Out Cold Page 13

  “Hookers, I assume,” she said. “Nice kids. They’re here a lot. They like to sit over there.” She gestured toward an L-shaped corner booth. “Talking on their cell phones, sometimes all three of them talking at once. Doing business. They have tea, rice cakes, now and then a bowl of sweet-and-sour soup. Sometimes they’re here—or one or two of them are, anyway—all day, all evening until we close. We don’t mind. They behave, keep it quiet, dress nice. Classy kids. Always leave a tip.”

  “They’re here a lot, you said.”

  She shrugged. “Two or three times a week. I think they have a few other places they hang out.”

  “What about yesterday?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “All three of them were here in the morning. Came in around nine-thirty. They were having some kind of argument. They left after an hour or so. A few hours later—I didn’t notice the time, but it was after the lunch hour—the brunette and the Japanese girl came back.”

  “Misty and Zooey,” I said.

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  “What about the blond? Kayla?”

  Bonnie shook her head. “She didn’t come back with them.”

  “How about later? Did Kayla ever show up?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning when all three of them were here.”

  “When Misty and Zooey came back after lunchtime, how long did they stay?”

  “Most of the afternoon. They were still arguing.”

  “Could you tell what they were arguing about?”

  “Not really. It was one of those quiet arguments. Didn’t raise their voices, didn’t bang around. The two of them, sitting there across from each other, leaning over the table with their faces close together, very serious. Didn’t seem exactly angry, but you could see by their expressions and their body language they were tense, upset. At first I didn’t even realize they were upset with each other. Then suddenly Zooey slides out of the booth. She starts to leave, then she turns around as if she forgot something. She marches back to the table, bends over so she’s right in Misty’s face, and she says something and shakes her finger at her.”

  “She shook her finger?” I said.

  Bonnie lifted her hand, made a little fist, stuck out her index finger, and shook it at me.

  “Did you overhear anything at all?” I said. “A word, a phrase, a name?”

  Bonnie stared down into her teacup for a moment. Then she looked up at me. “It was about Kayla,” she said. “She’d done something and Misty was worried about her, thought they should do something. Zooey disagreed. Said it was none of their business. That’s what I thought at the time, anyway.”

  “Any idea why they were worried about Kayla?”

  “No.”

  “Or what it was Misty wanted to do that Zooey disagreed with?”

  She shook her head. “I really didn’t hear more than a word or two of what they said. I wasn’t trying to listen. It was none of my business.”

  “So Zooey left?”

  “Yes. After she—she shook her finger—she marched out.”

  “And didn’t come back?”

  Bonnie shook her head. “Haven’t seen her since then.”

  “What time was it that she left?”

  She looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “Middle of the afternoon sometime, I think. I didn’t really notice.”

  “What about Misty?” I said. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Misty?” Bonnie narrowed her eyes and looked up at the ceiling for a minute. “We were starting to get the early dinner crowd. It got busy, and I wasn’t paying too much attention to Misty. She was over there in their usual booth, pot of tea, working the phone. Then, next time I looked over, she was gone.”

  “Do you think you could pin down a time?”

  “Five-thirty? Could’ve been closer to six.” She shrugged.

  “Have you seen any of them since then?” I said. “Later last night or this morning?”

  “No.”

  “I’m interested in a certain panel truck,” I said. “It’s got a logo painted on its side. Bears. A big one and a little one.”

  “Bears?” she said. “What kind of bears?”

  I took a pen from my pocket, and sketched on a napkin—crudely—the bear logo as I remembered it. I showed it to Bonnie. “They’re sort of generic bears. Mother and cub, probably. The truck has New Hampshire license plates.”

  She looked at my sketch. She seemed to be fighting back a smile. “Those are bears?”

  I shrugged.

  “I don’t remember seeing any truck with bears on it,” she said.

  “Did you know Sunshine?”

  She frowned.

  “Her real name was Maureen Quinlan. She was homeless. They called her Sunshine.”

