Chapter Eight
Evan and Julia had been pretty insistent that Tim head upstairs and try to sleep for a few hours.
“There’s no way we’re letting you drive back to St. Rita’s right now,” Evan insisted. “Not until you prove that you can stand up straight without assistance.”
He tried to protest, but it was pointless. He knew she was right.
And Stevie chimed in, too.
“C’mon, Papasan. When you get up, you can take me driving. I’m going to Dad’s later today, and he won’t let me near his precious Bondo bucket.”
“For good reason,” Evan added.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stevie demanded. “I never hit anything.”
“Oh, really?” Evan asked. “What about that row of mailboxes at his condo?”
“Hey. That was totally not my fault.”
“Right.” Evan crossed her arms. “Lemme guess. They ran right out in front of the car?”
“Like anyone would even know if that happened,” Stevie complained. “That Chrysler is, like, nine miles long.”
“Okay, okay, you two.” Tim raised a hand to halt the discussion. “Retreat to your corners. I’ll stay, already.”
Stevie brightened up at once. “And take me out for a lesson?”
“Yes, God help me. That, too.”
“Sweet.” Stevie resumed her perusal of the sports pages in the morning paper. “Yo? Timbo? I see here that Villanova is playing St. Joe’s tonight. Up for a little wager?”
“And,” Evan began, “while we’re on the subject of your shared new lives of crime, maybe it’s time for the two of you to come clean about all of these little wagers?”
Stevie and Tim exchanged glances.
“No,” Tim said. “I really don’t think it is.”
Julia laughed. “Give it up, Sergeant Friday. These two canaries are never gonna sing.”
“Why does it seem like I fell asleep and woke up in a Dashiell Hammet novel?”
Julia patted her hand. “Drink your juice, dear.”
Tim appreciated Evan’s obvious attempt to lighten the tone. The easy banter worked to push some of the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him off to the periphery—at least for a little while.
“On that note,” Tim got up from the table. “I’m going to go take a shower and lie down for a while.”
He went upstairs after making them pledge to come get him if he didn’t reappear after a few hours. They all promised they would—so he wasn’t surprised when he woke up a little after 10 a.m. to find Stevie perched on the end of the bed.
“Are you awake?” she asked, when he opened one eye.
“I am now.”
She smiled. She looked so much like Evan had at that same age, he felt almost giddy inside. He figured it probably was an emotional response to the events of last night—and being so overtired.
“Did you get your shower?” Stevie asked.
“Yeah. Before I came in here to nap.”
“Cool. So? Ready to go driving?”
He laughed. “No flies on you.”
“I just don’t wanna waste time. Dad gets here at two.”
Tim yawned. “Are your mom and Julia still downstairs?”
“Nope. Julia went to Wegmans in Glen Mills, and Mama Uno had some kind of errand to run in the city. She said she’d be back before Dad and Kayla get here.”
“Okay. Looks like it’s just you-n-me, kid. Lemme go use the facilities and I’ll meet you at the car.”
“Sweet.” Stevie took off for the stairs.
When Tim joined her, she was already strapped into the driver’s seat. He climbed in and adjusted the seat to give himself a bit more leg room. He handed her his keys. “Where are we headed?”
“I thought maybe we could drive over to St. Cornelius School and practice three-point turns and parking in their lot.”
“Anything going on there today?” Tim put on his seatbelt.
“I don’t think so. It’s Saturday.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Fortunately, Tim had backed into Evan’s driveway that morning, so that took any immediate drama off the table. Stevie started the Subaru and did a good job negotiating the turn onto Ring Road. When they were underway, she asked him how he was feeling.
“Mom didn’t say much about why you showed up at our house this morning. I figured that meant I wasn’t supposed to ask.”
“You can ask,” he told her.” There’s a stop sign up ahead.”
“I see it.” She slowed the car down but didn’t quite come to a complete stop before rolling on through the intersection.
“Hey,” he said. “You have to actually stop—even if there’s nobody coming.”
“That’s kind of a stupid rule.”
“Most rules are. But they exist for a reason.”
“Now you sound like Mama Uno.”
“Who, as far as I know, has been driving for twenty-nine years without ever getting ticketed for a traffic violation.”
Stevie held up a hand. “Okay, already. I’ll stop next time.”
“Stop every time,” Tim added. “Stop and count to three before rolling on. Trust me. This is exactly the kind of stuff they ding you for when you take your driving test.”
They approached the turnoff for St. Cornelius. Stevie dutifully put her left blinker on.
“Do I have to stop here, too?” she asked.
“Not if there are no cars coming,” Tim said.
“Duh.” Stevie made the turn. “I was joking.”
“Smart-ass.”
Stevie drove along the access road to the school parking lot, promptly pulled into a space, and stopped.
“Before we start,” she said, “could you tell me what was wrong this morning? Or am I not supposed to know?”
Tim was surprised by her question. Not that she asked it—but that she thought he didn’t want her to know what was happening.
“No. You can always ask me anything. I was really rattled because a man I was going to meet with last night ended up getting shot in an apparent robbery.” Tim hesitated. “He was killed.”
“Oh, man. That totally sucks.” Stevie turned off the engine.
“Yeah,” Tim nodded. “It does.”
“I’m really sorry, Papasan. Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
“I guess I should’ve asked you about that before we came roaring out here. We didn’t have to do this today.”
“It’s okay.” Tim did his best to sound reassuring. “It’s good to talk about it.”
