Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Lullaby"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

35

I didn’t get back to my apartment until late. I had stayed parked along a side street with a good view of the Sullivans’ apartment for several hours after the dishes were put away. When Grandma stumbled home from the pub at eleven-thirty and the last light clicked out, I headed back to Marlborough Street. I decided to cancel my order for a WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA coffee mug.

I took off my leather rig and placed it on my kitchen counter. I uncorked some bourbon and doused a healthy splash over ice. I thought about adding a bit of water. Real aficionados called it “opening up the whiskey.” It seemed like a waste to me.

I stood at the counter while I drank. I checked messages.

I added some more bourbon to the ice. Marlborough Street was a still life in hushed snow and ice. The piked fence at the Public Garden stood defiant. The soft yellow glow of the streetlamps burned smooth and pleasant.

In my wallet, I found Epstein’s card. A long time ago, he’d handwritten his personal cell phone under the FBI insignia. I knew it was late, but I called anyway. He picked up on the third ring.

“What?” Epstein asked. “You want me to talk dirty to you?”

“Is the bingo game over already?”

“If it wasn’t for bingo and a trip to the deli, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

“If only there was crime in Miami.”

“If only,” he said.

“Still at the office?”

“I’ve taken a cot by my desk.”

“Got a problem.”

Epstein laughed. I heard the squeak of a desk chair as he settled in to hear the problem. “Name it.”

“Tom Connor.”

Epstein didn’t say anything. I heard him let out a long, uneasy breath.

“He accused me this morning of being a mule for a Puerto Rican drug-smuggling ring.”

Epstein laughed. He laughed so hard he nearly choked.

“I’m honored to have brightened your day.”

“How in the hell did that happen?”

“Connor says they found two pounds of heroin in my car.”

“And you don’t usually keep two pounds of heroin in your car?”

“I keep it under my bed, like normal people.”

Epstein laughed some more. “Have you been fucking with him?”

“He stopped by my office yesterday to tell me to back off an operation in Southie.”

“Mmm.”

“You sound like you agree?” I asked.

“I don’t agree, but it sounds like Connor,” Epstein said. “He was in the Boston field office a long time before I got there. Passed over many a moon for promotion. He’s the kind of agent who uses the policy memos for coasters.”

“Or perhaps toilet paper.”

“You want me to call the new SAC?” Epstein asked. “I can help you through the complaint process.”

“Maybe later,” I said. “Right now, I just want to pick your brain. I haven’t seen a Fed this crazed since J. Edgar bought his first training bra.”

“So tell me about what you’re up to in Southie.”

“Apparently there’s a new crew working near the Old Colony projects run by Gerry Broz.”

“The kid.”

“The kid,” I said.

“Oy vey.”

“Just when I try to lift you from certain stereotypes, you throw me a fastball right down the center.”

“You know the old man Broz used to be only a few notches below Bin Laden on our most-wanted list.”

“And now he’s jumped a slot,” I said. “What an accomplishment.”

“Connor has been gunning for Joe Broz for decades,” Epstein said. “He’s obsessed. Nuts over it. He once had to meet with the Bureau shrink because it was interfering with other assignments.”

“I don’t like Joe Broz, either,” I said. “But I never lost much sleep over him.”

“Connor is the kind of guy who wants to be like that old sheriff in Gunsmoke. You know, what’s-his-name.”

“Matt Dillon.”

“Right, Matt Dillon,” Epstein said. “Jesus, he must have something solid to try and jam you up. Five-to-one, this is all about him finding Joe Broz.”

“I always figured Joe Broz for Miami,” I said.

“Maybe,” Epstein said. “Or South America or Europe or fucking China. We’ve been looking for the bastard for ten years.”

“Sorry if I get the feeling that Connor is dirty.”

“He may be an asshole, but he’s a good agent,” Epstein said. “If I thought different, I would have shit-canned his ass when I was SAC.”

“You coming back?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Epstein said. “I really miss the fucking sludge. Every time I see a girl in a bikini Rollerblade by my window.”

