The Front (2 page)

“Usually we talk about cheese.”

Lamont glances at her watch. “Let's get to the facts of the case. Janie Brolin.”

“Never heard of her.”

“British. She was blind, decided to spend a year in the States, chose Watertown, most likely because of Perkins, probably the most famous school for the blind in the world. Where Helen Keller went.”

“Perkins wasn't located in Watertown back in the Helen Keller days. It was in Boston.”

“And why would you know trivia like that?”

“Because I'm a trivial person. And obviously you've been planning this
drama
for a while. So why did you wait until the last minute to tell me about it?”

“This is very sensitive and must be handled very discreetly. Imagine being blind and realizing there's an intruder inside your apartment. That horror factor and something far more important. I think you're going to discover she very well may have been the Boston Strangler's first victim.”

“You said early April 1962?” Win frowns. “His alleged first murder wasn't until two months later, in June.”

“Doesn't mean he hadn't killed before, just that earlier cases weren't linked to him.”

“How do you propose we prove the Janie Brolin murder—or the Strangler's other thirteen alleged murders, for that matter—was committed by him when we still don't really know who he was?”

“We have Albert DeSalvo's DNA.”

“No one's ever proved he was the Strangler, and more to the point, do we have DNA from the Janie Brolin case for comparison?”

“That's for you to find out.”

He can tell by her demeanor there's no DNA and she damn well knows it. Why would there be, some forty-five years later? Back then, there was no such thing as forensic DNA or even a thought that there might be someday. So forget proving or disproving anything, as far as he's concerned.

“It's never too late for justice,” Lamont pontificates—or Lamonticates, as he calls it. “It's time to unite citizens and police in fighting crime. To take back our neighborhoods, not just here but worldwide.” Same thing she just said in her uninspiring lecture. “We're going to create a model that will be studied everywhere.”

Raggedy Ann is sending text messages on her cell phone. What a whack job. Harvard Square's full of them. The other day, Win saw some guy licking the sidewalk in front of the Coop.

“Obviously, nothing about this to the press until the case is solved. Then, of course, it comes from me. It's too hot for May,” she complains, getting up from the picnic table. “Watertown tomorrow morning, ten sharp, the chief's office.”

She leaves her barely touched latte for him to dutifully toss in the trash.

 

 

 

An hour later, Win is finishing his third rep on the leg press when his iPhone vibrates like a large insect. He picks it up, wipes his face with a towel, puts on the wireless earpiece.

“Sorry. You're on your own,” Stump says, in response to the voice mail he left her.

“We'll talk later.” He has no intention of discussing it in the middle of the Charles Hotel health spa, which he can't afford but is allowed to use in exchange for his security expertise and connections.

In the locker room, he takes a quick shower, changes back into his same outfit except for his shoes, which he swaps out for motorcycle boots. He grabs his helmet, his armored mesh jacket, and gloves. His motorcycle is parked in front of the hotel, a red Ducati Monster, protected by traffic cones, in his reserved spot on the sidewalk. He's tucking his gym bag inside the hard case, locking it, when Cal Tradd walks up.

Cal says, “I figured a guy like you would ride the Superbike.”

“Really? Why would you figure that?” Before he can catch himself.

The last thing he wants is to engage the spoiled little bastard, but he's knocked off balance, would never have guessed Cal would know anything about motorcycles, certainly not a Ducati 1098 S Superbike.

“Always wanted one,” Cal says. “Ducati, Moto Guzzi, Ghezzi-Brian. But you start piano lessons when you're five, forget even a skateboard.”

Win's sick and tired of the reminder. The mini Mozart, giving recitals by the time he was five.

“So when are we going to ride around together?” Cal goes on.

“What's so hard about the words
no
or
never
? I don't have ridealongs and I hate publicity. And I've told you this . . . let's see. About fifty times now?”

