The Hand That Feeds You

19

The local news coverage of Pat’s death seized on her being the granddaughter of the abstract expressionist Paul Loewi. Loewi was a contemporary of de Kooning and Pollock’s, famous for his Slaughterhouse paintings, giant, black canvases with carcasslike red forms. An “artist’s artist,” he had not shared the wealth or international acclaim of his friends, but his paintings were valued by those in the know.

Steven and I watched the coverage on every news channel. I needed to hear every account of the gruesome murder. Yet no matter how many reporters spoke about it, I could not shake the feeling of disbelief.

Nancy Grace was on a tear: One theory about the murder put the blame on a religious cult in the area that practiced ritual animal killing as part of their worship. She said that pets had disappeared on the East End over the past six months. The deceased’s dog was still missing. Another theory was a drug-fueled thrill kill, she said. But no suspects were in custody.

“Nancy Grace should meet Samantha,” I said.

Her next guest was an expert on religious ritual killings. He said that removing the heart from an animal is not uncommon, that in many animist religions, the heart signifies strength; by biting into it, the person who removed it assumes that creature’s strength. But to remove a human heart and place it atop the body is a desecration, unheard-of in any religion. It is an act of violence with nothing to redeem it spiritually, the expert said. Nancy Grace asked if he felt this murder was more along the lines of a cult like Charles Manson’s followers.

The expert said, “The violence in this case is personal.”

I asked Steven to pass me my cell phone on the table near him.

I called Amabile and asked him to come with me to the precinct. I needed a cop who would believe me, not suspect me. I knew he had a cousin who was a detective in the Suffolk County PD.

“He’ll listen,” Amabile said. “He’s a stand-up guy. If you don’t mind the motorcycle, I can drive you.”

Amabile was a stand-up guy. And I told him so.

• • •

Riding a motorcycle on salted, icy streets in early winter put me in mind of the nickname donorcycle. I’d had spinouts on bikes as a teenager, and even though Amabile gave me a helmet to wear, my legs were vulnerable if we skidded out. On the other hand, holding on to a guy and leaning against his body is a sexy ride. I worried that Amabile might misread this — I was pretty sure he still wished things could have worked out with us.

I got the cycle equivalent of sea legs and wobbled when I climbed off the bike. Amabile righted me with a hand on my arm, so that I first leaned into him. His arm went around me until I got my footing. We carried our helmets as we entered the precinct house.

Amabile’s cousin, Bienvenido, invited me into an empty interview room and brought me a cup of hot coffee.

“I may have been the last person to see Pat Loewi alive.” I told him why I had gone to see her and that it was the only time I had met her.

“When did you get there and what time did you leave?”

This was the first question in an hour of questions designed to eliminate me or establish me as a suspect. He gave his notes to another cop to check out my story, then asked if I’d noticed anything strange about Pat’s behavior that afternoon. I told him it would be easier to tell him what wasn’t strange about it. I asked if Amabile had told him that Pat had once lived with my late fiancé.

“I know the history,” Bienvenido said. “What else can you tell me?”

“You could look at Samantha Couper.” I told him why.

When we finished, Amabile said, “Thanks, man. Appreciate this.”

I thanked Bienvenido, too, and he said, “You’re welcome.”

“No, you’re ‘welcome,’ ” I said. “I know that much Spanish.” Bienvenido.

Amabile insisted on driving me home. On the back of his bike, as the cold wind seeped through my jacket and pants, I questioned the strength of my suspicions. What did I know? Maybe there wasn’t a connection between the two women’s murders.

And then I thought of a third woman I needed to factor in.

• • •

Steven was against my going. To put it mildly. “How do you know Samantha’s not right and Bennett’s still alive? The police never identified the body.”

“I know it was his body.”

“You were in shock. What if this guy Jimmy Gordon is out there, and you’re about to visit his mother? What if he’s staying with his mother?”

“The Boston PD matched the DNA found on Susan Rorke with the body in my bedroom.”

“Someone is sending Samantha flowers,” Steven said.

“She’s insane. She’s probably sending them to herself.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Can I borrow your car?”

“You don’t know what you might run into. Plus, what if someone is sending flowers to Samantha? I don’t want you to be collateral damage if someone is gaslighting Samantha. Maybe it’s the same person who tricked you into going to Boston.”

“I’m pretty sure that was Samantha.”

“Pretty sure isn’t the same as sure,” Steven said. “What do you expect to learn?”

“What I need to find out is something no one but his mother can tell me: how I fell in love with him.”

“Why do you think she can tell you that?”

“Because she must have loved him, too.”