The Angel of Knowlton Park (43 page)

"Fuck that. This case is crazy. Where are you?"

"Sitting outside Don Longley's office, waiting for Terry."

"Don Longley? You aren't going to feel good in the morning."

"He's a mean SOB. That's what Terry needs."

Perry sighed. "I guess. So how you doing? You okay?"

"Getting by."

"I'll bet you are. I've got to stop at 109, fill Vince in, then me and Terry thought we'd stop over with pizza. You wanna get your ass off the public streets, I'll wait for Terry. Come by your place in a few hours?"

"Fine with me, if you're allowed to associate with one as allegedly dissolute as I."

"Associating with the allegedly dissolute is my life's work."

"Can you pick something up for me?" He told Stan about the McBride printout. "And find me a picture of Ricky Martin."

"Roger that." Stan disconnected without waiting for a response.

Pizza. Not the best thing for an invalid recovering from toxic chemical poisoning. But it sounded wonderful. And he wasn't acting much like an invalid. He opened the envelope Dwyer had given him and spilled out five black and white photographs of bare-skinned young men, each cut off just at the first dense tuft of pubic hair. Pretty suggestive pictures to show to a thirteen-year-old girl, but Dwyer's gut instinct, like his, had been that the boy Nina was talking to was after Neddy, so choosing boys from Osborne's photo collection made sense. Boys who were the prey when they were prepubescent sometimes became the predators when they grew older. He stared at the pictures, willing them to tell him something. When they stayed silent, he shoved them back into the envelope and started the engine.

He parked across from Mary Turner's apartment and rang the doorbell. A voice called, "Wait a minute," then feet thumped on the stairs, and Nina opened the door. When she recognized him, she looked like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, a mixture of fear, guilt, and embarrassment. She tried for cool, but her voice came out nervous and squeaky, a sound she knew betrayed her but she couldn't swallow in time.

"Detective Burgess?" Her eyes weren't on his face; they were on the envelope. "Aunt Mary isn't home. I'm not supposed to let anyone in when she's not here."

"That's a good rule, Nina," he agreed, "but you know who I am."

"It's just..."

"I'm sure your Aunt Mary wouldn't mind. Is Neddy home?"

"He's resting," she said quickly. "He didn't sleep well last night. The heat, you know."

"Brutal," he agreed. He stepped through the door, closing it behind him. "Got anything cold to drink up there?"

Her caretaking side clicked in before she could stop it. "I made some ice tea."

"That would be great." He waved toward the stairs. "Lead on." He followed her up, observing the skinny legs, the still narrow hips, the dirty soles of her bare feet, the glow of her hair. It was a lovely color, as rare and delicate as pink gold. They found Ned and a smaller boy sitting on the sofa, watching a movie. Nina looked at him guiltily and headed for the kitchen. Burgess sat down on the couch beside the boys. On the screen, Robin Hood, a suave and romantic fox, was wooing Maid Marian, a foxy lady. An excellent choice. He'd watched this with his nieces. Too many people fed their kids on a steady diet of graphic violence.

"Remember the boy that Nina was talking to, down at the promenade, when you saw someone putting that bag in the trash can?" he said. Neddy nodded without taking his eyes off the screen. "Can I show you some pictures, see if you recognize him?" Another nod.

Burgess opened the envelope and dumped the pictures onto the coffee table. This time, six fell out. He arranged them in two rows. "Okay. You can look now."

The little boy's eyes swept the pictures. A hand came up and stabbed one of the pictures. "That one," he said in a high, triumphant voice. "That's him."

There was the sharp intake of breath as Nina, coming toward them with a tall glass tinkling with ice cubes, saw her brother's hand and heard his words. "No!" she said, shaking her head vehemently. "No. He's wrong. I've never seen that boy in my life."

Burgess was sorry. He didn't mind tricking adults. They were the architects of their own lies. He didn't like tricking children. He took the glass from Nina, set it on the table, and swept the pictures into the envelope. "You said you didn't know his name?" She shook her head. "But he looked kind of like the boy Neddy picked out?"

She shrugged. The forced casualness of those bony shoulders touched him. Made him wish they all lived in a better world, where children didn't have to lie, and neither did cops. He lifted the glass and took a sip. It was good tea, strong enough to hold its own against the ice, and she hadn't added sugar. He hated sweet ice tea. He nodded approvingly. "Good tea."

She was looking down at her feet. "Thanks," she mumbled. She looked up quickly and then down again. There were two bright spots of red in her cheeks.

"Nina, I'm sorry," he said. "I know it seems like I'm invading your privacy. But after what happened to Timmy Watts, we have to be extra careful. It's possible that this boy isn't as nice as he seems. If that were the case... if I didn't pay attention and then something happened to you or your brother, I'd never forgive myself."

"He's nice." She turned away, tears in her voice. "He's nice, and he likes me. You don't want me to have any fun. Like everybody else. You just want me to be a good girl and good babysitter and a good big sister. Just always, boringly good." She ran from the room.

Neddy patted Burgess on the leg. "It's okay," he said softly. "Nina cries a lot. It's because she's learning to be a woman. That's what our mom did, too." His curls stuck up like a rooster's comb. He nodded sagely. "Don't listen to what she says. I seen that boy, too, and it's the one in your picture. I don't think he's nice like Nina does. She sneaked out to meet him yesterday, and he gave her a mark on her arm."

"Do you know where she met him?"

Neddy nodded. "Yeah. The cemetery."

"Can you remember something very important?" Burgess asked. The little boy nodded. "Can you ask your Aunt Mary to call me when she gets home?" He wrote his cell phone number on a card and put it on the coffee table.

