The mood in the squad room was grim. Frost squinted silently at his computer screen, cross-referencing pages of telephone numbers while Jane paced and muttered. With most of the major players dead, any leads would be gleaned the hard way, by analyzing reams of seemingly useless data. Jane hated this part of the job; she was intuitive, hands on, at her best when she had a witness to squeeze or a suspect to sweat. Frost was the numbers guy and Korsak the great pacifier; together they made a hell of a detective, but this case had knocked them to the ground and shit on them.
"I've run these numbers a million times; there is no telephone connection between Deniece Smoot and Phillip with 2 Ls Rigsdale. She did not call him from her home, her sons' cellphones, her job, or her church. She didn't call him from any of the 733 public booths left in the greater Boston area."
"Had to rub it in, huh Frost?"
"What?"
"2 Ls?"
"I'm rubbing it into myself, Jane. I dropped that ball; I'm the details geek."
"She had to get in touch with him, probably called from one of the houses or offices she cleaned."
"I'm tracing two numbers now, both cells that are unaccounted for by Crystal Rigsdale."
"She's been a real peach about helping us, especially after the way you two broke her on the wheel yesterday."
"Fuck you, Korsak." Jane picked up the Guardian Chogokin figure from her partner's desk and winged it across the room at the sergeant. He caught it in one meaty paw and set it down.
"Whoa, Jane, that has real and sentimental value. I wouldn't throw your..." He looked over at Jane's messy desk, covered over with papers, styrofoam coffee cups and an empty Doritos bag; she didn't have any personal treasures on display. "...things around." He finished lamely.
"Sorry about your dolly, Frostina." She dropped into her chair and began rooting around for crumbs at the bottom of the Dorito bag, licking one finger and running it along the seams. Eventually she gave up and tossed the bag toward the overflowing trash can next to her desk.
"Is it possible she didn't kill him?"
"Then how did his blood get in the trunk of her car?"
"I don't know, but I don't completely trust the DNA analysis since the lab break in."
"Susie took a fresh sample from the Pontiac and reran the tests, it's definitely Phil's blood." Frost looked annoyed; because she had touched his precious action figure or impugned his girlfriend's lab work, she couldn't tell.
I'm being a dick.
Sitting idle did that to her.
"Hey guys, it's..." She glanced at her cellphone. "almost 11:30. How about you put that trace on autopilot and we go do some honest to goodness gumshoe work? Door to door in Roxbury and then I'll buy you lunch at Mama's?"
Frost rolled his eyes and continued tapping at his keyboard. After a moment he stood and grabbed his suit jacket. "All right, Jane, but I'm ordering the Big Mama's Big Pig Special with extra everything and a piggybag to go for Susie."
"Deal. You coming, Vince?"
"Don't have to ask me twice."
The neighborhood surrounding the Smoot's apartment house was not the worst in the city, but it had a higher than average crime rate and the residents were just as wary of the police as they were of thugs hanging in the empty lot on the corner. Women hauling duffel bags of laundry or plastic shopping bags from the bodega all looked down and hurried away as the trio of detectives approached. A portly Hispanic man having a smoke in front of All Checks Cashed dropped his half-finished butt and slipped inside. Frost was certain they would get no more now than they had in the days directly following the murders, when details were certain to be fresher in everyone's minds.
Jane jabbed at the bell of the check-cashing store and after a moment the lock buzzed and the door clicked open. The same man who had been smoking outside stood behind a high counter with inch-thick, bullet-proof glass separating him from the public area. He looked up guardedly then turned back to the paper he had been reading.
"You know them?" Jane slapped a copy of the photo from Deniece Smoot's living room against the glass.
The man glanced up and shrugged. "Yo no hablo inglés."
"Bullshit. This is an Anglo area and you do business here." He shrugged a second time.
"¿Sabe usted?" She tried again. "Listen, I'm not going anywhere. I will stick to your ass like a fucking pimple until you talk to me. That means no trading WIC vouchers for cash, no debiting EBT cards at half value. No cashing anything without the two forms of photo ID you're supposed to ask for. I bet your profit margin hits the toilet with me hanging around."
The man set his mouth, but looked up again.
