Robert B. Parker's Little White Lies

by Ace Atkins

  “No.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not so sure he could find it on a map,” she said, and wiped her face on her dress sleeve. I patted her shoulder and removed my arm. I stretched my legs, watching two squirrels tumbling around for a couple pieces of popcorn.

  “I’m betting there are more like you,” I said. “I think Welles and Gredoni created EDGE just to pull in investors and then crashed it. I think they are working hand in hand with some people on the fringes who still don’t know they’ve been conned.”

  “If you find enough of them?”

  “Maybe we can light torches and chase them back to the castle.”

  “Where’s the castle?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “Is Gredoni a fraud?”

  “He has his shortcomings.”

  Connie laughed. “I would have never believed in Brooks if I hadn’t recognized him from TV. Didn’t they at least check him out? These are international news stations. People believe in them. Trust what they say about politics and international relations.”

  “Walter Cronkite signed off long ago,” I said.

  “Is there anyone out there who’d know how a liar like him got booked?”

  “I do know a woman who moves in those very circles.”

  “And even if he doesn’t have a driver’s license,” she said, “maybe someone can recognize his pictures. Surely he’s been arrested before.”

  “I know many people who move in those circles, too,” I said. “Ever think of being a private eye? The hours are terrible, but the pay is lousy.”

  “The anger has switched something on,” Connie said. “I haven’t slept in weeks. I have chest pains. I think of all different kinds of ways I can corner him and ask him why he did this. Why did he want to ruin my life? Why me?”

  “Because you crossed his path,” I said. “And you had a few hundred grand to spare.”

  “Not really,” Connie said. “I took out a loan on some family property.”

  I felt the blood flow to my face. I stood, reached for her hand, and helped her up. She smiled up at me, a golden light flooding the Common, making even the kids with blue hair seem like something from a Norman Rockwell painting. Bits of dust kicked up from the ball field shone in an orange haze as we headed back toward Tremont. I didn’t want winter. I wanted a very long Indian summer.

  As we parted, she leaned up on her toes, kissed me on my cheek, and told me it was nice to finally meet an authentically good man. I nearly blushed, had I been the blushing type, and looked for a horse to ride away on.

  Where was Trigger when you needed him?

  10

  I met Captain Brian Lundquist of the Massachusetts State Police at six a.m. the next morning. He’d chosen the Agawam Diner in Rowley, as it wasn’t far from where he lived with his wife and two kids. I liked the food there and happily agreed. A waitress refilled our cups and walked away with our orders.

  “Ever have the pies here?” Lundquist said.

  “Frequently,” I said. “But never for breakfast.”

  “You only live once.”

  “I’m doing my best to prolong that experience.”

  Lundquist smiled with his big teeth and big apple cheeks. He was local but always reminded me of a big galoot right off an Iowa farm. I’d met him a few years back on a heroin-trafficking case in Wheaton. Since Healy’s retirement, he’d become my main contact with the Staties. A good man and a straight shooter.

  “Ran the name you gave me and passed the photo around,” Lundquist said. “I didn’t know your guy was a celebrity. A lot of cops knew him from the news. He’s a retired spy? Some kind of war hero?”

  “That’s yet to be determined.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Ever know a war hero without a driver’s license or nothing in the system?”

  “I couldn’t find anything, either,” Lundquist said. “Ran M. Brooks Welles. A few hits in the Northeast. But the age and description didn’t jibe with who I found in the NCIC.”

  “What’s that tell you?”

  “Either he’s full of more shit than a Thanksgiving turkey or he’s the real deal.”

  “How so?”

  “Maybe he had his entire record cleaned,” Lundquist said. “Living completely off the grid. A man without a past. Or too much of one.”

  “Is that even possible?” I said.

  “You have to know people,” Lundquist said. “But it can be done.”

