Out Cold (14 page)

“You think something happened to her.”

“That's what worries me, yes.”

Bonnie shook her head. “Girls who live that way, it always seems, sooner or later…”

“I know,” I said. “That's what I keep thinking.”

When I stepped outside the Happy Family Chinese restaurant, the sun was high in the sky and you could almost smell springtime in the air. A cruel illusion, I knew, but it still turned my thoughts to green fields and apple blossoms, mayflies and trout streams.

As I walked back to my home on Beacon Hill, I tried to figure out what I should do. Something had happened to Misty, I was convinced of it. Maybe it was connected to the guy who drove the panel truck with the bear logo and New Hampshire plates. Maybe it was also connected to what happened to Sunshine and to Dana Wetherbee.

I thought about telling Saundra Mendoza about it. I tried to play out our conversation.

Coyne: “There's this girl, Misty. I'm worried about her.”

Mendoza: “Misty who?”

Coyne: “I don't know her last name. I don't even know if Misty is really her first name. She's got two friends. Kayla and Zooey. I'm worried about them, too.”

Mendoza: “Last names also unknown, I suppose?”

Coyne: “Well, yes.”

Mendoza: “And you're worried why?”

Coyne: “Misty wanted to meet with me. We made a date. Except she didn't show up.”

Mendoza: “You never been stood up by a woman before?”

Coyne: “Hardly the same thing.”

Mendoza: “These girls. Where do they live?”

Coyne: “I don't know. They sometimes hang out in the Happy Family restaurant on Beach Street.”

Mendoza: “And what do they do?”

Coyne: “They're hookers, I think.”

Mendoza: “So you got stood up by a hooker…”

I decided that if I was going to talk to Saundra Mendoza, I better have more to tell her.

I tried to convince myself that Misty was a resourceful kid. She could take care of herself. She'd probably worked out whatever was bothering her, or just decided she didn't need me to help her. It would have been considerate of her to return my calls. But I had no reason to believe that she was considerate.

I almost believed myself.

That evening Evie and I were sitting at our kitchen table eating home-delivery thin-crust pizza—Vidalia onion, sundried tomatoes, and goat cheese for Evie, sausage, pepperoni, and eggplant for me, between us covering all of the important food groups except chocolate. I was telling her about my adventures in Chinatown and how I found the restaurant that Misty had called me from on Tuesday.

“Sam Spade,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”

“So what did you learn?”

I shook my head. “Hardly anything.”

Right then the phone rang. Evie started to get out of her chair.

“Leave it,” I said. “We're eating. Probably somebody trying to foist another credit card on us. They always call at dinnertime.”

It rang again.

Evie put down her pizza slice and looked at me. “What if it's important?”

“They'll leave a message. We can call them back.”

“I'm going to get it.”

“I know,” I said.

She got up, went over to the counter, picked up the cordless phone, and said, “Hello?”

She looked up at the ceiling as she listened. Then she glanced at me, gave her head a quick shake, said, “Yes, of course,” and wandered into the living room with the phone pressed against her ear.

I could hear the occasional murmur of Evie's voice from the other room, but I couldn't tell what she was saying. She seemed to be doing more listening than speaking. I inferred that she was not talking to a credit-card salesman.

She was gone for the length of time it took me to drink half a glass of beer, eat two slices of pizza, and feed a crust to Henry. When she came back and took her seat at the table, she looked at me and said, “That was Shirley Arsenault.”

“Who?”

“Dana Wetherbee's grandmother. Verna's mother. I called them last night, remember?”

“Sure I remember,” I said. “I just didn't remember her name. I thought you said she didn't want to talk to you.”

“She didn't. That was yesterday. This afternoon a Rhode Island State Police officer dropped by their house.”

“Oh, jeez.”

Evie nodded. “Your Lieutenant Mendoza faxed him a copy of that morgue photo. He showed it to Shirley. She confirmed that it was Dana. Now she wants to talk to me.”

“Why?”

Evie shrugged. “She's pretty upset.”

“Of course she's upset,” I said. “That's her dead granddaughter. She's already buried her daughter. That's way too much. What I meant was, why you?”

“I suppose it's because I knew Dana, and because I called her. She needs to talk to somebody.”

“Grief counseling,” I said.

Evie shrugged. “Call it whatever you want. I told her I'd be there tomorrow afternoon around four.” She arched her eyebrows at me.

“Where is there?”

“Edson, Rhode Island.”

I nodded. “Okay. I'll go with you.”

 

Evie was poking me. “Brady, the phone,” she said. “Get the damn phone.”

Then I was aware of it ringing on the table beside our bed. I fumbled for it, pressed it against my ear, and mumbled, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Coyne,” came a woman's voice. “This is Marcia Benetti. Roger Horowitz's partner?”

