Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Lullaby"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

47

Rita met me at Boston police headquarters, and after a long while of her reading forms and me signing them, we had breakfast. We sat at the counter at Mike’s City Diner, and the same pink-haired waitress who waited on me the other day poured us each a cup of coffee. I smiled at her. She didn’t return the smile. I think my rugged but handsome appearance flummoxed her.

“She’s flummoxed,” I said to Rita.

“If I were in my early twenties with pink hair, you’d flummox me, too.”

“Are you saying I’m an acquired taste?”

“Like a single-barrel scotch,” she said. “A little bitter to all but the discerning palate.”

“Swell.”

Rita wrapped her fingers around the thick coffee mug. She added some cream and sugar.

“You did the right thing.”

“Losing my gun?”

“Calling me,” she said. “There could be civil suits. Family members would raise hell if they knew you were such close friends with Quirk.”

“I think Quirk would run me out of town on a greased rail if I did something wrong.”

“I disagree,” Rita said. She sipped coffee. She left the imprint of her very red lipstick on the edge of the mug.

“You haven’t known Quirk as long as I have.”

Mike’s was bustling at six a.m. Plenty of young professionals and grizzled retirees packed the tables, reading fresh copies of the Globe or reading the Globe on their iPhones. I did not have an iPhone. Strangely, I used my phone to make phone calls. Simpler times.

“So now that your suspects are dead,” Rita asked, “how does that leave Mr. Green?”

“No worse than yesterday.”

“So let me get this straight,” she said. “Now we believe the distinguished misters Murphy and Cahill didn’t kill Julie Sullivan?”

Rita sipped coffee. She looked at me with her big green eyes over the mug.

“They played a role in her killing,” I said. “But there’s more. Others. They were following orders.”

“I know a good psychic if you’d like to go that route.”

“I have a working theory.”

“So let’s say the real killer’s two accomplices are now dead,” she said. “How do I make a case to exonerate Mr. Green? Those nail clippings are a long shot. It’ll take months to return from the lab, and that doesn’t necessarily clear him. A judge won’t care if his DNA is absent. We’ll need more.”

“You ever hear of Jack Flynn?”

“Sure.”

“What do you know?”

Rita shrugged. “I don’t know. Typical Southie hood. I once prosecuted some guys in his crew. They’d hijacked a cigarette truck and were selling their spoils out back of a supermarket in Quincy. Wasn’t he convicted of some killings sometime back?”

“I’m being told he worked out a deal with the Feds.”

“With your friend Agent Connor?” Rita raised her eyebrows. “Sticky. Sticky.”

“Yep.”

“And now the Feds’ ace in the hole may have killed your client’s mom.”

“I’ve known Jack Flynn since about as long as I’ve been in this business,” I said. “He used to be a shooter for a bookie in Charlestown named Frank Doerr.”

“Doerr still in business?” Rita asked.

“Let’s say he took an early retirement,” I said. “From there, Flynn worked a little for Joe Broz. But Broz never trusted him. Flynn’s mainly freelance. He’s really the only guy in the city who could work his own people without getting squeezed by the Italians. He’s sort of been grandfathered into the criminal system.”

“Hoodlums and their complex codes,” Rita said. “Endlessly tiresome.”

She set down the coffee and picked up a laminated menu. She crossed her legs as she read. Her heavy wool coat lay on the stool next to her.

“Hash and eggs are highly recommended,” I said.

“If I ate hash and eggs for breakfast, I’d need more sex to burn the calories.”

“If you were any more sexed up, you’d spontaneously combust.”

Rita raised an eyebrow. “So how certain are we that Flynn killed Julie Sullivan?”

“Fairly,” I said.

“Why?”

“That’s where it gets tricky.”

“Did Red Cahill and Moon Murphy know?”

“Yes,” I said. “Flynn sent them for her. I think he was her boyfriend.”

Rita nodded. “Now we’ll never know.”