  Lundquist had on a threadbare deep brown corduroy jacket over a blue button-down. No tie and khaki pants. When he walked in, it looked like he’d had on the same government-issue cordovan loafers since we’d met. His acne-scarred cheeks gleamed red with a fresh shave.

  “How’s Healy doing?”

  “He says he’s happy,” Lundquist said. “But he checks in every other week. I’ve had lunch with him more this year than when we were colleagues. He said you talked him into doing some woodworking. You really do that? Or was that a joke?”

  “Ask Susan,” I said. “I’m quite skilled with my hands.”

  “Spare me the details.”

  The waitress brought me hash and eggs and raisin French toast for Lundquist. He didn’t waste any time before forking right into the mass and taking a big bite.

  “Why are you looking for this guy, Welles?”

  I told him.

  “Three hundred grand?” he said. “Shit. He must be pretty damn good in bed if she didn’t read the contract.”

  “Any way to run his name with some Feds?”

  “No better than you,” he said. “But I do have a better relationship with the locals.”

  “True,” I said. “What a shame the SAC had to leave in disgrace.”

  “Yeah,” Lundquist said. “A real shame.”

  “My client knows she may never get her money back,” I said. “But she wants him held accountable. Would you guys ever look at this as a fraud case?”

  “Maybe,” Lundquist said. “Tell me more.”

  “If I can prove M. Brooks Welles is an alias and he sought out my client for the purposes of separating her from her money through nefarious means.”

  “Since when is sex nefarious?”

  “Depends if you keep your socks on.”

  Lundquist didn’t respond. He kept eating. I drank some coffee and broke into the hash. We ate for a few minutes before I got back to the business at hand.

  “What if I can find others who got conned?” I said.

  Lundquist shrugged. He seemed to have more interest in taking down the French toast than in taking down any con men. He chewed a bit and drank some coffee. He stabbed another forkful of French toast but held the fork as he thought about it.

  “Who’s this other guy you mentioned on the phone,” Lundquist said. “The gun guy. The partner?”

  “Johnny Gredoni.”

  Lundquist ate some more French toast and chewed and chewed. He looked at me and swallowed. He tilted his head to the side and said, “As in Gredoni’s Gun World?”

  “As in the billboard, ‘Double-Barreled for Her Pleasure.’”

  “Crap.”

  “I hear a bell ringing.”

  Lundquist pushed away his plate. He checked his watch and slurped down some more coffee. “You sure Gredoni is working with this guy?”

  “Heard it from the man himself,” I said. “I’m trying to track down his name on corporate records for something called EDGE.”

  Lundquist shook his head and blew out a long breath. “That man moves a lot of inventory.”

  “Where?”

  Lundquist tilted his head from side to side in a noncommittal gesture. “Something our friends at the ATF have been trying to find out for a while.”

  “I heard he became a rich man through DOD contracts.”


  “That doesn’t quite cover it.”

  “You guys working on something?”

  Lundquist swallowed, his face brightening, and smiled. “You know I can’t comment on something like that,” he said. “What do you take me for? A rookie patrolman?”

  “Never,” I said.

  “I could never say that John F. Gredoni was the focus of an ongoing joint task force with ATF, State, and Boston Police. I mean, come on, man. That could get me fired.”

  “Glad you didn’t say it.”

  “Will you bring me what you learn about his buddy?”

  “You bet.”

  “I’ll try to find out what kind of horseshit Welles was peddling in Concord and what can be done about it.”

  I nodded and ate some hash. I broke apart the egg yolk and dotted it with the edge of my toast. The sun was coming up across the parking lot, illuminating the diner with a clean, bright light. Construction workers, electric linemen, a couple more cops sat down in booths and at the long bar. The morning was starting to pulse.

  “Ever think about retiring, Spenser?”

  “And do what?” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  Lundquist smiled. He soon finished, stood up, and left me with the check.