"I know the señora. She cash her paycheck here Medi-something, but I no see her for a while. Maybe she win lottery and move."
"No. Maybe she fucking died."
"Maybe."
"The boys are her sons. They were shot around the corner two weeks ago."
"Don't know them. They no cash checks."
"You hear anything? People come in here, maybe they talk?"
He smirked. "No one talk here and if they do, my ears stay close."
They had similar bad luck at the Chinese take-out place down the block, the Happy Pantry Superette and the Bubles Laundromat. Korsak stood grinning in front of the plate glass pointing at the sign. "Do you think they're big fans of Michael Buble or they just can't spell Bubbles?"
"Maybe they could only afford one B. On Wheel of Fortune you can buy a vowel, but on the streets you pay for consonants too." The upbeat voice came from behind the detectives.
"Rondo?"
"Vanilla!" Jane's friendly CI wrapped an arm around her shoulder and bumped fists with Frost with his free hand.
"Pops, how you doing?" He nodded at Korsak.
"You working a case or washing your undies, Vanilla?"
"We're working, R, but getting nowhere fast."
"Maybe I can help, I know everyone who may know someone and if I don't know them, I know their mamas. Speaking of which, that was some fine Eye-talian food your mama cooked up for us at the shelter; spaghettis of all kinds with meatballs and sausage and chicken cutlets. Damn, every street kid from Jamaica Plain to Roxbury went to bed with a full belly that night. She's one fine lady, your mama."
"Yeah."
"So's the other one, Vanilla, the doctor with the nice..." He cupped his hands in front of his chest like he was weighing melons.
Jane growled, but he was oblivious.
"She brought down all the food with her friend, the little China doll, and they stayed to hear the kids poetry slam. It was a real sweet day."
"Glad to hear it."
"So whatcha got? How can I help?"
Jane sighed, but handed over the photo she had been showing around all day. Rondo studied it, nodding his head.
"Deniece Smoot and her sons, Prescott and Prior." He pointed to each boy. "They were shot down like dogs on their very own block and their mama killed herself after from sorrow."
"Yeah. We think we're looking for one killer with one gun who acted 6 days apart."
"Did you know her, Rondo?"
"Nah, but I heard stuff. People 'round here are real shook up. They was good boys, not involved in drugs or gangs. They went to private school where you wear a tie and a little sweater and shined-up shoes and the older one was in college. This wasn't no local turf war or cross-fire fuck up."
"We've come to the same conclusion."
"This shit was personal."
"Right, so someone, a stranger came into this neighborhood twice and murdered two teenagers in cold blood in broad daylight and no one saw anything."
Rondo shook his head. "That makes no sense, Vanilla. Someone seen something, but they scared."
Korsak leaned in close, his voice dropping as he looked around for eavesdroppers. "Was that a general statement, friend, or do you know someone specifically?"
"Depends." Rondo handed back the picture and straightened the knit cap on his head. Jane reached into her back pocket for her wallet.
"No, no, Vanilla, that's not what I meant. You always good to me. It depends on if the someone I know been taking his meds or taking some other shit. He says he seen something, but if he's not in the right frame of mind, it ain't worth wasting your time."
"Who is he?"
"Guy's name is Apple, not his real name, of course, but we call him Apple because he once broke into the Korean market on MLK and ate every apple they had for sale. When the owners came in to open in the morning, Apple was laying on the floor clutching his belly and moaning. He was shitting apple sauce for a week."
Korsak chuckled. "Maybe you should call him prune."
"So where is this Apple? When can we talk to him?"
"He's here or there or somewhere. I know his places. Let me sniff him out and I'll call you when I find him. If he's okay you can come by and talk, if he's fucked up, I'll keep an eye on him until he's okay."
"Thanks, Rondo." She patted his shoulder.
"Anything for you, Vanilla. You my girl."
"Hey Rondo, I'm taking the guys to Mama's for lunch. Wanna come with?"
"Nah, but I'll take a fin if you offering, gonna go down to Lucky Palace and get me some fried rice and a Pepsi."
Jane pulled out the requested $5 and another $20. "Just in case."
