Authors: David Daniel
The Marble Kite (10 page)
My phone was ringing when I unlocked the door to my house. I put on a light. On the floor, among the cardboard packing crates, I found the handset.
“Mr. Rasmussen?” a woman asked.
I said it was.
“This is Maddie Hartley director of human resources at Garden State Foods. I hope it's not too late to be calling.” It sounded as if it might be too late for her; I thought I heard her yawn.
“It's fine, Ms. Hartley. Thank you for getting back to me.” I fished my notebook out of my jacket pocket.
“You had a question about a former employee?”
I told her the reason for my earlier call and gave her Troy Pepper's name.
She made a little hiss of indrawn air. “Oh dear. I'm sorry. This happened up there in Massachusetts?”
“Last night. He was arraigned today. His attorney is gathering information for a defense.” I shoved some clutter aside and sat on the couch and switched on a table lamp.
“Well, I do remember him. He started with us four years ago. He
worked second shift, as a pickerâthat involves filling orders, getting items off the warehouse shelves, and putting them on pallets for delivery to supermarkets. To be honest, I wasn't sure he was going to be able to cut it. He has a disfigured hand. Well, I was wrong. He never missed a shiftâall in all, a reliable worker. He did have one difficulty, I recall.” She sighed, and I heard the weariness for certain this time. “A group of others on the shift, who'd been there longer, approached him one night at break and asked if maybe he was working too hard, if maybe he should take it easier. Evidently he thanked them for their concern, but he decided he didn't like the suggestion, so he worked even faster.”
worked second shift, as a pickerâthat involves filling orders, getting items off the warehouse shelves, and putting them on pallets for delivery to supermarkets. To be honest, I wasn't sure he was going to be able to cut it. He has a disfigured hand. Well, I was wrong. He never missed a shiftâall in all, a reliable worker. He did have one difficulty, I recall.” She sighed, and I heard the weariness for certain this time. “A group of others on the shift, who'd been there longer, approached him one night at break and asked if maybe he was working too hard, if maybe he should take it easier. Evidently he thanked them for their concern, but he decided he didn't like the suggestion, so he worked even faster.”
“And the others saw the light, increased productivity and set a plant record,” I said.
“Yeah, exactly.” There was a hint of zest in her voice that seemed to want to bubble up through the weariness. “No, they decided that telling gets more results than asking. They met him in the parking lot one night. It got physical, and he took the worst of it, but he fought them until security broke it up. The other men could've been terminated, but Mr. Pepper insisted it had been a misunderstanding. They worked it out, and life went onâwith probably some middle course hashed out on the work-pace issue.” She sighed. “Why can't world leaders resolve differences that smoothly? Anyway, Mr. Pepper was fine for about three years, worked his way up to forklift operator. And then he resigned. That's the last I knew.”
“Do you know why he left?”
“We didn't have a formal exit interview process in place then, but he did come in, and he was polite and all, thanked us for the opportunity, and assured me it wasn't because he was unhappy there. But that's about all he had to say.”
“Would you happen to have the file right there with you?”
“No, I'm at home. It's in my head, though.”
“You remember that?”
“It's this problem I've had for years. I can't seem to forget a darn thing.”
“That's not a bad problem to have.”
“It is when you can't shake the name of every schoolteacher you ever had, every classmate you shared Valentine's Day cards with from
grade one on. If I could lose all that rummage it might free up some space on the hard drive.”
grade one on. If I could lose all that rummage it might free up some space on the hard drive.”
“To do what?”
“Good point. Anyhow, I do recall one other thing about Troy Pepper ⦠he had this nervous way of looking at youâor avoiding looking, maybe. I got the feeling that he had things to say but couldn't quite bring himself to say them. Well, I wish you the best, Mr. Rasmussen. Now, I've got another clock to punch. I'm caring for my mother, who's in the last stages of Alzheimer's. She can't remember a blessed thing, including who I am. And I can't
stop
rememberingâand realizing that eventually each of us ends up in the cemetery flying the marble kite. Of course, if I'd known that back in the day when I was a camp follower with Springsteen's band, I'd have done things a lot differently.”
stop
rememberingâand realizing that eventually each of us ends up in the cemetery flying the marble kite. Of course, if I'd known that back in the day when I was a camp follower with Springsteen's band, I'd have done things a lot differently.”
