Now You See Her (13 page)

“Because I talked to her too, just like you did. Got her address from her sister. I understand you talked to the sister too.”

“No, I did not.”

“Woman with two little kids, LaBron and a girl.”

“She’s Kia’s sister?”

He winks at me. “Knocking on doors on Roland Street? Helping out with the grocery bags?”

My palms are clammy. “It was a coincidence, Frank. That woman—I think she’d just come from a food pantry.”

“Likely so. Lots of people need food help. You’d be surprised who turns up at donation centers these days.”

I have a sudden realization. “So that woman is also Henry Faiser’s sister.” I could have asked her about him. When LaBron
talked about Kia and the hot dog, I didn’t think it through.

He grunts. “Tell me, what else did you learn in your mission impossible?”

Ignore the jibe, Reggie. “I learned Henry Faiser is a hustler. Kia swears he never had or used guns. I also got a lecture
on drug laws and race and prisons. And profit. Is all that true?”

Devaney’s eyes look suddenly weary. “True enough. Whatever she told you, the numbers aren’t pretty. The race thing makes it
tough. Seven years after the first drug laws, blacks made up more than eighty-eight percent of all people convicted in federal
court of trafficking in crack cocaine. The odds of a black man serving prison time are one in four.” So Kia had said to me.
He repeats it in a flat voice. “One in four is dismal.”

“Kia ranted about prison profits.”

“Ranted?” He rubs his eyes. “You could rant if you saw the business side of it.”

“Of drug dealing?”

“Of prison dealing. In a couple weeks, Reggie, I’ll go to a convention in Orlando, take my wife.”

I nod. If Frank Devaney wants to tell me his vacation plans, okay.

“It’s the American Correctional Association. It’s a good chance for my wife to sit by the pool. Me, I go to seminars and walk
through miles of exhibits—the bulletproof vests and prefab cells and restraint devices and firearms, what you expect.”

“And don’t expect?”

“Procter & Gamble’s there because they sell inmates shampoo and deodorant. AT&T’s there because they rake in a billion a year
from prisoners’ long-distance calls.”

“So Kia’s right?”

His laugh is bitter. “The prison industry is worth an annual thirty-eight billion. It’s a corporate America wonderland, Reggie.
I’m in the wrong business. I should’ve been a warden. Today those guys are millionaires.” He stands. “Well, so what? I work
my cases, keep my head up. I’m thinking about life after retirement too. Thinking about chef school. I watch Iron Chef on
TV. I might take a night course.”

“Cooking?”

“Why not? There’s heat, there’s action. That’s the big draw of this job.”

“You cook now?”

“I make a mean jelly omelet. Made one for your aunt now and then.” He points. “With that pan right there.”

We regard a skillet on a wall hook over the stove. I haven’t used it once. “Maybe sometime you’ll give me a demonstration.”

“Sounds good. Meantime, Reggie, you get the notion to play cop, call me first, okay?”

“Frank, my next project is helping with a fashion show. And going out to dinner with a friend. Tame enough?”

“Call me first. I mean it.”

We’re at the door. “One thing, Frank. If you’d go back over the records, I’d still like to know the color of Peter Wald’s
eyes.”

The answer is yes, they were blue. Devaney calls with remarks about genes and chromosomes and Sinatra and the fact of Peter
Wald’s blue eyes. I wish him a good weekend and grab Biscuit’s leash. “Here, girl. We’re going to Tsakis Brothers. We have
questions to ask about Eldridge.” It’s almost six on this mild evening when I reach the grocery.

“Mees Reggie, welcome!” Shelving soft drinks, Ari laughs as the dog licks his fingers. From the hot food case, George puts
down tongs and reaches into his apron pocket for the dog cookies. Biscuit woofs twice, leaps for the snack, repeats her trick,
and heads for the onion sack.

I am not here to shop or socialize, yet must do both to set a mood. “Something smells wonderful. Roasted chicken?”

“Is kotopoulo kyniyo yemisto.” Ari points to the hot case, where small golden baked birds are aligned in regimental rows.
“Like Christmas, the song of birds in a tree.”

“Partridge?”

Ari nods. “Very old Greek custom. Sophocles say, ‘Came one who bore the name of perdiko on the glorious hills of Athens.’
This food from Artemis, sister of Apollo, goddess of hunt. Has delicious stuffing, garlic and wine, a feast. You try.”

“Sounds good.” So much for the tofu-veggie regimen. “Take two, invite a friend?”

“Not tonight.”