Stevie nodded. “I’m like that, too. Talking about stuff makes it easier to deal with. Mom almost never talks about stuff—even though she always makes me do it.”
“She’s pretty bossy,” he agreed.
“Who was this man? A friend?”
“He used to be. He was a guy I went to school with at St. Rita’s.” Was a guy? Tim was having a hard time talking about Joey in the past tense. “He was . . . having a hard time with some things, and he asked me to meet him to talk. That happened last night, after I got home.”
“Last night?” Stevie asked. “He called you pretty late, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. He did. He’d been out someplace, and whatever happened there made him decide to call me. I went out to an all-night diner to wait on him, but he never showed up. I went by his house on my way home and saw all the police cars there. That’s when I found out what’d happened to him.”
“Wow. That’s a nightmare. Was he married?”
“No. He lived with his mother. Joey was an only child.”
“That’s a drag. Will she be okay?”
Tim never ceased to be amazed by Stevie’s ability to ask exactly the right questions.
“I hope so. I’ll make sure the Church looks after her.”
“Meaning, you’ll look after her, right?”
He shrugged. “We’ll both look after her.”
“Yeah? Well, I think the Church is pretty lucky.”
“Lucky?” Tim didn’t quite understand her observation. “Lucky how?”
Stevie started the car. “To be married to such a good guy.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Jesús Correa Ortiz was the younger brother of a girl Evan had dated off and on in high school.
It actually was mostly off—at least as far as the actual “dating” part went. They really were more like occasional fuck buddies than anything else. Sofia wasn’t really queer—or so she said. According to her, her interest in Evan was more exploratory than anything. But they spent enough time together that Sofia’s mother, who once caught them mostly naked in the back seat of the family station wagon, never stopped blaming Evan for making her son “turn” gay.
Evan never quite understood Mrs. Ortiz’s calculus on that one. But Jesús, who wisely changed his name to J.C., never let Evan forget it, either. Especially when he got beat up every other week at school because he tended to wear pirate shirts and kept posters of Prince tacked up inside his locker.
How any of that was her fault never exactly became clear to her.
She knew J.C. had joined the Philly P.D. after college, but didn’t realize he’d made detective until Tim had mentioned him this morning. That was quite an accomplishment for a kid from J.C.’s background—particularly in a south Philly precinct not known for its tolerance.
It didn’t take her long to locate J.C.’s desk on the second floor of the 1st District Station on 24th Street. She knew he’d be working. Homicide detectives didn’t tend to get weekends off. Not in this town, anyway.
She crossed the big, noisy room toward the desk where he stood, scowling at something he was reading. When he looked up and saw her coming, she could tell that he recognized her right away.
He tossed whatever he’d been reading down on his desk, which was covered with papers, photographs, and about five empty coffee cups, all emblazoned with logos from sports teams and different area restaurants.
He took a moment to look her up and down. Normally that would piss her off, but she hadn’t seen J.C. in a while—not since he’d been a rookie beat cop. She was pretty sure he already had an idea about why she was there.
She fluttered the fingers of her right hand at him in her best pantomime of a feminine salute.
“Evangeline Reed.” J.C. knew that using her full name would piss her off. It was clear this interview was going to be . . . fun. “What’re you doing in this neighborhood? Your Lexus break down or something?”
“Very funny, Officer. You should try out for Spring Frolics again. Bet they’d finally let you in—what with that big gun and all.”
“Yeah? Suck my dick. You see this gold shield?” He pointed at the badge hanging from his belt. “It’s Detective now. You got some actual business here, or is this strictly a social call?”
Evan pulled out a chair and sat down beside his metal desk.
“I don’t recall asking you to sit down,” J.C. said.
“Funny. I don’t recall asking for permission.”
“Look. You lose your Pomeranian or something? If so, file a report downstairs. We do real work up here.”
“Who fucking pissed in your corn flakes, J.C.? I just need some help with a case I’m working on.”
He continued to stand there, glowering at her.
The ambient noise around them was ridiculous. Phones were ringing off the hook, and nobody in his shared bullpen of an office appeared to be breaking a sweat to answer them.
Their little standoff gave Evan time to make her own assessment of how the years had treated J.C. She was impressed. He was a good-looking kid—always had been. Muscular build—looked like he probably worked out four or five times a week. He still had those ridiculously long eyelashes that any woman would kill for, amber eyes and perfect, white teeth. Evan supposed he was a very popular boy these days—at least, in his off-duty hours.
Finally, J.C. yanked his ancient desk chair out and dropped down into it. That seemed like a courageous move to her. The thing groaned like it was on the verge of collapsing beneath his weight.
“What do you want?” he asked, in a more conversational tone. “Make it snappy. I got shit to do.”
“So, you were working a homicide last night. On 15th Street. Guy named Joey Mazzetta.”
“Yeah. So what?” She noticed J.C. slide some other papers over to cover up what he’d been looking at when she showed up.
“The priest you interviewed,” she reminded him. “The one who showed up at the Mazzettas’ house on South Bouvier? He’s a friend of mine. A good friend.”
J.C. held up his hands. “Again, I ask, so what?”
“So . . . what happened to Joey Mazzetta? I know he was shot and killed. Was it a robbery? Gang related? Drugs? What?”
He leaned toward her. “You know I can’t discuss any of that with you—even if I did know what happened. And I don’t.”
