only reason I’m here now—believe me, I’d rather be home watching the World Series of Poker —is because Officer Collins had the decency to answer her damn telephone and let me know you were still here. It’s the pathologist, Cooper. Kelsey has been trying to reach you for the past hour.”
This sparked Jake’s attention. “I’m all ears, Ray.”
“Has to do with those legs you found in the Taylor closet. By the way, the father is pissed. Says you should have warned him there might have been something of a ‘grotesque’—his word—nature in his daughter’s room.”
“What about those legs?”
Anastasia watched the exchange like a tennis match. She was curious, but did not want to get in between them.
“They’re not Lisa Marie’s legs, Cooper. Kelsey just confirmed that preliminary DNA does not match.”
Jake had his iPhone out, dialing Dickie before Matikas even finished.
“I’m not done here. There’s more. But you obviously have a few calls to make, so I’ll wait.” Matikas sat down.
Jake told Dickie to hold on. “What else, Ray? Come on.”
“Kelsey found some sort of a mark, like lettering, on one of the legs. I don’t know. Talk to her yourself. She’ll tell you more. Just don’t bother her tonight. She’s at a wake. Her cousin. Or some uncle.”
A thought passed through Jake: Death truly is her life . Then: “You hear that, Dickie?” Jake hung up.
“She wants you at the morgue first thing tomorrow morning. But said to call her office, she might have to meet you in Chelsea.”
Two times in a week, Jake noted.
Jake turned to leave. Before walking out, he stopped at the door. “Rossi, you and Dickie leave tonight, not in the morning. I want you two up there banging on that Simmons professor’s door while he’s in the middle of a dream. Rustle his ass out of bed and get him working on that seedling.”
“What about the crime scene?” Rossi asked.
“Let someone else go through it again.”
“Cooper?” Matikas screamed. “What’s this about Simmons University?”
Jake was on his way to the elevator.
16
Saturday, September 6 – 7:45 A.M.
The soccer field was set against the backdrop of the old oil refinery tanks, rusted and unused, set along the Mystic River, west of the Tobin Bridge. Chelsea had changed since the days when the river was a means of industry. Now junkies and the unemployed loitered about, unafraid of corrupting Boston’s historical character.
A frustrated Dawn Cooper blew the whistle hanging from her neck. It was loud and piercing, especially to kids who’d had no discipline in their short lives. Yet Dawn was not a coach who put up with any backtalk from a group of twelve-year-olds. They had better appreciate her giving up a Saturday morning to practice for the game next week. That is, if they wanted to beat the Revere Shamrocks.
“Julio Ortega,” Dawn shouted, dropping her head, “you must pass the ball if you want to score. You are not Pelé, my little Latin soldier. Now pass-that-ball.” She clapped her hands on the beat of each word. “Or you will sit out the game next week.”
The boy looked at Dawn as if she were from another planet.
“Julio’s a ballhog, Mrs. Cooper,” Mantiqua Dawkins shouted from midfield.
“I’ll handle this, Mantiqua, okay. Let’s focus on what you’re doing.”
Brendan played with his Hot Wheels in a sandbox about twenty-five yards behind Dawn. He pushed the little cars through the sand, one by one, making vrrrrrroom sounds as he pretended he was part of the Daytona 500. At the basketball court nearby, a group of older kids traded Yu Gi Oh cards. Argued over who was a better superhero: Hell Boy or Batman. There was that autumn chill in the air, a cold, wet dampness generally reserved for late September.
Dawn glanced at Brendan every so often, smiled and waved her little fingers. She took a look around the area where Brendan sat. Just to make sure all was copacetic.
“Pass the ball,
This sparked Jake’s attention. “I’m all ears, Ray.”
“Has to do with those legs you found in the Taylor closet. By the way, the father is pissed. Says you should have warned him there might have been something of a ‘grotesque’—his word—nature in his daughter’s room.”
“What about those legs?”
Anastasia watched the exchange like a tennis match. She was curious, but did not want to get in between them.
“They’re not Lisa Marie’s legs, Cooper. Kelsey just confirmed that preliminary DNA does not match.”
Jake had his iPhone out, dialing Dickie before Matikas even finished.
“I’m not done here. There’s more. But you obviously have a few calls to make, so I’ll wait.” Matikas sat down.
Jake told Dickie to hold on. “What else, Ray? Come on.”
“Kelsey found some sort of a mark, like lettering, on one of the legs. I don’t know. Talk to her yourself. She’ll tell you more. Just don’t bother her tonight. She’s at a wake. Her cousin. Or some uncle.”
A thought passed through Jake: Death truly is her life . Then: “You hear that, Dickie?” Jake hung up.
“She wants you at the morgue first thing tomorrow morning. But said to call her office, she might have to meet you in Chelsea.”
Two times in a week, Jake noted.
Jake turned to leave. Before walking out, he stopped at the door. “Rossi, you and Dickie leave tonight, not in the morning. I want you two up there banging on that Simmons professor’s door while he’s in the middle of a dream. Rustle his ass out of bed and get him working on that seedling.”
“What about the crime scene?” Rossi asked.
“Let someone else go through it again.”
“Cooper?” Matikas screamed. “What’s this about Simmons University?”
Jake was on his way to the elevator.
16
Saturday, September 6 – 7:45 A.M.
The soccer field was set against the backdrop of the old oil refinery tanks, rusted and unused, set along the Mystic River, west of the Tobin Bridge. Chelsea had changed since the days when the river was a means of industry. Now junkies and the unemployed loitered about, unafraid of corrupting Boston’s historical character.
A frustrated Dawn Cooper blew the whistle hanging from her neck. It was loud and piercing, especially to kids who’d had no discipline in their short lives. Yet Dawn was not a coach who put up with any backtalk from a group of twelve-year-olds. They had better appreciate her giving up a Saturday morning to practice for the game next week. That is, if they wanted to beat the Revere Shamrocks.
“Julio Ortega,” Dawn shouted, dropping her head, “you must pass the ball if you want to score. You are not Pelé, my little Latin soldier. Now pass-that-ball.” She clapped her hands on the beat of each word. “Or you will sit out the game next week.”
The boy looked at Dawn as if she were from another planet.
“Julio’s a ballhog, Mrs. Cooper,” Mantiqua Dawkins shouted from midfield.
“I’ll handle this, Mantiqua, okay. Let’s focus on what you’re doing.”
Brendan played with his Hot Wheels in a sandbox about twenty-five yards behind Dawn. He pushed the little cars through the sand, one by one, making vrrrrrroom sounds as he pretended he was part of the Daytona 500. At the basketball court nearby, a group of older kids traded Yu Gi Oh cards. Argued over who was a better superhero: Hell Boy or Batman. There was that autumn chill in the air, a cold, wet dampness generally reserved for late September.
Dawn glanced at Brendan every so often, smiled and waved her little fingers. She took a look around the area where Brendan sat. Just to make sure all was copacetic.
“Pass the ball,
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