Caught Dead (12 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Late in the afternoon I sat in the Torcelli kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee while Susie polished silverware. I'd knocked on the back door when I'd discovered no one at home, but I already knew that. I'd made certain the house was empty. I knew Susie would be alone. “Mr. Larry is not home. Come back later.”

I wanted to talk to her. “Maybe you can help me, Susie. I'm talking to anyone who knew Molly.”

She let me in and immediately poured coffee.

“I always polish the silver when I am sad,” she told me. “It helps me.”

“These are sad days. For the family.”

She stopped polishing the silver and wiped her hands. “What's gonna happen to Mr. Larry and the children? Miss Molly, well, she was the—the heart of the family. Mr. Larry is like a ghost, walking around, not speaking.”

I sipped the coffee. “Two sisters murdered.”

She looked at me, fiercely, right into my eyes. “You have to get the answer, right? Isn't that your job?” She had a thick accent, made heavier by her mood. “I cry and cry, and now I stop. Now I'm angry.”

“But the police are stumped.”

A dismissive sound broke from the back of her throat. “Oh, the police. They don't care. I know the police from when I lived in Hartford.”

“But Molly is a rich woman, married to a prominent businessman….”

She thought about that. “Well, maybe. When it was a simple drive-by, then they could say the people deserve it. But Mr. Larry tells me the police don't know nothing. Nothing at all.” She got up, wiped her hands, and reached into a cupboard for some sugar cookies. “I make these. Try one. I bring them for the house but nobody got an appetite. Mr. Larry sits and cries, then talks to the wall.”

I bit into one of the cookies, savored the bite of sugar, and nodded my approval. Susie was watching me.

“So Molly had no enemies?”

She sat back down. “What enemies? Her and Miss Mary. Two good women, they don't bother no one.”

“The big question is why they went to that dangerous square.”

She threw her hands in the air and clicked her tongue. “I don't know. Mr. Larry says to me, over and over—tell me, why did she leave the house? What did she
say
to you? What can I say? I do my job, I leave, I catch the bus. I'm home watching TV when I get a phone call. Miss Molly is dead. I still can't believe it. How that man suffers now. How he needed her. A good, good man.”

She went on extolling Larry's virtues, his spirit, his generosity. The more I tried to steer the conversation back to Molly, the more Susie circled back to Larry as savior. I suppose it made sense, what with his mentoring of her son. While she respected Molly—“She no yell at me and always smiling at me, we go shopping together, like friends”—it was Larry who owned her unrelieved allegiance. “He is a great man, that Mr. Larry.”

“What did you think of Mary?”

“Very quiet. You know, I have trouble remembering her voice. Miss Molly did almost all the talking. It was like Miss Mary did not like the sound of her voice in these rooms. Like she didn't feel she belonged here.”

“But she was always welcome?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Miss Molly seemed, well, crazy to have her come here, not like to show off or anything but to have her around. I think Miss Molly got a little lonely sometimes, the kids off in their world, Mr. Larry working, working, working all the time at the dealership, coming home midnight and tired.”

Idly, she picked up a piece of silver, examined it, breathed on it, and then vigorously rubbed it with a soft cloth. She held it up to the light, seemed satisfied, and laid it in a velvet-lined wooden box. “Miss Molly demanded the silver look a certain way,” she smiled thinly. “She watched Martha Stewart one night and said we did the silver all wrong. I tell her, I been polishing silver since I was a girl, but Miss Molly said Martha Stewart knew best.”

I smiled. “You don't agree with Martha Stewart?”

“I don't know who Martha Stewart is until I see them dragging her off to jail.”

I changed the subject. “You must be proud of your boy Danny.”

Immediately, as though I'd switched on a hidden light, her eyes got bright, her chin rose.

“Of course. A mother's dream.”

“You must be thankful to Larry.”

“He gave my son a future. We had
nothing
.”

“You must have been scared when—you know—that business of drugs in prep school?”

The question caught her off guard and wasn't welcome. I noticed her body stiffen, her eyes losing the dreaminess.

“That is old history.”

“Well, prep school.”

“What? Like eight years ago. You know how kids are in prep school. Try this, try that. I almost killed my Danny. I warned him about smoking weed. Is no big deal, I think, but Miss Molly was crazy about it. Her sister, too. Mary screaming and screaming. The walls of this house shook, let me tell you. I am so careful with my boy, sheltering him, hiding him from the world, but he likes to talk, get out, meet people, impress girls. High school boys. You know. But it is Miss Mary's son Tommy that is an awful boy. Back then a troublemaker.”