The waitress stopped at our table, refilled our coffee, and took our orders. Rita decided on a Greek omelet, no toast, with a small OJ. I had hash and eggs. I wanted to underscore my point.

I again smiled at the pink-haired waitress. She narrowed her eyes at me and walked off.

“Maybe she thinks you’re nuts,” Rita said.

“You think I’ve lost it?”

“You still got it,” Rita said. “And I got it, too. If you were smart, we could join a mutual admiration society.”

“If only my heart did not belong to another.”

“Your loss,” Rita said.

I grinned. We were quiet for a moment. My ears still rang from hearing gunshots at very close range. I took comfort in the diner activity. The pouring of coffee, orders barked back to the chef, and the clang of silverware were much nicer than Jack Flynn’s kitchen.

“How bad was it?” Rita asked.

“To quote Quirk, ‘It was a royal clusterfuck.’”

“Does Hawk need help?”

“He has a good lawyer.”

“Not as good as me.”

“No one is as good as you.”

“Hawk’s reputation will make this a pain in the ass for Quirk.”

“Hawk puts Quirk in a tough position,” I said. “Hawk’s reputation is the stuff of legend. Even when Hawk does right, it puts Quirk in a tough position.”

“It’s not easy being a professional thug.”

“I resent that remark.”

“What will you do now?” Rita asked.

“As you know, Mattie saw her mother with Mr. Murphy and Mr. Cahill the night she died.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Did I mention there may be an eyewitness to the killing?”

Rita tilted her chin downward. “Hmm,” she said. “Must have slipped your mind.”

“I have reason to believe there is a woman who witnessed the murder.”

“Someone the cops didn’t know about?”

“This wasn’t exactly a high-priority case for them,” I said. “And the witness seemed to value her life a little too much to come forward.”

“That’s fantastic,” Rita said. “She’ll talk now?”

“It would be fantastic,” I said. “But she’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared as in dead, or disappeared as in flown the coop?”

“Excellent question,” I said. “I have good reason to believe she may have left her apartment in some disarray. Not that I creeped her apartment or anything.”

“Lots of people live in disarray.”

“True,” I said. “But it looked like she’d left her dinner on the kitchen floor.”

“Maybe she’s messy.”

“She left a half-filled suitcase,” I said. “And she had a pretty good supply of makeup left in the bathroom.”

“Men are endlessly fascinated by makeup,” Rita said.

“And underthingies.”

Rita smiled slowly at me and flipped her red hair.

“Our witness may have a huge cache of makeup, who knows?”

“What about leaving her luggage?” I asked.

“Did she leave her purse?” Rita asked. She raised her eyebrows.

“I didn’t see a purse.”

“Sounds like she made a run for it.”

“Or someone took her purse, too.”

“Maybe,” Rita said. “Maybe not. Maybe something scared her so bad, she grabbed the only thing she could and took off. Does she have a car?”

“I couldn’t find one registered to her.”

Rita nodded.

“She’s pretty broke,” I said. “I don’t think she could run far.”

“If she knows what you think she knows, it wouldn’t matter much,” Rita said. “I bet she has credit cards.”

I nodded. “She does, but I can’t track her credit cards,” I said. “Only the cops can do that.”

The waitress slid the plates before us. Steam rose from the hash and eggs. More coffee was poured. Rita ate and crossed her legs. She noticed me staring at her knees and smiled.

“Jeez,” she said. “If only you knew some cops to help out.”

48

You owe me,” Belson said. “Quirk doesn’t know I’m doing this.”

“You think he’d disapprove?” I asked.

“I think he’d have my ass.”

“You mind if I send you a box of decent cigars?” I asked.

“I like ’em cheap,” Belson said. “You send me the good stuff and my lungs might revolt.”

“Point taken,” I said. “What do you have?”

I cradled the cell phone to my ear as I headed north on Arlington toward my apartment. I needed a hot shower, a shave, and maybe a twenty-four-hour nap.

