Double Homicide

2

Slumped in the driver’s seat of the car, drinking coffee that was too strong and too hot, Michael Anthony McCain squinted through the foggy windshield as his brain took a trip down memory lane, back to the time when he had it all. About ten years ago. When he was in his early thirties, around the time he’d been promoted to detective one. One hundred and seventy pounds of pure muscle on his five-eleven frame, he’d been able to bench-press three on a good day. His hair had been thick, light brown in the winter, dirty blond in the summer. With his sparkling baby blues and his dazzling white smile made possible by thousands of dollars’ worth of dental work, he’d been a hell of a pussy magnet. Even Grace had forgiven his occasional indiscretions because he was an incredible specimen of the male species.

Now she had no tolerance at all.

If he was home a minute late, she’d get all snitty on him, giving him the cold shoulder for days even if he didn’t do nothing. Which, unfortunately, was all the time, unless he went hunting, which he wasn’t inclined to do, being too broke, too busy, and too tired.

Even then, it’s not like he went after women. They just came to him.

McCain made a sour face.

It had been a long time since someone-anything- had just come to him.

Fucking-A long time.

He turned on the defogger for the zillionth time, which blasted cold, then hot air, until the interior of the Ford was as hot and humid as a rain forest. As soon as he killed the switch, frigid air seeped through the cracks and crevices, exposing the shoddy fit and finish of the car. He shifted his weight, trying to stretch his legs as best he could, given the cramped conditions. His right toe was numb and so was his butt. Sitting too long.

He was swaddled in layers of clothing that made him too hot in some places and too cold in others. His hands were encased in leather gloves, making it hard to hold the cup, but at least when the coffee sloshed over the rim, he didn’t feel the burn against his hands. His nose was cold, but his feet were warm courtesy of a little electric foot heater that plugged into the cigarette lighter of the Escort. He’d be comfortable-relatively comfortable- until the contraption short-circuited.

Given his history with departmental gear, McCain gave it a couple of weeks.

Through the glass, Aberdeen Street was superficially cheerful. The night was still, the air electrified by blinking Christmas lights strung along the rain gutters of shabby frame houses. Snow left over from last week’s storm still dusted bushes and trees. Icicles hung like tears from the eaves of the houses that lined the block.

Not many single-family homes left anymore in this part of Somerville; most of the houses were leased out and shared. The neighborhood was no South Boston or Roxbury. Most of the residents were decent types- working-class stiffs, born and bred in and around the city. A fair share of graduate students, too, looking for cheaper housing because rentals in Cambridge were exorbitant. But the district had its share of bad guys.

The yellow house McCain was watching was filled with students, including the bad guy’s current squeeze-a pie-eyed sociology major at Tufts. Privileged girl, currently screwing Romeo Fritt, the murderous psychopath. She’d taken her parents’ protests as racism. Idiots never learned; normally, that wasn’t McCain’s problem except that Fritt was wanted for an especially brutal multiple murder in Perciville, Tennessee, and according to an anonymous tip, he was possibly bunking at the pie-eyed girl’s apartment-and that was his problem.

Underneath his parka, McCain had loosened the top button on his pants, giving him more slop-over room for his gut. Used to be he could eat whatever he wanted and a couple hours in the gym four days a week was enough to keep the almighty spread at bay.

Not no more.

About five, six years ago, he’d started running in the morning-couple of miles, then three, then four. That worked for a while. Now? Fergetit. No matter how much progress he logged up and down Commonwealth, his waist kept growing. Then, irony of ironies, around the same time he started putting on the pounds, his head hair started falling out. Then, adding insult to fucking injury, useless hair started growing in his nose and ears.

What the fuck was that all about?

He finished the last dregs of his coffee and threw the paper cup onto the backseat. The yellow house had been lifeless for the last hour. He had one more hour to go before his shift was up. Because of the cold, they were working in two-hour segments, bosses figuring it wouldn’t look good for the department to be sued for frostbite.

