"Everywhere That Mary Went" - читать интересную книгу автора (Scottoline Lisa)

19

That evening, I’m sitting between my parents and Ned at Brent’s memorial service. It’s at the Philadelphia Art Alliance, an elegant old building on Rittenhouse Square, not six blocks from where Brent was killed. Some of Brent’s friends put flowers on the sidewalk in front of the bank today, and his death was all over the news. They called it a “hit-and-run accident,” which to me is a contradiction in terms. But it doesn’t matter what the TV says. The only thing that matters is what the police say. I wonder if Lombardo will be here tonight.

I look around at the crowd, which appears to be growing larger by the minute, but I don’t see Lombardo. The service is full of friends from the nonintersecting circles of Brent’s life. There are his gay friends, the biggest group by far, as well as his fellow voice students, and a contingent from Stalling. Judy’s here with Kurt, and so are most of the secretaries from the office, sitting together in a teary clump that includes Delia, Annie Zirilli, and Stella. Even Stalling’s personnel manager is here, the one who gave Brent such a hard time about the tray. She eyes the gay men with contempt. Her expression says, I knew it.

Watching her, I remember what Brent said just last week. When I die, I want my ashes ground into the carpet at Stalling amp; Webb. He wasn’t kidding.

I look down at the program with his picture on the front. A smiling face in a black shirt, surrounded by a skinny black border. This should not be. He’s not supposed to die; he’s too young to be inside a skinny black border. He would have said, What’s wrong with this picture?

My mother touches my hand, and I give hers a perfunctory squeeze. I don’t want to feel anything tonight. I want to be numb.

The eulogies begin, and Brent’s voice coach is the first to speak. She’s a bosomy brunette, middle-aged and wearing lipstick that’s theatrically red. Brent once described her to me as robust; actually he said robusty. But she doesn’t look robust tonight: She looks broken. Her speaking voice, which has a remarkable timbre, sounds so grief-stricken I can’t bear to listen. I look around the room and spot Lombardo, sitting alone on one of the folding chairs against the wall. His hair is slicked down with water and he wears an ill-fitting black raincoat. He looks like an overgrown altar boy, not somebody smart enough to catch Brent’s killer. And maybe Mike’s.

“He had a fine voice, mind you,” the singing coach is saying. Her head is held high, her posture almost a dancer’s. “But Brent was never ambitious in music. He never entered any of the competitions I told him to, even when I got him the forms. He refused to do it. ‘I won’t go onStar Search, Margaret,’ he said to me. ‘Dance Fever,maybe. ButStar Search, never.’”

There’s laughter at this, and quiet sniffles.

“Brent studied because he loved music with all his heart. He sang because he loved to sing. It was an end in itself for him. I used to try to instill that in all my students, but I stopped after I met Brent. That was the lesson Brent taught me. You can’t teach joy.” She faces the audience in a dignified way, then steps away from the podium.

There is utter silence.

I try not to think about what she said.

Two young men appear on the dais. One is almost emaciated, obviously very sick, and is being physically supported by the other. Both wear red ribbons, which on them means more than it does on all the Shannen Dohertys put together.

I know I cannot hear this.

I screen it all out.

I go somewhere else in my mind.

I think about what Judy said before the service started. How she apologized for being sharp with me on the phone. How she really doesn’t trust Ned. Nothing I said could change her mind. It was the closest we’ve come to a fight, and at the end she backed off. Her nerves were frayed, she said. I look over at her, weeping quietly, with Kurt at her side. She loved Brent too. That’s why she’s acting so crazy.

The eulogies are almost over, and someone’s introducing the final speaker.

Mr. Samuel Berkowitz.

I look up in amazement.

Sure enough, itis Berkowitz, lumbering up to the flower-filled podium in a dark suit. He adjusts a microphone barely camouflaged by Easter lilies and clears his throat. “I didn’t know Brent Polk very well, but as I listen to you all here today, I wish I had. What I do know about Brent is that he was an intelligent young man, a fine secretary, and a good and loyal friend to many people. Also, that he broke every rule my stuffy old law firm holds dear.”

There’s laughter at this, and renewed sniffles. I smile myself, and feel so proud of Berkowitz for being here. He has more class than any of them put together. I squeeze Ned’s hand, but he’s not smiling. Neither are my parents; they look somber and upset. They must be thinking of Mike. They hardly knew Brent.

“In addition, I would like to announce a donation in Brent’s name, which has been authorized by my partners at Stalling and Webb. Tomorrow we give ten thousand dollars on Brent Polk’s behalf to Pennsylvanians Against Drunk Driving. It is our sincere hope that we can help prevent what happened to Brent from happening to other fine young men and women. Thank you.” Applause breaks out as Berkowitz steps down and disappears into the crowd.