  Bonnie blinked. Then she nodded. “Okay, I know who you mean. The poor woman who was murdered. She—they found her body not far from here a few days ago. Behind the Moon Garden over on Tyler Street. Is that who you mean?”

  “Yes. You didn’t know her, then?”

  “No. I don’t think she hung around here. What I heard, she probably wandered into somebody’s territory, they took exception to it.”

  “They killed her for being in the wrong place?”

  “They’ve got all the Dumpsters staked out,” she said. “You better not go dipping into somebody else’s Dumpster.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “About…Sunshine?”

  “Yes.”

  Bonnie gazed up at the ceiling. Either she was trying to remember, or else she was trying to appear to be trying to remember.

  “No,” she said. “There hasn’t been much talk about it, at least among the people who talk to me. Homeless people die in alleys.” She shrugged.

  I had thought to bring Dana Wetherbee’s morgue photo with me. I took it from my shirt pocket and put it on the table in front of Bonnie. “Do you recognize her?”

  She frowned at the picture, then looked up at me. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t recognize her.”

  “You’ve never seen her?”

  “I didn’t say that. I might have seen her. But if I did, I don’t remember. I don’t recall her face. Who is she?”

  “She died in an alley, too.”

  She sighed. “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And this girl,” she said, tapping Dana’s photo with her fore-finger, “is connected to Misty and the other two girls…how?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You think Misty and Zooey and Kayla?…”

  “I hope not,” I said.

  Bonnie looked at me for a long moment. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s your interest in these girls?” she said. “I mean, you’re a lawyer…”

  “Misty called me yesterday,” I said. “I think she was calling from here. She wanted to talk to me. Left several messages. We didn’t connect till later in the afternoon. I agreed to meet her at six at the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner of Tremont and Boylston. She never showed up. I tried calling her cell a few times, but she didn’t answer.” I shrugged. “I’m worried about her.”

  “You think something happened to her.”

  “That’s what worries me, yes.”

  Bonnie shook her head. “Girls who live that way, it always seems, sooner or later…”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s what I keep thinking.”

  When I stepped outside the Happy Family Chinese restaurant, the sun was high in the sky and you could almost smell springtime in the air. A cruel illusion, I knew, but it still turned my thoughts to green fields and apple blossoms, mayflies and trout streams.

  As I walked back to my home on Beacon Hill, I tried to figure out what I should do. Something had happened to Misty, I was convinced of it. Maybe it was connected to the guy who drove the panel truck with the bear logo and New Hampshire
plates. Maybe it was also connected to what happened to Sunshine and to Dana Wetherbee.

  I thought about telling Saundra Mendoza about it. I tried to play out our conversation.

  Coyne: “There’s this girl, Misty. I’m worried about her.”

  Mendoza: “Misty who?”

  Coyne: “I don’t know her last name. I don’t even know if Misty is really her first name. She’s got two friends. Kayla and Zooey. I’m worried about them, too.”

  Mendoza: “Last names also unknown, I suppose?”

  Coyne: “Well, yes.”

  Mendoza: “And you’re worried why?”

  Coyne: “Misty wanted to meet with me. We made a date. Except she didn’t show up.”

  Mendoza: “You never been stood up by a woman before?”

  Coyne: “Hardly the same thing.”

  Mendoza: “These girls. Where do they live?”

  Coyne: “I don’t know. They sometimes hang out in the Happy Family restaurant on Beach Street.”

  Mendoza: “And what do they do?”

  Coyne: “They’re hookers, I think.”

  Mendoza: “So you got stood up by a hooker…”

  I decided that if I was going to talk to Saundra Mendoza, I better have more to tell her.

  I tried to convince myself that Misty was a resourceful kid. She could take care of herself. She’d probably worked out whatever was bothering her, or just decided she didn’t need me to help her. It would have been considerate of her to return my calls. But I had no reason to believe that she was considerate.

