Double Homicide Page 8

  “Well, you’re not President McCallum, are you, now?”

  Outside, Dorothy snaked her scarf around her neck. “Very smooth, Micky. As soon as she gets the request, she’ll throw it in the circular file.”

  “Not her. That wouldn’t be following accepted procedure. I wish there was some way to stick it to that bitch.”

  “She’s probably the only one in Health Services who knows where everything is.”

  “Everyone has to die sometime.”

  “What am I gonna do with you?”

  “You’re gonna congratulate me,” McCain said. “I gave myself an idea. As in President McCallum. How ’bout we go find him? Maybe he can streamline things.”

  “What makes you think he’ll talk to us?”

  “Well, we won’t know unless we try.”

  Trying took forty-five minutes of badge flashing and passing from one security point to another. Finally, they were escorted up to a suite of penthouse offices atop the five-story Administration Center. President McCallum didn’t have just a secretary, he had a staff. Dorothy counted at least fifteen cubicles, most of them manned by college kids. Probably work-study.

  McCain was surprised by the size of the president’s office—much smaller than he had expected. Still, it had all the amenities: glossy walnut-paneled walls, a well-stocked wet bar, carved bookshelves, and a gleaming rosewood desk. And McCallum’s own Christmas tree, high and green in a windowed corner. The view beyond was a New England winter picture postcard.

  McCallum was a beefy man with white hair, a complexion more florid than a sea captain’s, a veined potato nose, and watery blue eyes. His sagging face and rumpled suit suggested he hadn’t had much sleep in the last twenty-four hours.

  Join the club, McCain thought. He and Dorothy sat opposite the man, with the fancy desk between them. The room was hot as blazes. Dorothy was sweating because she still had her coat on. She took it off, and McCallum motioned to a hardwood hall tree where a black cashmere overcoat hung.

  “How are you, Detectives?”

  “I’m fine, sir,” McCain answered.

  “Well, I’m not,” McCallum said. “It’s been a horrible day, and I’m afraid I’m a bit off my mark. Make yourselves comfortable. I pride myself on being more in tune with working stiffs than with the nabobs of academia. I grew up in this city. My father was a dockworker and my mother slaved in the mills. I went to Boston Ferris myself.”

  “Local boy made good,” McCain said.

  Sarcasm in his voice, but McCallum missed or chose to ignore it. “I call it giving back to a community that believed in me.”

  “Good for you, sir,” said McCain.

  Dorothy kicked him in the shins.

  McCallum said, “What can you tell me about the status of the investigation? Have you arrested that animal?”

  “What animal?” McCain asked.

  “You know as well as I know. The boy is a thug. He deserves to be behind bars for what he did.”

  “Who are you talking about?” McCain said.

  “We’re not trying to be . . . evasive,” Dorothy said. “We just want to know if we’re all on the same page.”

  “Like maybe you know something that we don’t know?” Micky added.

  McCallum’s eyes turned hard. He folded his hands, set them on his shiny desktop, and leaned forward. “The school is in mourning over a terrible loss. As a matter of fact, the entire city is in crisis. Have you read the morning newspapers?”

  “I’ll go you one better,” McCain said. “I talked to the stringers last night.”

  “Then you understand the mayhem I’ve been dealing with. I’ve been on the phone with Ellen Van Beest all morning, and in between I’ve been fielding calls from the chief of police, the mayor, and the governor. From what I understand, the legislature’s preparing to order a special session investigating athletes and violence. That’s especially irritating because it’s all a crock!”

  “Violence is a crock?” Dorothy asked.

  “Of course not. But the canard linking sports to aggression, the nonsense about nightclubs being battlefields, is simply overblown rubbish! A tragedy occurs, and in typical fashion the media blow it way out of proportion. Then the officials start quaking, worrying that parents will stop sending their kids to Boston. All because of a once-in-a-blue-moon aberration.”

  “Once in a blue moon?” McCain asked.

