The man gave her his small crooked smile and stayed where he was.
Distracted, Patrick looked over his shoulder before turning back to Rosaria. “He’s looking at you because you’re making a scene, Ro.”
“Patrick Keenan, you are a piece of work,” she said through tight lips, her jaw set. “Okay, I’m done. You’re on your own now.”
He nodded, screwing his mouth slightly. “Thank you for all your help, Ro,” he said formally. “I hope in time you’ll feel it was worth your while.”
“I’ll decide that.”
Patrick gazed thoughtfully at Rosaria for a moment and then turned from her, hunching his shoulders as he walked briskly toward the Park Street station.
Rosaria watched the young man go, his blue knapsack bouncing behind him. She suddenly felt very tired and defeated. Maybe she could have handled that better.
The Bruins tee shirt moved away from his post at the Boylston Street stop. He glanced first at Rosaria with a look she couldn’t decipher, then at Patrick’s retreating back before he swung in Patrick’s direction.
Rosaria felt a confused wave of concern, wondering if the man was following Patrick. But what would he be doing that for? She was probably being an alarmist. All the same, she usually trusted her instincts. Rosaria started in the same direction after them both. Walking at a fast clip, she dug her phone out of her purse so she could text Patrick and tell him to be careful.
Of what? Just a man in a Bruins tee shirt? How many of those were walking around Boston? Patrick would think she was an annoying, hovering middle-aged worrywart.
Maybe she was. Couldn’t be helped.
A crowd of chatting, preoccupied students with large backpacks and bags rushed by her as she tried to text. She was lucky she didn’t drop her cell phone as they surrounded her and held her back. Dammit. Then, she tried to remember whether Patrick could even get cell coverage if he’d already entered the station.
She tried to text anyway as she did a fast trot toward the station. “Patrick, Rosaria. There’s a man following you into the station. Black Bruins tee shirt, wireless glasses.” She was having a hard time texting while plowing through the crowd of pedestrians. “Maybe nothing, but—”
“Do one goddamned thing or the other, lady. Walk or text” a man in a business suit muttered as he passed her.
Doggedly she finished the text. “Just be careful, okay? Call me when you get this.” Finishing the text, Rosaria broke free and ran toward the Park Street station, feeling a sense of urgency—yet not sure about what. Maybe she was being ridiculous. Nevertheless, when she got to the entrance, she pushed her way down the stairs, rummaging in her bag to find her Charlie transit card. She found it just as she reached the turnstile.
But no sign of either Patrick or the mystery man. She raced through the crowd on the Green Line platform and down the steps to the Red Line, headed for Harvard Square and the end of the westbound Red Line train at Alewife station. She knew Patrick’s sublet was somewhere near Central Square—the stop just before Harvard. But neither Patrick nor Mr. black Bruins tee shirt was on the Red Line platform bound for Harvard Square.
Stopping to consider her options, she decided to give Patrick enough time to reach home or get wherever he was going and call him again. She would make sure he was okay, tell him about the man in the dark tee shirt and tell him to be careful. That would be all she could do, right?
◆◆◆
Patrick called her later, his voice light. “Hey, I’m fine. Back at the ranch with the guys in the apartment. Thanks for worrying about me.”
“Did you happen to see that guy following you? The one who was hanging around the Boylston T stop while we were...talking?”
“You mean when you were...reaming me out, Rosaria?” He took a little dig. She could almost see his grin as he did so.
“Okay, I guess I was.”
“No, no, I didn’t see him on the T. And, honest to God, the Red Line to Cambridge is always so jammed, it would have been hard to. There must have been hundreds of people. If the guy was there, I missed him. And maybe he missed me if he was following me. And, Ro, why would anybody follow me, for Godsakes?”
“You’re probably right,” Rosaria replied, feeling slightly silly. “I usually trust my instincts, but sometimes I’m off. Anyway, glad to hear everything’s okay.” She paused. “And I just want you to know that I really do wish you well on your research project.”
