"Hey, Skip, give it a rest and listen up, okay? Making annoying phone calls, as long as it isn't deemed to be stalking, is only a misdemeanor. But threatening bodily harm over the phone is a felony. And if you think just ‘cause you're whispering into some throwaway phone I can't find you, Skippy, you're dreaming. Finding losers like you is what I do for a living."
"Oh don't worry, Val,” he whispered, “you won't have to find me. When it's time, I'll find you."
Despite my bravado, I could taste adrenaline at the back of my throat and feel the fine hair stand up on my arms. I'd had him pegged as a slightly warped weirdo, but he was starting to sound totally bent.
I scanned the cars in the traffic jam around me. He had to be somewhere close by. I could feel it.
I was looking from one side mirror to the other and back again when the guy in the cab over box truck behind me leaned on his horn. The traffic in front of me had started to move.
I hit my left directional, pulled into the outside lane for my turn onto Commercial Street, and sat waiting for a break in the oncoming traffic. The box truck rumbled by on my right headed up Washington Street. And there it was, a couple of car lengths behind him, the electric blue Neon. He was stuck in the middle lane between the line of cars behind me waiting to turn left, and the line on the other side of him waiting to turn right. He had nowhere to go but straight ahead.
He punched the gas, shot out into the intersection, but had to jump on the brakes to avoid slamming into the rear end of the slow-moving box truck. He pulled out to the left to get by the truck. No room. Just a blaring of horns from oncoming traffic. He swerved all the way back to the right, flew up the handicap cut in the curb at the corner, bounced up onto the sidewalk, and barreled past the box truck in a cloud of sparks and red brick dust gouged off the buildings on his right.
On the sidewalk halfway down the block, a bag lady in a tattered, gray, ankle-length dress and black high-tops let go of her shopping cart and threw both arms up in front of her face. With barely ten feet to go before hitting her, the Neon cut left, plowed over a parking meter that exploded and spewed a fountain of coins in the air, bounced down over the curb in front of the box truck, and hightailed it up Washington Street toward Haymarket Square.
Instead of turning left, I drove straight ahead through the intersection and pulled over by the remains of the parking meter. I dug out a notepad and pen, and while the bag lady scurried around on her hands and knees scooping up quarters and cackling with glee, I jotted down the first four digits I'd gotten off the Neon's license plate.
I flipped open my cell, scrolled down through CONTACTS to LENIHAN, and hit SEND.
* * * *
I'd met Sergeant Detective Lenihan a few months back when he had been the primary on what had started as an incident of shoplifting, but ended with the manager of the shop dead on the floor. Unfortunately, the manager had been one of three Newbury Street merchants who had hired me to protect them from shoplifters. With a little help from me and a lot of luck, Lenihan had closed the case in less than twenty-four hours. And me? No, I didn't get any shoplifters. I got canned.
I had to work my way through three or four variations of “Homicide” ... “Who?” ... “Oh, Lenihan, yeah, he's here somewhere, hang on, I'll get him,” before he finally came on the line and growled, “Lenihan here."
"You ever had the bianco pizza at Nicolai's?” I said.
"What? ... what's that?"
"Caramelized onion, prosciutto, and parmesan cream."
He only missed a couple of beats, then he let out a long sigh. “Ah yes, Valerie Dymond, my favorite lady gumshoe."
"Wow. You remembered me? I'm flattered."
All I got for an answer on that was, “Umm."
"But favorite, you say, huh? How many lady gumshoes do you know, anyhow? And that should really be woman gumshoe, by the way. Nobody uses lady as a modifier anymore."
"'Lady as a modifier?’ And you wonder how come I remember you? But you are the only one I know, Val. And one of you is more than enough. So what d'ya want?"
"What makes you think I want something? Maybe I just wanted to know how you've been, see if you'd like to shoot out after work for pizza and a couple a cold ones."
"Not buyin’ that. Some snazzylookin’ young, ahh, woman P.I. calls askin’ a worn-out old cop like me out for pizza, I know it ain't my company she's lookin’ for."
