“But your boss, Boyle, is not involved. That means to me that you’ve been up to some double-dealing on Boyle that could put your neck on the block when it comes out. And it will come out. How am I doing so far?”
He leaned in two inches from my ear.
“I could put the silence on you right now, lawyer. That’s how you’re doin’.”
I had no idea what he might be holding for a weapon, and that was discomforting. I had one more card to play.
“It’ll do you no good. The D.A. knows all about it. It’ll be out whether I tell it or not. But that’s not what has you shivering in your boots, is it, Scully?”
No reply. I took it as an invitation to press on.
“I just got back from Dublin. I met your friend or associate-in-crime or whatever, Seamus McGuiness. You’ll remember tipping me off to his name. I don’t think the boys over there took that too kindly.”
“What the hell are ya sayin’? Get to it.” Definite tension in his voice.
“Good news and bad news, Scully. The good news. You don’t have to worry about Seamus McGuiness coming after you. He was killed there yesterday. The bad news. The gang McGuiness was working with probably had him killed. They could be on your doorstep next. I have a feeling they could make Boyle’s gang look like a bunch of cub scouts. But you’d know better than me.”
He sat back. You could cut the profound silence with a cleaver. I could hear his breathing get more rapid and I’d have bet his forehead looked like the morning dew. I let the pot boil for a minute before speaking.
“Like I said, Scully, I give, you give.”
He said it almost in a daze. “What do ya want?”
“Just one thing. Who killed Danny Ryan, and how and why?”
As long as he showed no sign of bolting, I let him consider his options, few as they were. It was the right move. When he spoke, I was dumbfounded. He gave me the mother lode.
“I’ll give it to ya, lawyer. The whole thing. Only my way, or not at all.”
“And your way is?”
“I want protection. Witness protection program. I want in. You get it for me, and I give you the whole ball of wax. That’s it.”
It was as if a trapdoor sprung and I fell into a pot of twenty-fourkarat gold. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I also couldn’t hesitate or this fish would be off the line. I had to move fast. People were slowly filling up the front pews for the five o’clock Mass.
“Wait here, Scully. I’ll make a call.”
I went back through the doors to the vestibule of the church and dialed up the district attorney’s office. The receptionist recognized my name as being with Mr. Devlin. She put me through immediately to Billy Coyne’s private line. He was as stunned by what I had to tell him as I’d been.
“All right, kid. Stay with him. I’ll send some plainclothes to pick him up.”
“Can you get him into witness protection, Mr. Coyne?”
“Assume yes. Tell him yes. It’s a federal program, but I think the feds will jump on this like a cat. Get back there and stay with him.”
“One thing, Mr. Coyne. We get the benefit of anything he has to say that clears Hector Vasquez, and the full cooperation of the district attorney’s office on that. Right?”
“One thing at a time, kid.”
“No. This comes first. I want your word on it now.”
“Damn. Now I’ve got two Lex Devlins on my ass.”
“You could do worse. I want your word.”
“All right, kid. Vasquez is small potatoes. I can give you that much. Now get back there.”
If it were anyone in that office but Billy Coyne, I’d have recorded his agreement. But I knew his word was better than a recording.
I went back through the door into the church and slid into the same pew in front of Scully. I turned my head enough to focus a whisper at him.
“It’s done. The D.A.’s sending protection. They’ll take you into protective custody. He can get you into witness protection.”
I assumed that that brought genuine relief to the stressed-out Scully since the heavy breathing ceased. I did, however, expect some kind of acknowledgment, if not gratitude.
When the silence became annoying, I turned around for an explanation. He seemed to be asleep. I nudged him on the shoulder to get a response. His whole body slowly sank to the right. The light in that part of the church was no great shakes, but even in those shadows, I could see the gaping slash across his throat.
I ran to the outer room and got Billy Coyne back on the phone.
“Too late, Mr. Coyne. He’s dead. His throat was cut while we were talking.”
I won’t repeat the Irish curse that erupted on the other end of the line. When it ended, I said the obvious. “I’ll call the police and stay with him till they get here.”
“The hell you will, kid. I’ll call it in. You get the hell out of there. Now.”
“What? Are you telling me to leave the scene of the crime without giving a statement? I’d like to keep my bar membership, Mr. Coyne.”
“You did give your statement. To me. I’m the deputy D.A., in case you forgot. I’ll tell the police I’m handling it. Now get the hell out of there.”
“I don’t like this, Mr. Coyne. Deputy D.A., or not. I need a reason to leave.”
“I’ll give you two, kid. The killer could still be there. You were talking to Scully. Guess who the next target could be. I’ll give you another one. I don’t want you being interrogated by the police right now. I don’t know who I can trust, and in case you didn’t hear me the first time, this thing is a damn sight bigger than Hector Vasquez. Now get the hell out of that church—forgive the expression. And be careful. If you get killed, Devlin’ll have my ass for not protecting you.”
I thanked him for his heartfelt concern for my welfare and took to the street.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
For no particularly good reason, I felt safe in not going underground. Most convincingly, I was right there when Scully was killed. If they wanted me dead, it would have been a simple thing to make it a doubleheader.
