Wishbone, page 22
She looked alarmed. “Wait. Please.”
I was too tired for this dance. Stanley sat in front of me, little tail wagging, so hopeful.
“Don’t leave, Meg. I’m sorry.” She said it quietly, not pleading but heartfelt. This had been a bad day for her too.
I had been intimate with this woman. She had been naked before me, and in my hands she had orgasmed with a cry, then real tears. That much I remembered. For most people, that would be pretty darn significant. I knew her on a level most couples don’t get to for days, weeks, months. Yet it had been over in a matter of hours. Not even a “see you later.”
“Can we start over?” She motioned toward the chair I’d just left.
Exhaustion overwhelmed me and I wasn’t sure I could make it down the stairs. Unsteady, I sat back down.
Stanley settled next to Sam’s chair. Wise move. We sat in silence for a long time. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing the dead terrier. Sam waited patiently. She wants to start over.
“Hi, I’m Megan Myers.”
Her face relaxed. She smiled. “Samantha Reed. Pleased to meet you.”
“What do you do, Samantha?”
A pained expression returned and she looked away, her voice almost a whisper, “Let’s not talk about that.”
Understood. “So where are you from?”
The smile returned and she gave me a sideways, flirty glance. “I grew up in Dorchester. You?”
My turn. “I don’t want to talk about—” I heaved a sigh, then changed my mind. Start over. “I moved around a lot. But I lived in Dorchester for a couple years.”
We started slow, tiptoeing through formalities that for most people were superficial, but for us seemed fraught with baggage. I knew what filled mine. Hers, I wasn’t sure.
Turned out she’d grown up not far from Ed and Jean’s. We’d practically been neighbors. She’d gotten into Boston Latin High School, an elite exam school, while I dropped out of the Jeremiah Burke, only getting my GED years later. Worlds separated us.
“Family?” I asked.
“Mom, Harriet. Dad, Ozzie. Big brother, Wally.”
“I think that’s two different TV families. Religion?”
“Recovering Catholic,” she said, grinning. “My parents are pretty into it.”
“They know about you?”
“Oh, yes. Mom makes a point of sending me mass cards for every occasion.”
“Pray the gay away?”
She laughed. “Maybe.”
“You get along with your folks?”
“For the most part. We have a don’t ask, don’t tell relationship. What about you?”
Why was every question so frigging annoying? But I’d started it. “Let’s see. Family is my mother, no siblings. Only child of an only child. No religion either.”
“Wow, you got off easy. And does she know about you?”
“Yeah, and she’s none too happy about it. I . . . we don’t get along very well.”
She nodded, like she understood. Despite the flak she likely got from her parents for being gay, she appeared before me as the physical manifestation of a happy childhood. While I believed I had ultimately turned out okay, my formative years were more like sausage making. You really didn’t want to know what went into it. All these happy, well-adjusted women, and men if I counted Jeff, made me realize how much I had in common with Gina. Different ingredients, but sausage nonetheless.
Our conversation wandered among other topics and before I knew it, she had pulled out photo albums of her life with animals—from gerbils to Stanley. She talked about her childhood, all the various pets she had growing up.
I told her about Bruno, my epiphany at the boarding kennel.
She told me she respected my work. “I have to confess, I’ve been reading your columns in the paper since I first moved here.” Her tone betrayed a very slight edge that telegraphed: before I knew who you were. “They’re very well done. If you ever need ideas . . .”
I met her gaze for a moment, judging her to be sincere. “Thanks. I can always use ideas.”
She perked up. “Have you covered microchips?”
“Once, when they first came out, but I could use an update.”
“I’ve got all kinds of information. I encourage my clients to have their pets chipped.” We chatted about standards and costs. “We should think about it for the shelter animals.”
“Absolutely. We just need the equipment. Would you help with that?”
“Of course. We’ll need a scanner for the ones who come in and we can chip the ones that don’t have them already. Come by any time and I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
Talking shop with Sam came easily and with great relief from our former awkwardness. This was what I’d wanted after Dr. Paulson. Someone as passionate about the work as I was.
Before I knew it, we were eating dinner, still talking. Stanley filled any quiet moments. I helped her wash the dishes, then thanked her, “For everything today,” and said good-bye.
At the door, Sam stopped me and held out her hand. “Do you think we could be friends?”
I smiled sheepishly and shook it. “Maybe.”
Her face lit up.
“MYERS!” CAPTAIN DECKER roared the next morning. I’d thought he’d gotten past this need to bellow. I was right in front of him, on my way to my office.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“In here.”
I followed him to an interview room.
“Where are you in the investigation? I didn’t see you the rest of yesterday,” he said, closing the door.
“I was at the vet’s. With the terrier.”
