Fear Nothing (44 page)

“Nothing. I was in my room doing homework. I didn’t come out until after all the commotion. Mrs. Davies yelling to Mr. Davies that something was wrong with Shana.”

“Did you see Shana?”

“No. Her room was on the third floor. After the um . . . incident . . . Mr. and Mrs. Davies moved my room to the second floor, closest to them. I remember walking out into the hallway, then realizing there was blood smeared on the stairs. But by then, the front door was banging open, Donnie’s father bursting into the house . . . It scared me. All these adults, looking so out of control. I retreated to my bedroom and stayed there.”

D.D. decided to gamble. “That’s not what Charlie Sgarzi says. He claims you were jealous of his relationship with Shana. And you turned on his cousin in revenge.”

Hayes frowned. “Charlie? Charlie Sgarzi? What does he have to do with any of this?”

“We told you; we’re looking into all of Shana’s former associates. And given that she and Charlie were also once an item—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What?”

Hayes’s voice had picked up. Hostility? Jealousy? D.D. and Phil exchanged another glance, Phil’s hand once more wavering near his holster.

“Charlie Sgarzi claims he and Shana had a relationship of sorts,” D.D. said slowly. “He described them as being fuck buddies.”

“Bullshit!”

The word cracked around the tiny space.

D.D. didn’t speak again, merely waited.

Hayes ran his hand through his disheveled brown hair. Then again. “Hang on. I got something else to show you. It’ll just take a sec.”

Once more he worked his chair around, back to the paper-strewn table. But this time, he leaned down, reaching for a battered old box. He couldn’t bend over far enough to reach it. Phil got up to assist, placing the box on Hayes’s lap. Beneath Phil’s close scrutiny, Hayes removed the lid.

More papers. Hayes riffled through them before finally exclaiming, “Got it!” He waved a faded Kodak in the air.

Phil returned the box to the floor, then helped Hayes back over. The man handed over the photo immediately, as if this should tell them something.

D.D. saw four teenagers. The colors of the instant photo had run over the years, making the features of each boy appear slightly melted. She could pick out Hayes. Shaggy brown hair, a once-dark-green Celtics shirt that had become lime green with age. The two other boys weren’t familiar at all.

Then, at the far left. Gangly-looking, nearly slender, with long black hair cut short in front, long in back, Metallica T-shirt and a black biker’s jacket covered in metal studs and silver chains.

“Charlie Sgarzi,” she said.

“The Great Pretender himself,” Sam assured her. “In one of his many disguises.”

“What do you mean?”

“Charlie was the ultimate phony. I mean, these two boys, Tommy, Adam, they were into heavy metal. So when Charlie was around them, he was into heavy metal. Shana was Ms. Tough Shit, so around her, he jammed a pack of Marlboros into his back pocket. But you could also catch him in collared shirts, smiling sweetly up at his mom. Or with painted black nails and a long trench coat, hanging out with the Flock of Seagulls crowd. He adapted to his audience. Just as long as it got him a place with the in crowd.”

Phil shrugged. “So he suffered from an identity crisis. He was a teenager; these things happen.”

“But being a confused kid wasn’t what he was trying to hide.”

“Then what was it?”

“Charlie wasn’t fucking Shana. Charlie’s gay.”

 • • • 

A
CCORDING TO
H
AYES
, he had a radar for these things.

“Trust me, you don’t make it through the foster system without learning how to spot the boys who like other boys. Especially the ones who are pissed off about it.”

“Charlie was afraid of his parents’ reaction?” D.D. asked.

“Hell if I know. I mean, his parents were conservative, sure. A happy homemaker married to the local firefighter? But I don’t think it was his parents. I think it was Charlie himself. He wanted to be just like everyone else. Except, he had this thing, you know. Nowadays, maybe not such a big deal. But thirty years ago, being a boy who liked boys in a place like Southie could get you killed. So he fought it. Spent all his time becoming someone else. He was good at it, too. A real actor. But, of course, I knew the truth.”

“Because you possess the world’s best gaydar?” D.D. arched a brow.

“Nah, because I caught him with Donnie.”

“What?”

“He had his hands down his cousin’s pants. I saw it, clear as day. Then Charlie looked up, spotted me and made a big show of pushing his cousin away, like they were just roughhousing or something. But I knew what I saw, and he knew it, too.”

