Breaking Point - Chapter 1 - Vested Interest

In which our hero meets a kindly old lady on Benefit Street

IN all my years with the Providence Police I never trained a rookie as educated, intelligent and eager to learn as Officer Susan Mason.

The Middlebury grad soaked-up police procedure and practice like sterile gauze blots-up blood. She knew the law inside and out, chapter and verse. Unlike every trainee before and after, I didn’t have to tell her something ten times before she understood what was expected and why.

In my humble opinion, Susan Mason was also the most physically attractive rookie ever to grace the PPD. I was hardly the only one to notice or think so. Mason’s robin-egg-blue eyes, luxurious blonde mane and athletic physique was colleague catnip – until a cohort stepped over the line. To say she didn’t suffer fools and lechers gladly was like saying Joseph Stalin was a bit of a bully.

Despite her obvious charms, my relationship with Officer Mason was strictly professional. The 17 year age gap, the possibility of a sexual harassment charge and the “don’t shit where you eat” rule all conspired to keep the little head from telling the big head what to do. Besides, my plate was full. 

My son was in rehab. My mafia crush Mia was pregnant. I’d been blown-up twice, shot once and betrayed more times than I cared to remember. I’d killed more than a few men and watched more than a few men be killed. I’d pissed off the mob, the police force, the FBI and my mother, who was always pissed off. So I guess that doesn’t count.

“Benefit Street,” Mason declared, interrupting my reverie. “I don’t think anyone here’s on benefits.”

True enough. Most of the houses were small, but the money required to own and inhabit one was not. Colonial charm has its price in the Renaissance City.

“You ever been inside the John Brown House?” I asked, pointing at a stately brick building on a small hill looking down its nose at the street below. 

“No sir. But I’m not a history buff like some people I know.” 

“Let’s just say they don’t make slave traders like they used to,” I declared, scanning the historical neighborhood for a modern parking space.

“Are you calling Brown University’s founding father a slave trader?”  

“My bad. Human trafficker. Any update on the call?” 

Mason checked the computer. “Same. Noise complaint. Screaming kids.” 

“Resident?” I asked, braking for a RISD student sauntering across the street obliviously.

“Dorothy Hawthorne Wilkes. And before you do the Jeopardy thing, what is ‘The Scarlet Letter?’”

“Sex out of wedlock. Racy stuff.”

I spotted a parking space near the Wilkes’ residence. Just as well. Benefit Street had room for resident parking, two lanes of shoulder-to-shoulder traffic and nothing else. The driveways next to the houses were occupied by cars with bumper stickers advertising their owners’ liberal credentials.

Mason called in our 10-27. As I left the cruiser, a stiff wind reminded us that winter’s icy hell was a few weeks away. Mason nodded her readiness to tackle College Hill’s not-so-mean streets. 

Walking down Benefit Street, we passed perfectly preserved 19th century houses. I caught glimpses of the State House – the spitting image of the nation’s capitol – through the narrow spaces between properties. 

“My ancestors built one of those,” Mason said.

“Mayflower lives matter.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” 

“Say what?”

Number 86 was the kind of house you’d see in a movie where people said “thee” and “thou.” A pair of window boxes clung to its clapboard sides, the plants mounting a last hurrah against the changing season. We climbed five granite stairs to a dark blue door.

I stopped and listened. Nothing. I raised an anchor-shaped knocker and let it fall. After two solid concussions, a gray-haired old lady opened the door, smiling at us as if we were selling Girl Scout cookies.

“Hello officers.”   

Mrs. Wilkes was a veritable fireplug of a woman, standing no more than five feet tall. She wore a thick black skirt and a plaid suit jacket buttoned to the neck. A string of pearls lay across her ample chest. Matching earrings completed the diminutive dowager look. 

“Mrs. Wilkes?” I asked, smiling. “My name is Lieutenant Canali. This is Officer Mason. One of your neighbors asked us to look in on you.”

“Whatever for?”

“Are there any children in the house?”  

“Just my grandchildren. They’re playing upstairs. Is there a problem officer?”

“Canali. Do you mind if we come inside? It’s pretty cold out here.”

I could have told Mrs. Wilkes about the neighbor’s complaint, warned her to keep a lid on her grandchildren’s noisemaking and called it a day. Did I suspect she was anything but a kindly old lady? Not at all. I was curious. I’d never been inside a Benefit Street colonial. 

“You must be chilled to the bone,” Mrs. Wilkes said sympathetically, clocking Mason’s portrayal of a police officer freezing to death. “Come in.”

The house was laid out in the saltbox style of the late 1800s. Stairs to the second floor rose from the right side of a central hallway. The dining room lay off to the right, the parlor to the left. 

