“Marshall Finestein. He’s the one who took one in the hip, managed to crawl off.”
“And served as an eyewit, with considerable detail, on Paulson. He consulted on a documentary. He pops up on TV at every anniversary.”
“He won’t make the next one. Hit-and-run. He jogged every morning, started it after he got back on his feet after the incident. The car didn’t even slow down, knocked him out of his Adidas, and kept on going.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Quiet stretch of road, early morning. But a Toyota Land Cruiser with front-edge damage and blood, fiber, skin, turned up abandoned a half mile from the scene. The owners—parents of two, a CPA and a pediatrician—reported it stolen about the time it was mowing Finestein down. We’ll take a harder look, but they’re clean, Essie.”
“Somebody knew Finestein’s routine and his route, stole the car to take him out.”
“That’s six deaths with the victims connected to the DownEast Mall. Three murders with this one, two suicides, and Marcia Hobart’s one accidental. There’s a pattern, Essie.”
“One of the suicides was in Delaware, the other in Boston, one of the murders—deemed gang related—was in Baltimore.” She held up a hand before he objected. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Reed. But it’s still a stretch. A connection pattern, yeah, but statistically you’re going to have deaths, especially that include suicide and accidental, in any large group. There’s no pattern to the method. A silenced handgun, a knifing, a hit-and-run.”
“Overkill’s a pattern,” he insisted. “Three bullets in Roberta Flisk. Thirteen stab wounds in Martin Bowlinger, ramming a big-ass SUV at high speed into Finestein. Bowlinger, in his first month as mall security, panics and runs when the shooting started. He can’t live with it, moves away, starts using. He’s zoned when he’s stabbed, dead after a couple of holes go into him, but the killer keeps slicing. Overkill.
“And the suicides,” he continued, warming up. “What if they weren’t? Add Hobart’s mother’s accidental, which still doesn’t sit all the way right for me, and you’ve got too damn many.”
“The pattern breaks down with Hobart’s mother. She wasn’t a victim. She wasn’t a survivor.”
“She was a victim,” he insisted, his green eyes going hard. “Maybe she wasn’t a terrific mother, maybe she was weak, but she was a victim. Her son made her a victim.”
“Motive?”
“Sometimes crazy’s motive enough. I know it’s a stretch, but it just keeps circling back.”
Though the ice had melted, diluting it, Essie drank more tea. “And that might be the real reason you’re still in that shitcan. You can’t keep circling back, Reed. Keeping track, that’s one thing. I’m never going to not keep track. But you have to move on, too.”
“I wouldn’t be a cop if it wasn’t for that night, if it wasn’t for you. And the cop’s saying it feels like a pattern, all the way through it. I want to look closer at the suicides and the accidental. On my own time,” he said quickly. “But I want you to know I’m going to look closer.”
“Okay, all right. If you find anything, I’ll be the first one to help you push.”
“Good enough.”
They both heard the first fussy cries through the upstairs window. “That’s my cue,” Essie said. “do you want to come in, stay for dinner?”
“Not tonight, thanks. Next time I’ll bring dinner.”
“I’ll take it.” She picked up the tulips. “Thanks for the flowers, partner.”
“You bet. Have fun, Mom.”
“I could sleep standing up.” She paused at the door. “My boobs are a milk factory and I haven’t had sex for a month. And you know what? It’s fun. Come back, bring pizza.”
“You got it.”
He walked to his car, decided he’d go back to his shitcan, toss a frozen pizza in the oven, and dig a little into a couple of suicides.
*
Simone hauled suitcases and boxes down four flights of steps to Mi’s Prius. Fork in the road, she told herself, determinedly cheerful. This was just a fork in the road, and a big, bright opening for Mi with the move to Boston, the position at Mass General.
Mi deserved it, had worked for it, would be great at it.
“How are you going to get all this stuff in there? You should’ve shipped all these books.”
“Everything’ll fit.” Mi tapped a finger to her temple. “I’ve got it all worked out. It’s like Tetris.”
“I never understood that game, but once a geek…”
Realizing her skill had been in the hauling, Simone stood back, watched Mi—her long, sleek ponytail through the back loop of a Boston Red Sox hat (a gift)—calculate, arrange, shift.
She wore cropped jeans, pink sneakers, and a Columbia T-shirt. Small hands, Simone thought, boxing away every detail. Short nails, never painted. The little Vietnamese symbol tattooed under her right thumb that meant hope.
Lovely long, dark eyes, soft jawline, slim bladed nose.
An oversize watch on a slender left wrist, tiny gold studs in small, close-to-the-head earlobes.
And, of course, the brain, as within minutes Mi had everything loaded. “There! See?”
“Yeah. How could I have doubted. Except there’s one more.” Simone held out the box she’d kept behind her back. “You can find room, and open it when you get there.”
“I’ll find room, but I’m opening it now.”
Mi tugged off the raffia tie, took off the lid, peeled back the cotton batting. “Oh. Oh, Sim.”
The sculpture, no bigger than Mi’s hand, formed three faces. Mi and Simone, with Tish centered between them.
“I was just going to do you and me, but … she wanted to be there. It’s how I think she’d look. If.”
“It’s beautiful.” Tears rose up, thickened the words. “We’re beautiful. She’s with us.”
“She’d have been so proud of you, Almost Dr. Jung.”
“Still have a ways to go for that. She’d’ve been proud of you, too. Look how talented you are.” Gently Mi traced the features of her friends. “She’d have been a star,” Mi murmured.
“Damn straight.”
“It’s the first thing I’ll put out in my new apartment.” Carefully Mi replaced the cotton, the lid. “Oh God, Sim. I’m going to miss you.”
“We’ll text and call and e-mail and FaceTime. We’ll visit.”
“Who am I going to talk to when I can’t sleep?”
“Me. You’ll call me.” Wrapping Mi in a hard hug, Simone rocked them both. “You’re allowed to make friends. You go ahead and do that. But you’re never allowed to make another best-best friend.”
“You, either.”
“Not a chance. You have to go, you have to go.” Still she clung. “Text me when you get there.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.” Simone made herself pull back. “Go. Kick ass, Mi-Hi. Kick ass, cure the common cold, and be happy.”
“Kick ass, Simone. Kick ass, make great art, and be happy.”
Mi got behind the wheel, put sunglasses over streaming eyes, and with one last wave, took her own fork in the road.
Simone went back in, up the flights, and into the apartment to face living alone for the first time in her life.
She could afford it—and didn’t want a roommate. She had a job, her modeling fees, and had even sold a few pieces here and there through a local gallery.
Plus her trust fund had kicked in, so she could—when stretched—dip into that.
Mi’s bedroom would become her studio, her workshop.
Though she cried more than a little while she did it, she moved supplies from her bedroom, from the section of the living room she’d claimed. She dragged shelves, her bench and stool.
Now, she thought as she set up, she’d be able to get in and out of bed without climbing over and around art supplies.
The light in Mi’s room—correction, her studio—would do very well. She could bring up models instead of paying or bartering for space in someone else’s studio.
As she arranged and rearranged things, she made plans. Without Mi’s companionship, she wouldn’t be so tempted to just hang out, wouldn’t have those long conversations or impulse evenings out. She’d use that time to work.