“Put your nose to the grindstone and started saving kite string?”
The zest welled up finally in an honest laugh. “It only takes six feet of string to fly that puppy. No, I'd have enjoyed myself even more. Good luck to you.”
A minute after I hung up, the phone rang again. It was Sonders. “You've been yapping a while,” he said. He sounded agitated. “I'm getting jerked around here. Who makes up all these chickenshit rules, anyhow?”
I asked him to take a breath and explain. He'd spoken with Fred Meecham about resuming business, he said, but Meecham told him there wasn't much legally he could do. “I'm allowed to keep the equipment where it is, because I've contracted for the field, but will they let me operate? Negatory. And if I'm not operating, no residency permit. Deal is we can flop here tonight, but that's it. Starting tomorrow we need to find someplace else to live. I had Nicole phone up some hotels, but at those prices we'll go bust before they have to change the linen. There's got to be someplace cheaper, and I figured you might know where.”
I tried to picture forty bodies camped in my four rooms but couldn't see it. “I'll snoop around and call you tomorrow,” I said. “Get some sleep.”
On Tuesday the Boston papers were waiting in the lobby, and I scanned the front pages of both as I climbed the three flights to my office. Courtney was putting the finishing touches on an autumn display in the hallway across from the elevator. She had on a salmon silk blouse and a navy skirt, her honey brown hair done up in a French twist. It was an ability she had of looking either her actual twenty-one or like an older sophisticateâsomething of a young Grace Kelly or Phoebe Kelly for that matter. She'd fashioned a scarecrow for her display. “Like it?” she asked.
“If he's looking for a brain, the hunt is over.”
“Oh, your.” I couldn't tell whether the incandescent smile was something they learned at Mount Holyoke or if she'd brought it with her from Duluth. Either way it worked; there was more behind her expression than the headline of any newspaper.
“Is your boss in?” I asked.
Meecham, in a dark gray pinstripe with suspenders and a gold bow tie, waved me in. “I just got off the phone with the DA. He's sounding more and more confident. He says he's going to show a pattern of threat and intimidation going back over time. He's got Pepper's run-in with the law and that 209-A the victim filed when she got here.”
“But didn't bother to refile when it lapsed,” I said.
“Deemys claims that's because Pepper didn't know her whereabouts and she felt safe. Evidently he's spoken with the woman we talked with yesterdayâLucinda Colónâand I think she's going to be a prosecution witness. The idea is Pepper planned the murder in advance, that he'd finally located where the victim was living, and when the carnival came to town, he got in touch, lulled her with a visit on Saturday, and then strangled her on Sunday afternoon. The unlicensed handgun figures in there as a backup plan.”
“So he kills her with a scarf he's given her and puts her in the field, where he'd be the instant suspect. Where's the premeditation in that?”
“Stupidity doesn't rule out a plan, Alex.”
“Or prove one.”
“If I can anticipate the prosecution's case, they'll claim expediency. The field rather than just leaving her in his trailer. Later he was going to dump her somewhere. Put her in the river, maybe. Or drive her up to the New Hampshire woods.”
“How was he going to get her there? His camper is set up in an encampment.”
“Bury her there behind the site, then. I don't know. I'm just trying to think like the DA.”
“That could be a strain.”
He grinned. I mentioned Pop Sonders's claim that the carnival people wouldn't enter a trailer uninvited. Meecham said he'd have to think more about that. Courtney came in with a legal pad and took a seat. We talked through what we knew about the case so far, and then went to what our strategy ought to be. Meecham said that he was going to concentrate on getting Troy Pepper to provide answers to key questions that remained. I suggested that we also look into Flora Nuñez's life in the days and hours before her death, to see if any suggestion of a motive other than what the DA was promoting might exist. Meecham assigned me the task.
Courtney lowered her reading glasses. “Won't the police do that anyway?”
“They'll get around to it,” I said, “but at the moment, where's their incentive? They're too focused on slamming the cell door on Pepper.”
At Courtney's look of dismay, Meecham said, “Alex's years as a police detective in this fair city have given him a certain hardening of the attitude.”
