Mystic River (9 page)

“Hey, bad boy.” Whitey Powers’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Someone call you already?”

“Yeah,” Sean said. “I don’t have a partner, though, Sarge. Adolph’s out.”

Whitey Powers nodded. “You get your hand slapped and that useless kraut takes a sudden medical.” He put his arm around Sean. “You’re with me, kid. The duration of your probation.”

So that was how it was going to work, Whitey keeping watch on Sean until the department brass decided if he met their gold standard or not.

“Was looking like a quiet weekend, too,” Whitey said as he turned Sean toward the car with the open door. “Whole county last night, Sean? Quieter than a dead cat. Had a stabbing in Parker Hill, ’nother in Bromley Heath, and some college kid took a beating from a beer bottle over in Allston. None of them fatal, though, and all of them City’s. Hell, the Parker Hill vic, right? Walked into the ER at MGH on his own, big ol’ steak knife sticking out of his collarbone, asked the admitting nurse where they kept a Coke machine ’round this bitch.”

“She tell him?” Sean said.

Whitey smiled. He was one of State Homicide’s brightest boys and had been forever, so he smiled a lot. He must have taken the call heading into his shift, though, because he wore sweatpants and his son’s hockey jersey, a baseball hat riding backward on his head, iridescent blue flip-flops over bare feet, his gold badge hanging from a nylon cord over the jersey.

“Like the shirt,” Sean said, and Whitey gave him another lazy grin as a bird broke overhead from the park and arced
above them, letting loose a rattling caw that bit into Sean’s spine.

“Man, half an hour ago? I was on my
sofa
.”

“Watching cartoons?”

“Wrestling.” Whitey pointed at the weeds and the park beyond. “I figure we’ll find her over there somewhere. But, you know, we just started looking and Friel says we call it a Missing Persons till we find a body.”

The bird swung over them again, a little lower, that sharp rattle of a caw finding the base of Sean’s brain this time and nibbling.

“It’s ours, though?” Sean said.

Whitey nodded. “’Less the victim ran back out again, got snuffed somewhere down the block.”

Sean glanced up. The bird had a big head and short legs tucked under a white chest that was striped gray in the center. Sean didn’t recognize the species, but then he didn’t hang out in nature all that much. “What is it?”

“A belted kingfisher,” Whitey said.

“Bullshit.”

He held up a hand. “Swear to God, man.”

“Watched a lot of
Wild Kingdom
as a kid, didn’t you?”

The bird let loose that hard rattle again and Sean wanted to shoot it.

Whitey said, “Want to look at the car?”

“You said ‘her,’” Sean said as they ducked under yellow crime scene tape and headed for the car.

“CSS found the reg in the glove box. Car’s owner is a Katherine Marcus.”

“Shit,” Sean said.

“Know her?”

“Might be the daughter of a guy I know.”

“You guys close?”

Sean shook his head. “No, just to nod hello from around the neighborhood.”

“Sure?” Whitey was asking if he wanted to pass on the case right here, right now.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Sure as shit.”

They reached the car and Whitey pointed at the open driver’s door as a CSS tech stepped back from it and stretched, arching her back, hands entwined and thrust toward the sky. “Just don’t touch nothing, guys. Who’s the point on this?”

Whitey said, “That’d be me. Park is State jurisdiction.”

“But the car’s on city property.”

Whitey pointed at the weeds. “That blood spatter fell on state land.”

“I dunno,” the CSS tech said with a sigh.

“We got an ADA en route,” Whitey said. “He can call it. Till then, it’s State.”

Sean took one look at the weeds leading up to the park and knew if they found a body, they’d find it in there. “What do we have?”

The tech yawned. “Door was ajar when we found it. Keys were in the ignition, headlights were on. Like on cue, the battery shit the bed about ten seconds after we got on the scene.”

