Howard Shrier - Boston Cream

This from a guy who wasn’t allowed to moonlight.

Jenn was right. Harvard Street around Coolidge Corner was a lot like Eglinton West in Toronto. For five or six blocks, almost every shop catered to observant Jewish life. Kosher butcher, fish shop, Judaica stores. Restaurants from deli to Chinese. And we couldn’t have picked a busier time to canvass. Thursdays is when Jewish women shop for the Shabbos dinner: their chickens and briskets, challahs and fish, onions, celery and dill for soup, kosher wine sweet enough to serve on pancakes. They want it all done by Friday noon at the latest, and they don’t care who gets hurt in the process. If a shopping cart bangs your shins while an older woman swerves in to get a jar of chopped liver, who told you to stand there?

We each took one side of the street, stopping in at every store, sometimes having to wait and be jostled, showing the picture, asking the questions, asking if we could post a flyer in the window or on a bulletin board. Some of the buildings had murals depicting early Jewish life in the urban east. One showed a zaftig woman merrily making bread. Many of the women in the streets wore wigs; only their husbands should see their true beauty. Their clothing came down to the wrists, their skirts down past the knee.

On my side of the street, many merchants knew David’s face, if not his name. He was particularly well known at the deli, where he often took out prepared foods for his meals, and at Irving’s Judaica, a sprawling place on a corner that had one wing devoted to books, the other to household items from menorahs to mezuzahs to baseball caps with Red Sox written in Hebrew. The woman who ran the book section was about my age, dark-haired and petite and bristling with a feisty intelligence that sparkled in her brown eyes. The sparkle died a little when I told her David Fine was missing. They had talked on a number of occasions, she said. “Almost always about books, new arrivals, things I might recommend. He’s very eclectic in his reading.”

“So I noticed. Did he seem drawn to any books that would suggest depression?”

“David? Depressed? Never. Most people, in my humble opinion, are depressed because they’ve taken the wrong path in their life and they don’t have the courage to turn back. David is one of the surest people I’ve met. Quiet but very determined. He is going to save people’s lives through surgery. Period. Everything else will come.”

“Did he ever ask you out?”

“Why on earth would you ask me that?”

“The way you talked about him. And you’re probably the same age as him. A nice Jewish girl. I guess if I were him I think I would have asked you out.”

“If you were him.”

She let me put a poster in the entrance, as did most of the neighbouring stores. At the end of the first block, I flagged Jenn down and crossed to her side of the street and compared notes. “He isn’t known in any of the clothing or fashion stores, but he sometimes goes into the fish store for smoked whitefish, herring, and gefilte fish-did I pronounce that right?”

“Perfect.”

“There’s also a cafe where he sometimes comes and reads newspapers. The manager said he occasionally has coffee and cake with Rabbi Ed from Adath Israel.”

“Him again. That’s a good sign.”

“That he’s someone David might have talked to?”

“Yes.”

“Do Jews confess to rabbis the way Catholics do to priests?”

“No, we prefer to wallow in our guilt. You can’t shut us up about it, but it doesn’t count as confession.”

We handed out laser photos and put posters up for another two blocks in each direction. In a few spots I found flyers Ron had put up the week before, covered over now by ads for tutoring, piano lessons and handyman services. When we were done, we sat in the car and used the GPS to locate the nearest FedEx so we could get David’s computer home. I dropped Jenn there and navigated my way over to the Brookline Police Department, a tall narrow old row house made awkwardly modern with a glass front and a glass-and-metal awning. On one side of it was Brookline’s municipal centre and an old dark-brick courthouse with three bland arches and a severe triangular roof that was plain as a Puritan’s hat. On the other side, what had probably been an early fire station, with doors wide and tall enough to admit a horse-drawn wagon.

The police station lobby had been made over with dark tile and pale wood. On the wall were plaques remembering the only two officers to have fallen in Brookline’s long line of policing, and a glass case with photos of sex offenders who had skipped bail or were otherwise known to be in the area.

I approached the desk, where a big blond man sat pecking at a keyboard with stiff blunt fingers. His hair was shaved close to the scalp everywhere but on top, where it grew thick as indoor-outdoor carpeting, and he looked like he spent more time training for mixed martial arts than in customer service seminars. He didn’t say anything or look up or otherwise acknowledge my presence, just stabbed at the keys. His name tag said W. Kennedy.

I said, “Good morning.”

He held up a finger to silence me and resumed tapping, using both index fingers and occasionally a thumb on the space bar. It was a good thing no crime spree erupted in the streets of Brookline. He kept pecking until he was good and finished. Then he looked up and said, “Help you?” like he almost meant it.

“I’d like to speak to Detective Mike Gianelli, please.”

He said, “Because?”

“Because he’s in charge of the David Fine investigation.”

“The David Fine investigation.”

“A missing persons case. I’m a private investigator. Hired by his parents-”

“Your licence.”

I got it out and slid it across the counter. I said, “His parents-”

He held up the same finger again while he took in the details of my Ontario licence. He didn’t seem to think any faster than he typed.

“Sir, are you armed?”

“No.”

“No weapons on your person?”

“None.”

“You have another piece of ID?”

I gave him my passport.

He took in its details at his usual speed and told me to have a seat at one of three chairs facing a large wall-mounted screen that was at present turned off. Kennedy picked up the phone and spoke into it at a level I couldn’t hear. Nodded. The man had a neck and shoulders you could break a log on. And wouldn’t it be fun to try?

He got off the phone and said, “Detective Gianelli will be down in a minute.”

Which turned out to be twelve.

“Jonah Geller?”

A man in a suit was holding my licence and passport. He was about my height, six feet, but heavier where it counted, the chest and shoulders. He came over and offered his hand; his grip was strong but he didn’t try to show off with it. He had thick dark hair, parted in the centre and held back by gel.

“I’m Mike Gianelli,” he said. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“David Fine’s parents hired me.”

“Ron and Sheila, huh? Yeah, nice people. Good people. They’ve been very cooperative, very supportive of our efforts.” He handed back my documents, which I pocketed. “And you’re from up there?”

“Yes.”

“Because this licence of yours, as far as the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and the Town of Brookline are concerned, isn’t valid here, so right away we have a problem. We got no reciprocal agreements with Ontario-I checked. You carrying a weapon?”

“No.”

“You have one where you’re staying?”

“No.”

“Didn’t bring one?”

“No.”

“Because we have very strict gun laws here.”

“So does Ontario. I don’t carry a gun there either. I never have.”