“Easy going, Farouk . . .”
“No! I let you here for this unbelievable good price to protect me from bad peoples, and then they come here, these very ones you’re supposed to keep away!” He jabs his finger at Win. “Good thing no one but me sees her! I’m very upset. Peoples like that show up here, and you let me down. You have to move.”
“What did she look like, and tell me exactly what happened.” Win sits next to him.
“I come home from dinner and this white girl come from nowhere like a ghost . . .”
“Where? Here in back? Were you sitting out here smoking when she showed up?”
“I got very upset and so I go to visit José across the street to have a beer and see if he know anything about the shorty, ever seen her, and he said no. So he give me a cigarette or two. I only smoke when I get very stressed, you know. I don’t want you to have to move, you know.”
Win tries again. “What time was it when she showed up, and where were you? Inside your apartment?”
“I just was dropped off from dinner, so I’m thinking maybe nine o’clock, and you know I always come in from back here, and as I walk up these steps, there she is like a ghost out of a movie. Like she was waiting. I never seen her before and have no idea. She say to me, ‘Where’s the policeman?’ I say, ‘What policeman?’ Then she says, ‘Geronimo.’ ”
“She said that?” Few people know his nickname. Mostly cops.
“I swear,” Farouk says.
“Describe her.”
“It’s hard to see, you know. I should get lights. A cap on, big pants and short. Skinny.”
“What makes you think she’s involved in gang activity? Aside from my telling you what a shorty is.”
“The way she talk. Like a black person even though she white. And very rough talk, street talk, said a lot of bad words.” He repeats a few of them. “And when I say I don’t know a policeman named Geronimo, because I protect you always, she cuss me some more and say she knows you live here, and she hand me this.” He slides an envelope out of his jacket pocket.
“How many times I got to tell you not to touch things if they’re suspicious?” Win says. “That’s why I had to take your fingerprints a couple years ago. Remember? Because you touched something else some wacko left me?”
“I’m not one of these sissies on TV.”
Farouk is hopeless with acronyms, thinks CSI is pronounced “sissy.” Thinks DNA is D&A, refers to drugs and alcohol testing.
“You can get prints, other evidence off paper,” Win reminds him, knowing it won’t do any good. Farouk never remembers, doesn’t care.
Certainly this isn’t the first time someone has delivered unsolicited communications to the building or has simply shown up uninvited. The downside to Win’s living here so long is it’s impossible to keep his address a secret. But typically, his unexpected visitors are nonthreatening. A woman he’s met somewhere. Now and then, someone who’s read about a case, saw something, knows something, and asks around until he or she gets Win’s address. More often, some paranoid soul who wants police protection. Sure, people leave him notes, even alleged evidence, but Win’s never seen Farouk this upset.
Win takes the envelope, using his fingertips to hold it by two corners, returns to Nana’s car, manages to collect his evidence, carry it without dropping anything. Farouk smokes and watches.
“You see her again, you call me right away,” Win says to him. “Some nutcase comes looking for me, don’t bum cigarettes and sit out here in the dark for hours, waiting for me to show up.”
“I don’t want those gang peoples. Don’t need drugs and shootings around here,” Farouk exclaims.
The building is a walk-up, no such thing as elevators back in the Victorian days of reading, writing, and arithmetic. Win carries the pot and pans up three flights of stairs to his apartment—two former classrooms that were connected during the renovation. Added were a kitchen, a bathroom, a window-unit air conditioner. Since he lived here during the construction, helped supervise and keep an eye on the place, he got his way about a number of things, such as preserving the original fir floors, wainscotting, vaulted ceilings, even the chalkboards, which he uses for grocery lists, other reminders of errands he needs to run, and phone numbers and appointments. He sets the evidence on a table, shuts the heavy oak door, locks it, dead bolts it, looks around the way he always does to make sure nothing is amiss, and his mood sinks lower.
