“Two,” said Ryan, finishing the thought for her: “Someone else did.”
“Someone else?”
“There’s a rocket scientist I still need to talk to,” said Ryan.
33
YAZ WAS GOING TO KILL HIMSELF.
All day long, baseball. Into the evening, more baseball. Didn’t this Babes ever get tired of talking about the same damn thing, hour after hour? No doubt about it: if there’d been a pistol to suck on, Yaz’s brains would have been all over the wall.
Yaz found a comfortable gravestone and sat down in the moonlight. His food run into town had taken only half an hour. It was amazing what ended up in the Dumpster behind a subway shop. He took one more bite of an only slightly spoiled turkey loaf, put it back in his coat pocket, and started back to the crypt.
Babes would be there waiting for him. Yaz had tested him all afternoon to make sure he wouldn’t run. Yaz told him to shut up or he’d cut off his ear. Babes shut up. Yaz ordered him to stand on one foot for five minutes or he’d slit his throat. Babes stood on one foot. And before leaving the crypt, he told Babes to sit in the corner until he got back, or he’d kill his entire family. That one had made him cry, but Babes went straight to the corner.
This is too easy.
The crypt was one of the most impressive memorials in the old North Burial Ground. A full moon and the shadows of sprawling oaks created the eerie, horror-film feeling that Yaz loved. He turned the broken latch, and the iron gate creaked open. It was pitch-dark inside the crypt, so he struck a match before entering. Sure enough, Babes was huddled in the corner, exactly where Yaz had left him.
“Good boy, Babes,” said Yaz.
Babes didn’t move.
“You hungry?”
Babes refused to look at him—the guy never seemed to make eye contact—but he nodded. Yaz tossed him the half-eaten turkey loaf. Babes fumbled it, and the hunk of processed meat fell to the floor.
“Five-second rule,” said Yaz, invoking the childhood joke. But Babes seemed to take it more as a command, waiting a few seconds before picking up the loaf.
This guy is so literal.
Babes picked up the turkey, sniffed it, and took a tiny bite.
“Good, huh?” said Yaz.
Babes made a face and took an even smaller bite.
Yaz struck another match and lit the candle on the bench in the center of the crypt. Then he took a seat and watched Babes eat. “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you?” said Yaz. Babes chewed in silence. “Yes, sir,” said Yaz. “I bet you’d even kill for me, wouldn’t you?” Babes stared at the floor.
Yaz rose and walked over to the vacant niche, the makeshift storage closet that had held everything from Babes’s baseball cards to Yaz’s vanilla wafers. He removed the cover, took an old blanket from his collection of stuff, and spread it out across the floor.
“You’re like a child. An innocent, gullible little child.” Yaz chuckled, then turned serious. “Come here, Babes.”
Babes shrank even farther into the corner.
“Come on, little boy,” said Yaz, his eyes narrowing in the flicker of candlelight. “Come lay down on my blankie. Now.”
34
MIDNIGHT WAS DECISION TIME FOR BRANDON LOMAX. ANOTHER sixteen-hour day of speeches and glad-handing was over. He and his campaign manager were the last remaining souls in his Providence campaign headquarters. They were seated in the back row of the telephone bank, Lomax with his tired feet up on a battered metal desk. His jacket was off, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his tie was loosened in his signature style. On the wall behind them was a red, white, and blue banner proclaiming his original (and since rejected) campaign slogan: TO THE MAX—LOMAX—FOR U.S. SENATE.
“What do they know so far?” said Lomax.
“My read is nothing,” said Josef. “But you never know with the media.”
Lomax took a final gulp of cold coffee and glanced at the desktop telephones behind them. “The phone would be ringing off the hook if anyone had a clue about a lost DNA sample that could prove I was involved in the Chelsea James crash.”
“Or proved that you weren’t,” said Josef.
“Yes, but that wouldn’t be news, now would it—if I wasn’t involved.”