“C’mon, J.C. This ain’t your first rodeo. Joey was an out-of-work loser. Unarmed. Probably drunk. He was walking south on 15th Street in the middle of the night to meet a goddamn priest for pancakes at the Melrose Diner. He wasn’t a gang-banger, he wasn’t a drug dealer, and he wasn’t out lookin’ for love. What do you think happened to him? Were there any clues at the scene?”
He sat back in his chair. “So, you’re asking me to speculate?”
“Yeah. I’m asking you to speculate, J.C. It’s Joey Mazzetta we’re talking about. I know you remember him. He shot hoops with your brother, Luis.”
“Okay, Reed. Since we share such a sacred bond, I’ll tell you what I do know for sure. You might wanna take notes on this so you can remember it in the future. I’m a half-black, half-Puerto Rican fag named fucking Jesus, who’s managed, after six and a half years of bigoted bullshit, to make Detective in this shithole precinct. And what that means is that there’s no fucking way I’m going to blow all that up to help you jack off some rich, white politician who doesn’t give two fucks about the people who are stuck in this neighborhood because they’re too poor, too stupid or have the wrong goddamn skin color.” He grabbed one of the empty coffee mugs. “Now get the fuck out of my office and go play golf. I’ve got real work to do—for people who can’t afford to pay me.”
He pushed his creaking chair back, and stormed off—leaving her alone in a sea of ringing telephones.
That went better than I thought it would . . .
She pulled a small card out of her jacket pocket and tossed it on his desk before walking out.
She’d made it halfway to her car when her cell phone rang. She was relieved when she read the caller ID.
“What took you so long?”
“Hey,” J.C. said. “The walls in this fucking place have ears.”
“Yeah. I gathered. Nice performance. You always were a good actor.”
“It comes in useful sometimes. Listen . . . you wanna meet me someplace? Like in half an hour?”
“Sure. Just say where.”
“You know Stargazy?” he asked. “On East Passyunk?”
“No. But I’ll find it.”
“See you there.”
He hung up.
Good ol’ J.C.
She wondered if he still wore pirate shirts.
◊ ◊ ◊
Stargazy was a storefront, bangers and mash kind of place in what could only be called a “transitional” block on East Passyunk. It wasn’t quite lunchtime, but the joint was doing a steady business—mostly takeout, although the place had a few metal tables with mismatched chairs. Evan ordered a Pimms & lemonade, and sat down to wait on J.C.
Cops. They always knew the best places to eat.
J.C., for all his youthful fashion excesses, had always been a good kid. His father had been a beat cop in the same district where Joey earned his gold shield. Officer Alfonso Ortiz had been killed when he was dispatched to respond to a domestic dispute on McKean Street, only a few blocks from where Joey Mazzetta met his untimely end.
J.C. arrived exactly thirty minutes after his call. That impressed her. Most gay men she knew weren’t exactly punctual. In her experience, “Gay People’s Time” was more than just a charming expression.
J.C. pulled out a chair and sat down at her small table. Evan noticed that he was carrying a couple sheets of folded-up paper.
“Did you order anything?” he asked.
She held up her bottle. “Just this.”
“Trust me to order for you? It’ll save time.”
“Sure.”
“Cool.” He swiveled on his chair and signaled to the big man behind the counter. “Hey, Sam? Bring us two of those beef and onion pies with mash and parsley liquor. Same tab.”
Sam gave him a thumbs-up.
J.C. turned back to face Evan. “I assume you’re buying?”
“It’s the least I can do for making you queer.”
“Yeah. Mom still talks about that, you know.”
“How is Sofia?” Evan asked.
“Pregnant. She’s on her fourth one.”
“Damn, four kids?”
“Fuck no.” He laughed. “Fourth husband.”
“That girl never could commit.”
J.C. laughed.
Evan thought that if J.C.’s detective gig didn’t work out, he could always make a living as a Differio model. He really looked great.
“You know,” he said, “Mrs. Mazzetta cooked food for our family for more than a month after Pop was killed—longer than anyone else. Even after the women’s guild at the Tabernacle stopped coming, she kept at it. Every couple of days, she’d show up in that POS car of hers and unload shit. Lasagna. Casseroles. Even cakes. And she had to be doing all of that at night, after she got home from her job at the Acme.” J.C. drummed his fingers on the table. “Joey was always a total asshole. He used to call me ‘butt plug’ in school. But I’ll never forget how nice his Mom was to us. She didn’t deserve this.”
“Nobody does,” Evan said.
J.C. stopped drumming. “I suppose we should save our reminiscing for another time.” Sam brought J.C.’s complimentary tea over and deposited it on the table. “Thanks, man,” J.C. said to him. He dipped his Darjeeling tea bag in and out of the steaming cup. “So, you wanna know about Joey?”
“Yeah. Tim Donovan is my best friend.”
J.C. raised a perfect eyebrow. “A priest is your best friend? What the fuck? You get religion or something?”
“Or something,” Evan said. “But Joey also happens to be tangentially involved in another case I’m working on. So it’s possible that his death was related to that.”
“You wanna say more about why you think that?”
“I will after you tell me why you might think I might be right.”
“I never could fool you.” He unfolded the papers he’d brought along. “Joey was shot twice at close range—in the back. No gun at the scene.”
“Tim said his wallet was lying beside his body.”
“That’s right. It was empty—meaning no cash. But his Discover Card and driver’s license were still in it.” J.C. shrugged. “He also had a couple of prepaid Visa cards. No way to know if they had any balances left on them, but whoever capped him didn’t seem interested in those.”
“Meaning you don’t think it was a robbery?”