“So one today, one tomorrow.” George slips two birds in a foil bag. The mix of sales and hospitality are wasted on me this
evening. I have Eldridge on my mind. The salad greens and pint of strawberries are a pretext to linger as customers come and
go.

“Cream for berries?”

“Thanks, no.”

“Oranges? End of the season, Mees Reggie, so you take oranges free today. Our gift.” Ari puts several oranges in a bag. Two
customers are leaving, and I pause until they’ve paid and scratched their lottery cards and closed the door. My order is ready.
It’s just me and the Tsakises.

“I want to ask you something.”

Ari steps close, his scalp shining. “Mees Reggie, we not forget about the car and the B&B Auto fire. We try to ask around,
peoples we know.”

George shakes his head. “In America, everybody is moving all the time. Every year, like sand Arabs.”

“Like nomads?” They nod. “But, Ari, George, you can help me. When you bought the car on Eldridge Street, there was a house
next to the auto shop. A group lived there, some children too, and a young man.”

“This house, they make loud music.”

“Yes. The leader was a preacher, a black man. He wore a red robe. Do you remember him? His name is Doc. He preached on the
porch. His hair—” I twist a strand of my own and say, “Dreadlocks. He preached about poisons. He still does. When you bought
your car at B&B Auto, did you see him?”

George rubs his hands on his apron. “A crazy guy. He is yelling at the sky. Nobody to listen. Why you want to know about him?”

“Because of a young man named Henry Faiser. He also lived in that house. He sold things, like expensive watches. Do you remember
Henry?”

Ari stands tall. “We not buying the jewelry. We go only to the B&B for a car. We not buying the leather shoes.”

“So Henry tried to sell you? You went into Big Doc’s house?”

“Never.” George folds his arms. “We are seeing the car at B&B, and the Negro comes to sell.”

“The B&B guys let him in? The guy you mentioned—Carlo?”

“This boy with shoes and jewels, he comes and goes quick, like a Gypsy.”

“That house was known for drugs. Did you see drug deals? Crack cocaine, rocks? Perhaps on the porch?” Ari shakes his head.
“Did you ever see a young white man around there? He had blue eyes, college age.”

Both say no. “Is a long time ago,” says George. “Life is different.”

“Different for you and me—and Henry Faiser too. He’s in prison. The blue-eyed white man was shot and killed just before the
Eldridge fire, and Henry was convicted. Maybe he’s innocent. The preacher might have information. What do you remember about
Doc?”

The grocers glance at one another. Ari asks, “This is your psukhé?”

“Sort of.”

George unties his apron, folds it, lays it on the counter. Biscuit naps. “The red-robe guy is wild. Crazy.”

“He’s religious,” I say, “like a priest, maybe a prophet. Did he preach about fire? Three houses burned down, and B&B Auto
too. Bodies were found. The police say the cause of the fire was never determined. Big Doc remembers ‘fire of night.’ Did
he preach about fire?”

“We not listen. We go there for the car. Someone is crazy, stay away.”

George says, “We not see him all these years, Mees Reggie. But last Thursday, maybe I hear something.”

Ari frowns. “Maybe, maybe not.” The brothers exchange looks. Whatever this is has been discussed.

I ask George, “What did you hear?”

“I make delivery at Eldridge Place, the back. Everything is delivered: whiskeys, laundries, furnitures. Everybody is around.
Guys in blue coats.”

“Navy-blue blazers? The staff?”

He nods. “And I have four orders, four different floors. Like always, I go in back elevator, for freight. We are three in
elevator, two blue coats and me. I am careful of eggs and tomatoes. I not look around, but one guy in the blue coat, he is
Carlo from B&B Auto.”

Ari frowns. “I tell my brother, maybe just looks like Carlo. Or is a different guy. Maybe a mixing up. I say, wait till next
week. Look again. Make sure.”

“No.” George frowns, insistent. “This is Carlo. No mixing up.” I say, “He works at Eldridge Place?” George nods. “Did he recognize
you?”

“He not see my face.”

“But he’d remember the whole Eldridge story.”

George jabs a finger. “Maybe not. Maybe he likes to forget. In America, peoples like to forget. Maybe you should forget too,
Mees Reggie. Leave Carlo with his new trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“In the elevator, he is upset. A guy named Perk makes big problems. He says, ‘Blame Perk. Perk kill us.’ He say kill.”

I ask, “Who is Perk?” They shrug. “Maybe it was slang, a way of speaking?”

Ari nods. “Like I say to my brother, maybe jokes.”

“No jokes.”

“You see, Mees Reggie, we discuss this.”

“What does Carlo look like?”

George lifts his hand. “Six feets, big shoulders. Hair short like this.”