I pushed myself into a half-sitting position. It was still dark in the bedroom. “What the hell time is it?”

“Around five-thirty. Roger wants to talk to you. I'm on my way over to pick you up. Please be ready.”

“Who died?” Horowitz and Benetti were state-police homicide detectives. If they were up and about at five-thirty on a January morning, it meant somebody had died under circumstances that usually amounted to murder.

“I'm on Storrow Drive, Mr. Coyne. I'll be in front of your house in ten minutes.”

“Young woman,” I said, “maybe twenty, maybe younger, dark hair, goes by the name of Misty?”

“You can talk to Roger when you see him,” she said. Then she disconnected.

I hung up the phone. Beside me, Evie rolled onto her side and flopped an arm across my chest. “Wha's up?” she grumbled.

“That was Roger Horowitz's partner,” I said. “She's coming over to pick me up.”

“Why?”

“Go back to sleep, babe.”

“You have to go?”

“Yes.” I leaned over, kissed her cheek, and slid out of bed.

By the time I'd pulled on my T-shirt and boxers, Evie had rolled back onto her belly and resumed snoring.

Henry was curled up in his usual spot on the rug at the foot of the bed. He opened an eye, considered following me downstairs, thought better of it, and went back to sleep.

The automatic coffeemaker had not started brewing when I got to the kitchen. I turned it on, hoping Marcia Benetti would have the courtesy not to arrive until I could pour myself a mugful.

But when I peeked out the front door, her gray sedan was sitting there under the streetlight.

I pulled on my parka, went outside, and climbed into the passenger seat. “Hope I didn't keep you waiting,” I said.

She handed me a giant-sized Dunkin' Donuts cup. “The Starbucks wasn't open,” she said. “Hope this is okay. Roger said you needed black.”

“‘Need' is the operative word.” I popped the lid and sniffed. “Plain house blend, right?”

“He said you didn't go for the fancy stuff,” she said. “He said get you two-day-old cop coffee if they had it. But they didn't.”

I took a sip. I could feel the caffeine surge through my blood vessels and zap happy little sparks into my brain. “Thank you,” I said. “You're an angel.” I took another sip. “So tell me what's going on. Where are we headed, anyway?”

“The coffee was Roger's idea,” she said. “You can tell him he's angelic, if you want. As far as what's going on, all I can really tell you is what he told me. Cleaning service found a body in back of an office building on Route One in Danvers. He wants you there.”

“Why me?”

“He didn't tell me, Mr. Coyne. You know Roger. He called me, told me to get my ass up there, pick you up on the way. That's all I know, okay?”

“I guess you've had enough conversation for now, huh?”

“More than enough,” she said. “Drink your coffee and stop asking me questions I can't answer.”

Marcia Benetti drove up Route One through Charlestown and Chelsea, Revere and Everett, Saugus and Peabody and Lynnfield, and a little after six-fifteen, she took a left, cut across the southbound lane, and followed a driveway around to the back of a low-slung brick-and-glass office building.

Eight or ten official-looking vehicles were parked randomly down at the far end of the lot with their doors hanging open and their headlights sending cones of light into the predawn darkness. Running engines puffed clouds of exhaust into the cold winter morning, and blue and red lights flashed on the dirty snow.

Benetti stopped beside a Danvers cruiser. I opened the car door and started to get out.

“Hang on,” she said. She picked up her car phone, pecked a number into it, paused, then said, “We're here.” She listened for a moment, glanced at me, said, “I don't know. I didn't ask,” then put the phone back.

“Didn't ask what?” I said.

“He'll ask you himself.”

A minute later Horowitz appeared from behind the vehicles. He was wearing a camel hair topcoat, a multi-colored knitted scarf, and a floppy felt hat with the brim turned down all the way around. He stopped in front of the car, lifted his hand, and crooked his finger at us.

“He wants you,” said Benetti.

I got out and went over to where Horowitz was waiting. “Who's dead?” I said. I didn't offer to shake hands, and neither did he. Roger Horowitz had little patience with empty gestures of civility.

“If I knew,” he said, “I wouldn't need you. She had your business card in her pocket.”

“I was afraid of that,” I said. “Young girl?”

“Late teens, I'd say. Brunette.” He cocked his head and peered at me. “You think you know who it is?”

“Yes,” I said. “Let's have a look.”

“This way.” Horowitz flicked on the foot-long flashlight he was carrying, turned, and headed toward the back corner of the parking lot. I trailed along behind him.

At least a dozen men and women were standing around hunching their shoulders, stamping their feet, and sipping from Styrofoam coffee cups. Nobody seemed to be saying much.

