When I didn't answer, she turned around to face me but I was looking up at the sky.
“What's wrong with you?” she asked.
I hopped into my unlocked Suburban and revved up the engine loud and strong. I zipped the car around to face the street, and on my way past Marianna, who was still waiting for my response, I rolled down my window. “Scott Boardman wouldn't have killed that woman's daughter and then come here to tell her mother about it, and then washed her blood off himself in the mother's house. That's too vile an act even for Satan.”
But I drove off feeling my hypocrisy like a hunger pang deep inside. Scott Boardman had asked me to attend the autopsies to learn how his wife and her lover died—when he already damn well knew.
BROGUE AND A BITE ON THE LIP
BY THE END OF THAT DAY, VIRGINIA BOOTH'S lawyer had called both Vince and Chucky, demanding to know why Scott Boardman was still walking the streets after he'd killed two people and then had proceeded to sleaze up the Booth name by concocting a bogus story about a lesbian love affair. By Tuesday evening, Vince and Chucky had conspired to further stoke Virginia Booth's fiery rage by sending a team of cops flashing a search warrant to her mansion in Newport. Too late apparently, because all the bathrooms had already been cleaned by her efficient and numerous starched staff. The cops found nothing but a few male hairs on the sink, which, even if they turned out to be Scott Boardman's, proved nothing except that he was there, and that Virginia Booth was telling the truth.
Through her lawyer she threatened a suit for police harassment, but no one at our office even bothered looking at the letter. Almost everyone threatens police brutality or harassment at one time or another. Unless the complaining victim can produce a broken bone or a bloody nose, the suits go nowhere except the circular file under Vince's desk.
EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING I GOT A HOLLER FROM Mike McCoy. Against his better judgment he'd agreed to stake out the police station and let me know what, if any, Scott Boardman activity was brewing. Poor Mike—out of allegiance to Marianna, and the more pressing fear that she'd throw him out of bed, he was doing double-agent duty by spying on Chucky for me while he was spying on me for Chucky.
Mike, an ex-cop himself, was getting his info from the cop at the reception desk. Mike's newest tip was that Jake Weller, Boardman's PR man, had just walked into the station for a meeting with Chief Sewell. Ten minutes after I got Mike's call, I was skipping up the front steps of Providence Police Station and readying myself for a “surprise” visit to my ex-boyfriend. I'd even brought Chucky Bear a bag of salted almonds as a peace offering, and was ready to lie through my pouting lips that my heart was still pitter-pattering over him and that no one could possibly take his place in my life, not even the handsome, sexy, rich, suave, infamous Scott Boardman.
Of course I assumed Chucky would see right through my candy-coated crap, but he'd still melt at my sophomoric effort to soften him up. He could never say no when I turned on my Irish charm, spiced with a bit of brogue and a bite on his bottom lip.
“Get out of here, Shannon!” he growled when I swung his door open.
Frozen in place, I stared at him until he pulled me into his office and closed the door, pulling those damn blinds closed again.
“Chucky,” I said, “closing those blinds is a signal to the entire station that I'm in here with you, since I'm the only one you close them for.”
“How the hell do you know that? Maybe I have a different broad up here every day at lunchtime. You think any of my men is gonna say anything about it? They just wink and give me the heads-up.”
I sat calmly behind his desk. “Really? Is that what they do when I'm here? Just wink and give you the heads-up?”
“No, they don't like you because you're not afraid of them.”
“If you had other women in your life, you wouldn't put up with the daily grief I give you. Try the jealousy route on one of those other women. I'm not buying it.”
“You think you're so smart? You think I'm so pussy-whipped by you and my goddamn wife that I'll roll over for you whenever you want? Well, you made your bed with Boardman, now go lie in it.”
Bed? No one knew about my date with Boardman on his couch at the Biltmore except Scott. Unless he meant the night Scott and I tangoed naked in my bed until Scott burst into tears like a virgin on her wedding night. But Chucky didn't know about that either.
“What bed exactly are you referring to, Chief Sewell?”
“I'm referring to your whole attitude with this guy.
