who attacked you with a knife?”
“Scissors,” I said. “And I prefer to think it was foreplay. She just wasn’t very good at it.”
She whacked my shoulder with the back of her hand. “Let’s see. I saw April Norton and Susan Siersma, who I haven’t seen since high school and Billy Boran and Mike O’Connor, who’s lost a lotta hair, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “Lost a lotta weight, too.”
“Who notices? He’s bald.”
“Sometimes I think you’re more shallow than I am.”
She shrugged and lit a cigarette. “Who else did we see?”
“Danielle Genter,” I said. “Babs Kerins. Friggin’ Chris Mullen was everywhere.”
“I noticed that too. In the early stuff.”
I sipped some cold coffee. “Huh?”
“In the early stuff. He was always hanging around the periphery in the early parts of every tape, never the later stuff.”
I yawned. “He’s a periphery guy, ol’ Chris.” I picked up her empty coffee cup, hung it off my finger beside my own. “More?”
She shook her head.
I went into the kitchen, put her cup in the sink, poured myself a fresh cup. Angie came in as I opened the refrigerator and removed the cream.
“When’s the last time you saw Chris Mullen in the neighborhood?”
I closed the door, looked at her. “When’s the last time you saw half the people we saw watching those tapes?”
She shook her head. “Forget about everyone else. I mean, they’ve been here. Chris? He moved uptown. Got himself a place in Devonshire Towers around, like, ’eighty-seven.”
I shrugged. “Again—so?”
“So what’s Chris Mullen do for work?”
I put the cream carton down on the counter beside my cup. “He works for Cheese Olamon.”
“Who happens to be in prison.”
“Big surprise.”
“For?”
“What?”
“What is Cheese in prison for?”
I picked up the cream carton again. “What else?” I turned in the kitchen as I heard my words, let the carton dangle by my thigh. “Drug dealing,” I said slowly.
“You are so goddamned right.”
9
Amanda McCready wasn’t smiling. She stared at me with still, empty eyes, her ash-blond hair falling limply around her face, as if it had been plastered to the sides of her head with a wet palm. She had her mother’s tremulous chin, too square and too small for her oval face, and the sallow crevices under her cheeks hinted of questionable nutrition.
She wasn’t frowning, nor did she appear to be angry or sad. She was just there , as if she had no hierarchy of responses to stimuli. Getting her photograph taken had been no different from eating or dressing or watching TV or taking a walk with her mother. Every experience in her young life, it seemed, had existed along a flat line, no ups, no downs, no anythings.
Her photograph lay slightly off-center on a white sheet of legal-sized paper. Below the photograph were her vital statistics. Directly below those were the words— IF YOU SEE AMANDA, PLEASE CALL —and below that were Lionel and Beatrice’s names and their phone number. Following that was the number of the CAC squad, with Lieutenant Jack Doyle listed as the contact person. Under that number was 911. And at the bottom of the list was Helene’s name and number.
The stack of flyers sat on the kitchen counter in Lionel’s house, where he’d left them after he’d come home this morning. Lionel had been out all night plastering them to streetlight poles and subway station support beams, across temporary walls at construction sites and boarded-up buildings. He had covered downtown Boston and Cambridge, while Beatrice and three dozen neighbors had divided up the rest of the greater metro area. By dawn, they’d put Amanda’s face in every legal and illegal spot they could find in a twenty-mile radius of Boston.
Beatrice was in the living room when we entered, going through her morning routine of contacting all police and press assigned to the case and asking for progress reports. After that, she’d call the hospitals
“Scissors,” I said. “And I prefer to think it was foreplay. She just wasn’t very good at it.”
She whacked my shoulder with the back of her hand. “Let’s see. I saw April Norton and Susan Siersma, who I haven’t seen since high school and Billy Boran and Mike O’Connor, who’s lost a lotta hair, don’t you think?”
I nodded. “Lost a lotta weight, too.”
“Who notices? He’s bald.”
“Sometimes I think you’re more shallow than I am.”
She shrugged and lit a cigarette. “Who else did we see?”
“Danielle Genter,” I said. “Babs Kerins. Friggin’ Chris Mullen was everywhere.”
“I noticed that too. In the early stuff.”
I sipped some cold coffee. “Huh?”
“In the early stuff. He was always hanging around the periphery in the early parts of every tape, never the later stuff.”
I yawned. “He’s a periphery guy, ol’ Chris.” I picked up her empty coffee cup, hung it off my finger beside my own. “More?”
She shook her head.
I went into the kitchen, put her cup in the sink, poured myself a fresh cup. Angie came in as I opened the refrigerator and removed the cream.
“When’s the last time you saw Chris Mullen in the neighborhood?”
I closed the door, looked at her. “When’s the last time you saw half the people we saw watching those tapes?”
She shook her head. “Forget about everyone else. I mean, they’ve been here. Chris? He moved uptown. Got himself a place in Devonshire Towers around, like, ’eighty-seven.”
I shrugged. “Again—so?”
“So what’s Chris Mullen do for work?”
I put the cream carton down on the counter beside my cup. “He works for Cheese Olamon.”
“Who happens to be in prison.”
“Big surprise.”
“For?”
“What?”
“What is Cheese in prison for?”
I picked up the cream carton again. “What else?” I turned in the kitchen as I heard my words, let the carton dangle by my thigh. “Drug dealing,” I said slowly.
“You are so goddamned right.”
9
Amanda McCready wasn’t smiling. She stared at me with still, empty eyes, her ash-blond hair falling limply around her face, as if it had been plastered to the sides of her head with a wet palm. She had her mother’s tremulous chin, too square and too small for her oval face, and the sallow crevices under her cheeks hinted of questionable nutrition.
She wasn’t frowning, nor did she appear to be angry or sad. She was just there , as if she had no hierarchy of responses to stimuli. Getting her photograph taken had been no different from eating or dressing or watching TV or taking a walk with her mother. Every experience in her young life, it seemed, had existed along a flat line, no ups, no downs, no anythings.
Her photograph lay slightly off-center on a white sheet of legal-sized paper. Below the photograph were her vital statistics. Directly below those were the words— IF YOU SEE AMANDA, PLEASE CALL —and below that were Lionel and Beatrice’s names and their phone number. Following that was the number of the CAC squad, with Lieutenant Jack Doyle listed as the contact person. Under that number was 911. And at the bottom of the list was Helene’s name and number.
The stack of flyers sat on the kitchen counter in Lionel’s house, where he’d left them after he’d come home this morning. Lionel had been out all night plastering them to streetlight poles and subway station support beams, across temporary walls at construction sites and boarded-up buildings. He had covered downtown Boston and Cambridge, while Beatrice and three dozen neighbors had divided up the rest of the greater metro area. By dawn, they’d put Amanda’s face in every legal and illegal spot they could find in a twenty-mile radius of Boston.
Beatrice was in the living room when we entered, going through her morning routine of contacting all police and press assigned to the case and asking for progress reports. After that, she’d call the hospitals
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