“How did Donnie appear?” Phil asked.

“Upset. I don’t think he was happy about Charlie’s attention. But Charlie was bigger, stronger. What could Donnie do?”

“And you didn’t tell this to the police thirty years ago?” D.D. demanded.

Hayes shrugged. “No one asked. Besides, Shana was the one pulling a bloody ear out of her pocket. Even knowing Charlie had assaulted his cousin, I still think Shana was the killer. Charlie had a mean streak, sure, but he was direct. When he wore his leather jacket, Mr. Tough Guy, you looked out. But in a button-down shirt, Mama’s Boy, no problem. It was like he had a switch, flipping things on and off. Even violence was simply a matter of being in character.”

D.D. felt as if her head was going to explode. “When did you last speak to Charlie?”

“Shit. Another lifetime ago. I mean, I left the neighborhood just six months after Shana’s arrest. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Do you know he’s working on a book on his cousin’s murder?” Phil spoke up.

Hayes shook his head.

“He hasn’t tried to contact you about it?”

A smirk. “Like he’s really gonna ask me any questions about Donnie.”

D.D. nodded. Which might lend some truth to Hayes’s story, as it seemed suspicious, or just plain conspicuous, that Charlie had contacted or interviewed everyone
but
Shana’s foster brother about the night of the murder.

“If Charlie wasn’t sleeping with Shana, what was their relationship?”

“I dunno. Frenemies? I mean, they hung out from time to time. In a neighborhood that small, beggars can’t be choosers. But Shana considered him to be a big phony. Threatened to slash his stupid coat on a number of occasions when he pissed her off. Charlie appeared to stay clear of her. Then again, I’d catch him watching her from afar. He seemed fascinated by her. You know, from a safe distance.”

“You think he’d help her break out of jail?”

“Charlie? Shana? They’ve kept in touch?”

D.D. nearly said no, except that wasn’t the truth. Charlie had written to Shana. Several times in the past three months. She’d never replied. That was the big deal, right? He’d written but she wouldn’t answer his notes.

Unless that was somehow the code. No reply was a reply.

Because the truth of the matter was, there’d been a major change in Shana’s life starting three months ago. And that had been Charlie Sgarzi, aka the Great Pretender, supposedly working on his book. What were the odds that Charlie’s reappearance and Shana’s disappearance weren’t related?

“You think Charlie would help her?” D.D. repeated.

Hayes made a face. “The Shana I knew . . . She was crazy, and not in a good way. Whatever I might have thought about Charlie, he was never stupid. In fact, he was pretty fucking clever. So him, choosing to get involved with her . . . Nah, I don’t see it. Then again, people change.”

“Have you changed?”

Hayes nailed her with a look, gestured to the chair.

“I mean since that night, what did you learn?”

“Don’t let your foster sister play with sharp objects.”

“Mrs. Davies misses you.”

Hayes squirmed, the guilty flush back on his face. “Are we done?”

“We’re going to take your Harry Day gift package.”

“Fuck!”

“But maybe, if we can corroborate your story, one day we’ll give the items back.”

“Nah.” Hayes seemed to surprise even himself with his change of heart. “I don’t want them. The money, sure. But the actual stuff . . . Harry Day hurt people, you know. Ruined lives. Destroyed families. And so did Shana. Mr. and Mrs. Davies, they were really good people. And after that . . . You’re right; I should call Mrs. Davies more. I just . . . I never want to bother her, when, of course, the thing she likes best is to be bothered. Guess I didn’t change. Thirty years later, I’m the same stupid shit.”

D.D. didn’t have anything to add to that.

She and Phil thanked Hayes for his time; then Phil collected the manila envelope and its enclosed documents. They gave Hayes the same spiel they’d given Mrs. Davies about keeping a low profile; then they were out the door.

“Charlie Sgarzi,” Phil said, shaking his head as they quickly descended the stairs. “I don’t get it. First he tells us he blames Shana for ruining his family. When in fact he was preying on his own cousin. Then he claims to be having a vigil at the MCI to hold Shana responsible for his mother’s death, but a day later, returns to help break Shana out of prison? To what end . . . ? A better scene for his novel?”

