Ocean Park Page 8

  McNulty frowned. “Don’t leave without giving me name and badge number, Officer. I golf with the District Attorney. He likes to know which of his guys have smart mouths.” He poured coffee into Conley’s BOSTON cup.

  “Matt, please leave,” Lisa said. “We’ll talk later.”

  Her words created a deafening roar in his head. She was all heʼd ever wanted—that and to have kids with her same cocoa eyes. Raise them in Ocean Park, watch them play baseball at Frey Field, maybe cheer in the old stadium. Watch them play and grow and laugh. Watch them run on long tanned legs—like Lisa’s.

  He lifted his head and turned to McNulty. “I want my bathrobe.”

  McNulty took a sip of coffee. One eyebrow rose and fell. “Sure. Nice material, by the way.”

  He took a step toward the bedroom. Conley blocked his way.

  “Now.”

  “Matt,” Lisa said, loud and clear, like a mother scolding her child.

  “Don’t make this worse for everybody, Conley.”

  “I just want the robe. Then I’ll leave.”

  McNulty stepped away from him, as if moving toward Lisa, but instead angled toward the front door. Kendricks caught his intent and leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed.

  “Massachusetts State Police Detective Lloyd Kendricks, badge number 63925.”

  McNulty paused, then drifted back to the center of the room and looked to Lisa. He scratched the back of his neck.

  “Lisa?”

  She looked away.

  Conley stepped to him, snagged his comfortable robe by the fluffy collar—nice material—and shucked it down, peeled it right off. McNulty’s arms shot straight back and came together briefly at the wrists as if he were being cuffed.

  McNulty stood naked. His body was pale, pubic hair trimmed and flecked with gray. Man boobs and a paunch hung from his skinny frame.

  “Really, Lisa?ˮ

  Conley held the robe at arm’s length—as if it still contained a vile politician—walked toward the balcony past his cheating, coffee-drinking wife, and opened the French doors. Brisk air poured in, but it had a hint of warmth, a harbinger of spring.

  He flung the robe toward the harbor, and it flattened in the air and cartwheeled slowly. The sleeves fluttered as if searching for balance. The bathrobe landed in the water and spread out, heart print down, in a dead man’s float.

  McNulty crossed his hands in front of his crotch. Conley approached and spoke.

  “Get your own damn bathrobe.”

  He turned toward the front door. Kendricks stepped aside and opened the door wide. Conley strode through it, disappointed there wasnʼt a nosey neighbor passing by in that moment, to witness McNulty in all his naked glory.

  “I guess we’re done here?” Kendricks asked quietly once they’d reached the elevator.

  “Yes, Lloyd. We’re done.”

  Conley punched the button to the elevator. A second later he punched it again, harder. They got in and the quiet elevator passed floors slowly, blinking white buttons counting down.

  “‘Get your own damn bathrobe’,” Kendricks said. “I liked that.”

  Eye number one brightened as the door opened to the well-appointed lobby.

  Conley smiled. “So did I.”

  Chapter 18

  Conley and Kendricks left the condo and drove along the beach road, past high, undulating stands of sea oats. The sand was wet and dark, with patches of smoky snow that matched the gray crests of winter waves.

  Conley knew his marriage was over. Problem was his heart thought otherwise and kept rationalizing, explaining, holding hope. Hearts weren’t very smart. Every part of him ached and the roar in his head had turned into a debilitating migraine.

  Kendricks headed downtown and ran leads on Victor Rodriguez’s murder. Conley waited silently in the car and listened as Kendricks filled him in on interviews with Rodriguez’s barber, dentist, brother-in-law. Victor was well-coiffed for his murder, had nary a cavity in that whitened smile, and by the way, when’s the reading of the will?

  Late in the morning Kendricks turned the sedan toward Ocean Park Highlands. Its big engine chewed the hill easily, and made the car bank around corners like an Olympic sprinter. They passed houses Conley had known since childhood, but today they seemed different, as if holding secrets. Were his eyes liars or were those colonials watching him? A-frame roofs formed furrowed brows, matching pairs of windows stared like eyes, front porches smirked as if the slanted boards were a mocking row of teeth. Catching your wife with her lover had a lot of weird effects—like making sticks and bricks look suspicious.

