“She’s dead, Ben. I’m sorry,” Jesse said, finally ending the kid’s torment. “Her parents came and took her home.”
Ben Salter was sobbing, chest heaving. Jesse asked if he wanted to postpone the talk.
“Fuck no! I want to get the guy that did this to us. It should be me who’s dead, not Martina. He was after me. She was just there.”
“Why do you think that?” Jesse said.
“It’s pretty obvious. He kept me for a few days. I guess Martina was just in his way. Maybe he hadn’t counted on her being there.”
“Can you think of why he took you?”
“For ransom, maybe? I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“Can you think of a reason he let you go?”
“I don’t know.”
Although Jesse was mostly looking at the kid, he glanced at the lawyer out of the corner of his eye during these last two questions. But if he thought they would get a rise out of Bernstein, he was wrong. Monty just sat there calmly, listening.
Ben described in great detail the room in which he had been held captive. He described how he had attacked his captor with the broken lightbulb.
“That was a pretty brave thing to do,” Jesse said.
“I wanted to kill that guy.”
“I would have wanted to kill him, too, but now my job is bringing him to justice. Did the guy speak at all?”
“When I was cutting him he said something like, ‘Ya bastard,’ I think, but not exactly that.”
Jesse cocked his head. “What do you mean, not exactly?”
“It sounded funny, like he was sort of Irish, but not really. I guess it was a kind of Boston accent. I don’t know. It was two words, and I was half crazy trying to kill the guy.”
“Good.”
“Does that mean something?” Ben said, sitting up a little straighter in bed.
“Maybe. We’ll definitely check it out. One more thing. My officer, Luther Simpson, the guy who found you, he says you kept repeating something about a different trunk. What did you mean by that?”
“The first night when—” Ben stopped himself, remembering Martina. “Anyway, after he took me, I woke up . . . hog-tied, I guess you’d call it, in the trunk of a car. It was an older car. There was a big spare tire underneath me and no carpeting or anything in the trunk. It was really loud, like it had a big-assed engine and the trunk really smelled of exhaust fumes. This time, when he got me, the trunk was fully carpeted and it was pretty quiet. It smelled like a pretty new car, and it was a big car, I think.”
They talked for a few more minutes. Jesse promised to come back and check up on Ben. He also said he might be back if he needed something clarified. Ben said he was willing to do anything to help get the guy who had killed Martina. As Jesse turned to leave, the kid called after him.
“It wasn’t great . . . the sex, I mean,” Ben said.
Jesse nodded. “Most first times aren’t.”
“It was good, you know? But we weren’t used to each other. I wanted to do it again. I wanted it to be special for her. She was the most special girl I ever met. Now . . .”
Jesse wanted to say something to make the kid feel better, but words had never been his thing. Besides, he doubted that even Shakespeare could have come up with the words to ease the kid’s pain. Monty Bernstein stayed behind in the room when Jesse left, but he caught up to Jesse at the elevator.
“Thanks, Jesse, you were good with him.”
“He’s been through a lot.”
“Did it help?”
“It’s not much. It gives us a place to start. But you already knew that,” Jesse said as the elevator door opened and they stepped inside.
“I asked out of habit. Lawyers are always asking questions we know the answers to.” Monty then waited for the door to close on them. “About having Harlan come in to your office tomorrow . . .”
“What about it?”
“Let me save all of us some time and bother.”
Jesse said, “I’m listening.”
“Mr. Salter was in Helton to exchange some paperwork with a minor business associate. I can assure you that Burt’s All-Star Grill was the other party’s choice of eateries and not Harlan’s.”
“I figured. Care to share the name of the other party?”
“Jesse, I’d say that question goes well beyond the scope of your investigation into this case. We weren’t obliged to tell you anything at all, but my client felt that any energy you spent tracing false leads or tangentially related issues would only hinder your investigation into the murder and Ben’s abduction.”
“Thank your client for me.”
“So can I tell Harlan that you’ve changed your mind about having him come in to your office?”
