Chapter 11

Losing one time-zone hour, Bear and Jessie landed at Logan a little before noon. At 6’ 8” he was a good foot and a half taller than the diminutive redhead.

Jessie was dressed up, well her version of grownup garb. Black designer jeans and a white button-down shirt with an emblem of a cowboy on a bucking bronco that I’d seen her twin brother wear. They were about the same size and shared.

Bear was ... Bear. His light blue Tee looked like it was painted on his chest and arms. That long platinum hair, his fuck-you to the straight world. Tight jeans that showcased a Bear-sized bulge. Not that that would do Jessie and me any good. Plus, I am married.

I had booked them two rooms at the Taj. I didn’t know how long we’d be in Wooster intimidating Massimino and there was no sense in taking a late-night flight back to KC.

Plus, expense account.

Hertz had exchanged a five-passenger Chrysler 300 for my credit card’s promise to pay for the rental. A little nod to Bear, he drove a hopped-up Chrysler back in KC. Or is it souped-up?

It was a little under 50 miles to Wooster. But it took me almost two hours. Getting lost in downtown Boston for one. My distaste for freeways for two.

Not taking 495 west to not taking 190 north cost us some time. But we weren’t in a hurry. We’d wait to brace Massimino after he got home from work. Probably wait until around 9. I thought we might do some Wooster sightseeing and have dinner first. Substitute ‘scouting’ for sightseeing. I keep reminding myself that I am, after all, a fucking detective.

Jessie did some digital research on the drive and said, “Deadhorse Hill on Main looks pretty good. Fresh seafood.”

Done.

Wooster is a little under 200,000 people. Like so many Northeastern industrial towns it had gone through some tough economic times. But some money had poured into downtown and it was showing some signs of resurgence.

We drove around, just sightseeing after we had located Massimino’s small Colonial. White with green shutters. I didn’t slow down although there was no indication anyone was home.

The house was in a residential neighborhood a few blocks from a huge medical complex, U Mass Memorial. There was plenty of street parking on East 17h Street, most houses had garages. Both attached and detached.

The big Chrysler was easy to drive and comfortable to ride in. Bear located a classical music station which provided a nice background to our leisurely conversation.

We discussed exactly what I wanted Bear to do. “I don’t know. If you don’t have to hurt him, please don’t. But if he gives you a hard time...”

Jessie sniggered, people don’t give Bear a hard time.

But I still remembered Hugo Blenheim. Bear had hurt him badly. Badly enough that Blenheim disappeared from Kansas City for several months. But not so badly that he didn’t resurface meaner than ever.

So, I didn’t have a policy paper on what to do with Massimino. My wish is that he’ll take one look at Bear, see the error of his ways, and delete every atom of Phillip Montgomery’s digital presence with Cassandra Sanders.

It’s just the nature of my profession that there are a lot of unknowns in my fieldwork. Maybe a lot of jobs are that way.

It was a pleasant afternoon, cruising around, seeing new sights. Wooster appeared to be mostly white, with the usual minorities represented. A sign told us that the confluence of a couple of waterways created the Blackstone River.

Travel is educational.

Jessie, from the backseat, was teasing Bear about his hair. “Redheads have more fun than blondes. You can look it up.”

“Where?”

“I’ll send you the links.”

At dinner we all started with oysters. Bear and I went with poached salmon while Jessie put away a large beef stew. None of us had wine, the work day was about to begin.

I told Jessie, “Remind me to call Phillip when we finish with Massimino.”

All along, I’d kept Phillip Montgomery informed of my little investigation and he’d asked me to let him know how tonight’s play went. He agreed with me that Massimino could be pivotal.

There wasn’t a car -- Jessie had said Massimino owned a black Jeep -- in the driveway, but several lights were on inside the house. The Jeep could be in the garage.

I rang Massimino’s doorbell at around 8:30. The door was painted dark green to match the shutters. It was almost dark, the July temperature in the mid 70s. Comfortable. We could hear cicadas. Or crickets. Some chirping things that only chat with you in the summer.

Across the street a lawn sprinkler was waving lazy whorls of misty water back and forth, back and forth.

For some odd reason a question Walker had asked me had popped into my mind, “Winter, would you rather suck cock or lick pussy?”

It was back around the time he’d discovered his mother had a bod and he was exploring his own budding sexuality through questioning my friend Peggy Rawlings and me.

“It depends, lovey, who I’m with, the mood I’m in. But I love doing each one when I’m with the right person.”

Solemn nod. Must have been the right answer.

Phillip Massimino opened his front door with a puzzled look at the three strangers. Confusion turned to a frown when he took in Bear. At 215 pounds, Massimino is a muscular weightlifter, probably the stud duck in a lot of Wooster hangouts.

But he’s a foot shorter than Bear and gives up over 100 pounds.

Massimino’s pock-marked face matched Jessie’s online research. He wore a white, button-down dress shirt, the tails out. Still had on suit pants from work. VentureGraphicsTechnology must be more formal than I’d thought, or maybe he had had an important meeting at work.

Or, maybe I didn’t have the fucking slightest idea of why he was wearing what he was wearing.

I said, “We want to talk with you about Cassandra Sanders.”

His frown deepened, I could almost hear him thinking. He now had a look of bottled tension.

“Okay, come back to my office.”

Bear followed him, then Jessie. I brought up the rear. I had, not a premonition, but a ... an itchy felling. The house looked like a house should. Furnished in Colonial style. Not to my taste, but it was neat. Clean.

A television set played in some room; I could hear canned laughter from a sitcom.

Massimino stood behind a handsome, dark brown wooden desk and opened the center drawer. “First I’m going to show you my Federal security clearance.”

He pulled out a gun and shot Bear in the chest. Bear looked shocked, but he had already lunged for the gun. Bear’s charge turned into a fall, but he still reached across the desk and snapped Massimino’s arm in two. Between the elbow and the wrist. The gun exploded a second time, hitting the wall to Massimino’s right up near the ceiling.

It happened in a split second. Jessie was still in mid-scream when the .38 Smith & Wesson hit the floor. I tried to help Bear collapse into a chair right before he passed out.

Massimino was out cold too, a large bone sticking out of his flesh. He was lying on his side, a surprisingly serene look for someone who’d gone into shock.

Jessie reached instinctively for the gun. I stopped her, “Don’t touch it. Call 911, man shot in the chest.”

I called Phillip Montgomery, “Massimino shot Bear. In the chest. He broke Massimino’s arm, they’re both out. I’m at 526 East 17th. U Mass Memorial is about three blocks away.”

“Do whatever it takes to protect yourself.” He hung up. Probably to call Morgan Fleetwood.

Jessie was sobbing quietly, almost in shock. There wasn’t much blood on Bear’s chest, although I could smell it. Along with the aftermath of the two gunshots. I could hear sirens drawing closer.

The paramedics glanced at Massimino, but hurried to Bear. It took both of them and two uniformed officers to lift him onto the metal gurney. It held up as they wheeled it to the backed-up ambulance in the driveway.