  “When was the last time you heard of an athlete shot at a club?”

  “Paul Pierce getting knifed don’t count?”

  “That was five years ago,” said McCallum. “Last I heard, the man recovered fully. He’s an all-star, for God’s sake. So let’s not be diverted by yesterday’s news.” His jaw clenched. “My scheduling is very tight. Is there anything specific I can do for you?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .” Dorothy handed McCallum the triplicate paperwork given to her by Violet Smaltz. “We need Julius Van Beest’s medical records and would like you to facilitate that.”

  “What is this?” McCallum asked.

  “Red tape,” McCain said. “From your health center.”

  McCallum scanned the documents and made a face. “Why do you need Julius’s medical records?”

  “Just being thorough, sir,” Dorothy said.

  “Who wants to see them?” McCallum asked.

  “The medical examiner.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Being thorough,” Dorothy repeated.

  McCallum shook his head. “It’s not my call, Detective. If the ME wants to see the records, let him make a formal request. That’s standard procedure.”

  “Yeah, we know that,” McCain said. “But being as this is a homicide investigation and everyone is anxious for it to be settled up quickly, we were just wondering if you could help us out.”

  Dorothy said, “You know how it is, sir. The newspapers are hungry for information, and we’d love to tell them Boston Ferris is cooperating thoroughly in every aspect of the investigation.”

  “We are cooperating thoroughly,” said McCallum. “Put in the proper paperwork and you’ll have the records.”

  Neither detective moved.

  McCallum sighed disgustedly. “All right. All right. I’ll make a phone call.” He patted the paperwork. “Even though this is not appropriate procedure.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” Dorothy said. “We really appreciate it.”

  “It benefits everyone,” McCain added.

  “Yeah, yeah.” McCallum picked up the phone. “You don’t know what a favor I’m doing for you. To add to my current misery, I now have to deal with Violet Smaltz!”

  12

  In tune with working stiffs’!” McCain grumbled under his breath as he started the car. “What an asshole!”

  Dorothy held aloft a manila envelope. It held Julius Van Beest’s most recent X-ray taken for Boston Ferris. “He got us what we wanted.”

  “Y’know, if you’re a snob, be honest and act like one.” He turned the heater up full blast. “Then we’d all know what we were dealing with.”

  “This is Boston. You should be used to it by now,” Dorothy said. “First it was the Brahmins. Now it’s the universities. We serve and protect in the land of pretentious eggheads.”

  McCain’s cell rang. He fished it from his pocket and flipped open the lid. “McCain . . . That’s wonderful, Mrs. Mathers, just great. I’d like to— Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . I understand, Mrs. Mathers, but she’s a material witness— Yes . . . Yes, I see. Can we maybe come down and just talk to you for a few minutes? I promise you, we’ll be discreet— Hello?” He blew out air. “She hung up on me.”

  “Who did?”

  “Rayella Mathers. Her daughter, Spring, is alive and well and at an undisclosed location, quote unquote, calming down her nerves.”

  “Scared.”

  “Who wouldn’t be scared of that thug?”

  “Now, what thug are we talking about?” Dorothy kidded.

  McCain smiled and tho
ught a moment. “I need you to come with me to the Mathers house. You gotta convince the missus to let us know where Spring is.”

  “You want me to talk to her as one black woman to another.”

  “As one strong, brave black mother to another. How about we drop Julius’s X-ray at the morgue and catch up with the doc later. We need to get to Spring before Pappy does.”

  Dorothy said, “He couldn’t be that stup— Never mind. Let’s go.”

  It didn’t take too much prodding from Dorothy to convince Rayella Mathers to give them her daughter’s “secret” whereabouts. Distant cousin’s apartment in Roxbury, another shared-house situation.

  But it took a great deal of prodding from Dorothy to convince Rayella not to warn her daughter that the police were coming. They didn’t want the girl to bolt.

