All in One Piece (25 page)

The first impression: fines and suspensions galore, the whole industry a nest of crooks. The culprits are everywhere, Dubuque,
Miami, Rochester. Sanctions, offers of settlement, censure, more censure. It’s fascinating, worth hours. I’m looking for Corsair
Financial, Charles Vogler or Andrew.

Instead, I find Steven Damelin.

On-screen before me is Steven, Registered Representative of Corsair Financial. Here is Steven’s name among the securities
extortionists and defrauders. In January of this year, the NASD fined him $25,000 and suspended him for a month for “findings
that he engaged in private transactions without prior written notice to, and approval from, his member firm.”

Private transactions, meaning Steven was caught doing deals on the side. Jo’s deal? Helping Hand—was it a microcap stock?
Click a few more times, and I learn that these are companies so small they’re not traded on exchanges. They’re not registered
with the SEC. No public reports on them are required. Or available. There’s no trace of Helping Hand.

Try to think this through, Reggie. Suppose the fine is a fraction of the infraction. On-screen I see fines of $5,000 and no
suspensions. Slaps on the wrist. Steven’s $25,000 was a real punch.

Did he do private deals from his home? Did the fine put a stop to it, or was my upstairs flat his new boiler room? Suppose
the Corsair sheet found by the Right True Clean guys behind the mantel wasn’t merely scratch paper, but a file on microcaps
that Steven was still peddling to victims.

Peddling them to Jo? Was that his “deal” with my aunt? It’s hard to believe. Jo was careful with her money. Her altruism was
not foolhardy. She was an activist but not a spendthrift, and certainly not greedy. She’d be the last person tempted to invest
in stocks unregistered and not listed on an exchange.

I dash, nevertheless, to my lingerie drawer and pull out the sheet of scrawled letters and numbers. This looks like Steven’s
writing, based on the signatures on the rent and security deposit checks. But there’s no “HH” for Helping Hand. Maglia has
the original of this sheet and has said nothing about its importance—not that he’d tell me. Suppose Steven coded his “private
transactions” but was murdered in connection with them, paying the ultimate “fine.”

That friendly young man. Deadly dangerous man? Somehow I recall his sister Crystal’s memory of her brother confessing feelings
of alienation from the new life the Voglers afforded him. Crystal said he felt
in,
but not
of,
the world of the Vogler family. Did he commit financial crimes to spite them? Or did he try to “earn” his way in with crooked
deals to make him a player instead of a charity case? Either way, suppose he operated through a crack in the Chinese wall,
then was exposed and dreaded further exposure. Maybe that’s why he tried to block my call to the police when that car ran
me down. Helping Hand could be the link to the blood marks on my door.

“Meg, it’s Reggie. Hope I’m not calling too late. I need a favor.”

“Realtors and doctors, Reg, we’re both on call. What’s up?”

“I need Steven Damelin’s last known address. Is his sublet file in your office?” Here goes a white lie. “His previous landlord,
and possibly his neighbors, ought to be included on the memorial service guest list. Do you happen to remember where he lived?”

“I’m thinking Roslindale or Hyde Park. Can this wait till morning?”

It’s not easy, but I say yes.

“Take heart, Reggie. Your soon-to-be tenant, Mackenzie Carruthers, has a sterling credit rating. You should have no problems.”

“No problems, what a notion.”

It’s 9:23 a.m., chill and overcast, when I set out for 1432 Deary Street in the Hyde Park section of Boston. Steven’s previous
landlady, Meg tells me, is Alice (Mrs. Harold) Collier, who also provided a reference for the sublet. The phone number listed
for H. Collier on Deary Street, however, is no longer in service.

Number 1432 Deary is an asphalt shingle two flights up concrete steps on a block of duplexes and foursquare single-family
homes with in-law apartments. The Chevy in front has a Florida plate that says “Seminole County,” and the woman who answers
the bell is fiftyish, with short apricot hair and a tight mouth. We had frost last night, but she’s wearing shorts and a green
tube top under a windbreaker and seems breathless and impatient. “What is it?”

“Mrs. Collier? I’m Reggie—”

“She’s not here.” Behind the open door, I see stacked cartons.

“I would have phoned, but the number for H. Collier isn’t—”

“It was disconnected last month.” Her voice is clipped, definitely New England. She holds a roll of packing tape.

“Can you tell me where I can reach Mrs. Collier?”

“She moved out.” Indeed the space behind the woman looks bare. I see a rolled rug.

“Do you have a forwarding address? I need information about a man who lived here—a tenant.”

