All in One Piece (7 page)

Why he’s here.

Biscuit is a ball of motion, flying to the front, poised to leap into the arms of the biker who’s just off his cherry-red
Harley Fat Boy and climbing my front steps as if he owns them. He’s in black boots, faded tight Levi’s, and a Marine Corps
jacket. His arms reach out, and the dog flings her whole self at him from muzzle to tail the instant the door opens. Then
it’s all paws and palms and growls and barking while I stand by like a sidelined referee.

“Don’t hurt her ears.”

“She loves it.”

Indeed she does. Roughhousing with this man is Biscuit’s utopia. This is R. K. Stark, the custodial “papa” who shares joint
ownership of the beagle. Whatever Jo was thinking when she willed her dog to two human polar opposites, neither Stark nor
I will ever know. Oil and water we are, or night and day. We see eye-to-eye on almost nothing, not even the dog. Stark rolls
Biscuit on the stoop, and her patch of snowy-white fur darkens to gray. “Stark, don’t, I just bathed her.”

“Grit’s good for her coat. Don’t worry, Cutter, I’ll take her swimming. The water’s warm enough.”

Take her.
That’s the dreadful fact—that Stark has come for Biscuit. We trade off every few days, and it’s his turn. He’s brought that
homemade leather contraption to harness her to the Harley Fat Boy motorcycle. He’s here to take my watchdog away.

“How about some coffee?” he asks. He sees my hesitation and misunderstands it. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna nag about your
biker course.”

He means the motorcycle riding course he’s pressing me to sign up for, which is now out of the question. “Stark, a motorcycle
is the last thing on my mind.”

“Your tuition check’s cashed, Cutter. You’re on the student list for the last week of the month.”

“I don’t think so. I have… other plans.”

“You’ll love it. How ’bout the coffee? A quick cup. Don’t worry, I’m not moving back in.”

This refers to the two years when Stark lived downstairs in Jo’s basement rent-free. “A coffee break,” I say. “Sure.”

But he stops at the sight of the tissue paper over the door panel. “What’s this, arts and crafts?”

Biscuit sniffs, whines, writhes, whimpers, and gives a moaning bark at the blood-marked door. “Biscuit, no.” I take her in
my arms. Stark looks hard at the tissue paper. “What’s that underneath, Chinese?”

The word “blood” is beyond me. The murder… to talk about it again? I can’t. “I’m updating the entryway, trying out a
possibility.” Stark’s gaze narrows, but silently he follows me to the kitchen, where I fill an enormous Bruins mug and wait
until he spoons in his usual five sugars, stirs, gulps as if the hot brew is a cold soda.

“How can you drink it that hot?”

“A leatherneck’s a leatherneck inside and out.” He means his Marine Corps days. At nearly six feet, Stark is totally fit.
His hair is ginger, his eyes Atlantic gray. In his mid-thirties, his trademark aroma is unfiltered Camels. I imagine him a
few years ago coping with civilian life, living in Jo’s basement, camping on a cot with a shower rigged at her ancient soapstone
sinks. Supposedly his two years downstairs were to be spent renovating the basement into an apartment while he pulled his
life together, but believe me, there’s no sign of renovation. Stark says he’s forever grateful to Jo and now pays her back
by looking out for my welfare. He’s a self-appointed adviser and guardian of sorts, meaning Stark repays my aunt’s generosity
by offering me his personal protective services. Indeed the man has a knack for appearing at the wrong times—and the right
times too. The term “jackboot thug” comes close to an apt description, but more than once Stark’s been my Boston lifeline.

“So what’s up, Cutter? Your eyes look like you need some rack time. You losing sleep?”

As usual, there’s no small talk. Stark’s nickname could be Mr. Nine Inch Nail. I avoid his question. “A cleaning service is
coming.”

“I thought scrubbing was part of your workout.”

“I’m splurging. Anyway, my column is soon due.”

“‘Pissed Off’?”

“‘Ticked Off.’ As you know.”

“What’s it gonna be? Gentlemen that don’t hold doors for ladies? Guests that don’t bring vintage wine for supper?”

“For dinner. Don’t bait me. But I’m always looking for good ideas.”

“In fact, I have one. It’s tips.”

“Gratuities? I did that column.”

“Not big-bucks dining, Cutter. Not your country clubs.”

“I included hair salons and valet parking.”

He grins as if I’m clueless. “I’m talking about the guy at the McCounter, the woman at the drive-thru or Wal-Mart. A buck
for people working two, three jobs and they can’t make it.”

