Extracurricular Activities (8 page)

Crawford pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. He took the balled-up napkin from her and pushed it to the side of the table. “It does.”

Meaghan, remarkably composed, started the interrogation regarding Alison. “How did you meet?”

Crawford explained that they had met when he was investigating a murder.

Erin kept his handkerchief over her face, not wanting to look at him. “Do you love her? Are you going to marry her?”

He didn't know and he told them as much. “She's a little mad at me right now.”

Meaghan laughed. “What did you do?”

He was in awe of her maturity. She didn't seem the least bit fazed by the conversation and had obviously come to terms with her family situation. He found himself looking at a very confident young woman and couldn't remember when the transition from childhood had taken place. “Well, I didn't explain our situation all that well. She met Mom at the hospital and…”

Meaghan winced. “I get it.” She looked down at the table. “You really blew that one.”

He had to agree. He asked Meaghan to change seats with him and he slid into the booth next to Erin. He pulled her close and she sobbed on his shirt. He stroked her hair and waited until she didn't have any more tears left.

She pulled back. Her face was red and tearstained. “I'm sorry, Dad.”

“It's okay,” he said. The waiter came and delivered their drinks, assessed the situation and said that he would be back in a few minutes to take their order. “I'm sorry, too.” He looked at Meaghan. “Are you all right with everything?”

She nodded and took a long sip from her water glass. “I'm all right with everything.” She smiled, a little sad, but resigned to the truth: her parents were better off apart. And as divorced, or almost-divorced, families went, theirs was pretty functional. Neither parent used Meaghan or her sister to their own gain, they saw their father as much as they possibly could given his crazy work schedule, and their parents seemed to genuinely like each other, even if they didn't love each other anymore. There were no financial issues to speak of; their father took very good care of them and made sure they wanted for nothing. There was no ill will or resentment in the air when their parents spoke. As she tried to tell Erin, it could be much, much worse. She gave her father a punch in the arm. “And frankly, Dad, you need a woman. You're getting awfully cranky.”

I woke up the next morning after a fitful night's sleep. I dreamed that I was making mad, passionate love to Crawford, only to find that it was really Ray when all was said and done. And next to us in bed was Terri.

You didn't have to be a psych major to figure that one out. Calling Dr. Freud…

Max and I had spent a couple of hours on the computer Googling all sorts of things related to murder. It became apparent to us that a corpse missing its hands and feet had been killed by a Miceli foot soldier before; that seemed to be their trademark in murder. Something about identification being harder without fingerprints and all. I guess the Micelis had never heard of facial identification, dental identification, or DNA. What a bunch of morons. I made a mental note to tell Crawford, even though I assumed he was smart enough to have already researched this signature and was all over it.

But if we could Google and get this information so easily, so could anyone with a computer and Internet connection. It didn't really prove anything beyond the fact that someone knew how the Micelis signed off on their executions. And that still left Jackson and Terri on my short list of suspects.

I got up and stumbled around the bedroom. I had on the oversized navy blue NYPD T-shirt that Crawford had given me in the spring and a pair of underpants. I padded out to the hallway and down the stairs, hoping that I had enough coffee beans in the cupboard to make a big, strong pot of the stuff. I was half asleep and only slightly cogent, but I could make out the outline of a bowling-ball-shaped person standing in my kitchen. When my eyes adjusted and I made out who it was, I nearly fell to my knees.

Peter Miceli.

He turned from his task—arranging biscotti on a tray—and greeted me with a huge grin and a wave. Having a Mob boss in my kitchen was not a normal occurrence, but Peter had this habit of acting like we were old friends (we weren't) and that I was always happy to see him (I wasn't).

“Alison, hi!” he called.

I stood still, rooted to my spot in the hallway.

He held a large paper cup aloft and waved it back and forth. “I've got coffee,” he said in a singsong voice. “And biscotti. The best on Staten Island. Gianna made them.”

I couldn't find my voice or the will to move, so I stayed where I was.

He waved me into the kitchen. “Come on in. I want to have a chat.”

I remembered the last time we had a chat; he had thrown me out of his car and I ended up with a cut on my leg from which I still had a scar. I shook my head at him.

He took a few steps toward me. “You might feel better if you get some clothes on.” He gave my bare legs the once-over. “Go get dressed,” he said softly.

I headed back up the stairs and closed my bedroom door. I looked around wildly for some kind of escape hatch, but since my room was on the second floor at the front of the house, there was nowhere to go. I ran to the window and pulled the shade up only to see Peter's black Mercedes in front of my house, a beefy, black-clad goon standing beside the car with his hands folded in front of him.

