Now You See Her (23 page)

“That’s actually what I want to ask you about.”

“Burns?”

“Skin. Artificial skin.”

“It’s a modern miracle, Reggie. When you’ve seen what I have… the can of spray paint that explodes when the nine-year-old
lights a match. I tell you, tissue engineering is amazing stuff.”

“But what is it?”

“The ‘skin’? Usually, it’s a combination of living cells held together with a scaffold of biodegradable plastic or protein,
plus chemicals to stimulate growth. It’ll be fabulous when they work out the kinks and the business problems. Right now it’s
business problems holding them back.”

“What kind of problems?”

She smooths the red felt and straightens the knives. “I hear about struggles with financing. A couple companies went into
Chapter 11. Their sales aren’t high enough, plus there’s the nightmare of jumping the regulatory hoops. Right now they’re
just not profitable enough.”

“Is Advent Tissue Science one of them?”

“Advent?”

“Here in town, in Cambridge. It’s headed by a dermatologist, Bernard Dempsey.”

“Dempsey? Oh God, not that guy again.”

“Married to Sylvia Dempsey. You’ve heard about the Sylvia Dempsey case? It’s all over the media.”

Trudy blushes. “Reggie, with my schedule, days pass without a newspaper or glance at TV. Sitcom reruns, maybe a Globe that’s
left in a lounge. I go for the latest on the Sox or Patriots. But, God, I haven’t thought about Bernard Dempsey in years.”

“How many?”

She shrugs. “He was a researcher at a hospital where I worked right out of nursing school, St. Clement’s. I remember his creepy
dark eyes, but he was a hotshot. He patented an acne cream and supposedly had the cure for eczema. He published a ton of papers,
but the data were cooked. He pressured a lab technician to alter the notes. He resigned, and the technician got fired. She
got prosecuted. He got off, mostly because the docs protect their own. I heard he went to another lab, charmed everybody,
and got in more trouble. He’s a major sleaze. No, a crook.”

Trudy picks up a knife and tests the edge. “I wouldn’t ordinarily say this much, but the lab technician was a friend of mine
at the time. He groped her, threatened to get her visa canceled, made her life miserable. She took the rap for him. She’ll
be paying off her fine until her last day on earth. It doesn’t surprise me that Dempsey’s in the thick of the artificial skin
business. The man smells money. Whichever companies make it big, I hope his goes down the toilet.”

She stands. “Hey, I’m due at another sales call. How about the Homemaker Plus Eight Set.”

“Trudy, my homemaker days are over. I’ll take the scissors and spend lonely Saturday nights slicing pennies.”

“Better pennies than anything connected with Dempsey. Stay away from him. Whatever the deal is with his wife, he’ll get off
free. She’ll pay the price.”

D
evaney phones on Tuesday afternoon, his voice brusque and blunt. “Reggie, can you come downtown to the federal courthouse?
There’s somebody you want to meet.”

“Who?” Bernard Dempsey is on my mind. Could it be? “Get here by four. Come around the back. Look for me.”

I drop everything, grab my purse and keys. The traffic snarls on Milk Street, and I feel like Devaney’s gofer. There’s no
place to park on the courthouse block, so I stow the Beetle in a pricey garage and hoof it.

Platoons of briefcases swarm the gray granite courthouse, and bicycle messengers weave in and out. At the rear, a FedEx truck
idles and five motorcycle police sit with radios crackling. Where is Devaney? Why am I here?

Then I see him by the curb. In a blue suit and loud green tie, he signals to me with a quick hand gesture. He’s by himself
near a state police car with dark windows. Who is it he wants me to meet? “Frank, what’s up?”

“Tune in to your psychic channel, Reggie. This is not by the book. The troopers are doing me a favor.”

“What is it?”

He steps close, his voice low. “They’re transporting a prisoner who testified in a trial today. You’re gonna meet the prisoner.”

“Who is it?”

“You’ll check your sixth-sense message, okay? Any visual pictures, be alert. They’re gonna open the front door and let you
inside for a minute. The prisoner’s in back. He’s cuffed. You’ll have just a minute or two. Make the most of it. They’re taking
him back to Norfolk.”

“MCI Norfolk. It’s Henry Faiser.”

“It is.”

There’s no time for questions. At Devaney’s signal, the front passenger door is opened from within. I see a trooper’s flat
hat brim and hefty hand with a signet ring with the Massachusetts state seal, the Indian and symbolic stars. Then I’m inside
next to the trooper, who smells like Polo aftershave. I twist around to look through a steel mesh grille. In the backseat
between two more uniformed troopers sits—

“Henry Faiser?”

