All in One Piece (6 page)

“Believe me, we care about your protection. And we want your help. But Maglia got the case when you called nine-one-one, Reggie.
We have rules and procedures.” He pops another Tums. “It’s Ed Maglia’s case, not mine.”

Car door open, I toss in the umbrella. “Ownership of the murder, is that it? Well, it’s
my
tenant murdered.
My
door marked in blood. Do you think Jo Cutter would bow out and watch by the window in her rocker?”

His answer is slow and deliberate. “We called Jo when we were blocked. Usually when a case got cold.”

“And she… warmed it up?”

“You know what I mean.”

“So I’m on hold until Homicide gets stuck?”

He leans a shoulder against my car. “Reggie, listen to me. There’s two points. One, Ed Maglia doesn’t go in for psychics.
The idea weirds him out. Ninety-nine out of a hundred cops feel the same way. You must’ve heard this from your aunt. She was
low-key. It made it possible to work together. We worked quietly, mostly on the side.”

Partners below the radar. Is this his hint, a side deal between the two of us… a sign of life for my psychic self? “What’s
the second point?”

“That you’re too close to this case. It’s because it is your house and tenant.”

“So I’m out because I’m in?”

“An investigation needs a certain detachment.”

“Let me try.”

“I worry about you.”

“I take care of myself.”

“You go out on your own. I could list the times.”

“For important information, such as Luis.”

“A neighborhood contact, that’s fine. I’m talking about the other times you got yourself in trouble, Reggie. What about when
you came so damn close to… ?” He folds his arms, rolls back against my car. “Look, I promised Jo if we worked together,
I’d look out for you. That’s a promise I try to keep. You’ve got kids.”

“
You’ve
got kids. And your wife.”

“I got a badge too. It says this is my job. My risks come with the job. Over twenty years on the force, experience counts.
It’s my work, not a thrill ride. No, let me finish.” His voice drops low. “One way to help you is working with Ed on this
case. I signed on to lend a hand. For now, I’m advising you to walk your dog, take in a movie, get back to normal.” He sees
my look. “Yes, normal. Like the evening class I’m taking. Tonight it’s pan-searing and stir-fry. It’s good. I put on an apron,
and it’s another world. As for this case, Reggie, you sit tight.”

Sit? Sitting is the posture approved by every man I’ve ever known.

“Anything out of the ordinary, give us the word. Any sixth-sense messages, let me know.”

He leans close, but I’m in a bind. Telling him now about my vision of Steven Damelin drowning will “prove” that I’m too close
to the case. If I tell him now, Devaney will forbid me any part in the investigation. For now, my leeway—my freedom—requires
a self-imposed gag order. “I’ll be in touch, Frank. I’ll call you. Maybe you’ll call me back?”

“Definite maybe.” He twinkles. I don’t twinkle back.

Devaney is still standing by my VW when I get in, start the engine, rev it to 3,000, 4,000 rpm, feel the surge, and like it
a lot.

T
he notion of going upstairs to Steven’s makes my skin crawl. I take Biscuit out and count the cops. It’s down to one cruiser
at the corner, and the sidewalk ghouls are gone, doubtless heartbroken not to see a parade of bagged corpses. Sergeant Dorecki
tells me the police are finished. It’s after four. The upstairs apartment can be cleaned now.

There’s no sign of Nick the locksmith.

I schedule Right True Clean and touch that spot on my head. It’s still sore. Press harder. It’s definitely sore.

Keep busy, Reggie. I call my son’s voice mail in Silicon Valley. “It’s Mom again, Jack. Please call ASAP.” Stepping outside,
I try all the doorbells next door at 25 Barlow. Nobody answers. I go back inside. The mail arrives, shoved through the vestibule
slot. For me, there’s a magazine renewal, supermarket specials, autumn closeouts. Actually I’m hoping for a card, especially
one postmarked Cairo or Damascus. A certain man promises to be in touch but travels a good deal. I already have cards showing
the pyramids and Sphinx and camels. Each message promises dinner as soon as he lands in Boston. Meanwhile, the cards are stowed
in my lingerie drawer—so far, four of them. There’s no fifth arrival today.

Addressed to Steven are a bill, a menswear sale, discounts on rugs. I set it all aside. Will Maglia trust me with a forwarding
address? What address? Who is the next of kin?