"Young and snazzylooking? You silver-tongued devil, you. But I'm not that young, Lenihan. And for that matter, you're not that old."
He paused just long enough before he answered to make me wonder what he was thinking. And to wonder why the hell I'd even said it.
"What I have,” I said, hoping the flush on my face didn't show in my voice, “is a partial plate number. What I need is a list of possibles."
"Jesus, Val, you know I can't do that. You been readin’ too much Parker."
"Okay, okay, scrub the bianco pizza. You ever had their pasta primavera?"
"You trying to bribe a police officer?"
"Absolutely, yes."
"Look, Val, you're not on the job anymore, and you—"
"Come on, Lenihan, you know I wouldn't be bugging you with this if it wasn't something heavy. Some sicko's been harassing me with anonymous phone calls and following me around in his car. And this afternoon I finally got the first four digits off his plate."
Silence. Another deep sigh, then, “Okay, give me what you got."
"It's an electric blue Dodge Neon, no more than two years old, Mass plate, first four digits: 2-R-T-4."
He repeated the make, year, color, and partial plate.
"That's it,” I said. “How long will it take to put together a list of possibles?"
"It'll take longer to get through to someone at the Registry of Motor Vehicles than it'll take their computer to spit out the list. Call me back in a half an hour."
"No, I meant it about the pizza and a couple of cold ones. You working the eight-to-four?"
"Yeah, supposedly."
I glanced at my watch. It was almost five o'clock. “So why don't you sign out as soon as the list comes through and bring it over to Nicolai's."
I could hear him tapping on the desk as he thought it over. “We talking Nicolai's on Prince Street?"
"Yes,” I said, “and I'm buying."
"Okay, but I need at least another hour here to wrap up a couple of things. See you there about seven."
* * * *
I was sipping a Sam Adams at the far end of the bar—one eye on the second inning of a Sox and Yankees night game at Fenway on the forty-two-inch plasma and one eye on the front door—when Lenihan walked in.
Despite sloping shoulders and a tendency to slouch, weighing in at two-fifty and topping six and a half feet, he's a commanding presence anywhere short of an NFL locker room. His fashion presence, however, is something else again. Decked out tonight in a shapeless tweed sport coat with leather-patched elbows, faded blue jeans, and scuff-toed brown loafers, there wasn't a chance he was going to make this year's list of the ten best-dressed men in Boston. But all that aside, there was some little-boy-inside-a-grizzly-bear-suit thing about him I found disconcertingly arousing.
Without breaking stride, he gave the place that casual once-over that all but screams badge, shot me a quick smile that made his slate blue eyes crinkle at the outside edges, and ambled down along the bar in my direction.
He looked down at me and ran a huge hand through his iron gray hair. “How's it goin', Slim?"
"Hey, Lenihan.” I got up and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and even with my height, I had to stand on tiptoe.
He reddened a little, covered by running a hand through his hair again while he slid out a barstool.
As we sat down, the two silk-suited wannabes who'd been eyeballing me from the other end of the bar developed a sudden interest in the ballgame on TV.
The bartender came over and Lenihan pointed to my Sam and said, “Another one for Slim here, and the same thing
for me."
"And a couple of menus,” I said.
Lenihan looked up at the TV. “How they doin'?"
"Four zip Yankees, and it's only the second inning."
The bartender, menus tucked under his arm, brought two bottles of Sam and a tall frosted pint glass for Lenihan.
"So, I said, “what'd RMV come up with when they ran the partial plate?"
Lenihan filled his glass. “Well, there's good news and bad news."
"That always means it's mostly bad news,” I said as Lenihan held up his glass and I clinked it with mine, “but here's to whatever good news you've got."
"Well, the good news is, we know your electric blue Neon is registered to an outfit called Inter City Rental out of New York. They have rental fleets at most of the major East Coast airports. I got hold of one of their managers here in Boston, and he told me the ‘2’ on the plate means it's a two-door compact. The ‘RT’ stands for rental, it's on all their plates, and the ‘4’ means it's a Dodge Neon. But without the last two digits, it could be any one of the twenty-seven Neons in their Boston fleet."