“Thanks, Rosaria. You know, things are kind of complicated right now. I’ll be sharing everything with you after the next couple of weeks. I just need some time.”
I’ll look forward to it, Patrick. But please be careful. I don’t know what you’re working on—but...but just be careful.”
He laughed. “Stop worrying, Ro. Careful is my middle name. Padraig Francis Careful Keenan from Manin Bay, Ballyconneely, County Galway.”
And that was the last time Rosaria ever spoke to Patrick Keenan. Many days afterward, she could see him in her mind’s eye, moving away through the crowd with that happy, funny lope of his, blue knapsack bouncing as he strode away from her into the unknown.
CHAPTER 7
Solly drove down Memorial Drive along the Charles River to the Central Square neighborhood where Patrick had been subletting with some other guys. He hadn’t been able to get a phone number for the one roommate Bridie remembered—Paul Malloy. He decided to just take the ride over to the apartment.
He didn’t expect to see a Cambridge patrol car parked outside the aged triple-decker on River Street. He pulled behind the CPD car and then got out to check the mailboxes beside the battered wooden front door. He could see multiple crossed out and added names on taped, ragged index cards beside the rusted mailboxes. Piles of uncollected mail lay underneath the boxes. All the signs of a young, transient student population. He hadn’t thought Patrick Keenan’s last name would be on a mailbox. The kid was, after all, only a summer sublet.
Bridie had mentioned a third floor apartment. Solly opened the door and headed up the worn staircase. The shabby corridors on the first and second floor were filled with bikes, skateboards and camping equipment leaning against dingy walls. He inhaled the musty, slightly garbagy smell of an old building filled with students for whom housekeeping and the hygiene of their surroundings are not a top priority.
Solly smiled as he climbed, remembering his own student days on Washington Street in Brighton. Days when he was young, flush with his first independence from his family home in Brookline. These old double and triple-decker apartment buildings teeming with young people looked like paradise to him then—exuberant freedom.
As he neared the third floor, Solly heard bits of conversation. He found the apartment door open when he arrived. A young, freckled-faced Cambridge patrol officer sat on a worn couch near the pyramid of beer bottles often found in students’ first apartments.
Across from the patrolman, a young man perched, elbows on his knees, near the edge of a broken down armchair covered with a stained throw.
The patrolman looked up in surprise to see Solly standing at the door in a navy BPD golf shirt and chinos, his badge on his belt. He cocked his head in a question. “And you are?”
Solly walked forward, his hand outstretched. “Detective Solly Belkin, BPD.”
The patrolman stood to greet Solly. “Officer Ron Delaney. Good to meet you, Detective Belkin.”
Though the student also looked perplexed, he was well brought up and quickly took the initiative to stand and extend his hand as well. “Paul Malloy,” he said—his firm, assured voice and handshake belying his baggy jeans and torn tee shirt.
Solly guessed Paul Malloy’s executive dad taught him that handshake in...let’s see, maybe Winchester or maybe Hingham. A solid white Colonial with a nice yard, tulips and lilacs in the spring, a few tasteful white lights at Christmas. A world left for now, but always there for the going back. This was merely a chapter with fond memories of youthful friends and grubby apartments.
“I’m here investigating
a break-in, Detective Belkin. You?” Officer Delaney inquired.
“I’m investigating the murder of Patrick Keenan,” Solly replied, watching closely the taut expression on young Paul Malloy’s face and hearing a whispered “Fuck.”
“You were not aware of Mr. Keenans death, Mr. Malloy? It was in the news, on the front page of the Globe.”
Officer Delaney, clearly taken aback himself, nodded slowly in agreement. “I saw that,” he said. “But I didn’t know he lived here.”
Paul Malloy frowned, his face stunned, “What happened to him?”
Solly explained Patrick’s murder and let the young man sit in shocked silence for a few more moments while he absorbed this news.
