“You have aroused considerable interest.”
“How . . . serious are they?”
“Think global, Mr. Parker. To prepare for that meeting, I will need a detailed briefing by you before we have lunch with my brother.”
“Detailed? It's the details I get paid for, Mr. Giordano.”
“Just an overview, Mr. Parker. If it's sound, you'll get your money.”
“Sure. Eleven okay?”
“Eleven's fine, same place. You may bring an escort. Position them as you see fit but not within earshot of our meeting.”
He's reading my mind, thought Parker. “Your brother won't care I'm bringing shooters?”
A small laugh.
“What's funny?”
“He'll think you're a fool if you don't. You're a former policeman, Mr. Parker?”
“Twenty years.”
“Then, speaking of bodyguards, you'll probably notice very heavy security in and around the restaurant. It's not for you. Don't let it spook you. It's for the people who are coming at two.”
Parker hung up his phone and smiled. No question they're hot for this. More wise guys flying in, Vegas, Miami, maybe even from Palermo from the way Giordano talks. This is looking very good.
What's also good is he's out of there by two without having to sit through some ritual dago lunch while his boys are waiting outside for him. They're in Oyster Bay by three and in Edgartown by dark.
This could be a most profitable weekend.
Chapter 35
Megan was showering for the third time that day.
She knew that she was borderline compulsive about washing but this time she had an excuse. She'd cleaned out her bilge which had begun to smell of oil and, while down there, had replaced a gasket on her auxiliary engine.
Besides, she would be with Michael tonight.
It was almost six, time to get dressed. It would take her an hour to motor to Edgartown where he'd asked her to tie up for the weekend. They would have dinner on board and then go back to the Taylor House and watch a couple of movies in his room. She'd rented two Robin Williams films from the video store in Falmouth. She'd seen them before but Michael had not.
They would watch Aladdin first because it's wonderful and because she loved to see Michael laugh. Then intermission . . . during which she planned to screw his brains out . . . and then she'd fall asleep watching Awakenings.
This would be their last quiet evening before the weekend crowd arrives in force. Many were here already. And before Michael loses his room to that woman who saved his life. She was looking forward to meeting her.
Megan's ketch trembled slightly. She heard the groan of nearby pilings as the incoming ferry crushed against them. It would be almost empty but not for long. There were hundreds of people waiting to board. Cars lined up all the way to—
Graves again. She was seeing a grave in her mind. Only one this time. And it was freshly dug.
Megan shut off the tap and grabbed a towel. She stepped from the shower. The image quickly faded. Patting herself dry, she climbed forward to the galley where she pulled two swordfish steaks from the refrigerator. She'd meant to marinate them before this. Perhaps it's not too late.
Damn. The image of that grave was coming back.
She'd hoped, she supposed, that the shower stall was doing it. It's about the right size for a coffin. But this one was coming from outside. It was not like the other graves. This one was in a densely wooded area and there were sounds of airplanes going overhead. It was very dark. She was seeing it late at night.
Come on, Megan. Stop it. Ball it up and get rid of it.
She tried. But it wouldn't go.
And now she saw the man. And the body he was carrying. He was little more than a shadow but she knew that he was young and strong because he carried the body in his arms. It was wrapped in blankets. He lowered it into the grave. He seemed to do it very tenderly.
“Michael?”
She did not know why she called his name. She had no feeling that the man was Michael Fallon. This man was younger, darker, very powerful shoulders. His hands seemed unusually large. It was not Michael. And yet she felt his presence there.
Megan felt that chill again. It began to swell into panic. She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to see Michael, hear him whistling, anything, but there were too many faces and voices.
Clutching her towel, more nude than covered, she climbed the hatchway stairs. Perhaps if she got higher. Faces on the ferry, others in the parking lot, turned in her direction. She heard the buzzing of their voices. She ignored them. She climbed higher, onto the foredeck. Her eyes, her mind, that part of it, were locked in the direction of Edgartown. Her temples throbbed, her heart was pounding. She listened hard.
The last of the cars clanked onto the ferry. Its engine growled as it climbed the ramp. As that sound faded, so did the image of that wooded grave. The man, the shadow, lingered but he too was beginning to fade. Like Andrew, the man up in Braintree, he was driving away.
At last, minutes later, she felt Michael.
He was alive. He seemed vaguely troubled, that was her sense, but Michael was definitely alive. He was not the man who dug that grave. He was not the figure she saw buried there. She allowed herself to breathe again.
Megan pulled at the towel to cover a bit more of herself. But what was Michael doing? She knew that he was well because she could feel him tugging at his face. Contorting it as if in anguish. And yet she felt no great distress. At last, she realized why.
Michael, damn him, was shaving.
She's standing here naked, half crazy with worry, and Michael Fallon is shaving.
Moon had no idea what that boat girl was doing.
Except trying to cause rear end collisions.
“Hey look! Hey look! That blond's bare-ass naked.”
The young man who yelled that was driving a Chevy Blazer. He nearly climbed right up Moon's tail.