“Tips for fast-food workers? For kids?”

“They’re not just kids. They’re rock-bottom, decent working stiffs. They’re screwed by big companies and the stock option
crowd. They’re pushed to the wall.”

“Stark, I am not a political columnist. I need rapport with my readers.”

“Rapport? What good’s rapport when the bottom falls out? I’m talking about people that need help.”

“Stark, let’s discuss this another time. Right now I could use some help. Actually I’d like a favor. How about let Biscuit
stay a few days longer here with me?”

“The life of a lapdog? No way, Cutter. She’s in training. I put together a swim-dive program, and we gotta talk about her
diet. She needs a protein regimen… wait, this isn’t strictly about the dog, is it? Something’s going on. You got new
locks, I saw chisel marks on the front door. Don’t give me bull about upgrades in the hall. You look scared. What’s up?”

My throat shuts. I force a swallow and say murder and sketch the last two days from the blue car to the police. He doesn’t
move a muscle. His eyes narrow to gray oceanic slits. “So the cleaners are coming for the upstairs, right? What about your
front door? Let’s look.”

I drag myself with him. Biscuit hangs back as we lift the tissue. Stark lets out a piercing whistle. “Son of a bitch.”

“It’s deliberate, isn’t it? Oriental? I took some pictures.”

“Looks Chinese, maybe more than one character. What’s it say?” Neither of us can guess. “You gotta find a translator fast,
Cutter. Another thing, what kind of car ran you down?”

“Steven said it was a BMW, but I thought Japanese.” We look at the door as if East Asia conspires against me. “Before Jo died,
Stark, did she say anything about a ‘deal’ with Steven? Anything at all?” He says no. “Did she mention his name? Or anything
about any younger man in her life? Steven worked at a business called Corsair Financial. There’s nothing in her files. I’ve
been through them twice. Did she ever mention that name?” Again, no. “Did she talk about her ship coming in?”

“What ship?”

“I don’t know. A couple of people heard her talk about
her
ship.” We agree it doesn’t sound like Jo. I check the time. “The cleaner is due, Stark, and I have to trace the door mark.
About Biscuit—”

“She stays here. You need her.”

“And I’m thinking about a gun course. The timing’s wrong for motorcycle lessons. Anyway, I’m bruised and banged up from that
fall in the street.”

“Show me.” I thrust my purpled elbow. He laughs. “Not even a decent case of road rash.”

“What’s road rash?”

He laughs and tells me that I’ll find out. “About the gun course, Cutter, you need to be clear-headed.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning this isn’t prime time for you and your .38. Or the John Wayne .44 either.”

It’s a moment when I wish Stark didn’t know about the guns. He found out one midnight last summer. It couldn’t be helped.

He pulls out the Harley ignition key. “I’m heading out for now. If you hear Fatso in the middle of the night, take it as a
lullaby. If you hear Fatso roar, Cutter, turn over and sleep well.”

S
leep? It’s unimaginable. I complete the ghastly tracing of the blood mark, fold the tissue with utmost care, and slide it
into my bureau drawer with my bras. The rustling noise, it’s from my trembling fingers.

The door knocker sounds—Right True Clean, half an hour late. It’s two guys in jumpsuits with equipment. Quickly I show them
the door and lead them upstairs and into Steven’s apartment, my breath short and heart pounding as we step in. The playful
furniture, the bright colors made for fun—all are shoved and upended as if the police search was a rampage. The cleaners lift
a blond oak boomerang table upright, and I put the Lava lamp on top.

Somehow the primitive domestic order helps. The imprint of the search is clear—the drawers pulled out, contents rifled, the
papers, envelopes, shirts, socks, kitchen implements, two computers, both hard drives ripped and taken as evidence. The blood-soaked
rug. The bloodstained floor.

There’s no sign of the drill, which doubtless is also secured in an evidence bag. The nail holes look like pores.

Worst of all, however, the smell, like spoiling meat. I rush to a window and stop myself from apologizing—typical female reflex.

“Ma’am,” says the thickset one, “we’ll take it from here.” He’s pulling a Mylar bunny suit and respirator mask from a duffel
as I go back downstairs, then spend half an hour coaxing the water-soaked Ferragamos back to life for sheer distraction. Wrecking
a pair of good shoes isn’t exactly like exposing a Steinway grand to the elements, but the mindless soap circles are soothing.
The rain stains recede. The shoes look damaged and rescued both.

