Robert B. Parker’s Blood Feud

Thirty-Four

I spent the rest of the morning, and most of the afternoon, trying to find out anything I could about Maria Cataldo, whom Desmond Burke said he had loved and then lost. And proceeded to get lucky, because of my father’s assistance and contacts.

He was able to track down a birth certificate, which informed us that Maria had been born at Mass General in May of 1958. Good to know, I thought. But the information did nothing to help me find out what had happened to her after Boston, where she had gone, what she had done with her life. It wasn’t until several hours later that a cop friend of my father’s from Providence, Pete Colapietro, one who owed him a favor, just because somehow everybody in my father’s orbit seemed to owe him a favor, emailed him a photograph of a death certificate from Rhode Island Hospital in Providence, which Phil Randall forwarded to me. It was dated two months previously, and had the name Maria Theresa Cataldo on it. There was no next of kin listed. The cause of death was listed as complications from Parkinson’s disease.

“Desmond said he didn’t know whether she was dead or alive,” I said. “But now I know.”

“You going to tell him?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just not today.”

“There could be a husband or son or a daughter somewhere,” Phil Randall said on the phone.

“But the name on the death certificate,” I said, “is the same as the one on her birth certificate. Maria Cataldo. Daughter of Vincent and Bettina.”

“Could have gotten married after Boston and never bothered to change it,” my father said.

“Like you always tell me,” I said. “Blood is blood.”

“Interesting how much of this story runs through Rhode Island suddenly,” he said.

“You think?”

“Might I make a fatherly suggestion?”

“Have you ever had to ask permission?”

“See if you can find out if there was a wake and a funeral for her down there,” he said. “If there was, find out who paid. Not hard to check. Find out where she’s buried, and who paid for the plot, and paid for a stone if there is one.”

I smiled to myself. The guy Desmond Burke called an old copper. Still doing his copper thing.

“I would have thought of all these things, you know,” I said. Still smiling. “It’s in my genetic code.”

“Still don’t know why the Red Sox aren’t,” he said.

I got on my laptop and got as comprehensive a list as I could of all the funeral homes anywhere near Providence, Rhode Island, and simply started cold-calling them.

Finally found myself speaking to a man who identified himself as Mr. Otero Senior, at the Otero and Son Memorial Chapel, in Pawtucket.

I told Mr. Otero Senior that I was from the Boston Police Department, which was technically true. Invoking the spirit of the law, if not the letter of the law.

I inquired about funeral arrangements made for Maria Theresa Cataldo, if there had been any.

“Why, yes, there were,” he said.

“And you handled them?” I said.

“We did.”

“Was she buried or cremated?”

“You said you were with the police,” he said. “Might I ask to what this is in reference?”

“A homicide investigation,” I said.

Whole truth, nothing but.

“She was buried,” he said.

“In Rhode Island?” I said.

“No, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Up in your neck of the woods.”

“Boston?”

“St. Augustine’s,” he said. “It’s on Dorchester Street.”

“In South Boston,” I said. “I know where it is.”

I knew where it was because Peter Burke had just been buried there. I could hear my own breathing, and wondered if Mr. Otero Senior could as well.

Down, girl.

“Ms. Randall? Are you still there?”

“I am,” I said.

“Thought I’d lost you,” Mr. Otero Senior said, and chuckled at his own joke.

“Was a headstone purchased?” I said.

“A tasteful granite one, actually,” he said.

“By whom?” I said.

Now he was the one who paused on the other end of the line.

“To be clear,” he said. “This is a police matter, is it not?”

“Three people who may have had a connection to Maria Cataldo have now been shot to death,” I said. “So we can do this over the phone or in person.”

“Just give me a moment,” he said, perhaps needing to consult with Mr. Otero Junior.

When he came back on the line he said, “The headstone, and plot, were paid for by Mr. Albert Antonioni.” He chuckled again. “I assume, you being a law enforcement professional, that you are aware of who he is.”

“He’s an acquaintance of mine,” I said to Mr. Otero Senior.

“I’ll bet!” Mr. Otero Senior said.