Snapshot (8 page)

Cradle snatching. That's what a fling with Dr. Donovan would amount to. The mirror image of what this older guy was trying with Paolina. If I believed Marta …

I settled back in my car and stared at nothing. On surveillance I can semidoze, almost go into a trance. I don't think of it as patience, just the ability to turn off and turn on when necessary. It used to be one of my best cop traits. What a boring job that was. On the good days.

One Pepsi, two tiny boxes of raisins, and a banana later, I saw them approaching out of the corner of my eye. I didn't move. I'd expected Paolina to be leaving the house, not returning to it. I'd expected her to be with Lilia. Or alone.

He was in his twenties. At least. Marta had been right.

He wasn't holding Paolina's hand, but they were walking close together, and she was smiling up at him in a way that transformed her from a child to a strange and precocious young woman. I realized I was biting down on my bottom lip.

I'd only wanted to see her. To make sure she was safe. To speak to her if she was alone, pass some secret signal if she was with Lilia. Now I felt like a voyeur. The man said something and she rewarded him with a dazzling smile.

He was big, beer-bellied big—a look I associate with bars and motorcycle gangs. Studded belt, leather jacket, frayed jeans slung low on his hips. If I'd been a vice cop, I'd have hauled him in on probable cause.

What the hell did Paolina find attractive in a man almost old enough to be her father?

Bingo. I'd just answered my own question.

I sat like a statue, my mind racing. Should I jump out and confront him? Ask him what the hell he was doing with a girl young enough to define jailbait? How would Paolina react?

She was dressed for spring in spite of the chill, wearing tight pink leggings. A long purple shirttail hung out from under her multizippered red jacket. A red beret plastered her bangs to her forehead. She wore earrings. Earrings! When the hell had she started doing that?

He didn't walk her up to Lilia's doorstep. Instead, they loitered on the sidewalk. He shook a cigarette out of a pack, mockingly offered her one, then lit up. They talked three cigarettes' worth. I couldn't see her face.

I cracked the window of the cab, but I was parked too far away to hear anything but mumbling, His voice dominated, deep and husky. He pulled something from the back pocket of his jeans, maybe an envelope, or a card. Paolina shook her head no, but her resistance gradually weakened, and after ten minutes, the item passed from his possession into hers.

I heard a bang, and jumped. Paolina glanced up sharply, but not at me. On the third floor of the gray building, a window had opened. I could hear Lilia's angry voice.

I'd be angry too, my niece littering the sidewalk with trash like that guy.

Paolina blew a defiant kiss at him and raced up the walk. He flipped an upraised middle finger at Lilia, turned and started back down the sidewalk.

I sat till he passed me, till he turned the corner. Then I gunned the engine, banged a U-turn, and followed. If he stayed on foot I might have to abandon my wheels and do the same, especially if he made for any of the Central Square subway entrances. Shadowing a guy solo in the subway is no fun.

Where had she met the creep? Not at school; it was ten years out of his league. Hanging around the projects, more likely. An unemployed loser. Or illegally employed.

He walked two quick blocks in the direction of Central Square while I considered the possibilities. There's no place to leave a cab on Mass. Ave. where it won't get towed or stolen. I could park it now and walk, or trust to providence to find a space. Last time I did that, I wound up retrieving my car from the city lot, paying eighty-five dollars in tow fees, and practically getting eaten by a German shepherd guard dog. I tried to figure how close to Central Square I could safely approach before taking the last available parking space.

They ought to mark them the way they do gas stations: last space before the Mojave Desert.

He was still walking at Pilgrim Street, brisk stride, cigarette in hand. I'd obviously passed the last parking space. The loading zones, even the fireplugs were occupied territory.

He strolled across Mass. Ave., dodging traffic, hung a left, and started toward Prospect Street and the MBTA station. Took a surprise right into the alleyway next to the liquor store that used to be a Greek restaurant. I put on a burst of speed, two-wheeled the next corner. I thought I'd pick him up easily on Bishop Richard Allen Drive.

No sign of him. Two black ladies in full Easter finery strolled toward the church across the street. A tiny Asian girl balanced a boom-box on her shoulder.

A steel-blue Firebird came barreling out of the parking lot.

