Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [134]
Although the Fire Department and the couple's neighbors were caught off guard, the Post has learned that the $450,000 house at the end of the quiet cul–de–sac has been under police surveillance and that George Browne was arrested twice for child molesting in recent years.
In 1978 Browne, who listed his occupation as "entertainer," was arrested on felony molestation charges that were eventually dropped. Two years later, he was arrested again, and ultimately pleaded guilty to endangering the welfare of a minor—a five–year–old boy from upstate, according to police sources.
Browne's charred body was discovered at the bottom of the basement stairway. An apparent broken neck has led cops to theorize he was trying to escape the fire—which may have begun with an explosion in the boiler, according to firemen—when he was overcome by smoke and fell down the stairway. An autopsy is pending.
Among the first cops to arrive on the scene were detectives conducting round–the–clock surveillance for the City–Wide Special Victims Bureau. Assistant District Attorney Eva Wolfe, who heads the bureau, would only say that the surveillance was "part of an ongoing investigation." She declined to say when the investigation began.
Mrs. Browne has not yet been arrested, ADA Wolfe said, adding that charges are expected to be filed "soon."
A hospital spokesman said the woman's condition is satisfactory.
The Prof was reading over my shoulder. "When people can't learn, they're bound to burn," he said.
The blues are the truth.
96
I MADE the call the next morning. "You have my money?" I asked her when she answered the phone.
"Was that you…?"
"You have my money?" I asked her again, cutting her short. "I'll have it tonight. Do you have…?"
"Tonight. Midnight, right?"
"Yes. I'll…"
I hung up on her. A dry run.
97
I WAS THERE on time. Fear was strong in me; I couldn't put a name to it. Nobody wants surgery, but when the disease is fatal, even the knife looks good.
The back of the house was soft, sly darkness. Shadows played their games. There was no music.
"I have you in me now," Strega said once. I called to Flood in my mind, telling her Strega had lied. Telling myself.
I had Scotty's picture in my pocket. It was enough to get me into the house—I wasn't sure it was enough to get me out. The garage was standing open, a space ready for my Plymouth. I left it outside, nose pointing toward the drive.
I walked up the stairs to the living room. It was empty. I fired a wooden match, looking for a light switch. I couldn't find one—settled for a lamp that flowed gracefully over the couch. I bit into a cigarette, watching the match flare with the first drag, waving my hand to put it out. I put the match in my pocket, waiting.
She came into the room wearing a red slip, her feet bare. Her face was scrubbed and clean. Sat down next to me on the couch, tucking her feet underneath her. She looked like a young girl.
I took the picture from my pocket, gave it one last look, and put it in her lap. An offering—take this from me and go haunt someone else. She ran her finger lightly over the surface of the picture. "This is the one," she whispered.
I didn't want a ceremony. "You have my money?" I asked her.
"I'm going to burn this in front of Scotty," she said like she hadn't heard me. "And it will all be gone."
"It won't be gone—only the people at SAFE can do that," I told her.
"You know what I mean," she said.
She had her magic words—I had mine. "Where's the money?" I asked her again.
"It's upstairs," she said, flowing to her feet. "Come on."
A woman's hatbox was in the middle of her bed. I could see it through the canopy. A diamond floating on quicksand. She pointed to it, one hand on her hip.
I reached through the lacy fabric and pulled it out. The top came off—inside was the money, all neatly stacked. And the thick gold chain on top of the pile.
"Touch it," she whispered against me. "It's warm. Just