”I don't know. But there's something I want to try. Just to see if I can do it.”
“Like what?”
“Parker did some bragging. Said he's got some FDA people in his pocket. He named a few names.”
“And you want to take them down?”
”I want to take the whole thing down.”
Chapter 41
Michael found the car keys and the pistol near the sign that said No Clamming. Moon had wrapped them in a potato chips bag from the trash and buried them in the sand. Jake's Buick was in the Lighthouse Beach lot. It was the only car still parked there. Michael thought that was as good a place for it as any but Megan insisted on moving it. She said there's been some vandalism lately.
She traded keys with him, told him she needed to stop at the pharmacy first but then she'd park the Buick in back of the Taylor House. Michael said he'd see her there. He wanted to check in with Harold and Myra and make sure all the guests were comfortable, especially Mrs. Mayfield.
Afterward, he would drive back out to the airport and pick up Doyle and Giordano. If Megan wouldn't mind, he'd like to talk to them alone. Later, perhaps, they could all grab some dinner together.
“He's really a gangster?” Megan asked him. “You grew up with gangsters?”
“It's . . . more of a family business.”
“But the kids. Don't they ever, you know, decide they'd rather go straight?’'
A shrug. ”I think Johnny's pretty straight.”
“In his way?”
He nodded. “In his way.”
Megan did stop at the pharmacy, but only so she hadn't lied.
She bought a magazine in case she had to do more waiting. After that, she opened the Buick's trunk and found Moon's sock. It was tucked in the well of the spare tire. She had to move four gasoline cans, three of them empty, to get at the well. The touch of the gas cans caused a montage of fires to flash through her mind. She closed the trunk and, sock in hand, walked the short block down to the waterfront.
There were quite a few tourists there, some sipping cocktails, enjoying the early evening. She found a fairly private spot and sat on the edge of the jetty, her feet dangling over the water, the sock held hidden between her knees. She shook the cuff links out first. They barely made a splash. The watch followed. The frame stayed wedged in the sock.
She had promised herself that she would simply let it go, sock and all, without looking at the photograph. She knew all that she wanted to know about Bronwyn. That Bronwyn was more talented than she is. More educated, more worldly, more beautiful. But also that she never loved Michael. And that the color of her eyes and her hair were as false as she was.
Megan was sure of that. She felt it when she touched the shirt that Bronwyn had bought for him and again when she felt Bronwyn herself through Michael's body.
She was almost sure.
What she didn't need now was to let her skin touch that photograph. Even without that, even just holding the sock, she was beginning to see visions of Michael making love to Bronwyn, the two of them pumping up and down, moaning and gasping, Bronwyn doing things to him that she, Megan, couldn't bring herself to do quite yet and doing them better than she ever would.
Megan . . . stop it, she scolded herself.
She knew that this was no psychic gift talking. It's just herself. All she is, right now, is an ordinary, everyday woman, jealous and insecure.
So act the part.
Drown the bitch, Megan. Let go of the sock.
She did.
She heard the splash and listened as a long line of bubbles came belching to the surface. She almost smiled. She stopped herself. A smile, all things considered, would be unattractively smug. She smiled all the same.
Megan sat for a while, enjoying the evening panorama and the parade of big yachts, both sail and power, coming in from all over. Out in the harbor, several were circling looking for a place to drop anchor. On board, some were already having cocktails. Others were hailing the town launch to come ferry them ashore. Smaller boats sat in line, their engines coughing, waiting for a space at the public landing.
On one of them, a glitzy sport fisherman, a dark-skinned man in a green jogging suit looked woefully seasick. He was retching over the side. The others seemed disgusted by him. Megan watched as the skipper of that boat finally b¤mped his way into a space just aft of her ketch. It was about to hit her transom when a tall, thin figure in a hooded black slicker dashed forward to fend it off. Megan recognized Parnel Minter. She groaned aloud.
Parnel, she realized, had spotted her boat and was hanging around it, hoping to talk to her. It was always the same. She had found no way to convince him that she doesn't do spirits. They exist, or they don't, suit yourself. But they could be having a convention here and she wouldn't know it. Nor does she do readings for ghost-freak tourists even when they offer Parnel fifty bucks for an introduction.
She would sit here for a while, wait for him to leave. Michael won't miss her. He'll have left for the airport by now. She would go get Moon's Buick, drive it back to the inn.
But before that, she decided, hanging a few extra fenders from her railing seemed a good idea. Some of those power boaters were already a little drunk and the evening was only beginning.
The best plans, thought Parker, are improvised plans. Of all the police raids he'd been on, he could think of maybe two that had gone as rehearsed. Cops never seem to learn that the bad guys weren't there at the rehearsal.
It did not greatly trouble him, therefore, that they were playing this by ear. The trick, he told Hector, was to keep this simple, use the element of surprise. We do a fast reconnoiter, hit quick, and get out.
