Authors: David Daniel
The Marble Kite (14 page)
“I know what I saw. There was a carâcame cruising down here bold as you please. I happened to look out and saw it. A small car, dark. Just a driver inside. It stopped right there by those bushes, and the person inside opened fire on your house. Four or five shots or more. Then he got out, which is how I figure he policed up the casings.”
I was impressed. “Do you remember anything else?”
She gave me a look.
“Actually you saw and heard plenty” I backpedaled. “Thank you.”
We were hearing sirens then. A patrol car blitzed past the end of the alley, heading for my address. A moment later, a second cruiser came up the alley lights winking in my neighbor's eyeglasses. She looked thrilled. In another minute we were standing amid enough heat to open a neighborhood precinct. As several officers began asking questions of my neighbors, I headed for the house with several others to show them the damage. “What'd you do to your ear?” one asked.
Inside I put on lights. Shattered glass lay all over the kitchen floor, like large jigsaw pieces. It was a wonder I had only the one cut. Some of the officers got busy looking around as I tended to my ear, which had a small glass cut on the lobe. I was finishing describing events for one of the cops when Ed St. Onge knocked on the open door and came in. He was in flared gray slacks, polyester short sleeves, and a bargain-bin tie, red with gold polka dots the size of beer coasters; I suppose two decades on the job was enough to make anyone lose sartorial perspective. The interviewing officer said he had what he needed and went off to join the others, closing the door behind them.
“Surprised to see you,” I told St. Onge.
“I caught the address on the dispatch. So this is chez Rasmussen? You really know how to live large.” He looked around. There wasn't much to see. The uniforms had already done the bullet thing; now there were only the unpacked boxes and the shattered window to deal with. He nodded at the pair of bright, unframed paintings that leaned against the wall, awaiting hanging. “Still have those?”
“There's the proof.”
He looked at me. “Sorry” I said. “I'm a little shaken up.”
He went over, small bits of glass and plaster popping under his shoes, and squatted for a closer look at the paintings. They'd been done by a painter named Gregorio Montejo, when he was a struggling art student and my neighbor in a roach shelter in the Acre. When he was evicted for being delinquent on the rent, he stacked a bunch of canvases out with the rubbish. I asked if I could have a few and he said help yourself. For twenty-five bucks I took the lot. These days you see his work in the Guggenheim, and he could afford to buy the block we'd once lived in, not that he'd want to. He was in Maui last I heard.
“Had them appraised?” St. Onge asked, rising.
I hadn't and wouldn't. Call me sentimental: Lauren and I had hung them in our first apartment, apprenticeship work over an apprentice husband and wife. We split the haul when she went south. Someday a distant cousin, generations down the gene line, might lay claim to them and swipe away the dust and be like the poor country parson who finds the Andrea del Sarto in the church belfry and it fetches seven figures at Christie's and saves the parish; but to be real, the paintings were more an indicator of where the painter might go rather than where he'd gone. No matter, I liked the look of them. They had color and flair and could break up the tedium of the drabbest walls. The way the blue ink splotch on Ed's wash-and-wear shirt did.
“I don't object to short sleeves and a tie,” I said, “but at least get the pocket protector to go with it. You're leaking.” He plucked the pen from his pocket and clicked it shut, but he was bulletproof where my quips about his wardrobe were concerned. “Okay, the shooting could be random, and you could've just heard the squeal and showed up out of brotherly concern, but what's the other reason?” I asked.
“Someone observed a car roaming this part of town, like the driver was checking things out. The vehicle and driver description sort of match someone we're interested in.”
“You're talking about your gang task force?”
He nodded. “Generally that's the Community Response Unit's turfâintervention, a more compassionate approach ⦠try to understand what's got these kids running with the wolves.”
“Yeah, I saw
Rebel Without a Cause.
”
Rebel Without a Cause.
”
“A lot of the time it works. But there are always a few guys that're just bad to the bone. Vanthan Sok, for instance. Heard of him?”
“No.”
“The shooting idea fits, but I'm not sure about a motive. And you'd more likely be under refrigeration downtown if it was Sok.”
“A good one, huh?”
“Eighteen years old and he's got a body count. But I'm guessing whoever did this saw you here and decided to spook you. Maybe somebody wants you out of the scene,” he said, only half joking. “But it's extreme. In Chandler, weren't people always trying to get rid of Philip Marlowe by throwing money at him?”
“I'm not Philip Marlowe, and what peppered that wall wasn't dimes. Thanks for coming out.”