“He got Danny into drugs?”

“What do you think? One time. Yes.”

“They all went to Chesterton together.”

She sighed. “A mistake, Mr. Larry paying for Miss Mary's kids. Cindy is a dizzy girl with too much rock music in her head. Tommy is lazy drug boy, a bum, all loud cars and crazy haircuts. Even now.”

“So Tommy was behind it all?”

“Yes. Danny told me Tommy gave him the drugs. They smoke a little at home, but then they smoke in public.”

“And they were arrested.”

“I can't tell you how I slap my Danny in the face that night. And how he cried. How sorry he was. I told him to stay away from Tommy.”

“And Larry took care of it with the police?”

“And for that I am always grateful. Always. That's why I work for him even now that Danny is making money. He bought me a small house, and he lives with me, a good son. He works hard every day at the bank—more and more responsibility. Always busy. Every Saturday morning at the gym down the street. Like clockwork. Discipline, he tells me. Discipline is the answer. Body and mind.”

“And Danny hasn't touched drugs since?”

She stood. “My Danny went to Harvard.” She walked to the refrigerator and poured herself some milk. Standing there, her back to the sink, she said triumphantly, “Danny will be rich some day. Trinh Xuan Duong.” She used his Vietnamese names. “My joy.”

I heard the front door open, listened as Kristen and a girlfriend chattered about something, then rushed up the stars. Susie and I were silent, both paying attention to the giggling, breathy girls, and I caught her eye. In that instance I realized how much she disliked Kristen.

Susie turned away. I asked her how Kristen and Jon were dealing with their mother's death, but she was noncommittal. “Okay, I guess. They don't talk much. I hear Kristen crying in her room.” And then she closed up. I could see she wanted me to leave, but I lingered, reaching for another cookie, examining it as if I'd made a wonderful archeological find. Susie packed up the silver polish and cloths, even though I noticed she was not done with the work.

“How does Danny get along with Kristen and Jon?” I asked.

She didn't look happy. “Why you ask?”

“I mean, he's like a member of the family.”

“When he was little, yes, playing with Jon, mainly.”

“But not later?”

She hesitated. “He didn't care for Jon that much. Jon is, well, hard to be friends with.”

“Jealousy?”

“Jealous of Danny's looks, intelligence…”

“But,” I interrupted, “Jon has those things, too.”

“Danny wanted to be just like Mr. Larry. You see, my own husband, Danny's father, he takes off to California, leaves me broke and living in a dump, when Danny was two or three. So Danny sees Mr. Larry as a father.”

“And Jon didn't like that?”

She hesitated again. I thought she was going to say that Jon didn't like anybody, but she seemed to remember her position in the household, sitting there in the bright kitchen. “Jon is all right.” She ended it.

“And Kristen?”

The corners of her mouth twisted slightly. “All the kids were friendly once. Kristen these days is into some boy at the country club. She is very pretty, you know. Boys chase her. She likes that.”

“You don't.”

“Is not my business,” She turned away.

“Did Molly like Cindy and Tommy?”

“Let me tell you something,” she confided. “I have no business telling family business and it's only because Mr. Larry tells me to cooperate with the police. And, I guess, with you, Mr. Investigator. But I don't like this.”

“Say what makes you comfortable.”

“None of this make me comfortable.” She sighed. “Miss Molly put up with—yes, put up with—Cindy and Tommy because they were Miss Mary's kids. But she
hated
Tommy. Hated him. She felt sorry for Benny because everything he touched turned to dust—and Cindy, who was, well, just there, like a rock. But Tommy had brought drugs into the family, and she hated that.”

“Did Mary know how much she hated Tommy?”

She ignored the question. “When the police arrested Tommy, Miss Mary sat in the kitchen with Miss Molly, and two of them crying and crying. They thought the family was in trouble. Miss Molly said one time that some relative back in Saigon years ago was ruined by opium, and it tore apart the family. A death that shattered the family—a beloved cousin. So the two sisters sat right there”—she pointed to the other side of the table—“while I poured coffee for them, and worried about their children.”

“But that turned out to be nothing.”

“How could they know that back then?”

“Well, let me ask you one last thing, and then I'll go.” She was already rustling some baking tins in a cabinet. “If Molly hated Tommy for drugs, how did she feel about Danny, who was arrested with Tommy.”

Silence in the room. She stood there, a stone block, impenetrable.

“Susie?”