“No. For starters, muggers don’t usually shoot people in the back.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah.” He pushed what looked like a ballistics report across the table toward her. “We recovered two shell casings at the scene. Both of them were rimless, bottlenecked shells. You can see them here.” He pointed out the scans of the casings. “They’re stamped S&B—Sellier & Bellot—pretty distinctive shells. They were unusual enough that when the M.E. removed the rounds from Mazzetta, we rushed them over to the local ATF office. They did us a solid and ran an integrated ballistics ID report. Turns out we had a perfect match for a Tokarev 7.62.”
“What?”
‘Right.” J.C. nodded his head. “Not the usual sidearm favored by your common junkie who’s out looking for quick cash.”
“Isn’t that a Soviet-era firearm?” Evan asked.
“Good guess. The TT30 is a single stack, suppressed pistol that was the weapon of choice in Soviet bloc countries back in the ’30s. They’re not common around here, but you can get them from collectors. And the M.E. who removed the rounds from Joey said the fabric tears and powder burns were consistent with this type of weapon—fast and powerful. They tore Joey up pretty good.”
“Jesus.”
“You rang?” He smirked at her.
Evan laughed before taking a moment to assess everything J.C. had shared. “Shit. This wasn’t what I thought you’d say.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty much a goat fuck. And that’s not all. Apparently, your pal Joey had a busy night—before he ended up face down in that alley.”
“What do you mean?”
J.C. flipped to another page in the papers he’d brought along. “It seems he broke into some high-brow private club on South Broad Street and stumbled his way into the dining room—where he proceeded to start popping off at some of the bluebloods who were in there, stuffing their faces with Beluga caviar. Somebody called the cops, but by the time they got there, club security had already tossed his drunk ass out on the street.”
“Did they press charges?” Evan asked, knowing full well they probably hadn’t.
“Nope. Surprised?”
“Not really. What time did all that happen?”
J.C. consulted the copy of the police report. “About 8 p.m.”
“That’s four hours before he called Tim.”
“Yeah. That’s what Donovan said when he gave his statement.” J.C. drank some of his tea. “Mazzetta must’ve used that time to keep bar hopping.”
Evan didn’t want to ask her next question, but she knew she had to.
“What’s the name of the club?”
“Let’s see . . . The Galileo Club. It’s on a corner of South Broad Street.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Corner? Shit. It’s the whole fucking block.”
Evan felt sick, and it wasn’t the Pimms.
Sam was headed their way with two heaping plates of food. Great.
J.C. picked up his papers, refolded them, and tucked them into his jacket pocket. “Sorry. Can’t let you keep these.”
“No sweat. Thanks for sharing.”
Sam left their plates and some silverware wrapped in paper napkins. “Lemme know if you need a refill, J.C.,” he said.
“Will do. Thanks, man.” J.C. slid the grease-stained check across the table toward Evan. “Yours, I think.”
“Yeah.” Evan picked it up and tucked it beneath the edge of her plate. The steam rising off the parsley liquor was making her feel woozy.
Who was she kidding? It wasn’t the food. The food was fine. It was this whole damn mess. This case was an ongoing nightmare showing no signs of ending any time soon.
And now Julia’s father was right in the goddamn middle of it.
J.C. was already digging into his food.
“So, Evangeline,” he said. “It’s your turn to share. Tell me why you think Joey was murdered.”
“Yeah. About that.” Evan sat back and ran a hand through her short hair. “How much time do you get for lunch?”
◊ ◊ ◊
Dan and Kayla arrived at Evan’s house about fifteen minutes early. Tim and Stevie had already returned from Stevie’s driver’s ed lesson, but Evan was still a no-show. Before leaving, Evan had tasked the pair with sweeping off the back porch, in the event it warmed up enough that the party might be able sit outside. Temperatures were rumored to reach into the low fifties.
Julia doubted that would happen.
After greeting her father in the driveway, Stevie informed him that they only had about five minutes’ more work to do before joining the group inside.
Evan’s not being at home was like the ring of a coffin nail for Dan.
Julia wasn’t worried, although Dan rarely missed an opportunity to grouse about anything related to Evan’s behavior.
“She knew we were getting here at two, right?” He handed a bottle of nondescript wine to Julia. “This is pretty shitty.”
“Relax, Dan.” Kayla nudged him. “She probably got held up.”
He huffed. “Held up. That’s about right. Where the fuck is she?”
“I’m not sure,” Julia said apologetically. “She had a meeting in town. Why don’t you two go sit down? I’ll get us some glasses.”
“Let me help you, Julia.” Kayla followed Julia into the kitchen.
“I’ll go out and hang with Tim and Stevie until Evan gets here,” Dan said.
Julia had only met Kayla twice before, and both occasions had been fairly abbreviated encounters. But she liked her. Kayla was smart and vivacious—but not in an obnoxious, millennial way. Kayla’s energy was more about her personal drive and determination to work hard enough to earn the notice of a more mainstream news outlet. She’d been at Media Matters for about eighteen months when Dan first met her. She’d been assigned to a team of environmental impact reporters tasked with promoting green energy policy initiatives, and Dan was working with a couple of congressional campaigns where fossil fuel debates were hot-button issues.
The first time Dan asked Kayla out, he’d had the very great misfortune to run into Evan and Julia at CHIKO, a Chinese-Korean fusion restaurant on 8th Street near Capitol Hill. Evan later laughed like hell at Dan’s obvious embarrassment about being busted on what clearly was a date with someone young enough to be his daughter. Thankfully, she managed to behave better than expected, and the two couples chatted amiably for a few minutes before they were seated at different tables. Julia had to kick Evan beneath the table—twice—to get her to stop snickering whenever she looked over at Dan’s table.