  They climbed a steep hill, entered an older section of well-kept colonials and bungalows, and parked in front of a small green house, plain and neat. Two kids tottered through snow banks in the front yard, tiny Michelin men in fat down jackets. They heaved snowballs at icicles hanging from house gutters, leaning back so far to throw they looked like shot putters.

  “Where are we?” Conley asked.

  “My house.”

  “Why?”

  “Lunch time, that’s why.”

  Kendricks called to the kids and they waddled over to meet their dad’s new partner.

  Leshawn was tall and skinny, the bill of a baseball cap sticking out from his tight hood, shading shy eyes that looked mostly down. Kit, the younger one, stared at Conley as if trying to hypnotize him.

  A tall, attractive woman in paint-splattered jeans and sweatshirt stood at the front door.

  “My wife Madie,” Kendricks said as he kissed her cheek. “Works like the devil around the house, but not like you’d think. She’s all hammers and paint brushes, that girl.”

  “And Lloyd’s all laundry baskets and baking recipes. We call it role reversal.”

  Lloyd held the door open and rolled his eyes.

  “Now don’t go tellin’ my secrets, woman.”

  They walked through a tidy hallway, past a formal living room, and into a kitchen with a big table. A bay window overlooked a small yard and a deck with a grill covered in a black tarp, a round cap of snow on top. The yard was desolate. Bare, snow-frosted trees were the only sign life had ever existed there.

  Kendricks retrieved an armful of food from the refrigerator, headed for the back porch, and uncovered the grill. Madie set flowered placemats and napkins on the table as the boys climbed into seats. Conley pointed at Leshawn’s blank baseball cap.

  “We need to get you a Red Sox hat.”

  “Leshawn don’t want no letters or nothing on his hat,” Kit said. “Makes people want to talk to him—askin’ about the team and all. He hates that.”

  Leshawn frowned at his brother.

  “Kit, quiet down,” Madie said. “Leshawn can speak for himself to Mister Conley.”

  “Blank hat’s not a bad idea,” Conley said. “Keeps everyone guessing who you like.”

  “Leshawn don’t like talking to no one,” Kit said. “Teacher says he’s ant-social.”

  “Shut up,” Leshawn said in a strained whisper, stretching the “up” to a multi-syllable word with many octaves.

  “I’m the same way,” Conley said. “Too many people talk when they got nothing to say. Wastes all the oxygen.”

  “You ant-social too?”

  Madie leaned forward. “Kit Kendricks, why don’t you and your brother do something useful and help your daddy?”

  The kids slid off their seats and Leshawn gave his little brother a knuckle on the back of the head that sounded as loud as a hammer on wood.

  “Leshawn’s still adjusting,” she said when they left. “He’s quiet. We moved here last summer. He hasn’t made a lot of friends.”

  “Where’d you live?”

  “Jacksonville. South as the South gets.ˮ

  “Why’d you move?”

  “Captain Stefanos met Lloyd on a case and offered him a job. Best thing ever happened to that man. I can’t say much for the cold and snow, but Lloyd’s a lot happier and we feel safe here.”

  “Jacksonvill
e that bad?”

  “North part is, where we lived. Murder capital of Florida most years. Dangerous place. And when you go to the west side, rebel flags on pickup trucks let you know where those boys stand.”

  Kendricks and his sons came in with a plate of hamburgers. They sat around the table, waiting for everyone to be served.

  “Ketchup, please,” Kit said.

  Conley passed the squeeze bottle.

  “That’s mighty white of you,” Kit said.

  Madie dropped her hamburger. “Kittredge Quentin Kendricks. Apologize right now.”

  “For what? He is white.”

  “You’re not supposed to say that,” Leshawn whispered. Kit frowned as he bit into his hamburger.

  The Kendricks family ate in silence and traded threatening stares.

  “Tastes like summer,” Conley said suddenly.

  “How can a hamburger taste like summer?” Kit asked.

  Conley pointed out the window at bony, bare branches on a maple tree.

