The Violet Crow (20 page)

Gil lead him back to the TV room while Angela tried to get the kids to give him some privacy. When Bruno saw Maggie, he broke down and cried. She was sleeping on the couch and she struggled to raise her head and greet him when she detected his scent. Maggie appeared to be in good condition, except for her tail, which was bandaged about two inches above the base. The rest of it was missing. Her proud and beautiful tail. They'd amputated her tail.

Gil put his hand on Bruno's shoulder. “She lost a lot of blood. It was gushing when she showed up here. We slowed it down with a tight bandage, and I tried to put a clamp on it, but we couldn't completely stop the bleeding. Fortunately, I was able to get our vet on the phone and he ran right over. Never saw anything like it. You really think your brother-in-law'd do something like that?”

“I don't know. Maybe not. None of this makes sense …”

“Takes a pretty sick person, do something like this. Maybe Angela's family—you know, they're Sicilian …”

“Very funny, Gil,” Angela protested. “They're from Sicily a long time ago. Really, Joe, my family's from North Jersey. Teaneck. My father was a realtor. My brother's a dentist. When they want to get rough with Gil, they tell him the Giants are better than the Eagles.”

“And when they really want respect,” Gil continued, “they tell me that even the Jets are better. North Jersey
stronzi
…”

The monologue achieved its intended purpose. Bruno had stopped crying, but Gil could see he was still upset. “Anyway, we're really sorry about Maggie.” He shot a questioning look toward Angela, who nodded, yes, it was OK. “Do you need a place to stay tonight? You're welcome to stay here.”

“Thanks. But I need to sleep at my place tonight.”

“Do you think it's safe?”

Bruno shrugged. “I gotta go home.”

Gil understood. “Why don't I drive you …?”

“… and take some of this bracciole,” said Angela, moving toward the kitchen to prepare a dish, “so you don't have to cook.”

“Yeah definitely take some,” said Gil. “Angela's
bra-zhol
is delicious. It'll restore your strength. The vet left some painkillers for Maggie and I've got some Tylenol with codeine left over from my accident with the tractor last winter.”

Bruno thanked him for all he'd done. As Gil drove him home, Bruno tried to rally himself with the thought that, at least, things couldn't get any worse. But they did. As the truck's headlights played across the porch, they illuminated a package that'd been left on the top step. It was long and fairly narrow, tied with a ribbon as though a florist had delivered a gift of a dozen roses. “Holy cow, Joe, what's that? I didn't see a delivery truck or nothin'.”

Bruno opened it, his hands trembling and a sick feeling spreading upward from his stomach. The ribbon came free. Inside, the box was lined with white satin and covered with tissue paper. When Bruno removed it he found Maggie's severed tail resting on a pillow. Next to it was a note. It read simply, “Your niece is next.”

Chapter 40

The cop from Tabernacle was disgusted. Justifiably so. “You don't go barging into a crime scene and straighten things up. You oughta know better'n that.”

“I thought it was my brother-in-law … ex-brother-in-law …” Bruno tried to explain.

“I doan' care if it was your mother!” shouted the cop.

“… I just wanted to straighten up. It's my house, after all …” Bruno continued. “What would you have done if it happened at your place? Just left a pile of steaming crap on your favorite chair?”

—“That was evidence,” the cop retorted. The Tabernacle police force so rarely had an authentic crime scene worth protecting, it was frustrating to lose one; at the same time, the officer was thoroughly pleased to have this opportunity to get in somebody's face about lousing things up. “You say you work with the police. You should have known better.” And he turned his back on Bruno so he could mutter insults under his breath.

Bruno sat there and stewed until he heard the sound of Randy's buffed-up monster of a muscle car pulling into his driveway. This was Randy's pride and joy, and he used it from time to time when official business required an unmarked car. He figured people would never expect a classic car, decked out in flat primer gray, belonged to the police. Randy's car was a 1969 Charger Daytona, built specifically for NASCAR competition. Though more than 35 years old, even the street model was more aerodynamic than many racing cars built decades later. Randy had it souped up with the fabled 426 Hemi, which produced at least 425 horsepower. It was an awesome machine for racing in the streets; using it for police business allowed Randy to open it up, from time to time, without having to worry about getting arrested for reckless driving.