Moon parked in the line the crewman waved him into, locked up, and made his way to the upper deck. A sign said there were refreshments up that way. He thought he'd earned himself a beer.
Hobbs wasn't dead. At least not when he left. The bullet had punched a hole up through his tongue and the roof of his mouth and on up into his brain. Must have scrambled it some but he was still alive. The other one sure wasn't. He died on the spot and all he had were belly wounds. You never know about gunshots.
After Moon had calmed Maureen down, put a wet cloth on her cheek and a hanky to his bleeding head, he called Doyle at home and told him what happened. Doyle didn't yell at him for once. He was glad to hear his voice. He told him of the threat against Sheila and wanted him to call an ambulance, take Maureen and come right over. Doyle would handle the police.
Moon knew that he would not have been arrested but he wouldn't have been let go either. Captain Hennessy might have helped sneak him in and out, might have kept the cameras away, but he wouldn't have had much freedom. It was as good a time as any to go look in on Michael. He dropped Maureen off, visited just a few minutes with Doyle, got hugged by Sheila, then headed on north.
This might, he'd decided, be a real good time to look in on Michael. Arnie Aaronson has been snatched. Doyle said Arnie had asked him where Michael is and the answer had almost slipped out. He said he's pretty sure he caught himself in time. Not dead sure. Just pretty sure.
It was almost a four-hour drive. He wanted to get going because he wouldn't feel easy until he got past Greenwich. It's like in cowboy movies where the soldiers ride through this narrow pass and you know damned well there's going to be an ambush. But there wasn't and he had three more hours to think.
Doyle knew that Rasmussen had cocooned himself. That he'd lost all his flab, got a tuck here and there, made himself a Baron. But he'd only just found that out. Doyle had that AdChem brochure all along but he never thought to open it before today. Can't fault him for that, though. Doyle had never laid eyes on Rasmussen so it wouldn't have mattered. But if he, Moon, had seen
it back last November, and if he hadn't got sick, he would have saved everyone a lot of grief. Rasmussen would not have lived to see December.
Spilt milk.
He'll find Rasmussen in the end. Hobbs never got to say where he is right now but he mostly lives in Munich.
Munich, Timbuktu, the North Pole. It doesn't matter.
The world isn't big enough for Rasmussen to hide. A man can turn himself into a baron a lot easier than he can turn himself back into . . . whatever Joe Blow is in German. He'll want to live rich. But he'll also want to live restful so he'll be sending shooters after this dumb old nigger who's hunting him. Trouble with that is most shooters are what they call dysfunctional.
Dysfunctional, hell. They're morons. That's how come they're shooters. Hiring them is like laying bread crumbs right back to your door.
That Parker might be harder. A man like that knows how to disappear. If he's smart, he will, now that he knows Hobbs rolled over on him. And he'll see that grabbing Arnie Aaronson won't slow Doyle down for more than a day. It might have if he hadn't talked so trashy to Sheila. Doyle's sure it was him. Doyle says, “Moon, that one's mine. You leave that fucker for me.”
Moon paid for his beer, along with two hot dogs, and took them out on the deck. It was a pretty big ship, the biggest he'd ever been on unless you'd count the Staten Island Ferry. It calmed him, being out on the water, everything smelling so clean, troubles left behind for a bit. He could see why people went on cruises. Didn't seem to do much for that boat girl, though.
He saved half the roll from his second hot dog and tossed pieces of it to the gulls. They would catch it on the wing. The last piece, he held up high until the boldest of them sort of hovered in and nipped it from his fingers. Boldness always takes the prize. He checked his watch, found a bench, and unfolded the map he got with his ticket.
From the schedule, he should still have a good hour of daylight left by the time this thing docked and he drove on to Edgartown. Time to find this Taylor House, check out the town, get the lay of the land. He wasn't sure whether he'd go ring the bell just yet. Michael would get all emotional, drag him inside, want to know where he's been. He'd ask too many questions, get told a few lies. But like he said to Doyle, he didn't raise Michael stupid.
What he'd really like to do, truth be told, is find someplace quiet and lie down for a while. Those hot dogs were disputin' him, as Satchel Paige used to say. He was feeling a little dizzy.
That boat girl. She kept popping into his head.
He'd push her out and back she'd come. It wasn't like he was lusting for her. It's a good twenty years since a young girl's body made him foolish. A white girl in particular. It's more like . . . back there ... for just a second, he had this flickery little feeling that it's him she was looking for.
Sure, Moon. Sure she was. So is Whitney Houston.
Must be he's just tired. Tired and lonesome.
Doyle had spent an hour with Marty Hennessy.
Captain Hennessy then talked to his boss, who talked to the district attorney, who talked to the precinct commander where the shootings had occurred. He wanted Hobbs kept under wraps, his identity withheld from the press, at least until after the weekend, or at least until Aaronson is found. Mostly, he wanted time.
“Sorry,” he reported back to Doyle. ”I couldn't get you a deal.”
Hennessy was a great rumply bear of a man who smoked foul cigars, the best that thirteen cents can buy. He had come to Doyle's town house because the office was roped off as a crime scene. It was just as well, thought Doyle. In the office, his cigar would have set off the sprinklers.