  11

  Pearl had to be the luckiest German shorthaired pointer in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. When Susan met with patients, Pearl was often with me. When I worked nights, she stayed with Susan. I never knew a dog who was better exercised, fed, and appreciated than Pearl the Wonder Dog. I hoped that in my next life, I’d come back as the trusty sidekick of a stouthearted detective. At the moment, Pearl lounged on a short leather couch that was intended for clients. I made coffee and returned calls while Pearl snoozed. A true team effort.

  At eleven, my phone rang and I picked up.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” a woman said.

  “I was calling to see if there’s any hope for me,” I said.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Rachel Wallace said. “But I’ve now been in a loving, committed relationship for the last five years. With a woman. As you well know.”

  “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  “Would you please shut the hell up and tell me how you’ve been?” she said. “How is Susan? How is Hawk? How is the damn dog?”

  “I only have a visual on the damn dog,” I said. “Her name is Pearl, by the way. She’s offended you forgot.”

  Pearl snorted and turned her back to me.

  “Oh, screw the damn dog,” Rachel said. “Are you in New York? Or calling because you need something?”

  “I’m hoping you might help connect me with some people who don’t need my charisma and physical beauty in person.”

  “God help them.”

  “Are you still doing your rounds on the cable shows?”

  “Someone has to keep those morons and hypocrites straight,” she said. “One cable news channel in particular may be worse than Tokyo Rose. Only without the good music.”

  “Or the sultry voice.”

  “Oh, it has the sultry voice,” Rachel said. “Cute little blond bunnies talking about the destruction of American principles over your morning coffee. It makes geriatric men weak in the knees and facilitates angina. Don’t you keep the TV on in the kitchen while you cook?”

  “I have a new kitchen,” I said. “No TV.”

  “Did you and Susan finally move in together?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “My apartment was destroyed in a fire.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “No one was hurt. But as it’s being rebuilt, I’m not exactly a favorite with the tenant board.”

  “Why? You didn’t start it.”

  “No,” I said. “But I may have pissed off a few guys who did.”

  I told her about the waterfront condo in the Navy Yard, the latest bits of gossip about me and Susan. A recent trip to Paris. Another planned trip, to London. I told her about Hawk now seeing the ex-wife of a famous NFL player but never talking about it. I told her that despite a little work on my right knee, I was overall healthy, happy, and of sound mind and body. The Boston Beat goes on.

  “Wonderful news,” she said. “But enough small talk. What’s the favor?”

  “Actually, it’s more of a question,” I said, leaning back into my office chair. “How does one get booked as a talking head on the cable news circuit?”

  “You?” she said. “On TV?”

  “Not me,” I said. “I’m just trying to understand the process.”

  “I assume this is not talking about gender equality or LGBTQ issues.”

  “No,” I said. “More about machismo, guns, and fighting terrorism.”

  “Not exactly my specialty,” she said. “Although terrorism comes in many forms.”

  “You have published works,” I said. “By known and respected houses. That’s hard to fake. Like Evander Holyfield, you are the Real Deal.”

  “I don’t know who you are talking about,” she said. “But I would hope so.”

  “What if I were to say I was an international super-spy and a combat veteran of a covert war,” I said. “Who’s to know?”

  “That’s a very good question,” she said. “I often doubt the credentials of the foils they pair me with.”

  “Who books you onto these shows?”

  “A booker.”

  “Aha.”

  “It’s an agent of sorts who gets you on the Rolodex of producers,” she said. “When there’s breaking news or a hot-button issue, you are on speed dial.”

  “Do they still make Rolodexes?”

  “Probably not,” she said.

  “Excuse the indelicate question, but does it pay well?”

  Pearl looked at me from the sofa, sniffed at the air, and turned full onto her back, all four legs pointing into the air. She had looked at me as if to ask me to lower my voice. She gave a resonant grunt from down deep in her belly.

  “It doesn’t pay at all.”

  “Come again?”

