Not bad.
“You don’t grow up in the Bronx,” Anastasia had told Lieutenant Ray Matikas one day when he asked where her edge had come from, “and not learn a few things.”
Anastasia stared at several close-ups of Lisa Marie’s face, finding herself lost in the bizarre nature of this crime.
“You still here, Rossi?” Jake asked, walking by her desk.
She looked up, her big brown eyes lonely and curious, following Jake as he made his way toward his office. “Taking one for the team, Detective.”
Jake halted before turning the corner. “I emailed you and Dickie something earlier, check it out. I need an explanation as to why you missed it. And, yeah, I need to speak with you, but not right now. Will you be around for a while?”
“Sure, Detective.”
“Give me ten.”
Snapping photos of dead bodies, tagging and bagging evidence, crawling around on all fours searching for fibers and hairs and chewed gum wasn’t what Anastasia Rossi saw herself doing after moving from New York a year ago. She had transferred from the NYPD’s hostage negotiation team. Coming to Boston, the twenty-nine-year-old had her heart set on wearing a gold shield like her dead father, Giuseppe Rossi. Crazy Joe was one of New York’s most aggressive, if not infamous detectives.
Anastasia wrote something in a notebook she kept hidden in her desk under lock and key. She looked around before reaching into the drawer, then scribbled: Jake Cooper, 7:32 PM, says he needs to “talk.”
Most everyone on the squad had gone home for the day. It was quiet. Anastasia heard the cleaning crew out in the lobby. Two guys were arguing about overtime, yelling at their foreman for being gypped a few hours in their last paycheck. Ignoring the commotion, Anastasia zeroed in on a few photos of the area surrounding Lisa Marie’s body. Lisa was placed on the edge of the Public Garden Lagoon. There was a slight hill in front of her. How had Lisa’s killer gotten her down that slope? Dead weight, Lisa weighed in at 115 pounds. No tire tracks were found anywhere on site. Did this mean the killer was a big man? A weightlifter type?
“Incredible case, huh, Rossi?” a blue from the front desk said as she walked by. She had her coat on, stopping to file a report in a nearby cabinet before leaving. “People can be so darn cruel. No legs. Incredible.” She turned away from the color image Anastasia held in her hand.
“Hi-ya, Collins.”
“Why don’t you go home? It’s late.”
“I know,” Anastasia said. “Cooper wants to speak to me, though. Can’t leave.”
Collins knew the real reason Anastasia worked so much overtime.
“Why don’t you just put in for the promotion?” Collins sat on the desk in front of Anastasia’s. “You’ll get that job. There’s a huge quota going on to fill a gender gap. Now’s the time.” Anastasia sat behind a small desk. This part of the office was set up like a school classroom. All the desks faced west, toward dispatch and the front counter. The offices were along the east wall, facing the city skyline. “You put too much pressure on yourself, Rossi. You’ll never be noticed unless you speak up. You’re a good cop. Good cops make Grade One. Take advantage of all the gender laws. They’re written for people like you.”
“That’s sweet. Thanks. I appreciate it.” Anastasia knew Collins was right, and meant well. All she ever thought about these days was finding that one piece of the puzzle in a big case that made her stand out.
Collins stood. “Think about it. I can make sure the paperwork gets into the right hands.” She started to walk away. “Rossi?”
“Yeah?” Anastasia looked up.
“Unhappiness is a temporary condition, you know. It always passes.”
“Good advice, Collins. Thanks.”
Anastasia half-smiled. Inside, she wondered if her melancholy was that obvious. She thought she was over Mr. July. Her girlfriend back home had warned Anastasia about firefighters.
Her pager went off.
Dickie? At this hour? The guy was in bed by eight-thirty.
“What’s up, Detective? Just getting ready to leave.”
“Still hangin’ around? I like your spunk, Rossi. So young and determined.” Ever since Anastasia joined the team, Dickie had taken her under his wing.
“You know we got ourselves a hot case here. I want to do all I can to help.”
“Listen, I was just talking to Jake”—big surprise—“and, well, first let me ask, are you busy this weekend?”
“No, why? What’s up?” Anastasia bellied up to her desk, elbows on the large blotter with leather corners.