“A flattop?”

George nods and fixes his bright onyx-eyed gaze on mine. “I not know English good, Mees Reggie. I know a joke. I know a fear.
This Perk, he makes Carlo afraid. A tough guy, he is afraid.”

“We afraid for you, Mees Reggie.” Ari leans close. “We worry psukhé make you troubles. Summer comes, flowers grow. Life is
good. We have melons and peaches, everything fresh. This Carlo, you stay away. Perk, he is not your business. B&B Auto is
no more, gone. Big fire, finish. The red guy, maybe he is yelling far away.” Ari’s voice drops low. “PsukhÉ is good. You hear
the spirits. But Greeks know also pride. Greeks know hybris.”

“Hubris,” I say. “Arrogance.”

“Hybris like a sickness. If your aunt here, she tell you watch out. She tell you hybris makes a falling down.”

“Downfall,” I say. “Downfall.” The word hangs. Silence builds as Biscuit rouses, shoulders tight. She plants her paws and
barks hard and loud, as if warning, as if sounding an alarm.

A
t 8:30 a.m. on Monday, a white limousine with black glass windows pulls up at the curb outside on Barlow Square. Nobody gets
in or out. I keep an eye on it, thinking it’s for my neighbor, Trudy Pfaeltz, probably a premium for selling candy bars.

Me, I’m waiting for a car to be sent by Alison on behalf of Jeffrey Arnot, who wishes to speak with me. On business, was the
message.

At nine, the appointed hour, the limo is still out front, but no sign of the car arranged by Alison. It’s five after. Then
ten. Suddenly, a uniformed driver, a stocky white man with windburned cheeks, gets out of the limo and comes to knock on my
front door. He tips his cap and says, “Mr. Arnot is here.” I grab my purse and follow him to the sidewalk. Opening a door,
he ushers me inside the white limousine where Jeffrey Arnot sits with legs outstretched. In a double-breasted suit with a
blinding white shirt and silk tie, he’s by himself, talking on the phone.

“Don’t push on this, or the deal’s history. You got till two. Don’t screw up, surprise me for a change. Ms. Cutter, good to
see you. Have a seat.” The door shuts, and so does Arnot’s phone. I sit opposite him on a camel suede seat amid soft pools
of apricot light. A coffee, a Wall Street Journal, and a laptop lie on a lacquered table between us.

“Drink?”

From a hidden pullout bar? “Thanks, no.”

“You won’t need that seat belt.”

“I always wear—”

“We’re not going anywhere, Ms. Cutter. You’re in my office.”

“Oh.” I feel the engine purr, the vented air. I’m in a light wool blue Brioni suit from the old days, deliberately muted.
Jeffrey Arnot stares as if appraising merchandise.

“I want to follow up on that business with the plates.”

“I’m very sorry—”

“Forget it. It’s not important. Old art, you get cracks and breakage. One reason I go for armor, it doesn’t bust. Michelangelo
and Rembrandt need tune-ups. Mrs. Arnot sent the pieces to a restorer. The plates’ll look good as new. This isn’t about plates.”

“I see.”

“It’s not about Marlborough either, not as such. The baseline is, we have a fine house, one of Boston’s best. Mrs. Arnot and
I agree it’s a premier address in the city. No dispute.”

He crosses his legs. The socks are silk. “But men and women see things differently, Ms. Cutter. For my wife, Marlborough is
home. That’s the woman’s viewpoint. It’s probably yours.”

I nod for simplicity’s sake. “A business point of view, however, is different. I picked a certain wallpaper pattern for personal
reasons, it’s true. I’m a black man in a white city, and I fight hard for what’s mine. I have a thick hide, and I’m proud.
You saw our custom chandelier. It was my idea, a warrior’s equipment. But to me, the house is an investment. Renovation helps
the investment value. The house appreciates, and I utilize it. My wife and I entertain clients and business associates. You
attended one of our candidate receptions.”

“Mr. Arnot, you needn’t explain—”

“But I do. The random noises are an inconvenience. We can’t explain them. To a point, they disrupt our lives. Mrs. Arnot is
sensitive. Again, a woman-man thing. But we now agree to cease inquiries such as yours.”

“A search for spirit sources.”

“Superstition, mumbo jumbo. Which can be damaging, make no mistake. Gossip and rumor take a toll. A food scare in the restaurant
business can bring you down, can put the whole chain at risk. In pro sports, a sex or drug scandal, true or not, cuts your
sponsors. Likewise, a house can get a reputation, even in the Back Bay. The investment could be at risk.”