"That was the good news?” I said. “Not sure I want to hear the bad news."
He held up his hand. “Hold on a minute, I'm still on the good news. Out of the twenty-seven Neons, thirteen are that color blue. And out of those, only seven are currently rented."
"Seven,” I said, “not bad. I was expecting something the size of the list of registered Democrats in Cambridge."
Lenihan took a healthy hit on his beer and cleared his throat. “Now the bad news."
"No list?” I said.
"No list. They said no way were they going to violate the privacy of seven of their customers without a court order."
The bartender came down and asked if we were ready to order.
"What did you call that pizza?” Lenihan asked me, “with, what was it, caramelized onion and parmesan something-or-other?"
"Pizza bianco,” I said. “Caramelized onion, prosciutto, and parmesan cream."
The bartender gave us an apologetic frown. “Sorry folks, we stop serving pizza at four."
Lenihan twisted around on his stool to face me, which exposed the worn butt of the ancient .38 revolver he carries cross-draw on his left hip and the gold shield pinned to his belt. “No pizza,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you know what the penalty is for purposefully giving a police officer false information?"
I held both hands out to Lenihan, wrists touching. “I guess you'll just have to arrest me."
The bartender was looking down at the gun and the badge on Lenihan's belt. “Maybe you're in luck, though,” he said. “I think the guy that does the pizza is still here.” He gave Lenihan a wink. “If he hasn't shut down the oven yet, I think we can make an exception, Chief."
Lenihan told him it would be great if he could, and to make it two pizza biancos.
When the bartender left I said, “Okay, so what are the odds on getting a court order for Inter City's paperwork on the seven electric blue Neons?"
"Pretty good. The probable cause threshold for stalking is a lot lower now than it used to be. We may not have to go that route, though. I got a buddy who's a state cop, a sergeant over at the Logan International substation. I gave him a call. He says the Staties are forever bending the RESTRICTED AREA-NO PARKING rules at the airport for the rental companies. Says he'll go have a talk with this guy, see what he can come up with. In the meantime, fill me in on the details, the whole thing, right from the top."
* * * *
I laid it all out for Lenihan, starting with the first phone call yesterday morning, and was describing the bag lady's narrow escape when the bartender slid two steaming pizza biancos across the bar. And the sweet smell of caramelized onion reminded me I'd eaten nothing since my corn muffin and coffee that morning.
Three quick slices later, Lenihan came up for air, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, signaled the barkeep for another pair of Sams, and said, “So you got no idea who it is doin’ this?"
"Not a clue. Earlier today, when I remembered I'd served Ezekiel Jones the first time at his father's funeral, I thought maybe all that ‘haven't seen you since the funeral’ stuff and the Neon following me around was Zeke trying to scare me off. Then I catch up with him this afternoon at Bottoms Up, tuck a subpoena down the front of his trousers, walk out the door, and there's the electric blue Neon pulling out of the parking lot. So no way was it Zeke."
Lenihan stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, but who says it had to be Zeke? Coulda been someone he's got helping him. Seems like a lot of hassle, though, doesn't it? Just to keep from testifying."
"Maybe,” I said, “maybe not. The lawyer who hired me to find Zeke says it was a drive-by, some gang thing that he witnessed. Says Zeke's testimony will clear his client. If that is true, Zeke knows the shooter and his bunch, if they could find him, would give him a Dorchester facial just to keep him from testifying, and would whack him, his sister, his mother, and his dog if he did. But after getting a glimpse of the Neon leaving the lot at Bottoms Up when I knew Zeke was still inside in the men's room, I'm beginning to wonder if he had anything at all to do with the phone calls."
"Yeah,” Lenihan said around a mouthful of pizza, “and all that ‘spawn of evil must be punished’ crap sounds more like a twenty-four carat crazy than some Dorchester homie."
"Sure does,” I said. “And now I think about it, the implied threat in ‘when it's time, I'll find you’ doesn't really feel like Zeke, either. Or, for that matter, fit a witness-in-hiding scenario."
"Wait a minute—” Lenihan spun around on his stool to face me. “—how about your father's?"
