Now You See Her (4 page)

“Think about it. Oh, before I go—here, Biscuit. Here, girl.” He digs in a pocket. “Dog treat.”

The dog bites, ecstatic. “What is that thing?”

“Pig ear.”

“Cute. But what is it really?” As Stark goes to the door, I look closely at the dried, wrinkled yellow-tan triangle. Good
God, it is an actual pig’s ear. “Disgusting.”

“Better than bones. Easy on her stomach. Pure protein. Bye, Cutter.” He’s outdoors at the curb. The engine roars. He’s gone.
I’m left hoping he keeps Peter Wald and Henry Faiser on his mental “ask around” list.

A dog on a leash is excellent cover. By noon, I separate Biscuit from the vile chew-toy ear and head to Eldridge Place, which
claims a whole city block and rises ten stories in pinkish granite that glints in early afternoon sun. Turnpike traffic murmurs
in the background. Islands of evergreens soften the main entrance of glass and columns. The security cameras are concealed
in stonework niches.

I walk halfway down the block and back again. Not a sign of a former crack house, a chop shop, a murder. Every trace of the
violent past that Devaney described is long bulldozed. Eldridge Place now means city living for the right sort of people.
Ironic that I myself might have lived here in my former life.

A familiar scenario plays out when two bulky men in crested navy blazers burst from the lobby to meet a Lexus. The taller
one opens the driver’s door and takes packages from a honey-haired woman in a slate linen suit. The thickset one slips behind
the wheel to take the car to the underground garage.

To think that such synchronized blazers once pampered me.

I slowly stroll past. Too slowly, because here comes yet another blue blazer, a wiry redhead with eyes the color of seaweed.
“May I help you?”

I assume my Regina Baynes expression. “I’m tracing an ancestor who lived on Eldridge Street long ago. I’m looking for the
house where he once lived.”

“Sorry, there’s no houses on Eldridge. We’ve got both sides of the whole block.”

The borrowed “we” of the staff. He looks at Biscuit as though she might squat and foul his grounds. I pick her up. Twenty
feet away, a slender man in khakis prunes pine branches. “Do you know anyone who might remember the street from years ago?
Perhaps a groundskeeper?”

“We sub all that out. What did you say your name is?”

“I’m Regina Cutter.”

“Well, Ms. Cutter, I’m sorry we can’t help.” He escorts me across the cobbled drive. The pruning clippers bite, and the air
smells like Christmas trees.

I’m not through. The sidewalk runs the whole block, and I put Biscuit down and stroll past the entrance, stopping to put on
sunglasses against the glare. I’m three-quarters down the block when I feel it—the heat at my ribs. Warm, then hot. Bearable
but insistent. So very there. I’m alongside the Eldridge Place pink granite wall. A small stand of bone-white birches marks
the spot where the burning sensation rises. I cross slowly, pass the spot, feel my ribs cool. Back to the birches, and I feel
the burning heat.

This is the spot. I know it. Literally speaking, I know in my bones that this is where Peter Wald died.

This is my own knowledge, personal carnal knowledge. My fiery ribs are the divining rod for murder thirteen years ago. The
burning tells me young Peter Wald was gunned down right here. He fell, bleeding, to this very ground. And a possibly innocent
man has been wrongly imprisoned all these years. If so, it’s crime piled upon crime, the loss of two lives. Both the prisoner
and the victim were younger than my son, Jack, is now. And these birches, merely a landscaper’s accent—they’re an accidental
shrine. Fitting for an environmentalist.

But a secret shrine. The Eldridge Place residents don’t have a clue. Who else knows this is a death site?

The killer? Accomplices?

I’m supposed to sit at home and wait for Devaney to call. No, that’s too passive. And all too familiar. The story of my life,
waiting for men’s cues.

I tug the leash and head down the first side street, which has no sign. So typical Boston, as if everyone’s supposed to know
the street names. Shingled triple-deckers with sloping porches line the block, with clustered mailboxes of apartments quarried
from every floor, a sign of transience. It’s trash day, with mounds of junk piled curbside, including stained rugs, mattresses,
a single ski.

At midblock, a shopping cart brims with plastic bags and a filthy yellow suitcase. I veer around a figure who rises from the
curbside mound. “Don’t touch my cart.”

She wears a black coat and striped knit scarf, which drags on the walk. She’s clutching a frayed doormat. “Don’t you touch
it.”