Sean noticed a bloodstain over the speaker on the driver’s door. Some of it had dripped, black and crusty, over the speaker itself. He dropped to a squat and pivoted, saw another spot of black on top of the steering wheel. A third stain, longer and wider than the other two, clung to the edges of a bullet hole punched through the vinyl of the driver’s seat back at shoulder level. Sean pivoted again so that he was looking past the door at the weeds to the left of the car, then he craned his head around to look at the outside of the driver’s door, saw the fresh dent there.

He looked up at Whitey, and Whitey nodded. “Perp probably stood outside the car. The Marcus girl—if that’s who was driving—slams him with the door. Cocksucker gets a round off, hits her, ah, I dunno, in the shoulder, maybe the biceps? The girl makes a run for it anyway.” He pointed at some weeds freshly flattened by running feet. “They trample the weeds heading for the park. Her wound couldn’t have
been too bad, because we’ve only found a few blood spatters in the weeds.”

Sean said, “We got units over in the park?”

“Two so far.”

The CSS tech snorted. “They any smarter than those two?”

Sean and Whitey followed her gaze, saw that Connolly had accidentally dropped his coffee in the weeds, was standing over it, bitching out the cup.

“Hey,” Whitey said, “they’re new, cut ’em some slack.”

“I gotta dust some more, guys.”

Sean stepped back for the woman. “You find any ID besides the car reg?”

“Yup. Wallet under the seat, driver’s license made out to Katherine Marcus. There was a backpack behind the passenger seat. Billy’s checking the contents now.”

Sean looked over the hood at the guy she’d indicated with a toss of her head. He was on his knees in front of the car, a dark blue backpack in front of him.

Whitey said, “How old did her license say she was?”

“Nineteen, Sergeant.”

“Nineteen,” Whitey said to Sean. “And you know the father? Fuck, man, he’s in for a world of hurt, poor bastard probably has no idea.”

Sean turned his head, watched as the lone rattling bird headed back for the channel, screeching, and a hard shaft of sun cut through the clouds. Sean felt the screech drive through his ear canal and into his brain, and he was pierced for a moment by the memory of that wild aloneness he’d seen in eleven-year-old Jimmy Marcus’s face when they’d almost stolen that car. Sean could feel it now, standing by the weeds leading up to Penitentiary Park, as if the twenty-five years in between had passed as fast as a TV commercial, feel that beaten, pissed-off, begging aloneness that had lain in Jimmy Marcus like pulp hollowed from the core of a dying tree. To shake it, he thought of Lauren, the Lauren with
long, sandy hair who’d marinated his dream this morning and smelled of the sea. He thought of that Lauren and wished he could just climb back into the tunnel of that dream and pull it over his head, disappear.

N
ADINE
M
ARCUS
, Jimmy and Annabeth’s younger daughter, received the Blessed Sacrament of Holy Communion for the first time on Sunday morning at Saint Cecilia’s in the East Bucky Flats. Her hands pressed together from the base of her palms to the tips of her fingers, white veil and white dress making her look like a baby bride or snow angel, she walked up the aisle in procession with forty other children, gliding, where the other kids stutter-stepped.

Or at least that’s how it seemed to Jimmy, and while he might have been the first to admit that, yeah, he was biased in favor of his kids, he was also pretty sure he was right. Other kids these days spoke or yelled whenever they felt like it, cussed in front of their parents, demanded this and demanded that, showed absolutely no respect for adults, and had the slightly dazed, slightly feverish eyes of addicts who spent too much time in front of a TV, a computer screen, or both. They reminded Jimmy of silver pinballs—sluggish one moment, banging off everything in sight the next, clanging bells and careening from side to side. They asked for something, they usually got it. If they didn’t, they asked louder. If the answer was still a tentative no, they screamed. And their parents—pussies one and all, as far as Jimmy was concerned—usually caved.

Jimmy and Annabeth doted on their girls. They worked
hard to keep them happy and entertained and aware that they were loved. But there was a fine line between that and taking shit from them, and Jimmy made sure the girls all knew exactly where the line was.

