Marine Corpse (24 page)

Zerk and I were driving out through the suburbs to Heather’s condo in Sudbury. A soft, misty rain was falling, and fog drifted up from the rapidly shrinking patches of snow in the shady corners and along the roadside. The countryside was March brown, all the mud and dead leaves and winter trash along the roadside newly unveiled where the snow had melted away. In the marshlands and along the swollen streams, pale patches of yellow and pink were beginning to show as the willows and swamp maples prepared to send forth their foliage.

Up north, the natives would be wallowing in mud season. In Massachusetts, it mostly just looked dirty.

“The place was sealed off,” Zerk was saying. “And, of course, I can’t arrange to sell it until we clear probate. We’ll have to look around, see what there is to dispose of. And you’ll have to figure out what to do with it all.”

“As the executor.”

“Right. As the executor of the estate.”

“No heirs, huh?”

“Both her parents are dead. No siblings. Her instructions were simply to donate everything to a charity. That means,” he said, turning to me, “a charity of your choice.”

“I want to do something special with her photographs,” I said. “Perhaps arrange a showing, or try to get them printed in a book. They’re damn good.”

We pulled into the parking area adjacent to Heather’s place. I hadn’t been back since the night she died.

We walked up to the door. Zerk pulled a key from his pocket and stuck it into the lock.

I lifted the loose shingle beside the door, and Heather’s spare key fell out. I picked it up and handed it to Zerk. “She was always forgetting her key,” I told him. “This is how I got in that night.”

He pushed open the door, then turned to face me. “Are you all right?”

I nodded. “Sure. Fine.”

The place was as I remembered it. The forensics experts had presumably bustled around with their little plastic bags, dusting, vacuuming, and otherwise searching for clues. As far as I had heard, they had found nothing. And with the suicide of David Lee, they had abandoned their quest.

I wandered among the downstairs rooms. Somebody had had the foresight to clean out the refrigerator and throw out the potatoes that Heather had peeled and left in the sink. But the salad bowl was still sitting there, waiting for her to tear up the lettuce and slice the cucumbers and sweet onions.

I went into the living room and sat on the sofa. “She exercised to classical music,” I said to Zerk, who was standing in the middle of the room with a notebook and pen in his hands. “The first time I came here, it was Wagner. She played it very loud. She looked terrific in a leotard.”

Zerk sat down beside me. “This might not have been such a great idea, coming back here.”

“No,” I said. “It’s all right. I wanted to. I’ve got to pick up those journals.”

“Interesting stuff in that diary, huh?”

“Very interesting,” I nodded. “If I can put the journals beside the diary, I think I might really have something.”

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ve got to get a real estate appraiser out here, get a market value for the place,” said Zerk. “What do you think about the furniture?”

“Sell it all. You don’t think there will be great-aunts and third cousins coming out of the woodwork to pick over the stuff, do you?”

“As far as I know, you’re it, big fella,” said Zerk. “I’ve got to look around, make some notes.” He got up and headed for the stairs. “You coming?”

“I really don’t want to go up there.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

After Zerk disappeared up the stairs toward Heather’s bedroom, I went over to her desk where, I knew, she had kept Stu’s journals. She had once showed me the stack of neat notes she was making as she worked her way through them. She had copied out quotes—descriptions of the men Stu had met, little anecdotes about their backgrounds, street scenes, possible captions for the photos she intended to take—and had written reminders for herself in the margins. She’d liked to lay out the papers on the top of the desk, which was otherwise bare except for a lamp and a ceramic beer mug of pens and pencils. She’d kept the journals and her notes in a big manila envelope in the bottom left-hand drawer.

I pulled open the drawer. The envelope wasn’t there. Nor was it in any of the other drawers in the desk. I went back into the kitchen. Once in a while, I knew, she would spread all the papers out on the kitchen table to work on while something was roasting in the oven. I went through all the cabinets and drawers. Then I went back into the living room and conducted an orderly search through all the bookshelves. I looked under the sofa. I prowled among the coats and boots and the stack of games on the shelf in the hall closet.

Then I went upstairs.

Zerk was sitting on Heather’s bed, writing in his notebook. “You haven’t seen a big manila envelope, have you?” I said.

“No. Haven’t really been looking, of course.”

“Well, help me look.”