“No,” Jesse said. “But you can tell him that the visit is bound to be shorter now that you’ve shared this information with me.”
The elevator door opened. Jesse stepped out. Monty Bernstein did not. Jesse turned back, using his arm to prevent the elevator door from closing.
“Looking forward to seeing you and Mr. Salter in my office. If you come early enough, coffee and donuts are on me.”
Jesse removed his arm and let the door slide closed.
43
Lorraine Frazetta nearly lost it at the sight of Vic Prado walking through her front door. Geno, one of the Tweedle Dumbbells, had buzzed him into the house just as Lorraine was coming down the stairs. When Vic caught sight of her, he smiled and winked. Lorraine flushed, a now-familiar heat rising inside her. She was dressed in a black silk robe, hair up, her too-heavy makeup already on.
“Getting ready to go out for the evening?” Vic said to her.
“Mike’s taking me out for a late dinner in a little while.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Geno, do me a favor. Go get me a bottled water from the fridge.”
He stayed put. “Boss says I’m supposed to watch the door.”
Lorraine wasn’t in the mood to debate. “Get me a fucking bottle of water, Geno.”
“Hey, baby,” Vic said when the muscle was gone. “You’re looking fine.”
“You, too. What are you doing here?”
He nodded toward Mike’s study. “I was hoping to see you, and I was summoned.”
“I need to be with you again.”
“Soon, baby. I’m heading to Paradise to see an old friend. I’ll call and we can set something up.”
“Here’s your water!” Geno said, thrusting out a hand so big it nearly covered the entire bottle.
Vic shook his head. “Manners, Geno, manners. This is the boss’s wife you’re talking to.”
Unfazed, Geno gave Lorraine the bottle and turned to Vic. “He’s waiting for you inside.”
“Nice to see you, Lorraine,” Vic said. “Have a pleasant dinner.”
Lorraine nodded and started back upstairs, knees weak. When Vic headed to Mike’s room, Geno flipped him the bird.
Vic knew it was trouble when he saw that the huge TV was black and Mike was pacing back and forth in front of it. If that didn’t spook him enough, Mike’s face didn’t light up the way it usually did when Vic walked into the room. All sorts of bad thoughts swelled in Vic’s head. Had Mike found out about him and Lorraine? Vic’s heartbeat quickened even as he told himself that there was no way Mike could know about what had happened between him and Lorraine the previous day. Vic had been very careful. He had instructed Lorraine to leave her cell phone at home, so that it couldn’t be used to track her. He had arranged for a cab to pick her up from where he’d had her park. He’d even followed the cab in his rental to make sure the cab wasn’t being followed. He’d made sure to meet Lorraine on a day when he knew Joe Breen was too busy doing other work for Mike to be following him around. Vic’s equilibrium didn’t improve any when he saw Joe Breen was seated in his usual chair, a sullen
scowl on his face. Breen was looking worse for wear, much worse. There were bandages on his left cheek and along the left side of his neck.
“Jesus, what the hell happened to you?”
Mike Frazetta answered the question. “That’s why I called you.”
“I’m not following you, Mike,” Vic said. “What’s Joe’s face got to do with why I’m here?”
Breen spoke up. “That fucking little shite near killed me. Slashed my face and neck with glass. Missed me jugular by an inch.”
“Joe and the kid bled all over my Caddy. Car’ll never be the same.”
On the one hand, Vic was relieved this meeting wasn’t about his tryst with Lorraine. At the same time, he got a sick feeling in his belly. “You didn’t kill the kid, did you? Jesus, tell me you didn’t—”
“Hell, no,” Mike said. “But Joe did have to protect himself, and he roughed the Salter kid up pretty good.”
Vic was curious. “How good?”
“Broke the little bastard’s nose. Maybe his jaw, and I suppose I juiced him one or two times extra.”
Vic slammed his palms together. “Shit! We didn’t need this.”