"Gotcha." He winked, spun around and took off in a bouncy canter down Washington Street.
Frost licked barbecue sauce from his fingertips. "This is better than..."
"Sex?" Korsak leered.
"No, I was going to say it's better than my mother's cooking. Your mind is always in the gutter, old man."
"Too many years of rolling in it with a bunch of low lives. Are you going to finish that?"
"Yes, keep your shithooks to yourself."
"Girls, stop your squabbling, I'm glad to buy you a second lunch if you're still hungry, Vince."
"I really shouldn't."
"Then don't." Frost grunted between bites of cornbread.
"Maybe just a small piece of chicken."
"Fine. Frost?"
"I'm good, but don't forget Susie's to-go meal."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm bringing back for Maura, too."
Jane pushed away from the table and stalked to the ordering counter. Between lunch and Rondo this day was going to cost her $100 bucks. Theoretically moving in with Maura should be saving her money, but she was still paying the mortgage and common charges on her empty condo as well as all the utilities there. She'd have to get rid of it soon or she'd be brown-bagging store-brand peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drinking squad room coffee every day.
She scanned the neatly printed blackboard menu, searching for something vaguely healthy, not a hallmark of soul food. Maura had been a real trooper the night before, eating Rizzoli Surprise without complaint, but Jane would be pushing her luck to expect the doctor to eat such a heavy meal two days in a row. The unbidden image of Maura in her tiny green bikini flashed through Jane's mind and she felt her neck grow hot. She looked around her at the two dozen patrons bent over heaping plates and wondered if other people spent as much time as she did fantasizing about their lovers. She had a feeling that Frost did. She had caught him several times the past few days staring off into space with a goofy look on his face.
"Ma'am, ma'am!" The woman behind her on line poked her, not gently, and she realized she had been daydreaming in front of the cashier, her mouth slack and eyes glassy.
She quickly decided on the rotisserie chicken and coleslaw and got the same for Susie.
When she returned to the table, Frost was tapping away on his tablet.
"What's up?"
"We got the trace back on those numbers. Did you forget my chicken, Jane?"
She had.
"Here." She pushed her half finished plate across the table and Korsak dove in, speaking between bites.
"First number is a cell belonging to Joanna something; Frost has the exact name. I just called her and it turns out she's Paris Rigsdale's class mom. She had called to remind Crystal about a trip to the aquarium."
"Whatever, useless. The other?"
"Aha. The other is a gentleman named Artie Ortiz, works at Boston Medi-Clean."
Jane sat up. "The company Deniece Smoot worked for. Why the hell was he calling the Rigsdales?"
"Twice. One call going in and one going out, the second on the night Phil was killed."
"You spoke to him?"
"Yup. We're going to see him now. Well, as soon as I finish my, er your lunch."
Frost laughed. "Hey Vince, you think you'd still pass the police physical? State troopers make their officers requalify every three years."
"Good thing I'm not a state trooper. I can still shoot and I have you two young studs to chase and tackle for me."
"I'm not so young anymore, Vince. Barry may have to do all the running soon while we follow behind in our jazzy chairs. Mine will be decked out with Patriots pennants below the flashing lights."
"Mine too."
"Bullshit. Your's will have Hello Kitty stickers and play the Banana Splits theme as a siren."
"Let's go. I bought us a large bag of fried okra to snack on in the car."
"I get to hold the bag." Korsak announced.
"Naturally."
They swung by the station house where Susie Chang met them at the curb to collect her lunch. She craned her neck into the backseat and pecked Frost on the lips. "Thank you, Barry, you're so thoughtful."
"You're so wonderful, Barry. I bet you pee sunshine and fart moonbeams." Jane mocked from the driver's seat. "I'm the thoughtful one here. I bet she trots down to the morgue and gushes to Maura that you took time out from saving the world to buy them chicken."
"Oh shut up, Jane. Just drive."
Artie Ortiz was on a job in Mattapan, a cleanup after an elderly man had been found by police when neighbors complained of a smell, the warmer June weather bringing out odors that had lain dormant through the winter and spring. The block was typical of the neighborhood: rows of shabby, triple-deckers sagged along an expanse of cracked and broken concrete, yellow and red vinyl siding sun-faded and gaping hung from homes sinking under the weight of hardship and neglect.
