Roz is interviewing high-school kids. Kinko’s is running off copies of a photo. I’ve called at least fifty shelters. I’m planning to visit the locals this afternoon, but—”

  “What are you trying to say, Carlotta?”

  “Her favorite jeans are in the closet at my place. Her best boots. Her toothbrush is in the bathroom.”

  “A toothbrush is easy to replace.”

  “Yeah, but Mooney—all those things, what do they add up to? If I hadn’t known about Diego, fastened on Diego—”

  His eyes flickered. “You’re thinking she didn’t run. That she was taken?”

  I nodded, grateful he hadn’t made me say the words.

  “Okay, Carlotta, let’s get this straight. You’re saying that if this were a client, if Marta came to you with this, and you didn’t know Marta, that’s what you’d think?”

  “Shit, Mooney, I do know Marta. Matter of fact, that’s something you can do. Marta’s got a new man, a guy named Gregor Maltic. Can you run the name, see if he’s got a record?” I was avoiding his question. I knew it; he knew it, but he just passed me a sheet of paper and asked me to print the name.

  I didn’t know the answer to the question because it was Paolina, because it was Marta, because I wasn’t objective about any of this. I was flat-out scared.

  He said, “Okay, how else can I help? Let’s do a full-court press on this. You check the buses, the trains, the airlines?”

  The word “help” shifted the knot in my throat and suddenly I could talk more freely. “I did buses, Roz did trains, Lemon hit the ticket counters with a photo. Gloria phoned the airlines. Lemon handled Logan, too. Paolina wasn’t holding a reservation.”

  “I’ll get somebody to check passenger lists.”

  She was smart enough to use an alias. Mooney knew that as well as I did. I knew without asking that he’d extend the search to similar names, to Paula Fords and Patsy Fines.

  He pressed his lips together and stared at the phone. “School locker?”

  “I’m on my way to check it now.”

  “She have a credit card? Cash?”

  “No card. I don’t have any idea how much cash, but she can’t get into our joint account without me, and Marta’s not missing any money.”

  “You tracing calls?”

  I nodded. “Number ID on my phone and Marta’s.”

  “Good, that’s good.”

  “But if she calls my cell…”

  “Yeah,” he said, “damn cells. She calls you there you gotta find a way to talk her in.”

  “Moon, there haven’t even been hang-ups. I’m doing everything I can think of—”

  “Now we’ll do everything the both of us can think of.”

  “Thanks.”

  He looked away, rubbing his jawline like he was checking to see whether he’d remembered to shave. He used to use the gesture in interrogations, right before springing a tough question on a suspected perp.

  “Carlotta,” he said quietly, “did the t
wo of you fight?”

  “Jeez, Mooney, I’d have told you if—”

  “What about Gianelli?”

  “What about him?” I snapped the question off, jaw tight. Mooney didn’t reply right away, just stared at me, waiting. “Mooney, Sam and Paolina get along fine.”

  “Yeah, Carlotta, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You ever think that somebody who wants his own back with Gianelli—and that list’s gonna run to a couple hundred creeps—might take it out on you or the kid?”

  I was shaking my head before he finished the sentence. “Sam’s not—”

  “Please, Carlotta, don’t tell me what he is. You asked me to check out this Gregor Maltic, right? Just because he’s seeing Marta? Find out what kinda stuff he’s into? Well, I don’t have to run any check on Gianelli to know he’s big trouble. I hear things that keep me up nights.”

  “Mooney—” I held up a hand to stop him, but I guess he’d been hanging on to what he wanted to say so long he couldn’t control the flow once the dam broke.

  “This old-school North End Boston Mafia crap is over, Carlotta. This isn’t some Godfather movie with family loyalty and old men kissing each others’ rings. It’s big fish chomping little ones, and the Boston Mob is small-time, always has been. New York’s coming to town, and Miami, too. Believe me, Gianelli couldn’t get a life insurance policy from Lloyds of London. And you want me to check on Maltic, see if he’s trouble?”