She trembled. “That is a difficult question.” I waited. “Miss Molly and my Danny always had a little difficult relationship, you know.” She smiled a bit, but not happy. “I work for them for years, and little Danny, everybody knows and loves him. He is good boy. A favorite of Mr. Larry. And I don't think Miss Molly liked that too much. Mr. Larry likes Danny more than Jonny, she tells me once, when the boys are six or seven. I say no no no. Oh yes, she says, and she looks at me.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Detective, I know you gotta hear the stupid stories, how Danny is Mr. Larry's son. Everybody jokes about that. A horrible story, not true. Danny looks like his father, who ran away. I got pictures I can show you. I start work here after Danny is born. Danny is dark, true, like Mr. Larry, but it don't matter if something is a lie sometimes…”

“Because people believe what they want to.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“But Molly must have known the stories were false, especially after all these years.”

“Yes, true, but, you know, women have doubts and those doubts go on and on.”

“So Molly didn't like Danny?”

“I'm not saying she
disliked
him. But after the drug thing with Tommy, Miss Molly put her foot down, Mr. Larry give him a lecture, and Danny listens.”

“But Molly still wondered?

“It sort of made her lose a little
respect
for him. He's always been the…the overachiever. Danny always flattered her, thanked her too much. Too many times. I tell him enough. People think you're sucking up. Keep quiet. But he was a boy, you know, and afraid all
this
would disappear.” She waved her hand around the kitchen, as though she owned the place.

“Did she compare Danny with her own kids?”

“Not Kristen, of course.”

“But to Jon?”

“I always felt that was a problem. Jon was bright, but Danny brighter. Jon good looking but Danny the heartthrob. Jon the loner but Danny charming, making friends. Danny was always one step ahead. The poor boy beating the rich in every race but one.”

“But one?”

“Money,” Susie said. “Jon always had more money than my Danny.”

“Not any more, maybe.”

Her smile was conspiratorial. “Not anymore.”

Chapter Sixteen

Late Friday night, around ten, the crowd at Zeke's Olde Tavern shifted from the older Budweiser folks downing New England stew to groups of noisy, partying college kids, looking for love in exactly the wrong place. Hearing a burst of laughter, I turned to spot Kristen Torcelli tucked into an excited gaggle of young women, all talking on cell phones as they moved from the doorway to a booth. They made enough noise to make heads turn.

I'd never seen her at the Tavern. She wasn't a local, like me, possessive of the place and decidedly territorial, nor was she one of the fun-loving kids from Farmington College, a couple streets away, those junior-grade intellects with real or with fake IDs.

So we watched her topple into a booth and then blow a kiss at a college kid who glanced her way.

“I think she's a little drunk.” Hank flicked his head toward her.

I pointed her out to Gracie, Liz, and Jimmy, who stared directly at the booth until I told them to stop. We'd just finished a late supper, and now, sated, we lounged and sipped beer and coffee, often in silence or talking about the weather, politics, and the lethargy our meal had created in us. Kristen's entrance, unheralded, had made us sit up.

“Go say hello, Hank.” Liz nudged him.

“Maybe later.” He wasn't happy.

Gracie frowned. “I guess the period of mourning ain't very long these days.”

“When I was kid,” Jimmy said, “for a whole year you had no music, dancing, partying. We grieved a whole goddamned year.”

Gracie smiled. “Poor Jimmy. No ‘Beer Barrel Polka' for a whole year.”

Liz shook her head. “Well, the mall is open seven days a week now, Connecticut Blue Laws going the way of all flesh.”

I was ready to leave. It had been a long day for me, sleeping late, jogging a bit, answering some overdue e-mail to old college friends, which took me all afternoon. And then the lazy evening with friends. I'd done no work on any of my investigations, including The Case. But as we talked, occasionally looking at Kristen who was whooping it up about something, Jimmy mentioned that a Hartford cop buddy of his worried about the resurgence of gang activity in Hartford.

“I used to be afraid to come into the city when I was a kid,” Hank said. “All you'd see on TV was gang kids lined up by the police against a wall.”

“And then the gangs were gone.” Jimmy snapped his fingers.

“So what happened?” From Hank.

