Now You See Her by Cecelia Tishy Page A

hair, not dreadlocks. He has soft, liquid eyes and a diamond stud in his left ear. His smile is shy and a bit sly. I
     wonder who’s treating his hepatitis.
    “May I hold the photo?”
    “It’s a old one.”
    Her sisterly undertone is wistful. Kia gently hands me the photograph, and I hold it carefully. Seconds pass without one psychic
     vibe. Zero. Those liquid eyes prompt a perverse thought: had Henry Faiser been imprisoned for selling two cents’ weight of
     crack, he wouldn’t have been near Peter Wald on Eldridge Street. He’d be out now, a free man.
    “So who is this lookin’ into Henry’s case?”
    I hand back the photo. “I can’t say. It’s someone in the justice system.”
    “They catch the one that did it? They got some DNA?”
    “Not that I know.”
    “Then you playing games.”
    “No, I’m helping an investigation.”
    “With cops?”
    “I can’t tell you. And I can’t promise Henry anything. We’ll have to see.” I pick up Biscuit. “Maybe it’s best not to tell
     your brother.”
    “ ’Cause it’s lies.”
    “Because it’s complicated.”
    We’re at the front door. I step onto the porch and thank her. Kia’s taunting voice follows me down the sidewalk past the liquor
     store where the two young men loiter with bottles and losing scratch cards.
    “They got him in there ’cause that boy got killed was a white rich man’s son. One of ours is goin’ to pay for that. They’re
     makin’ money off us. They got our people locked up to make money.”
    “Reggie, Mattapan is off-limits. Where’s your learning curve?” Meg Givens and I are lunching in a bookstore café near Copley
     Square. It’s nearly 1:00 p.m., and we’ve chatted and browsed bestsellers while waiting for the table. Meg likes my turquoise
     sweater set. I’ve admired her russet jacket. Her earrings are tiny red hats. We’re both famished and irritable.
    “Dangerous parts of Boston, Reggie, you have to be careful.”
    “Like the Back Bay?”
    “Oh, you still think you heard somebody mugged in the fog?”
    “And dragged off. With a horrible sound, like strangling.”
    “Mattapan is not for a white woman like you. Too much crime. What were you doing way out there anyway?”
    “I was trying to find the sister of a man who…wrote a letter.”
    “To your aunt? I guess you’ve got to go through her things sooner or later.”
    “Actually, it was a letter from a man in prison.”
    Meg looks up sharply. “Your aunt was a saint, Reggie. She championed underdogs. She fought for good causes morning, noon,
     and night.”
    “It energized her.”
    “But she was one of a kind. Her files are probably chock-full of wacko pleas for help, and you can’t be responsible. Not to
     smudge Josephine Cutter’s memory, Reggie, but my advice is, ignore those letters. I’ve read that prisoners send them like
     dogs shed fleas. They’re more or less bulk mailings, and if the prisoners don’t have real paper, they use toilet tissue. Was
     this one?”
    “Prison-issue Charmin? No, Meg, this letter was on notebook paper. The lettering was vivid and blocklike. The wording was
     basic.”
    Inside I hesitate. Did Henry Faiser send out lots of letters just like the one he mailed to Frank Devaney? What if the same
     plea went out to prison support groups, to ministers, to random names in the phone book? The man is a hustler. His sister
     admitted it. The plea for help and proclamations of innocence could be his latest scam.
    The con game of a murderer?
    Just then, however, as I take a bite, the air begins to feel heavy, and a certain pressure builds at my side. It takes effort
     to swallow. “Oh, ouch.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    An acrid odor hits my nostrils, and the air thickens. Meg’s face blurs. “My side, my rib.”
    “Reggie, you look pale.”
    “It hurts—”
    “Drink some water. Here.”
    I watch a turquoise sleeve reach for the water glass. It’s my own arm. My rib is actually…burning. I manage an icy