RRRRRRRing!
I jumped, and banged my knee on the wheel when my phone rang on its own, making me wish I’d opted for a sweet melody instead of a straight alarm sound. Elaine Cody had programmed her cell phone with the love theme from Gone with the Wind, I remembered. I fumbled with the RECEIVE button, all the while glancing around for Jake Powers, of unknown appearance.
“Hi,” Matt said. “Is everything all right?”
His gravelly voice always brought a smile to my lips. “Oh, hi. Yes, the phone just startled me.”
“Rose called a minute ago; she forgot to check on the time for your shopping trip tomorrow.”
I laughed. “I never agreed to go shopping. She wants to redo your entire house.”
“It’s our house, Gloria, so feel free.” A pause. “She said you all left Tomasso’s almost an hour ago.”
“I … uh … had an errand.” At eleven o’clock at night?
But he didn’t ask what errand, what could be open this late. I knew he’d wait until such time as I wanted to explain. Probably that’s why I’d agreed to live with him.
I’d met Matt Gennaro when Rose forced me upon the Revere Police Department as an expert witness in a trial involving a defective TV set. I was charmed by him, immediately comfortable with his scratchy tones and chunky build, like that of all my uncles when I was growing up.
We were now dealing with other people’s opinion of our “living arrangement.” According to recent demographics for Revere, Matt and I were among the two percent of residents living with “unmarried partners.” For Rose and Frank, it seemed natural—and, in Rose’s case, about time—for me to move in with Matt after almost two years of “dating.” For the West Coast vote, Elaine, who’d been through at least three relationships in that time, heartily agreed.
So what did it matter that my seventy-plus-year-old cousin, Mary Ann, in Worcester, hadn’t spoken to me since I called to tell her my new address? Or that Matt’s sister, Jean Mottolo, had said something equivalent to “Lots of luck,” when we told her our good news.
The dog-walker came by again. At least two creatures had spent a useful half hour or so. Time for a decision. I should either march up to MC’s apartment and convince her to come home with me—the silliness of that idea overcame me—or go home.
I ended my stakeout at the mortuary and headed for Fernwood Avenue.
At about eleven-thirty I joined Matt on the sofa that was one of my contributions to the living room. My blue-gray striped corduroy couch was much newer than his seventies-style plaid affair, and, unlike my rockers, minus the wear and tear of a cross-country trip. But still my furniture looked out of place. It seemed to be shifting around nervously, like a new digital spectrum analyzer trying to fit into an old lab system with analog components.
Matt was in his robe, surrounded by files and newspapers. He gave me a kiss, then a look. The expression he’d used during an entire career of wringing information from suspects, I guessed.
“That look is wasted,” I said. “I’ve already decided to tell you where I’ve been and why.” Little as I had to go on, the slight chance that MC might be in danger upset me enough to contact the police, so to speak.
“I’m listening.”
I told Matt about MC’s ex-boyfriend, and why I’d taken a detour from Tomasso’s. He kindly resisted a scolding about why I’d put myself in danger, or what made me think I could take on someone MC couldn’t handle. Neither did he scowl when he learned I had no descriptions—not of the alleged stalker, and not of MC’s ex-boyfriend.
“He rides horses,” I’d said; then we both laughed. Such useful information. A Texan who rides horses.
“Jake Powers,” Matt said, as he wrote in the notebook he kept handy. “I’ll check the database, and I’ll call the Houston PD. We’ll see if he’s done anything like this before.”
I wondered if “broke china cups and saucers” would show up on the criminal history computer database. “Can you send a car around to the mortuary?”
Matt nodded and punched in a number.
MC was safe. I relaxed.
Too soon.
“Now I have something to tell you,” Matt said, pulling a sheet of stationery from a brown envelope. I drew a quick breath as I recognized the logo—a thick cross, like the Red Cross symbol, only black and gray. The logo of Dr. Abeles, Matt’s doctor.
“Now, don’t worry,” he said.
Of course not. I could hardly breathe. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re not sure. Abeles says this is inconclusive.” Matt waved the paper as if it were a police report, like the kind he handled every day, perhaps a B&E or a mugging. “I need a biopsy. My blood test showed a prostate-specific antigen, whatever that is, at a borderline high level. And there was some abnormal hardness.” He flicked his wrist toward his groin with his closed fist. Not to be too specific.