Like these two little pricks now, coming up beside Jimmy’s pew in the processional—two boys, shoving each other, laughing out loud, ignoring the shushes of the nuns, starting to play to the crowd, and some of the adults actually smiling back. Jesus. Back in Jimmy’s time, the parents would have stepped out of the crowd, yanked the two off the ground by their hair, swatted their asses, and whispered promises for more into their ears before dropping them back down.

Jimmy, who’d hated his old man, knew the old ways sucked, too, no question, but, damn, there had to be an in-between solution somewhere that the majority of people seemed to be overlooking. A middle ground where a kid knew the parents loved him but were still the boss, rules existed for a reason, no really meant no, and just because you were cute didn’t mean you were cool.

Of course, you could pass all that on, raise a good kid, and they still put you through misery. Like Katie today. Not only had she never showed up for work, but now it looked like she was blowing off her younger half sister’s First Communion. What the hell was going through her mind? Nothing, probably, which was the issue.

Turning back to watch Nadine advance up the aisle, Jimmy was so proud he felt his anger (and, yeah, some worry, a minor but persistent niggle of it) at Katie subside a bit, though he knew it would come back. First Communion was an event in a Catholic child’s life—a day to dress up and be adored and fawned over and taken to Chuck E. Cheese’s afterward—and Jimmy believed in marking events in his children’s lives, making them bright and memorable. Which was why Katie not showing up pissed him off so much. She was nineteen, okay, so the world of her younger half sisters probably couldn’t compare to guys and clothes and sneaking
into bars that had a lax ID policy. Jimmy understood this, so he usually gave Katie a wide berth, but skipping an event, particularly after all Jimmy had done when Katie was younger to mark the events in
her
life, was fucking lame.

He felt the anger rising again, knew as soon as he saw her, they’d have another of their “debates,” as Annabeth called them, a frequent occurrence the last couple of years.

Whatever. Fuck it.

Because here came Nadine now, almost abreast with Jimmy’s pew. Annabeth had made Nadine promise she wouldn’t look at her father as she passed him and spoil the seriousness of the sacrament with something girlish and giddy, but Nadine stole a glance anyway—a small one, just enough to let Jimmy know she was risking the wrath of her mother to show love to her father. She didn’t preen for her grandfather, Theo, and six uncles who filled the pew behind Jimmy, and Jimmy respected that: she was edging near the line, not over it. Her left eye snuck toward its corner, Jimmy tracking it through the veil, and he gave her a small three-finger wave from belt-buckle level and mouthed a huge, silent “Hi!”

Nadine’s smile burst whiter than anything her veil or dress or shoes could match, and Jimmy felt it blow through his heart and his eyes and his knees. The women in his life—Annabeth, Katie, Nadine, and her sister Sara—could do that to him at the drop of a hat, buckle his knees with a smile or a glance, leave him weak.

Nadine dropped her eyes and clenched her small face to cover the smile, but Annabeth had caught it anyway. She dug an elbow into the space between Jimmy’s ribs and his left hip. He turned to her, feeling his face going red, and said, “What?”

Annabeth tossed him a look that said his ass was slung when they got back home. Then she looked straight ahead, her lips tight, but jerking a bit at the corners. Jimmy knew all he’d have to say was “Problem?” in that innocent-boy voice of his and Annabeth would start cracking up in spite of her
self, because something about a church just gave you a need to giggle, and that had always been one of Jimmy’s big gifts: he could make the ladies laugh, no matter what.

He didn’t look at Annabeth for a while after that, though, just followed the mass and then the sacramental rites as each child in turn took that wafer in cupped hands for the first time. He’d rolled up the program booklet, and it turned damp with heat in his palm as he drummed it against his thigh and watched Nadine lift the wafer from her palm and place it to her tongue, then bless herself, head down, and Annabeth leaned into him and whispered in his ear: “Our baby. My God, Jimmy, our
baby
.”

Jimmy put his arm around her, pulled her tight, wishing you could freeze moments in your life like snapshots, just stay in them, suspended, until you were ready to come out again, however many hours or days that might take. He turned his head and kissed Annabeth’s cheek, and she leaned into him a little more, both of their eyes locked on their daughter, their floating angel of a baby girl.