Jane parked the sedan in front of a faded gray house, partially boarded up, its windows hung with clear plastic tarp where glass was busted or missing entirely. A Boston Medi-Clean van was parked in the drive, its rear doors open, revealing plastic jugs of sanitizing chemicals and yards of segmented hoses.
"Creepy." Korsak shuddered. "I'd be afraid to Trick or Treat there."
There was movement behind a cracked front window and a moment later a short, whippet-thin man emerged, wearing rubber waders held up with suspenders, a paper respiratory mask hung about his neck.
"Mr. Ortiz?"
"Yeah."
"We spoke earlier. I have a few questions for you regarding your cellphone."
"Shit. This is about Deniece Smoot, right?"
He sat heavily on the worn wooden steps and pulled a pack of Kools from his pocket. He shook loose one cigarette and in an impressive move flipped it onto his lip, lighting it with a match he struck against a yellowed thumbnail.
"Who's Joni?"
Faded blue lettering across the knuckles of both hands read Joni and Love.
"Wife, a good girl. She waited for me when I was inside." He dragged hard on his smoke and exhaled through his nose. "I don't want to go back."
"Where'd you serve your time?"
"You mean you haven't run me yet?"
"Not yet."
"Framingham. Eight years for armed robbery. Before that 16 months at Concord for the same."
"Drugs?"
"Yup, but I'm clean now, five years sober."
"Good for you, man."
Frost sat beside him while Jane and Korsak leaned against opposite wood railings, splintered and soft from years of snow and rain with no care given to preserving what must have once been finely wrought newel posts.
"You know, I once worked a murder-suicide on this block. Right there." Korsak pointed across the street to a decaying A-frame still hung with Christmas lights six months past the holiday. "I was a young man then, in uniform. I had never seen brain matter before. Boy was I sick, for days after I couldn't eat anything, couldn't even smell food. Of course, now I could eat a bag of Funions while watching an autopsy."
"Lover's spat?" Frost asked.
"Nah, a son and his terminally ill mother. Sad case. He had been caring for her and just snapped, I guess."
"Shit happens."
"Do you remember your first brain splatter, Janie?"
"Sure do, you always remember your first. It was a jumper downtown. Head was split like a melon, looked like it was filled with cottage cheese and snot."
Frost looked away, his nose flaring.
Artie Ortiz was growing agitated, sitting on the steps waiting for a question that the detectives didn't seem in any hurry to ask. Talk of brains and death did not bother a man who cleaned crime scenes for a living, but the breezy, unhurried manner of the detectives was getting to him. He dragged hard on his cigarette and flicked it into the gutter, automatically reaching for and lighting another. The tattooed Christ's head on his neck had turned bright red as if Jesus was blushing.
"A bad one in there, Artie?"
"Nah, I seen worse."
"I'm sure you have."
Frost pulled out an envelope from his suit jacket and made a show of flipping through some papers, sighing and returning them to his breast pocket.
Ortiz broke. "Listen, whaddaya wanna know?"
"What do you have to tell?"
"I worked with Deniece for years. She was good people, a good mother, one of my few friends. We was partners, cleaning partners. We had each other's backs through all kinds of shit."
"Okay."
Jane had no idea where this was going, but she met her partners' eyes over the bowed head of Artie Ortiz and they all seemed to agree that there was more here than a borrowed cell phone.
"Her boys were real smart, going to college, but that shit costs money. She worked like a fucking pig, but it wasn't enough."
"So..."
"So here's the thing..." Ortiz stood then sat down again. "They had a real rich daddy, but the old fucker is dead, so NeeNee, uh Deniece decided she had to eat shit and ask his family to help with the tuition."
Artie paused and looked up at them, his eyes narrowing.
"I think I want a lawyer."
"What for?"
"I'm gonna tell you everything I know, but I don't want to go back to the can. I want to make sure there's someone looking out for my rights."
"I'll look out for you." Jane smiled down at the man.
"Get the fuck outta here, police lady."
He flicked away his second cigarette and stood. "Take me downtown and get me a lawyer."