“Or dose of reality,” I said. “Drive by a road repair project. The cop's been there for hours, waving traffic past. He's bored. He's drinking a coffee, jawing with the job boss, yet he looks at your vehicle, then at you. Cops are alert, they see things. Sometimes they're wrong, but once they've got the idea you did something, they don't let it go easily. They've got Pepper in their sights.”
Meecham said, “I see our defense growing out of shaking the DA's contention of premeditation. Absent Pepper giving us something clear, I'm looking at a crime of passion. Pepper in a sudden rage strangles her, panics, and dumps her in the field. That's what you might find out, Alex. Was there something Flora Nuñez might have done to provoke him? Was she seeing somebody else? Let's learn more.”
“I'd like to get a look at her apartment,” I said.
“I don't think we'll be able to. I broached it with Deemys. It's not considered a crime scene. The police don't have to let us in.”
“If you can get the charge dropped to second degree,” Courtney said, “and he's convicted, he'd still get a long sentence, wouldn't he?”
“Better than life without parole. First we've got to find the evidence to support it, or no one's going to buy it. Even so, whatever we come up with will have to convince a jury, and you can never predict how a jury will react. But the fact that the victim lived here and he doesn'tâand there's his occupationâ” He let out a small breath of frustration. “Even the most fair-minded jurors have notions about things, biases that can run deep.”
“Like the old idea of carnies as suspect,” Courtney said, thin lines of worry marring her brow, like the tiniest cracks in a bone china plate.
“At best,” I agreed. “At worst, they're viewed as a clear and present danger to decent folks everywhere. That's sure to rear its head. I see it already starting.”
“So it'll be best if we can come up with something strong,” Fred Meecham declared. “Very strong.”
From my office, I called some of the motels in the area, as I'd promised Pop last night I'd do, but if the places had any vacancies at all, the
rooms were scattered and few. There was some kind of trade show at the civic auditorium, I was told, and foliage was promising to be prime this year, so the leaf peeper bus tours were already starting. I called Pop back to tell him no luck so far, but his line was busy. Then, on my way to the car, I remembered a conversation I'd had with Moses Maxwell.
rooms were scattered and few. There was some kind of trade show at the civic auditorium, I was told, and foliage was promising to be prime this year, so the leaf peeper bus tours were already starting. I called Pop back to tell him no luck so far, but his line was busy. Then, on my way to the car, I remembered a conversation I'd had with Moses Maxwell.
The Venice Hotel sat on the ragged fringe of another age. Constructed in the 1880s, drawing its name from its location along one of the canals that ran for six miles through the city, it had ridden economic boom-and-bust cycles and natural catastrophes, narrowly missed being pulled down in half a dozen urban renewal campaigns, and survived more or less intact. Even in its heyday, it had never possessed the elegance of some of the city's other hotels, and yet it had its charm. In the late 1920s a prominent Boston bootlegger had been shot to death, along with his two mistresses, in one of the suites; in 1956, Joseph Kennedy upon the eve of his son's winning a U.S. congressional seat, had publicly declared that someday one way or another, Jack would be president. But the hotel's charms had grown frowsy with time. Then, in the 1980s, the city caught renaissance fever and, buoyed by state and federal money, set up commissions to preserve this and that. The Venice wasn't in the Historical Register, and it wouldn't make any of the chamber of commerce's four-color puff pieces, but there it was. In Vegas the developers would have run a grand canal through the lobby, with gondolas to carry the rubes from casino to casino, last stop debtor's prison.