After a day of Lamont and Stump, he feels worse about himself than usual, is depressingly aware of the Oriental rug, the Thomas Moser table, the leather sofa and mismatched chairs, and shelves of remaindered books he got for almost nothing and has such a hard time reading. Everything undesirable or secondhand, from junk shops, yard sales, eBay, Craigslist. Flawed, damaged, unwanted. He slides out his pistol, places it on the dining-room table, takes off his jacket and tie, unbuttons his shirt, sits at his computer, and logs on to a people-search database, enters the address for the Victorian house in Cambridge. He prints out the last thirty-five years of owners and their possible relatives. Other searches reveal the most recent real-estate transaction was this past March when the run-down property was purchased for six-point-nine million dollars by a limited liability company called FOIL. In uppercase. Must be an acronym. He Googles it.
Nothing much. Just a few hits: a San Diego rock band, an educational site called First Outside Inside Last, Freedom of Information Law, Forum of Indian Leftists, a board game that has to do with words and wit.
He can’t imagine how any one of them might be connected to a Victorian mansion on Brattle Street, and it crosses his mind to call Lamont and demand an explanation, tell her he knows where she was earlier tonight, that he saw her. Maybe scare her into confessing to whatever she was doing there. He envisions the room with the mattress, the candle, evidence that photographs were taken. He thinks about the vandalism, signs of what appear to be copper theft. And he obsesses over the bottle of wine, the Prada shoe impressions. If someone is setting him up, who and why? And how is it possible Lamont’s not involved?
He covers the dining-room table with butcher paper, puts on latex gloves. Pours an ampoule of iodine crystals in a Ziploc bag, places the envelope inside it, seals the bag, and gently shakes it. A minute or two, and he removes the envelope, blows on it, not worried about DNA—the underside of the sealed flap is the best source for that. His warm, moist breath causes a chemical reaction with the iodine. Several fingerprints appear on the paper, turning black as he continues to blow on them. He slits open the envelope, slides out a folded sheet of plain white paper. Neatly printed on it in pink Magic Marker is Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Filippello Playground. Yours truly, Raggedy Ann.
Next day, three p.m., London time.
At New Scotland Yard, Detective Superintendent Jeremy Killien gazes out the window at the revolving triangular steel sign in front of the legendary steel building. Usually, the sign’s slow spins help him concentrate. But he’s nicotine-deprived and irritated. As if he doesn’t have enough to do, and then the commissioner drops a bloody bomb on him.
Killien’s fifth-floor office, in the heart of the Specialist Crime Directorate, is overwhelmed by the iconography of his life. Books, file folders, the layered civilizations of paperwork that he’ll excavate someday, the walls a polite and prestigious crowd of photographs. Margaret Thatcher, Tony Blair, Princess Diana, Helen Mirren—each posing with him in it. He has the expected shadowbox of police caps, patches, and in a corner, a mannequin dressed in a Victorian uniform worn by a bobby whose collar number, 452H, meant his beat was Whitechapel during the era of Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper.
Hell, one lousy cigarette. Is it so much to ask? For the past hour Killien’s tried to ignore the urge, and is outraged all over again that after decades of donating his life to the Metropolitan Police Service, he no longer can smoke at his desk or inside the building, has to creep out of the building on the service lift to the enclosed courtyard with its loading bay that stinks
of rubbish and get his fix like some homeless person. He opens a drawer, helps himself to another piece of mint-flavored nicotine gum, calms down a bit as his tongue begins to tingle.
Dutifully, he returns to the perusal of this unsolved Massachusetts homicide from 1962. Bizarre. The commissioner must be off his trolley to take on such a thing. An unsolved forty-five-year-old murder that didn’t even occur in the UK? Winston “Win” Garano, also goes by the nickname Geronimo. No doubt because of his mixed race. A handsome fellow, Killien will give him that. Mocha skin, wavy black hair, the strong, straight nose of a Roman emperor. Thirty-four years old, never married, both parents died when he was seven. A faulty heater, carbon monoxide poisoning. Even killed his dog, Pencil. Odd name for a dog.