“Well, I spoke to a scientist at the Boston Science Museum. You know how they have that exotic, rare plant exhibit going on?” She didn’t, but that was okay. “He suggested a botanist in New York we need to go see.”
Anastasia was elated but confused. “Sorry, Detective, not following you. How is a botanist involved in our case?”
“His name is, oh, shoot, where is that piece of paper?” Anastasia heard Dickie shuffle papers around. He put the phone down. Cursed himself for losing everything. “I sometimes think I need to be tested for dementia, Rossi.”
“You know what they say, Detective. If you forget where you put your keys, no biggie. It’s when you forget what your keys are for—that’s when you need to worry.”
Dickie hadn’t heard that one before. Cute.
“You there?” Dickie said. “Here it is …”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“We need to speak with the associate professor of plant genetics at Simmons University, in upstate New York by Erie … Doctor Albert K. Shelton.”
“And again, Detective, this is for what purpose? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I’ll fill you in during the drive, but it involves that seedling you guys bagged from underneath the Taylor kid. It wasn’t connected to any plant or vegetation in the Garden. In fact, one scientist claims, not anywhere in the state. It’s definitely significant. Jake isn’t sold on it yet, but I have one of those feelings. We might be able to locate the origin of the seedling. You know, where it’s from. It’s a start.”
Jake walked around the corner. “Must have been Dickie, right?” He smiled. Anastasia stood. “No, please sit, Officer Rossi. This’ll only take a minute. I’m on my way home.” He looked down at his watch. “Late as it is.”
Anastasia had become Jake Cooper’s go-to. She was forever tagging along with Jake and Dickie during cases. It seemed just when they were about to throw up their hands on a case and send it to the cold case dust bin, she came up with a photo or piece of evidence everyone had missed. Never a smoking gun. But Anastasia seemed to always produce something that made a lead click. It was almost, Jake considered more than once, as if she held evidence back in order to make herself look good.
“You get that text on the scallop I found in the mud near the Common Lagoon?”
“Uh …”
“Check your email, Rossi. I won’t even get into the fact that you missed that during your first sweep of the scene.”
“I will, Detective. Sorry.”
“Get back down there and process it again in the morning for me.”
“Sure thing.”
“I need you to do something else.” Jake looked around to see if anyone was in earshot. “Needs to be kept quiet, though. You up for it?”
“Sure, Detective. Whatever I can do?” Anastasia knew what it was.
Simmons U.
“When you return from New York with Dickie,” Jake whispered. This was strange to Anastasia. “I need you to go downtown and pull a case for me.” File storage at HQ was off limits to just anyone.
Anastasia was absorbed. “Sure, but—”
“I don’t care how you get in. The name’s Carmichael. Marjorie and Jeffrey Carmichael were killed inside the Ted Williams Tunnel by falling debris. Probably a closed case already, written off as an accident, but I need your opinion on something. Also check to see which law firm is representing Mr. Carmichael. I heard he’s already lawy
ered up. And what construction company was hired for work on that quadrant of the tunnel.”
“Is there anything I should know about it beforehand, Detective?”
“No. I don’t want to taint your opinion. You heard of the case?”
“That would be affirmative, Detective. All over the news these past couple days. Poor woman and her son … that dog even.” Anastasia looked over Jake’s shoulder. She saw the elevator doors pop open and heard the floor number ding. A man walked out. He was dressed in sweatpants. A windbreaker. Boston Red Sox ball cap.
“Lieutenant Matikas, Coop.”
Jake turned. Shit.
“What is he doing here at this hour?” Anastasia wondered out loud.
“You two in my office,” Matikas said, walking by them. “Now.”
Jake dropped his shoulders. Followed. Waved Anastasia on.
Inside his office, Matikas folded his arms chest-high. Shook his head side to side. He could tell Jake wanted no part of this sudden meeting. Matikas’s office was as messy as his car. Papers strewn all over the desk. Garbage can overflowing. Dust as thick as pollen on the tops of his cabinets. Cobwebs in the corners. Greasy fingerprint smudges on his computer screen.
“Why don’t you leave your door unlocked, Ray,” Jake said, “so the cleaning crew can get in here? Place is a shithole.”