“The back apartment is empty.”

“I mean a previous tenant, a man named Steven Damelin.”

She fixes me with a hard stare, her eyes lasers.

“Do you know him? Did you know Mr. Damelin?”

The lasers lock on my face, and her voice is tempered steel. She yanks the tube top and zips the jacket. “We got nothing to
say on that.”

“It’s important.”

“Nothing to say.”

Just then a U-Haul truck pulls up at the curb, and a bronzed young man—a kid—in jeans and a hooded sweat springs out and jumps
the stairs two at a time. The woman says, “That’s the last stack, Jamie. Take it to Grandma’s. For godsake, don’t drop it.”

“How ’bout the rest?” His voice is a southern drawl.

“The rest, we’ll figure it out.” To me, she snaps, “Can’t you see we’re busy? She whirls and retreats as the kid hoists two
cartons and starts out past me.

“If you—”

“I said we’re busy.” She slams the door.

I skip down the steps behind Jamie and peer over his shoulder to see any markings on the carton flaps, but lean so far forward
that I stumble. “Oops.”

“You okay, ma’am?”

That drawl. “Yes, thanks.” But he turns, his shoulder blocking my sight line. If the cartons are addressed to someone—to Alice
Collier?—I can’t tell. He shoves them into the truck, shuts the doors, jumps into the cab, and starts the engine. The side
of the U-Haul sports a leaping dolphin. If the cartons are bound for delivery to “Grandma,” a.k.a. Mrs. Harold Collier, I’m
a fool not to follow.

That is, if I’m not too late. The streets around Deary are a maze. In the Beetle, I turn and turn again. No U-Hauls in sight.
Think, Reggie. Pause and think. If the kid’s visiting from Florida, he probably doesn’t know his way around. He’ll take main
roads and avoid neighborhood shortcuts, especially in the bulky truck. That means I-95 or the Truman Highway, or maybe Blue
Hill Avenue. What’s the likely connector? Focus, Reggie. You came in on… Metropolitan. That’s it, Metropolitan.

Yes, it’s him—far down on the right on Metropolitan and heading southeast to… Blue Hill. Turning right, I floor it, tailgate
behind an SUV, then spurt past and cut in too soon. Horns blast. Cool it, Reggie, or you’ll end up with a faceful of air bag.
I overtake Jamie just as the U-Haul exits onto Route 128. He’s going over seventy in the left lane, then cuts to exit south
on Route 24, the AmVets Highway.

I barely make the exit. The Beetle surges, but I brake too hard on the ramp and feel the rear end of my car pull. Speeding,
Jamie also oversteers. At highway speed, the U-Haul weaves in its lane like a ribbon of rickrack. I keep three or four car
lengths behind, past exit signs for Randolph and Stoughton, then Avon. We’ve gone seven, nearly eight miles. A sign says we’re
now in Plymouth County. Without signaling, Jamie crosses a lane, exits, and heads east on the the Reynolds Memorial Highway.
We’re in the city of Brockton.

It’s hell to keep up. The U-Haul twists and turns past a mall, a golf course, houses, a pond, a cemetery, two schools, and
at last a looping roadway that leads to a brick complex occupying two full blocks. Jamie pulls into the entrance with a sign
that says “Silver Ridge Village.” It’s vaguely colonial, with chunky white pillars and squat cornices that need a fresh coat
of paint. The U-Haul stops at the miniature colonial gatehouse, and Jamie leans out to talk to the uniformed guard who lifts
the cross gate to let him inside.

The gate lowers. What to do? Try talking my way in? Not while Jamie’s inside. If Alice Collier proves to be “Grandma,” I want
to see her by myself. So I park about two hundred yards from the entrance and wait. It’s 11:47 a.m., the temperature climbing
into the high thirties. On the brown grass border, a squirrel noses in the dirt, while two workmen pull up frost-killed begonias.
A few dead weeds poke along the roofline gutters, and some of the window screens are broken.

At 12:02 p.m., the U-Haul with the diving dolphins pulls out. Having unloaded the cartons, Jamie will now return to Deary
Street. Reggie Cutter, however, will head for Barlow Square for online research. By 1:30, I’ve walked Biscuit, played fetch
with her, refreshed her water, and grabbed a sandwich. It’s time for a prep session on Silver Ridge Village. Alice Collier
may be a slim lead, but right now she’s the best I’ve got. Handle with care.