“But don’t you miss me?”

“I miss season tickets to Fenway.”

“You never asked me to join you.”

“Conflict of interest.”

“What conflict?”

“You being a Puerto Rican gangster and all,” he said. “I’ll make some calls.”

“Not necessary,” I said. “I can handle it.”

“I’ll make some calls.”

Epstein hung up.

I picked up my bourbon and sat in the darkness on my sofa. On the mantel, I had placed a half-finished block of cherry wood. I had started carving it years ago and had left it whittled down to the form of an unknown animal. I figured I was going to find the first Pearl the Wonder Dog in that hunk of wood. Or maybe it would be a horse. Or a lobster. I didn’t know, and so I’d left the block of wood on my mantel for years. Lots of dust had gathered.

My apartment was very quiet without Pearl or Susan. You could hear a car coming down Marlborough from a long way off. I walked to my window and looked down on the street. I saw no assassins.

I thought about Mattie and Julie Sullivan. Joe Broz and Gerry. Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.

I walked back to the mantel and found the block of wood and my carving knife. I pulled up a chair to the dull streetlamp glow that bled off Marlborough Street. I dug into the old wood, just chipping away a little nick at a time.

36

Neat, clean-shaven, and fresh as a daisy, I dropped Mattie at school and bought a tall coffee and a sack of corn muffins at a Dunkin’ Donuts. I felt vaguely domestic as I hopped the expressway south. I soon turned south on Interstate 95 toward Providence and took the exit to Walpole and the prison.

Walpole had a nice little brick downtown. The rep probably played hell with the folks from the chamber of commerce.

There was a sign for a seasonal farmers’ market, a quilting club, and a handful of fine-looking restaurants, including one called the Raven’s Nest. A sandwich board outside boasted a daily special of fish-and-chips with a side of Guinness. I made a mental note for lunch and downed the last of my coffee.

At Cedar Junction, I parked and went through the prison mechanizations I knew so well. My permit was shown, gun was taken, and I was ushered back to the visitors’ room to wait for Mickey Green.

I wondered if Mickey would note that I had shaved and brushed my teeth. Probably not. The Plexiglas between us was very thick.

After a few minutes, a heavyset female guard walked Mickey into his slot.

He picked up the phone.

I picked up my phone.

I smiled.

Mickey did not smile back.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Where the fuck is Mattie?”

“And to think I shaved so carefully.”

“I ain’t meeting without Mattie.”

“It’s Friday,” I said. “Mattie is in school.”

“Come back tomorrow,” he said. Mickey started to stand.

“Sit down.” My voice didn’t sound friendly.

“What?”

“That kid thinks you got a raw deal and that you’re a good guy,” I said. “Go against your instincts and be smart.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I have some questions, Mickey,” I said. “I’ve been slugged and threatened and arrested all over Southie on account of you. I’m pretty sure you’re sharing just a sliver of what you know with me.”

“If I knew who killed Julie, you think I wouldn’a said something?”

“You’re holding out.”

Mickey blew out his breath. I was glad there was Plexiglas. He did not look neat, clean, and shaven. He looked like he’d brushed his teeth with a toilet scrubber.

I reached into my leather jacket for a folded piece of yellow legal paper. I held it against the glass. Mickey turned his head to read it.

“What?”

“Say the names.”

“Theresa Donovan, Tiffany Royce, Touchie Kiley,” he said. “Moon and Red. Yeah, so what?”

“Who am I missing?”

“Missing from what?”

“Who goes into that list?”

“I dunno.”

“Gerry Broz?”

“Who’s that?”

He kept the same dumb expression. An expression he must have mastered long ago.

“Jack Flynn?”

“Nope.”

His eyes flicked away from mine and then scattered back. “What?”

“Everybody in Southie knows Jack Flynn,” I said.

“I mean, I know who he is, but I don’t know why you were asking.”

“No,” I said. “You said you didn’t recognize the name.”