"My father's what?"
"Funeral. Maybe your phone-freak's somebody hasn't seen you since your father's funeral."
"God, Dad's funeral was two years ago, I don't remember much of anything about it. It was such a blur. Bagpipes and the overwhelming smell of flowers, cops in dress blues everywhere, and relatives I don't remember ever meeting mumbling words of sympathy I couldn't seem to hear. I don't know, I don't think I could tell you who was there or who wasn't."
Lenihan looked down at his hands and nodded. “Yeah, know how that goes."
I wondered what he meant by that, but I didn't ask.
He tipped his glass high and drained it. “What about that pusher your father bagged a couple of years back? What was his name, the one someone stuck a shiv into over at County?"
"Cass,” I said, “his name was Sebastian Cass."
"Yeah,” he said, “Cass, that's the guy. The stink the press raised over that one, you'da thought some head of state got offed. But I don't suppose you went to that funeral."
"No, I didn't. But I do remember driving through the mob scene at the church."
"You were there?"
"I was dropping off Dad. He went to the church service. Cass getting murdered in lockup really tore Dad up badly. That and the media circus it started was why he retired."
It was getting late. We had polished off both pizzas and downed the last of our beer. On the forty-two-inch plasma, two post-game commentators were analyzing Boston's four-nothing loss to New York. The bartender came down and waggled a finger at our empty glasses. “Two more?"
Lenihan glanced at his watch. “I'm good, how about you, Slim?"
"No, I'm all set. Didn't mean to keep you out so late. Hope I haven't gotten you in trouble."
Lenihan was reaching for his wallet. He stopped and looked at me and arched an eyebrow. “In trouble with who?"
His left hand was resting on the bar. I laid my right hand on top of it and tapped his wedding ring with my middle finger.
"Oh.” He looked down at the ring. “No, she's been, ah—” He busied himself with his wallet. “—gone for three years, now."
Knowing how common it was among cops, I said, “Divorce?"
He shook his head. “Breast cancer."
"Aw shit,” I said, “sorry. Someday I'll learn to keep my mouth shut.
"
"It's okay, no sweat. Like I said, it's been three years."
I pointed at his wallet. “Put that away. I told you, this one's on me."
The bartender, who had discreetly turned his attention to the TV screen when I did the bit with Lenihan's ring, turned back to Lenihan and held up his hand. “Uh-uh, Chief,” he said. “Compliments of the house."
I slipped a folded twenty from my bag and gave the bartender a sugar handshake. “Thanks,” I said. “Appreciate the after-hours pizza."
We headed for the door and Lenihan asked, “Did you drive or walk?"
"Drove."
"Where d'ya park?"
"Over on North Street."
"I'll walk you to your car."
* * * *
A heavy mist haloed the streetlights, and the air was pregnant with the smell of the harbor and the promise of rain. Side by side. Not quite touching. Our footsteps muffled in the heavy mist. I was acutely aware of his nearness.
When we got to my car he said, “I'm gonna give you my cell number."
I must have looked surprised.
"You see the Neon or hear from this guy again, I want you to call me."
I beeped the lock, opened the driver's side door, and, in the glow of the overhead light, thumbed the number he gave me into my phone. He held the door open as I slid in under the wheel.
He leaned down, one hand still holding the top of the door, and put his other hand on my shoulder and gently shook it. “I mean it, Slim,” he said looking down into my eyes, “you hear from this wacko again or see him call my cell right away. Okay?"
My pulse quickened when he touched my shoulder, and my breath felt hot in my throat. I managed a hoarsely whispered, “Okay."
He stepped back and closed the door.
I pulled away from the curb and headed home.
* * * *
Jackson Ave shows up on most street maps of Boston, but it's not really a street. It's a wide brick walkway that rambles up from Commercial Street down on the waterfront to Charter Street up on Copp's Hill. It's fronted on one side by a row of three-story, ancient brick houses and bordered on the other by the low walls of a hillside park called Copp's Hill Terraces. My loft occupies the third floor, front to back, of one of the narrow old houses halfway up Jackson.
AHMM, December 2008 Page 5