“Stop it,” Julia hissed. “Behave yourself.”
“Will you quit kicking me?” Evan rubbed her chin. “It’s going to leave a mark.”
“You’re the one who’s going to leave a mark if you don’t start acting like a grown-up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Evan was still rubbing her leg.
“It means they’re obviously on a date. Judging by Dan’s mortification at running into us, I’d venture a guess that it’s a first date. If you keep acting out, there probably won’t be a second.”
“I’m not acting out.”
“Oh, really?” Julia leaned forward across the small table and rested her chin on the back of her hand. “How would you characterize your demeanor?”
“I’m just . . .” Evan fiddled with her water glass. “Curious.”
“Curious? If I didn’t know you better, I’d be jealous.”
Evan looked shell-shocked by her comment. “You’re not, are you?”
As tempted as Julia had been to let her twist in the wind a bit, she relented. “No. I’m not.”
“Good,” Evan seemed to relax. “It’s nothing like that. It could never be.”
“It’s comforting to hear that. So if your nose isn’t out of joint because Dan’s actually out on a date with someone, then what is bugging you?”
Evan seemed to balk at Julia’s question. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No,” Julia said “I don’t believe I am.”
It was Evan’s turn to lean forward over the table. “Did you see her?” she whispered.
“Of course I did. There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight, except a bit of early-onset presbyopia.”
“And?”
“And, what?”
“Come on, Julia. She’s practically Stevie’s age.”
“That’s an overstatement, and you know it. Besides, what possible relevance does it have? I should be shocked that you, of all people, would display such churlish prejudice.”
“Churlish?” Evan appeared miffed by Julia’s comment.
“That’s what I’d call expressions of baseless ageism.”
“Ageism?” Now Evan simply looked baffled.
“Are you going to continue to repeat everything I say?” Julia said. “If so, this is going to be a very dull evening.”
Evan sat back and stared at the tabletop for a moment. Then she cut her eyes up at Julia and gave her a sly smile.
“It’s really sexy when you get pissed. It’s like getting dressed-down by Dixie Carter.”
“Except for the accent . . .”
“Well,” Evan said. “There is that.”
Julia stared at the ceiling. “I love you, but sometimes you act like a sophomoric frat boy.”
“Oh, yeah?” Evan waggled her brows. “I can think of a few occasions where that behavior was actually to your liking.”
“Don’t prevaricate. Let’s try to stay in the moment.”
“Oh, I’m in the moment, all right. If I were any more in the moment, I’d slide right off my chair.”
Julia laughed. “It’s good to see that your sense of humor has returned. Now can you try to focus that good energy and fucking leave those two alone for the rest of their meal?”
“Ohhhhh. Profanity. That ain’t helpin’ your cause, Miz Julia.”
Julia raised an eyebrow. “Keep it up. I’m sure you and the rest of your Designing Women will enjoy a night on the sofa.”
“Okay, okay.” Evan reached a hand across the table to take hold of Julia’s arm. “I’ll behave.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my black heart.”
To be fair, Evan had managed to constrain herself for the rest of that evening . . . mostly. But ever since, she’d been engaged in a nonstop diatribe about the root of Dan’s foolishness. And that editorializing shifted into high gear when he and Kayla had got married last year. This gathering today would give Evan her first real shot at exercising her recent pledge to be more understanding and less judgmental.
It was anybody’s guess how successful she’d be sticking with her recent resolution when she finally got home.
Julia stole a surreptitious look at her watch. Evan was now twenty minutes late. It wasn’t like her to be tardy—and even less like her not to call or text if she were running late.
“What can I do?” Kayla asked.
Julia handed her a corkscrew. “How about you start by opening the bottle you and Dan brought? I’ve got some hors d’oeuvres ready, too.”
“Sure.” Kayla took the corkscrew from Julia but immediately set it down on the kitchen counter. “This one has a screw cap.” She held up the bottle. “I’m sorry. But as hard as I try, Dan clings to his proletarian tastes when it comes to wine.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m certain it’ll be delicious.”
“I admire your optimism.” Kayla cracked open the bottle.
Julia studied her without being too obvious. She really was a pretty young woman. Striking, actually, with her long, fair hair and athletic build. It was easy to see how she’d turned Dan’s head. The bigger surprise was how much gravitas she had. Julia felt confident that Kayla’s journalistic aspirations would pay off eventually—especially with a boost from the powerful connections Dan had on Capitol Hill.
It was that very suspicion that kept hamstringing Evan. As much as she tried, Evan said she couldn’t shake her fear that Kayla—whether wittingly or unwittingly—was using Dan as a stepping-stone to greener pastures. She didn’t want that for Dan, and she certainly didn’t want that for Stevie, who seemed genuinely to be forming an attachment to Kayla.
Julia chose to adopt a more sanguine point of view. She saw no evidence that Kayla was not genuinely attached to Dan—although she was the first to admit that she’d spent little focused time with either of them since they got married. She hoped that would change now that she’d be living here with Evan and Stevie.
That thought made her smile.
Kayla noticed. “You seem lost in thought.”
“Do I? It’s my turn to apologize for allowing myself to be distracted.”
Julia carried a tray loaded with wineglasses over to the counter where Kayla had set the open bottle of wine. “Maybe we should go ahead and fill these?” she suggested. “Give it a chance to breathe a bit.”