You're his for the asking and you don't even see it. You don't see that you're acting like the simple-ass broads you make fun of all the time. If you haven't screwed him yet, it's only because he hasn't asked—or because he couldn't get it up.”
Chucky was surprising me with his sudden astuteness.
“You bastard—” The crisp knock on Chuck's door cut me short.
“What is it?!” he snapped.
A meek-looking O'Rourke (well, of course O'Rourke always looked meek) inched open the door. He attempted a serious expression on his Barney Rubble face.
“Sir,” he said, and then glanced at me, wondering briefly if he should simply ignore the six-foot blonde sitting behind his chief's desk. “Urn… sir… Jake Weller is waiting to see you.”
“Hold him at your desk. I'll be out in a minute.”
Chucky closed the door softly and then gave me a long piercing stare. “Shannon, you're going to have to make a decision here—well, it's a choice really—it's either Boardman or me, because I don't share. And now the whole fiasco is threatening both our jobs too. And neither one of us wants that.”
I stood slowly, suddenly sad that Chucky had been the first of us to act like the responsible adult. He was right. I was jeopardizing not only our relationship, but, far more important, the jobs that we both loved and lived for.
“You're right about the jobs, Chuck, but you're wrong about the other stuff. I don't have to choose, because you never have. But we've already been through that. I'm here on business. I want to sit in with Jake Weller. I'll just observe. Promise.”
He shook his head at me because that's all you can do when you're at the kind of impasse that Chucky and I were at. “No way, Shannon. No way.”
“Hey, Chuck.” I pulled the salted almonds out of my pocket like I was feeding an elephant at the zoo. “Here, I brought these for you. Come on, let me stay. He's not here for a formal statement, is he?”
“How do you know?”
I didn't know, but I knew it was the only way he'd let me stay.
“He isn't, is he?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Come on, Chuckster. I promise I'll sit in the corner and not say one word. And you can send me out any time you want. If you think things are getting in conflict territory, I'll leave.”
“What conflict? We're on the same side on this, aren't we? Or did you take a temporary leave from the AG's office so you could defend that hump Boardman?”
“No way. Not me. I'll either be a prosecutor forever or I'll be selling shoes at Saks for the discount.”
I was actually shocked that he let me stay. Maybe it was a truce of sorts, a peace offering. Maybe he knew beforehand what Jake Weller was going to say and he wanted me to hear it. And I was disobeying Vince, of course, by coming into contact with potential witnesses, but I'm incorrigible, and I had no intention of telling Chuck that Vince had barred me from witness interviews. Let Charles Sewell deal with an angry Vince Piganno. Screw them both. I wasn't giving up anything to help either of them.
Hell hath no fury like a bitch terrier's wrath.
For self-imposed penance in a sham of good faith, I sat on an uncomfortably stiff chair in the far corner of Chuck's office as I lapped up the scowl on his face.
Chuck walked to his blinds and pulled them open, nodding through them to O'Rourke, who, seconds later, accompanied Jake Weller in.
Jake Weller was petite and clean-cut, wearing a navy blazer, khaki pants, and a bold r
ed-and-blue striped tie-American Ivy League. He kept his hair closely cropped, but the amber glow of his large deep-set eyes and a shadowy remnant of his freshly shaved beard made him appear of Mideastern origin. He stood uncomfortably in the middle of the room, waiting for instructions. Even the most arrogant people cower under police authority and the threat of incarceration, and here was Jake Weller amid a bunch of ego-challenged men in their private enclave of power.
His golden eyes were wide, and his breathing short and labored. He looked around at Chuck and me, and then back at O'Rourke. I had been ordered to keep my jaw wired, so I remained patiently silent. Chuck and O'Rourke were giving Weller the silent treatment too, increasing the dew already dotting his forehead.
“Over here, Detective,” Chief Sewell said to O'Rourke, pulling out the chair in front of his desk. O'Rourke sat where ordered. Chuck looked at Weller, and then at the empty seat next to O'Rourke, but said nothing before sitting behind his own desk. Without so much as a hello, Chief Sewell had communicated to old friend Jake Weller that he was on his turf. Weller sat in the only empty chair left in the room.
