12

I went back to my office and spent the afternoon dealing with relatively normal things—faculty requests for departmental research support, graduate student funding, teaching schedules, and the like. The standard department administration wasn’t the kind of fun working with Laurie on her experiments had been, but it was better than dealing with sexual assault. Especially because Karen’s focus on Steve Upton gave me an uneasy feeling about the way the case was going. But she was the pro, and I needed to step back and let her do her job. And for my own sanity, I needed to get over the idea that something more was developing between us. Whatever sparks seemed to sometimes fly, our differences in viewing the case created a conflict that clearly made it impossible to develop the kind of personal relationship I kept hoping for.

That litany all made sense until Karen’s email came in toward the end of the day.

Brad, I’m so sorry about this morning. I had no reason to be short with you, and I apologize. I know you’re just trying to help. And I realize that you know Upton much better than I do, so I need to pay attention to your instincts.

Can I make it up to you over dinner tonight? Carmella’s in the North End at seven, my treat.

I read it twice, with a growing feeling of excitement and anticipation. Surely this meant that Karen was interested in more than talking about the case. Meaning there was hope for our budding relationship after all. The rest of the afternoon passed slowly.

The North End, aka Little Italy, was one of my favorite parts of Boston. Less than a mile square, it had a distinctly European feeling, with its maze of narrow streets lined by Italian bakeries, groceries, and restaurants. The population was about one-third Italian American, down from virtually 100 percent in the 1930s, but you could still hear Italian spoken on the streets.

I took a rideshare to avoid the parking hassle and had it drop me off at the downtown end of Hanover Street. It was a pleasant evening, and I strolled up Hanover, past two of my favorite bakeries and the Paul Revere House. When I got to Charter Street, I turned left toward Carmella’s, which was also in the direction of the Old North Church and Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. The Puritan ministers Cotton and Increase Mather, famous for their roles in the Salem witch trials, were buried there. An omen that I hoped was not a reflection on the way the current investigation was going.

Carmella’s was the kind of small, intimate restaurant the North End was known for, with murals of old Italy hanging on exposed brick walls and vases of dried flowers on the tables. Karen was already seated at a corner table with an open bottle of wine. I joined her, and she poured me a glass.

“It’s a Chianti Classico. I hope you like red.”

I took a sip. “Nice. And this place looks good. Haven’t been here before.”

“It’s one of my favorites. I think you’ll like it.” She smiled. “Even better than your neighborhood Starbucks.”

“I certainly hope so.” I put my menu aside. “If it’s one of your favorites, what do you recommend?”

“Well, the eggplant rollatini is a fantastic appetizer, but it’s a lot. Want to share?”

“Sure, that sounds good.”

“And then you’ll have to choose your own entrée. I’ve never had anything bad here, so you’re on safe ground.”

The waiter greeted Karen by name when he came to take our orders. I went with veal marsala, Karen with the chicken parmigiana.

I took another sip of wine. “Looks like you’re a regular here.”

“Yes, I live just a couple of blocks away, so I’m probably in once or twice a week. Sometimes for takeout and sometimes to eat here.”

“Really, you live here in the North End?” This seemed like the chance to ask the obvious but overly personal question on my mind. “Alone?”

She looked at me with a faint smile. “I love the ambiance. Been here over ten years now. And yes, alone. How about you?”

“I have a condo in Back Bay, right on Commonwealth Avenue.”

Her smile broadened. “And the other part of the question?”

I felt myself flush. “Yes, alone.”

“How nice. I like the whole Back Bay neighborhood. Have you ever been married?”

“I gave it a try once, but it didn’t mesh with the demands of doing science. My wife wasn’t happy with all the nights and weekends I spent in the lab, especially after we had a kid. We stuck it out for several years, mostly for our son’s sake, until we finally admitted that we were just making each other miserable.”

“I’m sorry,” Karen said. “It can be tough combining marriage with a demanding career. How do you get along with your son?”

“We’re good. He’s a lawyer in Los Angeles—got married himself a couple of years ago. My ex and I are actually on pretty good terms now too. Better than for most of the time we were together.”

“And how about living alone? Do you like it, or do you get lonely?”

I shrugged. “I’m fine on my own. Maybe I’m too busy to be lonely.” I smiled to lighten the mood. “Especially now that you have me moonlighting as a detective’s assistant.”

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Happy to help.”

Was there a hint of a different kind of help to come? I was trying to figure out how to respond when the waiter came with our appetizer. I let the thought go and tried the eggplant.

“Delicious,” I said. “Good recommendation.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you like it. I’m hoping a nice dinner will serve as an apology for my being a bitch this morning.”

I swirled my wine. “Don’t worry about it. You’re the pro, and I can see where the forensics left you pretty well settled on Upton. And how you don’t want my nagging doubts to hold you back.”

“True enough, but it wasn’t fair of me to accuse you of bias. I have a lot more respect for you than that. Anyway, I hope the rest of your day went better.”

“As a matter of fact, it did. It turned out to be one of those rare days when we get a really promising result in the lab.” I told her about Laurie’s experiments as we ate our appetizer and the waiter brought our entrées, discreetly omitting Laurie’s name so that she didn’t recognize this was based on my collaboration with Upton. That had become an inconvenient truth, and I didn’t want to retrigger her reaction of this morning. I’d deal with it later, if necessary.

She raised her glass in a toast when I finished. “Congratulations. That sounds great. But is it really so unusual to get good results like that?”