“I suppose not. Which raises the question: Do we leak the fact that you willingly submitted a DNA sample?”
“I think it can only be helpful,” said Lomax. “A guilty man would never volunteer to do that.”
“It still all depends on how the media spins it,” said Josef.
“What’s the worst they can say?”
Josef paused. “It’s sticky, since you were the attorney general when this evidence was gathered. Some reporters might suggest that the department never constructed a DNA profile from that evidence because you prevented it from happening. Or they might speculate that the disappearance of that sample wasn’t recent—that it vanished years ago, while you were still AG, a calculated destruction of evidence to make sure the shit didn’t hit the fan after you left.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Is it?”
The men locked eyes. “Yes,” Lomax said coolly.
Josef blinked. “And then there’s the Garrisen connection.”
“What about it?”
Josef chose his words carefully, as if trying not to antagonize his boss any further.
“Connie Garrisen is one of your biggest supporters—could very well be the next U.S. surgeon general if you’re elected to the Senate. His wife is the current chief of the Criminal Division. She might have some questions to answer about DNA evidence disappearing under her watch.”
“It’s not really her watch. The DNA bank is maintained by the Department of Health.”
“The media doesn’t always point out those finer distinctions.”
Lomax mulled it over. “If we don’t leak anything, how will this play out?”
“As long as Emma Carlisle doesn’t go public with the anonymous tips that name you, Brandon Lomax is nowhere in the Chelsea James story. The media is left only with Chelsea’s troubled younger brother going on the radio to confess that he killed his sister.”
“I think we leave it right there,” said Lomax.
“I do, too. He’s the only suspect. Police are out there in full force looking for him.”
“And if he has an Asperger’s meltdown that forces some trigger-happy cop to make ‘I killed my sister’ his last words, it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.”
Josef looked at him in disbelief.
“What?” said Lomax.
“I just wish I hadn’t heard you say that.”
“Oh, come on. I wasn’t serious.”
Josef sighed. “It’s getting hard for me to tell anymore.”
“What do you think I’m going to do next, hire some mob guy to take him out?”
“No,” said Josef, rising. “But do me a favor, will you?”
“What?”
“Before you get there, fire me.”
Lomax wasn’t sure if he detected a hint of a smile on Josef’s face or not, but asking to be fired before the candidate hired a hit man was a dangerous thing for a campaign manager to joke about.
“I’ll let you lock up,” he said, rising. He grabbed his jacket and left through the front door. His car was at the curb. He got in and caught almost every green light on the way to his house on Benefit Street. His only stop was at the traffic light in front of the convenience store he’d visited the other night—the one with the pay phone he’d used to call Sal Vanelli.
Speaking of hit men.
It occurred to him that he hadn’t spoken to Sal since he’d botched the interception of the anonymous tipster at the Modern Diner. Josef’s snide remark was playing in Lomax’s ear, and a wave of panic suddenly washed over the candidate. Sal had totally screwed up the assignment. Lomax had to cut his ties—now.
Lomax steered into the parking lot, parked in front of the outside pay phone, and dialed Sal at the ba
r. “It’s POTUS,” he said, feeling a little silly about the spy stuff.
“Hey, boss. I didn’t want to call you, for obvious reasons, but I’m really sorry about the way things went screwy the other day.”
“Forget about it. It’s not a problem.”
“Let me make it up to—”
“No, no. That’s what I was afraid of. You don’t owe me anything.”
“You sure? Because I’m a smart guy. In fact, I’ve been putting two and two together here, and it seems to me that you could use some help.”
Lomax froze. He’d been very careful about how much to tell Sal. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s pretty clear that this kid Babes in the news is the tipster I was supposed to meet at the Modern Diner. My job was to buy him off and keep him quiet, right?”
Lomax didn’t answer.
Sal said, “Now he’s blabbing his mouth all over the radio. And just today—did you hear that guy from Action News call in to Jocks in the Morning?
“I heard about it.”
