Face Time (22 page)

“Oh yeah, I guess I knew that,” Franklin says.

“You did not,” I say. “But, nevertheless. Bresnahan’s social begins with zero one.”

“Give me a break,” Franklin says. “No way you know the social security, prefix, or whatever they call it, for Utah.”

I nod, smiling. “And that, my dear colleague, is the point. I do not know the prefix for Utah. However, I do know the prefixes assigned to people who were born in Massachusetts.” I pause, letting my meaning sink in.

“Zero one,” Franklin says. “So Bresnahan’s whole history is fake.”

“Yup,” I reply. “Sure does sound like it. Wonder where poor Del DeCenzo would be today if he had just bothered to check some references. Looks like we’ve got a Massachusetts boy on our hands.”

A barrage of lights flash on overhead. A blast of techno-theme music surges through the newsroom, cuts into silence, then starts up again. A blaring loudspeaker blasts the director’s voice from the control room. “Mic check, please, Maysie?” he bellows. “And can we please get a move on with this?”

I turn to Franklin, torn between wanting to see Maysie’s rehearsal and needing to find Tommy Bresnahan. “You know,” I whisper, not wanting to disrupt the taping, “I saw DeCenzo put my card in his wallet as I walked out of The Reefs. But Oz said police found it on the bar. If it was Tommy who killed him, I bet he knows I was there.”

“Five, four, three…” I hear the floor director start to count Maysie down, then see him point to her.
You’re on,
he mouths silently.

“And you’re not hard to find,” Franklin whispers back.

Which means I have to find him first. I sneak a look at Maysie. She’s smiling and gesturing, reading from the prompter like a pro.

“Listen, Franko,” I say softly. “I’m going up to the office. It’s almost seven o’clock here, but that means it’s still before five in Mountain Time. Maybe we can make this time-zone thing work for us. DeCenzo didn’t check all of Tommy’s references. Didn’t check his social. But I’m going to. I’ve got to see if I can dig up this Bresnahan.”

Franklin nods, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. “Maysie will understand. I’m leaving soon, too. Stephen’s picking me up. Want to join us for dinner?” he asks.

I shake my head, knowing once again, dinner is just a fond memory. “See you tomorrow, say hi to your adorable Stephen.” I wave and turn to head back to my desk.

“Charlotte,” Franklin hisses after me.

I turn, impatient to get back to work.

“Be careful tracking Bresnahan,” he says. His already solemn face is filled with concern. “We don’t want him to find you first.”

I’m
not really thrilled with the idea of going home. I sit at my desk, flipping a pencil over and over. Stalling. It’s late. It’s probably dark. I don’t have my car. Living alone with a coward of a cat is not terribly reassuring when, as Franklin and I both know, there’s apparently a bad guy out there. Still, I know Oz and his crew are certainly looking for Bresnahan. And the A.G.’s office has access to the database resources of every law enforcement agency in the country. And I faxed the job application to Rankin at CJP. So his people have it, too. We’re all on the trail.

Of course, Bresnahan may not be guilty. What’s his motive? But who else could it be? I tilt back in my chair, lacing my fingers behind my head. Now I’m considering Tek. As lead cop on the investigation, he could have railroaded the witnesses to identify Dorinda. He could have manipulated the case every step of the way. But why?

But Bresnahan has been hiding, successfully, for the past three years. If he’s reappearing, it seems like the only reason would be to make sure Dorinda stays guilty. And stays in prison.

But how would he know that’s in question? Propping my feet up on my desk, I close my eyes and I think back, retracing our steps. Franklin went to the cop shop, the local newspaper. I went to the high school library, the state archives, the prison, the women’s shelter, the nursing home. We both went to the Sweeney’s house. Myra Matzenbrenner’s. So fine. Bresnahan could know.

My heart rate flares and I startle to reality as my cell phone rings. “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” it warbles at me. Like I don’t know that. I swing my legs down and check caller ID. Private call. Not Josh. Not Franklin. Mom?

“McNally,” I say.

“Oh, marvelous, you’re still there,” a woman’s voice says. “This is Poppy Morency, Charlie. “

It only takes a second to remember the preppy and efficient real estate agent who showed us the Sweeney home.

“Hey, Ms. Morency,” I reply. “What can I do for you?”

I hear the clatter of traffic, a horn honking, a siren in the background. She’s calling from her car. “Well, I don’t know,” she says. “But you asked me to call you if anyone ever showed interest in the Sweeney home? Well, of course you know that.”

“Yes?” I say. I had figured it couldn’t hurt to leave her my card. I always do it, a habit, even if don’t think anything will come of it. Planting the seeds. You never know.

“Anyway,” she continues. “After all these years, there was a man who looked at the house last, oh, week or so ago. And he was not a real prospect, I could tell. Or I thought I could tell, but today, he came back. This morning. And asked to look at it again. So we walked through it all. Again. And then—”

“Did you get a name? A phone number?” I interrupt. This is probably nothing, I tell myself. Nothing.