The last two numbers on the plate were four-eight.

Paolina's friend was driving. I swung in behind him.

9

He signaled right on Main Street, left on Mass. Ave., tooling along easily in the smelly wake of a bus. I started to radio Gloria with a quick message to call the cops. Then I hesitated. What did I have on this guy? Probable garbage theft? Offering a cigarette to a minor? The cops wouldn't exactly put out an all-points.

He swerved past the bus in front of MIT, sped up, and headed over the Harvard Bridge into Boston, hitting a major pothole so hard I was amazed he didn't lose his engine, much less a hubcap.

Left on Commonwealth. Didn't the jerk ever check his rearview mirror?

Right on Gloucester. He'd been inching along so slowly that he caught me when he squealed a left on Boylston, catching the very tail of a yellow. If I'd had my own car, I'd have chanced it, but Gloria hates to have the least little dent on one of her fenders.

When I drive for her, I carry a secret repair kit consisting of one bottle each of green and white nail lacquer. Punk fashion has helped me camouflage a couple of nasty scratches.

I watched the Firebird do a tricky little scoot into the Pru Center garage. This guy believed in paying for parking. I don't.

I tapped the steering wheel impatiently. The light took forever to change. Instead of following him into the garage, I decided to ditch the cab in front of the Lenox Hotel. The head bellman knows me, and I was making up a likely story when I saw a junky Renault vacate a space in front of the drugstore. I crossed three lanes of traffic without a qualm. There was time on the meter.

On foot, I sped back across the street and down the ramp into the shadowy garage.

Once past the punch-a-ticket machine, motorists could turn in any one of three directions to seek parking. No humans to pinpoint the trail of the steel-blue Firebird.

I walked the lanes, crisscrossing the green level.

The car was the only way to trace him. I couldn't cover all the pedestrian exits. He could have chosen from two banks of elevators, eight separate staircases. Lost himself in a department store. Entered the Prudential Center Tower, wound his way through the plywood boardwalk of the under-construction shopping mall clear to the Sheraton. Strolled through the glass bridge to Copley Place and descended the escalator into Back Bay Station.

The car was not on the green lower level. Which left the blue.

As I made the upper circuit, I unconsciously started counting the number of Japanese and German imports. As a native Detroiter I have a hard time believing things have come to such a pass. But then, as the driver of a Toyota, I have met the enemy and she is I.

The long and the short of it is I lost him. I couldn't find the damned car. Had he spotted me? Driven straight to an exit with some phony wrong-turn story?

I located a pay phone. Tried Mooney. He was not in the office. Good for him, I thought. Somebody should be enjoying Saturday. I tried his home number and he picked up as if he were waiting for someone to call.

“Good,” he said as soon as he heard my voice, not giving me a chance to speak. “Look, I can't get zip from the last two digits of a plate. It's the way the computers are rigged. You've got the first two digits, my guy says, he could give you a print-out—thousands of names, but a print-out anyway. But they're not geared for the last two digits, or the last digit or anything. I'm gonna raise hell. I mean, we get a lot of partials, and if they can find the first two numbers, why the hell shouldn't they be able to find the last two, especially with a make of car—”

“Mooney,” I said. “Listen.”

“Everybody gets off blaming the Registry. So do I, so I don't mind about you asking, and I'll be glad to—”

“Five-three-six, Mooney,” I said. “Five-three-six—zero-four-eight. A Mass. plate. Still a late-model Firebird.”

“You got all the numbers?”

“That's what I've been trying to say.”

“This guy's hanging around? Hassling you or what?”

“Not exactly,” I said hesitantly.

“Wanna give Papa the whole story?”

“You're not old enough.”

“Papa loves dirty stories,” he said.

“Gonna run the plate?”

“I'll run it,” he said after pausing long enough for me to wonder whether he would.

I hung up. I'd put a quarter in the slot for a dime call, because a quarter was all I had. I wondered about change, but decided not to risk sticking my finger in the coin return. Kids put used chewing gum in them. Worse.