“What’s with the ‘we’ shit, Vic?” Mike said. “Where’s the risk for you? It ain’t your ass hanging out there. You’re out front, smiling, shaking hands, and busy being famous. What was Joe supposed to do? You do dirty work and sometimes everyone gets dirty. All Joe was doing was going to free the kid, for crissakes.”
Joe Breen fought the urge to smile. For the first time in all the years they had known each other, Mike was taking his side against Vic—and strongly, too. It was almost worth the stitches and the blood.
“Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry, Joe. I guess you had no choice,” Vic said. “So where does that leave us?”
Mike didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his cheeks with his right hand, twisted up his mouth.
“You know, Vic, we’ve done good together since you came to me with this scheme. And because we’ve done so good, I didn’t object too loud when you came to me with the idea of going after Coastline, but I never really liked the deal. The other companies we bought pieces of, they were already pretty compromised, you know? We knew they were working some pretty shady deals and had no choice but to give in when we made offers. Hell, most of them were kinda grateful to share in the wealth. But it was risky with Coastline. The stuff we had on them was minor shit. It was enough to get their attention, not enough to really push them to give us a piece of their pie. But, hey, like I said, we had done so well I was willing to give it a shot.”
“I feel a but coming on,” Vic said.
Mike nodded. “You was always smart that way, Vic. You’re right. So here’s what’s what. I decided that we’re going to walk away from this Coastline Consultants thing. It just doesn’t feel right to me. It didn’t to begin with, and the thing with the girl,” he said, crossing himself, “and now this with the kid. Too much trouble.”
Vic could feel beads of sweat rolling down his back, gluing his shirt to his skin.
“But we got the papers. We’re right there, Mike.”
“Funny, it don’t feel that way to me, Vic. It still feels like a reach even though we got the papers in hand. And all this blood . . . I don’t like it.”
“Far back as I remember, you never minded a little blood. For crissakes, Mike, this whole ball started rolling only after Joe took care of the guy from the SEC.” Vic pointed at Breen. “And he for sure never minded blood, no matter how much or how little.”
“Innocent blood is different. The girl, the kid, they were civilians,” Mike said. “And besides, it was you who suggested we use the kid for leverage. Seems to me your fingertips are a little red themselves, no?”
“I didn’t tell him to murder some poor girl or to beat the shit out of the kid. That’s not what I meant by leverage, Mike, and you know it.”
“Like I said, when you do dirty work, the dirt tends to get spread around.”
“But—”
Mike held up his right palm to Vic. “My mind’s made up, Vic. You had your say. You don’t like it. I get that. Too bad. Time to cut our losses.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Breen’s mouth took on a cruel aspect and he made a kind of chuffing, self-satisfied noise.
“We?” Mike said. “We aren’t going to do anything, but you’re going to make with the carrot and the stick. You’re going to make a gesture by giving him the paperwork back and telling him Coastline is all his and his brother’s. You’re going to tell him that you and your backers regret how things came about. You’re going to express our condolences and tell him that it ends here.”
Vic laughed a laugh as disconnected from joy as a pulled tooth. “You think Harlan Salter is just going to take the papers and thank me for the gesture?”
Mike shook his head. “That’s where the stick part comes in. You tell that dried-up WASPy prick that if he takes one step in the direction of the cop house or drops a dime or whispers in the wrong ear, that what just happened to the girl and his kid will seem like a free weekend at Epcot. Tell him we’ll dismantle his family fucking tree one son and daughter-in-law at a time. Then we’ll start on the grandkids.”
“Mike, c’mon. I’m not going—”
“Yes you are, Vic,” Mike said. He turned to Joe Breen. “Give Vic the envelope with the papers. I’m going out to dinner now and I don’t wanna hear any more about this shit.” He walked out of the room.
Joe Breen got out of his chair and handed Vic Prado a thick white envelope. He made that chuffing sound again and followed his boss out of the room.