“Well, no, he only said his name was Mr. Montague. And he didn’t leave a number. But then I realized he’d called me on my cell. And his number would be stored there. And as I told you, I admire your work and I thought—”

“That’s wonderful,” I interrupt again. I’m trying to stay calm, but this might be a very nice break. And it’s about time we had one. “Do you have it available? I’m ready to write it down.”

As soon as she hangs up, I’m punching in the number she gave me. It’s not a familiar area code. I wonder if it’s a cell phone.

Time slows as the phone rings once, then again, then again. This could be Tommy Bresnahan. Or it could be some poor schmoe who’s perversely interested in a murder house. Or it could be, imagine that, someone who’s actually looking to buy a perfectly nice home in perfectly desirable Swampscott. I hear a sound that clicks the phone into answering mode.
Damn.
I hope there’s a name in the message. But no. “The cellular customer you have reached,” a synthetic voice begins, “is unavailable. Please leave a number,” the voice orders. I hesitate. Then I hang up.

But as I flip my phone closed, I remember I was calling a cell phone. You don’t have to leave a number on a cell. My number is already stored inside someone’s phone. I just don’t know whose.

I stare out of my office window, watching the narrow alleyway. Watching for my cab. Watching for whatever else, or whoever else, might be out there.

I’m somewhat embarrassed by my own fears, but, I decide, better safe than—not.

Botox will be annoyed, and there’ll be Tender Vittles all over the kitchen, but she’ll be fine without me. I’ve made my decision. I’m headed for the one place I know is safe. With Mom.

T
HE NIGHT
-
DUTY NURSE
hardly raises his head as I scrawl my name in the visitor’s book. I’m halfway to Mom’s room when I realize I, yet again, have missed dinner. Luckily, this place has better food than many of the best-known restaurants in Boston. I turn back to the nurse’s station, hoping to sign myself up for some after-hours room service.

The nurse, a new one, I guess, since I’ve never seen him before, greets me like I’m an old friend. “Well, Charlie McNally, I heard you visited someone here,” he says. The name embroidered on his white jacket says Kurt.

“Hey, Kurt,” I say. “Yes, my mother is down the hall. But I’m wondering—any chance of getting food? I know it’s late.”

“No problem at all,” he answers. He slides open a metal file drawer and extracts a leather-like notebook, puffed up and embossed like a menu from a pretentious restaurant. “Here’s the menu,” he says. “Look on the last page for Late Night Fare. And then just tell me what you’d like. I’ll buzz the kitch.”

“Hospital food, huh?” I say, “Didn’t use to be like this.”

I flip to the back and scan the list. I’m famished. Everything looks like exactly what I always wanted. “Cheeseburger? Rare? And fries,” I say. I wish. “Well, no, the salad with chicken, actually. Diet Coke.”

“All set,” Kurt says, taking the menu. “In half an hour, max, we’ll deliver it to your door.”

Maybe I’m just hungry, I decide as I walk down the quiet corridor toward Mom’s room. Nothing like low blood sugar to raise your anxiety level. Some lettuce, some grilled protein, and I’ll probably feel like myself again. And head for home.

“Mamacita.” I tap lightly on the door, opening it quietly in case she’s asleep. But she’s aiming the remote control at the television. I hear her commenting every time the channel changes.

“Boring,” she says. She clicks again. “Silly. Repeat. Saw it. Saw it. Saw—hello, dear.” She notices me in the door and clicks the television off. “Thank goodness. I couldn’t watch one more episode of—well, I couldn’t watch one more episode of anything. I guess the meds must be wearing off, since my tolerance for television has just about vanished. No offense, dear, of course.”

She points to my usual chair beside her bed. “So sit right down, Charlotte. Please tell me about something more interesting than television.”

“Well, actually my life is television,” I say, smiling. I close her door behind me and sit down beside her. “But tonight, yes, it is pretty interesting.” That’s an understatement. Should I tell her I’m somewhat nervous about going home? It seems a little paranoid, here in the safety of the hospital. I should wait.

“Let’s see,” I say, searching for a subject. “Maysie’s new show is in rehearsal. And she finally looks pregnant. I think it just happened overnight.” My brain screeches to a halt—why did I bring up a pregnant person? I cross my fingers I haven’t opened the floodgates of criticism. Mom, happily, doesn’t take the unintended bait.

“That’s nice, dear,” she says. “I do hope she and her family will come to the wedding. And your Josh, of course. And Penny.” She cocks her head, considering. “Do you think it would be appropriate for Penny to be my flower girl? I don’t want to push, of course…”

“Of course,” I say with a skeptical smile.

“…but it would be adorable to have a little girl in the ceremony. Now that my little girls are all grown-up. How are you two getting along, by the way?”

There’s a knock at the door, a quiet tap. “I ordered food,” I say, surprised. “That was fast.” In a flurry of embarrassment I realize I forgot to see if Mother needed anything.
I am such a selfish…
“Want to share a chicken salad?” I ask, going to the door.

“Heavens no,” I hear behind me.

But when I open the door, it’s not chicken and salad, it’s another nurse. I catch a glimpse of an older-leading-man kind of look, face lined and worn, but the nurse walks by me so quickly I can’t even read the embroidered name on his whites.

“Ten p.m. meds, Mrs. McNally,” he says.