I go into the study with Jo’s massive rolltop desk and two oak file cabinets. This was her “boiler room,” where I turn out
“Ticked Off” weekly on my laptop. Jo’s files are still intact for sentimental reasons mixed with inertia. We all joked about
her first-generation laptop, but Jo Cutter believed in paper. In the past months, I’ve gone through her old grade books, high
school history curriculum plans, and community organizing records. Now I search again, among the hundreds of names in the
files, for Steven Damelin. A stickler for record keeping, Jo surely opened a file on their “deal.”

There’s no such file, not in these oak drawers. A thorough search yields no trace of Steven. There is a thank-you letter acknowledging
Jo’s help launching the Big Buddies program, signed by a Rev. Gail Welch of All Souls Church. I’m noting her name when Nick
the locksmith arrives, a mustached man as thin as a rail.

At the sight of my vestibule door, he puts down his toolbox and his eyes widen to dark saucers. His Adam’s apple jerks. “Is
Chinese?” I force myself to look at the door panel, and my throat closes when he says, “This dry blood?”

“No, it’s paint. Just paint. Come in.” He looks ready to flee. “Please come in.” I force a smile, and at last he picks up
his tools and crosses my threshold. I walk him through every room and order a combo of dead bolts, chains, and padlocks. In
minutes, his drill whines and screams.

There’s one final task in the study. The sight of my door and Nick’s reaction stiffen my resolve. I close the study door tight
and unlock a walnut cabinet where two handguns are kept. Yes, guns. These, too, were Jo’s. Why she had them I never knew.
They remain one of her secrets, shocking when I first came upon them last winter. In Jo’s life, they’re inexplicable. The
Colt .44 looks like something from a Clint Eastwood movie. The other, the Taurus .38 revolver, is another matter. It’s scary,
yet reassuring too. Am I a gun enthusiast? Hardly. Have I ventured to use this firearm? Once I brandished but did not fire
it. Devaney would have a fit if he knew.

Reaching into the cabinet drawer, the hiding place, I close my hand around the grip of the Taurus. The safety is on, and the
gun not loaded, though I own a box of half-jacket flat-point bullets. Over the last couple of months, I’ve toyed with the
notion of gun lessons. It has seemed adventurous, like kayaking or scuba.

Now it’s life support. When Nick leaves, I will load the .38 and check the Web and yellow pages for firearms instruction.

The locksmith’s tools clink in the background, and I’m thankful for the ringing phone.

“What’s this about murder, Mom?”

“Jack… you talked to your sister.”

“She e-mailed me.” The e-generation. “So you actually talked to the guy, and then he got killed? Are you okay? Are the police
still there?”

“In droves,” I lie. “Your Aunt Jo’s house is a police convention.”

I picture my Silicon Valley son at his computer and with a three-day stubble, his sandy hair tousled, probably in shorts and
sandals, living the life he loves, not a suit in his closet. Then his male fix-it logic kicks in, so very
Jack
. “You gotta think twenty-four/seven, Mom. You need security.”

“Dear, the locksmith is here right now.”

“Molly and I think private security.”

This sounds suspiciously like round-the-clock nurses, casting me as the invalid. Which I totally reject. They mean well, but
grown children will be patronizing. They can’t help it. “I’ll look into an alarm system, Jack.”

“I mean private guards. No metro force will give you round-the-clock surveillance. When things quiet down, they’re gone. They
were too late for that poor s.o.b. who needed protection, and the police aren’t interested in you.”

“He wasn’t an s.o.b., Jack. He was a helpful young man. As it happens, I’m working with the police.”

“You’re an amateur, Mom.”

“Try ‘apprentice,’ Jacko. And remember the warmhearted Greek brothers at the neighborhood grocery? They arranged for the locksmith.”

“They probably get a kickback.”

“Oh, Jack, don’t be like your fa—I mean, they are concerned for my safety.”

“So am I. But the Greeks aren’t standing guard at your doorstep. You need extra protection.” Classic Jack. From boyhood, his
solutions are blunt. “Just remember Houston, Mom.”

“Oh, hon—” My son never quite got over his fifth-grade year, when our house burglary went unsolved and Jack was stunned to
learn that the Houston cops couldn’t recover the very TV on which he watched police heroes. “Not to worry, dear. The detectives
are brilliant, and the locksmith’s turning the place into Fort Cutter. But let me ask you a few questions. Did Jo ever say
anything about a younger man named Steve or Steven Damelin? Think hard.”

In the background, I hear a keyboard tapping on. Then my son says a firm no.