“Well, I’d be worried if I was you. So long as Babes is talking on the radio to his brother-in-law, you can keep track of what he’s saying. But what if he takes this offer from Doug Wells? Then you got no idea what Babes is telling the media. And that doesn’t sound like a good situation for you.”
“What are you saying?”
“I say we take things up a notch. Somebody should give Dougy boy a little visit.”
Lomax’s stomach was suddenly in knots. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Won’t cost you anything.”
“I said no. Don’t go there.”
“Okay. I’m not going to argue with you. But if you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”
“That I do,” said Lomax, and he hung up the phone.
35
YAZ NEEDED ICE.
His left eye was throbbing. That lunatic Babes was strong as an ox when he freaked. He was docile, gullible, obedient—as long as you didn’t touch him. The slightest physical contact, however gentle, was like an electric shock to him. All Yaz had done was run his fingertip back and forth along Babes’s lower lip. Babes bucked like a bronco, fists flying, legs kicking. The hardest blows went straight to Yaz’s face. He had no mirror, but he was sure that his shiner would be big and purple.
Crazy son of a bitch.
Yaz tore another strip of cloth from his dirty blanket and twisted it into a makeshift rope. Babes’s ankles and wrists were already bound together with a dozen other strips, but Yaz tied this last one extra tight.
“That ought to hold you,” he said.
Babes grunted, but he’d lost his will to fight.
Yaz stopped to collect his thoughts, his plan fully conceived. It was now only a matter of execution. The idea had come to him after Babes’s tell-all monologue about the night of his sister’s death. A drunk driver had been involved. It wasn’t clear to Yaz how Babes knew the driver’s name, and the name didn’t mean anything to Yaz anyway. The important detail was the car—anyone who drove a big Mercedes-Benz had to be rich. Yaz saw dollar signs. Driving drunk. Leaving the scene of a fatal accident. Maybe even manslaughter. If it were Yaz’s ass on the line, and if he were a respectable member of society who drove an expensive Mercedes, he’d cough up serious dough to stop an eyewitness like Babes from calling the police or the newspaper.
Ten grand. At least.
Yaz was down at the pond refilling empty water bottles. It was well after midnight. What better time was there to catch someone at home?
Yaz walked back to the crypt and gave Babes some water. Then he powered up Babes’s cell phone and called nationwide directory assistance. Babes had been absolutely certain about the name and spelling. There were three separate listings in New England, and Yaz chose the one with the familiar area code.
The operator offered to dial it for him at an extra cost of thirty-five cents.
“What the heck?” said Yaz, smiling thinly. “I’ll be rich soon enough.” Yaz didn’t worry about talking in Babes’s presence. He was probably trying to classify by phyla the different organisms in the pond water he was drinking.
There was an answer on the third ring.
“Yes, is this the killer of Chelsea James?” said Yaz in his most official tone, speaking into Babes’s phone.
There was a click on the line.
Yaz smiled. This was fun. This time he dialed the number himself. He knew he’d planted a seed. The guy had to be shitting his pants right now. Yaz gave the pansy ass six rings, tops, to pick up again.
It rang five times.
“Hello.”
“I saw you vomit,” said Yaz. “I know you did it.”
This time Yaz hung up…and waited. He was confident that a man of this stature would have some kind of call screening that had logged Yaz’s incoming phone number. He checked the time on the phone. It was 1:17 A.M. He predicted a callback before 1:20 A.M.
Ninety seconds later, Yaz’s phone rang. It was the mark.
“Got your attention?” said Yaz.
“What do you want?”
Yaz felt like he had found the proverbial genie in the lamp.
“Money.”
“What do I get in return?”
“Silence.”
“How much do you want?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
The man paused to consider it. “I can have it tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” said Yaz. “Meet me—”
“Under the I-95 bridge over the river in Pawtucket.”
Yaz took a moment. It seemed perfect. “I know it well.”
“Eleven o’clock tomorrow night.”
