Read Online Erasing Memory by Scott Thornley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Thornley
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killer hadn’t splashed her face with battery acid, hadn’t taken away her physical beauty. Instead he’d taken the thing that gave her life meaning, then laid her out as if the crime scene were a shoot for a fashion magazine.
Realizing how miserable he was becoming, sitting in a parking lot with Strayhorn’s phantoms playing in his ears and apoem he knew by heart in his hands, MacNeice closed the book, put it back in the glove compartment, turned off the CD, grabbed his keys and went inside.
Marcello’s back door, available to staff, family and only a few friends, led straight into the kitchen, where his wife, Chris, was the chef. Amid the clattering of dishes and the hum of exhaust fans, the happy chatter, laughter and occasional singing, MacNeice always felt at home. Usually as he passed through, Chris would tell him what to order and remind him that if he didn’t like it, he should just send it back and she’d make something else. This last was always delivered with a smile; for the decade that Chris had been feeding him, MacNeice had never sent anything back.
As he eased onto his stool at the bar, Marcello himself, a pocket-bull of a man with a ready grin and an endless supply of jokes, wandered over, looking somewhat conspiratorial. “I’ve got something new for you,” he said. “Chamomile grappa.” Seeing MacNeice’s eyebrows rise, he added, “Trust me, it wakes you up before it puts you to sleep.” Then he cracked up, slapped MacNeice on the shoulder and turned towards the shelf for the bottle.
It was perhaps the smoothest and certainly the sweetest grappa he’d ever had. Before he could say anything his eyes had not already expressed, Marcello whispered, “I’ve got two bottles for you. Give me your keys and I’ll put them in your trunk.”
“You read my mind, March.
Grazie
. Put it on my bill.”
“You got it. Sparkling water, and I’ve got a nice Shiraz.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Before he turned away to pour the drinks, Marcello put the daily paper in front of him. MacNeice scanned the front pagewithout interest before pushing it aside and looking up at the television, where a hockey game was in progress.
“A rerun from last week,” Marcello said. “Tonight, though, the Leafs play Chicago. That’s always a great game.”
Marcello and his father both loved hockey. Before he got married, March had been a decent goalie. The position of the television, high up and angled towards the espresso machine, made it a bit difficult for anyone but the bartender to watch it without getting a stiff neck. MacNeice’s bar stool afforded the next best view in the house.
Neither of them took his eyes off the screen, but MacNeice had already begun to drift back to Lydia, or more specifically, to her father. While he was obliged to inform him of his daughter’s death as quickly as possible, MacNeice decided that he and Aziz would not pay the man a visit until the morning. Apart from Betty’s identification, which could not be considered irrefutable, the girl’s identity was officially still a mystery. Things would be better for everyone if it was done in the morning.
A bell sounded in the kitchen and one of Marcello’s cadre of beautiful, bright young wait staff went to retrieve his first course,
zuppa di pesce
. Placing it in front of MacNeice with flirty efficiency, she asked, “Pepper, Mac?”
“Does it want it?”
The waitress and he both looked to Marcello, who drew down the sides of his mouth in consideration. “Naw, not this one. Go without.”
As MacNeice was finishing the soup, his cell rang. It was Vertesi. “Well, sir, nobody knows the guy who owns the cottage.…” Vertesi paused, maybe because of the music, the background noise of the place, or maybe it was MacNeice’s greeting, a kind of throaty “mm-huh.”
“You’re at Marcello’s. Cool—say
ciao
to him for me. Yeah, so they know the name of the doctor but nothing about him. And sorry, Mac, I didn’t nail his
Realizing how miserable he was becoming, sitting in a parking lot with Strayhorn’s phantoms playing in his ears and apoem he knew by heart in his hands, MacNeice closed the book, put it back in the glove compartment, turned off the CD, grabbed his keys and went inside.
Marcello’s back door, available to staff, family and only a few friends, led straight into the kitchen, where his wife, Chris, was the chef. Amid the clattering of dishes and the hum of exhaust fans, the happy chatter, laughter and occasional singing, MacNeice always felt at home. Usually as he passed through, Chris would tell him what to order and remind him that if he didn’t like it, he should just send it back and she’d make something else. This last was always delivered with a smile; for the decade that Chris had been feeding him, MacNeice had never sent anything back.
As he eased onto his stool at the bar, Marcello himself, a pocket-bull of a man with a ready grin and an endless supply of jokes, wandered over, looking somewhat conspiratorial. “I’ve got something new for you,” he said. “Chamomile grappa.” Seeing MacNeice’s eyebrows rise, he added, “Trust me, it wakes you up before it puts you to sleep.” Then he cracked up, slapped MacNeice on the shoulder and turned towards the shelf for the bottle.
It was perhaps the smoothest and certainly the sweetest grappa he’d ever had. Before he could say anything his eyes had not already expressed, Marcello whispered, “I’ve got two bottles for you. Give me your keys and I’ll put them in your trunk.”
“You read my mind, March.
Grazie
. Put it on my bill.”
“You got it. Sparkling water, and I’ve got a nice Shiraz.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Before he turned away to pour the drinks, Marcello put the daily paper in front of him. MacNeice scanned the front pagewithout interest before pushing it aside and looking up at the television, where a hockey game was in progress.
“A rerun from last week,” Marcello said. “Tonight, though, the Leafs play Chicago. That’s always a great game.”
Marcello and his father both loved hockey. Before he got married, March had been a decent goalie. The position of the television, high up and angled towards the espresso machine, made it a bit difficult for anyone but the bartender to watch it without getting a stiff neck. MacNeice’s bar stool afforded the next best view in the house.
Neither of them took his eyes off the screen, but MacNeice had already begun to drift back to Lydia, or more specifically, to her father. While he was obliged to inform him of his daughter’s death as quickly as possible, MacNeice decided that he and Aziz would not pay the man a visit until the morning. Apart from Betty’s identification, which could not be considered irrefutable, the girl’s identity was officially still a mystery. Things would be better for everyone if it was done in the morning.
A bell sounded in the kitchen and one of Marcello’s cadre of beautiful, bright young wait staff went to retrieve his first course,
zuppa di pesce
. Placing it in front of MacNeice with flirty efficiency, she asked, “Pepper, Mac?”
“Does it want it?”
The waitress and he both looked to Marcello, who drew down the sides of his mouth in consideration. “Naw, not this one. Go without.”
As MacNeice was finishing the soup, his cell rang. It was Vertesi. “Well, sir, nobody knows the guy who owns the cottage.…” Vertesi paused, maybe because of the music, the background noise of the place, or maybe it was MacNeice’s greeting, a kind of throaty “mm-huh.”
“You’re at Marcello’s. Cool—say
ciao
to him for me. Yeah, so they know the name of the doctor but nothing about him. And sorry, Mac, I didn’t nail his
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