  As soon as they got to the place, the detectives worked on their strategy. They were pretty damn sure that Spring wasn’t going to open the door on her own, and neither one of them had the paperwork to order her to do so. After some discussion, they decided on Dorothy doing her best imitation of Rayella while standing just out of peephole range.

  Spring Mathers opened the door, saw strangers, and shrank back in terror. She almost succeeded in slamming the door in their faces, but McCain was too quick with his shoulder. “Just a few minutes, Spring.” He pushed his way inside and showed her his gold shield. “I swear we’re here to make your life easier.”

  “Then get yo’ funky ass the hell outta here! Get out! Get out!”

  She was loud, but Dorothy was louder. “If we found you, girl, you think it’s gonna be all that hard for Pappy to do the same? Now, you just calm yourself down and thank Jesus that we got here before he did!”

  The words clicked in Spring’s frightened brain. She took two steps backward, then folded her arms across her chest. No wonder Julius had his sights set on her. She was a knockout: creamy mocha skin, round wide eyes, luscious thick red lips, perfect cheekbones. Slim but busty with a perfect high-water booty. Even in Dorothy’s thin days, she’d never had a figure like that.

  “What do you want?” This time Spring’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “We want to put Pappy Delveccio behind bars. Isn’t that what you want as well?”

  “I didn’t see no shots.” Tears streamed down the girl’s smooth cheeks. “That’s the truth, lady. I didn’t see no shots, and I didn’t see no one shoot.” She was crying now. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “’Cause we don’t want the animal who shot Julius to walk,” McCain said.

  “Who you think he’s gonna come after if he don’t get put away?” Dorothy asked her.

  “Not if I don’t say nothin’!” Spring retorted. “And there’s nothin’ to say ’cause I didn’t see nothing. I just heard it. Pop, pop, pop, you know. That’s it. I was too scared to look around and see who was shooting.”

  McCain took out his notebook. “Where were you sitting?”

  “Next to Julius. He was like makin’ his move, talking nothin’ but sugar. I knew what was comin’.” She shrugged. “It was fine with me.”

  “You’re doing good, Spring,” Dorothy said. “Now, where was Julius sitting?”

  Spring regarded her with disdain. “At the table.”

  “Where at the table?”

  “What do you mean?”

  McCain said, “The tables were positioned by the railing, right?”

  Spring nodded.

  Dorothy said, “Was he looking over the railing, or did he have his back to the railing?”

  Spring squinted as she attempted to retrieve the image from her memory bank. “He was sitting . . . looking over the railing . . . looking at the door so he could check out who was coming in. Then he said . . . he said, ‘Uh-oh, Pappy’s back.’ He stood up. That’s when I heard the popping. Everyone started screamin’.”

  She put her hands over her face. “I hit the ground, bundled myself up in a little ball, and started prayin’ to Jesus.” She dropped her hands and shook her head. “When it was over, Julius was lying across the table, blood coming outta him.” She stared at Dorothy. “I never saw Pappy and I never saw him take out no gun.”

  Dorothy tried to slow it down. “Spring, when you got up, you remember seeing Julius across the table. Was he on his stomach or on his back?”

  “I think he was on his stomach. He fell with a big thump. I heard that. I remember thinking that he was gonna break the table and crush me to death.”

  “So he fell pretty hard,” Dorothy said.

  “Yeah,” Spring said. “He fell hard. But I didn’t see no one shoot him.”

  McCain said, “If you didn’t see Pappy shoot, you didn’t see him shoot. All you have to do, Spring, is tell us what you heard Julius say, then tell us what you saw.”

  “I ain’t gonna say anything. I’m scared shitless of that animal.”

  “We can protect you—”

  “That’s bullshit! Police don’t protect no one, specially not a black woman.” Spring looked at Dorothy. “And you being here ain’t gonna change any of that.”

  “We’ll subpoena you, Spring,” McCain said.

  “First you gotta find me. The next time I won’t make it so easy.”

  “We should arrest her,” McCain said.