Much as it goes against my nature to be up before daylight, I was at the backside of Suffolk Downs as the light was beginning to dawn.
This time it was not to see Rick or the jockeys. I found my way to the three men who drove the heavy metal mesh drags over the track to break up the clods of earth and fill in the hoofprints to smooth the track for the morning gallopers and breezers.
I was still bothered by the exceptionally mundane times for Black Diamond’s workouts prior to the race on MassCap day. Kieran Dowd had explained how they disguised his real times from the racing press in Ireland. I wanted to know how they did it on this side and who was directing it.
I had a fair suspicion as to how it was done and figured there was no reason for the track drag drivers to hold back the information. I used the straight approach. After the introductions, I asked if they usually dragged the track right after the last race of the day to leave it ready for the early workouts the next morning. They did.
Then to the interesting question. Did they ever come to the track in the morning and find hoofprints before any of the horses had taken to the track for a workout?
They looked at each other with that kind of half-smiling expression that said, “How did he know that?”
“Yeah. Couple of times. Pisses us off. We leave the track perfect for the first riders. Some yoyo comes along and does this. We figure we could get nailed for it. And who did you say you are?”
“I’ll tell you who I’m not. I’m not the guy who’s going to get you in trouble. I’d appreciate one more answer though. Can you remember when you found the track like that?”
They put their heads together and came up with two dates over the previous month. I figured their fear of getting blamed for the condition of the track would give them a reliable recollection of the specific dates.
That was the easy part. Now I needed a matchup. I caught Rick McDonough as he wa
s finishing debriefing his first set of riders back from the morning’s gallop. This required a delicate touch. I would have bet my Bruins tickets—playoffs and all—that Rick would have no part in the deceptions going on with Black Diamond, but I was not ready to tip him off to what I’d discovered so far.
“Rick, I need a favor, and I’ve got nothing to give in exchange for it.”
He gave me that old-time-cowboy look. “When did I ever ask it, Mike? I look at you and I see Miles. What do you need?”
“I need you to check your records. I need the dates you breezed Diamond with the track press reporting the times.”
I could see the curiosity in his eyes, but he just ran his calloused hands over his head and walked back to the stall he used for an office. Five minutes later I had two dates. It was like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle slipping into place when the two dates squared with the dates the track conditioners found hoofprints on the track in the morning.
That was it. Much like what had happened in Ireland, someone galloped Black Diamond around the track the night before he was to breeze for a clocked timing to be reported in the press and condition books. The Diamond apparently always gave everything he had, but on those mornings, he was running on tired legs.
That left two major league questions. Who did the night riding, and more importantly, on whose orders? I was not ready to tell Rick he had a traitor in the stable. I had no idea how he’d react, and since lives were already being spent, the timing from there on out could require delicacy.
One thing I’d have bet on. The night rider was one of Rick’s stable crew. The security on the backstretch of Suffolk Downs is rigid. If anyone not connected to Rick’s stable had gotten into the area at all, which was unlikely, he would certainly have drawn attention saddling up, galloping around the track, cooling out, and stabling Black Diamond.
I watched Rick ride his big roan gelding onto the outer edge of the track to watch the next round of workouts before I wandered down the row of his stables. It was easy to strike up a jovial conversation with Rick’s stable hands. The Spanish flowed easily and like most Latinos I’ve known, they were quick to exchange laughs.
As seamlessly as possible, I guided the conversation around to who pulls the night shifts. I knew Rick’s concern for his horses well enough to know he’d always have one of his own crew awake in the stable area all night.
We joked about who got stuck with the overnight duty. It turned out that it was usually settled by a gamble on short straws. We had a few laughs, and I heard the name Manny Gomez pop up with some snickers about his love life. Since Manny was hot-walking a horse away from the group, the jokes at his expense came readily. I joined the laughter and nudged the conversation further.
It turned out that Manny had used a demanding girlfriend as an excuse for swapping night shifts with the others on a few occasions. That could be pay dirt.
I sauntered down the row of stalls to the one with the name of the horse Manny was hot-walking and slipped into the stall. When Manny finished and walked the horse into the stall, I caught him by surprise. This time, the direct approach was less likely to produce the quick results I needed.
I had two edges up on the conversation. I could do it in Spanish, and I was Hector Vasquez’s lawyer. Both could help in implying that I was in with whomever was pulling Manny’s strings. I added a low tone that couldn’t be heard outside of the stall to emphasize the conspiratorial nature of the conversation.
“You’ve been doing great, Manny. The big guy’s pleased. Nothing to worry about. He needs you to do something else.”
I could see him freeze up, but I did an internal high five when I saw him go to the front of the stall and look up and down the row before turning around. It seemed a good moment to go with the assumptions I made about who had been controlling him.
“We’ve got some trouble in the organization, Manny. Mr. Scully had to be taken out of the picture, if you take my meaning.”
I was locked onto his eyes for a reaction to the name. What I read was intensified tension, and no trace of a look that said, “Who the hell is Mr. Scully?” On with the show.