“No, no. I didn’t hear about this,” Malloy said. “None of us knew. After classes got out, we all took off on a rafting trip high up in the Adirondacks. No phone. No internet.” He took a moment to collect himself and swallowed before responding further. “I’m the first one back. The others come from upstate and stayed to visit family for a few days...” He tailed off, looking suddenly like the boy he was.
“When did you get back, Paul?” Solly asked. He took a moment to look at Officer Delaney, acknowledging the fact that Solly was—appropriately— taking over the younger officer’s conversation. Delaney waved his hand. “Go ahead. Go ahead.”
Malloy jerked himself back and responded, “Just this morning. When I came up the stairs, the door was open, the locks all busted.” He got up to show them the broken door locks.
Solly considered the ancient door locks, held on by rusted nails—now scattered over the floor.
“Wouldn’t take much to knock these off. A nine-year-old could break in here through this door. You never thought to fix it?” Solly asked.
Malloy looked embarrassed. “Well, yeah. We just never had any problems.”
“Everyone says that after a break-in,” commented the patrolman. Solly turned to offer a knowing smile to Delaney and nodded.
“Well, anyway. What’s taken?” Solly asked.
“You know, it’s crazy. I’ve looked around and I just don’t get it. The things you’d expect to be gone aren’t.” Paul Malloy pointed at a large, late model flat screen television sitting on a plank and cinder block bookcase. Seeing Solly’s raised eyebrows, he reddened and shrugged. “The Pats games.” Solly nodded. Wonder if Mommy and Daddy knew this was part of the expense budget.
“I even left my laptop here in my room. They didn’t bother with that or the bikes or anything.”
“What did they bother with?”
“Just Patrick’s room.”
“I see,” said Solly.
“Come on, I’ll show you his room. It looks like shit. A frigging disaster.” He looked back. “Sorry.”
Solly lifted his hand in a Jewish absolution. Oh really. Why did some people feel they had to apologize for their language in front of cops, who had the worst mouths in the city?
They turned the corner of the dark hallway, Officer Delaney bringing up the rear.
The room was indeed a frigging disaster. The mattress had been thrown to the floor and sliced open, the innards strewn from one side of the room to the other. All of the drawers had been emptied and turned over, the contents of the closet thrown about the room. Even the pages of books had been torn out and several floorboards removed.
Solly didn’t comment. Motioning both the young man and Officer Delaney to stay in the hallway, he took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and stretched them onto his hands, starting to walk slowly and carefully through the debris.
“Anything you think might be missing here?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Unless he had his computer with him, I’m pretty sure they took that. I think that’s all.”
“Sure?”
The young man looked around. “No, wait, there’s something else. He used to keep a pile of notebooks over there.” He gestured to a chipped painted window sill. “Those are gone. Again, if he didn’t have them with him.” He stared at the window sill. “I don’t know why anyone would want those. Just his school project. This is crazy.”
Solly inhaled deeply. “Okay. We’re going to need crime techs in here. We’ll work out the details with the CPD.” Officer Delaney nodded.
Solly looked at the young man. “You have somewhere else to stay? None of you will be able to stay here for a while.”
“Yeah, I just live in Winchester,” Malloy replied. “The other guys don’t start work yet, so they can stay upstate for now.”
Winchester. Boy, I can call them, thought Solly with some satisfaction. “Well, you’ll all need to be available for questioning. Can they stay around here anywhere?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know my parents would be fine to have them at the house. Plenty of room.”
I’ll bet there is, thought Solly. “Good,” he said as they walked down the hall to the living room. “You liked Patrick?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Oh, yeah. Sweet dude. One of the other guys went home for the summer. Patrick was just here for a few weeks as a sublet while he worked on his independent study. We didn’t really know him well, but we liked him. Fun to have around.”
“Know what he was working on?”
“Well, broadly. Something about Irish-American support of some political activities in Ireland—revolutionary activities against the Protestants and the Brits in Northern Ireland—but that’s all I know. None of us here talked about our studies much. We all just finished a tough semester. We’d rather talk about anything else.”