Jimmy sat back, took a swig of beer. “You know how gangs flourished a decade back or so, out of control. The Latin Kings, the Solidos, The Black Knights. The Nelson Court turf wars, drug sales, gun power, slaphappy preteens with assault rifles. For a while the city was held hostage by punks running wild in the housing projects and in the streets. Shoot 'em up time. Then two things happened. Two ten-year-old girls, walking home from school in the South End, got caught in some cross fire between two gangs, both shot. Broad daylight, with a school crossing guard just feet away. Good neighborhood folks organized committees. But what really got the goat of the local and state police was when Dan Rather or somebody famous interviewed some lowlife gangbangers on
60 Minutes
, a live feed directly from Hartford, and this one wacko kid brags that his gang ruled the city. Hartford, in a heartbeat, had become a national laughingstock, a disgrace.”

“And the crackdown began.” From Hank.

“Rounded up by the state police and tossed into prisons. And suddenly it was safe to walk around Hartford all day. Not everywhere, but at least in front of the State Legislative Building.”

“So what happened?” Gracie asked.

“Well, think about it. People get out of prison. Five years, ten years. Time off for good behavior. You know how it is. So the pros are back on the street, not rehabilitated, and the young bucks are coming up, in need of guidance perhaps, but also not happy with sharing turf with old-timers.”

“And the streets are at war again,” Liz summed up.

“Bingo.”

I spoke up. “But it seems this new crop of gangs took everyone by surprise.”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy. “All the brains in City Hall thought those drug education programs in school were helping. Hey, if you're poor and ain't got no future, well, there's always real estate on a street corner for small-time investors.”

“But
why
Goodwin Square?” asked Hank. “How did that spot get so notorious?”

Jimmy tapped his fingers on the bottle he was holding. “That's just one of a number of the city's hot spots. You know, the police clean up a corner, the traffic drifts a few block over, just the way hookers do, and then back again. Goodwin Square has a special feature, though—it's right near the on-off ramps of I-91 and I-84. Easy on, easy off. Nice for the crack addicts from the suburbs. The thing is, everybody
knows
that square.”

“Why?”

“The
Courant
did a couple pieces on it.”

“And,” I concluded, “if anyone wanted to set up a murder to look like a drive-by, that's the place.”

“But
two
murders?” Liz asked.

“That's the problem,” I said. “How do you get two skittish Vietnamese sisters to go to a corner that must have filled them with dread?”

“I can't connect the dots.” Hank sounded helpless.

Jimmy yawned. “Got to get some sleep.” He rose and tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table. Liz and Gracie stood up to leave. Hank and I stayed. Kristen glanced over and spotted us saying our good-byes. Hank caught her eye and waved. She didn't look happy to see him, looking nervously toward her two girlfriends and then back at him, her lips pushed into a thin, disagreeable line.

After a few minutes, Hank whispered to me, “I'm on a scouting mission. Give me a few minutes and then wander over. Act natural.”

“Hank, she's a blood relative of yours. I don't think you need all these KGB tactics.”

“We'll see.”

Kristen introduced Hank to her two girlfriends, who were obviously delighted with the handsome young man. But Kristen made it clear that Hank was off-limits. Whatever she was saying was done with a rigid, stony face, her mouth tight. Yet the girls tried to get Hank to sit at their booth, even sliding in for him. One even touched his forearm. Kristen would have none of it. She jumped out of the booth, nodded to her friends, and led Hank to a small, unoccupied table back by the restrooms. I waited for Hank to glance in my direction.

“Rick, join us,” Hank called to me, so I walked to their new table, pulling up a chair. Kristen looked annoyed, but I suddenly realized that perhaps she had a repertoire of only four or five looks, petulance and annoyance high on the list.

“I was just asking Kristen if she came here a lot. I told her it's a hangout of mine.”

Kristen shook her head, and the diamond studs in her ears caught the scant light of the dim room. She sparkled. “One of my girlfriends goes to Farmington College. I've never been here before.” As she pointed back to the booth, she looked around. “It's a real dump.”

“We like it,” I said.

“Well, what?” She turned back to Hank.

Now he looked confused. “Well, what?”

“You said you wanted to talk to me.” She looked back at her two girlfriends, who were staring at us, annoyed, their heads peering over the top of their booth.

“No, no,” Hank spoke quickly. “I said I wanted to, you know, say hello. We didn't have time to talk at the funeral.”

“The funeral? That was two days ago.” She stated the fact as though she were imagining life in the Bronze Age.

“How's your dad doing?” I asked.

“He made me get out of the house. I was moping around. Getting on his nerves.”

“It must be hard for you…”

She shrugged her shoulders. “What can I say?” Then, her words laced with melancholy, “I just don't know what to do.”