  “On what grounds?” Dorothy took out her cell phone.

  “Material witness to a murder, and she’s a flight risk. Also, screaming at the cops.”

  “She didn’t witness anything substantive,” Dorothy said. “Once we got Pappy under lock and key, she’ll calm down. Can you start the car and turn on the heat? I’m freezing. God, this must be the coldest December on record.”

  “That’s what you say every year.”

  “Just start the car, please.”

  McCain complied, turning the heat to the max as Dorothy checked her phone messages. Within seconds the car smelled like scorched wool. “Anything important?”

  “Captain O’Toole wants to talk to us.”

  “That ain’t good.”

  “Probably not.”

  “He didn’t say why?”

  “Just his secretary telling you and me to come in at two.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Shhh . . . ” Dorothy concentrated as she listened to her voice mail. She pressed the disconnect button and flipped down the lid on her phone. “Dr. Change called. The X-ray didn’t show any aneurysm.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “So that’s good, right?” McCain said.

  “Despite that, he’s sure an aneurysm killed Julius.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Could be like Change said. A bone blocked it on the X-ray.”

  “Or Julius died of a gunshot wound Change overlooked.”

  “Keep that to yourself when we meet with him, Micky.” Dorothy checked her watch: 1:15. “We can’t make it to the ME office and back before two. I’ll tell Change we’ll be there by three-thirty, maybe four o’clock.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Maybe we should grab some lunch in the meantime,” Dorothy said.

  “Lunch.” McCain laughed. “Now, there’s a novel idea.”

  13

  Four sounds fine,” Change told Dorothy over the line. “If I’m a little late, just wait for me.”

  “No problem, Doc. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “If they’re about the X-ray, I’m not at the morgue now.”

  “Just your impressions.”

  “I know what you’re going to ask. At a quick glance, I didn’t see any radiographic evidence of an aneurysm. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. I still say that that was the most likely cause of death.”

  “Okay, let’s assume the aneurysm was there.” Dorothy switched her cell from one ear to the other. “Might we assume that it was small?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And if it was small—a little out-pouching that didn’t even show up on the X-ray—and
if Julius fell splat on the table, could we assume that an impact like that might have caused a tiny aneurysm to burst . . . theoretically?”

  “Why don’t we wait until we’re at the morgue for this discussion?” Change said.

  “Just answer me this. Could that have happened, that his falling caused the aneurysm to open up?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Change said. “But you’ll want stronger evidence than that going into court.” A pause. “That’s my opinion anyway.”

  “Thank you.” Dorothy hung up and looked at McCain. “I’m in the mood for kosher pastrami—that Romanian stuff. We’re two blocks away from Rubin’s. Okay with you?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said McCain. “What did Change say?”

  “The fall’s a maybe, maybe not. Not strong enough to go to court with—in his opinion.”

  “Opinions are like assholes,” McCain said. “Everybody’s got one.”

  Captain O’Toole closed the door to the interview room—a windowless, airless space with barely enough room for a standard-issue table and chairs. The floor was a mosaic of mismatched green granite tiles; the once sunshine-yellow walls were now a faded mustard. The captain pulled out a chair with his foot and sat backward, with his stomach pressed against the splats. He was flushed, forehead dotted with beads of sweat. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his face a firm wipe.

  With him was Harriet Gallway, who had put in ten years with the DA’s office. She was very petite, so slight that people noticed her only because of her flaming-red hair. She had gobs of it, flying over her shoulders and trailing down her back. She wore a hunter-green suit and black flats. Her green eyes sparkled when she smiled. But she wasn’t smiling now.

  “Hot in here,” she muttered.

  “Don’t smell too good, either,” O’Toole added. “All of you have a seat.”

  Dorothy and McCain exchanged glances and sat down.

  O’Toole nodded to Harriet. “Ladies first.”

  Harriet cleared her throat. “My boss tells me that Delveccio’s counsel is running the story that Julius died from natural causes.”