I decided to take Peter's advice and found a pair of jeans. Maybe if I was dressed, I would be able to formulate a plan. After standing in the middle of my room in my jeans for a full five minutes, I was no closer to any kind of action.

I picked up the phone and held it to my ear. There was no dial tone. And my cell phone was in its usual place in my pocketbook.

I had no choice but to go back downstairs and face Peter. I left the bedroom and returned to the hallway, going down the stairs slowly, my heart pounding so hard that I could almost hear it. I went to the kitchen doorway and stood. Peter was at my kitchen table, dunking biscotti into his coffee cup.

I've seen Peter three times since his daughter, Kathy's, murder: once at her funeral; once when he broke into my house previously “for a little chat” and the final time, when he kidnapped me. Two of those three times, he had been wearing golf attire; today was no exception.

He saw me looking at his golf shirt, a bright salmon color. “I'm headed up to Hudson National to hit the links,” he said.

I continued to stand in the doorway. “What do you want, Peter?”

He nodded, his bald head gleaming. “Well, first of all, Alison, I owe you an apology.”

I'll say.

“I was out of my mind with grief when we took that drive together.” He threw his hands up. “Out of my mind! Didn't know what the fuck I was doing!” He grimaced. “Pardon my French.” Dunk, sip. “But things are better now. Gianna is better. We're getting better. It was an awfully hard summer, but I see a light at the end of the tunnel.” He took a huge bite from the biscotti and continued talking, coffee and biscotti spraying onto my kitchen table. “Counseling is a fantastic thing, I tell you. Fantastic! That head shrinker has given us hope, Alison.”

I leaned against the doorjamb and crossed my arms.

“And she's taught me to make amends. I need to make amends, Alison. With you, in particular.” He jabbed a fat, sausagelike finger in my direction. “Remember,” he said gravely, “I owe you.”

Peter had left a note on my car last spring to that effect. I didn't know why he felt like he owed me and I didn't need any favors.

“Peter,” I said slowly, finding my voice, “the only thing I need from you is for you to leave me alone.”

He nodded. “I can understand why you would feel that way. I think that's called ‘empathy.' Or is it ‘sympathy'?” He shook his head, confused. “I can never remember. But here's the thing, Alison: I owe you way more than you could ever know.”

I shook my head. “You don't.”

He insisted. “I do! You were so kind to Kathy, you did everything you could to help find her killer…hell, you found her killer! You solved the case! The fucking NYPD couldn't even do that with all of those fucking detectives working overtime!” He grimaced again. “Sorry. I have to stop cursing. Old habits die hard.”

My stomach was sick and I was getting light-headed.

“Here's the thing, Alison,” he said, his voice changing slightly. “I need to tell you how sorry I am about Ray.”

I waited.

“I didn't have any fond feelings for the man, obviously,” he said, tears filling his eyes. “I actually wished he would die. But you married the man, you had a life together. I'm sure you're very sad about his passing.” He shoved half a piece of biscotti into his mouth. “Does your boyfriend have any idea who did this?”

“He's not my boyfriend,” I clarified, as if it mattered. “And Crawford doesn't tell me anything about any of his cases.” I was babbling, but it was the truth.

Peter stared at me, looking for some kind of sign that I was telling the truth. He chewed on his pinkie nail and considered what I said. I wondered if he was trying to find out if Crawford was linking him to the murder. It made sense, after all. A grieving father, who was also a Mob boss…Peter clearly had motive and opportunity. After a few minutes of tense silence, he got up.

I decided to go for broke even though I knew I wouldn't get the truth. “Did you kill Ray, Peter?”

He looked stunned but I assumed that acting was part of the criminal repertoire of false reactions. “No!”

I sighed. “Okay, let me rephrase that. Did you have someone kill Ray?”

He shook his head sadly. “Now why would you think that, Alison?”

“Oh, I don't know, Peter. Maybe you thought that killing Ray would be one way to repay me for my kindness? Or maybe to avenge your daughter's death?”

He smiled slyly. “Now, there was a good idea. Too bad I didn't come up with that on my own.” He looked up at the ceiling. “You'll let me know if they find out anything, won't you, Alison?”

I wasn't sure why he would want to know who did it or who the police suspected. I took a step back. No, I wouldn't let him know anything that I found out, but I stayed silent.

He approached me and put his hand to my cheek, leaving it there for a few long seconds. He rubbed his hand against it.

“I'd really like you to leave,” I whispered. My face was hot beneath his clammy hand.

He dropped his hand to my shoulder. “I always liked you.”

And I never liked you, I wanted to say, but didn't. Unable to meet his eyes, I focused on the collar of his shirt.

“Remember when we were in school together?” he asked.

