Dickie had been hot on the father ever since they identified Lisa Marie.
“Never overlook the obvious, Jake. Who taught us that. Anyway, we can put,” Dickie explained, scrolling through pages of notes, “Alyssa and Lisa Marie in the same library, same college café downtown, and same bar within the past few weeks.” He tossed the little notebook on the table next to where Jake stood scrubbing his hands.
“Together?”
Kelsey walked over. “Um, we use that sink to wash organs, Detective Cooper. The hand-washing station is over there.” She pointed to Jake’s left.
“What? Damn it.”
“We’re working on that connection,” Dickie said.
“Doesn’t mean squat, Dickie. Or that they even knew each other.” Jake dried his hands with a brown piece of paper towel.
“If they knew each other, boss, that certainly changes things.”
10
Friday, September 5 - 1:33 P.M.
Dickie and Caroline Shaughnessy had lived on Plymouth Avenue in East Milton near Cunningham Park for the past twenty years. The neighborhood, dotted with three-deckers lined up so close to one another you could see what your neighbor was having for dinner, was an easy on-off jaunt from I-93, which made the trip downtown quick for Dickie.
Dickie stopped at home to grab lunch after leaving the morgue. Jake had radioed to say he’d be by to pick him up. Something about a tip Jake had gotten from a sheriff up north. The sun beat down on Jake as he walked up the short stone pathway, the flower beds edged in perfect lines of cut earth. Caroline was standing, drilling holes in the mulch with a strange tool she had impulsively purchased from an infomercial—this, so she could plant her tulip bulbs for next year. Dickie’s wife had her bleached-blonde, shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail, her cell phone clipped to the side of her waist. She wore wool gloves so as not to damage a fresh manicure—purple polish with little white hearts and silver glitter at the tips—she had just gotten at the Somers Day Spa in Quincy, her weekly Friday afternoon treat. There was the perfect smear of dirt on Caroline’s right cheek. All her adult life she had worked as an insurance consultant for Met-Life, just recently from home. She had dinner on the table at five every night. If Dickie wasn’t there, Caroline ate in front of Golden Girls reruns on a TV tray by herself and told her man to fix his own damn plate when he came home.
“Does it really take ‘the hard work out of yard work,’ Caroline?” Jake asked of the gardening tool, referring to the pitch line in the commercial.
“You startled me.” Caroline stopped working.
Jake kissed her on the cheek. Grabbed Caroline by the shoulders. Took a look at her. “You’re a sucker for those TV gadgets, Caroline.”
“How are Dawn and Brendan?”
Jake considered how independent today’s woman was. He adored that about Dickie’s wife. He wished Dawn was more like her. Free-spirited and tough. Caroline was one of those women who insisted on separate checkbooks and bank accounts from her husband.
“They’re wonderful, Caroline.”
“Right, Jake. Everything’s just hunky-dory at home, uh-huh,” she said, wiping a bead of sweat with the back of her wrist from her crinkled brow.
Jake walked away. Stepped up onto the wrap-around porch connected to the three-decker the Shaugnessyes owned. “No one uses ‘hunky-dory’ anymore, Caroline. Let’s you and I bring that one back, huh. Along with maybe ‘a million miles an hour,’ and ‘highway robbery.’ Now where is that husband of yours?”
“Downstairs in ‘The Zone.’ ” Caroline looked up to the sky and shook her head. “Like a little kid sometimes—he is.”
With his towering frame, Jake was forced to duck at the bottom of the stairs leading into Dickie’s finished basement. He didn’t want to hit his head on the ceiling above the final stair. Dickie had made some changes to the house since Jake’s last visit. The
“Never overlook the obvious, Jake. Who taught us that. Anyway, we can put,” Dickie explained, scrolling through pages of notes, “Alyssa and Lisa Marie in the same library, same college café downtown, and same bar within the past few weeks.” He tossed the little notebook on the table next to where Jake stood scrubbing his hands.
“Together?”
Kelsey walked over. “Um, we use that sink to wash organs, Detective Cooper. The hand-washing station is over there.” She pointed to Jake’s left.
“What? Damn it.”
“We’re working on that connection,” Dickie said.
“Doesn’t mean squat, Dickie. Or that they even knew each other.” Jake dried his hands with a brown piece of paper towel.
“If they knew each other, boss, that certainly changes things.”
10
Friday, September 5 - 1:33 P.M.
Dickie and Caroline Shaughnessy had lived on Plymouth Avenue in East Milton near Cunningham Park for the past twenty years. The neighborhood, dotted with three-deckers lined up so close to one another you could see what your neighbor was having for dinner, was an easy on-off jaunt from I-93, which made the trip downtown quick for Dickie.
Dickie stopped at home to grab lunch after leaving the morgue. Jake had radioed to say he’d be by to pick him up. Something about a tip Jake had gotten from a sheriff up north. The sun beat down on Jake as he walked up the short stone pathway, the flower beds edged in perfect lines of cut earth. Caroline was standing, drilling holes in the mulch with a strange tool she had impulsively purchased from an infomercial—this, so she could plant her tulip bulbs for next year. Dickie’s wife had her bleached-blonde, shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail, her cell phone clipped to the side of her waist. She wore wool gloves so as not to damage a fresh manicure—purple polish with little white hearts and silver glitter at the tips—she had just gotten at the Somers Day Spa in Quincy, her weekly Friday afternoon treat. There was the perfect smear of dirt on Caroline’s right cheek. All her adult life she had worked as an insurance consultant for Met-Life, just recently from home. She had dinner on the table at five every night. If Dickie wasn’t there, Caroline ate in front of Golden Girls reruns on a TV tray by herself and told her man to fix his own damn plate when he came home.
“Does it really take ‘the hard work out of yard work,’ Caroline?” Jake asked of the gardening tool, referring to the pitch line in the commercial.
“You startled me.” Caroline stopped working.
Jake kissed her on the cheek. Grabbed Caroline by the shoulders. Took a look at her. “You’re a sucker for those TV gadgets, Caroline.”
“How are Dawn and Brendan?”
Jake considered how independent today’s woman was. He adored that about Dickie’s wife. He wished Dawn was more like her. Free-spirited and tough. Caroline was one of those women who insisted on separate checkbooks and bank accounts from her husband.
“They’re wonderful, Caroline.”
“Right, Jake. Everything’s just hunky-dory at home, uh-huh,” she said, wiping a bead of sweat with the back of her wrist from her crinkled brow.
Jake walked away. Stepped up onto the wrap-around porch connected to the three-decker the Shaugnessyes owned. “No one uses ‘hunky-dory’ anymore, Caroline. Let’s you and I bring that one back, huh. Along with maybe ‘a million miles an hour,’ and ‘highway robbery.’ Now where is that husband of yours?”
“Downstairs in ‘The Zone.’ ” Caroline looked up to the sky and shook her head. “Like a little kid sometimes—he is.”
With his towering frame, Jake was forced to duck at the bottom of the stairs leading into Dickie’s finished basement. He didn’t want to hit his head on the ceiling above the final stair. Dickie had made some changes to the house since Jake’s last visit. The
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