“All afternoon?”
“I had my radio on. I didn’t miss any calls.”
“When did you turn the truck in?”
“I don’t know. Late.”
“Eight o’clock, Myers. I checked the log. Three hours after your shift ended. What were you doing all that time?”
“I told you. I was at the vet’s.”
“Oh, yeah? How’s the dog?”
“He died.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Four? Sam worked on him a couple of hours, at least.”
“What were you doing at the vet’s between four and eight?”
“Talking.”
“Talking?”
“Yeah. What the hell do you think we were doing?”
I’d made the mistake of sitting down. Now he towered over me, arms crossed over his chest. He glared at me.
I glared back. “Respectfully, sir, your job is to protect the citizens of this town. How many have you watched die? Over your whole career.” I knew it wasn’t many, if any. He didn’t say anything. “My job is to protect the animals. And every week I have to watch one or more die—through accidents, euthanasia, or abuse. Sam’s job is to protect the lives of her patients. And she can’t save them all. And that’s the worst part of the job, for both of us. Can you understand that I need to talk to someone who gets my job?”
His arms loosened and he leaned against the wall.
“She do an autopsy?”
“She’s taking him out to Grafton this morning. I’ll have their report this afternoon.”
“I want you back at that house. Get some evidence.”
I stood to leave.
“Myers.”
I stopped and looked at him.
“That bastard beat his wife and killed her dog. I don’t want him getting away with it. She’s terrified of him and won’t press charges. I want him any way we can get him.”
Sam faxed over the report from Tufts. It was worse than I thought. Internal injuries and bleeding from blunt-force trauma led to his death, but there were previous injuries. Healed broken bones, scar tissue.
I requested a warrant to search for the bat at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox. Raul talked to the husband, Thomas, in the living room. Melissa sat with Jodi in the kitchen. Jodi looked like shit. She was younger than me but hard to tell with her two black eyes, a fat lip, and bruises on her arms. She kept calling her husband Tommy, so that gave me a sense of how mature he was.
I found the bat, still on the floor in the back bedroom with what looked like dog hairs in the splinters. I wanted to use it to beat the crap out of the guy. Hardly helpful. But the laws had changed recently and cruelly killing an animal was now a felony, not a misdemeanor. Even if Jodi wouldn’t press charges, Tommy Boy could go to jail.
We left with the bat and made arrangements to get it over to the state police crime lab with a sample of the dog’s hair for testing. That would take weeks, but Decker sent Melissa to bring Jodi in for questioning. We’d talk to Thomas after.
I joined Melissa in the interview room and read Jodi her rights so I’d be able to use anything she said. This sent a new shot of fear to her eyes.
“You are not under arrest,” I said. “I just want to know what happened to the dog.”
“Is he okay?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“I’m sorry, no,” I said gently, watching her expression. I hated this part. “He didn’t make it.”
She burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “The vet did everything she could.”
Jodi nodded, sobbing quietly. I waited. Her reaction would help me know how to proceed. I pushed a box of tissues across the table to her.
She blew her nose and wouldn’t look at me. I tread carefully with victims.
“Jodi,” I said gently, “can you tell me what happened?”
She nodded.
“The vet said there were other injuries, older, healed ones. Did you know about those?”
“Oh, god,” she wailed and buried her face in her hands.
Then she spilled. For the next hour, Jodi described how Tommy threatened her, punished the dog in front of her, beat her, the whole gamut. In the end, she agreed to press charges. Not just for the dog, but for her injuries as well. She also agreed to go to a shelter.
“Why didn’t you leave sooner?” I asked.
She slumped back in the chair. “I wouldn’t have been able to take Phineas with me. I don’t have to worry about that now.”
The rest was a formality. We brought Tommy in for questioning and read him his rights. He denied hitting Jodi, but admitted he didn’t give a crap about the dog. He asked for a lawyer, but he also had several prior convictions for assault and was clearly a flight risk, and with Jodi willing to press charges for her injuries, Raul made the arrest. Tommy might make bail, but Jodi, at least, was safe for now. I wished I could say the same for Phineas.
AFTER WORK I stopped by Sam’s. I didn’t stay, just told her what happened. She went from happy to sad as quickly as I did. This time I declined her offer of dinner. I needed a run.
I hadn’t been running lately, so after a couple of hours I crawled up the stairs to my apartment and flopped on my futon. I was too tired for rage.
Chapter 21
THURSDAY NIGHT I threw clothes into my duffle bag, fuming about the weekend. I’d started the evening determined to cancel. So why was I packing? She kissed me. She had a penis. So what? Nothing was going to happen. And even if it did, Jeff would just have to put on his big boy pants and deal with it. I had no idea what he might think if we got together. Okay, it probably wouldn’t go over well. If nothing happened with Gina, there was nothing to worry about with Jeff.