“We'll check the ballistics. If anything turns up, I'll let you know. For now, you may want to sleep with a night-light. Congratulations again on the new place.” He didn't say the rest: that it showed I was finally moving on with my life. He didn't have to. Back when I was facing dismissal from the job, Ed St. Onge had talked about resigning in support, but I'd quickly made him see reason. The matter never came up again, neither his gesture nor my rebuttal, but it meant that things between us had a new complexity, and it was never again a simple matter of who owed whom.
Alone, I shooed out several big moths that had bumbled in to flirt with the kitchen lamp and tacked some plastic sheeting over the broken window. Vanthan Sok was the name St. Onge had mentioned. I floated it back over the sluggish pool of my brain, but nothing rose. I locked the doors. As for the night-light, I made sure it had a full load in the cylinder when I carried the .38 upstairs, put it on the nightstand, and went to bed.
On Wednesday I lifted the shade at 6:00 A.M. and looked out. No fusillade of gunfire crashed through the glass. Daylight wasn't full yet, grayed by a light rain, but the morning walkers and runners were stroking past undeterred. I envied them their discipline and dedication to routine, their clinging to this fragile balloon of life, as if by clutching tightly to its string they could keep it from floating away. I turned over and burrowed back to sleep. The phone woke me at eight.
“My God, I just heard. Are you all right?” It was Phoebe.
“Catch a breath. I slept like a baby.” I gave her the story as I knew it, which she said was about what the morning paper had.
“Do the police think it has to do with the carnival murder?”
I said it was unlikely, mostly to calm her; the truth was I had no idea. “Probably just somebody worried about property values,” I said. “You let in one and before you know it the neighborhood is all PIs. Ought to be a law”
When we'd signed off, I retrieved the city newspaper from the bushes, shucked off its plastic raincoat, and skimmed the front section with my coffee. The carnival murder continued to occupy page one, with
a related story about the growing tension in the city over the case. A sidebar noted that Flora Nuñez's funeral would be held that morning at Señora Nuestra del Carmen church. The shooting at my place had made page four. Showered, I peered into my cupboards, but the Welcome Wagon hadn't come by in my absence and filled them. I made a mental note (again) to pick up some provisions. For garb, I pulled a dark suit out of its dry-cleaners' wrap and chose a solid charcoal silk tie over a white shirt. I took along a raincoat. On my way out I gave the unpacked boxes on my living room floor a parting glance.
a related story about the growing tension in the city over the case. A sidebar noted that Flora Nuñez's funeral would be held that morning at Señora Nuestra del Carmen church. The shooting at my place had made page four. Showered, I peered into my cupboards, but the Welcome Wagon hadn't come by in my absence and filled them. I made a mental note (again) to pick up some provisions. For garb, I pulled a dark suit out of its dry-cleaners' wrap and chose a solid charcoal silk tie over a white shirt. I took along a raincoat. On my way out I gave the unpacked boxes on my living room floor a parting glance.
The parking lot at the Owl Diner was full, as usual. Rodrigo was at his usual place by the short order grill, the band of his chef's hat sodden with perspiration. He gave me only the briefest nod when I said hello, then went straight back to cracking eggs, pouring batter, and slapping down rashers of bacon. I headed for an open booth, where the waitress brought me coffee. On the TV mounted high in a corner, a cocky-looking Gus Deemys was talking. “Turn it up, hey,” a counter patron called. Without even a glance at the set, Rodrigo reached a hairy arm and raised the volume.
“ ⦠invite potential trouble to our community,” the DA was saying, “by bringing in these shows. With no reasonable way of doing background checks on the workers, we put ourselves at the mercy of a flawed system. Would any sane individual invite known criminals into their home? Bullies, thieves, and sex offenders?”
“Is he talking about the Boston Archdiocese, Matt?”
“Shh.”
“Murderers? No!” Deemys was saying. “This shocking crime has made one thing tragically clear. We have no choice but to protect ourselves, and if that means banning these archaic, renegade shows, then that's a price well paid. Therefore, when Iâ”
“Give him the hook,” said the patron named Matt. “We heard enough.”
Again without a glance, Rodrigo lowered the volume, leaving Gus Deemys jawing away determinedly, in pantomime.
“âRenegade shows,'” Matt said. “Did he really say that?”
“But he's making a point, isn't he? Over the top, sure, but still ⦔
“No, I know what you're saying.”
“I mean, there's crime that is oursâ”
“âand there's crime that shouldn't be here. I hear you.”
“It's a question of balance.”
“My kids are grown, so we don't go to the carnival no more anyways.”
“Am I right?”
“Seems we ought to do something.”
“Besides talk.”
But I didn't see it happen. I was mopping up egg yolk with a crust of rye toast when Rodrigo came over. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn't want to break my rhythm.” He sank into the seat opposite me, blotting his shiny face on the hem of his apron. “In this racket, lose your groove and you're toast, no pun intended. You wind up with egg on your shoes, pissed-off waitresses, and thirty customers who won't be back.”