“I don’t understand Charlie’s relationship with Shana any better than you do,” D.D. assured him. “But as far as being the lead suspect for the Rose Killer murders . . . Forget some long-lost girl AnaRose Simmons or wheelchair-bound foster brother Samuel Hayes. Charlie Sgarzi’s looking good to me.”

“You understand that means he killed his own mom. The same son who slept on her sofa every night, brought her favorite soup, tended to her every need? This is our lead suspect?”

They had reached the bottom of the stairs, both of them panting lightly.

“It’s because of his damn book,” D.D. said. “This all started when Charlie decided to write an instant bestseller in order to support his mother. Except . . .” She touched her left shoulder gingerly, as a new idea suddenly occurred to her. “Holy shit, Phil,
we
are Charlie’s novel! He’s not writing about his cousin; that’s yesterday’s news, and what have the murderabilia websites taught us about old crimes? They don’t pay nearly as well as nationally recognized murderers hot off the press. Hence, Charlie created the greatest New England predator since Harry Day: the Rose Killer. Guaranteed to terrify a population, capture major media attention and, one day soon, earn him that seven-figure advance for an insider’s account of the murderer who slaughtered his own mom. Charlie isn’t writing about Donnie and the old neighborhood anymore. He’s writing about us.”

Chapter 36

W
E SHOULD’VE RETURNED
to the safety of my condo, but we didn’t. No one seemed to recognize Shana, and as darkness fell, we felt safer and safer with her new guise. On second thought, Shana wanted to try real pizza. I took her to the best dive I knew, where you could buy a slice the size of a football and the cheese hung down in gooey strings. At first, the kid behind the register was too shell-shocked by my mangled face to respond to our order. He stared at me, mouth slightly ajar.

Shana leaned in. She gave the kid a single hard look. He yelped slightly, rubbing his arms as if to ward off a chill, then jumped to it. He gave us both slices for free.

We ate them walking along the sidewalk, smearing pizza grease across our faces and feeling smug, as if we’d gotten away with something.

Shana declared it the best fucking pizza she’d ever had. She remembered other pies, from before. In prison, she often took out each memory of her life before incarceration, replaying each moment in her head like an old family video. Maybe that was why she forgot nothing. She had turned memory into an art form, serving as her own family album.

The hour passed five, daily commuters rushing to catch buses, subways, taxis, everyone bundled up against the bitter chill.

We steeled our shoulders against the evening’s bite and soldiered on, not speaking, because that would make all of this too real and subject to doubts and anxiety and hesitation. Better to just be. Better, certainly, not to think of the hours ahead.

Can you pack a lifetime into a single afternoon? Remake a family, reforge old bonds?

I took Shana through Boston Common to the Public Garden, which was beautiful even this late in the fall. Like in the clothing store, she couldn’t stop touching. The bark of a particularly majestic tree. The dangling fronds of a naked weeping willow. The prickly sticks on a border hedge. We stood on the bridge, watching tourists snap photos of the lake that in the spring would host the swan boats. Then we walked up Newbury Street, where Shana gawked at the store windows with their designer clothes and overpriced wares.

Her fingers were still flexing and unflexing at her sides, but she never slowed down, even as numerous pedestrians crashed against her, and at one point, she nearly became entangled in a dog leash. Her eyes remained fierce, drinking it all in. She reminded me of a hawk, not quite ready to take flight but already remembering the promise of open skies.

We roamed. Over to the Prudential Center, then, using the pedestrian bridge, into Copley Center. We went nowhere. We went everywhere.

And sometimes people stared at me, and sometimes people stared at her. But in the rush-hour frenzy no one looked too hard or for too long. My sister had been right in her instinct to get lost in the crowd. It was easier to hide in plain sight.

Shana told me stories of lousy prison food, guards who were actually nice, the joys of living with zero privacy and even less water pressure. But mostly she asked questions. About streetlights and fashion trends and what was with all the tiny cars that looked like you could fit them in a purse and who taught any of these people to drive anyway? She wanted to touch buildings. She wanted to stare at everything. She wanted to devour an entire city in thirty minutes or less.

My sister. The two of us, finally together again.

Six
P.M.
Air colder, sidewalks thinning slightly.

More pizza, my sister decided. This time, I ordered an entire pie, then a six-pack of beer. I carried the beer, Shana carted the pizza box, as I finally waved down a taxi, gave him the address for my building.