Kayla laughed. “Are you kidding? Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation wouldn’t help this wine. Want my advice?”
“Sure.”
“I say let’s fill Dan’s glass with this vinegar and open something else. He’ll never know the difference, and I have reason to suspect that you and Evan have better palates.”
Julia was amused. “Did some little bird tell you that?”
“Oh, yeah.” Kayla nodded. “My hope is that this is not a characteristic Stevie inherits from her father.”
Julia went to Evan’s small wine refrigerator and drew out a nice Cotes du Rhone. It was a good drinker—a Vacqueyras. Jammy, but not too spicy. It was one of their favorites. She held it up for Kayla.
“How about this one?”
“Hell to the yes.” Kayla nodded energetically. “Gimme.” She fluttered her fingers toward the bottle.
Julia passed it over to her. “We’ve got a few more of these, too, should we need them.”
Kayla was already cutting the foil. “Trust me, we’ll need them. He’s in a mood today. It’s this damn Cawley business.”
“Evan said the timetable is pretty compressed.”
“That’s one way to describe it. It’s probably the world’s worst-kept secret that Cawley was making the rounds on Capitol Hill all last week. The judiciary committee is planning to vote on his nomination as early as Thursday or Friday.”
“Next week?” Julia was surprised. This would not be welcome news to Evan.
“Uh huh. Those fossilized assholes want to be sure to get their hand-picked ideologue on the court before they blow town on the 17th.”
“Does Evan know this?”
“The date?” Kayla asked. “I think so. I know it’s part of what Dan plans to talk with her about today. That’s why he acted like such a jerk when we arrived and she wasn’t here.”
“I really do expect her any minute,” Julia reiterated. “It’s not like her to be late . . . for anything, really.”
Kayla nodded. “Stevie talks about that proclivity of her mother’s with fondness.”
“Fondness?” Julia quoted. “I don’t doubt she talks about it, but I suspect it’s with something other than fondness.”
“You’re right. I lied.” Kayla began pouring the Vacqueyras. “Good god, this is gorgeous.” She gave Julia an intent look. “Can we just keep this for ourselves?”
“Works for me.”
The door to the back porch opened, and Stevie erupted into the room with her customary flourish. Tim, Dan and Evan followed behind her more sedately.
“Too late,” Julia whispered to Kayla. “We’re busted.”
“Busted about what?” Stevie promptly began counting wineglasses. She looked at Julia with disappointment. “There’s one missing.”
“Yeah,” Julia held up a hand. “You’ll have to ask your mom about that one.”
“Seriously?” Stevie sighed dramatically. “Beloved Mama Uno?” She addressed Evan. “May I please have a glass of Dad’s wine, too?”
Evan walked over and gave Julia a quick kiss. She shook Kayla’s hand warmly. “I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s really good to see you, Kayla.”
Kayla handed Evan a glass. “No sweat. Stuff happens.”
“Mom? Hello?” Stevie snapped her fingers between the two women. “May I please have some of Dad’s wine?”
Evan examined the two open bottles. Then she chuckled and looked slyly at both Kayla and Julia. “Sure, honey. You’re welcome to have a small glass of your dad’s wine. Right, Kayla?”
“Absolutely. Stellar idea, Evan.” Kayla picked up Dan’s nine-dollar bottle of . . . something, and held it aloft. “Grab a glass, young lady.”
“Yeah,” Dan groused. He faced Evan. “I hate to be the one to break up this little love fest, but since you’ve finally consented to join us, I need about twenty minutes of your time to talk shop.”
“Can it wait two seconds, Dan?” Evan asked.
“No. It fucking cannot wait two seconds. If it could, I wouldn’t need to talk to you right now, would I?”
“Geez, Dad. Throw a rod, why don’t you.” Stevie sniffed her glass of wine and promptly made a face.
“Drink your wine, Stevie,” Dan said dismissively. “We’ll be right back.”
Kayla handed Evan a glass. “You’ll need this,” she said. She also handed Dan the glass she’d poured from his bottle.
Dan took it from her, then grabbed Evan by the elbow and steered her out of the kitchen.
“I guess we’ll be in my office,” Evan called over her shoulder. “Don’t say anything important until we get back.”
Tim munched on some canapés Julia had made. “These little blended family gatherings are always so much fun.”
“This smells like piss.” Stevie put her glass down, then shoved it another two feet away. “Like day-old potato salad that’s been left out in the sun.” She faced Julia. “Mom did that on purpose.”
“Hey.” Kayla took Stevie’s discarded glass to the sink and dumped it out. After giving it a good rinse, she brought it back and refilled it with the Rhone. “You saw nothing,” she cautioned.
“Yeah.” Tim laughed. “No worries, Kayla. When it comes to hooch, she’s a regular Sergeant Schultz.”
“Who’s that, Timbo?” Stevie sniffed her new glass of wine and made happy sounds. “This is more like it.”
“Sergeant Schultz was a character on . . . Who cares? You still won’t know what it means.” He picked up another canapé. “These things are great. Where’d you get ’em, Julia?”
“Prepare yourself for a stunning revelation, Tim. I made them.”
“Really?” Tim seemed genuinely surprised. “Evan says you can barely boil water.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “Evan thinks anyone who cannot properly dice an onion is some kind of simpleton. But however challenged I am in the culinary arts, I do have some modest claims to fame when it comes to the preparation of appetizers. Credit my miserable youth and the endless weeks I spent at summer camp.”