“Shut up for a minute, would you, Cooper. Oh, wait. I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” Matikas tossed his keys on the desk. Medals, citations and accommodations donned the walls behind his large burgundy leather chair, studded with gold buttons. The stuffed swordfish Matikas had bagged during a trip to the Grand Banks overlooked the three of them. Its marble eye followed Jake wherever he walked in the room.
“My dinner is getting cold, Ray.”
“Why in the hell do you not answer your pager when it’s important, Cooper? Can you tell me that, please?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You know, Rossi, this detective really thinks he’s something. Some hotshot who doesn’t have to live by the same rules the rest of us do. I’ve had it, Cooper, with your attitude and bullshit. I should not have given you this case—you’re not ready for it.” Sweat rolled off Matikas’s forehead. He hadn’t taken off his windbreaker, an old softball jacket from his days of playing in the FBI’s summer league. He stunk like stale cigarettes and cabbage.
That remark smacked Jake. He was serious now. “Well, sir, I was here and I, well, you don’t want to hear my problems, now do you?”
“The only reason I’m here now—believe me, I’d rather be home watching the World Series of Poker—is because Officer Collins had the decency to answer her damn telephone and let me know you were still here. It’s the pathologist, Cooper. Kelsey has been trying to reach you for the past hour.”
This sparked Jake’s attention. “I’m all ears, Ray.”
“Has to do with those legs you found in the Taylor closet. By the way, the father is pissed. Says you should have warned him there might have been something of a ‘grotesque’—his word—nature in his daughter’s room.”
“What about those legs?”
Anastasia watched the exchange like a tennis match. She was curious, but did not want to get in between them.
“They’re not Lisa Marie’s legs, Cooper. Kelsey just confirmed that preliminary DNA does not match.”
Jake had his iPhone out, dialing Dickie before Matikas even finished.
“I’m not done here. There’s more. But you obviously have a few calls to make, so I’ll wait.” Matikas sat down.
Jake told Dickie to hold on. “What else, Ray? Come on.”
“Kelsey found some sort of a mark, like lettering, on one of the legs. I don’t know. Talk to her yourself. She’ll tell you more. Just don’t bother her tonight. She’s at a wake. Her cousin. Or some uncle.”
A thought passed through Jake: Death truly is her life. Then: “You hear that, Dickie?” Jake hung up.
“She wants you at the morgue first thing tomorrow morning. But said to call her office, she might have to meet you in Chelsea.”
Two times in a week, Jake noted.
Jake turned to leave. Before walking out, he stopped at the door. “Rossi, you and Dickie leave tonight, not in the morning. I want you two up there banging on that Simmons professor’s door while he’s in the middle of a dream. Rustle his ass out of bed and get him working on that seedling.”
“What about the crime scene?” Rossi asked.
“Let someone else go through it again.”
“Cooper?” Matikas screamed. “What’s this about Simmons University?”
Jake was on his way to the elevator.
16
Saturday, September 6 – 7:45 A.M.
The soccer field was set against the backdrop of the old oil refinery tanks, rusted and unused, set along the Mystic River, west of the Tobin Bridge. Chelsea had changed since the days when the river was a means of industry. Now junkies and the unemployed loitered about, unafraid of corrupting Boston’s historical character.
A frustrated Dawn Cooper blew the whistle hanging from her neck. It was loud and piercing, especially to kids who’d had no discipline in their short lives. Yet Dawn was not a coach who put up with any backtalk from a group of twelve-year-olds. They had better appreciate her giving up a Saturday morning to practice for the game next week. That is, if they wanted to beat the Revere Shamrocks.
“Julio Ortega,” Dawn shouted, dropping her head, “you must pass the ball if you want to score. You are not Pelé, my little Latin soldier. Now pass-that-ball.” She clapped her hands on the beat of each word. “Or you will sit out the game next week.”
The boy looked at Dawn as if she were from another planet.
“Julio’s a ballhog, Mrs. Cooper,” Mantiqua Dawkins shouted from midfield.
“I’ll handle this, Mantiqua, okay. Let’s focus on what you’re doing.”