44
For the first time in many years she felt like she could breathe. And though her eyes were closed and she was aware of her semiconsciousness, Kayla could swear she was flying. Vic had been reduced to a tiny black bruise in the vast, aqua-watered ocean over which she soared. His transgressions had been packed and bundled, left at the curbside to be hauled away with the trash or washed down the sewer by the next rain. What remained of him was the excitement of that first kiss. It had been innocent enough to begin with, part of comforting each other over Jess’s injury. The innocence hadn’t lasted very long, but that was all behind her now. She laughed silently to herself over her silly attempt to reignite the flame with Jess that she herself had blown out so long ago.
God, she thought, was this happiness? The sun felt like the warm brush of silk across her cheeks and the breeze made her skin electric. It smelled of the sea. In it, she detected the delicate tang of salt. She breathed in other scents, too: crushed rose petals, sage grass, fire-roasted chilies. Scents of home, scents that didn’t belong to the sea, but that somehow made perfect sense. Beneath her shadow, a pod of dolphins rocketed through waves green as old bank glass, some of them hurling themselves out of the water in graceful, desperate leaps to fly like the woman soaring above them.
Then a gnawing discomfort imposed itself. Her soaring was suddenly not so effortless. Her shadow on the water disassembling. The dolphins getting closer and closer to her with each leap. They did not seem so peaceful or playful, these dolphins. She became aware of their teeth, of them baring their teeth. She wanted it to stop now. The sun was no longer silk on her skin but a rasp, and she was overheating. Perspiration poured out of her so that she thought she might drown in it. She wanted to wake up. She willed herself to wake up, to open her eyes as the dolphins nipped at her. She longed for a drink, for something cool against her skin. Tears. Now there were tears racing down her cheeks from the corners of eyes that stubbornly refused to open.
She pleaded for her eyes to open, begged them. And then . . . a flutter. The coolness she longed for overwhelmed her. She was cold, ice cold, shivering. She was naked. She didn’t have to see to know it. She felt it, felt the stainless steel against the wet skin of her back. Her eyes were open now, unfocused but open. Her in
stinct was to run. Wherever she was, she knew she had to get out of there. But she could not move, not her arms or legs, not even her fingers. She could not turn her head from side to side. A nauseating wave of panic rolled through her. She was paralyzed. Wait, that didn’t make sense. If she was paralyzed, she wouldn’t be able to feel things against her skin, right? Maybe not. What did she know about being paralyzed?
Then she felt something, a leather cuff, being slipped around her right ankle and pulled tight. Then her left ankle. A shadowy figure passed just at the edge of her view. Her right arm was yanked above her head, a leather cuff slipped over her wrist. Then her left arm. She was so consumed by fear now that she thought she might explode. Then the shadowy figure came back into view. She tried desperately to make her eyes focus. The shadow took on more of a human shape, but it was no good.
“You’re sweating,” a voice said as if from another room.
It was a man’s voice, nasal and slightly high-pitched. The voice had a vague familiarity to it, but she was sure she didn’t know who it belonged to. She felt terry cloth on her abdomen. A towel. The shadow was moving around her, the towel wiping away her perspiration.
“It’s the drugs,” he said. “They do that to you. An unfortunate side effect of my little proprietary concoction.”
She tried to talk, but her vocal cords were as useless as her arms and legs. She could only manage weak, choked noises barely louder than a whisper.
“Relax,” the shadow said, stroking her hair. “The drugs will wear off in a little while. When they do, we’ll hydrate you. Then I will answer your questions. I’m sure you’re full of questions. Be back in a jiff.”
As he spoke, Kayla searched her mind. Who is he? Who is he? And then it came back to her. She’d been walking down a lovely cobbled street in Boston, admiring how the town houses were so neatly shouldered together. A mousy little man in a drab blue polyester suit was walking toward her when he tripped and fell. He had asked her to help him up. When she did, he thanked her. She’d felt a prick in the skin of her neck. That was the last thing she remembered before the dolphins.
Robert B. Parker's Blind Spot Page 14