“Theresa Donovan has four credit cards,” Belson said. “Only one that isn’t maxed out. She’s run up about six hundred in charges this week.”

“Where?”

“Gas station in Quincy, six trips to a McDonald’s, and, oh, I see a hotel, too.”

“Gee,” I said. “You think you might want to share that information?”

“You really worried this girl is in danger?”

“I am,” I said.

“Holiday Inn in Worcester,” Belson said. “You want me to draw you a fucking map?”

“I believe purgatory is a lot like a Holiday Inn in Worcester.”

“Don’t screw me on those cigars,” Belson said. He hung up.

I parked right off the Public Garden on Marlborough and walked up to my apartment.

I was careful unlocking the door. For the last several hours, I’d felt a sharp tension in my trapezius muscles. I was not at ease until I checked the bedroom and closets.

I took a long, hot shower and shaved. I made another pot of coffee. I loaded a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson that I’d grown quite fond of. In my line of work, it was good to have a spare.

I dressed in a black fisherman’s sweater, dark jeans, and my peacoat. Before I closed and locked the door, I reached for my Boston Braves cap.

I was dressed to impress. When calling on the scared shitless, it’s important to make a good appearance. Spenser Crime-fighting Tip #111.

I really should write all of this down.

The sun broke through the gray clouds as I hit the I-90 ramp at Huntington Avenue. I drove west, thinking of Mattie and her mom. I thought of Theresa Donovan and hoped I’d get to her first.

I thought about Jack Flynn. The tension in my back returned.

49

The Holiday Inn in Worcester was not the Ritz-Carlton or the Four Seasons. It really wasn’t much of anything but a place for business travelers to lay their weary heads. A honeycomb of rooms, a business center, a coin laundry, and a sterile little restaurant decorated with black-and-white photos of Massachusetts town squares. If you stared long enough, maybe you’d feel quaint through osmosis.

I did not bother to try to shine on the woman at the front desk. I did not try to bribe a bellman with a twenty, which was for the best, since there were no bellmen at the Holiday Inn in Worcester. I just found the house phone and asked for Theresa Donovan’s room.

After six rings, she picked up.

“You really shouldn’t leave lasagna on your kitchen floor.”

“Who is this?”

“Spenser,” I said.

“The guy with Mattie?”

“As I’m known in some circles.”

“How’d you find me?”

“I followed a trail of bread crumbs from Dorchester Avenue.”

“Are you here?”

“In the lobby.”

“Please go away,” she said. “They’ll find me.”

“Red and Moon are dead.”

There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing. “I saw the news.”

“Can I come up?” I asked.

“Give me a minute,” she said. “I’ll come down. Wait in the bar.”

The bar wasn’t much of a bar, either. But they had beer. And the Holiday Inn Worcester was in luck. I happened to like to drink beer.

I got a Sam Adams Noble Pils on tap and found a small table with an excellent view of the parking lot and the interstate. After my beer was half gone, I worried I’d been conned and Theresa had bolted.

That would teach me to drink on the job.

She appeared a minute later. She wore a long coat over jeans and a pajama top. Her hair was pulled tight away from her face in a ponytail. Her face was absent of makeup, and she smelled strongly of cigarettes.

“Drink?”

She shook her head and took off her coat.

“My ma tell you?”

“Nope.”

“I called her this morning,” she said. “She was sick with worry.”

I listened and drank my beer, not telling her about the credit card trace. In case she made like a rabbit again, I didn’t want to let her in on my secrets.

She fidgeted with her hands. She looked around the bar and over to the lobby. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and then, realizing she couldn’t smoke, said, “Fuck.”

“We can go outside,” I said.

She looked out the window and shook her head. “What do you want?”

“Mickey told me you were with Julie the night she was killed.”

“Bullshit.”

“If it’s bullshit, how come you’re running?”

“Because these people are fucking crazy.”