The interior was period correct down to the last detail. Elegant oriental rugs lay on honey-colored wooden floors. Early American landscape paintings and portraits of dour colonists lined the walls. A small crystal chandelier hung over the hallway. I half expected a messenger to arrive with news of a China Clipper sailing into Providence harbor.

Mrs. Wilkes led us to the dining room. I stopped at the entrance, admiring the mahogany dining table. Six straight-backed chairs surrounded it, glowing in the morning light. A fireplace occupied one side of the room, a large breakfront glass cabinet the other. Mason followed Mrs. Wilkes into the room.

“Would you like some tea? I’ve made some banana bread.”

“Yes please,” I answered.

“Thank you,” Mason chimed in.

Mrs. Wilkes disappeared into the kitchen. Mason and I removed our hats. 

“Would your grandchildren like some banana bread?” I inquired. 

“Oh no. It would spoil their lunch. I’ll just be a minute….”  

The silence was unnerving. I hadn’t raised any children, but I knew that even the best behaved kids aren't ninja quiet. Especially if they’ve been reported to the police for screaming like banshees. 

Mason walked over to the cabinet to check out Mrs. Wilkes’ netsuke. My rookie was captivated by the miniature ivory animals and figurines. A sharp head nod brought her back to the matter at hand.

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom?” I asked. 

“No snooping!” Mrs. Wilkes answered from the kitchen, removing a legal basis for my “look around without a warrant” technique. 

Mrs. Wilkes emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with fine china. It took me a few long seconds to process her arrival. Our host had removed her jacket, revealing a black vest ringed with sticks of dynamite. 

“Here we are!” Mrs. Wilkes said proudly, setting the tray down on the table. “Who takes milk?”

In all my time on The Job, I’d faced only a handful of situations that made my mind go blank. I’d learned to jump-start my thought process with a simple mantra. Four words Mother screamed at me when I hesitated to obey her commands or satisfy her expectations: Do your fucking job!   

As I repeated Mother’s admonition inside my head, I took a single step towards the Benefit Street bomber. And then another. By my third footfall I had a plan: shoot Mrs. Wilkes in the head. 

It could be just any headshot. To prevent her from detonating her bomb vest, my bullet had to enter her skull somewhere between her top lip and the space between her eyebrows. What assassins and dermatologists call the T-Zone.   

A head is a small target. People have a tendency to duck, bob or weave when you aim a gun at them. Not to mention the fact that a massive adrenalin dump had numbed my trigger finger. 

The best answer to the lights-out headshot challenge: leave it to an experienced sniper with a scoped rifle. Unfortunately, my piano teacher had shot and killed our SWAT team’s long range shooter. 

I glanced over at Mason. She stood statue still, eyes wide with fear. I caught her attention and mouthed the words get help! She snapped out of her trance, nodded, and sidled towards the door. 

“Excuse me Mrs. Wilkes, what did you say?” I asked as calmly as I could. 

“Would you like some milk in your tea,” Mrs. Wilkes repeated, looking at me as if I’d lost my mind.

I was about ten feet away from our host – close enough to see the bright red and orange wires at the bottom of the dynamite sticks. I continued inching forward, operating on the principle that the closer I get to a target, the harder it is to miss. 

As the moment of truth approached, an unsettling thought bubbled to the surface. What if someone else controlled the vest via cell phone or radio signal? They could detonate the dynamite after I splattered the wall with Mrs. Wilkes’ brain.  

So there was no guarantee that a head shot would prevent an explosion. But waiting for the calvary was too great a risk. At any second, Mrs. Wilkes would kill us all, including the unseen grandchildren, assuming they were still alive.

I turned my body sideways to hide my right hand. I don’t think Mrs. Wilkes saw me go for my Glock, but she definitely sensed I wasn’t approaching her for a slice of banana bread. 

Before I could draw my weapon, Mrs. Wilkes reached into a vest pocket and pulled out a small metal box with a red button. She pressed the button with her right thumb. 

I stopped in my tracks, waiting to meet my maker. My entire body stiffened. Nothing happened. 

Mrs. Wilkes’ thumb continued to hold down the button. I quickly concluded that the dynamite was wired to a “dead man’s switch.” The moment her thumb came off the button, the TNT would explode. 

Mrs. Wilkes poured a cup of tea with her free hand, careful not to spill. I counted eight sticks of dynamite circumnavigating her portly figure. 

Mrs. Wilkes pulled out a chair, sat down and motioned me to join her.

“Don’t be rude, Officer,” she chided, pouring a second cup of tea.

NOTE: This is Part One of Chapter One of Breaking Point, the as-yet-unpublished sequel to Reservation Point (available on Amazon).The serialization continues every Sunday. Comments, criticisms and suggestions are most welcome.