“What are they talking about?” I whisper to Ned, over the din.

“I don’t know.” He looks grim.

“Drunk driver, my ass!”

My mother nudges me. Don’t talk in church, says the nudge.

I wheel around and look at Lombardo. His dull eyes warn me to relax. Drunk driver? I mouth to him.

He puts a finger to his lips.

Christ! I can barely contain myself. Brent is murdered in cold blood, and they’re going to say it was drunk driving? It’s all I can do after the service not to pound directly over to him, but I have to take care of my parents first. Ned and I help them down the steps of the Art Alliance and wait with them for a cab. My mother’s eyes are smudged and teary behind her glasses; my father looks crestfallen.

“I don’t like that man from your office, Maria,” she says. “The big one. You know which one I mean? The big one?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“No. I don’t like that man at all.” She shakes her head, and her heavy glasses slip down.

“Why not, Mrs. DiNunzio?” Ned asks, with a faint smile.

She holds up a finger, mysteriously. “Thin lips. You can’t even find the man’s lips. Like pencil lines, they are.”

“Ma. His lips aren’t thin. It’s just your eyes.”

“Don’t be fresh, I saw them. He’s got the thin lips. Mark my words.”

Ned seems amused by this. “He’s the boss, Mrs. DiNunzio.”

She drills her index finger into the hand-stitched lapel of Ned’s coat. “I don’t care who he is. I don’t like him.”

“Don’t give the kids no trouble, Vita,” says my father. “They got enough trouble right now. A world of trouble.”

“I’m not giving them trouble, Matty. I’m taking care of Maria!” People leaving the service look over, startled at the loudness of her voice. “That’s what mothers are for! That’s a mother’s job, Matty.”

A yellow cab stops at the light, and I wave it down.

“Look at Maria, Veet,” says my father, momentarily cheered. “Just like a big city girl.” My mother looks at me proudly. I’ve hailed a cab,mirabile dictu.

“Please, guys. Don’t embarrass me in front of Ned, okay? I’m trying to make a good impression.”

My father smiles, and my mother gives me a shove. “You. Always with the jokes.”

The cab pulls up and Ned opens the door for them. I lean down and give them both a quick kiss. Ned helps my father into the dark cab, but my mother is tougher to shake. She grabs me by my coat and whispers, “Call me. I want to talk to you about this young man.”

“Okay, I’ll call you.”

She whispers loudly into my ear. “It’s good to see you with someone. You’re too young to put yourself up on the shelf.”

“Ma…”

She looks at Ned sternly. “You take good care of my daughter. Or you answer to me!”

“I will,” he says, surprised.

“Time to go, Ma.” I fight the urge to push her into the cab.

“We love you, doll,” says my father, as my mother gets in.

“Love you too,” I say, closing the heavy door with relief. I feel like I’ve tucked them into bed. I wave, and the cab pulls away.

Ned gives me a hug. “They’re wonderful,” he says happily.

“The Flying DiNunzios. They’re something, aren’t they?”

“You’re lucky, you know.”

“I know, but let’s not get into it now. Help me find Lombardo.” I squint at the crowd coming out of the building’s narrow front doors.

“I don’t know what he looks like.”

“Fred Flintstone.”

Judy comes out with Kurt, who has managed to find a suit jacket for the occasion. She waves good-bye over the sea of people. I wave back.

Ned points over at the far edge of the crowd. “Is that him?”

“Yes!” Sure enough, it’s Lombardo. I flag him down and he finally spots me. Even from a distance, his expression tells me he wishes he hadn’t.

“Don’t get upset, Mary.”

“I’m already upset. I feel like I want to break his face.” I plunge into the crowd of people, with Ned beside me. Lombardo threads his way toward us, and we meet in the middle.

“Drunk driver, Lombardo?” I say to him. “You have to be kidding!”

Lombardo looks around nervously. “Mary, settle down.”

“That’s almost as absurd as gay-basher!”

Lombardo takes me aside, and Ned follows. “Look, Mary, it’s just a preliminary finding, we haven’t stopped the investigation. You said the car was driving crazy when it left the sidewalk. It crashed into the sawhorse. We know it was driving crazy to go up on the-”

“Bullshit!”

“Mary, don’t play cop. I’m the cop.”

One of the gay men in the crowd glances back. On his short leather jacket is a pink button that saysACT UP; they tangled with the police at a demonstration last year. There’s no love lost between the two groups. Lombardo says, “Let’s take it out of here.”