  I sucked in a deep breath and stood. My head was pounding again and I had to make an effort to keep my voice level. “Look, I just came to let you know what’s going on, to say I appreciate anything you can do.”

  “Ask Gianelli what he knows about contract killers from Miami. Ask him where Paolina is.”

  Contract killers from Miami? I tried to swallow, but the lump was back in my throat. “He doesn’t know where she is.”

  “How come you think he’s telling you the truth, Carlotta? You tell him from me, if he knows anything about this he’s not telling—”

  “That’s enough, Moon. I’m sorry I—”

  “Oh? You think that’s enough?”

  More than enough, I thought. Stop, I thought.

  “Then you didn’t come here to ask if I’d found any Jane Doe teens these past few days?”

  I stared at the same blue-gray carpet that ran down the hallway. There were scuff marks near the corner of his desk. A phone rang several offices away, once, twice, three times.

  “I’m sorry, Carlotta. That was out of line, and I’m sorry.” His hand was on my shoulder before I realized he’d moved from behind his desk. “Look, give me her picture so I can fax it around. You must have something more recent than this.”

  His top desk drawer was open; he must have removed the photo from the drawer. He’d not only kept, but framed Paolina’s school shot from two years ago. Why keep a framed photo in a drawer? I thought as I handed him a wallet-sized update.

  “I’ll messenger a bigger one once we get the copies.”

  I could have saved my breath. I don’t think he heard me. He was staring at the photo, taking in the changes, eyeing the sleek hair, the curve of a breast in the V of the low-cut blouse, the kohl-rimmed eyes.

  “God,” he said, “nobody’s gonna buy her being underage.”

  “She’s fifteen, Mooney.”

  “How the hell did that happen?” he said, shaking his head from side to side, as though denial could stop time in its tracks. As though anything could.

  CHAPTER 5

  I made it to my car as quickly as the icy sidewalk would allow, beating out a meter-reader by a good ten seconds, shoving the keys at the ignition while trying to simultaneously slam the door and eyeball my watch. Didn’t work; the keys flew out of my hand and came to rest on the floor at my feet, and then I was leaning my forehead on the steering wheel, blinking to hold back tears, praying the meter maid wouldn’t notice and haul me out of the car for a breathalyzer test.

  Damn Mooney anyway. He hadn’t quizzed me about any crazed felons I’d nailed when I was a cop, any goon recently freed from prison and hungering for revenge. No, he’d gone straight for the jugular, straight for Sam Gianelli. And damn Sam for not saying a word about any work-related troubles. But how could I damn him for not telling me what I’d expressly said I didn’t want to hear?

  I fumbled on the floor mat till my hand found the keys. Studied my watch in disbelief. There are times when the clock moves slowly and times when it speeds; it had sprinted for the finish line while I was closeted with Mooney. I’d be hard pressed to meet Roz at the high school. I ran a hand through my hair and promised myself time for a full-blown breakdown at a later date. The meter maid was watching, her face carefully blank. I gave her a smile that must have looked more like a grimace and gunned the engine.

  Cutting behind the Museum School, speeding down Fenway to Park Drive, I tried to outrace what Mooney had said about Sam. And failed. I’d need to talk to him, mention the unmentionable. I couldn’t avoid the consequences of my actions any more than Josefina Parte could—or Marta Fuentes, for that matter. Across the BU Bridge, traffic crawled on Putnam Street. The question wasn’t whether anyone was crazy enough to take their hatred for Sam out on Paolina; people are looney enough to hijack airplanes and shoot up their local elementary schools. A line of cars waited to cross Mass. Ave. at Putnam Circle, delayed by semi-frozen pedestrians darting suicidally across the street against the light.