I nodded. Peter went to Joliet, a mile or so away from St. Thomas and the original “brother” school to my formerly all-girls college. His proximity, coupled with the flashy Trans Am that he drove, made him tough to miss.

“You were very cute. Nice girl. Quiet. Not like some of those other slutty girls at St. Thomas.”

“Thank you, Peter,” I said. “What you think means so much to me.” I didn't know if sarcasm violated some kind of cosa nostra code of ethics, but I was beyond caring.

He gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “I know,” he said, and gave me a patronizing smile.

God, this guy really believes his own hype, I thought. I could only imagine what his Joliet transcript looked like. Whacking: A+. Subtlety in Language: F.

“I'll reconnect your phone now.” He chuckled. “Bet you didn't know I used to work for AT&T?”

I didn't know if he was kidding or not, but it really didn't matter. I'm sure he had a little familiarity with wiretaps and such, but I didn't see him as a lineman for the county. And I'm sure he knew that the first thing I would have done when I went to put my clothes on was call someone to tell them that Peter was in my house.

He held out his arms. “Come here,” he said. When I hesitated, he repeated, “Come here.”

I walked toward him because it didn't seem like I had a choice and held my breath while he grabbed me in a massive bear hug and put his lips to my cheek. He smelled like he had bathed in cologne. The stench, combined with the fact that his arms encircled me, made it so I could barely breathe. He finally let go and stepped back. “Enjoy the biscotti,” he said. “The best on Staten Island. Gianna made them.”

“I know, Peter,” I said, nodding. I didn't know what else to say, so I said, “Thank her for me.”

He threw his arms out wide. “And now, off to the links! What a glorious day.” He exited through the back door.

I stood in the kitchen until I heard the Mercedes pull away from the curb five minutes later, hearing the gravel spray onto my front lawn. I picked up the phone on the counter and listened for the dial tone.

It was back. I dialed a number I knew by heart.

 

Crawford put the girls on the train, walking them all the way down the platform and making sure they were in their seats and on their way to Greenwich before leaving. He watched their faces as the train pulled away and took some solace in the fact that Erin actually smiled at him and blew him a kiss. Meaghan was too busy fooling around with her iPod to notice that he was still there.

He stood on the platform until the train lights were out of sight. Every time they left was hard; it never got any easier. He had gotten used to the fact that they didn't live together, but he wished there was more time to be together. Work had taken hold of his life and wouldn't let go. He'd be interested to see how Fred would make it work once he was married. Crawford certainly hadn't figured out how to balance on the high-wire act of life versus the “Job.”

He had just passed his sixteenth anniversary on the police department. Graduating from the academy just five months before his daughters were born, he felt like he had everything: the job he always wanted, a wife, and soon, a family. It all came very quickly, shortly after he had left college, but it was what he wanted. Nothing more. His father had fought him on joining the police department; Frank Crawford had spent twenty unhappy, tedious years as a beat cop, hating every minute, counting down the days until he retired. But Bobby saw it as his calling; his time on the Job would be different from Frank's. He promised Frank that he would finish college at night, as soon as the twins were born and things settled down. Frank wasn't stupid; he knew that that would never happen and it never did. Bobby had managed to eke out two full years of school, but never got his bachelor's degree. A couple of courses at a community college got him his associate's, but he had never found the time to make good on his promise to Frank.

Christine had been with him since high school. They had met in the neighborhood; her father owned a local bar and she worked there. She was inclined to agree with Frank—she saw Bobby in a different job but she accepted that police work appeared to be his calling. But she had supported them while he attended NYU, slaving away in her father's bar, and she was tired. She wanted to go to college, too, but had sacrificed in order to make sure he got out of school first. The police department, to her, was her ticket out of drudgery. From what Crawford could tell, she never anticipated the strain it would put on their marriage.

He took the crosstown shuttle to Times Square and then the subway home to Ninety-seventh Street. He knew that Sunday night was Bea's bingo night at the church, so he was safe. He walked in, no tiptoeing, and made his way up to his apartment at the top of the stairs.

Upon entering, he threw his keys onto the dining room table and checked his phone messages, his nightly ritual. The machine sat on the counter that separated the galley kitchen from the dining area. He went into the kitchen while the tape rewound and took a beer from the refrigerator.

“You have two new messages,” the disembodied voice announced. The first message clicked on, but nobody spoke. He could hear breathing on the other line and then silence as the line disconnected. The second message came on immediately. “Bobby, it's me.” Fred. Crawford listened to the message, detailing Peter Miceli's visit to Alison, and then hit the button that told the day and time of the call—it had come in right after he had left for Grand Central that morning. Fred said that he and Max were on their way to Alison's to check on things.