“For one thing,” Hennessy told him, “you won't get anything more out of Hobbs. You might as well talk to a cauliflower. Second, if you're right that this Parker snatched Arnie, we have to at least try to find him. We're going to pick up Parker and sweat him. You knew he was a cop once?”
“No.”
“He was. He went dirty.”
“I'm shocked.” Doyle curled his lip.
“Don't get smart, Brendan. I'm trying to be your friend here.”
“Can you at least keep this out of the papers?”
“That I can do. We're also going to hit Parker's company. He's got three floors in a loft building, 48th and Ninth. If he doesn't know he's a suspect, maybe that's where he has Arnie. Meantime, you have to give up Moon.”
“You heard Maureen. Moon's clean.”
“Yeah, well ... we need to have a talk about excessive force. The stiff in your office looked like birds were eating him.”
“Marty ... I don't know where he is.”
A weary sigh. “Those names I gave you a few weeks back. You remember I asked you if this was about Jake?’'
Doyle only shrugged.
“Those two worked for Parker. So did the stiff in your office. Parker works for Hobbs. Michael also worked for Hobbs. Is Michael alive, by the way?”
“Michael's out of this.”
Hennessy grunted. “Meanwhile,” he continued, “there's an arson epidemic all up and down the East Coast. There's another stiff, who someone rotisseried, at Hobbs's place in Florida. Guess who all these arson victims work for.”
Doyle shouldn't have said it but he did. “Victims, my ass.”
A pained expression. “Brendan ... the word ‘vendetta’ comes to mind.”
Doyle said nothing.
“Now . . . stay with me on this. I think vendetta and I say, This is an Italian word.’ I think Italian and I say, The Giordano brothers are Italian.’ Not to jump to conclusions or anything but then I say, ‘Gee. I wonder if they're in this. I wonder if my friend, Brendan Doyle, has been conferring with Julie and Johnny Giordano.’ ”
Fucking bartender, thought Doyle.
“Last time I saw them,” said Hennessy, “was at Jake's funeral. I told Johnny we were looking for a cab driver. Was one of those stiffs a cab driver, Brendan?”
”I don't know, Marty. That's the truth.”
The policeman didn't seem to care that much. He made a gesture, as if to erase that question and get back to his train of thought.
”I think Giordano and I think money. I think Hobbs, who is this big investment banker, and again I think money. How do these two thoughts connect, Brendan?”
The lawyer in him wanted to say, “Who says they do?” But you don't tapdance with friends. “It's privileged, Marty. I'll tell you when I can.”
“Michael's the client?”
A nod.
“Is Michael rich?”
“Jake left him a few bucks. He's clean, Marty.”
”I believe you. But I'm just me.”
“Who else is there?”
“The D.A. He smells money too. More than that, he smells headlines.”
Doyle held his gaze. “What would they say?”
“You remember how Rudy Giuliani got famous? He nailed Ivan Boesky, Michael Milken, and—who's the fat one?—Levine. He nailed that whole Jewish mafia down on Wall Street and next thing you know he’s our mayor. The D.A. is mindful of this.”
Doyle waited
“He's thinking, if the papers liked that one, they might like a bunch of Harvards and Yalies who are suddenly homeless even better. Especially when one is a former U.S. senator. Added to the mix we have some Brooklyn wise guys who, if he can nail them, lets him say that he cleaned up the Brooklyn docks. Fuck the mayor's office, Brendan. This has governor written all over it.”
Doyle still said nothing. Hennessy studied him.
“It's bigger, isn't it, Brendan. It's even bigger than that.”
Doyle rubbed his chin and stared ahead. “Tell him no press, Marty. Tell him to go real slow.”
“He'll want a reason. I'll ask you again. Is this why Jake died?”
”I think it's why a lot of people died.”
It was late Thursday evening.
Megan, with Michael, had watched her tape of Aladdin. It pleased her that he enjoyed it so much.
And they did make love afterward. It
wasn't quite the rip-snorter Megan had in mind because while she was trying to vamp him he was sneaking a hit on the rewind button to go back to his favorite parts. There were things about men that would take some getting used to.
His very favorite part was the “Whole New World” duet—a whole new world for you and me. On the replay, he began to sing along with it. He was singing it to her.
She had to get up and go sit in the bathroom. Otherwise he'd have noticed that she was starting to cry.
While there, other feelings began to pull at her. The damned grave was one. For a moment, back at Woods Hole, she'd almost seen the man. She almost could have reached out and touched him but he was moving away too quickly.
The other was that Michael's troubles ... the ones that brought him here . . . didn't feel so distant anymore. Some felt nearer than others. But it's all mixed up. It's as if ...
Oh, Megan. She sighed. You stop this right now.
If you were anyone else, she told herself, you'd know an anxiety attack when you see it. You're becoming a drag, a downer, a mope. As in, if Michael makes you happy, it follows that heartbreak must be just around the corner. Enough, already.
The Shadow Box Page 29