“Yeah.”

The liquid-eyed youth in the snapshot that Kia showed me is long gone. The slender, smiling boy with short hair has given
way to a saturnine man who’s dwarfed by his prison blue denims. His thin frame is hunched yet angular, a stick figure wedged
between two uniforms. His face looks sallow, his dark hands and wrists spotted with red welts, which he rubs as if the handcuffs
are a Chinese nail puzzle to be uncoupled. What do I say?

“My name is Reggie Cutter. Detective Devaney told me about you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I met your sisters. I met both of them. And your niece and nephew too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I heard Big Doc preach.” He says nothing, looks at his wrists. I feel no psychic currents, hear no message, visualize
no image. “I know you lived in his house on Eldridge Street. I spend some time on Eldridge myself. Does Big Doc ever visit
you?”

He rubs the steel cuffs at his wrists as if it’s occupational therapy. “Big Doc, no, he don’t come out.”

“Or others from the house?” Maybe he’ll name someone. He shakes his head no.

The trooper who’s driving taps the car key, which is my signal to get going. Mere seconds remain. There’s no way to touch
Henry Faiser, and I feel no vibe. My rib is quiet, and my thumb too.

All I’m getting from Henry Faiser is a blank stare.

“A lead doesn’t have to be psychic, Frank.” I press the point. The police car is gone. Devaney and I linger at Courthouse
Square by a curbside vendor in a quilted truck as homebound office workers swirl to the T stop. “The Carlo connection—Frank,
this is hot as fire.”

“You want a soda, Reggie? Let me buy you a cold soda. Make it two Sprites.” He doesn’t hear me because he’s sulking. His huge
gamble did not pay off, and now he’s embarrassed and owes the trooper. Men. “Frank, the paranormal is not a teleconference,
for godsake. You know that.”

“Straw?”

“Will you listen to me? Carlo Feggiotti worked in the chop shop that burned to the ground the day Peter Wald was shot. He’s
now a night manager at Eldridge Place. The Greek grocers in my neighborhood remember him because he sold them a stolen car.
I suspect Carlo torched the shop on someone’s orders. I think it’s a good bet that he witnessed the shooting of Peter Wald
or knows someone who did. He could testify.”

Devaney pops the Sprite, takes a long pull, stifles a burp. “Reggie, do you believe in rehabilitation?” This is classic Devaney,
out of left field. Wherever he’s going with this, I want to scream. “You believe in paying your debt to society?”

I could strangle the man. Instead, I open the soda can, insert the straw, fiercely sip. “Of course.”

“Then you need to know that Feggiotti was convicted as an accomplice in vehicle theft. He’d served thirteen months when his
conviction was overturned on appeal. He was released. The Eldridge contractors hired him when the high-rise went up, and he
did so good the company put him on the management payroll. He’s a model employee.”

“I suppose he coaches Little League.”

“Soccer.”

I could bite the man. “Don’t fool yourself, Reggie. Faiser’s a sick man but also a hustler. Feggiotti has no other criminal
record, but Faiser had a long rap sheet. He could be in for any number of offenses besides murder.”

“And free by now.”

“Or back in for something else.”

“Tough talk, Frank. I thought Faiser was on your conscience. I thought justice and morality were the point of all this.”

“Handling the case right, that’s the point. Do it right, you sleep at night. The system takes it from there. I’m just saying,
don’t get sentimental. Where’re you parked?”

“In a platinum garage that’s costing me a fortune to argue with you.”

“Here.” He holds out two limp fives. I refuse them, turn on my heel, and walk off in a huff.

* * *

It’s after six when Meg phones, her voice sounding chipper and tense. I’ve just finished a hard-boiled egg and a glass of
merlot just this side of salad vinegar. Meg and I haven’t spoken since our tiff, and I’m glad to hear from her, glad for distraction
from Devaney. “How’s the Red Hat sister?”

“On that score, terrific. I just found the prettiest cherry-red straw for the season, in Filene’s Basement no less, a fabulous
bargain. I’m shopping for a hatbox for the overhead compartment because this chapeau is going to the Red Hat convention. Reggie,
no hard feelings, okay?”

“Meg, let’s schedule lunch. My treat.”

“Good deal. But are you free this evening? It’s not an innocent question. Tania wants you.”

Wants me—like a bossy recruiting poster that pokes its finger at my eye. “Sorry, Meg. I’m settled in.”

“Reggie, don’t make me beg. Tania’s out of her mind. I swear the woman’s bipolar. Workmen doing duct work in the Marlborough
attic found a piece of old cloth stuck in the rafters.”