Cal digs in a pocket of his khakis, pulls out a folded piece of paper, hands it to him. “My numbers. Same ones you probably threw away last time I gave them to you. Maybe you'll call me, give me a chance. Just like Monique said in her lecture. Cops and the community need to work together. There's a lot of bad stuff going on out there.”

Win walks off without so much as a
see you later,
heads toward Pittinelli's Gourmet Market, another place he can't afford. It took some nerve to wander in a couple months ago, see if he could work out an arrangement with Stump, who he'd heard of but never met. They aren't friends, probably don't even get along, but have a mutually beneficial arrangement. She gives him discounts because he happens to be state police and happens to be headquartered in Cambridge, where her market is located. Put it this way, it just so happens that Cambridge cops no longer ticket Pittinelli's delivery trucks when they're in violation of ten-minute parking zones.

He opens the front door and runs into Raggedy Ann, on her way out, tossing an empty Fresca can into a trash bin. The freako acts as if she doesn't see him, the same way she did a little while ago at the School of Government. Now that he thinks of it, she treated him as if he were invisible the other week, too, when she was hanging around the courthouse, and he passed within inches of her, even said “excuse me.” Close up, she smells like baby powder. Maybe it's all the makeup she's wearing.

“What's going on?” he says, blocking her way. “Seems like we keep running into each other.”

She pushes past him, hurrying along the busy sidewalk, cuts through an alleyway. Gone.

Stump is stocking shelves with olive oil, the air pungent with the aroma of imported cheeses, prosciutto, salami. Some college kid is sitting behind the counter, lost in a paperback, the shop otherwise empty.

“What's with Raggedy Ann?” Win asks.

Stump looks up from her crouched position in the aisle, hands him a corked bottle shaped like a flask. “Frantoio Gaziello. Unfiltered, a little grassy, with a hint of avocado. You'll love it.”

“She was just in your shop? And right before that, she was hanging around Lamont and me at the School of Government. And I've seen her around the courthouse, too. A little coincidental, maybe?” He studies the bottle of olive oil, looking for the price. “Maybe she's stalking me.”

“I certainly would if I were some pitiful, deranged street person who thinks she's a rag doll. Probably from one of the local shelters,” Stump says. “In and out, never buys anything except Fresca.”

“Sure drank it fast. Unless she didn't finish it. Tossed the can in the trash as she was coming out of your store.”

“Her MO. Looks around, drinks her Fresca, and leaves. Seems harmless.”

“Well, she's starting to give me a creepy feeling. What's her name, and which shelter? I think it would be a good idea to run a background on her.”

“I don't know anything about her except she's not right.” Twirling her finger at her temple.

“So, how long you known about Lamont's assigning me to Watertown?”

“Let me see.” She looks at her watch. “ You left your voice mail an hour and a half ago? Let me do the math. I've known for an hour and a half.”

“That's what I thought. Nobody's told you, so she makes sure from the get-go that you and I don't get along.”

“I don't need some harebrained new hobby right now. She sends you to Watertown on some secret mission, don't come crying to me.”

He crouches next to her. “You ever heard of the Janie Brolin case?”

“You can't grow up in Watertown and not have heard of that case, which was half a friggin' century ago. Your DA's nothing but a consummate, cold-blooded politician.”

“She's your DA, too, unless Watertown PD's seceded from Middlesex County.”

“Look,” she says, “it's not my problem. I don't give a damn what she and the chief have cooked up. I'm not doing it.”

“Since it occurred in Watertown, since there's no statute of limitations for homicides, technically it is your problem if the case is reopened. And as of now, looks like it has been.”

“Technically, homicides in Massachusetts, with rare exception, such as Boston, are the jurisdiction of the state police. Certainly you guys remind us of that on a regular basis when you show up at the scene, take over the investigation, even if you don't know a damn thing about anything. Sorry, you're on your own.”

“Come on, Stump. Don't be like this.”

“We just had another bank robbery this morning.” Arranging bottles on shelves. “Fourth in three weeks. Plus the hair salon breaks, car breaks, house breaks, copper thefts, hate crimes. Never stops. I'm a little busy for cases that happened before I was born.”