Let’s see, let’s see. Raised by his grandmother, Nana . . . Oh, this is a good one. Calls herself a “woman of the craft.” A witch. Deplorable driving record. Parking violations, running red lights, illegal U-turns, speeding, license suspended and reinstated by payment of fines. Good Lord, oh, here we go. Arrested three years ago, charges dropped. Seems she flung nine hundred and ninety-nine newly minted pennies on Massachusetts governor Mitt Romney’s yard. A better one yet. Wrote Vice President Dick Cheney’s name on parchment, placed it inside a bag of “dog poop,” buried it in a cemetery. Caught in the act both times, was putting a curse on them. Well, no crime in that. She should have gotten a reward.
It appears Win Garano has been removed from his normal duties, assigned to the Watertown case. Sounds suspicious. Sounds like punishment. Sounds like he’s done something to alienate his boss. Monique Lamont, district attorney for Middlesex County. Despite strong support from the public, she withdrew from the 2006 gubernatorial election, switched to the Republican party, and placed herself back on the ballot for reelection to her current position. Won by a wide margin. Never married, no current significant relationship. Killien stares for a long time at a photograph of her. Dark hair, dark eyes, quite stunning. Prominent family of French descent.
His phone rings.
“Have you had a chance to review the Massachusetts situation?” the commissioner asks him right off.
Situation? That’s an unusual way to put it. Killien opens a manila envelope, slides out more photographs, police and autopsy reports. Takes a second for him to realize to his astonishment that the victim is Lamont. Raped and almost murdered last year.
“Hello? Are you there?” The commissioner.
“Looking at it even as we speak, sir,” Killien replies, clearing his throat.
The attack took place in the bedroom of her Cambridge, Massachusetts, home, her assailant shot to death by this same detective, Win Garano. What was he doing inside her bedroom? There it is. Concerned by her demeanor on the phone, drove to her house, found the back door ajar, interrupted the assailant and killed him. Crime scene photographs of the would-be murderer on Lamont’s bedroom floor, blood everywhere. Photographs of Lamont, of her injuries. Ligature marks around her wrists, her ankles. Suck marks on her fully exposed . . .
“Are you listening to me?” The commissioner’s commanding voice.
“Of course, sir.” Killien looks out the window at the revolving sign.
“The victim, as I’m sure you’re well aware by now, was British. From London,” the commissioner says.
Killien hasn’t gotten that far, and if he says as much, the commissioner will give him stick about it. Killien avoids answering the question by asking a different one. “This wasn’t thoroughly investigated by the Met at the time?” He moves paperwork around on his desk. “I don’t see anything. . . .”
“We weren’t contacted, apparently. There didn’t seem to be a British interest, apparently. The victim’s boyfriend was American, was the main suspect, and even if there was the slightest suspicion she may have been the work of the Boston Strangler, there wouldn’t have been a reason to involve us.”
“The Boston Strangler?”
“The district attorney’s theory.”
Killien spreads out photographs taken at the hospital, where she was examined by a forensic nurse. He imagines the cops seeing Lamont like this. How can they look at their powerful DA ever again and not imagine what’s in these pictures? How does she cope?
“Of course I’ll do whatever you wish,” he says. “But why the sudden urgency?”
“We’ll discuss it over a drink,” the commissioner says. “I have an event at the Dorchester, so meet me there five sharp.”
Meanwhile, in Watertown, Filippello Park is deserted.
Nothing but empty picnic tables beneath shade trees, vacant playing fields, and cold barbecues. Win figures the playground Raggedy Ann referred to in the card she left with Farouk is probably the tot lot, so he waits on a bench near sliding boards and a splash pool. No sign of anybody until eight minutes past ten, when he hears a car on the bike path. There are only two types of people outrageous enough to drive on bike paths: cops or idiots who should be arrested. He gets up as a dark blue Taurus parks, and Stump rolls down her window.
“Understand you’re supposed to meet someone.” She looks furious, as if she hates him.
“You chase her off ?” he says, none too friendly himself.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Believe it’s a public park. And what the hell are you doing here?”
“Your meeting’s been canceled. Thought I’d drop by to let you know in person. Was considerate about it, even after what you did.”