Earlier in the week, she had e-mailed the details—we’d meet at her parents’ and drive to the dock together, that even though we were sailing, we’d be back early enough on Sunday that I wouldn’t have to worry about work Monday. Kind of rambling. Nerves? Monday was my birthday and I had long ago arranged to take it off as one of my personal days. I’d gotten used to being alone on that day.
Now I ransacked my place for sunscreen, wondering whether I should go. But I wanted to. If nothing else, it was a free trip to the Cape. After the past week, I could use a break from work, from Sam. She’d been altogether too nice, too understanding.
AT THE MANSION the next day after work, we all climbed into the Bennett’s dark, fancy Mercedes—Jeff, his parents, Gina, and me. Mr. B drove. I sat between Gina and Jeff in back, my legs straddling the transmission hump. On my right, Jeff’s casual sprawl had his fuzzy leg against mine. On the other side, Gina’s smooth leg remained a safe distance from me.
Jeff asked about the shelter progress, so I focused on him. He didn’t bring up the pool episode, so I didn’t bring up the swimming lessons.
While we chatted, Mr. B maneuvered through the highway construction sites that had turned Boston into unfamiliar territory. Only when we passed Christopher Columbus Park, in the North End, did I recognize where we were. All around us, the city was transforming. The old Boston Garden had been torn down and replaced with the shiny new FleetCenter. Cranes dotted the city like flocks of metal storks, dismantling the overhead highway that garroted the city. The harbor was cleaner than it had been in centuries.
We passed through a yacht club’s guarded gate and onto a members-only pier. Mr. Bennett parked and we all climbed out. He handed his key to an attendant and headed straight down the pier, so we all fell in line. I glanced back, wondering about our luggage, but already men who had appeared from nowhere were pulling them from the trunk and loading a dolly.
Most of the boats we passed were motor yachts. They were big, but the sailboat at the end dwarfed the others.
Mr. Bennett waved to a uniformed guy on the deck of the monster and led us, like little ducklings, toward the gangplank.
“Gregory,” Mrs. Bennett called out.
I caught Gina’s flinch before realizing Mrs. B meant her husband. I’d forgotten he was Greg too. Maybe that bothered him more than the whole transgender thing. His namesake rejecting the entire lineage.
He held out a hand to help his wife onto the boat. Jeff followed, then me, then Gina.
We boarded onto an open deck with upholstered bench seats in a horseshoe around a table. A light sea breeze cooled me, despite a hot sun. My apartment would be stifling.
First order of business for Mr. B was cocktail hour. Once we all had drinks in hand, he led a tour. Everyone behaved. From a distance, you wouldn’t suspect any drama from this ideal family: father, mother, boy child, and girl child. But Gina and I subliminally fought for the back of the line. Mr. B addressed Jeff on the finer points of luxury sailing. Jeff maintained a bland exterior except for the occasional flicking jaw muscles. If I were an anthropologist or a psychologist, I’d be fascinated.
In the conversation that followed, I learned the boat was a pilot house sloop, which had to do with the mast and rigging. It had been built in New Zealand, so this was not its maiden voyage, Mr. B assured me, much to my relief, with visions of the Titanic flashing in my mind. I’d wondered what the sleeping arrangements would be. It turned out I got my own room, my bag already on the bed. A horizontal closet was more like it, but I wasn’t going to argue.
We ate dinner at the table where we’d first boarded, enjoying the cool breezes while we sailed past the harbor islands and lighthouses. The sun set in a blaze over the city. I eased back in the plush seat and pretended for a moment that I was rich beyond measure.
I again found myself sitting between Jeff and Gina, who hadn’t said a word and barely been spoken to. Even Jeff seemed to be ignoring her. She couldn’t have any kind of a heart-to-heart with me around. Did she invite me as a diversion, to keep from blowing up? Had she given up on the whole bonding thing?
Jeff’s mom asked him about Cindy, so he gave an update on her whale research.
After her second glass of wine, Gina must have gotten brave because she asked her father what he thought of MIT’s new Stata Center, the Frank Gehry-designed building known for its crazy angles and slanted walls.
“Piece of junk,” he declared.
“How so?” Gina asked. “It got a great review in the Globe.”
He eyed her, forkful of lobster suspended, butter dripping. “Just because you can design something, doesn’t mean you can build it. Or should.” He chewed and swallowed. “A building can’t just look pretty. It also has to function. The inside and outside have to work together. Mark my words, that building will leak.”
“Is that a design flaw or a construction flaw?”
He paused and took a sip of his drink. “It depends on whose side you’re on.”