Since I'd found such a great parking place, I decided to take advantage of it. At the Pru Star Market, I stocked up for Gloria. I bought junk, but I tried to sneak in a little nutrition on the side—oranges, a couple apples. I asked the check-out clerk to bag it separately, the unembarrassing stuff in one plastic sack, Twinkies and cupcakes in the other. I'd tote in the wholesome bag first, disappointing Gloria, but decoying any brother who might be hanging around in between bone-cracking sessions for a local loan shark.

Gloria and I dined together, with me sticking to a minimal portion of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, while she downed the rest, along with multiple Tootsie Rolls, Mars Bars, and a large box of chocolate-covered graham crackers. I spent the whole meal scared her brothers would show up.

At least I knew Paolina was okay, alive.

Sunday was a bust. No progress on the plate. No messages from Emily Woodrow. No mail at all.

10

By Monday morning I'd had it with waiting.

As soon as I got back from the Cambridge Y, still sweaty from volleyball, I tackled New England Telephone, rising higher and higher in the supervisory ranks till I reached someone who took my threat of dire legal repercussions seriously enough to promise to reconnect Marta's phone. Flushed with victory, I dialed Patsy Ronetti.

“Sorry,” she murmured in what, for her, were dulcet tones. I held the receiver an inch away from my ear instead of the customary five. “I got hung up on a trace.”

“You got what I need?” I asked, pencil poised.

“Yeah.”

“Shoot.”

“Harold Winthrop Woodrow. Age: forty-eight,” she began. She rattled through his social security number and date of birth. “Harvard University. Rutgers Law.
Law Review.
” She gave me a list of firms where he'd been employed, and I envisioned how much easier life would be once I joined the computer set. Electronic mail was the only way to go, I thought while scribbling at breakneck pace. Otherwise I'd have to learn shorthand. Spelling.

“Currently a partner at Irwin, Woodrow, and Place,” she continued, naming an influential local firm at which I had absolutely no contacts. I know lots of lawyers; I mainly work for them. But IWP boasts such a blue-blooded clientele that they rarely do business with investigators. Or if they do, they keep it quiet.

“So he's that Woodrow,” I said.

“Fancy taxes are his specialty.”

“Her?”

“Inherited major money.”

“From his name, sounds like he did, too.” Nobody in my family has a middle name like Winthrop.

“Nope. He made it the old-fashioned way. Married it. She's a Ruhly. The department-store Ruhlys.”

“She pay the bills?”

“No need. Hers sits in investment accounts. Okay? You know where to send the check, right?”

“Wait. What about her?”

“I told you. Rich.”

“Employment history. She work?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“I didn't check on her. Just him.”

“Kind of a sexist assumption,” I said.

“Classist. Why should she work?”

“Classist, sexist, whatever, if I'm paying for an employment check, I want both of them.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, anything turn up on that guy who was asking questions about me?”

“Sorry,” she murmured softly. Then she hung up. Dammit, I was going to have to cultivate somebody who did less apologizing and more conventional farewells.

I chewed my fingernails till the mailman brought my usual pile of bills and political pleas. Maybe Emily Woodrow, unwilling to break the weekly rhythm, would time her mysterious, vital, and probably cuckoo information to arrive this Friday, or next Friday, or the Friday after that.

The hell with waiting. I'd deposited her check. At least I could meet the players.

I reviewed my notes. Jerome Muir, Becca's doctor, the man with the impeccable international rep, the “genius,” according to Keith Donovan, seemed the logical place to start.

After some deliberation, I selected a card from my ever-growing phony business-card file, took a few duplicates as well. Upstairs I tried to dress to match my new identity. I might, someday, if this investigation ever blossomed, wish to meet Dr. Muir as myself. An initial foray called for disguise.

I pity male detectives, I really do. Some may laugh and ask where a six-foot-one redhead's gonna hide, but I have my response down pat: A
female
six-foot-one redhead is as easy to hide as a trip to your local wig shop.

I could do it with hair dye, like Roz—or Roz before she discovered the clippers—but the truth of it is, I like my own particular shade of flame, and I take umbrage when anyone suggests I may have helped nature's hand. So I do wigs. They're not especially comfy, and the cheapies, the kind they foist off on undercover cops, are a guaranteed headache. So I stick to two decent ones, a long straight brunette and a curly blond.