Page 39 of A Matter of Pedigree (A Carole and Poopsie Mystery #1)

For a rape exam, thought Carole, leaping to the obvious conclusion. “I wasn’t raped,” she said. “I fought him off.”

“We can still collect DNA evidence from your skin and clothing,” he told her, blushing furiously.

Carole couldn’t believe it. It was bad enough that she was attacked in the first place, but now they wanted her to submit to an intrusive exam and no doubt waste a lot of time answering stupid questions. No way. “I took a shower and my clothes are all in the washer.”

“That was very irresponsible,” scolded the cop. “We can’t nail this guy without evidence.”

“That’s right,” added Barry, with a little sniff. “And now everybody’s in danger.”

Carole made a time-out signal with her hands. “I think we’re forgetting who’s the victim here.”

“Exactly,” said the cop. “And I am here as part of the department’s Victim Assistance Program.”

“Well,” said Carole, “you’re a day late and a dollar short. I could’ve used you an hour ago, but now I’d appreciate some privacy.

“That’s right,” said Polly, opening the door and giving a clear signal that it was time for them to leave.

“Here’s my card,” said the cop, pulling a black leather case out of his pocket. “In case you reconsider.” Carole didn’t reach for it, so he placed it on the coffee table.

“Management will be getting in touch with you,” said Barry, sounding like a teacher warning about a visit to the principal or a call to the parents.

Not getting any response from Carole, the two turned and made their way to the door. There they paused, and the cop turned and, cap in hand, said, “Have a nice day.”

Carole’s jaw dropped, thinking it was rather inappropriate advice, considering the circumstances.

Polly shut the door behind them. “America has gotten very strange,” she said, and for once, Carole had to agree with her mother.

They had the lemon chicken for dinner; it hadn’t been damaged and neither had the pasta salad or, thank heaven, the cannoli.

Carole made Frank drink a double Dewar’s before she told him about the attack, and it had the desired effect.

He declared he was going to bust some heads and find out who was behind the attack, but agreed to wait until after he’d eaten.

By then, he was a lot calmer, and she told him her idea that maybe the attack, and even Hosea’s murder, had something to do with the Factory job.

“After all,” she reminded him. “He was killed at the Factory, not at Prospect Place. Something’s going on there, I’m sure of it. First there was the fire, and now this attack on me. They’re both warnings.”

Frank helped himself to a second cannoli, pistachio dipped in chocolate, his favorite, and Carole refilled his coffee cup.

“I don’t think so,” he said, before biting off half the cannoli.

“Everything was fair and square with that job. Old Hosea, you gotta give him credit, he was a stickler for doing everything according to the book. The bids were sealed; there were no kickbacks, nothing like that. The low bidders got the jobs, and as it worked out, just about everybody got a piece of the pie. Nobody had any cause to complain.”

“But some pieces of the pie were bigger than others, no?” asked Polly.

“Yeah,” said Carole. “And no offense here, but you know that honest and aboveboard is a concept that a lot of people don’t agree with. Maybe that’s why Hosea was killed.”

“For being honest?”

Carole and Polly nodded.

“Now you’re making me lose my faith in humanity,” said Frank, pushing his chair back from the table. Carole expected him to settle down on the recliner to watch the sports network, but instead he went into the den. She followed him, surprised to see him seat himself at the desk and open a folder.

“Everything okay?” she asked, worried that there was a new development in the case against him. “Did the DA come up with new evidence or something?”

“Nah.” He smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Vince is on the job. No, this is about the fire; the insurance adjuster has some questions about the value we’re claiming for lost material.”

“Lost material?”

“Yeah. Pipe and stuff that got damaged in the fire. He says what we’re claiming is too high based on the recovered debris, something like that.”

Carole thought guiltily of Big Frank’s offcuts and decided some things were better left unsaid. “That’s what insurance companies do, right?”

Frank chuckled. “Yeah, babe. That’s what they do. They like to collect the premiums, but they sure don’t like to pay the claims.”

Carole left Frank with his paperwork, and she and Polly cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher; the buzzer on the dryer sounded, and Polly went to unload and fold the clothes.

Left to her own devices, Carole wandered over to her favorite window and looked out at the view.

The Coca-Cola sign was a swirl of red neon; the river gleamed in the dark, reflecting the glow of the streetlamps; the houses and restaurants on Federal Hill were all alight.

And just beyond the bridge, in the shadows, lay the Factory.

As she looked out, something Mitch Chase had said that day at the hospital popped into her mind.

Something about there being plenty of misery to go around.

At the time, she’d just thought he was referring to the inevitable delays caused by Hosea’s death and the fire.