He shrugged and slunked back into his hard plastic seat. He just looked at me, phone against his ear, and then studied his dirty fingernails.

“I don’t like you, Mickey,” I said.

“So.”

“I think Mattie Sullivan can do a hell of a lot better than wasting her time in your company,” I said. “But like it or not, you’re wrapped up in this. To find out who killed her mother, I might just have to get you freed. So if you have just a sliver of sense in your thick head, listen up and give me the truth.”

“I never met Jack Flynn.”

“What’s he have to do with Julie’s murder?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know shit about that.”

I studied his face as he tried to look tough. His cheeks had grown red. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists.

“Okay,” I said. “From the top. Did you see Julie that night?”

“I said I ran into her at the pub,” he said. “So fucking what?”

“At any time did you touch her?’

“Fuck, no.”

“Did she have any reason to scratch you?”

“Scratch me?” Mickey laughed. He leaned into the glass and said a firm “No.”

“I fired your lawyer for you,” I said.

“He was a turd.”

“Yep,” I said.

“Didn’t do jack crap.”

“I got you a new lawyer,” I said. “Better than you deserve. You’ll have to sign some paperwork, but she will make sure some DNA evidence is processed.”

“What evidence?”

I explained it. I had to go very slow to make sure he understood. I thought about explaining that DNA was a kind of science. Or maybe I should’ve just told him it was magic. He might’ve gotten the magic part easier.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time about Jack Flynn.”

“Jack Flynn wouldn’t know me,” he said. “I wasn’t nobody.”

I nodded. “What about Red?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey said, scratching his paltry beard. “Ask him.”

I nodded.

“I can’t find anyone who will talk about that night.”

“You see Theresa Donovan?”

“Sure,” I said. “Works at a convenience store near Columbus Park.”

“I told Mattie that Red didn’t do it,” he said. “That’s her own crazy idea. What did Theresa tell you?”

“She said she believed the police got the right man.”

“She fucking said that?”

I leaned back into my seat. I rolled my shoulder and took a breath. Talking to Mickey Green was not a pleasant experience. I kept the phone to my ear against my better judgment.

“I can’t believe that,” Mickey said, shaking his head to himself. “She fucking said I did it, and here I was trying to be a good guy and not pull her into this shit.”

I leaned forward. “Pull her into what?”

Mickey kept shaking his head with great disappointment. “Jesus Christ. Jesus. That bitch.”

“Pull her into what, Mickey?”

“Theresa left Four Green Fields that night with Julie,” he said. “She was fucking with her that night. What in the hell did she say?”

“Not much,” I said. “She said she stopped hanging out with Julie since she got hooked.”

“That bitch.”

“You already said that.”

“Well, I’ll say it fifty more times, shit.” Mickey shook his head. For good measure, he shook it some more. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck.”

At least he was trying to switch it up.

I raised my eyebrows at him. He shook his head. Mickey slammed the receiver down on the counter twice before him and called for the guard.

There was the buzz of a dial tone. The heavyset woman returned to lead him back to his cell. I hung up the phone.

I looked at the time. And to think I had planned the day so well.

37

I stopped off on Old Colony on my way back downtown. I checked in at the convenience store where Theresa Donovan worked to ask a few more questions. Instead, I found an old woman behind the register. She was short and fat, and wore a sparkly sweater vest. Her hair was white. The sweater vest featured a pair of teddy bears raking autumn leaves.

The woman said Theresa hadn’t shown up for the last week. She kept the long pauses alive by smacking gum.

I asked if she knew where Theresa lived.

She smacked her gum some more. She said she didn’t.

I didn’t believe her.

“Has she picked up her check?”

She frowned and told me to call the manager. I didn’t bother. I called a cute paralegal at Cone, Oaks who helped me out in such matters. Cute paralegals could not resist me.