These days the hotel was mostly residential, though even with its
low rates, it didn't run near to capacity. It had the faded splendor of an era when beauty was its own reward. The other thing in its favor was what Moses Maxwell had reminded me of: its tradition of being color-blind. In the days when bands like Maxwell's came through town, a black performer's money spent just as good as the next guy's. My guess was that a gaggle of displaced carnival workers would find the same hospitality
low rates, it didn't run near to capacity. It had the faded splendor of an era when beauty was its own reward. The other thing in its favor was what Moses Maxwell had reminded me of: its tradition of being color-blind. In the days when bands like Maxwell's came through town, a black performer's money spent just as good as the next guy's. My guess was that a gaggle of displaced carnival workers would find the same hospitality
The carpet and drapes and the lobby furniture were saturated with the effluvia of tired salesmen and behatted conventioneers and glamorous women in black dresses, and some women in red dresses, too. It wasn't hard to conjure up women with cigarette trays, and bellhops still calling for Philip Morris, and gangsters and their molls, and musicians, but all that was as gone as hip flasks and hipsters. The ventilation system seemed to wheeze with emphysema, and cancer was eating at the ceiling molding. Still, the place whispered of a tarnished grandeur you weren't going to see the likes of again outside of a Disney theme park. At the timeworn registration desk, a black man with faded rust-colored hair sat reading the
Christian Science Monitor
through half-moon glasses. He wore his black beret with panache and had warm brown eyes, even if the mouth beneath his thin gray mustache barely moved to say “Good day, sir. May I he'p you?”
Christian Science Monitor
through half-moon glasses. He wore his black beret with panache and had warm brown eyes, even if the mouth beneath his thin gray mustache barely moved to say “Good day, sir. May I he'p you?”
I said that I was looking for information.
“If you're with the blues, I got a instant dislike. Sorry, but it's personal.”
“Save it for someone deserving,” I came back. “I'm private.” I showed him my license.
He studied it, moving a pink-nailed finger along the words. “Right here in the city, I see.”
“I've got an office that overlooks Kearney Square, in a building nearly as old as this, but not as suave.”
“The Fairburn?”
“You know it?”
“I used to go to the reading room there on the street floor.”
Quicker than you could say Mary Baker Eddy, we understood each other. I told him that that space was a pawnshop these days. Then I told him I was looking for rooms for a group of carnival employees.
If he had a reaction, I didn't see it. “Want to look at one of the rooms, sir?”
It was what you'd expect of a place that still used actual door keys: two double beds with nubbled cotton spreads, dinged furniture, sturdy green carpet, beige-and-green flocked wallpaper, reasonably clean. The water tumblers didn't have little paper jackets on them, but at least they were real glass, and not everything movable was attached with a chain. As I was returning to the elevator, I passed a door that stood partway open, and I caught a glimpse of an old man in his underwear sitting on a bed, his lifeless white hair streaked with yellow, like snow around a city hydrant, staring at nothing. It was stuffy and warm in the corridor, but I felt a chill along my backbone. Outside I welcomed the sunlight and took a deep breath of air. From my car I phoned Sonders. An answering tape as tattered as a big-top tent came on, and after the moths fluttered off I left word that the rooms would seem to do, and his people could come over anytime.
Â
Â
I was on my way over to Bihoco when I saw blue and white flashers light up behind me. I drew to the right to allow a city cruiser to pass, but it stayed Velcroed to my rear bumper. I shut down the mill and waited. In the side mirror I watched the cop do his thing with the onboard computer before he climbed out. He didn't don a cap (had I actually seen a city cop wear one in recent years?). He came up, adjusting his belt. He wasn't going to quip, “Going to a fire?” and I wasn't going to be able to volley back, “No, to jail,” because I hadn't been speeding, and we'd get this sorted out in a minute and both be on our way.
He bent toward my window. He was young, with a narrow face and a wedge of crisp auburn hair. “Do you know why I stopped you, sir?”
I said I sure didn't.
“Your automobile registration has lapsed.”
“It has?” The surprise was genuine.
“May I see your operator's license and registration?”
I dug them out. The license was in a clear plastic foldout alongside my PI ticket. It didn't make much impression. He scoped the paperwork,
then pointed out that my auto registration had expired as of the last day of August. I'd been riding around in a fool's cocoon for two weeks. “My mistake. I'll drive over to the registry right now,” I promised.
then pointed out that my auto registration had expired as of the last day of August. I'd been riding around in a fool's cocoon for two weeks. “My mistake. I'll drive over to the registry right now,” I promised.
“I'm sorry, sir. The car will have to be towed.”
“Towed?”
“Once I punch you in and the registration comes up as expired, the car can't be driven.”
May
not be driven, is what he meant; it ran fine. But what was I going to say?
I was on the job once; cut me some slack?