What did trouble him a little was Tami. At the mention of a reconnoiter, Tami, like an asshole, starts to strip out of his jogging suit. He's wearing his dumb ninja suit underneath, complete with a belt full of knives and stars and other ninja shit. Parker had to smack him.
“Look around you, numb-nuts. Does this look like fucking Hong Kong?”
Thank God he's almost done with these clowns.
The good news, however, was that reconnoitering could be easy. With luck, he could do that by phone. He climbed to the dock, Childress's cellular phone in his hand. He practiced what he would say.
Hey, Mr. Fallon? Wally Peabody again. Yup, made it after all. Me and Betsy won't be staying because you're right, the whole island's booked solid, but we'd sure like to take you up on your offer. What might be a good time to look at the house?
Parker would suggest after dinner. That way, chances are, the other guests would be out walking it off. He'd go there with Tami, knock on the door, and by the time Fallon recognized him it would be too late. He pops Fallon in the mouth, Tami cuts his throat, they take a picture to show Rast and they're gone. Hector would be watching the street. Yahya, who is so fucking seasick he's useless, would stay and watch the boat to make sure no one boxed it in.
Parker punched out the number.
But wouldn't you know it, Fallon was out. A hick named Harold answered. He said Fallon had gone to the airport to pick up some visitors.
Parker took visitors to mean guests.
“Then what?” he asked. “You all sit down and eat?”
The hick didn't understand the question.
“You know. Dinner. What's a good time to call after that?”
Now Harold got it. He said, no, they don't serve evening meals but there are many fine restaurants right here in Edgartown. This launches him into a commercial.
He says the Taylor House serves a continental breakfast and an afternoon tea with real English scones and Devonshire cream and there'll be a nice brunch this Sunday because one of the guests wants to fix it but no, no evening meals.
For tonight, he says, they're all having dinner at Square Rigger restaurant over on Main Street—Harold knows this because he and Myra, that's his wife, got them all a table together—it's sort of a tradition—and Myra reads them a ghost story over dessert.
; “This is what time?” Parker asked.
“Reservation's at seven. It'll run till nine or so.”
“And Mike will be there or what?”
“He'll be right here, most likely. Michael's not much on ghost stories.”
“Oh, great. Would you tell him Wally Peabody called? Tell him I'll call again later. Hey, Harold?”
“Yessir.”
‘it's been a few years since I been there. Michael didn't make too many changes, did he? I mean, he didn't make it too modem.”
“New bathrooms is all, but that was Mrs. Daggett. Michael never changed a thing.”
“Glad to hear it. What room did he take for himself?”
“Room the Daggetts had. Third floor front.”
This was good information, thought Parker. He snapped the phone shut, digesting it. On a wall nearby, he saw a bank of public phones.
Here's what we'll do, thought Parker. We'll send Hector and Tami up to the Taylor House now. They'll keep an eye on that house and on that third floor bedroom in particular. Hector will take the cellular phone and the number of one of these pay phones. He, Parker, will sit tight and wait for Hector to call him with the comings and goings. This is also a very good spot because from here he can see the whole waterfront and also all the foot and vehicular traffic that is now going up and down Water Street.
Around eight, he'll call Fallon again. Invite himself over. Same game plan from there. Don't forget to bring a camera. If everyone's out eating, it could be well after nine before anyone finds Fallon's body. By then, Parker would be halfway back to Oyster Bay and a million dollars richer. Or he will be by tomorrow once he calls Rast and says have that suitcase ready. Says he got a snapshot the Baron's going to like.
And then another million on Sunday from the Giordano brothers, less the fifty grand Julie paid him today. He had told that hood, and especially his brother, more than he wanted to. Especially their connections in the FDA. He should not have named names just yet. But when someone lays fifty thousand in cash on the table it's hard to leave it sitting there.
Screw it.
That's two million by Sunday. Sunday night, he's on his way to Seattle.
Out there, maybe, he'll buy a boat of his own. Not just for fishing. Something classy. Maybe like the one parked in front of theirs. The one that girl is on. Must be the owner's squeeze. Too good looking to be a deckhand.
That's what he'd do. Get a boat just like that, two masts, lots of shiny brass, dark wood all polished up like furniture, and get a young blond hard-body just like her to teach him how to work it.
How about it, honey?
Want to come to Seattle?
Old Granny Futterman will treat you real good.
Chapter 42
Baggage claim, at the Martha's Vineyard airport, is a section of sidewalk outside the little terminal. Johnny G. saw Michael waiting for them. He was not surprised. The look on Michael's face said he'd talked to Moon. It figured that he would then have called Doyle, got Sheila instead. Sheila would have told him they were coming.
Michael stood, arms folded, leaning against his car as they collected their overnight bags, all the time glaring at Doyle. His expression softened only slightly when Johnny G. approached him and embraced him.
“Mike . . .” said Johnny G. quietly, “Doyle wasn't sure who killed Jake. Not before today.”