Brendan played with his Hot Wheels in a sandbox about twenty-five yards behind Dawn. He pushed the little cars through the sand, one by one, making vrrrrrroom sounds as he pretended he was part of the Daytona 500. At the basketball court nearby, a group of older kids traded Yu Gi Oh cards. Argued over who was a better superhero: Hell Boy or Batman. There was that autumn chill in the air, a cold, wet dampness generally reserved for late September.
Dawn glanced at Brendan every so often, smiled and waved her little fingers. She took a look around the area where Brendan sat. Just to make sure all was copacetic.
“Pass the ball, Hugo,” Dawn screamed. “We cannot win—how many times do I have to say this—if we do not pass … the … ball.” She stopped play. Walked out onto the middle of the field. Her white Nike cleats kicked up wet grass behind her. She called everyone around in a circle. “You need to set your sights on the perimeter of the field and look for open teammates. Those who can drive the ball to your opponents’ side and set up the best shot at goal.”
“What’s a perimeter, Mrs. Cooper?” Bertina Jackson really didn’t know. She twirled a lock of her hair. Snapped a piece of bubble gum.
“The white lines, Tina. The outside white lines.” Dawn pointed.
“Oh, sorry … excuse me.” Bertina twisted her neck and head. “And I’m supposed to know that, right?”
The kids were loud and obnoxious. Soccer practice was a way to get off the street for the morning. Get a free breakfast out of Mrs. Cooper, some Gatorade, and not worry about being bullied for a few hours or waking up to hung-over parents.
“Now, let’s try this again.” Dawn had the soccer ball in her hands, whistle in her mouth. “Everybody understand what I’m saying?”
None of the kids responded.
Dawn backed off the field.
Thirty seconds passed. They were getting it, Dawn thought. That was all they needed, a little kick in the ass. Some direction. “Yes, Hugo, that’s it,” she encouraged. “You got it, kiddo. Keep up the good work.”
Dawn realized she had not checked on Brendan. Whenever she g
ot actively involved in hands-on coaching, Dawn told Valerie Murray, nursing a broken leg on the bench, to keep an eye on Brendan. Dawn looked over and spied Valerie staring down at her cellphone screen, tapping out a text.
Bren?
Her stomach felt a kick as she turned.
The child was gone.
“No. Valerie, where is he?”
The girl looked up.
Dawn ran.
At the sandbox, Dawn saw his toys just sitting there. Large footprints—a man’s—marked the sand next to where she was certain Brendan had been grabbed by some pedophile who now had him in his car, speeding down the road, salivating over all of the perverted things he was going do to the boy.
“Brendan?” She surveyed the park in a circle.
Those kids trading cards looked at her. Went back to what they were doing.
“Brendan!” Play on the soccer field stopped. The kids realizing what was going on.
“Brendan, damn it, where are you?” Tears now. Dawn ran to the opposite end of the playground, which was blocked by several large maple trees and a large plastic playscape donated to the park by a man whose son died of cancer. “Adam’s Land,” that section of the park was called. The father was a doctor. A doctor who couldn’t save his own son.
“Brendan?”
“Over here,” a voice shouted, “Dawn. Over here, honey.”
She stopped. Dropped to bended knees. Let out a deep breath. Thank God.
“He ran over to me,” Jake said. He was sitting on the top of a picnic table under a tree. Brendan kneeled on the bench seat between his father’s legs.
Dawn grabbed Brendan and tucked his head into her chest. Her chin rested on his head. She rocked back and forth. Stared at Jake.
How dare you.
“We’ll talk about this later, Jake.”
“What did I do? I was just driving by, thought I’d stop. He saw me. Came running.”
“You could have said something earlier. You saw me panicking.”
“I did not, Dawn.” Jake shrugged. “Well, that might teach you to keep Brendan, like I’ve said, by your side when you’re out and about.” Under Mo, when he first came up, Jake worked a few years in the child abduction unit. He’d seen things he thought happened only in Third World countries. After Dawn had Brendan, Jake went on a stranger-danger kick. He became obsessed with the notion that someone was going to grab the kid. It was this same sort of behavior that had caused Jake a few relationships. The love of his life, Jenna Connors. They dated for four years, two in high school, two out. Jake’s insecurity came in between them.
THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller Page 8