“I hate when that happens.”
“You're all dressed up. How can I help you, my friend?”
In my work you took your information where you found it. I told him I was headed for a funeral and explained what I was doing here. He was nodding before I finished. “I can tell you how it looks from back there.” He hooked a thumb toward the griddle. “The guy the cops arrested is as good as guiltyâbut it doesn't rest there. Mood around town is turning ugly. You heard it just now. And that was mild. Some of the talk, you've got people ready to go over there to the carnival with ball bats. And the thing is, what makes it sort of surrealâhow often is a woman with a
z
on the end of her name going to be the center of sympathy?” I asked a few more questions, probing him about anything specific he might have overheard about the killing, but he didn't have a thing. With a new round of short order slips starting to dangle from the carousel over the grill, he rose and went back to work. I left a sizable tip: whatever the opposite of hush money was.
z
on the end of her name going to be the center of sympathy?” I asked a few more questions, probing him about anything specific he might have overheard about the killing, but he didn't have a thing. With a new round of short order slips starting to dangle from the carousel over the grill, he rose and went back to work. I left a sizable tip: whatever the opposite of hush money was.
As I got to the car, my cell phone rang.
“Mr. Rasmussen?” said a hesitant-sounding female voice. “This is Nicky.”
I drew a blank.
“Nicole. Mr. Rasmussen ⦠it's Pop. He's sick.”
What I got from her was that he'd had a “stomach attack,” which I
took to mean his ulcer had started to bleed. An ambulance had come for him. She and Moses Maxwell were at All Saints now, waiting to learn more. He was conscious when they admitted him, but he was obviously in pain. I looked at my watch. “Do you want me to come over?”
took to mean his ulcer had started to bleed. An ambulance had come for him. She and Moses Maxwell were at All Saints now, waiting to learn more. He was conscious when they admitted him, but he was obviously in pain. I looked at my watch. “Do you want me to come over?”
“I don't think there's anything you can do. No visitors allowed right now. I just wanted to let you know. Say a prayer for him if you can. And ⦠something else. Um ⦠we're gonna have a meeting tonight at the hotel, at nine o'clock. Mr. Rasmussen, some of the people here are scared and ⦠nervous. I know I shouldn't be troubling you with our problems, but I was wondering ⦠Mr. Maxwell and I were wondering. Do you think you could come, too?”
“Are you expecting trouble?”
“With Pop in the hospital, I guess I don't know what's going to happen. I just thought ⦠maybe you could talk to us?”
Wonderful. I should have followed up on that leadership award. I had absolutely nothing to tell them, zero, and yet I'd heard how awkward it had been for Nicole to ask. “I'll come and listen,” I said, “and if I've got two cents to add, I'll toss them into the pot. Nine o'clock. If there's any news about Pop, call me.”
She promised.
Death always wends its way to the graveyard, which was where I found myself sitting at a little before 11:00 A.M., a magnetic FUNERAL sign stuck to my hood. I watched people get out of the cars in the line ahead of me and, following the efficient guidance of the undertakers, file toward a freshly dug grave with Flora Nuñez's flower-draped casket poised over it in a sling. The drizzle had cleared for the time being, but I buttoned my forty-dollar raincoat and followed the flow. I felt like one of those freelance mourners who still operate in old New Orleans, bringing up the rear at the funerals of strangers, for that's what Flora Nuñez and I were to each other: strangers, whose journeys had intersected only on the final leg of hers.
She evidently had made friends in her few years in the city, though; about twenty cars with their headlights on had trekked out from Nuestra Señora del Carmen for the burial, which had inevitably forced the thought: How many carloads would come to mine? I abandoned speculation and drew in among the people clustering at the grave as the priest began some final remarks.
The sleuth in me was ever curious. My ex-mother-in-law had once
remarked that if I had brought that kind of attention and focus to bear on the stock pages of the
Wall Street Journal,
I'd be a wealthy man. I judged myself to be that anyway, I told her; after all, I was married to her daughter.
remarked that if I had brought that kind of attention and focus to bear on the stock pages of the
Wall Street Journal,
I'd be a wealthy man. I judged myself to be that anyway, I told her; after all, I was married to her daughter.
In the small quadrant where Flora Nuñez was to be interred, laid out in neat rows beneath the spread of large maple trees were stones bearing family names representing a dozen or more ethnicities. Discrimination didn't exist six feet down where dust mingled with dust and worms were the ultimate egalitarians.
Among the people at the fringes of the small crowd, I picked out Lucinda Colón, and after the brief ceremony ended, I moved over and said hello. She was teary, but she remembered me. I offered my condolences, and we made a minute's worth of small talk. Perhaps it was just her grief, but she seemed a little unsteady, and I wondered if she was medicated. She turned to go. I took out the Polaroid I'd found in Flora Nuñez's apartment. “Do you happen to remember when this was taken?” I asked.
