Lucy swallowed hard and looked at Bill, gauging his reaction. His eyes had hardened and every muscle was tense, but he was working hard not to show it. Rocks through the window, death threats, just a typical Friday evening in the Stone house. Lucy knew he was blaming her and there would be hell to pay later.
“I think it’s a reference to Mimi’s murder, and the homeless guy, too. It’s from the killer,” said Lucy. “Somebody slashed my tires this morning, too.”
“How do you get that?” demanded Horowitz, with a rare flash of anger. “The murderer was her husband and he’s in jail and the homeless guy is officially an accidental death.”
“He was Mimi’s brother,” said Lucy.
“Yeah, and he was a homeless bum. Homeless bums die all the time.”
“Yeah, but homeless bums don’t come to Tinker’s Cove and get themselves killed. There’s a reason why he died and I think it has something to do with Mimi, with their family. It’s like violence follows them. I went to talk to their parish priest today. He told me their father was a cop who was killed during a bank robbery. Their mother was so upset she killed herself. I don’t know how it all comes together but somebody’s out to get them and that somebody must be worried that I’m on to something.” Lucy’s mind was working overtime. “You know, we didn’t hear a car or anything like that. I think that whoever threw this rock came on foot.” She looked out the window, at the darkening night. Through the trees she could see the lighted windows of the houses on Prudence Path.
“Lucy!” exploded Bill. “This is crazy. You’ve got to stop. You’re putting the whole family in danger and I won’t have it. Enough with the investigative reporting! Why can’t you write about doll makers and local artists and fundraisers like you used to?”
Lucy bit her lip and felt her face warm with embarrassment.
“Your husband has a point, Mrs. Stone. Maybe you ought to leave the investigating to the police.”
“Well, I would,” said Lucy, defending herself, “but the police don’t seem to be doing a very good job, do they? I was the one who identified the homeless guy, and I’m going to find out who killed him and Mimi. Those boys have lost their mother but they deserve to have a father.”
So there it was. Lucy hadn’t realized it herself, but that was the reason she wasn’t about to give up.
“It’s not your responsibility,” said Bill, softly.
“That’s right,” said Horowitz. “We have social services, foster care…they’ll be taken care of.”
Lucy rolled her eyes in disgust. “Who are you kidding? Don’t you read the newspapers? The whole system’s messed up.”
“That’s not true,” insisted Horowitz. “You only read about the tragedies. Believe me, there are hundreds of success stories every day, but reporters like you only want to write about the sensational stories.”
Lucy had heard it all before: it was the media’s fault. Never mind the corrupt officials, the lives destroyed, bad news was always the fault of the reporter. Kill the messenger. “Oh, puh-lease,” she moaned.
“I’ll admit you have uncovered some interesting information,” said Horowitz.
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“And I’m going to take another look at the case against Fred Stanton.”
“That’s great,” said Lucy.
“But I have to warn you,” he continued in his sad monotone, “that if you continue to investigate on your own, you’re taking a very big risk.” He shook his head mournfully. “Our resources are stretched to the breaking point. Next time you call, I can’t promise we’ll be able to respond.”
Lucy remembered how frightened she was when the window broke, she thought of how vulnerable little Zoe was, and she was tempted to promise she would leave the investigating to the pros, but she couldn’t do it.
“I’ll be careful,” she said.
CHAPTER 19
Lucy was up bright and early Saturday morning, eager to get to her computer and Google the bank robbery that resulted in Officer O’Toole’s death. She didn’t even bother with breakfast but poured herself a cup of coffee. The dog didn’t think much of this change in schedule but after pacing around the kitchen, nails clicking on the wood floor, she finally curled up on the floor next to Lucy’s computer desk with a big sigh.
The news stories she turned up took her back to the seventies, to long hair and ugly colors like mustard brown and avocado green and red-orange, to the Vietnam war, cities burning in race riots, the Black Panthers. Patty Hearst was in jail and other members of the Symbionese Liberation Army had died in a fiery shoot-out with police. Other radical antiestablishment groups had abandoned the peaceful protests of the sixties for violent action. One such group, the People’s Liberation Front, had robbed several Boston area banks in order to get money to advance their cause, supposedly protecting “the people” from the “fascist establishment.” Officer John Joseph O’Toole was among the officers responding to an alarm at the Boston Five Cents Savings Bank on Washington Street. He was the first to enter the bank and had been shot point blank in the chest by one of the fleeing robbers.
Two of the Front members had been killed in the ensuing shoot-out, a third had been wounded and was later tried and sentenced to life in prison, but the driver of the getaway car was never caught. Numerous photos were published in hopes that somebody would recognize him and turn him in, but that had never happened. He still showed up from time to time on lists of Ten Most Wanted Criminals.
Looking at the grainy photo of the long-haired, bearded young revolutionary, Lucy thought how much he looked like some of the boys she went to college with. If he was as blinded by youth and idealism as they had been, he had never seriously considered the human cost of his behavior. They played at revolution like kids today play video games, thought Lucy, shooting anyone who got in their way.
Lucy sat back in her chair, thinking over what she had learned and reached for her coffee cup. It was empty so she got up to refill it and make herself a piece of toast or something when Sara came down the stairs.
“You’re up early for a Saturday,” said Lucy.
“I couldn’t sleep,” said Sara.