  “Tastes like a warm breeze on a hot day when the wind blows through those big fat leaves hanging off that tree.ˮ

  Kit put an elbow on the table, turned, and peered outside.

  “Rolls taste warm too, like they’ve been sitting in that July sun outside. And the tomatoes are juicy and sweet. Probably just got picked out of the garden back there. They kinda smell like that honeysuckle blooming on the fence.”

  Kit turned to his mother and cupped a hand to his mouth. He used the index finger on his other hand to make circles next to his head. “He’s nuts.”

  “Kit, apologize.”

  “I’m sorry he’s nuts.”

  “I’m just trying to fool Mother Nature, that’s all,” Conley said. “Maybe I can get her to bring summer faster so you can go out on your daddy’s new boat.”

  Kendricks raised an eyebrow.

  Kit’s eyes widened. “Hey, if we went out on the boat, maybe Granny Nature would think summer was here and make the principal end school early for the year.”

  “Mother Nature,” Leshawn said. “Not Granny.”

  “Granny’s a mother too.”

  “I’m sure stranger things have happened,” Conley said.

  “All right. We’re going out on Dad’s boat.” Kit pointed a ketchup-covered finger at Conley. “He said so.”

  “Too cold to go on the boat,” Madie said. She squinted at her husband. “Besides, we don’t even know if it runs.”

  “It runs,” Kendricks says. “Engine starts and the propeller turns, woman. That’s all she needs to do.”

  “Sounds like you need a shakedown cruise,” Conley said.

  “What’s that?” Kit asked.

  “Trial run. Make sure everything works well. Steering, bilge pump, lights.”

  “In the winter?”

  “Sure. Better, actually. No other boats around to get in the way.”

  “Can we do a shakedown?” Kit asked his mother.

  Madie shook her head. “Seems awful cold to be out on a boatˮ—she eyed her husband—“a very suspect boat.”

  “We’ll just be on the river,” Conley said. “Hard to get in much trouble there.”

  “Might be fun,” Lloyd told her.

  Madie turned her neck as if working a crick. “That kind of fun sounds like the worst kind—cheap, easy, and dangerous.”

  Kendricks frowned.

  Kit stared at her wide-eyed as he stuffed the last piece of hamburger into his mouth. Leshawn waited for her answer too. He adjusted his cap with both hands, trying to curve the bill.

  She smiled at her husband.

  “Well, all right. I always was a sucker for cheap and easy.”

  Chapter 19

  Two days later, Conley and Kendricks visited the River Street tenement, and followed an old Cambodian woman whose long, rust-colored dress whispered. A gold sash circled her ample waist, a silk crown on hips that swayed like a ship on rolling seas. The hallway walls were the color of candy apples, the trim a bright orange, floors painted lemon yellow.

  They passed a room with benches and smoky incense burners that fogged a statue of Buddha. Kitchen sounds grew loud as they neared the end of the corridor—a splash in a sink, the hiss of boiling water, chop of a knife on a cutting board. They turned into the big kitchen and were greeted by the backs of a half-dozen working women.

  Channary and Sheila Thompson sat on stools at a butcher block island, mixing paste in a bowl with wooden spoons. The young girl’s eyes were as bright as Conley remembered. They brightened more when she saw him.

  Thompson slid off her stool and greeted them.

  “Welcome to Cambodia West, Detectives. Channary’s learning English fast. She had some lessons at the orphanage. I’m teaching her to read.”

  A woman eyed them and quickly turned back to cleaning dishes.

  “Can we talk with her?” Conley asked.

  “No talk,” the woman at the sink barked. Her round, sweaty face flashed over her shoulder. “Work.”

  Channary was shucking corn now, throwing husks in a bag on the floor.

  “Do either of you speak French?” Thompson whispered.

  “I know a bit,” Kendricks said. “Cajun variety.”

  “They say Channary’s too busy to talk. The only way I’ll get them to leave is for a holy man. Do your Sunday best, Detective Kendricks. Their English is sketchy, but they know French.”

  “There’s one problem. They ain’t Baptist.”

  “They’re not fussy when it comes to salvation.” Sheila turned to the women, waved her arms, and called “un saint homme” in singsong. She pointed to Kendricks.