  “You don’t get paid,” she said. “Oh, you may get a few hundred dollars if there is travel. But usually they want people in major cities, close to the studios. I do it mainly just because I like to sell a couple books and piss off the heteronormative patriarchy.”

  “Present company excluded.”

  “Present company especially included,” she said. “Why the interest?”

  I relayed the story about Connie Kelly, the match made in hell, the phony land deal, and dubious résumé of one M. Brooks Welles.

  “He sounds like a supreme creep.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” I said. “He’s a little difficult to find.”

  “I can make some inquiries,” Rachel said. “Do you know which cable shows and when?”

  I ran down the list of dates, topics, and hosts on the cable channels. Rachel knew two of the producers personally and would call on my behalf.

  “Are you still drinking good bourbon?” I said.

  “Is the pope Argentinian?”

  “I shall have a bottle delivered forthright.”

  “Not necessary,” Rachel said. “But appreciated.”

  “Will Blanton’s do?”

  “Nicely,” Rachel said.

  She hung up. Pearl snored. I looked out the window for a long while, wondering where everyone was going in such a rush.

  12

  Henry Cimoli wore a pair of punching mitts, calling out combos, taking the jabs, and crossing over my head with a wide but sharp sweep. I’d already gone through six rounds of jumping rope, heavy bag, speed bag, and now the mitts. Twice he reminded me I was moving like his sister. And his sister had been dead for ten years. Henry had the charm of the ages.

  “You’re not favori
ng the knee anymore,” Henry said.

  “Nope,” I said. “Good as new.”

  “Can they do something about the head?” he said. “Maybe a replacement?”

  “Oh, beauty,” I said. “Passing beauty. Sweetest sweet.”

  “And maybe your brain while you’re at it,” Henry said. “By now, it’s gotta look like scrambled eggs in there. One, one. One, three, two, two. Good. Good.”

  The buzzer sounded and I helped myself to my water bottle. The front and back of my shirt were soaked. Henry told me to finish out things with two rounds on the heavy bag and a cooldown on the treadmill. He patted my shoulder as he walked away, the highest form of praise.

  I finished things up, took a shower, and bought a turkey sandwich at a food truck on the Greenway. Thirty minutes later, my hair still damp, I was on the twelfth floor of the Suffolk County Courthouse, asking a woman in records about any recent filings against M. Brooks Welles, John Gredoni, or a company called EDGE. She reminded me that most records were available online.

  I told her I’d already searched and perhaps a new filing may have been made this week. Or perhaps I’d been searching in an improper manner. I doubted the latter, but it never hurt to play to the ego of the keeper of records. Several times I’d found files through the main office while striking out online. Like working out, the first rule of success was just showing up.

  The woman, whose name was Doyle Valley, clicked hard through the keys and then disappeared from her desk. I stood there at the counter, whistling “’S Wonderful” to myself. Just as I’d reached how she’d made my life so glamorous, Doyle appeared with a computer printout. “’S marvelous,” I said.

  “This was just filed two days ago,” she said. “It should have been online.”

  “Tenacity,” I said. “The key to being a good investigator.”

  “You’re a pretty good whistler, too,” she said. “I’m surprised one of the judges didn’t come in here and tell you to shut the hell up.”

  “It’s good to see you, Doyle.”

  She smiled. “Next time, don’t forget the muffins from Flour.”

  “Done.”

  I took the printouts and headed back to Government Center. I sat down on the steps and flipped through a filing from a guy named Nick Kostas of Lynn against John Gredoni and EDGE Corp. Apparently Kostas had been one of the chosen few to invest in Ye Olde Concord Gun Club. Kostas’s attorney used a lot of words like fraudulent and misleading. With all the blood flowing after the workout and fuel from the turkey sandwich, I surmised that Kostas probably wasn’t a fan of Gredoni’s and perhaps had some light to shine on the whole subject. According to the suit, Mr. Kostas was now a hundred grand lighter. Welles was not named in the suit.