“Like hell he wasn't.”
“Michael . . . listen to me.”
“If he didn't know, he should have. When he saw they used a bat on Jake, he should have known.”
“Hey.” Doyle threw down his bag. ”I didn't come up here to—”
Johnny G. took Michael's arm.
“Come on,” he said. “Let's take a walk.”
He steered him toward a sign that said Rental Car Returns. They left Doyle with the black Mercedes, fuming.
“In the first place,” Johnny G. told him, “don't fold your arms when you have a gun in your belt. It pulls your jacket, makes an outline. In the second place, we're your friends. Let's stop all this other shit right now.”
“Doyle's no friend of mine.”
“Michael . . . you've had no fucking clue who your friends are. It was Bronwyn who set up Jake.”
The next few minutes would remain a blur. Fallon remembered getting angry, more at Doyle than at Johnny, furious that Doyle would try to lay this on Bronwyn. He remembered Johnny, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a creased and wrinkled copy of the AdChem annual report, saying it was in Jake's pocket when he died.
“Who gave this to him, Mike? Who opened it to Franz Rast's picture and made sure Jake Fallon looked at it?”
Michael tried to get away from him. He remembered pushing him when he tried to follow and the sharp sting on his cheek when Johnny slapped him. Michael threw a punch. It was a reflex, mostly. But Johnny stepped inside it and they grappled. The next thing he knew, Doyle was running toward them. And Johnny was waving him off. But he, Michael, was looking up at them.
Fallon realized, dimly that he was sitting on the ground, his back against the door of someone's car. He saw Doyle, walking away, back to the Mercedes. He saw Johnny come back over, ease himself down, sit next to him on the pavement.
“You settled down now?” he asked.
Fallon’s left temple felt thick and swollen. The nerves there were coming back to life. “Did you hit me?” he asked.
“Damned right I did.” He raised his right hand to show the pistol that had been in Michael's belt. Fallon understood. He felt, with his fingertips, the welt that was already rising. But he was also seeing Bronwyn. He was seeing, at last, that what Johnny told him was true. That everything about her was a lie. The pain of that was greater. He buried his face in his hands.
They sat in silence a while longer.
“Let's get clear about the bat,” said the younger Giordano at last.
Fallon tried to get up. Johnny pulled him back.
“If I was a burglar,” Johnny said quietly, “and Jake had walked in on me, I would have grabbed the first thing handy. In Jake Fallon's house, the first thing handy was a bat. This was twenty-five years after that other bat, Mike. Don't tell me Doyle should have known.”
Fallon's eyes were still glazed.
“You listening to me?”
Fallon wet his lips and nodded.
“You want someone to blame? How about Jake and Moon? If they finished Rast back when this started, none of this would have happened.”
Michael said nothing. He was still seeing Bronwyn. Even those violet eyes were a lie.
“And then of course there's your father. If he'd listened to Jake in the first place, if he'd gone to him, up front, when he saw what he was into . . .”
Johnny G. didn't bother to finish. He waved the Ad-Chem report at Michael.
“You don't get a pass on this either,” he said. “You go to work for a company and they pay you some nice bucks. You see they're on a hot streak that never seems to end but you never wonder how it is that they never pick a loser. Why sniff the hand that feeds you, right?”
Michael's color rose. But he knew he had that coming.
“And you even speak German. Adler—eagle, eagle— Adler. That never crossed your mind?”
It had and it hadn't. Any more than he'd think “star” when he heard the name Stern, or “small” when he heard the name Klein.
“And then,”'Johnny smacked him with the brochure for emphasis, “there's running the way you did. That's how Jake and Moon raised you? Someone's trying to hurt you, you couldn't have at least called me?”
A sheet of paper, torn from a notebook, fell out of the annual report. Michael picked it up.
“What turned the corner here,” Johnny G. reminded him, “was when you finally called in and told Doyle about the two who tried to ice you. It was Doyle who got their names. It's thanks to him that we know what's been happening here.”
The sheet of paper was a list of names and telephone numbers. Michael recognized some of the names
.
“Doyle got us where we are,” said Johnny G., “but we could have been there months ago if only you trusted him back then. Doyle is family, Mike. He's not blood, neither is Moon, but they're family all the same.”
Michael took a breath. “How long has Doyle known about Bronwyn?”
“Just since today. Since Hobbs spilled his guts.”
“So Moon knew too?”
”I guess.”
“And he never told me.”
“He probably didn't have the heart.”
“What else didn't he tell me, Johnny?”
“Mike . . . don't do that. For your own good, don't start.”
“Yeah.” Fallon nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay.”
“Where's Moon, by the way?”
Michael told him. He told him about the bad Warfarin that had caused internal bleeding and had almost killed him.
Johnny G. grimaced. “You heard about Arnie Aaronson?''
”I heard he's dead. Sheila told me,”
The Shadow Box Page 34