She looked at it, and her brow clenched quizzically. “I'm sorry?”
I rephrased it, though I was convinced she'd understood the question the first time. “This is you and Ms. Nuñez, isn't it?”
“We was in the same night class together, a paralegal class. Sometimes we used to go out after class. Just for a drink or food.”
“Are these other people from your class, also?”
She avoided my gaze, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a lace handkerchief. “Yes, some, I think. I'm not sure,” she said quickly, and seemed nervous again. “But that has nothing to do with this sadness about my friend. The cause of this is Troy Pepper, and he is a son of a bitch for making us so sad. Now, I am going.” And she walked away steadily, despite her heels and the soft grass.
I put the Polaroid away and caught up with the priest. He was a youthful forty, with dark hair just starting to thread with gray and thick black eyebrows. He had delivered his funeral remarks in a fond, even exuberant way. I knew from the funeral program that he was Father Jose Marrero. I waited as he spoke with an older woman dressed in black, nodding thoughtfully as she spoke to him. When she went off, he saw me and offered his hand, which I took.
“I liked what you had to say today, Father,” I told him. “Too many times I get the feeling the clergy folk are talking about strangers. Your words were personal and heartfelt.”
He smiled gently. “I was fortunate that Flora often came to mass, so I got to know her. It's sad that she died. You were a friend?”
“No, I never met her. But based on what I've been hearing about her, I'd like to have.” I explained who I was. His manner cooled a little, but he didn't dismiss me.
“If you're looking to learn anything that Flora might've confided in me, Mr. Rasmussen, naturally you will be disappointed.”
“I understand. I'm not going to ask you to betray confidences, but I wonder if you had any personal sense of what her relationship with Troy Pepper might have been?”
“He's the one the police are holding?”
“Yes. He indicated to me that they were thinking of getting married. Did she say anything about that?”
“No, she didn't.”
“Father, did Flora ever hint that she felt threatened by Troy Pepper? Or afraid?”
He seemed to consider the question, or whether to answer it; then he shook his head. “By answering what you're asking me, Mr. Rasmussen, I might be aiding the person who took Flora's life. Wouldn't that be a betrayal of her?”
“Perhaps. Though you might also be allowing her to reach out and show mercy to a man whom she may have loved. That could be a charitable act, too, couldn't it?”
He gave me a patient look. “She didn't come often for pastoral counseling. Still, I did have a sense from our occasional conversations that there was someone she cared for. I don't know his name or anything else about him. Do you think it's this man the police have arrested?”
I admitted I didn't know. There was a lot about Flora Nuñez and Troy Pepper I didn't know. A small jet passed overhead, descending: some kind of corporate flight, heading for Hanscom Field. I asked, “Did you have any sense of whether he was someone living here in the city or elsewhere?”
“No idea. But now that I think of it, I recall something she asked me,
oh, eight or ten months ago, that got me wondering if she'd made some decision to seek a different life.” We were mostly alone now, the bulk of the mourners having returned to their cars and driven off. Colored leaves shimmered in the maple trees and made a soft rustling, like the bright, eager gossip of schoolgirls. “She asked about making sacrifices for love. And then she asked ⦠this is what struck meâshe asked what taking holy vows might be like.”
oh, eight or ten months ago, that got me wondering if she'd made some decision to seek a different life.” We were mostly alone now, the bulk of the mourners having returned to their cars and driven off. Colored leaves shimmered in the maple trees and made a soft rustling, like the bright, eager gossip of schoolgirls. “She asked about making sacrifices for love. And then she asked ⦠this is what struck meâshe asked what taking holy vows might be like.”
“Vows for becoming a nun?”
“That's the thing. She didn't say she wanted to take orders or anything, but she did seem curious, especially about wearing the habit. Where one got the costume, what the various parts of clothing meant. When I tried to open her up about it, she told me it was just something she wondered about.”
We had come to a deeply polished black Marquis. Father Marrero turned and shook my hand. “I wish you well. Each in our own way, we're all searching for answers.”
“One more thing. Do you know if she was in church Sunday morning?”
He thought a moment, then shook his head, the thick brows coming together. “Not then, no.”
I watched the Marquis move slowly toward the cemetery exit, the trees and sky mirrored in its sheen. As I headed for my car, I noticed that one other vehicle remained, a maroon Chevy. It had drawn farther around the loop road and was parked, partially obscured by a line of tombstones. It wasn't on the way to my car, but I turned and went toward it. Before I could get there, the driver started up and drove off, but I recognized him as Paul Duross.
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