Why was Chuck putting Jake Weller on the defensive? Was he posturing because he and Weller were old friends and didn't want to appear biased? Or was it a message to me that any friend of Scott Boardman's was no longer a friend of his?
Jake Weller looked from O'Rourke to me. He must have been wondering why I was there. And rightly so. Who the hell was I, after all? Chuck should have sensed the tension, but he either didn't feel it or didn't care.
I decided to buck Chuck just once more before he threw me out of his office for the last time (and I was pretty sure he would). I dragged my chair closer to Jake Weller's while avoiding the stare of Chief Chucky, who'd just bolted upright in his chair at my slide closer to home plate.
“Mr. Weller, I'm Shannon Lynch, an assistant AG.” I extended my hand and he shook it strongly but with a damp palm.
He looked back at Chuck. “I was under the impression this would be a private meeting… between old friends, Chuck. I mean… this isn't being recorded, is it?”
Before Chuck could answer, I said, “No worries. We just want to find out the timeline of events the night of the murders. Just tell us whatever you know, no matter how unimportant you think it is.” And then I took a real plunge into the unknown. “Because to be honest with you, Mr. Weller, we think this may have been a hate crime against Pat Boardman and Muffie Booth…for their… well… let's just call it their left-wing relationship. What do you think?”
I was praying that Weller would answer before Chucky slid me out on my ass.
Jake Weller looked down into his lap and shook his head. He was rolling some type of class ring around on his finger like it was an amulet that would transport him out. Or maybe he was just releasing sweat from under the thick gold shank.
“Scott,” he said, shaking his head and still looking at his knees. “I told Scott the campaign probably couldn't withstand a divorce but that it would be the best for both of them after the election. Of course, in hindsight, a divorce might have saved Pat's life. I don't think she would have been with Muffie Booth if Scott had divorced her peacefully. She was punishing him. Really trying to embarrass him. And Scott lost it when he found the two of them there like that…”
I chanced a glance at Chuck, who was letting me go at Jake Weller with abandon. Chucky and I were still a good team; we'd managed to play good guy/bad guy without even preplanning the move.
“So you think Scott Boardman killed his wife?” I said.
Weller looked up at me. “I know who you are, Miss Lynch. Scott told me what he said to you. Do you believe him? The amnesia story?”
“I believe he meant it when he said it to me,” I said. “But someone coached him after that, and Scott recanted. I assume his coach was either you, his campaign manager Leo Safer, or his lawyer Ron Esterman.”
“I didn't see Scott that night. I was on my way to Al Forno to meet him, but when I got there, he was already gone. Ron called me later that night and told me what happened.”
“So you never spoke with Brooke Stanford?” Chucky asked him.
“No, nor did I get a voice mail or a missed-call message from her.”
“Jake? That night. What do you think happened?” Chuck asked.
“Jesus, Chuck.” Weller squirmed in his chair. “You know what I think. But what I think doesn't matter, does it? You need evidence, and I can't help you with that. My gut feelings are as valuable as a Ouija board.”
“Hey, Chief,” O'Rourke said. Too insecure to ask a question directly of Jake Weller, he was sending it through the chief first. “Does Mr. Weller here know if Boardman was with the Stanford girl at all that night? I mean his alibi and all?”
Chucky and I looked at Weller for his answer.
“I think they had drinks or something,” he said. “Scott was ending it for good. She was out of control. Wanted marriage. I had to have a little talk with her once because she threatened to go to Pat and tell her. But when she realized Pat wouldn't care, Brooke gave it up. I explained to her that she'd be ending her own career if she went public, embarrassing herself too. I thought I'd calmed her down. Brooke Stanford was a liability from the get-go.” He shook his head again. “Scott never did take advice very well. He has quite an ego. That's why he's in this mess.”
No one spoke for a minute as we absorbed the not-so-new information and adjusted our positions vis-a-vis Jake Weller.