He nodded, and together we went through the upstairs. I took the bathroom and the spare bedroom. Zerk rummaged through her underwear and sweaters in the bureau and moved the stuff around in her closet.

Then we went back downstairs and did it all over again.

Stu’s journals, and Heather’s notes, were not there.

“Maybe she hid them someplace,” said Zerk. “Like she hid her spare key.”

“She wasn’t hiding the key. She was just keeping it there. There’s a difference. She wasn’t the sort of person who hid things.” I shook my head. “I don’t understand it. You’re sure the police didn’t take them?”

“The police took nothing,” he said. “I’m sure of that. Look. Maybe she had some other place for them. An office, safe deposit box?”

“No. She had no reason to secure them. She was working on them. This is where she worked. The stuff should be right here, in the drawer.”

Zerk peered at me. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

I nodded. “They’ve been stolen. Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s a damn shame. That’ll make it pretty tough to make sense out of that diary, huh?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said slowly, “now that I think about it, it actually makes things clearer.” I nodded. “Much clearer.”

I got an answering machine at Gus Becker’s number. An efficient female voice repeated the number I had dialed and instructed me to wait for the tone and then leave my own name and number and state my business, and Mr. Becker would get back to me as soon as he could.

“This is Brady Coyne, Gus,” I said to the machine. “I’ve got something that I think will interest you.” I said I’d be home for the rest of the evening and left my number. Then I sat back and lit a Winston.

Becker called back before I finished the cigarette. “Sorry about the machine,” he said. “I’ve gotta do it that way, now.”

“Heavy cloak and dagger stuff, huh?”

I heard him chuckle. “I know, I know. You’re familiar with that ploy. I keep forgetting. So what’s up?”

“I found Stu Carver’s diary. You still interested?”

He hesitated. “Well, yeah, I guess I am. I had more or less abandoned that line, but, sure, I’d like to see it. Want me to come by and pick it up, or what?”

“Whatever you want,” I said. “I could meet you someplace.”

“Yeah, okay. That might be easier. Tonight?”

“Sure,” I said. “Tonight’s fine. You name it.”

He paused for a moment. “Well, how about Choo Li’s? That would be convenient for me. Know where Choo Li’s is?”

“Afraid not.”

“Beach Street. You can’t miss it. Pretty good food. Never crowded. Drinks are generous. I’ll treat you.”

“That’s in Chinatown, right?”

“Right. Can you find it?”

“Choo Li’s on Beach Street. I’ll find it.”

“In an hour?”

I glanced at my watch. It was a little after eight. “Better make it around ten-thirty. I’ve got a few things to do first.”

“Ten-thirty, then. Hey, Brady?”

“Yes?”

“Have you had a chance to look over the diary?”

“Aw, shit, Gus. It’s all scribbles. I’m not really interested, anyway. I’m just trying to help you out.”

“Sure. Appreciate it. Probably means nothing anyway. Know something, though?”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve been thinking about those murders. The girl, the old guy, and the Carver kid. Now, I’m not at all convinced that it has anything to do with the drug thing I’m working on. That’s hard to fit together. But I’m not sure that I like Lee as the murderer, either. Some pieces just don’t fit.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I said.

“We can talk about it.”

“At Choo Li’s. I’ll be there.”

B
OSTON’S CHINATOWN IS CONTAINED
within just a few city blocks, crammed into a corner between the Combat Zone and Atlantic Avenue. It’s right next door to the Tuft’s Dental School, a short walk from the Sow’s Ear, and a somewhat longer stroll from the St. Michael’s mission.

A red and green neon sign in the window of Choo Li’s advertised “Authentic Chinese and American Cuisine.” The diningroom was small, dimly lit, and almost deserted. Several Chinese waiters stood in a cluster, sharing a private joke that seemed, by the way they kept looking over at me, to be at my expense. They were all young, smooth-faced men, and all wore identical yellow silk shirts and tight black pants.

The one who silently steered me to a corner table and handed me my menu, I quickly learned, would not acknowledge that he understood English. I managed to convey to him how I wanted my Mai Tai built. I told him with gestures that I expected to be joined shortly by another person.

By the time Gus Becker arrived, I had lined up two empty Mai Tai glasses and was sipping from my third. He stood in the doorway for a moment, squinting. Then he saw me, grinned, and came over.

“Been waiting long?” he said, taking the chair across from me.