  Cambridge Rindge and Latin, a huge concrete bunker located next to the public library, has been remodeled and restructured and redesigned so many times I never know what to expect when I walk past the metal detectors. Those, I expect. And the smell of chalk dust, unwashed bodies, wet sneakers; the smell manages to stay the same.

  Quarter to three. I sucked in a deep breath. Where had the long hours gone? The bell had chimed to end the day; the kids had fled, loosed into the community. One had left a backpack and a torn blue sweater at the curb, lying in a heap like a forlorn abandoned pet. They weren’t Paolina’s; her backpack is worn and red. Someone else, or maybe the same careless teen, had left a battered French horn case on the front stoop.

  Roz was in the lobby, sipping from a steaming Styrofoam cup, sitting on a bench with her knees drawn up, staring at nothing while two loitering teenage boys watched her out of the corners of their eyes, trying to look up her skirt. She wore ripped black tights, high-heeled boots, a short red wool skirt, and a low-cut plum-colored top that clung to her breasts like paint. Her hair was silvery white, her lipstick deep purple. A silver stud pierced her left nostril. When she saw me, she lowered her legs, and the boys averted their gaze. Slowly she got to her feet and wandered in my direction. I kept walking. We strolled past the principal’s office, turned a corner, and stopped near a deserted stairwell.

  “I dunno.” She shook her head slowly, frowning. “These kids, man, like to them, I’m old. I’m not sure they’re dealing straight up with me.”

  “The dudes in the lobby thought you were hot,” I said to comfort her, and the thought cheered her enough to give me what little she had. Aurelia Gutierrez, Paolina’s best friend, insisted that Paolina hadn’t said word one about running away. The truant officer, recently returned to duty, was clueless, an old townie more eager to reminisce about other missing kids who’d eventually turned up than reveal anything about current cases. Paolina’s homeroom teacher had treated Roz to a lecture on school overcrowding, Proposition 21/2, and local property taxes, his way of saying he had too many kids to grade, much less monitor for quality of life.

  “Get back to Aurelia; go for gossip. Any point in me talking to the homeroom guy?” I was thinking maybe he hadn’t responded positively to Roz’s outfit.

  “You need a lecture, go right ahead.” She glanced at the back of her hand where numerals were scrawled in bright blue ink. “I got her locker number: 2336. The bastard wouldn’t open it, so I pled my case with the janitor. Read me the riot act on First Amendment rights.”

  Where else but Ca
mbridge can you find a janitor in touch with the First Amendment? “When does he go home?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “You know the kind of guy, looks like he lives here. Oh, yeah, I got the flyers. Guy at Kinko’s said it was his third missing-kid sheet this week.”

  It was going to come to that, sticking her picture up on street signs and telephone poles, on community bulletin boards in Shaw’s and Whole Foods, like a lost dog. I tried not to think about all those kids with their faces on the backs of milk cartons.

  I said, “Where’s the janitor now?”

  “I told you, he’s not gonna—”

  “Find him and stay with him, come on to him, whatever. I’m gonna do her locker and I don’t want interruptions.” “Bust the lock?” she said eagerly.

  “Keep him occupied.”

  Locker 2336 was on the second floor down a long hallway of locker-lined walls broken by classroom doorways. The linoleum gleamed underfoot, and the low hum of a polisher buzzed along an intersecting corridor. The tubby janitor had his back toward me as he shoved the machine, heading away from my destination with a long path yet to shine. If he was the same janitor who’d given Roz the legal two-step, I hoped she’d have the brains to let him work.

  I’d transferred a prybar from the car trunk to my backpack, just in case, and I was tempted to use it simply because it would have felt good, the exertion, the satisfaction of twisting metal. I hadn’t played volleyball or gone swimming at the Y, hadn’t gotten any of the physical exercise I normally get, and I could feel tension knotting my neck and shoulders. I regretted the prybar as I manipulated the lock, but there was no need for it. You’re a PI and you can’t bust a school locker without a bar, it’s time to find a new racket.