Fall Guy

eyes closed, I felt at peace. I took a hot shower, got dressed, and feeling relaxed for the first time since I'd heard of Timothy O'Fallon's death, I began to walk home.
    On the way home, I remembered that I was out of fresh vegetables for Dashiell's meals. I stopped at Integral Yoga and got a couple of bags of food—carrots with the tops on, dandelion greens, green and yellow squash, and some fruit for me. Then I headed to Horatio Street, but not to O'Fallon's apartment. I opened the bag with my swimming gear and took out the plastic bag and a spoon. Then I bent next to one of the few tree pits that weren't planted with summer flowers, dug a little hole and dumped the extracted teeth into it, covering them with dirt and tamping it down. Picking up my groceries, I headed home to go back to work. But just a block away, there was a dead pigeon lying against the curb. You don't see that very often, considering the number of pigeons living in the city. So I decided to make good use of this poor soul. Looking around, hoping no one was headed my way, I knelt, slipped a dog bag over one hand like a glove and plucked a couple of feathers from one bent wing. Then I took a detour, a third of the way down Jane Street, made another hole in another tree pit and buried the feathers there, a possible false find to sharpen Dash's training.
    There was a notice in the mail saying O'Fallon's body had been released. When I got inside, I called the funeral home he'd designated in his will and arranged for them to pick it up. He'd requested cremation, but he hadn't specified what was to be done with his ashes. Perhaps he assumed that I could figure that out as well.
    Instead of doing more work, I took Dashiell for a long walk along the river. When we got home, I thought I'd better make Dash's food before going back to O'Fallon's notebook, have it ready when mealtime rolled around. I put on the radio, a Bach concerto was playing, and spread the greens out on the counter. Chopping dandelion greens and carrot tops and grating squash and carrots was another form of meditation for me, something that kept me in the moment, that kept my mind free of the buzz that usually filled it. When I was finished, I stirred in some yogurt and put the mixture in the refrigerator, taking out some ground turkey to defrost so that I could add it to the vegetables at mealtime.
    Finally, I sat on the couch and picked up the notebook, but I didn't open it. I started instead to go over the things I'd learned, to think about them—about Maggie's letter, about the location of the tile that had been replaced in O'Fallon's bathroom, about Parker's aunt who had gone missing, about how distracted Dennis O'Fallon had been on the phone. When I opened the notebook, I noticed a small red smear on the corner of the page I was about to read, as if O'Fallon's thumb had been bleeding when he'd turned the page to continue making notes. I wondered if he'd cut his hand in a work-related incident or if he was tense and bit his cuticles, the way my ex-husband used to—cool on the outside, knotted up within.
    And then I started to think about Maggie again. She'd seen her brother at their mother's funeral service and written him that evening, not long after he'd left her home. What was that all about?
    There was a list of items stolen, meticulously recorded on the left-hand page, items taken by Parker. Maybe Tim didn't care about his things, only about trying to give this man he'd taken in a chance. His life didn't seem to be about material possessions. It's hard to believe he would have become a cop if he had cared about money and possessions. But still, you'd hate to have your things just disappear, to look for a cigarette lighter, a pair of cuff links, a watch, and find it isn't where you left it, to realize that it wasn't misplaced, that it was gone forever.
    It was late, but the turkey was still frozen and Dashiell needed a walk anyway. I had thought to leave the teeth for him to find in the morning, but decided to give it a try then. It was eight-thirty. The street wouldn't be crowded. People were already home from work and the transvestite hookers who worked the meat market and used Horatio Street as an outdoor hotel were not yet on the job.
    I grabbed the leash, my keys and some pick-up bags. Dashiell was already waiting at the door. As soon as I opened it, he ran to the wrought-iron gate, then back to me, then back to the gate. His ears were back and there was a manic look