“There’ll be a new contact, Manny. We’re breaking in a new man. We need to keep him on a short leash for a while. You know, just to be sure. Loyalty is everything, right?”
“I don’t understand. What do you want from me?”
“Me? Nothing. I’m just delivering the message. The big guy wants this. When our man contacts you for another night ride, you call me just to confirm it? You got that, Manny? Here’s my number.”
I gave him a card with just my cell phone number on it. He looked at it without speaking, and I knew he needed more incentive.
“Two things, Manny. You listening?”
“Yeah. What?”
“He would not be pleased at all if you didn’t show your loyalty in this. Not at all. You understand?”
“Yeah. Comprendo.”
“That’s good, Manny. The other thing is he rewards loyalty. There’ll be more in it for you this time. A good bit more.”
That part seemed to sit well. Between the carrot and the stick, I figured I had a chance of learning who Scully’s replacement would be in the gang that was manipulating Black Diamond. I left feeling that we had at least one duck in a row—to bend a metaphor.
On my way out, I passed by the rail where Rick was still astride the roan, watching and clocking his horses.
“Any new plans for Black Diamond, Rick?”
He looked around. “You looking for a tip on a horse, Mike?”
“Not any horse. I’ve become sort of a fan of the Diamond.”
He looked back at the track. I knew there was a certain close-to-the-chest secrecy to the plans for entering horses in particular races. If it had been anyone else, he would have kept his silence. Just before I started to move away, I heard in low tones.
“Next Friday. Sixth race. Five and a half furlongs.”
That was jarring. Unlike other trainers at Suffolk, Rick never ran his horses back with less than three weeks rest.
“Who made that call, Rick? That wasn’t yours.”
He looked down at the pommel of his saddle. I could see his teeth clenching.
“I just get him ready the best I can. The rest is out of my hands.”
I leaned over the rail to get as close as I could. “Rick, this is for Danny. I need this more than I can tell you. It could go a long way to making things right. Is it the Irish bunch that’s calling the shots on the Diamond?”
He looked back at me with that tough, stone-faced look and I just prayed for a crack in the wall. It took ten seconds before I got a slight nod. I had to press on.
“Rick, I know I’m pushing it. But I’m asking for Danny and Colleen, and even Miles. He’d back me on this. Someday I’ll tell you why. I need a name. It’s not Kieran Dowd. He’s just the trainer over there. Who’s giving you the orders?”
He looked me in the eye and the stone wall was up again. I knew I was asking him to betray one loyalty for the sake of another one.
“Rick, you don’t know this. Two men have died so far. Three, counting Danny. It has to end. I think I’m the only one who can make things move, but I need that name. I give you my word. Your name won’t come up”
I could see the struggle in the deepening grooves in that leathered face, and I hated being the one who put them there. I knew I’d lose some of the trust between us if I pushed him, but there was no time and no other way.
“Damn it, Michael!”
“I know, Rick. But we need it. Don’t let Danny’s death go for nothing.”
That stung. He turned his head in the other direction. He was gripping the pommel with both hands, and I was losing hope of breaking the code of loyalty of this old cowboy.
I was half a second away from relenting and letting him off the hook, when I heard the whisper.
“Sweeney. Martin Sweeney.”
I locked it in my memory. “Is he connected with Dubh Crann Stables?
”
He looked at me as if I had gone beyond anything our friendship entitled me to. There was both defeat and anger in his voice when he barked out, “Yeah.”
He pulled the reins and dug his heels into the roan’s side to canter down the track away from me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It seemed that at least ten thoughts were struggling for front-and-center time as I drove to the gate from the backstretch. The most pointed was a pang of remorse for putting a painful wall between me and Rick. That was the first bridge I’d try to mend when this thing finally resolved.
When I reached the gate, one burning desire rose to the top of all the other issues. I turned right on Revere Beach Parkway toward the ocean with the intent of taking another right on Winthrop Parkway. I figured that since I was close, I had time to stop in and check on Erin and Colleen without making a call on a possibly compromised cell phone. I could also see Terry for long enough to insure that she still remembered what I looked like.
I was just settling into the joy of anticipating those two possibilities when my cell phone rang. It was too soon for Manny to have heard from Scully’s replacement, and only a small handful of people I’m close to have my cell number. That’s why it was jarring to hear a completely unfamiliar voice with a pronounced Boston Irish accent.
“Keep drivin’, Knight.”
“It’s my every intent. What’s your interest?”
“You’ll find out. Stay on the parkway. Bear right ahead there at the fork.”
Whoever it was knew where I was and where I was heading. When it finally clicked, I checked the rearview mirror. There was a blue Chevy Impala about ten feet from my rear bumper. The driver had his cell phone to his ear. More disturbing when he put down the cell phone was the handgun the size of a .357 Magnum he waved out the window and pointed at my gas tank. When he knew he had my full attention, he put down the gun and picked up the cell phone.
“Keep on straight, Knight. Take a right on Bennington.”
That did not sound promising. Bennington led back to Belle Isle Park. At that early hour of the morning, it would be just the two of us and the ducks. And he had the only gun.
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