Neddy looked at the card. "I can't read it. I'm not good at reading yet."

"That's okay. You'll learn. Just give that to Aunt Mary and tell her to call me."

"Okay. Are you leaving now? We're not going to get ice cream?"

"Not today. But soon, all right?"

"All right." Neddy wasn't too disappointed; he was caught up his video. "Drink your tea or Nina will be mad."

Too late. Nina was already mad. Burgess finished his tea and left. Back down in the street, he lingered a moment, staring up at the second story windows, wishing Mary Turner were home. He didn't like leaving without speaking to her. He was uncomfortable leaving Neddy and Nina alone in a house without adults. People liked to think crime happened only at night, under cover of darkness, and only to others. But it could happen any time. Anywhere. To anyone. He just had to count on Nina's natural caution and inclination to follow the rules.

He didn't go straight home. It would be a while before Kyle and Perry showed up and sitting around would only make him more restless. He was already so keyed up his skin didn't fit. And frustrated. He wanted to go downtown and check that printout. He wanted to fax the photo Neddy'd ID'd to the Raymond police and have them show it to Henry Devereau. Wanted every cop on patrol in the East End to be on the lookout for Iris Martin. He couldn't do any of those things without Kyle and Perry and knew this frustrating information void was what Cote wanted.

He went by Matt McBride's house. There was no tan car in sight, and no one answered the doorbell when he rang. He thumbed through his notes, found Regina McBride's employer, got a number, and called there. She was on vacation, not expected back until Monday. He rang doorbells on either side and across the street, and got no response. It couldn't be his breath—they wouldn't know about that until they answered their doors. Maybe it was the hard, ugly set of his face.

He drove back toward downtown and took a slow turn around the cemetery, scanning it for signs of life. Saw nothing, but that didn't mean much. There were plenty of places to hide. Even covering the whole thing on foot, he could easily miss someone who didn't want to be found. Patrol officers had a rule—take a second look at anything that catches your attention. He saw nothing that made him take a second look. The cemetery and the streets around it were dead. The most animated thing he saw was a vagrant Styrofoam cup, rolling down the sidewalk, propelled by the sluggish breeze.

Mothers were keeping their children inside, off the stoops and sidewalks, out of the parks. Beneath the lead-colored sky, the normally vibrant city was holding its breath, waiting for something. It was waiting for him and Kyle and Perry to do their job. The ocean in the distance, so lively and sparkling on a good day, had a flat, dirty gray look, like water in a mop bucket. The hot air smelled like the breath of decay.

Timmy Watts, dead five days, lay unburied in the morgue in Augusta, while his killer stalked around the city, laughing up his sleeve at the incompetence of the cops, perhaps thinking about killing again.

Chapter 33

He checked his messages again, hoping for news. Iris Martin was somewhere in the city with a man she didn't realize was dangerous. Nina and Ned were home alone, and he hadn't heard from their Aunt Mary.

There was another hang-up call, then a message from Missy Steinberg, her anxiety exploding out of the phone. "Kelly Stanley, who is Iris Martin's best friend, just came to see me, saying she was afraid Iris was doing something stupid and might be in trouble. She wanted me to help her get in touch with you. After I offered to call you, she changed her mind and decided it wasn't such a big deal. But she's a reliable girl and she's concerned. I think if we meet with her together, she'll talk to you. I'm here until 5:30. Please call me."

She answered immediately. "Oh. Detective. Thank you for calling me back. Can you come now? Kelly's jumping out of her skin."

"I'm on my way." He took off, no longer tolerant of the sluggish traffic, his restless foot dancing between accelerator and brake as he worked his way out of the city, onto the highway, and off again. A pain in his stomach like the faint prick of a knife.

Kelly Stanley looked like a girl he'd had a crush on in junior high. The same shiny dark curls, cute nose, bright dark eyes. What wasn't the same was the fearfulness, the misery in the hunched shoulders, the anxious swiveling of the girl's head as she shifted her gaze from his face to Missy Steinberg's and then back to his, her small body taut. The girl he'd lusted after had been happy-go-lucky. Kelly made an emphatic gesture with her hands. Missy signed something back and put a hand over hers. "She's not sure she wants to do this."

Burgess looked directly at the girl. "I know you're scared. You think you may be betraying a confidence. But I'm worried about your friend, Iris, too. I think she's in trouble. Like you, I want to help her." Times like this, he wished he weren't so big, didn't have a scarred and scary face. He tried to put a reassurance into his voice that Kelly Stanley couldn't hear, hoping she could read it from his face and body, hoping Missy Steinberg would do a good job interpreting him.

He couldn't help remembering his interview with Iris Martin, older, more poised, yet infinitely more fragile than Kelly. Iris had just seen that awful picture, received a blow he'd hoped to cushion. Iris had been in terrible pain; Kelly was only suffering adolescent angst. He couldn't help seeing Timmy Watts's face, so like his sister's. Timmy's dead face. He didn't want to find Iris the same way.

The girl's hands hesitated, then signed. "Iris made me swear not to tell."

"Sometimes, when the matter is serious enough, or when a person is in trouble, we have to break promises," he said. He waited until Missy had finished. "If you didn't tell and something bad happened to your friend, you'd feel terrible, wouldn't you?"

Kelly's head bobbed, but her hands flew in a disclaimer. "But Iris will be mad at me."

He understood the process. He spoke. Missy translated. Kelly spoke. Missy translated. It was time consuming. It took patience. He was a cop, well schooled in patience, but a sense of impending danger filled his chest, crawled along his nerves like worms.