He smiled.
“But he was pretty pumped up about it lately. Just kept saying he was ‘getting closer, getting closer’. And we’d say ‘Shut up. Getting closer to what, man?’ and he’d say in a crazy, mysterious voice, ‘To the answer, boys.’ By then, someone would throw a pillow at him. We didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Still don’t.”
“Know where he spent his time?”
“Really don’t. We used to go out at night around here—to The Field and places like that. We took him to Davis Square to The Burren and Johnny D’s one time. But during the day, he was off on his own.”
“No idea?”
Paul shook his head. “Haven’t a clue. Saw him on the Common one day— down near Boylston Street. Looking around a little, he said. Maybe he looked in the wrong places.”
◆◆◆
That night over a takeout pizza from Regina’s with Rosaria at her condo, Solly said, with no preamble, “Yeah, so this case could be getting complicated. The sublet Patrick was staying in was broken into. Nothing taken in the other rooms, but his room was trashed. I don’t know if it was before or after he was killed.”
“Looking for something?” Rosaria asked. She picked up a slice of pizza and began carefully removing all the black olives from the topping.
“Oh, I’d say so. According to his roommate, whoever broke in took some of Patrick’s notebooks and a laptop.”
“Strange. Connected to whatever he was working on?”
“Feels like it.” Solly took a swing of his Ipswich Ale. “Whoever did it wanted something like that from his apartment.” Solly popped the black olives from Rosaria’s pizza slice in his mouth as he talked.
“Wow. Interesting.”
“Wow is right. I just wish we knew more about what that kid was working on.”
“You know he was really secretive about it,” Rosaria said.
Solly nodded.
“He said it was about one broad topic,” she continued, “but it felt like he was taken with something very specific. Something very targeted that he wouldn’t talk about.”
“Any idea?”
“Honest to God, Solly, I haven’t the slightest.” Yet, Rosaria thought. Yet. She chewed thoughtfully on her pizza crust, then said, “You know, this may have been a random assault, but now with the break-in, it feels really different, doesn’t it?”
“Uh-huh,” Solly agreed, his mouth full.
“Solly?” she a
sked, wiping her fingers on a napkin, “Would you ever think a part of the answer may be over in Ireland?”
“Nah, too farfetched. Someone coming all the way over here to off the kid or arrange for someone else to do it? Sounds good in a book or a movie, but in real life? Nah.”
“Yeah, unlikely,” she agreed, “but, you know, from another perspective—he was so excited after he met with Liam Joyce at Saint Martin’s, you could almost think what happened might have something to do with the conversation he had there. Might be a stretch, but...”
“We’ll see. Talking to Joyce tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 8
The next morning, Solly did interview Saint Liam or Liam Joyce, executive director of the Saint Martin de Porres House at the shelter. He’d timed his visit to avoid the height of the breakfast crowd, when the line might fill up the newly built atrium and spill out to the street, snaking down toward the Common.
The breakfast smells were still in the air when Solly walked into the lobby. It would have been unseemly for him to pick up a tray for a helping of asparagus and mushroom omelet with a side of hash browns, a breakfast biscuit and a cup of coffee. Inappropriate for him to sit down at one of the long tables with the other guys. Nevertheless, Solly found himself fantasizing about it for a few moments.
He was not in fact homeless, even if after his first marriage had collapsed and, before he’d met Rosaria, there were days when he’d felt unmoored and homeless in a different way. Perhaps there should be a table at the shelter for lonely, recently divorced guys.
Solly came out of his reverie to show his badge to an imposing guard whose chest and arms stretched the fabric of a Peter Welch Boxing Gym tee shirt. The guard waved him past the metal detector and stopped him.
“What’s up?” he asked Solly. “We got trouble?”
“Not from me,” Solly replied. “Here to see Liam Joyce.”
The man nodded, still not convinced trouble wasn’t in the air. “Elevator and stairs over there.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Third floor.”
Buried Troubles Page 5