It turned out a Theresa Donovan, a white female of that age and general neighborhood, lived up by Dorchester Heights. The paralegal called me back after a few minutes and confirmed it was the same Theresa Donovan who’d graduated from South Boston High School the same year Julie Sullivan graduated.

It was early afternoon when I parked my rental beside a hydrant. Rita had started the process of getting my car back from Buffalo. But I had grown used to the rental in the way a cowboy gets used to a new horse.

I got out of the car and stretched, looking down upon Carson Beach and Old Harbor. Dorchester Heights, as the name implied, was a long way up. A good place to watch if the British ever decided to invade again.

Theresa’s apartment was in a boxy, four-story brick building at the foot of Thomas Park. She lived on the first floor. I buzzed her apartment five times. She did not answer. I checked her mail slot. The bills were plentiful and crammed inside.

I walked back to my rental and drove around until I found a Subway. Properly equipped with a foot-long turkey sub on wheat and a cup of coffee, I returned and parked in a nice spot with a view of Theresa’s building and her apartment. If Theresa came home, I’d see her. If she walked in front of her windows, I’d see her.

The watching part of the job always made you feel like a pervert. Maybe eating a sandwich while watching windows made you less of a pervert. Or maybe it just made you a gluttonous pervert.

I ate and thought of such matters. I drank a little coffee. I listened to the news. In keeping with the spirit of perversion, I recalled great sexual adventures with Susan. I tried to control myself with thoughts of the 2004 Red Sox and Margaret Hamilton naked. I recalled more great sexual adventures with Susan. One in particular caused me to blush.

I ate the first half of the sandwich and wisely saved the next half for later. If I’d known I’d be on watch, I would have brought a thermos of coffee. Subway should not go into the coffee business.

But it was coffee and fully caffeinated. It would keep me focused.

I turned the radio to WICN. The Ray Brown Trio was playing “Bye, Bye, Blackbird.” This was followed by an upbeat Sonny Rollins tune, “Blues for Philly Joe.”

The hours passed. I recalled the great shows of the late Tony Cennamo. How I missed Tony.

I tapped the steering wheel. Soon it was time to pick up Mattie, and I pulled out and headed back to Gavin Middle School. I had gotten pretty good at the pickup process. The crossing guard smiled at me and waved me in front of the school. I smiled back and wheeled up.

I unlocked the passenger door.

She slung in her backpack and climbed aboard with a heavy sigh.

“Eighth grade is a bitch,” I said.

“You went to see Mickey Green,” she said.

“I did.”

“And didn’t take me.”

“I didn’t know I needed permission.”

I waited for the crossing guard to wave me into the flow of traffic.

“Mickey left me a message,” she said. “He was pissed.”

“Pissed at me?”

“Pissed at me,” she said. “Mickey said he didn’t want you coming around unless I was there.”

“Did I hurt his feelings?”

“He said you asked a bunch of useless questions,” she said. “Said you and Theresa Donovan wanted to make sure he was locked up for good.”

“You believe that?”

“Shit.” She hugged the backpack in her lap like a stuffed animal. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Does Mickey Green take you grocery shopping?”

“He’s a good guy,” she said. “He loved my ma.”

I shrugged. It was the best I could come up with at the moment. When in doubt, follow a trend.

“Where we going?” she said as we passed the Andrew T station, looping back down to the Mary Ellen McCormack.

“Home again, home again.”

Mattie didn’t speak for a while. She leaned into the door frame, head resting against the window.

“I can’t take you everywhere.”

“It’s not what you promised,” she said.

“I have been up front with you,” I said. “To do what I do best, sometimes I got to go at it alone.”

“Or with Hawk.”

“If the situation calls for it.”

“Does it call for it today?” Mattie asked.

“No.”

“Then why can’t I come?”

“You would find it very boring.”

“And I should wash behind my ears and do my homework?”

“Your ears look pretty clean,” I said.

I slowed on Kemp Street. Other children with backpacks were shuffling their way home from school. Some stopped to share a smoke in slanting shadows of the old brick buildings. Other kids walked alone down icy paths, letting themselves into their empty apartments. Many of the children reminded me of Mattie. Self-sufficient.