“And in saying ‘these people,’ you mean Jack Flynn.”

Theresa stopped fidgeting. She looked me in the eye. I nodded at her.

“Can I still get a drink?” she asked.

“What do you want?”

“Double Black Jack,” she said. “Water back.”

“Wow.”

I complied and joined her with refreshments. I guess it would be too much for the Holiday Inn to offer one of those nut trays like at the Taj. I looked around the room and decided it was.

“Tell me about Julie and Jack Flynn.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m the only thing between you and Flynn. And because you owe Mattie something. Mickey Green, too.”

“You can take on Jack Flynn?”

“You bet.”

Theresa just stared at me. But then she nodded, convinced I spoke the truth. I often instilled confidence in young women.

“She met him at Four Green Fields,” she said. “He had just got out of jail, just got a job, and had a lot of cash. After that, he called her a lot. Late. She’d get a message and I’d have to drive her to his condo or some motel.”

“Was she his girlfriend?”

“I don’t know what to call it,” Theresa said. “I think he gave her money. I think he liked her. She was a lot younger.”

“I heard Flynn nearly took off Touchie Kiley’s head one night.”

Theresa nodded.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” she said. “I think Julie kind of appreciated it. People had stopped respecting her. You know, because of the drugs and all. She wasn’t the world’s greatest mom, either. But I guess you figured that out from Mattie.”

“So they were sort of dating.”

“I think Flynn was married,” Theresa said. “Or had been married. I didn’t like him. He creeped me out. I thought Julie had hit rock bottom. And then she latches on to Jack Fuckin’ Flynn, not a month after he gets out of Walpole.”

“You knew who he was?”

“He has a rep.”

I nodded.

“You know how some people got that?”

“Many would say I have a rep,” I said.

I sipped some beer. I studied the view of the interstate and parking lot. A woman passed by the window, pulling her luggage on wheels. When the piece wouldn’t jump the curb, she picked it up with a lot of effort. She did not look like she was having a good day.

“Can I have another drink?”

I nodded. I got her another double Jack. I continued sipping my second Noble Pils. Moderation in all things.

I sat down and let her drink. We remained quiet as cars zipped past on the interstate. Rain pattered the windshields of parked cars. People stood outside, smoking under the porte cochere.

“What happened the night she died?”

“Flynn was mad,” she said.

“I figured that.”

“He snatched me up off a barstool in the pub. He’d parked outside on a curb and tossed me into his car. We drove around for like three hours. He made me call Julie about a dozen times. He was sure she’d gone to the police.”

“About what?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “He was fucking pissed. I finally found out she was drunk and had gone home.”

I nodded. “That’s when he sent Red and Moon to pick her up.”

“Flynn told them to meet us out at this construction site near The Point,” she said. “The university has a couple buildings there now. Why should I tell you all this? Flynn will fucking kill me.”

“Is that why you ran?”

“He called me.”

I nodded.

“I was scared shitless,” she said. “He calls me up a few nights back and asks what I’ve been saying about him and Jules. He says he wanted to remind me that he let me live. Just like that, let me live. Like he was a great guy or some shit.”

“How did he know we talked?”

“Southie ain’t very big.”

I nodded.

“Can we go outside?” she asked. “I’m dying for a fucking cigarette.”

I stood, reached for a few bucks in my pocket, and left a tip. She downed the last gulp of her Jack and grabbed her coat.

We walked to the back of the hotel and the covered swimming pool. The deck tables and chairs were buried in snow and growing thick with ice. The rain pattered on the brim of my ball cap. Theresa smoked, craning her head to study the sky. The cold rain was more an annoyance than a displeasure.

“Flynn told me to stay in the car,” she said. “He got out when they drove up. He told Red and Moon to take me home. They’d parked her down a ways. I remember they kept their headlights on. I noticed a lot of bulldozers and stuff. I could see Julie get out of the car while Red and Moon was walking toward me. Flynn dragged her into the car.”