We regroup at the entrance to the Barclay Hotel, next to the Art Alliance. The canvas awning snaps in the swirling winds around Rittenhouse Square. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your friend?” Lombardo asks.

“I’m Ned Waters, Detective Lombardo.” Ned extends a hand, but Lombardo hesitates before he shakes it. He’s remembering that Ned’s is one of the names I gave him in the hospital as a suspect.

“He’s okay, Tom,” I say.

Lombardo looks from me to Ned. Whatever he’s thinking, he decides not to say it. “Mary, I followed up on what you told me about your husband. I looked up the AID file on his accident. I even talked to one of the men who investigated. Your husband was hit on the West River Drive, going out of town, at that first curve.”

“I know that.”

“It’s almost a blind curve, Mary. I went out and checked it myself. I found out your husband’s not the only bicycle rider to be killed at the same spot. There was an architect, three months ago.”

“I read about him. He was only twenty-six.”

“Your husband and the architect were killed at about the same time-Sunday morning, bright and early. Probably by someone who’d been out partyin’ the night before and was drivin’ home to the subs.”

“But-”

“Wait a minute.” Lombardo pulls out his notebook and flips through it in the light coming from the hotel. “Wait. Here we go. A doctor was killed there too. An internist, who lived in Mount Airy. The guy was fifty-eight. Two years ago, the same curve. Now Brent was hit at a whole ’nother time and place. So I-”

“Isn’t that a distinction without a difference?” Ned asks.

Lombardo looks up from his little book. “What?”

“Does it really make a difference that one is in the morning and one is at night? Just because they happen at different times and places doesn’t mean it can’t be the same person.”

“Listen, Mr. Waters, I’ve been a detective a little longer than you.”

“I understand that.”

“My gut tells me it ain’t the same guy.” He turns to me. “I ran down your lead, Mary. I treated it serious, because I admit it looks strange, the two incidents bein’ so close together like that. But I gotta go on what makes the most sense, and it’s not homicide. I see two accidents, both involving booze. It’s too bad that one of them was your husband and the other was your secretary, but it’s just one of those coincidences. At least that’s what I think so far.”

“But, Tom, the license plate.”

“Half the cars in this city got no plate. The crackheads take ’em off to sell; the thieves take ’em off for the registration stickers. Look, the way I see it, the guy who killed Brent jumped the curb, trying to avoid the construction. AID told me they had two fender-benders on Walnut Street the same day, all on account of the construction.”

“Then why did he drive away?”

“Happens a lot, Mary. More than you think. Somebody’s drinkin’ a little too much, especially on a Friday night, and before they know it-boom-they’re up on the sidewalk. They’re juiced, they panic. We usually catch up with ’em in a couple of months. Some of ’em even come clean from a guilty conscience. That’s what happened with the architect.” He pauses and returns the notebook to his back pocket. “AID don’t have that many open fatals, you know. The doctor, a kid in a crosswalk in the Northeast, and your husband. He’s one of three.”

I feel numb again. Mike’s a fatal. An open fatal.

“What about the calls?” Ned asks testily.

“You get any more over the weekend, Mary?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been home yet.”

“And what about the notes?” Ned says.

Lombardo glares at him. “I’ll come by and get ’em from Mary. I’ll look ’em over and send ’em to the Document Unit, but I don’t think they have anything to do with Brent. They don’t sound like the kinda notes you see with a killer.”

“What do you mean?”

“The notes don’t say ‘I’m gonna kill you,’ ‘I’m gonna mess you up,’ ‘You ain’t gonna live another day,’ like that. That’s the kind of notes you get from a freak who kills. A freak withcipollines. You know what that means, buddy?”

“Educate me, Detective Lombardo.”

I know what it means, little onions. But the connotation is-

“Balls!”

“Tom, Ned, please.”

Lombardo hunches to replace his raincoat. “I want to see the notes, Mary, but I gotta tell you, I think they’re from some weak sister who’s got a thing for you. Could be someone you used to know, could be someone you know now. It could even be somebody you don’t know at all, like a guy in the mailroom at work. Some jerk with a crush. That’s the pattern, especially with ladies like yourself, career girls. Their name’s in the paper, they’re on this committee, that committee. You on committees like that?”

“Some.”

“This kind of guy isn’t a fighter, he’s a lover. He’s at home, swoonin’ over your picture, tryin’ to get up the nerve to talk to you. So don’t worry. Call me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time.” Lombardo’s attention is suddenly diverted by Delia, who appears out of the darkness, followed by Berkowitz.

“Thomas!” Berkowitz says heartily, grabbing Lombardo’s hand and pumping it. “Thanks for all you’ve done.”

