Lie Down with the Devil (9 page)

I thought we were heading to the New Sudbury Street Station. I assumed it, a cardinal error. Remnants of my cold, or more likely, getting whacked in the nose, must have addled my brain.

We stayed straight when we should have turned. We drove to Albany Street.

Albany Street used to mean Chinatown, just another street in Chinatown with the pungent smell of restaurant food and shops with windows that opened on a view of hanging poultry, glistening ducks and fat geese. Now Albany Street means the medical examiner’s office, the new building, way better than the old one, but a morgue is a morgue, call it what you will.

My stomach flip-flopped and I thought,
Paolina.
Then I thought, no, she’s safe. McLean is safe. I swallowed and wished we’d gone for doughnuts, coffee, anything to counteract the sour taste in my mouth.

“Who?” I demanded as they pulled into a metered parking slot.

“Look, nobody’s trying to upset you.”

“Right. The chief medical examiner just wants to ask me a few questions about DNA analysis?”

“Nah, he—”

“Who?” I repeated.

“We don’t know. That’s why—”

“What makes you think I’d know?”

“Relax. You read the papers?”

I nodded.

“Then you know we got a mess here. There’s bodies stacked up, and we think we can ID one, we give it a try, you know? You’re lucky, the one we got for you is pretty fresh. They got stiffs here probably date back years.”

They didn’t force me to go inside. They didn’t squawk about imminent arrest. If I’d refused, I’m not sure what they’d have done. I didn’t refuse; demon curiosity won again.

The place smelled ripe. The stink had been only
one of the complaints voiced by a tech who’d walked off the job and into the offices of the
Herald.
The smell, the drain backup in the autopsy rooms, the shortage of body bags, the corpses stacked three to a shelf and three to a gurney, the temporary refrigerated truck pressed into service.

The scandal at the ME’s competed for space with the grand opening of Lincoln Park’s Twin River expansion, a Rhode Island gambling haven boasting over four thousand slot machines. Massachusetts legislators were watching both stories closely. Millions of dollars of state revenue, money sorely needed to pull the ME’s office back from disgrace, might head south if citizens crossed the state line to play the slots instead of giving their spare cash to the Mass State Lottery.

I took out a wad of Kleenex and pressed it to my nose.

Little Mac led the way down a long linoleum hallway. “We thought we’d run this lady by you, see if maybe you can help us out. We get a couple more of these stiffs identified, we can go back out on the street like cops. So we’d appreciate it if you’d take a good look.”

“Save it,” Big Mac said. “She’s a tough guy. She’s not gonna pass out.”

The news stories seemed to have had a galvanizing effect. The place was chaotic, aides shoving gurneys to and fro, shouting commands. Everything was getting done in a rush, in time for rebuttal on Channel 5 at eleven. I swallowed and steeled myself.

“This lady.” A woman. Who was she and why did they think I could make the ID? I considered turning and bolting for the door. I mean, what could they do? Shoot me?

They didn’t guide me into any formal viewing room or ask whether I wanted to see a grief counselor. They led me to a corridor that ran perpendicular to the first one, to a gurney lined up with other gurneys along the hall.

“Haven’t done the cut yet,” Little Mac said.

“Why am I not surprised?” Big Mac checked the tag, glanced at me, and casually flipped the sheet.

Not Marta.
I didn’t even realize I’d expected it to be Paolina’s mother until I saw who it actually was.

Jessica Franklin, the beautiful, tearful young woman who’d come to me for help. Jessica Franklin, “call me Jessie,” bride-never-to-be. Lying on the narrow gurney, half her face smashed to pulp, dried blood matting the smooth dark hair.

“You know her?”

The hallway felt so close, suddenly too warm, suddenly stifling, airless, and still. I must have nodded.

“Bingo.” The big cop’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“You okay?”

“What happened?” I said. “How—?”

One of the Macs flipped the sheet to cover her, but I couldn’t look away.

“Your business card in her pocket. Took a couple days to make it out, blood and stuff, but that’s all she had. No wallet, no purse.”

“Robbery?”

“Hit and run.”

“When?” I managed. My voice sounded hoarse and gravelly.

“Late Friday, early Saturday.” Little Mac yanked a notebook out of his pocket, ran a finger down a page. “Found Saturday, four in the morning.”

“No,” I said.