  I almost believed myself.

  Fifteen

  That evening Evie and I were sitting at our kitchen table eating home-delivery thin-crust pizza—Vidalia onion, sundried tomatoes, and goat cheese for Evie, sausage, pepperoni, and eggplant for me, between us covering all of the important food groups except chocolate. I was telling her about my adventures in Chinatown and how I found the restaurant that Misty had called me from on Tuesday.

  “Sam Spade,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”

  “So what did you learn?”

  I shook my head. “Hardly anything.”

  Right then the phone rang. Evie started to get out of her chair.

  “Leave it,” I said. “We’re eating. Probably somebody trying to foist another credit card on us. They always call at dinnertime.”

  It rang again.

  Evie put down her pizza slice and looked at me. “What if it’s important?”

  “They’ll leave a message. We can call them back.”

  “I’m going to get it.”

  “I know,” I said.

  She got up, went over to the counter, picked up the cordless phone, and said, “Hello?”

  She looked up at the ceiling as she listened. Then she glanced at me, gave her head a quick shake, said, “Yes, of course,” and wandered into the living room with the phone pressed against her ear.

  I could hear the occasional murmur of Evie’s voice from the other room, but I couldn’t tell what she was saying. She seemed to be doing more listening than speaking. I inferred that she was not talking to a credit-card salesman.

  She was gone for the length of time it took me to drink half a glass of beer, eat two slices of pizza, and feed a crust to Henry. When she came back and took her seat at the table, she looked at me and said, “That was Shirley Arsenault.”

  “Who?”

  “Dana Wetherbee’s grandmother. Verna’s mother. I called them last night, remember?”

  “Sure I remember,” I said. “I just didn’t remember her name. I thought you said she didn’t want to talk to you.”

  “She didn’t. That was yesterday. This afternoon a Rhode Island State Police officer dropped by their house.”

  “Oh, jeez.”

  Evie nodded. “Your Lieutenant Mendoza faxed him a copy of that morgue photo. He showed it to Shirley. She confirmed that it was Dana. Now she wants to talk to me.”

  “Why?”

  Evie shrugged. “She’s pretty upset.”

  “Of course she’s upset,” I said. “That’s her dead granddaughter. She’s already buried her daughter. That’s way too much. What I meant was, why you?”

  “I suppose it’s because I knew Dana, and because I called her. She needs to talk to somebody.”

  “Grief counseling,” I said.

  Evie shrugged. “Call it whatever you want. I told her I’d be there tomorrow afternoon around four.” She arched her eyebrows at me.

  “Where is there?”

  “Edson, Rhode Island.”

  I nodded. “Okay. I’ll go with you.”

  Evie was poking me. “Brady, the phone,” she said. “Get the damn phone.”

  Then I was aware of it ringing on the table beside our bed. I fumbled for it, pressed it against my ear, and mumbled, “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Coyne,” came a woman’s voice. “This is Marcia Benetti. Roger Horowitz’s partner?”

  I pushed myself into a half-sitting position. It was still dark in the bedroom. “What the hell time is it?”

  “Around five-thirty. Roger wants to talk to you. I’m on my way over to pick you up. Please be ready.”

  “Who died?” Horowitz and Benetti were state-police homicide detectives. If they were up and about at five-thirty on a January morning, it meant somebody had died under circumstances that usually amounted to murder.

  “I’m on Storrow Drive, Mr. Coyne. I’ll be in front of your house in ten minutes.”

  “Young woman,” I said, “maybe twenty, maybe younger, dark hair, goes by the name of Misty?”

  “You can talk to Roger when you see him,” she said. Then she disconnected.

  I hung up the phone. Beside me, Evie rolled onto her side and flopped an arm across my chest. “Wha’s up?” she grumbled.

  “That was Roger Horowitz’s partner,” I said. “She’s coming over to pick me up.”

  “Why?”

  “Go back to sleep, babe.”

  “You have to go?”