“It’s nothin’, Sam.” Lombardo can’t tear his eyes off of Delia.

“Mary,” Berkowitz says, “I’m sorry about your secretary.”

“Thank you.”

“Why don’t you take a couple days off? I’ll cover your desk.”

Delia purses her glossy pink lips.

I’m surprised by the offer. Covering someone’s desk is strictly associate work. “Uh, thanks. I’ll see.”

“You let me know if you need me, Mary. It’s your call.”

“Sure.”

Berkowitz turns to go. “Thomas, thanks again.”

“No problem.”

Berkowitz strides off, his heavy trenchcoat flapping, and pauses to light a cigarette in a cupped hand. The flame from the lighter illuminates the contours of his face and Delia’s.

Lombardo jerks his head in Berkowitz’s direction. “He’s an all right guy, for a big shot. He thinks the notes are nothin’ too, Mary.”

“You told him?”

“Sure, we talked a coupla times over the weekend. He was very interested in the investigation.”

“Let’s go, Mary.” Ned squeezes my arm.

I feel tired, suddenly. I’m getting nowhere with Lombardo, I can see that. I know I’m right; I can just feel it. It all makes sense, but there’s nothing I can do about it tonight. Wearily, I give in. “Okay.”

“Call me, Mary,” Lombardo says.

I nod, and Ned steers me home. Neither of us says anything on the short walk to my apartment. I don’t know what’s on his mind, but my thoughts are muffled by a thick blanket of fatigue and sorrow. As we get closer to my building, I feel a distance between Ned and me. I want to be alone with my memories of Brent, and of Mike. I’m in mourning, and it’s déjà vu all over again. We reach the door to my building, near where Ned kissed me for the first time. A lot has happened since that first kiss. Brent was alive then.

“You want to pick up some clothes, Mary?”

“Actually, I think I should get some sleep tonight.”

“You mean you want to stay here? By yourself?” He frowns, causing his freckles to converge at the bridge of his nose.

I nod.

“I’m worried, honey. I don’t know what’s going on, and I have no confidence in that detective. I don’t think you’re safe.”

“Maybe I can call Judy or something.”

“You don’t want me to stay?” He looks confused.

“Ned, it’s not that it wasn’t wonderful…”

His green eyes harden. “Oh, is that it? Was it wonderful for you? Because it was wonderful for me too.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I got to you this weekend, Mary. I know I did. So don’t pull away from me, not now.”

“I’m not, but we’re only a part of what happened this weekend. I keep thinking about Brent.”

“Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“I just want to be alone for a while.”

“But call me, will you? Call me if you need anything, no matter how late it is. Call me.”

“Okay.”

“Lock the door.”

“Okay.”

“Eat your vegetables. And wear your muffler.”

“Thanks.” I give him a quick kiss and let myself into the front door of my building. I wave to him through the leaded glass in the outer door, and I think he waves back, but I can’t see him clearly. The bumpy glass transforms his silhouette into a wavy shadow.

I gather the mail and check each letter as I stack it up. I never thought I would be relieved to see a pile of junk mail addressed to Dee Nunzone, but I am. I climb up to my floor, regretting that I didn’t ask Ned to check the apartment. I reach the door, which still says LASSITER-DINUNZIO, and peek vainly through the peephole. I take a deep breath and unlock the door slowly. I open it a bit, then wider. The apartment is dark. I snap on the light with a finger and stick my head in the door. It looks just the way I left it. And it’s silent. No ringing telephone. No other sound. I walk slowly inside, then shut and lock the door behind me.

“Alice?” The window blinds rustle slightly. She’s on the windowsill. I walk nervously into the kitchen, refill Alice’s bowl, and take Mike’s samurai knife from the rack. I head into the bedroom, brandishing the knife. I figure I must look scary; I’m scaring myself. The bedroom looks absolutely normal. I take a deep breath and look under the bed. Dustballs as big as sagebrush, mounds of pink Kleenex, and a tortoiseshell barrette I’d been looking for. I grab the barrette and put it on my bed.

I leave the bedroom and walk into the bathroom. The makeup shelf, which I leave in a secret configuration now-moisturizer, foundation, eye pencil, lipstick-is still in its secret configuration. And the smell of the ripe cat box confirms that at least one other thing remains undisturbed.

I relax slightly and return to the living room.

“Alice?”

The window blinds move in reply, but Alice doesn’t leave her post.

“He’s not coming back, Alice,” I say. I’m not sure whether I mean Mike or Brent, but Alice doesn’t ask for a clarification.

I fall into a chair with my killer knife and close my eyes.