Biff and Randy entered the trailer, hats in hand. The absence of banter showed they had heard the news and thought Bruno might be in a state of shock. Bruno immediately apologized for disturbing the crime scene. “I thought for sure it was McRae taking out his frustrations. Seeking revenge.”

“He has a pretty good alibi for last night,” said Randy. “He was with Mayor Dove, trying to get both you and the Chief locked up because of what he did at his own house …”

Randy caught the eye of the Tabernacle cop, who slunk off sullenly, handing him a business card on the way out.

Bruno didn't even notice. He sighed deeply. “I knew it wasn't him when I saw the note. Even McRae wouldn't threaten his own daughter.”

“You never know,” Biff said. “He bashed in his own front door. Maybe the note was a ruse to throw us off the track.”

“He has an alibi,” Randy said. “There's still plenty of evidence to collect here. We should still be able to get prints off of the note card and maybe the box. Plenty of DNA left on the recliner. And we can look outside for footprints, tire tracks and the weapon …”

He nodded to Biff, who had carefully picked up the flower box and was spiriting it out to the car without saying anything to Bruno.

“You try to get some sleep,” Randy counseled.

Bruno nodded passively. The bed was trashed. Luckily he had a spare inflatable mattress. And drugs for pain and sleep. He and Maggie both took a dose. They curled up together on the mattress on the floor and slept through the night in a deep, dreamless state that was more like suspended animation than sleep.

Somehow, they woke up refreshed. Maybe it was the sunshine. The crisp morning chill, with a slight hint of mid-morning warmth. The signs of springtime all around.

Maggie was wagging her stump. Cautiously at first. Then with more of her normal gusto. Bruno checked the dressing. The vet had done a good job, but it was lucky Gil had known how to staunch the bleeding in the first place. Bruno resolved to find a way to repay him, or at least thank him properly, someday.

Now, with his mind starting to clear, Bruno had to wonder: Why were they threatening Mimi? Who knew about his relationship to her and her importance to the case? Was there a mole—or a rat?—on the Gardenfield police force?

With these questions percolating, Bruno sorted through all of the mail and other junk that had accumulated during the days he had been a guest of the Borough of Gardenfield. Bills. Junk. Newspaper supplements. And the newspaper itself. Nothing less appealing than a two-day-old
Pest
, Bruno reflected. Nevertheless, he flipped through quickly, scanning the local news. And there it was: the answer staring him right in the face.

Peaches had gotten word of the fight at McRae's. She'd called it “The Showdown at Casa McRae,” adding a subtitle: “Psychic rumbles with City Attorney.” So there it was in black and white, the information that McRae had been fighting to conceal about his family's involvement in the Quaker Killer/Ginnie Doe investigation. For such a smart guy, McRae seemed to have a knack for undermining his own interests.

But the real villain here was Peaches. She had tipped off the identity of a young girl and put her in a clear state of peril. Somebody needed to do something about her. She'd been giving him
tsuris—
pain and trouble—every step of the way. She'd accused him of colluding with Gussie's killer. She'd spoiled the secret of his dual identities and gotten him kicked off his best consulting gig. Now she'd almost gotten Maggie killed, as well as exposing innocent little Mimi to unwarranted risks.

It was time to act. Peaches had to be neutralized before she could do further damage. But how? Nothing sprang to mind right away, but he was sure he'd think of something in the next day or two. So he called Peaches and set up a lunch date for early the following week.

Chapter 41

“This is personal now. You're really gonna let them have it, aren'tcha?” said Biff. He was trying to pump up Bruno, who had come to Gardenfield early the next day to read Ginnie Doe's clothing. “I mean, they were probably trying to kill you. Maybe they'd've done it, too, if we hadn't been keeping you here, safe and sound, in our jail. And, by the way, sorry about your dog.”

Bruno wouldn't have felt any worse if Biff had punched him in the stomach. He hadn't considered the possibility that he may have been the intended target until now. “I'm no hero,” he told Biff, quite truthfully. “Whatever I find out, you guys are going to have to do the heavy lifting. If I start taking things personally, it just makes it tougher to concentrate. I have to stay focused.”