“Same bank robber?”

“Same-o, same-o. Hands the teller a note, empties the cash drawer, call goes out over BAPERN.”

Boston Area Police Emergency Radio Network. So local cops can talk to one another, assist one another.

“Meaning every cop car on the planet shows up, lights and sirens full-tilt. All of downtown looks like a Christmas parade. Ensuring our one-man Bonnie and Clyde knows exactly where we are so he can stay out of sight until we're gone,” she says as a customer walks in.

“How much?” Win refers to the bottle of olive oil he's still holding.

More customers. Almost five p.m., and people are getting off work. Pretty soon, it will be standing room only. Stump sure as hell isn't a cop for the money, and he's never figured out why she doesn't retire from the department and have a life.

“It's yours at cost.” She gets up, walks to another aisle, picks out a bottle of wine, gives it to him. “Just got it in. Tell me what you think.”

A 2002 Wolf Hill pinot noir. “Sure,” he says. “Thanks. But why the sudden kill-me-with-kindness act?”

“Giving you my condolences. Must be fatal working for her.”

“While you're feeling sorry for me, mind if I get a few pounds of Swiss, cheddar, Asiago, roast beef, turkey, wild rice salad, baguettes? And kosher salt, five pounds would be great.”

“Jesus. What the hell do you do with that stuff? Throw margarita parties for half of Boston?” As she stands up, so at ease with her prosthesis, he rarely remembers she has one. “Come on. Since I feel so sorry for you, I'll buy you a drink,” she says. “One cop to another, let me give you a little advice.”

They collect empty boxes and carry them to the storeroom in back, and she opens the walk-in refrigerator, grabs two diet cream sodas, and says, “What you need to focus on is motive.”

“The killer's?” Win says, as they sit at a folding table, walled in by cases of wine, olive oils, vinegars, mustards, chocolates.

“Lamont's.”

“You must have worked a lot of cases with her over the years, but she acts as if the two of you have never met,” he says.

“Bet she does. I don't guess she told you about the night we got so ripped, she had to sleep on my couch.”

“No way. She doesn't even socialize with cops, much less get drunk with them.”

“Before your time,” says Stump, who's older than Win by at least five years. “Back in the good ole days before an alien took over her body, she was a kick-ass prosecutor, used to show up at crime scenes, hang out with us. One night after a murder-suicide, the two of us ended up at Sacco's, started drinking wine, got so wasted we left our cars and walked to my place. Like I said, she ended up spending the night. We were so hungover the next day, both of us called in sick.”

“You must be talking about someone else.” Win can't envision it, has a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You sure it wasn't some other assistant DA, and maybe over the years you've gotten the two of them confused?”

Stump laughs, says, “What? I've got Alzheimer's? Unfortunately, the Lamont you know never goes to crime scenes unless television trucks are everywhere, hardly ever sees a court-room, has nothing to do with cops unless she's giving them orders, and doesn't care about criminal justice anymore, only power. The Lamont I knew may have had an ego, but why wouldn't she? Harvard Law, beautiful, smart as hell. But decent.”

“She and
decent
don't know each other.” He doesn't understand why he's suddenly so angry and territorial, and before he can stop himself, he nastily adds, “Sounds like you have a slight touch of the Walter Mitty syndrome. Maybe you've been a lot of different people in life, because the person I'm drinking a cream soda with is short and fat, according to Lamont.”

Only thing short about Stump is her dark hair. And she's certainly not fat. In fact, now that he's paying attention, he has to say she's pretty damn buff, must work out a lot, has a great body, actually. Not bad looking. Well, maybe a little masculine.

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't stare at my chest,” she says. “Nothing personal. I tell all the men that when I'm alone with them in the back of the shop.”

“Don't assume I'm hitting on you,” he says. “Nothing personal. I tell all the women that when I'm alone with them. Tell men, too, if the need arises. So to speak.”