“You went to summer camps that taught you how to make appetizers?” Stevie was incredulous. “We just learned how to roll joints and use condoms.”
Julia laughed. “You say tomato . . .”
“Nothing beats a Catholic education,” Tim commiserated. “So, is there any more wine that Dan didn’t bring?”
◊ ◊ ◊
It only took Evan about five minutes to bring Dan up to speed on what had happened since they last spoke after Ben Rush’s trip to North Warren. She could tell he was concerned about the Joey Mazzetta development, but he was unwilling to pass any of the information about her suspicions along to the senators leading the opposition against Cawley’s nomination.
“At this point, it’s nothing but supposition,” he said. “Without any kind of corroboration or hard evidence, it’s nothing we can use.”
Evan was as frustrated as he was. “You think I don’t know that? I’m trying to follow these leads, but they keep expanding so fast, I can’t keep up with them. It’s like playing Vatican whack-a-mole.”
“What do you mean?”
Evan ticked the items off. “The bishop. The relationship between the boys on the St. Rita’s basketball team and Cawley’s club. The odd coincidence that Edwin Miller showed up in the photo of Cawley at the club with both the bishop and some of the team members. The fact that the only people who might be in a position to clarify any of this keep managing to turn up dead. And while we’re on it, let’s not forget the special insights I got from my anonymous little pen pal, Moxie.”
Dan held up his hands. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that this stinks, Dan. There’s some way Cawley is more involved with the bishop and those kids that extends beyond his dropping off the occasional check for new sports equipment or bus rides to basketball camp. I know it. We’re talking about kids who were routinely targeted for sexual favors by their damn priest—and God knows who else. Szymanski used this parish like it was some kind of private game preserve. And let’s not diminish the fact that this reprobate is now a bishop in the Philadelphia archdiocese—one who probably has a lot of motivation to keep his extracurricular activities under wraps. And that’s especially true now, after the grand jury report came out and started naming names.”
“I get that. But what has this got to do with Cawley? And don’t tell me about your fucking women’s intuition. That shit won’t stop his nomination, and you know it.”
She did know it. And that made her angrier than she was already.
“Screw you, Dan. I’m doing my best to try and nail it down. But it’s a little tough when all the damn witnesses end up dead.”
“Will you fucking sit down?”
Evan dropped into her desk chair with a huff. “The homicide detective I talked with this morning told me that Mazzetta went to Cawley’s private club before he was killed. He was drunk and started mouthing off in the dining room about some of the members.” She glared at Dan. “You think it’s some kind of happy coincidence that Szymanski happens to be a member of the same private club as the judge?”
“Look.” Dan’s tone was a tad more conciliatory. “I agree that this stinks. And if you ask me, the slimy fucker is in it up to his comb-over. But unless or until you can get somebody on the record, or come up with photos of some kid sitting on Cawley’s face, he’s gonna sail through that senate committee less than a week from now, and take his seat on the high court—forever and ever, amen.”
Evan was sickened by Dan’s comment. Even though she knew him, it was still possible for her to be shocked by such a callous demonstration of his empathetic myopia.
“These were kids, Dan. Kids who were betrayed and sexually abused by someone they should’ve been able to trust. Their lives were changed forever. Some of them will never recover. Some of them, like Joey Mazzetta, will never even get the chance to try. You might think about that the next time you decide to dismiss their lives out of hand because they can’t be useful to your cause.”
“Hey. Back the fuck off. It’s not just ‘my’ cause. You think any of their lives will be improved if assholes like Cawley get lifetime judicial appointments? To be good at this job, I have to have ‘empathetic myopia,’ as you call it. Otherwise, we’d never win at anything. And, P.S? Don’t bite the hand that fucking feeds you.”
“Right,” Evan said, sarcastically. “You’ve got a great track record, Dan. Except for a few tiny lapses now and then—like back in Pennsylvania, when you didn’t stop Marcus from concealing the unsavory truth I’d uncovered about Edwin Miller.”
Dan was plainly beyond pissed at her. His face was turning purple. He slammed his glass down on an end table so hard the stem snapped and cheap wine went everywhere—including all over his trousers.
“Godfuckingdamnit!” He jumped up and brushed wildly at his pants.
Evan bolted to her feet and rushed over to where he stood. All she could see was red liquid flying all over the place, and she wasn’t sure if he’d managed to cut himself in the process of dropping what was left of the wineglass.
“Jesus, Dan! Are you all right? Did you cut yourself?” She reached for his hand. There were no visible signs of cuts. “God. Let me go get some towels.”
She turned to head toward the downstairs powder room, but he caught hold of her hand to stop her.
“I’m sorry, Evan.” He looked like he meant it. “I do care about what happened to those kids. If somebody did that to Stevie, I’d kill them with my bare hands.”
Evan gave his soggy fingers a squeeze. “I know that. I’m sorry, too. This business is really getting to me.”
She hadn’t even told him the part about Julia’s father—or Tim’s struggle with leaving the Church.
And now she was nearly out of time. Four more days? It was insane. She’d never be able to deliver any hard proof before the Senate voted to send Cawley on his merry way.
Hard proof? That was a joke. Hard proof of what? That was the confounding part. She didn’t even know what questions to ask to find what ‘hard proof’ there was to find.
But she agreed with Dan about one thing: Cawley was wrapped up in all of this.
And she was running out of time to prove it.
“Screw this mess,” she said to Dan. “Let’s go get more wine.”