“Anything about a ‘deal’?”

“Aunt Jo? Hardly.”

“Did you notice anything unusual the last few times you spoke to her when she was still… herself?”

“Before the heavy drugs? I don’t think… wait, maybe one thing. Last fall she offered me travel money if I wanted to see
the world.”

“A vacation?”

“Travel for fun? Think again, Mom. No, it was for education, to broaden my mind. She’d be my sponsor. She said her ship was
coming in.”

“What ship? When?”

“She didn’t say.”

I’m careful not to alarm my son. “Interesting, Jack. Now I better let you get back to work. Still data mining?”

“Data mining it is, Mom.”

Gainful employment, that’s what it is to me. And my son’s happiness. “Keep in touch, Jacko.”

“Count on it, Mom. Call me.” I’m ready to hang up, but he presses the point. “No, I mean, call me. It sounds like maybe Jo
was connected to the murdered guy in some special way. Don’t blow me off, Mom. Because you know what? If Aunt Jo hadn’t died,
maybe she’d be in danger now. I mean, maybe there’s danger in the situation, like the house. Maybe it’s some deal that involved
Jo and the guy. What’s his name again?”

“Steven.”

“Yeah, Steven. Suppose it’s something you don’t know about, but it’s coming down to you. Suppose, like, you’re next—”

“Jack!”

“You have to take care of yourself. You better get serious.”

“I’m very serious, Jack.”

When we finally hang up, I go to the windows. Evening is coming on, and there’s not one cop car in sight. Gaslights glow algae
green along the street, and I think of Steven’s body in the morgue, cooled by refrigeration. I hear Nick testing the new locks
on every door, ready to bolt me in.

It’s a practical move, a sensible precaution. I’ll be safer, at least in theory. But locks have their limits. Nick, the cops,
my kids—they see protection. Fine.

But right now it’s breaking
out
that’s on my mind. Yes, I’ve broken free in life, and a free-range woman refuses to be locked in. Call this my autumn resolution:
I, Reggie Cutter, hereby refuse house arrest on Barlow Square. I’ll bolt, all right. I’ll be my own free agent. Scared? Sure,
I’m no fool. But like pros who play through the pain, I’ll push through to the playing field. More, I’ll wrap my arms around
this murder case and not let go for a minute till the killer is caught.

N
ever have I been so thankful for a dog. Biscuit curls at the foot of the bed. She wakes when I do, and when I get out of bed
to have a look around, she patrols the rooms at my side. Sniffles and congestion from my dander allergy are the smallest price
for this canine companion and watchdog. Restful sleep? Save it for the Sealy ads. The .38 revolver is now loaded, and I’ve
stored it in a shoe box on the shelf in my bedroom closet.

Waking up twice after midnight, I check the new front door and basement locks and peer out the windows. No one’s on Barlow
Square. Patrol cars circle deep into the wee hours. They move slowly, their flashers off. One cruiser parks at the corner
and stays for over two hours. I am thankful.

At six, I am up and dressed, the coffee and TV on. The early a.m. news reports a spectacular, made-for-TV warehouse fire in
Somerville. Mere seconds are spared for wrap-up coverage of Steven’s murder. Close-ups show the body bag brought down the
stairs, plus my shoulder and Biscuit’s nose. Steven’s name does not appear in today’s
Globe
obituaries.

Three hours from now, Right True Clean will arrive. The apartment will look as good as new. The door panel blood will be gone.

Pouring coffee, I’m suddenly thunderstruck by this: the cleaning will erase all evidence of the Oriental markings. If I need
to see the police photographs for any reason, I’ll have to plead with Devaney and beg Maglia. They’ll pull rank and stonewall.
No way.

The next couple of hours are suddenly precious. My snapshot film camera has three shots left.
Snap snap snap,
I finish the roll. But suppose they don’t turn out. Can I copy the pattern? Draw it, me? It’s a standing joke between me
and Molly. But tissue paper, tracing paper. God help me, I must trace the markings, with the heel of my hand resting just
one tissue thickness from Steven’s blood.

Queasiness, I tell myself, is out of the question. The tissue I’ve saved for gift wrap is now forensic. Quickly I tape a big
piece over the door panel and go for a Sharpie pen and—

And hear a horrific roar outside. Yet a familiar roar. What day is it? Good God, it’s Wednesday. Yes, Wednesday. The roar
and day match. I know whose noise this is, and why it’s here.