Painted Ladies

65

Winifred Minor’s address was one of the palisade of condos that had gone up in the old navy yard after the navy moved mostly out. There was still a small presence fenced off at the city square end of the yard, but the rest was residential. There were some small shops to service the residents, but most of the effort and money had been expended on the waterfront, where you could look out your window at harbor traffic, and across the harbor at Boston.

Winifred lived in a gray clapboard town house at the end of a long corridor of gray clapboard town houses, all of which were elevated a level to permit parking underneath. This meant climbing a significant stairway and walking along a deck in front of the town houses until you found the number you wanted.

On the way over from my office I had carefully thought out the options for gaining entry, once I had scoped the place out a little. I reviewed my options as I climbed the stairs and moved down the deck. Winifred was located three from the water end of the row. The option I chose was breathtaking in its simplicity.

I rang the bell.

In an appropriate amount of time, Winifred opened the door. She opened it only a little, enough to see out. And when she saw me she stood and stared, with one hand on the open edge of the door.

“May I come in?” I said.

She blinked a couple of times, as if the question was too hard for her.

Then she said, “No, no, I don’t think so. We’re busy now.”

“How about I wait?” I said.

She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “We’ll be busy all day.”

I nodded. Her face was stiff. But as I looked at her, she glanced down at the door lock where her hand rested, and as I looked down with her, she pushed in the little button that kept the door from locking automatically when it was closed.

“Perhaps I could come back tomorrow,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” Winifred said, and closed the door.

I pressed my ear against it and heard her steps receding up the stairs. I stayed where I was for a moment and then gently tried the thumb latch on the door. It was open. I went in very quietly and eased the door shut behind me. I was in a small hallway that led to a sitting room with a big window that looked out on the harbor. The room was furnished as an office. To the left, a stairway led up to what I assumed were the living quarters.

Vertical architecture.

I had a Smith & Wesson .40-caliber on my hip, and a short-barreled .38 in an ankle holster. But if there was shooting in the kind of space I seemed to be in, then Winifred and Missy were at risk. Me, too, but I had signed on for it. I was wearing jeans and sneakers, a black T-shirt, and a leather jacket. The T-shirt had a little pocket on the chest. I took off the leather jacket and put it on the floor. I took the S&W off my hip and cocked it, and held it a little behind my right thigh and started quietly up the steps.

And there he was. Sitting in an armchair, drinking a glass of orange juice. His daughter sat in a straight chair near him. And his ex-wife sat on the couch with her hands clasped tightly and resting on her knees.

“Ariel Herzberg,” I said. “As I live and breathe.”

His reaction time was excellent. He dropped the orange juice, came to his feet in one graceful movement, stepped behind Missy’s chair, and produced a semiautomatic pistol.

Missy said, “Daddy?”

He made a push-away gesture at her.

I said, “Why don’t you go over beside your mother, Missy.”

“No,” Ariel said. “Stay put.”

Missy looked at her mother. Her mother put her hand up, palm out, in a stay-put gesture.

“You know why he wants you to stay?” I said.

“So I won’t be caught in a crossfire,” she said.

She was trying for defiance, but her voice was a little shaky.

“Pretty to think so,” I said. “But he knows I will hesitate to shoot if you are there.”

She looked at Ariel.

“Stay where you are,” he said, without looking at her.

“For God’s sake, Ariel,” Winifred said. “She’s your daughter. You can’t use her as a shield. Even you.”

“I do what needs to be done,” he said. “I have always done what needed to be done.”

Winifred stood.

“Where are you going?” Ariel said.

“If I can’t protect my daughter, at least I can protect myself,” she said, and walked across the living room and up the stairs.

“Remember,” Ariel said, “I have the girl.”

Winifred made no answer as she disappeared up the stairs.

“You have the girl?” Missy said.

“Shut up,” Ariel said to her.

He was looking a little beleaguered, and as best I could see, he hadn’t cocked the pistol.

“I’ve tried to kill you at least twice,” he said. “You are both skillful and lucky, and you have by and large destroyed my operation here.”

“No need to thank me,” I said.

Ariel shook his head slightly, as if there was something in his ear.

“But now I have you,” he said.

“Somebody has somebody,” I said. “And you haven’t cocked your weapon.”

Ariel smiled and thumbed back the hammer.

“You won’t shoot,” he said. “You won’t risk hurting the girl.”

He was right, and I knew it, and he knew that I knew it. I focused on his gun hand. As soon as it tightened I would dive, and maybe the girl could get out of the way before he killed me.

“Daddy,” Missy said.

Her voice scraped out as if her throat was nearly shut.

“Be still,” he said.

“You are hiding behind me,” she rasped.

“I’ll kill him,” he said. “Then you and I will leave.”

“You are going to hide behind me and shoot a man.”

“I am,” Ariel said, and raised the pistol.

I watched his hand. Missy stood up quite suddenly and lunged in front of me. I grabbed her and pushed her sprawling down behind the couch, and joined her. When we hit the floor, I shoved her away and rolled onto my stomach with my gun out ahead of me. The sound of a big flat shot filled the room, and Ariel stepped backward calmly and fell over on his back. I came to my feet and stepped around the couch to where Ariel lay on his back, his eyes open, seeing nothing. I crouched down and felt for his pulse, but I knew that there’d be no pulse. And there wasn’t. I stood and looked up. Winifred was at the top of the stairs, holding a long-barreled rifle. She was crying. Behind the couch, Missy was crying and yelling, “Momma.” She was struggling with her crying. “Momma.” Still carrying the rifle, Winifred half ran, half fell down the stairs and dropped to her knees beside her daughter. She put the rifle down on the rug beside her and put her arms around Missy, and they rocked back and forth together on the floor behind the couch. I took my gun off cock and put it back on my hip. I went to the kitchen and found a bottle of scotch and a water glass. I got ice from the refrigerator, put the ice in the glass, and poured some scotch over it. Then I walked back into the living room. A big container ship went dreamily past the picture window, heading for the Mystic River. The women cried and rocked.

I found a big hassock and sat on it and sipped my scotch and was quiet.