Just one friggin‘ hour to go, though why he cared was a mystery. Nothing to come home to. Grace had taken Sandy and Micky Junior to her parents’ condo in Florida for their two-week holiday break. He was supposed to join them later on in the week, hopefully for Christmas, but if not then, he’d go for New Year’s. In any case, no one was home right now. Nothing living in the house except a couple of plants.

Sally had died three months ago, and he was still in mourning for her. The one-hundred-fifty-pound Rottweiler bitch had been his best friend, staying up with him nights when the rest of the family went to bed, stinking up his den with her flatulence. Man, she could fart. Had to put her on Beano it was so bad. Congestive heart failure had finished her. Three weeks of fading away.

He missed her like crazy. Lately, he’d considered getting a new Rottie but finally decided against it. It wouldn’t be Sally. Besides, the breed didn’t live too long, and he didn’t know if he was up to another protracted mourning where his eyes hurt a lot and he couldn’t tell anyone how he felt.

Maybe one of those countertop Christmas trees would help-something to cheer up the place-but who had time?

Rubbing his neck, McCain stretched once again, staring across a dark street at the dark house. Nice bones to the place. Ripe for renovation. Somerville had lots of old trees and parks, and on the part that bordered Med-ford, near Tufts, there were lots of cutesy college cafés. Still, wherever there were college students, bad dogs moved in and did their business.

McCain peered through the binocs. The house remained inert. Fritt’s girlfriend lived in the top bedroom, first decent break the police had gotten since the APB came down from Perciville. But not everything pans out.

Fifty minutes to go.

McCain suddenly realized that he was lonely. Picking up the cell, he punched AutoDial 3. She picked up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he said into the receiver.

“Hey,” Dorothy answered back. “Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“No movement at all?”

“As dark as a witch’s tit.”

A pause over the line. “Exactly how dark is a witch’s tit?”

“Very dark,” McCain answered.

“You think he skipped?”

“Yeah, it’s possible. In which case, I think we should be a little concerned about the girl. True, she’s a moron, a dumb college girl swept off her feet by this psycho, but she don’t deserve to die because of it.”

“How nice of you to acknowledge that. Did she show up for class today?”

“Dunno. I’ll check it out and get back to you. I sure hope she didn’t go with him.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That would be bad. How long you got to go?”

“At the moment”-McCain squinted as he checked the dials of his luminescent watch-“forty-five minutes. You’re taking over?”

“Feldspar’s covering for me.”

“What?” McCain snarled. “Why him?”

“‘Cause Marcus got a game tonight and Feldspar was next on the catch list, so that’s why him!”

“Jesus, Dorothy, I got a headache, a backache, and my friggin‘ legs are numb. Stop bitchin’ at me.”

“You’re the one who’s bitching. I just answered your question.”

Silence.

Then McCain said, “Have fun at the game. Talk to you later-”

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?”

“Getting all pissy. It happens every time Grace leaves you alone.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

“Sure you can.”

“Bye, Dorothy.”

“Why don’t you come with me to tonight’s game?”

McCain thought a moment. “Fergetit. You’d just bitch the whole time that I was bad company.”

“You’re always bad company. Come anyway.”

“I heard it was sold out.”

“I got an ”in.“”

McCain didn’t answer.

“C’mon, Micky! They’re twelve and one-a shoo-in for the regional NCAA, and with Julius, they’re aiming even higher. You should see them when they get it all going. It’s like ballet.”

“I hate ballet.”

“Yeah, that’s why I said it’s like ballet. Stop moping. You’ll feel better if you get out of the house.”

McCain remained silent.

Dorothy said, “Your loss, Micky.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

Again, McCain checked his watch. “That’s gonna be real tight for me.”

“You’re not that far from Boston Ferris. Even though you don’t deserve it, I’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office.”

“What do you mean I don’t deserve it?”

“Self-explanatory.” Dorothy hung up.

McCain cut his line and threw the cell on the passenger seat. He picked up the binocs again.

Still nothing.

Ah well, maybe Feldspar would be the lucky deuce.

As much as he hated to admit it, he felt better, his spirits lifted ever so slightly.

It was nice to be wanted.