I gestured at the two empty glasses. “Few minutes. No problem.”

“What’re you drinking?”

“Mai Tais,” I said. “Delicious. Love ’em. Want one?”

“You better take it easy on those things,” he said. “They can sneak up on you.”

“The hell, you’re buying, right?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Have all you want.”

The waiter came over to the table and lifted his eyebrows. Becker pointed at my glass. “One of those,” he said loudly, as if he could overcome the language barrier by force. He glanced at me. “These boys don’t speeka da English, you know?” To the waiter he said, “A Mai Tai, Sonny. And another one for my friend.”

The waiter shrugged. Becker pointed at me, then at my glass. “More Mai Tai. Another drinkee.” The waiter dipped his head and left.

Becker took a plastic-tipped cigar from his jacket pocket, removed the cellophane wrapper, and clenched it between his teeth, which gleamed from behind the curly bush of his molasses beard. “So,” he said, holding a match to the cigar, “how’ve you been, my friend?” He lounged back in his chair and peered at me through a cloud of smoke.

“Getting by,” I said. I drained my glass. “Managing, as they say.”

“Sometimes getting by is doing pretty damn good.”

The waiter came with the drinks. Becker said to me, “How about a Pu-Pu platter?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”

He looked at the waiter. “Pu-Pu platter.” The waiter twitched his shoulders. “Jesus,” said Becker. “How the hell do you guys make a living? Look. Here.” He pointed at the menu. “One of these, okay? Let’s go. Chop chop.”

The waiter bowed, his eyes black pieces of stone, and slid away.

Becker sipped his Mai Tai through a straw. “So. You got the diary.”

There was a little paper parasol sticking out of my Mai Tai. I removed it and picked out a chunk of pineapple with my fingers. “I got the diary,” I said, popping the fruit into my mouth. “The old man, Altoona, had it. He left it for me at St. Michael’s. You know, the mission where he stayed. Very interesting, that diary.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t read it.”

“Messy. Ol’ Stu had messy penmanship.” I took Stu’s diary out of my coat pocket and put it on the table. “Certain words, though, they just jump out at you. Know what I mean?”

“No. What do you mean?”

I gulped down half of my drink. “Mmm. Good.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Stu was interested in foreign policy. Haiti in particular.” I took out a Winston. I closed one eye in order to line up the flame of my lighter with the tip of the cigarette. “The diary’s all about Haiti,” I said, smiling at Becker.

He picked up the diary and dropped it into his pocket without looking at it. “No kidding?” he said. “Haiti, huh?”

“No fucking kidding,” I said. “Remember that Cuban, tried to shoot the State Department guy, there? Lampley?”

Becker nodded, frowning.

“Stu had a theory. A very interesting theory.”

Our Pu-Pu platter arrived. Ribs and sirloin tips. Deep-fried shrimp and chicken. Egg rolls and chicken wings. All arranged around a flaming can of Sterno. I took one of the shrimps and popped it into my mouth. Becker was staring at me. “What was his theory?” he said.

“Have one of these shrimps,” I said. “They’re great.” I took a swig from my glass. “Stu says in this diary of his that it was a setup. He says somebody put the Cuban kid, Felix Guerrero was his name, up to it. Recruited him off the streets. Gave him the gun, paid him to try to assassinate Lampley.”

“Sure,” said Becker. “He was a Cuban. They’re behind the thing in Haiti anyway. It was the Cubans put him up to it. Everybody knows that.”

“Uh-uh,” I said, shaking my head vigorously. “See, that’s exactly what it was supposed to look like. Supposed to look like the Cubans trying to kill the enemy American government man. That’s how the papers interpreted it. That’s what government press releases said. But Stu heard different. Stu heard it was an American who set it up. Somebody from the American government, but who was acting on his own, setting up the hit on the State Department guy.”

Becker was frowning. “That makes no goddam sense,” he said. “Did he mention a name? Did he say who it was who supposedly set up this assassination?”

I wagged my finger at him. “He didn’t have to. Stu says this federal agent recruited the Cuban kid from a bunch of displaced Miami street kids. Ol’ Stu got around, mixed with all the ethnics, got wind of this. He figures the idea was for the Cuban to snuff Lampley, then for the kid to get whacked, and there’d be this big shift in public opinion. Get support for goin’ into Haiti with gunboats blazing. Far out, huh?”