T
HE GUY
with the samurai sword stood at the edge of the park, his back to the Pen Channel, one foot raised up off the ground as he pivoted slowly with the other, the sword held at an odd angle behind the crown of his head. Sean, Whitey, Souza, and Connolly approached slowly, giving one another “What the fuck?” looks. The guy continued his slow pivot, oblivious to the four men approaching him in a loose line along the grass. He raised the sword over his head and began to bring it down in front of his chest. They were about twenty feet away now, the guy having pivoted 180 degrees so that his back was to them, and Sean saw Connolly put his hand to his right hip, unsnap the buckle of his holster, and leave the hand resting on the butt of his Glock.

Before this got any nuttier and someone got shot or the guy went all hara-kiri on them, Sean cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, sir. Sir? Excuse me.”

The guy’s head cocked slightly as if he’d heard Sean, but he continued that deliberate pivot, revolving in increments toward them.

“Sir, we need you to lay your weapon on the grass.”

The guy’s foot dropped back to the ground and he turned to face them, his eyes widening and then clicking on each of them—one, two, three, four guns—and he held out the sword, either pointing it at them or trying to hand it to them, Sean couldn’t tell which.

Connolly said, “The fuck—you deaf? On the ground.”

Sean said, “Sssh,” and stopped moving, ten feet from the guy now, thinking about the blood drops they’d found along the jogging path about sixty yards back, all four of them knowing what the drops meant, and then looking up to see Bruce Lee over here brandishing a sword the length of a small plane. Except Bruce Lee had been Asian and this guy was definitely white, youngish, maybe twenty-five, with curly black hair and shaven cheeks, white T-shirt tucked into gray sweats.

He was frozen now, and Sean was pretty sure it was fear that kept that sword pointed at them, the brain seizing up and unable to command the body.

“Sir,” Sean said, sharp enough for the guy to look directly at him. “Do me a favor, okay? Put the sword down on the ground. Just open your fingers and let it drop.”

“Who the hell are you guys?”

“We’re police officers.” Whitey Powers flashed his badge. “See? So, trust me here, sir, and drop that sword.”

“Uh, sure,” the guy said, and just like that it fell from his fingers, hit the grass with a damp thud.

Sean felt Connolly starting to move on his left, ready to rush the guy, and he put out his hand, kept the guy’s eyes locked with his, and said, “What’s your name?”

“Huh? Kent.”

“Kent, how you doing? I’m State Trooper Devine. I need you to just take a couple of steps back from the weapon.”

“The weapon?”

“The sword, Kent. Take a couple of steps back. What’s your last name, Kent?”

“Brewer,” he said, and backed up, his palms held up and out now like he was sure they were going to draw their Glocks all at once and unload.

Sean smiled and threw a nod at Whitey. “Hey, Kent, what was that you were doing out here? Looked like some kind of ballet to me.” He shrugged. “With a sword, sure, but…”

Kent watched Whitey bend by the sword and pick it up gently by the hilt with a handkerchief.

“Kendo.”

“What’s that, Kent?”

“Kendo,” Kent said. “It’s a martial art. I take it Tuesdays and Thursdays and practice in the mornings. I was just practicing. That’s all.”

Connolly sighed.

Souza looked at Connolly. “You’re dicking me, right?”

Whitey held out the sword blade for Sean to see. It was oiled and shiny and so clean it could have just come off the press.

“Look.” Whitey slid the blade across his open palm. “I’ve had sharper
spoons
.”

“It’s never been sharpened,” Kent said.

Sean felt that bird in his skull again, screeching. “Ah, Kent, how long you been here?”

Kent looked at the parking lot a hundred yards behind them. “Fifteen minutes? Tops. What’s this about?” His voice was gaining confidence now, a shade of indignation. “It’s not illegal to practice kendo in a public park, Officer, is it?”