“I won’t.”

Glaring, she throws down the mat, picks a torn lampshade with chapped fingers, mumbles.

I tug Biscuit’s leash as she grabs my arm. “Got a dollar?”

She looks sixty-something, and one of her blue eyes wanders. One cheek is discolored purple. “What about a dollar? I could
use a dollar.” Her sunken mouth is a smear of fuchsia lipstick, and the sun glares on her coat collar pin, which is a bird
in flight.

In a bizarre way, this woman got herself together with a scarf, pin, and lipstick, accessories for a day of trash picking.
She’s about twenty years ahead of me. What happened in her life? Suppose somebody like myself ended her days collecting cans
for nickels? What are the guarantees against street life with shopping cart?

Suppose that destitution is contagious?

Biscuit’s tail wags, and I dig for the dollar. Not one single in my wallet. She smells of sweat and a foul rose perfume. Biscuit
is keenly interested. I hand the woman a five.

She thrusts it deep inside her coat, and the wandering eye fixes on me. Never mind thanks, I want to go.

“You look like somebody. You work at the shelter?”

“No.”

“Like a volunteer? You look like her.”

“Come on, Biscuit.”

“Jo. Her name’s Jo.”

“Jo Cutter?” My Aunt Josephine? “She got me a bed when they were full. Snow on the ground. I could’ve froze.”

“The weather’s warmer now.” Dumb remark. “Biscuit—”

“Where’s she been, Jo? She don’t come to the shelter now.” She turns sideways so the wandering eye can fix on my face. “Where’s
she at?”

“If it’s Jo Cutter, she was my aunt. She… passed away last February.”

She blinks. “Dead?” I nod. A car drives by. She wipes a coat sleeve across her eyes.

My eyes water too. I can easily imagine Jo finding a bed for this woman. Jo, the Jane Addams of the South End.

And me, keeping my distance. “Good ones go first. God almighty.” She sets the torn lampshade carefully on the cart and kicks
at the mound. “Used to be you got something good.” She taps her yellow suitcase. “Got it off a pile way back. Shuts real tight.
Samsonite.”

“You know these streets?”

“Lived inside all my life. Good heat all winter, me and the old man. Forster Street.”

“How about Eldridge?” I catch the wandering eye, hold its gaze. “Do you remember Eldridge? An auto body shop? Houses?”

“Can’t go near it now. They run you off.”

“I mean years ago.”

“They burned it down.”

“Who’s they?” Her lips move as if sampling the question. She shrugs. “I hear Eldridge Street had an auto body repair.”

“They’d give you a sandwich. Tasted like paint.”

“And a drug house next door. A crack house.”

She spits. “Forster was my street.”

“What about the crack house on Eldridge? Next to the auto shop.”

“Golden rule, live and let live. They kept to themselves.”

“Who lived in the house?”

“Young ones, babies. Take it from me, their trouble was music. Day and night, burst your eardrum.”

“Musicians?”

“Boom box radio. Religion, they said it was. I didn’t care. Summer or winter, earmuffs for the music. The big Doc in charge,
he waved you off. I waved back.”

“The leader was a doctor?”

“Big Doc?” She snorts. “Never saw a doctor with hair like ropes.”

“Dreadlocks?”

“Ropes.”

“Was he black? An African-American?”

“Never saw a doctor wear a red robe. Big like a giant. Stood on the porch to preach. Boom box music or that preaching. Morning,
noon, and night. Most nights, though, I’m inside.”

“Was the auto shop open at night?”

She darts me a look. “You don’t listen good. Nights, you don’t want to be out. Cops come out at night.”

“Were the police around back then?”

“Never when you want them.”

“What did Doc preach about?”

“Poison.”

“Poison?”

“His people were poisoned. The car garage was poison. The air, the ground, tunnels, and pipes. Poison everywhere. Doc never
gave me a sandwich. None of them in the house did. Take it from me, Doc belonged in Bible times.” She draws herself up straight
and flicks a hand over a shoulder as if brushing lint. “It wasn’t no crack house. More like religion. Like whatsis, a cult.”

Does she realize what she’s saying? “A young man was killed there, shot to death.”

“No flowers. The candles blew out. Rain washed the blood.”

“Do you remember a young man named Henry? Henry Faiser?”

“What’s he look like?”