But what if he’d meant something else? And now the insurance company was questioning their claims. What if the company demanded an investigation of their accounts.

Was everything as aboveboard as Frank claimed?

Come to think of it, she didn’t like the way Frank had dismissed her suspicions about the Factory.

He’d been awfully quick to tell her she was on the wrong track, but how did he know?

What did he know? What was he keeping from her?

She could see his reflection in the window, sitting there at his desk.

He wasn’t studying the paperwork; he was just sitting there, staring at nothing.

That wasn’t like him; his attitude was all wrong.

He wasn’t the kind of guy who sat around doing nothing; something was bugging him, and she didn’t think it was the insurance company.

Was it because of the attack? Did he think she was lying about not being raped; did he think she was spoiled goods?

No, she decided, she was being paranoid.

Frank knew she’d be a lot more upset if that creep had succeeded in raping her.

And then he surprised her, the old fox, by suddenly heaving himself out of his chair and coming to her, slipping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck. “Are you really okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, placing her hands over his. “It was scary, but he got the worst of it. Even the cannoli were okay.”

“You gotta take care of yourself; you gotta do it for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

This wasn’t like Frank, not at all, and Carole was touched. She felt tears stinging her eyes, and she gave his hands a squeeze.

“Well,” he said, releasing her, “I guess I’ll take the dog out.”

Talk about out of character, thought Carole, who couldn’t remember a single time when Frank had volunteered to walk the dog.

While he was gone, Carole gave Gary Strazullo a call. “Do me a favor,” she said, “and check out Chase and Mooney. I think they may be up to something over at the Factory.”

“No problem,” he said.

Maybe no problem, thought Carole, maybe otherwise. “And Gary,” she added, “be real careful, okay?”

When Frank came back with Poopsie, they all three settled on the sofa to watch a Netflix movie; Polly had withdrawn to her room to write notes and make calls to some of her friends in France.

Carole wasn’t looking forward to going to bed; she was afraid she’d have trouble sleeping, so she stayed up after Frank yawned a few times and declared he was turning in.

She watched The Late Show , made it through the monologue, but the guest was Rachel Maddow and she couldn’t take that woman, so she gave up and brushed her teeth, took a few Tylenol PMs, and headed to bed.

It was no good; every time she closed her eyes, she replayed the frightening attack.

The way the guy grabbed her from behind, catching her by surprise, and the way he’d pushed her down on the stairs.

She remembered the look in his eyes and the way his weight pressed down on her, on her neck, and the overwhelming sense of fear that had flooded every cell in her body.

It wasn’t just in her mind, either; she felt her breaths coming in short pants and her stomach contracting and her legs itching to move.

She checked the clock; it was one in the morning, so she got up and peed and took a couple more tablets, even did some yoga stretches.

That seemed to work, and she drifted off for a few hours, but at four o’clock she was awake again, and she knew she’d never get back to sleep.

She went out to the living room and curled up on the couch with a couple of pillows, an afghan, and one of Polly’s French magazines.

A few minutes later, Poopsie appeared, stretching and yawning and shaking her collar.

Why not, thought Carole. At least walking would relieve the cramps and tingly sensations in her legs.

So she slipped back through the bedroom and into her California Closets walk-in, where she got into her track suit and clunky, dog-walking boots.

Back in the living room, she went to the door, where she clipped the leash onto Poopsie’s collar.

Outside, the air was fresh and cool. It was a clear night; the sky had lightened from black to deep azure, dotted with stars and a silver sliver of moon.

Maybe she was crazy to be out alone, but she wasn’t going to live in fear, not her.

Not when it felt so darn good to move and breathe the fresh, clean, early-morning air.

She loped up the hill and turned onto Smith Street.

Nobody was out this early; there was only an occasional car, probably somebody coming off the night shift or heading in for an early-morning job.

The lights were on at Dunkin’ Donuts, so Carole walked that way and ducked inside with Poopsie to get a coffee.

The guy behind the counter, still groggy himself, didn’t seem to mind about the dog.

Then, coffee in hand, she continued along Smith Street and down Caverly, past Frank-O’s apartment building.

He ought to be coming home soon, she thought, sending up a heartfelt prayer of gratitude.

For Frank-O and for herself. It could have been so much worse.

Then she was down by the river, and the sky was brightening, blue giving way to gray, and Poopsie was in hunting mode, nose to the ground and tail straight back, on the prowl for fowl.

Carole smiled at her little joke; it felt good to be strong and alive, keeping pace with the dog.

For once, she wasn’t pulling and yanking at the leash; they were moving together in the same groove, covering ground as the sky gradually took on a rosy tint and Carole found herself, once again, at the Factory.