“Very unusual to get something like this, actually. People get results and publish papers all the time. But something really important, like this could be? You maybe get something like this a few times in your career, if you’re lucky. Or sometimes not at all.”

“Important results must not be so unusual for you, though. After all, you’ve got the top position in your department.”

I laughed at that. “No, that’s not how it works. Department chair isn’t really the top position, and it’s not particularly based on research accomplishment, although you need to have a solid record to get the respect of your colleagues. But being chair is more of an administrative task that you do for a limited period, usually five years. After that, you go back to being a regular faculty member.”

“Doesn’t sound as if you like it much. Why’d you agree to do it?”

A good question. I gave her my best shot at an answer. “Well, it was hard to say no with both my colleagues and the dean asking me to take it on. And it is giving me the chance to bring in some new young faculty and have a hand in shaping the future of the department, so that’s a good thing. On the other hand, it’s really taken me away from research, and I’ve been worrying about keeping my lab going. I guess that’s partly why I’m so pleased with these new results.”

She furrowed her brow. “Interesting. It’s so different from my world. For me, promotion to the top is the only way to go. And it’s a fight to get there, not something I’d ever be asked to take on as a chore.”

There was a look of determination in her eyes. I asked, “Are you in the middle of a promotion fight now?”

She nodded. “That’s actually the meeting I had to get back to the department for this morning. The chief is retiring and the search for a successor is in full swing. I’m pretty sure that I’m the top internal candidate, but they’re also looking at an outsider.”

“Do you know who?”

She hesitated and frowned. “Unfortunately, I do. It’s the asshole who harassed me years ago on the Boston force.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry! Do you really think he could get it?”

“I hope not. I wouldn’t have much of a future here if he does. But I think it’s mine if I have the dean’s support.”

I finished my veal. “Great. I’ll make sure I get a chance to put in a good word for you.”

She smiled and clinked my glass. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that. What I need to do is to get this case closed. Everything’s in now, and bringing it to a successful conclusion will be a big plus on my record. And in the dean’s report on me.”

I drained my wine as I thought about it. I wished I could make it easy for her, but I couldn’t do it. “I just don’t know. I agree with you about the evidence, but there’s nothing solid against Upton either. And I’m not so sure we can dismiss that idiot wrestler.”

“I did follow up a bit more on his alibi. One of the students who works at the library confirmed he was there that night. Although she couldn’t be sure of the time.”

“So his alibi’s still shaky?”

She sighed. “Well, it’s certainly not airtight. But what he told us holds up, and he really wasn’t positioned to be the perp. He had no way of knowing Emily was knocked out and vulnerable. The only one besides Upton who did know that is Mike Singer. And his alibi’s about as solid as it can be.”

“I know—I have to agree that Upton’s the obvious choice. I guess I just can’t get around the fact that Emily insists it wasn’t him.”

“At least you admit that everything points to Upton. I guess that’s some progress. And you’re right that it’s not conclusive without something from Emily. Meaning there isn’t any possibility of criminal charges. But I think I’m going to go to the dean with what we have and see how she wants to proceed. There may be enough for her to push Upton into a negotiated resignation. I hope you won’t stand in my way?”

I frowned. “If she asks, I’ll have to tell her I have reservations. But this is your case. I won’t try to sabotage you.”

The waiter brought the check and asked if we wanted coffee or dessert. Or, he suggested, maybe some grappa. Karen looked at me with a faint smile and a wink. “Why don’t you come over to my place for an after-dinner drink instead?”

Wow! Unless I was misreading this, it was an invitation to take our evening far beyond dinner. “I’d love to. Just let me make sure that Rosie’s taken care of.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Who’s Rosie? I thought you lived alone.”

“I do, as far as other humans are concerned. Rosie’s my pug, and I just need to text my downstairs neighbor to tell her I’m going to be late. She’ll take Rosie down to her place for the night.”

I sent Ellen a quick text and then pulled up the video feed from my condo. Rosie was sleeping in her bed in the living room, snoring away with her usual pug noises. I showed Karen the phone.

“See, here’s Rosie. Happily napping, which is mostly what she does when I’m not there.”

Karen looked at the phone and broke out laughing. The sound of Rosie’s heavy snoring seemed to particularly amuse her. “You have a whole system set up to monitor your dog when you’re away? You must be one of those totally crazy pet owners!”

I felt myself flush. She’d hit it right on the head. “I guess I have to plead guilty to that. I was worried about leaving her alone when I first got her, so I set this up so I could look in on her when I was out. Fortunately, Ellen, the girl who lives downstairs, is great about taking care of her when I’m away, so Rosie’s just fine. But I still like to peek in on her occasionally.”

Karen shook her head and finished her wine. “Nice to know you’re a nutcase.”

The waiter brought the check, and she signed it. No credit card. I looked at her quizzically, and she said, “I have an open account. It’s the North End way. Walk me home?”

Her condo was three blocks away on Salem Street, in a midrise red-brick building that was typical of the North End. When we got there, I followed her up an ornate marble staircase to her unit on the second floor. The living room boasted gleaming hardwood floors, a white leather couch facing a granite fireplace, and peach-colored walls with two large oil paintings.

“This looks great,” I said.

She murmured, “Glad you like it.”

Then she moved into my arms and pressed her mouth against mine. The kiss deepened, and I held her to me, exploring the warm, smooth skin beneath the back of her knit blouse.

Then she moved away and took my hand. “Why don’t I show you the rest of the house? The bedroom’s just off to the right.”