She was not exactly dressed in funereal black. Instead, she sported a pink polka-dot halter top over tight tennis shorts, tennis sneakers with pink socks. I guessed those were real diamonds in her tennis bracelet and in the slender necklace she wore.

A heavy sigh. “You know, I wake up and miss Mom.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“She's always downstairs in the morning.” She looked at Hank. “Your mother keeps dropping in.”

“She's bringing food.”

“But how many spring rolls can a human eat?” She smiled. “After a while they taste like rubber. They're piling up in the fridge like firewood.”

I could see Hank getting peeved. “I'll tell her to stop.” His tone was icy cold.

She went on. “My girlfriends think you're cute.”

“I am cute.”

“But they're not for you. I
told
them.”

“Why not?”

“They, well,
screw
around.”

Hank looked over at the booth.

At that moment a young man sitting at the bar, who'd been watching us, sauntered over, trying to look casual and off-the-cuff. “Kristen, remember me?”

She looked at him blankly. “No.”

“From Chesterton. I sat behind you in English Lit. Jason. Jason Leibner. We sat together on that field trip to Mark Twain's house. But you dropped out…” He stopped.

She scarcely looked up at the nervous young man. He was dressed in creased chinos and a polo shirt, collar turned up, looking as he probably did in his class picture, a fresh-scrubbed, friendly boy. She looked away. “No, sorry.” He started to say something, but she cut him off. “Can't you see I'm with people?” The young man, embarrassed, swiveled and fled back to the bar. Within minutes he tossed cash on the bar and left the tavern.

“I hate when boys come on to me.”

“Some girls find it flattering.”

She rolled her eyes, cartoon-like. “I don't need a
boy
in my life right now. I don't
need
one.” She smiled, and I realized how beautiful a woman she was going to be—her father's striking Mediterranean looks with a dash of her mother's exquisiteness. Truly stunning.

She picked at the polish on a manicured nail and looked back at her friends. “I gotta get back.”

“How's Jon doing?” I wanted to talk more.

She made a what-if shake of her head. “Jon? Lost in his own world. The ivy tower of Yale.”

“This must be hard on him.”

“Why?”

“To lose a mother.”

“I guess so. He and Mom were
close
. It's just that Jon…well, I don't know what he thinks most of the time. He's the family
genius
, you know. He told me that once. He tells me all the time I'm the family space cadet.”

“He said that?” Hank asked.

“Well, he's an ass. Everyone
knows
that. No friends. Not really. Let me tell you something. I got more street smarts on one finger than he's got in his whole body.”

“Street smarts?”

She preened. “I can handle
people
. I'm not stupid, you know.” She leaned forward and I smelled alcohol on her breath. “He's a rat fink. Always has been.” She was irritated now, sitting upright, her right hand adjusting a loose stand of her hair. She rolled her tongue over carefully applied lipstick, and smiled. “I'll tell you a little secret, Hank. Do you know who snitched on Tommy and Danny back in prep school? Who let the cops know they were carrying? Jon
told
the headmaster, who called the cops. They picked up Danny and Tommy in downtown Hartford.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. the headmaster told Mom and I heard her tell Dad. But Mom and Dad never said a word to Jon.”

“Did Tommy and Danny know?”

“Tommy suspected. He got mad and said he was going to kill Jon, especially after he got probation.”

“But Danny got nothing.”

“That's because of Mom and Dad.”

“You like Danny?” I asked.

She stared at me vacantly, but I realized she was choosing her words carefully. “He's all right—never did me any harm. Him and his mother Susie are like family. Sort of. I mean, well, his mother's the
help
and all.”

“What does Jon think of Danny?”

“Hates him. Better looking, smarter. You've seen Danny, right? Dreamboat.”

Something curious was happening as Kristen spoke. Her body relaxed, her face softened, her eyes got cloudy. Her smile was silly. She was a different girl from the tight, brassy girl of moments before. Hank was looking at me, charting the metamorphosis, and I wondered suddenly about Danny and Kristen. Was there something going on?

“Have you ever dated Danny?” I asked her.

She roared with delight and hit the table with her hand. “You are something else. Danny is, well, family. And besides my father would
kill
me, just
kill
me.”

“But Danny is like a son to him.”

“
Like
a son. You're right.”

“Then what's the problem?”

She looked at me as though I were dense. “Haven't you noticed? He's Susie's son. His mother is a
servant
.”

She got up and returned to her booth, where I could hear her repeating the line about Danny's mom being a servant. The other two girls screamed in unison.