“This is bullshit.”

“So you have told me.”

“But you don’t care?” she asked.

“Take care of your sisters,” I said. “Your grandma.”

“You’re a real jerk.”

She blew out a long breath and opened the door in a hard, violent way. She stomped off down the path to her apartment. She left the car door open. The car chirped to alert me until I closed it.

At least I had half a sandwich.

38

I watched a couple teenage boys racing up the long, icy steps to the Revolutionary War monument in Thomas Park. One slipped on the ice and fell. The other laughed and kept running. The other shouted to his buddy that he was “a real piece of crap.” That amused me for a good two minutes.

Every thirty minutes, I cranked the car and let the heat run. Not much happened here in the dead of winter. Cars circled Thomas Park. Old ladies walked their dogs. I recalled a Fourth of July long ago when I’d watched a fireworks display high on the hill with a woman named Brenda Loring. I wondered what ever became of her as I ate the second half of my sandwich.

Night came early. It grew quite cold. I watched some other tenants enter the building. I waited another hour.

By ten, I was pretty sure Theresa wasn’t coming home. So I buzzed her door again. And then I buzzed a few neighbors.

I finally got the “Yeah” I needed.

“Bill Lee,” I said. “Spaceman Products.”

The door buzzed and unlocked. I walked inside. My next trick would be pitching the World Series while under the influence.

I knocked on Theresa’s door. Nothing.

I knocked again.

I kept an eight-piece lock-picking set in my jacket. It was so easy to pick a lock, I wondered at the use in locking doors at all. Within ten seconds, I was inside her apartment, a studio unit with a pull-out sofa and a small kitchen.

Art on the walls was of the discount-store variety, framed prints of Paris, Picasso, and one of a monkey drinking some kind of Italian dessert wine. In the kitchen, someone had left a half-eaten Lean Cuisine lasagna next to a saucer filled with cigarette ashes. A bottle of Sprite had been left open. The lasagna had congealed into a solid mass. The Sprite had gone flat.

A dirty fork had fallen on the floor, along with a glass. There was a puddle around the broken glass. I searched for more signs of a struggle but saw none. No telltale smears of blood or bullet holes. No scuffed heel marks on the vinyl floor. I sniffed the air for the sweet smell of chloroform.

The food on the counter had not started to mold, but it probably had a shelf life of a hundred years. I checked the phone for a voice-mail service, but the line was dead. So few use actual landlines these days. Theresa would rely only on her cell.

A suitcase lay open on the unmade sofa bed. The suitcase was half filled with jeans, sweatshirts, wool socks, and underthings. I checked a chest of drawers, finding mainly clothes. Theresa had a collection of maybe thirty CDs of singers and groups I didn’t know or care to know. She had magazines that told about the private lives of celebrities. One was open to a page of Hollywood weight-loss tips.

I found her bathroom cabinet fully stocked with makeup, lipstick, and other women’s products.

I walked back into the studio. The light was weak from an imitation Tiffany lamp. On the wall hung a shellacked picture of Saint Jude with the words PRAY FOR US. On top of a small chest was a collection of pictures in cheap plastic frames. One snapshot showed a young man in a Marines uniform before an American flag. Another was of a frail old woman in a large recliner. The other was of Theresa and Julie Sullivan at their high school graduation, smiles full of optimism and hope. Faces unmarked by living hard lives.

I read some mail and went through her bills. She owed more than five grand to a cut-rate credit card company. She had been offered many other credit cards. Another letter offered her good luck and prayers if she’d give a donation. I turned off the lights to the bathroom and studio.

I cracked open the door to the hall, listening for neighbors. Not a creature stirred.

I let myself out and walked back to the street facing Thomas Park. The wind blew harder and colder up in the Heights. I pulled my Braves ball cap down over my eyes. I wore no gloves and sank my hands deep into my pockets.

I did not like where this was heading.