It’s only nine-thirty, I think, glancing at my watch. But of course TV’s made me obsessive about time.

Mom obediently holds out her hand, same as every night. “Thank you, and just what I needed,” she says. She pops down several pills with a swallow of water. “Are you new?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “If there’s nothing else?” And he’s gone.

“So Charlotte, as I was saying,” Mom picks up as if we hadn’t been interrupted. “The wedding. Penny. You two are getting to know each other?” Mom reaches over and takes my hand. “You know, Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re here. It means a lot to me that you’re…” She yawns, broadly, and uses her other hand to cover her mouth. “My goodness. Anyway. That you’re taking an interest in the wedding, and that you like Ethan, and that you don’t mind my getting married again. I must say, dear, I thought it would be your wedding I’d be planning, not mine. But you’ve made your own decisions and I—”

“Of course I’m happy for you, and Ethan is a treasure,” I interrupt, patting her hand with mine. “And it’ll be lovely. Penny, I’m sure, would be beyond thrilled to be in a wedding. She’s all about frills, you should see her bedroom. She’s never met a ruffle or a pink thing she doesn’t love.” I feel Mom’s hand relax, so I lean back in my chair, musing out loud about Penny.

“You know, Mom,” I say. “When I’m with Penny, I kind of understand her. She’ll ask a question, seemingly very, oh, ordinary. But I’ll know what she’s really asking. She wants to be reassured, you know, that her world won’t be upset. That she’ll be safe. And somehow, it makes me feel so—it’s silly, but grown-up, to be able to take care of her. I keep thinking about what you said the other day about peanut butter. And first books. Now, Penny’s mother and stepfather are having problems. So I’m even more determined to be there for her.”

Mom yawns again. I wonder if I’m even more boring than the television. But she smiles. “Good girl,” she murmurs.

“The other night she was so upset, her two beloved goldfish died,” I continue. “I wasn’t sure I could connect with her, help her at all. Seemed like it was a job for a mom, I thought. But you know…”

I pour out the story of our private discussion under the bedspread and my realization that Penny was searching for security. And how my heart seemed to open to her, and then to myself.

“And remember I told you Dorinda and Gaylen?” I say. I put my bare feet on Mom’s quilt, scooting down in my chair, and stare at the ceiling, immersed in memories. The room is peaceful and cozy, fragrant with flowers and scented powder, silent except for the beeping vital-signs monitor. And for some reason, maybe it’s Penny, maybe the wedding, Mom really seems to be listening to me. Maybe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

“Well, they have this secret sign, you know? That they devised when Gaylen was a little girl.” I glance down at Mom. Her eyes are drooping a little, but she smiles and nods,
Go on.

I explain the sign, holding up my two fingers, and describe the deeply lasting connection it symbolizes. “And when I showed it to Penny, it was such a moment. Almost like I was passing along a timeless bond between mothers and daughters.” I shrug, a little embarrassed by my own sentimentality. “Okay, sappy, I know. But, Mom?”

I can’t look at her, because I may lose my nerve. I keep talking, my words spilling out. “You know, what you were saying the other day. You just want me to be happy. I guess I do know that. But can’t you see, I’ve just been trying to please you? Make you proud of me? I guess we both want the same thing. Each other to be happy. You think?” I look up, worrying there’s some way she’s going to be offended. Or misunderstand.

But there’s no answer. I wait, but there’s just silence. She’s sound asleep. I guess the pills have kicked in. I sigh, feeling, for the first time in so many days, even a little relaxed. I laugh to myself. That’s not a word I use too much. Except when I’m telling someone else to do it.

Another tap on the door. This time it must be my food. I swing my feet to the floor, but before I can get up, the older nurse who brought Mom’s pills comes back in. He closes the door behind him.
Damn.
No food.

“Yes?” I say softly. “Mom seems to be asleep now, thanks so much. We’re fine. I was hoping you were my chicken and salad.”

He doesn’t smile back. He steps closer, holding out a little ruffled pill cup. He dumps a pile of yellow and white capsules into his hand. “I need you to take these,” he says.

For some reason, ingrained reporter training or insistence on logic, my reaction to his incomprehensible request is to check the name embroidered on his nurse’s whites. There isn’t one. And why does he look familiar? Graying wavy hair, taut tanned skin over cheekbones just too sharp, his mouth just too full. Attitude verging on swagger. Not a nurse.

Before I can remember I shouldn’t, I glance at the nurse call button. It’s on the other side of the bed. And the “nurse”
?
Sees me do it.

“Yeah, that’s disconnected,” he says. “From the nurse’s station. So don’t bother.” He pats the place above his breast pocket, the place where a name should be. “And I see you’re wondering who I am. You know, though, correct?”

I do. “Bresnahan,” I say. “Tommy Bresnahan.” Hiding behind nurse’s whites. And lax late night security—lulled by the diva’s entourage of strangers—must have ignored yet another newcomer.

“And that’s why you get the big reporter bucks,” he says. “But I fear you’ve been sticking that reporter nose into too many places it shouldn’t go. That Ray…stole my life from me. Stole my Dorie from me. Now he’s dead. And that’s what he deserves.”