“Whaddaya mean, no? It’s in the report.”

“She was in New York.”

He checked the notebook again. “Nope. She was in the North End.”

It made no sense. Had she forgotten her bag at the restaurant, taken a taxi back? Missed her train? I reached out and touched the rough sheet over Jessie’s motionless arm.

Sometimes I stonewall the cops to protect a client. Jessica Franklin didn’t need protecting anymore.

I spilled everything.

The rectangular light flashed green. I centered the photo of the groom-to-be facedown on the screen, closed the cover, and pressed
SCAN.
The cops wanted the entire Jessica Franklin file. I wanted my own copy, a clear record of a truncated case.

The machine hiccuped and I removed the shiny paper, turning it right side up. You see a photo, you make a snap judgment. The first time I’d viewed the five-by-seven of Kenneth L. Harrison, I’d said to myself: handsome, well-off. The features were regular, easy on the eye, the smile self-assured, the teeth too even and white for poverty. Circumstances change and judgment alters. Photos, features, don’t change, but now, knowing what I knew, Ken’s smile seemed less carefree, more wary. Now, when I looked in his eyes, I saw the wreck of his hopes, the death of his bride.

I sat at my desk and traced circles on a pad of paper. I know how fragile life is: One minute your mom smiling in the living room and the next, relatives talking in hushed tones, saying it’s not your fault; heart attacks happen. I know that blips on the hospital machines can seem strong one minute and disappear the next. But Jessica Franklin was so young, and I hadn’t
expected it, and I’d been relieved when it was Jessie, not Paolina or Marta.

Was that why I felt so sad, so guilty? I’d done nothing wrong, but part of me kept nagging, niggling, insisting I’d made a mistake, chosen incorrectly, followed the wrong person when Jessie and Ken split up at South Station. What was that about? Did I imagine some dark cloud had hovered over the girl, some portent of impending doom I’d failed to notice?

The doorbell rang and I stuffed the photo hurriedly into a folder and stuck it in my top desk drawer. What was this? Police efficiency all of a sudden? I hadn’t finished copying my notes and here they were.

Probably Roz had forgotten her key again. I bit back my annoyance. I’d tried phoning Roz so she could, in turn, reach the friend who’d recommended me to the dead girl, warn her before Jessie’s name blared across the news. If it was Roz, she could help me copy the file.

The bell sounded again. I hollered, “Coming,” and hurried into the foyer, opening the door without checking the peephole, expecting Roz or, failing that, expecting the stolid Macs.

Eddie Nardo, the mob lawyer, always wore a hat. I’d asked Sam about it once, and he’d said it was because Nardo couldn’t wear a crown without somebody making a wiseass comment. Now Nardo himself stood on my porch, hat in hand, and I decided the fedora might have something to do with his thinning hair.

I was surprised at how small he was. He projected the power of a larger man, a take-charge guy, a serious person. A lot of little guys play tough, or so I’ve heard. Nardo was tough; his reputation had penetrated even my shell.

“Mind if I come in?” He offered a disarming smile.
His big black Mercedes was parked on the street. He had a driver, but no other obvious bodyguards. “Cold out here.”

I said, “Okay, Mr. Nardo, come on in.”

“Eddie,” he said. “Call me Eddie, like Sam does.”

I hated to think of him and Sam together. Nardo’s black cashmere topcoat shamed my spindly coatrack, but I didn’t offer a coat hanger.

“Hey, you got a nice place here.” He took his time crossing the foyer, down the single step to the living room. He sat across from my desk, settling in and crossing his legs, making the small chair look bigger than it was.

“Thanks.”

His shoes, supposing he’d paid retail, must have cost eight hundred easy. He sat there, relaxed, at ease, like I’d invited him by for a chat. Maybe he was expecting me to offer him a drink.

“Can I help you?”

He smiled and shifted his weight, leaning back like he was going to claim the chair for a while. “So, you hear from Sam lately?”

“Why?”

“Just if you’re talking to him, you tell him we’re keeping his dad out of the loop. No need for Big Tony to fret, ya know? Nothing he can do the way he is.”

“Which is?”

“If Sam asks, you say Tony’s holding his own.”

“I
asked because I was curious. I don’t know that I’ll get a chance to pass the information along.” I didn’t want to become a mob conduit. I thought it was interesting that Eddie would come to me, like a confession that he wasn’t in touch with Sam.