“What I did? And who the hell told you—”
“ You show up uninvited at the mobile lab,” Stump interrupts. “Spend an hour with me, pretending to be a nice guy, even helpful. Call later and ask me on a date, and all the while you’re burning me!”
“Burning you?”
“Shut up and get in. I recognized your car wreck over there. You can get it later. Don’t think you have to worry about anybody stealing it.”
They creep along the bike path, her dark glasses fixed straight ahead, her dress casual bordering on sloppy, but deliberate. Khaki shirt, untucked, baggy, to hide the pistol on her hip or at the small of her back. Her jeans are loose-fitting, a faded soft denim, frayed in spots, and long, probably to conceal an ankle holster. Most likely her left ankle. Could be on her right ankle, he has no idea. Is ignorant about prosthetics, and he follows the contours of her thighs, wondering what she does to keep the right one as muscular as the left, imagines she must manage leg extensions, maybe on a specially designed machine, or she might wrap weights below the knee and do extensions that way. If it were him, no way he’d let his thigh completely atrophy just because some other part of him was missing.
She suddenly stops the car, yanks up a lever under her seat to shove it back as far as it will go, and props her right foot up on the dash.
“There,” she snaps at him. “Get an eyeful. I’m sick of your not-so-subtle voyeurism.”
“Great hiking boots,” he says. “LOWAs with Vibram out-soles, shock-absorbing, amazing stabilization. If it wasn’t for the brim of the prosthesis socket just above your kneecap—which is visible through your jeans, by the way, only because your leg is bent and halfway in the air—I wouldn’t know. I’m not the one having the problem. Curious, yes. Voyeuris tic, no.”
“You left out manipulative, because that’s what you are—a goddamn manipulator who must do nothing but cruise designer-clothing stores, men’s catalogs. Because all you care about is the way you look, and no wonder. Since that’s all there is to you. And I don’t know what you’re up to, but this isn’t the way to start. First, you were supposed to meet the chief at ten. So already you’re demonstrating your lack of respect.”
“I left a message.”
“Second, I don’t appreciate you messing with people who are none of your business.”
“What people?”
“The lady you bullied into meeting you at the park.”
“I sure as hell didn’t bully anyone. She left a note at my apartment building late last night, signed it
Raggedy Ann, told me to meet her at the playground this morning.” He doesn’t realize how ridiculous it sounds until he’s said it.
“Stay away from her.”
“Thought she was just some crazy from a local shelter. Now suddenly you have a personal relationship.”
“I don’t give a damn what you thought.”
“How did you know I was meeting her?”
Stump shoves the seat forward, starts driving again.
“You know what?” he says. “I don’t have to put up with this. Turn around and drop me off at my car.”
“Too late for that. You’re getting your way. Gonna spend a little time with me today. And maybe by the end of it you’ll take my recommendation and go back to your day job and get the hell out of Watertown.”
“Oh, before I forget. I was burglarized last night.” He’s not about to mention Nana, that actually she was burglarized, not him. “Now I find out some fruit loop who dresses like a rag doll is lying about me. Then, magically, you show up instead of her.”
“What burglary?” Stump sets aside her hard-ass act for a minute. “You mean your apartment?”
“No. The friggin’ Watergate.”
“What was stolen?”
“Some personal belongings.”
“Such as?”
“Such as I’m not giving you details because right now I don’t trust anybody. Including you.”
Silence. They turn on Arlington, then Elm, then pull into a remote parking lot of the Watertown Mall, where she backs into a space between two SUVs.
“Car breaks,” she says, as if their previous conversation didn’t happen. “These jerks tie magnets to strings, drag them along a door to lift up the lock. Or poke a hole in a tennis ball, slam it against the lock so the forced air pushes it open. Of course, the big thing now is these portable navigation systems.”
She opens the glove box, digs out a Magellan Maestro 4040 that has a broken adhesive disk. Plugs the charger into the cigarette lighter, wraps the cord around the rearview mirror. The crippled GPS dangles like fuzzy dice.