“For how long?”

“Five minutes. Long enough,” she said. “I think Red and Moon stayed around for Flynn to tell them what to do. But Flynn was in the car. You know. When he finished, Flynn got out of the car and yanked her with him. Her clothes were all torn and shit. I saw him smack her.”

I nodded. I let her talk.

“Red and Moon knew what was about to happen and told me to get in the backseat,” she said. She finished the cigarette and started a new one. The wind and rain were very cold. I could feel my face tighten. “I got in back, and I remember asking those pieces of shit to please not kill me.”

“What did they say?”

“Red told me to get down low and shut the fuck up. He started the car and started to drive off.”

I turned up my collar. A man who worked for the hotel opened a side door and asked if we’d been locked out. I told him we were fine. Theresa was shaking. She smoked and stared at the pool cover. Rain flecked her face.

“They was turnin’ around when I saw it,” she said. “I didn’t want to. But I screamed. You ever screamed like it’s involuntary? I mean, I had to cover my mouth, but I couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t stop it.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw her yelling at him, and Flynn’s hand come from his pocket with something silver,” she said. “He just kept jabbing her with it. I seen her fall to her knees. I seen the blood. Oh, Jesus. What the fuck do you want me to say?”

She shook even more, teeth chattering. She tossed the cigarette onto the pool cover, where it went out with a hiss. I took off a glove and put a hand to her cheek. Her nose ran, and she looked as if she might get sick.

I told her I was very sorry. I never felt more awful about saying sorry. Sorry seemed inadequate.

“Last thing I saw was Julie trying to stand,” Theresa said. “She was fucking screaming at Flynn, giving him hell. I give her that. She never lost that spirit. I know even cut up like she was, she was telling him he was nothing but a rotten piece of shit.”

I took back my hand. I put an arm around her. She was sobbing hard, her body almost in revolt under my shoulder. Her hair was very wet.

“He got in Red’s car and fucking ran her down,” she said.

“But it was Mickey Green’s car,” I said.

“I had turned to see the thing out the back window. You could see it all in those headlights. Red told me to look away and to keep my fucking mouth shut. But Flynn knew. He’s wanted me dead a long time. But he didn’t think I had it in me.”

“Did the police talk to you during the investigation?”

Theresa laughed. “Right. They really went all CSI trying to find out who killed the junkie whore from Southie,” she said. “No one cared about Julie. I never even saw a single detective. Next thing I know, they’ve arrested Mickey.”

“And you didn’t speak up.”

“‘Speak up’? Are you not fucking listening? Flynn said he would kill me and my whole family. Hell, no, I didn’t speak up. I was relieved that it was over.”

“But it’s not over. Mattie needs to know. And Flynn probably sees you as a loose end he should’ve tied up. I can make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t.”

“You promise?”

I nodded. “Let’s get you packed.”

“Why?”

“You need to change motels,” I said. “If I can find you, so can Flynn.”

50

Long shadows fell across the Charles River esplanade. Ice hung in the trees, but the paths had been salted and cleared. I wore long underwear under my gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, along with a watch cap and gloves. The grains of salt brought a comforting crunch under my New Balance shoes, rounding the corners, heading back toward the Shell.

I kept a decent pace down to Boston University and the old Braves field. The talk I’d had with Mattie after picking her up at school hadn’t been pleasant. She’d been so sure for so long that Red and Moon had killed her mother. She’d felt relief for all of a few hours, and then I had to tell her that another man was still out there. But rules had to be set. I introduced her to a couple Boston police prowl car boys who’d be keeping tabs. I would be there every morning and afternoon until this was done.

The name Jumpin’ Jack Flynn meant nothing to her.

Somewhere on my run, I’d picked up a tail. I first noticed the black sedan slowing at the Harvard Bridge. A clean-cut young man in a cold-weather jogging suit and ski hat passed me. He wore Oakley sunglasses and kept a gun under his right arm.