“He’s African-American. Black.” I realize that’s all I know. His features, his skin tone, hairstyle, I haven’t a clue. “Henry
Faiser,” I repeat. She shakes her head. “But you remember the killing?” She half nods, half cringes. Her scarf sweeps the
pavement. “Were you there?” I ask. “Did you see it happen?”

“Police cars like a funeral. Big Doc preached, then the fire. Cinders flew to Forster Street. We stamped the hot cinders.
How ’bout another dollar?”

“I gave you a five. What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

“I’m Reggie. This is Biscuit.”

“Me and the old man had a dog once. He ran it off.” She pats her scarf in place. “I’m Mary. Suitcase Mary. They all know me.
I got to get moving before the city truck beats me to it. You talk too much. Don’t touch my cart.”

“Okay.” I watch her go down the block to poke at the next pile of refuse, reluctant to let her go, the closest thing to a
witness. If necessary, can I find her again on trash pickup day, or at night in a shelter?

Whichever shelter.

I cross and head back toward the pink granite of Eldridge. There’s no corner store or church in sight, meaning no neighborhood
store owner or minister with a long-term memory of what happened here. The turnpike traffic is louder, and Suitcase Mary is
out of sight. The redhead in the navy blazer eyes me from the Eldridge Place entrance.

I pull the leash. “Biscuit, this way, sweetie. We’re going home.” Past the stand of birches, my rib flares as I picture the
chop shop, then the house where, unless Mary is demented, a red-robed giant with dreadlocks ranted about poison from a porch
while music boomed at all hours. And the residents were crack addicts? Members of a cult? Both combined?

Was Henry Faiser one of the residents? One of the disciples? What was Peter Wald doing here? Buying drugs?

Devaney told me none of this. Could Stark be right to think the police have their own particular reasons to reopen the Faiser-Wald
case? Why didn’t Devaney tell me more? Why is he the one behaving like a silent partner?

T
V’s afternoon news reports a zoning squabble in the Back Bay, though anybody who was slugged and dragged away last night in
the fog on Dartmouth is unaccounted for.

An unnamed suspect, however, is wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Sylvia Dempsey, whose death by the
Charles River last month has created a media feeding frenzy. In this TV teaser, there’s no hint about the identity of the
suspect, though footage of the murder scene by the Charles is replayed. Then it’s on to the mayor’s budget and the weather.
I turn off the TV as the phone rings.

“Hi, Mom.”

My daughter usually calls at nighttime. Something must be up. “Everything okay, dear?”

“Fine. I’m calling from the studio.”

Doubtless up to her elbows in paint or clay, with her dark eyes intent. Her figure, like Jo’s, is built for efficiency. Molly’s
metabolism burns up every calorie, fortunate young woman, while I fight hips and bustline to stay a size 8.

“How are you, Mom?”

“Fine, dear.” She sounds preoccupied.

“Mom—your fur coat. Is your offer still good? Is it available?”

“The minks?”

“I only want one.”

My heart skips a beat. I’ve held on to both furs in case Molly ever returns to civilization. At least the nose ring is gone.
As for the tattoo, well, lasers can do wonders. “Molly, I kept both coats for you. But what about animal rights, dear?” The
vivid memory surges of Molly’s activist episode in front of Neiman’s with the spray paint and the Russian sable. That was
high school. I wrote the check, and Marty dealt with the lawyers. “What about PETA?”

“Mom, those minks of yours died a very long time ago. They’re historical.”

Not exactly my wording.

“Can I have one?”

“Summer’s coming. Why not wait till fall?”

“Now’s the time, Mom.”

I get it. She plans a restyling for the next season and is reluctant to admit she wants a more youthful look. “Molly, furriers
are expensive.”

“Won’t cost me a thing.”

Meaning her artist friends will snip and slice. Quelle horreur! “It’s not for amateurs, Mol. Remember Marge Hooper’s beaver
jacket resculpted on the cheap?”

“The one that looked like crop circles. The coolest.”

“She never wore it again.”

“Wish I had it.”

“Molly dear, is it sculpting you have in mind?”

“Not exactly.”

A promise is a promise. Don’t ask, don’t tell. “Shall I drive the coat down, or will you come up to Boston?”

She’ll take the train up from Providence and have dinner. “Molly, one more thing, a hair question.” My daughter, the veteran
of blue dyes and spikes, should be an expert. “About dreadlocks—why do the Rastafarians grow them?”

“To symbolize roots, to symbolize resistance. Why?”