Chapter 4
Outside the cottage, Calvano was busy pissing people off. “Get back behind the tape before I take you in myself,” he told one woman who had leaned so far over the crime scene tape in her efforts to see inside the front door that her breasts were spilling out of her shirt. The lady’s husband sputtered at Calvano in outrage, but he’d already moved on to insulting someone else. His tall figure in its well-cut suit towered above the sea of neighbors who had come running from their homes and from the park across the street to see what the fuss was about.
Crime scene crowds are a strange lot. Since my death, I had learned just how strange they truly were. For one thing, I always spotted familiar faces among the crowd—the very same faces, in fact—at virtually every crime scene since my days tracking Maggie had begun. I called them The Watchers. There was a blank-faced black man with tattoo stripes on his cheeks, a pale, blonde lady wearing a light cotton dress and no shoes, two teenagers with greasy hair and even greasier skin, and a rigid dark-haired man with military posture. They were always there, scattered among the crowd, waiting, though I was not sure what they were waiting for. I’d see them when I first searched the faces of the crowd, but when I looked again—they’d always be gone. Today I was late, having lingered inside with Maggie, and I’d caught a glimpse only of the black man with the tribal tattoos on his cheeks. I tried to find him again, but he had disappeared.
If these were my colleagues in the afterlife, I was in sad shape indeed.
Calvano was scanning the crowd, just like me, examining faces, looking for anyone who seemed out of place. Most of the people were from the neighborhood. They came in all ages, all shapes, all sizes. Most looked curious and very little more, although a few seemed frightened. Only my old lady friend, Noni Bates, looked upset.
“You knew the woman who lived here?” Calvano asked abruptly, not bothering to conceal his use of the past tense.
“Yes,” Noni said in a voice that lacked her usual preciseness. “I give her advice on her garden. She’s a nurse in the emergency room at the hospital. What happened?”
“She killed herself. Stay here,” Calvano told her. “We’ll want to talk to you.”
She blinked, taken aback by his abruptness. Her new friend, Robert Michael Martin, interceded. “Are you sure?” he asked Calvano. “Isn’t it a little soon to make that call?”
Hoo-boy. Calvano was going to love this one. He looked at Martin with contempt. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m her neighbor.”
“Did you know her?”
“No.”
“Then shut up and leave the scene to us.”
“There was a man in the park,” Martin said. “He was sitting on the bench right over there.” He pointed straight across the street to where a row of benches lined two sides of the playground, forming a neat right angle that gave one row of benches a perfect view of the cottage’s front door.
“That’s what benches are for,” Calvano said impatiently. “For sitting on.”
“But he’d been there for days,” Martin insisted.
“And you know that how?” Calvano asked brusquely.
“I’ve been watching him.” Martin started to explain, but Noni put a warning hand on his arm. She knew people like Calvano on sight. Martin fell silent.
It was too late. Calvano was staring at Martin more closely, sizing up his sloppy clothes and intense gaze. “What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.
“Robert Michael Martin,” the chef said promptly.
“Well, Robert Michael Martin, I’m going to need your address, too.” Calvano held a pad out to the man. “Print, please. We’ll be in touch.”
Martin wrote his address down, eager to help, not knowing he would likely pay dearly for speaking up.
The old lady knew better. She’d lived longer. She’d run into bullies like Calvano before. “Robert, you go home and wash up,” she said firmly when he was done printing his address. “I have some things to tell this nice detective and then I’ll stop by.”
“But someone needs to—”
“I can do that,” Noni interrupted firmly. “You go on and I’ll stop by when I’m done.” Even Robert Michael Martin got the hint. With a look at Calvano that was part scorn and part fear, Martin started marching resolutely down the block, trying to maintain his dignity. Calvano’s only choice in stopping him was to tackle him and risk damaging his expensive suit, possibly for nothing, or let him go.
Naturally, Calvano let him go. He was an even worse detective than I had been. At least I’d had the excuse of being a drunk to explain my sloppiness.
Calvano took it out on Noni. “Lady, I don’t appreciate you—”
“Did you want to talk to me or not?” Noni demanded. “I can give you ten minutes and then I intend to go to church and pray for this young woman’s soul.”
I was impressed. Her voice had gone from cooperative to steely in an instant. I bet she’d been one hell of a teacher in her day. Calvano actually flipped to a new page in his notebook, ready to take notes. What a grand old dame.
“What did you know about . . . ?” Calvano asked, his voice faltering. He flipped back a few pages and checked for the victim’s name, one he had already managed to forget. “ . . . about Fiona Harper?”
“Her name was Fiona Harker,” Noni correctly him grimly. “She lived alone. She never married. She didn’t have a boyfriend that I know of. And she would never have killed herself. You’re quite mistaken on this point. Fiona was a practicing Catholic. She would not have killed herself.”
Calvano looked bored. I wanted to brain him. Fiona Harker deserved better. Yes, I had been just as careless when I was alive. But I was different now. I was sensitive. Which was why I knew he needed a good beat-down. Watching Calvano reminded me of how sloppy I had been, and I didn’t like looking in the mirror.
“What else can you tell me?” Calvano asked Noni.
“She was very private and a little shy. We only met because she stopped by my house to ask me about some perennials in my garden. People say she was an excellent nurse, and I know she was an excellent gardener.”
“But no boyfriend?” Calvano asked skeptically.
“Not that I know of,” Noni said. “Although I’m not the one to ask. We did not discuss our personal lives.” She managed to make it sound like Calvano had been a pervert for asking, even though it was his job to know. I totally enjoyed his shamefaced reaction. Noni had his number.
“Are people in this neighborhood tight?” Calvano asked, trying to regain his authority. “Can you point out other people who might have known her?”
“I can’t help you,” Noni said. “I didn’t know her well enough to say.”
That was when the screaming began. We all heard it: uncontrolled, feral panic, so intense it made you want to flee first and ask questions later.
The crowd turned, searching the park, trying to put it all together. A woman in her late twenties stood on the edge of the playground, face flushed, her hands held over her mouth, her eyes searching the park as she screamed and screamed and screamed.
Noni was the first to realize what it meant: a playground, a panicked mother, the strange man in the park. She pointed to the woman and yelled at a stunned Calvano, “Go. A child is missing. Go.”