Out of the corner of his mouth, Horowitz said, “Still waiting for the M.E.” Then he mumbled, “Excuse us,” and shouldered his way through the circle of onlookers. I followed behind him.

A big circle of yellow crime-scene tape had been strung around the corner of the parking lot. It encompassed the snowbanks where the plow had cleared the lot and a large area of drifted snow beyond the snowbanks.

Horowitz ducked under the tape, held it for me so I could bend under it, and then led me to the edge of the lot. He played his flashlight on the ground.

She was sprawled on her side on the packed snow on the parking lot near the snowbank. Her head was twisted awkwardly to the side, and her legs were bent in a running position. She was wearing a hip-length fake-fur jacket, a short black skirt, fishnet stockings, and leather boots. A red beret lay beside her body. She had long dark hair. Her skin was unnaturally white.

“Shit,” I said.

“Recognize her?” said Horowitz.

“You better let me see her face.”

“Don't touch anything.”

I kept my hands in my pockets and scootched down beside the body. Horowitz shone his flashlight on her face.

It was Misty.

“I know her,” I said.

“You got a name?”

I stood up. “She called herself Misty. That's all I know. She was a pro, hung out in Chinatown. How'd she die?”

“Beaten and strangled. Looks like they dumped her here. Killed her somewhere else, loaded her into a vehicle, and tossed her out. Cleaning service spotted her in their headlights when they were leaving around four this morning.” Horowitz looked at me. “Misty? That what you said?”

“Yes. I assume it's her, um, professional name.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “A hooker named Misty with your business card in her pocket?”

“It's nothing like that, for Christ sake.”

“Better not be. Jesus, Coyne.”

“If it was, would you tell Evie?”

“Bet your ass.”

“Evie knows all about Misty.”

“Well,” he said, “I don't. Let's go over to my vehicle, turn on the heater, and you can talk to me.”

On the way to Horowitz's car, he stopped, poked a uniformed policeman in the chest, and said, “Run down to the Dunkin' and get me and Mr. Coyne here some coffee and a couple sugar-covered crullers. You might as well pick up something for yourself, too.” He fumbled in his wallet and handed the cop a twenty-dollar bill.

The motor was running and the driver's door of Horowitz's sedan hung open. We got in, closed the doors, and cracked the windows so they wouldn't steam up.

“Okay,” he said. “Talk to me.”

I told him how Henry found Dana Wetherbee's body in my backyard, how she died from blood loss and exposure to the cold. When I told him how she'd been on fertility medication and the M.E. surmised that she'd miscarried because her fetus had outgrown her uterus, Horowitz, said, “Humph.”

When I mentioned Saundra Mendoza, he muttered, “Yeah. Good cop.”

I told him about Sunshine, and the Shamrock Inn, and running into Misty, Zooey, and Kayla, and seeing a van with New Hampshire plates and a logo with bears on the side. I told him that Evie was the one who identified the girl as Dana Wetherbee and that she and I were planning to drive down to Rhode Island that afternoon to talk with Dana's grandmother.

About then the cop came back with our coffee and crullers. Horowitz and I stopped talking long enough to take a couple bites of cruller.

When I started up again, I told him about finding the photo in the baggie stapled onto Henry's collar.

Horowitz's head snapped up at that. “In your backyard?”

I nodded. “I haven't told Evie about it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Don't blame you. You told Mendoza, though, I hope.”

“I did,” I said. Then I told him how Misty had called my office on Tuesday, how she said she needed to talk with me confidentially, something about the guy who'd been driving the van with the bear logo. She was concerned about her friend Kayla, but she didn't tell me why. I told him that she agreed to meet me at Dunkin' Donuts on Tremont and Boylston but never showed up. I told him how the next day I'd tracked down the Happy Family Restaurant on Beach Street where, according to Bonnie, the hostess, the three girls hung out. I summarized what Bonnie had told me. “You should talk to her,” I said. “And Kayla and Zooey. They were Misty's best friends. The three of them were there together the day she called me.”

“Never would've occurred to me,” he grumbled. “Thanks.”

“You don't need to be sarcastic,” I said. “I'm just trying to help.”

Horowitz was taking notes in his pocket-sized black notebook. Without looking up, he said, “Yeah, sorry. That was excellent detecting.”

“I thought so, too,” I said. “Evie called me Sam Spade.”

He snorted.

“Dana Wetherbee weighs heavy on my heart,” I said. “So does Sunshine. And now Misty.”

“I don't blame you,” he said. He snapped his notebook shut and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “These women, they run into you, next thing you know, they're dead.”

“I appreciate your sympathy,” I said. “But I don't think I'm the important connection among the three of them.”

“That wasn't sympathy.”

“Gee,” I said. “You could've fooled me.”

“So did she have a pimp?”

“Misty? I have no idea. You think?…”