“If you were going to tell Tony what happened,” I went on, casually, “what would you say to him?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I mean, I hate to keep you in the dark if that’s where you are, but Sam, ya know, the boy’s like a son to me, and I don’t want to say anything might come between the two of you. He’s a good man and he loves you. That ought to be enough.”

So much for the fishing expedition.

“But, hey, you need money, Sam wants you to have whatever you want. He’s worried about the little girl. He said I should just write out a check, or leave you a blank one, if you’d rather.”

“Not necessary. Not yet. I’ll let you know.” So he had been talking to Sam. “Is that all?”

“Well, no.” He shot me the smile again. “Really, ya know, I came to beg your pardon.”

That surprised me. “What for?”

“I wanted that bum, Jonno, to come with me, but Katharine, she can’t see that her little darling should have to do anything he doesn’t want to do. Other than that, ya know, she’s a hardheaded woman, a business woman, but where Jonno’s concerned, she might as well be some ditzy housewife. My baby boy. No matter what crap he does, it’s always for the best.”

I waited.

“Jonno’s got no use for Sam, ya know? Some kind of weird sibling rivalry shit—excuse the language. Like he wanted Tony all for himself. Wants a father, another father, because his own father was a useless SOB. So what I’m saying is he had no business closing up the Charles River place like that, thinking he’s gonna take it over. He jumped the gun, ya know? We all think Sam will beat this thing, that it’s not going to be long before he’s back in town.”

I wanted to believe him.

“I’m holding things together till he comes, but Jonno, well, he’s a hell of a problem, going off half-cocked
like he does. So I wanted to tell you, the apartment is still Sam’s. I’ll get his stuff moved back, no problem. Jonno doesn’t speak for the rest of the family. Understand?”

I nodded.

He regarded the boxes. “He just dumped this stuff here?”

“He did.”

“He’s got a nerve. I’ll be glad to bring it back. He had no business doing it. I don’t know, the kid’s not exactly under control.” Nardo rubbed his hands together, got up, and moved toward the boxes.

“Leave them,” I said.

“Hey, it’s no trouble. I’ll buzz my driver. He’ll grab a couple. Whenever you want to come over to the apartment, unpack, put everything the way you want it, you do that. You want to live there, move in fulltime, it’s okay by me.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I kept too much stuff there anyway. I’ll take care of it.”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”

“I meant what I said, about the money, about Sam being like a son. If there’s anything I can do for you, you call me.”

I wondered what Nardo’s story was. How he came to be who he was. I almost asked him about the Jaguar—where it was and would he help me get it back from Jonno. Then I thought about owing a guy like Nardo a favor.

I handed him the cashmere coat. It felt as soft as sin.

Paolina had free time on Tuesdays and Thursdays from two until three, an unscheduled block when a staff member might escort an approved visitor into the common area. Only Paolina’s therapist could approve the visitor, and Eisner tended to update the list daily at 1:55, which was inconvenient, to say the least. If I phoned just before two to discover I’d been added to the list, I couldn’t make it there till three, when I would no longer be admitted.

After the Macs came by and took the Franklin file, I decided to make the drive on spec. My chances of getting inside were small, but on the whole, I approved of the visitation policy. Without the restrictions, Marta would have hounded my little sister constantly, harping on what a burden she was, how she needed to get home and babysit her brothers.

Even at the tail end of winter, naked branches on the lofty trees, the grounds at McLean looked like the cover of a Christmas card. This is what it will be like when I visit Paolina at Colgate or Swarthmore or Mount Holyoke, picture-perfect campuses I’ve seen only in books, campuses far removed from the urban Boston universities cut by T rails and busy roads. The
fantasy got me up the entrance road and around to the East Building.

It’s a storied place, McLean, a veritable condensed history of New England arts and letters. Lowells and Sextons, girls interrupted and bell-jarred. Paolina had been lucky to be admitted, and at least they no longer called it the McLean Asylum for the Insane.

I tried to shake off my somber mood. Must be the gray gloominess of the day, the aftershock of the morgue. Jessica Franklin would forever represent a failure, an unsolved case. She wouldn’t send a card someday, thanking me for saving her from a terrible marriage; no cheery holiday greeting containing photos of her sweet-faced kids by another, better man.