Silver Ridge, according to the miracle of Google, is a branded, franchised senior living residence. It features assisted living,
Alzheimer’s care, nursing, and short-term stays in eight states east of the Mississippi. The text is what you’d expect: “home
values… meet loved ones’ challenges… compassion, expertise… apartment-style living… homelike… landscaped
gardens… cuisine… attentive, trained staff.” The photos show pink-cheeked, bright-eyed seniors with all their mental
marbles intact. They’re spry. They’ve got gumption. Nary a wheelchair nor walker is in sight.

The clock hits 2:00 p.m. when Ms. Elaine Scarbino identifies herself on the phone as assistant manager of Silver Ridge’s Garden
Court unit where Alice Collier resides. According to the Web site, the Garden Court unit means assisted living, so Alice’s
mind ought to be clear.

“You say you’re a family friend, Ms. Cudder?”

“Cutter, Ms. Scarbino. Yes, and a friend of a former tenant of hers. From one day to the next, we don’t know what’s in store
as the years go by, do we?”

“How very true that is.”

“I’m eager to visit Alice. I didn’t grasp the new situation until I spoke with her grandson, Jamie. How is she doing? I mean,
from a professional viewpoint.”

“It’s always an adjustment, but her spirits are higher since we moved her up from the Gladstone unit.”

Gladstone—according to the Web site, that’s nursing care. “So she’s improving?”

“The cast is off. The leg hasn’t healed as quickly as we’d like, but everyone’s hopeful now that the dementia has lessened.
It was quite a fall, and a serious concussion.”

“Perhaps you could tell me when I might drop by. I’d like to surprise Alice, but not tire her. Perhaps I could stop in between
the family’s visits—say later today? Tomorrow? At ten? And you’ll give my name to the gatehouse staff. Thanks much.”

Arriving at 9:30 a.m. the next day with a gift basket, I scan the parking lot and see no U-Haul. Of three vehicles with Florida
plates, none are Chevies and none are from Seminole County. Good.

Elaine Scarbino greets me in a checkered suit and patent pumps. She’s a perky brunet of about forty, with cherry lipstick
and a heavy layer of rose blush. Her lilac perfume blends with institutional odors of disinfectant. She admires the gift basket
and leads the way across a lobby paneled with the dark wood popular back in the 1970s. We cross a waxed linoleum floor meant
to look like slate. Puce silk hydrangeas flare in plastic pots against one wall, and the tiles of the low ceiling are edged
with brown water stains.

“You’re the first visitor of the day. Won’t you please sign our registry?” I nod at the desk attendant and sign in. No Colliers
have visited so far this morning, though a James Farr signed under yesterday’s date. “I think I see Jamie’s name—James Farr?”

“Oh, that boy’s worked nonstop with his mom since they drove up from Florida to clear out the family house. He brought down
mementos from Alice’s home yesterday. We encourage personal decorative touches, you see, even though it’s troublesome for
our housekeeping staff. Silver Ridge puts the resident first. It’s our hallmark. Woodie dear, would you phone Mrs. Collier’s
apartment? She has a visitor.”

In moments, I’m ushered into a small, cramped apartment, where a plump woman in a pink sweat suit sits in a tan recliner with
her left leg propped on a stool beside two open cardboard cartons. I’d guess Alice Collier is in her late seventies. Her face
is fleshy, her complexion gray, and her watery blue eyes strain to recognize my features.

“Alice… Alice Collier, I’m Reggie Cutter. May I sit down? I’ve brought you a basket. How are you feeling today?” I raise
my voice over a blast of hot air from a register vent.

“You… you’re the basket lady.”

“Well… yes, I am.” I pull up a side chair.

“Any Milky Ways in there? Take off the cellophane so I can see.” She fingers the nectarines, the cheese crackers and nuts.
“I like chocolate with nougat. How about Three Musketeers?”

“How about these cookies instead?” I open the packet of soft chocolate cookies, and she grabs and bites in.

“They don’t feed us right. There’s no sweets, and you can’t get cream sherry. My home always had cream sherry. I had a large
home in Hyde Park, number 1432 Deary Street. If my Harold was alive, this wouldn’t happen. Not in a thousand years. The thing
is, you climb the same set of stairs every day for forty years, then one morning… I hit my head. They think my mind isn’t
right. Well, they’re wrong. See that box? Reach in and help unwrap for me.”

I do. Inside the Bubble Wrap is a Hummel angel playing the clarinet.

“Put it on the table. I collect Hummels. Where’s the rest? My daughter wants me to sell them. They’re the only valuables left.”

“From your home?”