That and five bucks would buy me a cab ride to the Registry of Motor Vehicles. I didn't have a paper bag to put over my head as law-abiding gawkers crept past, lamping us with paparazzi eyes, so I sat in the cruiser with the officer while he called for a tow and then I listened to him Tuesday-morning quarterback last night's Pats game. The fatal error, he said, was Brady throwing an interception early in the fourth quarter when he had a man long and free. He said Brady needed to learn to stretch a defense more. The wrecker arrived in minutes, the way it never does when you really need it. The tow driver introduced himselfâEddie, truck number nineâand handed me a smudged card that told me the name of the company and where I could reclaim my car once I had the proper paperwork. He ducked under the back bumper of my car with the nonchalance of a man who'd lifted more rear ends than Cher's lipo doctor and got the chain hooked. The cop even apologized again.
not be driven, is what he meant; it ran fine. But what was I going to say?
I was on the job once; cut me some slack?
That and five bucks would buy me a cab ride to the Registry of Motor Vehicles. I didn't have a paper bag to put over my head as law-abiding gawkers crept past, lamping us with paparazzi eyes, so I sat in the cruiser with the officer while he called for a tow and then I listened to him Tuesday-morning quarterback last night's Pats game. The fatal error, he said, was Brady throwing an interception early in the fourth quarter when he had a man long and free. He said Brady needed to learn to stretch a defense more. The wrecker arrived in minutes, the way it never does when you really need it. The tow driver introduced himselfâEddie, truck number nineâand handed me a smudged card that told me the name of the company and where I could reclaim my car once I had the proper paperwork. He ducked under the back bumper of my car with the nonchalance of a man who'd lifted more rear ends than Cher's lipo doctor and got the chain hooked. The cop even apologized again.
Figuring I might be able to get a courtesy ride through my insurance agent, I phoned there but only got a recording saying that business hours were Monday through Friday, 9:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. I looked at my watch. It was 10:05. I called a cab.
If you want to see the changing face of the American city, visit the RMV I quit guessing countries of origin at about twenty and just melted into the pot, which included one gray-haired woman who held her yellow sari very tight around herself, as if she were in the midst of the underworld. But there wasn't anything to be afraid of that I could see, if you didn't count the thief of time. Everyone there was just eager to enjoy America's biggest freedom: mobility. An hour later, equipped with my new registration, I took a cab over to the tow company, which was
housed in a tin-sided shed tucked away behind several nondescript industrial ventures. The fleet of wreckers was evidently out and around the city winching away people's money which left one guy behind to run the op center. I gave him the registration, and he pulled the pink invoice from a stack as thick as a rare Porterhouse. “That'll be a hundred and eight dollars,” he said.
housed in a tin-sided shed tucked away behind several nondescript industrial ventures. The fleet of wreckers was evidently out and around the city winching away people's money which left one guy behind to run the op center. I gave him the registration, and he pulled the pink invoice from a stack as thick as a rare Porterhouse. “That'll be a hundred and eight dollars,” he said.
“How much?” I croaked.
He repeated it.
“To tow the car a half mile?”
He put a grimy forefinger on the bill. “This is the seventy-five fifty the state authorizes us to charge,” he said patiently. “This twenty's for storage. Plus a city fee.”
“You could stash a chinchilla coat for less.”
“And you got state tax on top.”
“Why don't you just tow the bank away?” I hauled Visa from my wallet.
“I'm sorry sir. Cash only.”
“What?”
“I know,” he sympathized. “The owner's been burned too many times.”
I looked at him. “Aren't you the owner?”
He sighed. “All right, then, I've been burned too many times. People cancel a credit transaction or bounce a check, and I'm hanging in the wind.”
And cash is easier to hide from the taxman. “I don't carry that much on me.”
“There's an ATM down at the corner in the drugstore. Sorry. I don't make all the rules, sir.”
No, he was just chiseling along like the rest, a little here, a little there. Still, he hadn't allowed my registration to lapse; I'd managed that all by myself. It stinks when there's no one to blame but you. I hooked a ride with the Portuguese tow truck driver, paid an extra dollar fifty for the privilege of having a machine give me my money, and had an amiable conversation with the driver going back. He was as nice as the cop had been, and with thank-yous all around, I picked up my car and was back in business. Forgetfulness had cost me half the morning.
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