Chuck and Jake were suddenly old friends again as Chucky nodded, looking like he was in complete agreement with him. O'Rourke sat stiff as always, and I dragged my chair back to the outfield, speaking pretty much to the back wall when I said, “So you're turning your old pal in, huh? His campaign's over so you might as well send him down the river and save your own ass.”
“That's enough, Shannon,” Chuck said.
“It's Attorney Lynch, Chief Sewell,” I said standing. “And the last I checked, I was a lawyer with the Rhode Island AG's office—and you're a… cop. My orders come from Vince Piganno, not you.”
Chucky stood down, finally realizing that all that sex he'd gotten from me in the past wasn't worth the fucking he was getting now.
“Scott Boardman is guilty, Miss Lynch,” Jake Weller said calmly. “And I'm not the only one who thinks so. Leo Safer told me he had drinks with Scott that afternoon and Scott left him to go to the boat to talk to Pat. Something about an estate being settled. Scott knows what happened on the boat that night. Whether he pulled a trigger or not, he knows what happened. And I'm no lawyer, but that makes him guilty of something, doesn't it?”
I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. “Yeah, Mr. Weller, it makes him guilty of choosing the wrong people to surround himself with, starting with an unfaithful wife, continuing with the striking-while-hot Brooke Stanford, and ending unfaithfully with a turncoat PR man.”
“Hey, I'm trying to help you here—”
“You don't have any useful evidence against Scott Boardman. You said so yourself. ‘A Ouija board’ is how you characterized it, which is not exactly admissible in court. So why are you here? Just to ramp up the current, I think. To make sure we fry him—”
Jake Weller stood. “Now why would I do that? What's in it for me if you charge Scott Boardman with murder? I should be doing the opposite. Standing by the guy I chose to support for president. Pointing to him as a murderer merely compromises my ability to judge character, doesn't it? Who's going to hire me again after this?”
“I don't know, but at least you'll be walking around free while Boardman's strapped to the chair.”
“You think I had something to do with this?”
“I wouldn't be surprised if you were acting as some kind of fixer. Kill the wife and lover. Ransack the boat. Make it look like a double suicide, or a hate crime. Nice and clean. Scott Boardman's dirty laundry is tossed overboard. And maybe you thought he could be a comeback kid and scoop some sympathy votes after the brutal murder of his wife by a str
anger.”
Somewhere in the back of my consciousness, while I was all hopped up hopping on Weller, I was wondering why Chuck hadn't lopped me off at the knees and stopped my tirade. A quick glance at him gave me my answer. He was loving it. He had a sneaky smile in his eyes, watching me pummel Weller like he was my adverse witness at trial. Again, Chucky and I were tacitly playing good guy/bad guy, deftly changing sides without so much as a wink at the other. I was now the bad guy, and I knew any minute—as soon as I was finished wringing everything I could from Weller—Chuck would stand up and stop me, presumably protecting his friend from my onslaught. What a dirty game we both loved to play.
Jake Weller turned to Chucky. “This is slander, isn't it, Chuck? She's accusing me of murder.”
Chucky lifted both hands in surrender. “She's the damn lawyer, Jake, not me. What the frig do I know?”
The bad guy/dumb guy routine worked too.
They all looked at me now for the answer to their legal question.
“Unless we beat the shit out of you in here for a confession, whatever is spoken is privileged and we have immunity. So yeah, I'm asking you if you murdered—or had someone else murder—Patricia Boardman and her lover.”
Jake Weller tightened his jaw. “I want my lawyer.”
Sometimes even I hated lawyers.
That little statement signaled the end to all questioning, so I strutted past Jake Weller and out of Chuck's office and then headed back to mine.
My cell had been vibrating for the last ten minutes of Jake Weller's interview. I knew who the caller was, so I ignored it until I was safely behind the closed doors of my office, where I dialed him back.
He picked up and began talking immediately. “I need to see you,” he said. “Friday morning, meet me at the docks at the Newport Shipyard. I'm taking my boat out. We need to talk. In private.”
All that, and I hadn't even said hello. The man was fast. He didn't waste words or time. And he knew what he wanted.
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