I stuff them with paper wads and go next door to ring the bell of unit 2 at 25 Barlow Square, a town house nearly identical
to my own. The upstairs flat marked “Pfaeltz” is directly adjacent to my own rental flat, meaning Steven’s. Three rings, and
here comes Trudy Pfaeltz in slippers and a pink belted chenille robe with “Mary Kay” over the pocket and a parakeet on her
shoulder. She rakes a hand through dark blond hair. Her pug nose is sprinkled with pale freckles, her eyes red-rimmed today.
I’d guess she’s nearing forty, and I hope against hope she can help me.

“Trudy, I’m really sorry to wake you up.”

“’S’okay, Reggie. Kingpin was chirping so loud I had to get up and cover his cage. Damn bird. Anyway, we night shift workers
take our chances on decent sleep. And I meant to call
you
. My God, a murder on Barlow Square.”

“Did you see the police next door, the squad cars, yellow tape? I rang your bell a couple times yesterday.”

“I haven’t been home for two days. The hospital’s so shorthanded I worked double shifts, plus restocking my vending machines.
I’m losing sales because people buy bags of Halloween candy at the supermarket and skip the machines. Oh God, a man is murdered,
and I’m worried about candy bars. Me, a nurse.”

“So you weren’t home the night of the murder.”

“No.” She shivers and pulls her robe tight. “Thank God the hospital needed me. The post-op floor, it’s almost home-sweet-home.
A lab technician saw TV news and told me. It hit me: one brick firewall away from my apartment, a guy was murdered. You must
be a wreck. Want a few Valium?”

I shake my head no. “But could I ask you a couple of questions? I went around to the alley. It looked okay, but I want to
make sure. Would you walk back there with me, just to check?”

“No time like the present.” She sees me scan her outfit. “Listen, Reggie, I sold Mary Kay and Tupperware to half of Barlow
Square. A woman in a pink robe with a parakeet with orange feathers on one shoulder, I’m local color. Let’s go.”

So we stand in the alley behind 25 and 27, looking for signs of disturbance while gazing upward at Boston’s idea of fire safety.
It’s a setup from another era. An iron balcony crosses from my upstairs rental flat to Trudy’s. Should fire break out in either
unit and the inside stairwell be blocked, the occupant is supposed to exit a back window onto his or her balcony, then calmly
walk across it and knock on the neighbor’s window. Ideally the neighbor opens this window and welcomes the fire victim inside.
If nobody’s home, the escapee is entitled to smash the neighbor’s window and climb in. It’s a friendly pyrotechnic break-in
of sorts. As a deterrent to criminals, there’s no ladder down to the ground.

We stand in silence. Trudy says, “Everything looks normal.”

I agree. “That’s a big drop to the ground. Trudy, did you ever try an actual fire drill on your balcony?”

“Not once in my twelve years here on the square. Who would?”

“My dentist tenant almost backed out of the lease when he saw this.”

“Dr. Tooth, that pain in the neck? Where is he, Bora Bora?”

“Africa. He’s testing dental pain medicine for a pharmaceutical company.”

“Ah, Big Pharma’s dirty little game.” She sees the question mark on my face. “It’s drug trials on human guinea pigs in the
so-called developing world. Innocent subjects sign up, all dark-skinned. Informed consent, forget it. It’s probably a really
dangerous drug. Your dentist will probably make a ton of money. What’s his name—Forest?”

“H. Forest Buxbaum, D.M.D. My high-maintenance tenant.”

“And if he hadn’t gone fortune hunting for six months, there’d be no sublet… no murder.”

No blood mark on my door? Or could my son be right, that Jo’s town house is somehow a targeted address?

“Believe me,” says Trudy, “I thought twice before buying on the second floor. Plus, hauling my merchandise, lotions by the
case. And I never got the Mary Kay pink Cadillac. If I’d sold more Spot Solution or Lumineyes—those are the high-end items.
Anyway, it looks the same as always back here, no signs of break-in. So the killer came through the front door?”

“Most likely.”

“Right past your own door?”

I shiver, fold my arms, and nod in silence. We walk around to the front of the square, the parakeet riding her shoulder. “Trudy,
how well did you know my aunt?”

She sighs. “With my schedule, I hardly socialize, so mostly it was about who’s bringing potato salad or slaw for the square’s
block parties. Your aunt organized them. She always made a vat of her incredible chowder, better than Legal Seafood’s. I told
her, ‘Ms. Cutter, this is marketable.’ She just laughed. We were, you know, just good neighbors.”