I noted a Bluetooth device over one ear.

I turned as he passed. Another young man in similar dress lagged behind me. Not that I am not stout of heart, but he was loafing it for an athletic guy in his twenties.

I slowed to a walk as I reached the Shell and placed my hands on top of my head. I had worked up a nice sweat under my grays. My breathing was labored but steady. I liked the way I felt after some road work.

My body seemed in balance.

I saw another sedan, or perhaps the same one, parked beyond the Shell toward the Longfellow Bridge. I don’t think the Feds were even trying to be covert. Connor wanted to send a message.

I followed the frozen river up to the Longfellow. The streetlamps along the bridge clicked on in the early night. The sedan drove off, and I turned back. I missed the rowers and kids playing Frisbee by the Shell. They were a lot more fun.

I took the footbridge over Storrow Drive toward the Public Garden. I watched for cloven footprints in the snow and ice. Over the thoroughfare, the bridge twisted up and under itself.

When I looped around the next curve, I saw a large man in a heavy overcoat leaning over a railing. He stood staring through Beacon Hill at the gold dome of the State House.

I reached under my sweatshirt for my pistol.

He turned. It was Connor.

He flicked the cigarette over the railing. “You keep in shape for an old fighter,” he said.

“Shucks,” I said.

We stood maybe six feet apart under the covered walkway. A cold wind blew off the river. The white and red lights of commuter traffic blurred into the gray afternoon.

“A couple of your guys seemed winded,” I said. “Don’t G-men have to pass a physical anymore?”

“It’s all computers,” Connor said with a shrug. He tucked another cigarette in his mouth and cupped his hand around a lighter. “It’s not the same as when we got into this.”

“What are we into?” I asked.

“The game,” Connor said. “You like the game same as me.”

“Games are more fun to play when you don’t cheat.”

Connor shrugged. He smoked.

“Have you brought my car back?” I asked.

“You’ll get it back,” Connor said, smiling. “We just have to put it back together first. Lot of shit gets lost when that happens.”

“I’ll inform my attorney.”

“She’s some piece of tail,” Connor said. Smoke leaked from the corner of his mouth. “Give me a redhead every time. The problem is getting them to shut up when you’re doing it.”

“You know, Epstein said you were a great asset to the Bureau, but I guess he could’ve been off a couple letters.”

“You’re a funny guy, Spenser,” Connor said. “Amazing you’ve lived this long.”

“I’m a people person,” I said. “Meeting guys like you makes it all worth it.”

Connor shrugged and smoked. “Just seems like you piss off the wrong people. I’ve checked into your past. Killed a lot of people, too. Some of the shootings seemed suspicious to me.”

“If you want to keep leaning on me, Connor, you mind if we set up an appointment?” I asked. “Jeopardy! comes on at seven.”

“You’re fucking up a beautiful investigation,” Connor said. “You shot down two key players in a big fucking syndicate. You’ve destroyed nearly three years of investigative work.”

“My condolences.”

“You’re a real prick,” Connor said. “You know that?”

I shrugged. I walked toward him.

Connor puffed up. I shouldered past him, artfully knocking him back a step.

He gripped my arm. I looked down at his fingers on my biceps.

Connor gritted his teeth. More cold wind scattered the snow and ice off the bridge’s ledge.

“I don’t like to lose,” Connor said.

“Federal agent or not, I will toss your ass off this bridge and down into rush hour if you don’t let go of my arm.”

Connor’s eyes shifted across my face. He let go. He snorted and smiled.

“You killed two government witnesses,” Connor said. “You’ve hoodwinked a couple drinking-buddy cops, but you’re fucked with us, pal.”

“‘To weep is to make less the depth of grief,’” I said. I kept walking.

“You’re fucked,” Connor said, yelling down the curving bridge. “You’re fucked.”

More cold wind blew off the river as I crossed the street to the Garden and then turned right onto Marlborough Street.