Felix eyed me and said, “You look pretty prepped for a magazine writer.”
“You know the rules, papa,” I said, taking out a pair of stainless-steel shears. “In these troubled times, it’s nice to have things in reserve, just in case. Hold tight. You need a stick to bite on?”
“Just do it.”
I slipped the shears underneath the gray tape and started clipping. Felix’s face tightened but he didn’t say a word. I got the tape cut in half and then tugged away the tape and the paper napkins. Blood oozed and bubbled up from a wound at the side of Felix’s wrist.
I tore open the gauze bandages and gently wiped away the blood so I could see the open wound. About two inches in length, a half-inch in width, and bleeding like hell. I dabbed and dabbed, and then soaked another bandage with the hydrogen peroxide.
“Going to hurt,” I said.
“Gee, you think so?”
I gave the wound as gentle a wipe as I could, and Felix’s arm jerked a bit, but he stayed still. One more wipe and I said, “It’s going to need stitches.”
“I know.”
“I really don’t want to stitch you up,” I said. “The wound’s pretty jagged. Somebody with a hell of a lot more skills than me would have to give it a good cleaning and trimming to make sure the stitches work.”
“That’s all right,” Felix said. “I have somebody … on call. Just my bad luck he’s out of town today. But he’ll be back tomorrow. Just wrap it up, the best you can. I’ll get it fixed and stitched tomorrow.”
“All right, then.”
In my kit was a small bottle of distilled water, which I cracked open and used to irrigate the wound. Then I patted everything dry, folded over a piece of gauze, placed it into the jagged opening. I did my best to pull the wound together with butterfly bandages, and then put another gauze bandage over that, taped it up, wrapped the area with a length of gauze, and taped the whole thing in place.
“Sloppy and amateur,” I said, “but it’ll keep you in one piece until you see your doc.”
He nodded, gently put his wounded forearm on his chest. “Thanks.”
“No thanks necessary,” I said. “But how about a pain pill? I’ve got some Percocet upstairs from my surgery that I’d be happy to share.”
A violent shake of Felix’s head. “No, not at all, I wouldn’t dare use that stuff. I like to think I’m tough, but I’m not taking something that’ll end up with me injecting street stuff between my toes. Nope, Extra-Strength Tylenol or something like that.”
I found the pills and a tall glass of water for him; he swallowed the first and sipped the second as I cleaned up the joint. I sat across from him and said, “I thought I told you to play nice.”
“Yeah, you always say that, and the other people decide not to play nice. So what’s a boy to do?”
“Tell me the story,” I said.
“From where?”
“The beginning.”
“Once upon a time there was the Big Bang, and—”
I gently kicked the side of the couch. “Bad jokes about cosmology belong to me. Cut it out, or I’ll tell everyone you were crying when I was bandaging you up.”
“Hah, like anyone would believe you.” He took another sip of water and said, “I got a lead on a car that was in the area of Maggie’s place the night she got murdered.”
“How?”
“Because …”
“Because you haven’t told me that part of the story yet,” I said. “You said that a Toyota Corolla with Massachusetts license plates was seen leaving Maggie’s place during the time frame when she was murdered.”
“I did.”
“Was it you or someone in your employ?”
“My employ.”
“Doing what?”
“Working a surveillance for me. Another house up the road. Nice family with a college-age daughter, commuting to UNH. One of her professors is harassing her—not enough to get the university’s attention, but enough to get Mom and Dad’s attention. Sometimes he stops by unannounced, leaves gifts in the mailbox. She’s afraid that if she makes too much of a stink, it’ll impact her grades.”
“And your contractor?”
“Was working surveillance on the house in question, which was quiet. No love-struck professor with receding hairline and glasses approaching. But one house over, where Maggie lived, he did see a Toyota race out, nearly clip a tree, and head off toward the interstate, about the time when the police said Maggie was murdered.”
“I see. And you traced the license plate and what did you find?”
“A not-so-nice man named Pepe, who leads a gang of not-so-merry men in and around Lowell and Lawrence. We met up in one of those three-story tenements that used to be called Irish battleships before the latest round of immigration.”
“Okay, then, what next?”
Felix shrugged. “Had a chilly conversation that eventually went full Arctic.”
“Did they take your silver?”
“Not sure.”
“Did they kill Maggie?”
“Well, see, that’s where it got interesting, right from the start. I asked them about that and I half-expected some brave talk, tough talk, crap like that. You know, ‘Yo bro, the bitch gave us grief, so we capped her.’ But no go. In fact, they used an excuse I’ve used on occasion, when I was much younger and much faster.”
“And what excuse was that?”
“The one that goes, ‘Sorry, officer, he was dead when I got there.’”
“Really?”
“That’s right. Pepe and friends said that Maggie was already dead when they went into her place. They were looking for a quick score, thinking antique places like that must have a lot of cash and jewelry lying around. So they parked halfway up her driveway, went into the barn, and … found dead Maggie in her chair, bone, blood, hair, and brain splattered on the wall behind her, papers and books all over the floor. Pepe claimed his guys saw the scene and got the hell out.”
“Do you believe