◊ ◊ ◊
The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful.
Tim stayed on for another hour after Evan and Dan rejoined the group, then made his excuses and headed back to St. Rita’s.
“I gotta work tomorrow,” he said. “And it might be a good idea to shave before I show up for Mass.”
“Yeah,” Stevie nodded. “That whole Wolfman Jack thing you’ve got going on ain’t a-workin’.”
“Wolfman Jack?” Tim asked. “You have no clue who Sergeant Schultz is but you know about Wolfman Jack?”
“Of course,” Stevie declared. “We stream him on Spotify.”
Tim squinted at her. “You’re joking, right?”
“Nope. That voice kept meat and potatoes on Mrs. Wolfman’s table for years.”
“And with that,” Tim said, “I am outta here.”
“Shoot us a text when you get home?” Evan asked.
Tim nodded at her. “Thanks,” he looked at Julia, “both of you. I mean it.”
Stevie’s cell phone rang as Tim was leaving.
“It’s Des,” she said. “I’m taking this one upstairs.” She answered the call. “Hey. Lemme call you right back—I’m saying good-bye to Dad and Kayla.”
“You are?” Dan asked.
Stevie disconnected. “Well, yeah. Aren’t you picking me up on Tuesday?”
“Yes, we are,” Kayla replied. She nudged Dan. “Say good-bye to your daughter.”
Dan got to his feet so he could hug Stevie. “Why am I always the last one to know what’s going on?”
“Because you’re clueless.” Stevie hugged him back, before walking over to kiss Kayla on the cheek. “See you on Tuesday. We’re still doing Alice Glass, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” Kayla nodded. “I’ve already got the tickets.”
“Sweet.” Stevie headed for the stairs, which she took two at a time.
Dan faced Kayla. “Who the hell is Alice Glass?”
Evan answered for her. “I think she’s the musical love child of Joan Jett and Morrissey.”
Kayla leaned forward and high-fived Evan.
Dan still looked confused.
“More wine, Dan?” Julia asked.
He looked at his watch. “No. Thanks, Julia. We need to shove off, too. I gotta be on the Hill by seven.”
Kayla stood up beside him.
“I’m so happy you both got to come by today,” Julia said. “I know it meant the world to Stevie.”
Dan looked up the stairs. “All appearances to the contrary.”
“Stop sulking.” Kayla elbowed him. “She’s going to be staying with us the rest of the week. You can put her cell phone in the freezer . . . with mine.”
“I don’t put your cell phone in the freezer.”
Kayla looked at Evan. “This is my struggle.”
Evan laughed. “Been there, bought the T-shirt.”
“I never put anybody’s cell phone in the freezer . . .” Dan continued to complain.
Kayla took him by the arm. “Let’s go, Heathcliff.”
“You let me know what you find out tomorrow night.” Dan said to Evan. “Time is money.”
She nodded. She’d earlier filled him in on the after-hours visit she and Ben had planned to the office of the attorneys who set up the pro-Cawley PAC.
Dan and Kayla made their way outside and climbed into Dan’s ancient Chrysler. The big engine nagged a few times before thundering to life and belching a dense cloud of black smoke into the air.
Evan grimaced. “That thing is a damn menace. I don’t know how it keeps passing inspection.”
“I guess he knows people in high places,” Julia mused. “Or there’s always the classic approach men are prone to take to protect the things they love.”
“What’s that?”
“They change the laws.” Julia shrugged. “Call an environmental menace a ‘classic,’ and presto: it becomes exempt from all compliance with clean air regulations.”
“You ought to be in Congress.”
“No thank you. Talk about T-shirts I never want to wear again.”
Dan slowly backed down Evan’s driveway. It wasn’t much of a trip. The car was already a third of the way out before he engaged the gears.
Evan and Julia stayed in the yard and watched the big hunk of silver steel crawl along Ring Road like an armadillo. When it disappeared over a hill, Julia turned to Evan.
“What, exactly, is this job you and Ben Rush are doing tomorrow?”
“You really don’t want to know.” Evan said.
“Is it dangerous?”
Evan thought about how to answer. “Not if we don’t get caught.”
“Evan . . .”
“Honey? Let’s not go there, okay?”
Julia folded her arms. “I agree with you. Let’s not. I watched you tonight. You tried to hide it, but I saw how much your shoulder was hurting. You could barely pick up that scrub bucket Stevie and Tim left on the porch.”
“That was my fault. I grabbed it with the wrong hand.” After she said the words, Evan realized what a mistake she’d made. Julia didn’t miss a trick.
“See? I rest my case.”
Me and my big mouth . . .
“Baby, come on. I’ll take some Tylenol and it’ll be fine.”
“You’re not taking Tylenol,” Julia corrected her. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Okay then, I’ll take some Advil.”
“You’re probably destroying your liver.”
That comment surprised Evan. “I haven’t been drinking that much.”
“Not the wine. The analgesics. You pop them like Tic Tacs. It needs to stop. We both know there’s a remedy for this. You’re just too scared or too stubborn to take care of it.”
“I promised you I would,” Evan insisted.
“When?”
“When did I promise?”
“No.” Julia said with trace of exasperation. “When are you going to take care of it?”
“After Christmas?”
Julia seemed to consider that offer.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll stop haranguing you under one condition.”
“And that is?”
“You make an actual appointment for the surgery. No arguments. At this rate, you’ll be lucky to get a date within the next six months.”
Evan beamed at her.
She loved it when a plan came together . . .