  “Yes.” I leaned over, kissed her cheek, and slid out of bed.

  By the time I’d pulled on my T-shirt and boxers, Evie had rolled back onto her belly and resumed snoring.

  Henry was curled up in his usual spot on the rug at the foot of the bed. He opened an eye, considered following me downstairs, thought better of it, and went back to sleep.

  The automatic coffeemaker had not started brewing when I got to the kitchen. I turned it on, hoping Marcia Benetti would have the courtesy not to arrive until I could pour myself a mugful.

  But when I peeked out the front door, her gray sedan was sitting there under the streetlight.

  I pulled on my parka, went outside, and climbed into the passenger seat. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” I said.

  She handed me a giant-sized Dunkin’ Donuts cup. “The Starbucks wasn’t open,” she said. “Hope this is okay. Roger said you needed black.”

  “‘Need’ is the operative word.” I popped the lid and sniffed. “Plain house blend, right?”

  “He said you didn’t go for the fancy stuff,” she said. “He said get you two-day-old cop coffee if they had it. But they didn’t.”

  I took a sip. I could feel the caffeine surge through my blood vessels and zap happy little sparks into my brain. “Thank you,” I said. “You’re an angel.” I took another sip. “So tell me what’s going on. Where are we headed, anyway?”

  “The coffee was Roger’s idea,” she said. “You can tell him he’s angelic, if you want. As far as what’s going on, all I can really tell you is what he told me. Cleaning service found a body in back of an office building on Route One in Danvers. He wants you there.”

  “Why me?”

  “He didn’t tell me, Mr. Coyne. You know Roger. He called me, told me to get my ass up there, pick you up on the way. That’s all I know, okay?”

  “I guess you’ve had enough conversation for now, huh?”

  “More than enough,” she said. “Drink your co
ffee and stop asking me questions I can’t answer.”

  Marcia Benetti drove up Route One through Charlestown and Chelsea, Revere and Everett, Saugus and Peabody and Lynnfield, and a little after six-fifteen, she took a left, cut across the southbound lane, and followed a driveway around to the back of a low-slung brick-and-glass office building.

  Eight or ten official-looking vehicles were parked randomly down at the far end of the lot with their doors hanging open and their headlights sending cones of light into the predawn darkness. Running engines puffed clouds of exhaust into the cold winter morning, and blue and red lights flashed on the dirty snow.

  Benetti stopped beside a Danvers cruiser. I opened the car door and started to get out.

  “Hang on,” she said. She picked up her car phone, pecked a number into it, paused, then said, “We’re here.” She listened for a moment, glanced at me, said, “I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” then put the phone back.

  “Didn’t ask what?” I said.

  “He’ll ask you himself.”

  A minute later Horowitz appeared from behind the vehicles. He was wearing a camel hair topcoat, a multi-colored knitted scarf, and a floppy felt hat with the brim turned down all the way around. He stopped in front of the car, lifted his hand, and crooked his finger at us.

  “He wants you,” said Benetti.

  I got out and went over to where Horowitz was waiting. “Who’s dead?” I said. I didn’t offer to shake hands, and neither did he. Roger Horowitz had little patience with empty gestures of civility.

  “If I knew,” he said, “I wouldn’t need you. She had your business card in her pocket.”

  “I was afraid of that,” I said. “Young girl?”

  “Late teens, I’d say. Brunette.” He cocked his head and peered at me. “You think you know who it is?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Let’s have a look.”

  “This way.” Horowitz flicked on the foot-long flashlight he was carrying, turned, and headed toward the back corner of the parking lot. I trailed along behind him.

  At least a dozen men and women were standing around hunching their shoulders, stamping their feet, and sipping from Styrofoam coffee cups. Nobody seemed to be saying much.

  Out of the corner of his mouth, Horowitz said, “Still waiting for the M.E.” Then he mumbled, “Excuse us,” and shouldered his way through the circle of onlookers. I followed behind him.