“So what?”

“So it’s like she’s found the Shroud of Turin. Tania thinks the cloth is so old you can do your psychic thing. She says it
dates from the 1800s. She had a textile expert examine it.”

“Forget it, Meg. I turned in my book report on Marlborough. And I already made a try at a psychic reading today. You can tell
Tania it was a total flop. Besides, I’m persona non grata to her husband. He banned me from the property.”

“I know. But Jeffrey’s out of town.”

“That’s no comfort.”

“Tell me about it, Reggie.” Meg pauses. Her shallow breath is audible. “I try to keep my problems to myself. Everybody’s got
their burdens to bear. But Jeffrey Arnot’s a one-off. He threatened to kill a deal of mine if I couldn’t rein in his wife.”
Her voice is grave. “Really threatened, Reggie. I can’t laugh it off.”

“Meg, please don’t put me in this position.”

“Reggie, I’m a workingwoman. I have to pay my bills. Arnot holds me accountable for the Marlborough house. He thinks Tania’s
hysteria is my fault. If you’d just stop by and hold the cloth in your hand and say… say the trail is cold or you feel a ghost
or it’s going to rain cats and dogs. It doesn’t matter what. I can’t rile Jeffrey Arnot with this deal of mine pending. This
is the last favor I’ll ask on this, promise, cross my heart.”

“Meg—” I start to refuse. If I set foot in the Marlborough house, Tania is certain to tell her husband. In pique or passion,
she’ll tell because she’s incapable of not telling. And there will be consequences. Suppose I’m summoned to the limo, that
lair, and subjected to Jeffrey’s harangue, my slice of the Boston cream pie slammed in my face?

Would he stop there? What could he do if he knew I’d been to the Brighton Auto Mart and the Eldridge II streets? “Meg, I—”
From my window, the charming gas lights of Barlow Square glow a greenish yellow. Electrical power lines aren’t visible, but
suppose my house were the site of a gas explosion? Regina Cutter could be the sole casualty of a freak “accident.” A downed
wire, a burst gas pipe—if only Meg hadn’t asked this favor.

Yet I voluntarily walked the walk in the Eldridge neighborhood and felt my rib burn at the bone-white birches where I’m sure
Peter Wald died. I snooped and talked to Carlo and went to the Brighton Auto Mart. No one made me do these things. Sometimes
a woman must step out.

Is this my moment? I find myself yielding, seeing new possibilities in the chance to speak with Tania alone. If I can cut
through the glitz, she might—just might—talk about Jeffrey, his deals, his partners, especially his past. A private one-on-one
with her might forge that link to Carlo. I could learn more about Carlo’s link to Faiser, then confront Devaney and press
the issue of a possible witness to the shooting of Peter Wald. Maybe it’s a long shot to the Henry Faiser innocence project,
but I’m in no position to pass it by. The image of Henry chafing his cuffed wrists is too vivid in my mind. The red welts
on his hands are a symptom of his hepatitis. The man is a wraith. He needs care. If innocent, he needs to get out of there
to stay alive.

My watch says 6:23 p.m., June 11. It’s worth recording because it marks the risk involved. There’s that certain moment when
the light changes, a chill wind blows, and the season suddenly shifts. Or the makeup mirror shows a new facial line, and you’re
up a notch on life’s cycle. This is one such instant. It’s not just for fun but for keeps. It’s not a hobby I can exit and
leave to the pros. I’m too far in it for that. This is a moment when a woman realizes she’s got to go deeper than she thought.

It’s a humid, drab evening, and the fading daylight gives the Marlborough house an ocher cast. If Tania is indeed alone, she
hasn’t turned on the lights. I’m thinking one hour in and out. I’ll be back home before dark. From the sidewalk, the white
limo is nowhere in sight, not that Arnot could park it out front. His absence is crucial, my act of faith.

Here’s my plan—first, to hold the rafter fabric and close my eyes as if communing with the cosmos, then to deliver the message
in a radio-play voice echoing the history of the house. “Through time’s generations,” I’ll say, “the cloth conveys to me a
certain feeling of sadness, or in French, tristesse.”

I’ll emphasize Edmund Wight’s yearning through worlds of spirit and matter. To add heft and a woman’s twist, I’ll bring in
the architect Dehmer: “Both of the gentlemen’s spirits are upset that the rightful mistress, Clara Eddington, did not take
her place in residence.” Here’s my message: that Tania must be patient with the spirits and trust they will recognize her
as the rightful lady of the house.