“I’ll be there,” said Yaz. “Pleasure doing business with you.” He closed the flip phone, and the deal was sealed.
36
RYAN WAS PUTTING HIS LIFE ON THE LINE.
This morning he’d decided to add to his exercise regimen by jogging to the radio station. Unfortunately, he chose a route through the South End that involved crossing Tremont Street at Worcester Street, where drivers confused survival of the fittest with the law of the crosswalks. A speeding BMW nearly flattened him between the lines. Ryan didn’t catch the license tag, just the bumper sticker: LIFE’S TOO SHORT NOT TO BE ITALIAN.
A pedestrian was a dangerous thing to be in Boston, even at 5:20 A.M.
Emma was waiting at the radio station when he arrived. They’d agreed to meet before the show to plan their on-air strategy with Babes. To his surprise, she came dressed in exercise clothing.
“Don’t tell me you ran here from Providence,” he said.
“Don’t tell me I look like I ran here from Providence.”
He smiled. He’d never seen her dressed so casually. He thought she looked great.
“You look…fine,” he said.
“Fine?” she said. “Is that neither-here-nor-there fine, or more like 1970s Super Fly ‘Ooh, that girl is fine’?”
Ryan’s mouth opened, but the words didn’t come. With Chelsea, he’d never fumbled the how-do-I-look question. But he hadn’t expected it from Emma.
“Ryan, snap out of it. I’m yanking your chain, okay? If I drive straight from here to my gym, I can still be in court for a nine thirty hearing. So let’s get started.”
“Sure.”
Ryan grabbed two bottles of water from the kitchen fridge and led her back to the studio. It was small with no windows to the outdoors, but it had a large interior window that looked out into the hallway, and another one that looked into the control room. The walls were acoustically padded and drab gray, and the carpet had probably absorbed more coffee spills over the years than sound.
“Have a seat,” he said, offering Emma his chair. He moved the boom microphone out of the way and pushed the headsets to one side of the table for a clear work area. His cohost typically arrived at 5:59 A.M. for the six o’clock broadcast, so he and Emma had some time alone. That meant no chance to shower before the show, which made him a little self-con
scious in such a small room. He grabbed a clean T-shirt from his workout bag, made a quick change, pitched the dirty one out into the hallway, and closed the door.
Emma looked mortified.
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I sort of undressed in front of you.”
“Forget that. You just threw a dirty T-shirt into the hall.”
“You…want me to bring it back?”
She gave him a curious look, one that Ryan was having trouble reading.
“Poor Ainsley,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said with a smile. “Is your producer still okay with your making a direct appeal to Babes?”
“Yes,” said Ryan, as he took a seat in his cohost’s chair. “I have the first three minutes.”
“That’s plenty. When did you last try Babes’s cell?”
“This morning, before I left the house. The call went straight to voice mail, which tells me that either the battery is dead, or his phone is turned off.”
“Then your show is still our best chance of reaching Babes,” she said before shifting gears. “By the way, I am so sorry about the way Doug Wells made a complete ass of himself on your show yesterday, trying to get Babes to call him.”
“Television reporters. What can you say?”
“I had plenty to say—to him. I want you to know that I had nothing to do with that. In fact, I told him I don’t ever want to see him again.”
“Really?” said Ryan.
“Yes. So now that we have that out of the way, let’s make sure you say the right things when Babes calls again. Have you written anything down?”
“I’m a baseball might-have-been who cohosts Jocks in the Morning. I haven’t written anything down since college.”
Emma took a notepad from her briefcase. “I am so glad I came.”
“Me, too,” said Ryan.
She seemed to sense something in his tone, but she let it pass. “Can I borrow a pen?”
Ryan handed her one and during the next fifteen minutes they worked out a script, word by word, line by line. She helped Ryan organize his thoughts, but she also had a subtle way of helping him sort through his feelings about Babes, the confession, and the danger Babes was now in.
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