Page 7 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Yeah, he went to Northeastern up in Boston, got a degree in criminal justice.”
“And he’s a Providence cop now?”
“Yeah, a detective. I talked to his mother just the other day. He’s married now and expecting a baby. Connie really missed her chance there.”
“Yeah, too bad,” agreed Carole. “Look, I gotta go. Give Big Frank my love, and don’t worry; it’s all a big mistake, and we’ll get it straightened out.”
Carole still had a couple of bars left on her cell phone, so she called 411 and got connected to the Providence Police Department’s homicide division. “Detective Paliotto, please.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
Carole hesitated, wondering if she should give her maiden name. If she said Capobianco would she be labeled some sort of criminal, too? Then she reminded herself that even if Frank was accused, he wasn’t convicted of anything. “Carole Capobianco,” she said, in a firm voice.
The response was polite. “Sorry, Mrs. Capobianco. He’s on another line. Can you hold?”
Carole checked her bars. She was down to one. “Okay,” she said.
A minute or two later, little Tommy picked up, only now he sounded all grown up.
“Hi, Mrs. Capobianco. I bet you’re calling about Frank.”
“I sure am. What’s going on?”
“Well, he’s going to be charged with murdering Hosea Browne down at the Factory construction site.”
“I know that. But why Frank?”
“Because the evidence all points to him,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“What evidence?”
“He was at the scene …”
“Well, sure. He’s got the plumbing contract. He’s got to be there some of the time, right? Making sure the guys are doing a good job.”
“Then there’s the weapon, which the coroner thinks was a standard piece of copper tubing.”
“So Frank is not the only plumber in the world, and there’s lots of copper tubing around.”
“Yeah, but Browne’s secretary says he had an appointment with Frank, yesterday, at four o’clock, and nobody saw him after that until his body was discovered by the night watchman.”
“Somebody could’ve killed him after the appointment, right?”
“Then there’s the neighbors. We interviewed them first thing this morning, and they all remembered Frank saying he’d like to kill Hosea Browne.”
“That was months ago, back in December,” said Carole. “Frank was upset because we didn’t get that apartment at Prospect Place.”
“Exactly,” said the detective. “In my business, we call that a motive.”
Carole was about to say something she would have regretted, but that’s when the phone gave a long beep and died. She sighed, tossed it in her purse, and started the car.
When she got back to the apartment, the landline was ringing, and she hurried to answer it, fending off Poopsies’s frantic efforts to greet her.
“Hello,” she said, putting the receiver to her ear and falling to her knees so Poopsie could lick her face. It was Vince Houlihan, Frank’s lawyer.
“Mrs. Capobianco, I’m sorry to tell you …”
“I know all about it,” said Carole, scratching Poopsie behind her ears. “They think Frank killed Hosea Browne.”