Nice speech
, Bruno congratulated himself as he headed for the Chief's office. Truth of the matter was he was still back on his heels from the attack on Maggie. And even more troubled by the threat against Mimi. He'd already discussed this with the Chief on the phone. Obviously, there was no way to warn McRae to be vigilant without sending him into a homicidal rage. Bruno suggested putting McRae on medical leave and sending the whole family down to Puerto Rico to recuperate. The Chief agreed it was a good idea, but doubted anybody had the budget for it. “Best I can do is assign Biff to keep an eye on them,” said the Chief.

The prospect did little to ease Bruno's mind about Mimi's safety. Once Maggie got better, maybe he'd be able to keep an eye on her himself.

The Chief was shuffling through a stack of reports when Bruno entered. “We got plenty of prints off the note card, but they don't match up with anything in the FBI database,” the Chief announced. “And we didn't have any luck with the tire tracks. The soil out there is so sandy and there was so much traffic that night between Mr. Terranova's truck, the Tabernacle cop and your pathetic excuse for a car …”

“The Tabernacle cop destroyed evidence?” Bruno asked, brightening up.

“Yeah. The only really good cast we got turned out to be Randy's Daytona. We gave it to him as a souvenir.”

The Chief held another report that he was not going to discuss with Bruno. The medical examiner had examined Maggie's tail and determined that the instrument used was certainly not a samurai blade—at least not one that had been sharpened properly. It had taken several strokes to sever the tail. Maggie must have suffered terribly. But the poor quality of the blade may have helped to save her life. Clean cuts bleed more readily; the crushed tissues may have slowed the bleeding enough to enable her to make it as far as the Terranovas' house.

Officer Nancy O'Keefe walked in holding the carefully folded pile of Ginnie Doe's clothing. “Say, Bruno, can you get a reading directly from Maggie?” she asked spontaneously.

This took the Chief by surprise. He hadn't thought of that. He looked questioningly at Bruno. So did Michelle. Bruno couldn't believe it. All these people staring at him. “Are you kidding? Do you think I'm some kind of freak?”

The Chief sensed he might be getting ready to go off on one of his tirades. He dismissed Michelle and tried to get the psychic to calm down. “OK. Never mind. She didn't know. Let's do something constructive.” He sat Bruno in his chair and put the clothes in front of him on his desk. “Do you need anything else?”

Bruno didn't reply. He was already working his way into the stack of clothes. He unfolded everything and laid it out, like someone planning the day's wardrobe, on the Chief's desk. None of it matched particularly well. There was a rust-colored cardigan, a cobalt blue long-sleeved T-shirt and green pants. Next to that lay a red wool overcoat with a hood lined with fake fur. A pair of red rubber rain boots, but no socks … and there weren't any underclothes, either.

“Here's a clue,” noted Nancy. “Either she was color-blind. Or her mother was.”

Bruno ignored her. He placed his hands on each article of clothing in turn. His eyes turned inward. His lips trembled. He was obviously deep in concentration. The room was silent. Nobody dared breathe.

At length Bruno interrupted his trance. He asked the Chief to take notes. “I'm finding all of this very confusing. Just write down whatever I say. It may not make sense. But don't interrupt me. We'll try to sort it out later.”

The Chief grabbed a notepad and Bruno re-entered his state of deep contemplation. He started with the cardigan. “This is strange,” he whispered. “I see an argument. With a woman. A gray-haired woman. I'm not sure who she is. But this is not about the murder. They are arguing about … the sweater.”

He moved on to the pants. They were green cotton corduroy. “She's climbing, climbing. Working her way higher and higher. Now she's frightened. She's scared. She's coming down. Uh-oh, one of the pockets is caught on a branch. It's tearing. She's frightened. She's scared.”

Bruno put down the pants and moved to pick up the overcoat. At the same time Nancy reached for the pants; clearly, she wanted to check on the torn pocket. The Chief grabbed her wrist and gently forced it away. Nancy scowled, but obediently folded her hands and placed them on the table in front of her.