“We’re working on it, though,” Whitey said. “And that’s ‘Sergeant,’ Kent.”

“You account for your whereabouts late last night, early this morning?” Sean asked.

Kent looked nervous again, racking his brain, holding in a breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, then let out the breath. “Yes, yes. I was, I was at a party last night with friends. I went home with my girlfriend. We got to sleep
about three. I had coffee with her this morning and then I came here.”

Sean pinched the top of his nose and nodded. “We’re going to impound the sword, Kent, and we wouldn’t mind if you dropped over to the barracks with one of the troopers, answered a few questions.”

“The barracks?”

“The police station,” Sean said. “We just got a different name for it.”

“Why?”

“Kent, could you just agree to go with one of the troopers?”

“Uh, sure.”

Sean looked at Whitey and Whitey grimaced. They knew Kent was too scared to be telling anything but the truth, and they knew the sword would come back from Forensics clean, but they had to play out every string and file a follow-up report till the paperwork looked like parade floats atop their desks.

“I’m getting my black belt,” Kent said.

They turned back and looked at him. “Huh?”

“On Saturday,” Kent said, his face bright under beads of perspiration. “Took me three years, but, ah, that’s why I was down here this morning, making sure my form was tight.”

“Uh-huh,” Sean said.

“Hey, Kent?” Whitey said, and Kent smiled at him. “I mean, not for nothing, right, but who really gives a fuck?”

B
Y THE TIME
Nadine and the other kids flowed out through the back of the church, Jimmy was feeling less pissed off at Katie, and more worried about her. For all the late nights and sneaking around with boys he didn’t know, Katie wasn’t one to let her half sisters down. They worshipped her, and she in turn doted on them—taking them to movies, Rollerblading, out for ice cream. Lately she’d been firing them up about next Sunday’s parade, acting as if Buckingham Day was a nationally recognized holiday, up
there with Saint Pat’s and Christmas. She’d come home early Wednesday night and trooped the two girls upstairs to pick out what they were going to wear, making a mini-production out of it as she sat up on her bed and the girls came back and forth into the room modeling their outfits, asking her questions about their hair, their eyes, their manner of walking. Of course, the room the two girls shared turned into a cyclone of discarded clothing, but Jimmy didn’t mind—Katie was helping the girls mark yet another event, using the tricks Jimmy had taught her to make even the most minor things seem major and singular.

So why would she blow off Nadine’s First Communion?

Maybe she’d tied on one of legendary proportions. Or maybe she really had met that new guy with movie-star looks and attitude to spare. Maybe she’d just forgotten.

Jimmy left the pew and walked down the aisle with Annabeth and Sara, Annabeth squeezing his hand and reading the clench in his jaw, his distant gaze.

“I’m sure she’s fine. Hung over, probably. But fine.”

Jimmy smiled and nodded and squeezed back. Annabeth, with her psychic reads of him, her well-placed hand squeezes, her tender practicality, was Jimmy’s foundation, plain and simple. She was his wife, mother, best friend, sister, lover, and priest. Without her, Jimmy knew beyond a doubt, he’d have ended up back in Deer Island or, worse, out in one of the maximum pens like Norfolk or Cedar Junction, doing hard time, his teeth rotting.

When he’d met Annabeth a year after his release, two to go on his probation, his relationship with Katie had just begun to jell, in increments. She had seemed to have gotten used to him being around all the time—wary, still, but warming—and Jimmy had gotten used to being permanently tired—tired from working ten hours a day and scuttling all over the city to pick up Katie or drop her off at his mother’s, at school, at day care. He was tired and he was scared; those were the two constants in his life back then, and after a while he took it for granted they’d always be there. He’d
wake up scared—scared Katie had managed to roll over wrong in her sleep at night and smother herself, scared the economy would continue cycling downward until he was out of a job, scared Katie would fall from the jungle gym at school during recess, scared she’d need something he couldn’t provide, scared his life would continue as this constant grind of fear and love and exhaustion forever.