  “Ecoutez. Holy man, ladies. Ecoutez.”

  Kendricks stepped forward.

  “Bienvenue a la Dieu, mes soeurs. Bienvenue.” He placed his big hand on his chest and it almost reached shoulder to shoulder. His free hand shot toward the ceiling like a preacher’s. “Alleluia!”

  One by one the women waddled out of the kitchen, past the giant black man who beckoned them with a strange, impassioned drawl. Thompson herded them to the hallway and shouted “Shaman!” to the laggards.

  Kendricks followed the shuffling women to the prayer room, voice dropping an octave every time he spoke Cajun, arms open as if to encircle his new flock.

  Sheila stepped back to the counter and put her hand over the girl’s. “You’ve got your time, Detective Conley. Channary’s English is coming along, but she talks in idioms—riddles if you will. They can be hard to decipher.”

  “I’ll manage,” he said.

  Channary was chopping now, peppers as big as grapefruit. She held a large knife, both hands on the worn handle.

  He pulled a stool in front of her and sat. She pressed down on a big bell pepper and it scurried away from the knife and rolled across the cutting table. Conley caught it before it fell.

  “Channary, what did you see when you walked into the church that night—the night we met?”

  She looked past his shoulder and selected an onion from a basket. She hacked it open and the stinging scent filled the air between them.

  “Aunties were flying,” she said.

  Conley hesitated and turned to Thompson.

  “Those are the Aunties,” she told Conley, jerking her thumb toward the women who’d left. “That’s what she calls them. Channary says they look like the saints on the church ceiling. They have flowing robes.”

  “And a man,” she said suddenly. “He came down from the altar.”

  “What did he look like?” Conley said.

  “I sat in a tall deadbox, so I could barely see.”

  “Deadbox?” he said.

  “She hid in the confessional,” Thompson said, “a box like an upright coffin.” She smiled. “That one was kind of easy.”

  A dozen questions—a dozen puzzling answers.

  Kendricks’ shouts rang from the prayer room, his voice booming now, switching between English and French. He sounded like he was singing backup for himself.

 
“Welcome the Lord into your life every day, ladies, so He’ll welcome you on your last. Vous venez a Dieu.”

  The incense smoke was seeping into the kitchen. Channary rubbed her eyes and coughed. She slid off the stool and stretched to get a glass from the cabinet.

  “La Dieu est venire.”

  Lloyd sang Amazing Grace in a deep, rich voice that seemed to carry on the sweet-smelling smoke. Conley ran his hand down his face. If progress were to be measured by the number of meaningless, disconnected facts collected, he was doing well.

  Conley closed his eyes.

  We’re going to need more than prayer, Kendricks, because we’re getting nowhere. Playing games.

  “Your partner has talent, Conley. These ladies have low tolerance for the uninspiring. He’s doing well.”

  Kendricks returned and the ladies went back to work.

  “We need to go,” Conley told him. “We’re wasting time.”

  “Wait,” Thompson said. “I found out more about Channary. Friends International traced her to a nasty orphanage in Kompong Cham. They also tracked her family.”

  “Family? You said she was in an orphanage.”

  “Most kids in Cambodian orphanages have parents who are just too poor to keep them. Unfortunately, many of these places are preyed on by the orphan tourists. Predators pay a few dollars to get in and check out the kids. Somebody took a liking to Channary and ‘adoptedʼ her.”

  “Bought her, you mean. How’d she get here?”

  “A rich tourist hired a mule to bring her to the states and get her past immigration. She was probably about to be groomed. We got her just in time.”

  “Now what?”

  “Friends International wants to arrange for a ticket back, but the D.A. won’t release her because she’s a witness to murder.

  “And there’s more. Channary’s the sister of a local Cambodian legend. Her brother’s in a gang that prowls the Mekong River. Evidently he ripped off a drug lord and became Robin Hood—and Santa Claus. He leaves money for poor families while they’re sleeping, along with a written Buddhist prayer for enlightenment. They call him ‘The Ghost’.ˮ

  Conley wrote, closed his notepad, and stood.

  “Detective Mazzarelli says you’re looking to do some undercover work,” she said. “Told me to ask you about the Paladin.”