“If you’re thinking he could be a suspect, forget it. He wasn’t even in the state when the robbery went down.”
“You sure about that?”
“He was in Brazil reviewing security at offshore oil rigs owned by one of Cargill’s companies. Something about him bothering you?”
“It’s probably nothing. His shit-kicker act just rubs me the wrong way.”
“What rubs me the wrong way is Cargill’s son,” Ragsdale said.
“Any particular reason?”
“Belinda Veiga let him take her on a couple of dates last summer, and since then he can’t seem to leave the poor girl alone.”
“What’s he doing, exactly?”
“Keeps calling her, texting her pictures of his dick, sending flowers to her office,” he said. “And she thinks he’s been driving by her apartment late at night.”
“Thinks?”
“She hasn’t actually seen him, but that car of his makes a distinctive sound. No question about the rest of it, though. The calls and texts came from his phone; and Emily, the clerk at the Secret Garden, says the jerk gave her a standing order to send Belinda flowers twice a week.”
“That sounds like stalking.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Seems to me he’s just a spoiled brat who never learned how to take no for an answer. I’m not ready to make an arrest just yet, and I hope it doesn’t come to that. I’d hate to have to deal with his daddy’s army of high-priced lawyers again.”
“Again?”
“Hell, there’s always something with that fucking kid. Bar brawls, drunk and disorderly, public urination, DUI. It’s been going on ever since the family built their estate on Highland Drive six years ago and started spending summers here.”
“Think he’s dangerous?”
“Only when he’s behind the wheel.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said. “I saw him hitting on Belinda at the Narragansett Café the night Roomful of Blues played there. When she turned him down, he balled his fists and his face contorted with rage.”
Ragsdale sighed. “What are you thinking, Mulligan?”
“I’m thinking you should refer her to a lawyer. Maybe she can get a restraining order.”
“Okay. I guess maybe it’s time for that.”
“I’m surprised Alexander is still in town,” I said. “I thought the Cargills would have taken off for one of their palaces in the tropics by now.”
“They have, but Alexander stayed behind, probably because of his obsession with Veiga.”
“No question Richie Rich is a jerk,” I said, “but it’s still hard to imagine him having a reason to steal his stepmother’s jewelry.”
“I agree.”
“Have you questioned the household staff?”
“Of course. Didn’t get me anywhere.”
“Crowder grilled them, too. I’ve been thinking of taking a run at them myself, but it would probably just be a waste of time.”
“Which leaves Yuri Bukov as the only plausible suspect,” Ragsdale said.
“Plausible because he had opportunity?”
“And because he appears to have skipped town.”
“Any idea where he is?” I asked.
“No. You?”
“No.”
I picked up my coffee and drank, taking a moment to decide whether I should share a wild hunch with the chief.
“That same night at the Narragansett Café, Veiga was sitting with a young red-bearded guy. When I asked her about him, she said his name was Dmitry and that he was just a friend.”
“So?”
“Probably nothing, but Dmitry and Yuri are both Russian names. Makes me wonder if they might be acquainted.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me any. It’s a small island.”
“What do you know about Dmitry?”
“His full name is Dmitry Souza. Manages a boat rental shop on Conanicus Avenue.”
“Souza? That’s Portuguese.”
“His mother’s Portuguese. His father was Russian.”
“Is the father still in the picture?”
“No. He was long gone before his son was born.”
“Does Dmitry have a record?”
“No.”
“You sure?’
“I’ve known him all his life. He’s a good kid, Mulligan. I can’t see him getting involved in anything like this.”
My vague suspicion about Dmitry was sounding like a dead end.
“What about the loot?” I asked. “Has any of it hit the market yet?”
“Have you talked to Booth about that?”
“Not for a couple of weeks.”
“I touched base with him yesterday,” Ragsdale said. “A few suspicious jewelry listings turned up on eBay, but he ran them down and confirmed they were being sold by their rightful owners.” He drained his coffee, shrugged his jacket on, and plopped his damp hat on his head. “I’m not ready to give up on this one, Mulligan, but if I’ve learned anything in my five years as chief, it’s this. Some mysteries don’t have solutions.”
“Like Jimmy Hoffa,” I said.
“And Amelia Earhart.”
“Time to notify Casper’s family?”
He sighed. “No use putting it off any longer.”
“Want me to tag along?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know how hard these things can be, Chief. I think maybe you could use some company.”
On the drive over, neither of us wanted to talk about it.
“Hey, Chief?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you by any chance know Conner Bowditch, the Providence kid who plays for Boston College?”
“Know of him.”
“Ever hear of him getting into trouble down here?”
“Last summer, he was involved in a disturbance at the Narragansett Café, but the show was over by the time my officers arrived on the scene. The way the witnesses told it, some local kid started ragging on him. You know how it is when you’re a football star. There’s always some punk who wants to test his manhood out on you. Conner stayed cool and let the bouncer handle it.”
“Good for him.”
“Why are you asking about Bowditch?”
“Sorry, Chief, but that’s confidential.”
* * *
The Newcomb family lived in a modest ranch-style house that squatted on a couple of rock-strewn acres in the island’s unfashionable interior. As we drove up the muddy, unpaved drive, I could see that the outbuildings were in good repair but that the house needed painting. As we climbed from the car and dashed through the rain toward the front door, I thought I heard sheep bleating.
Ragsdale rang the bell. A woman opened the door, took one look at the grim look on the chief’s face, and burst into tears. Her first words: “How do I tell the children?”
Casper, it turned out, was both a beloved family pet and a working dog who guarded the Newcombs’ two dozen sheep from the island’s thriving coyote population. Carole Newcomb asked us what she could do to keep the grim details of the dog’s death from her three preteen kids. Ragsdale told her that she couldn’t. Within hours, the news would be all over Facebook.
16
Joseph hadn’t just fed Brady. He’d taken the dog for a walk, washed the dishes, wiped down the kitchen counters, swept the floors, and hauled out the trash. He’d even removed the day’s headless corpse from my porch. Joseph always made a mess, but unlike Cat the Ripper, he could be counted on to clean up after himself. I invited him to hang around for a couple more days so we could take in the rest of the holiday-weekend football games together.
On Saturday, we put the B.C.-Syracuse game on to watch Bowditch do his thing and were shocked to see him repeatedly mauled by opposing offensive linemen.
“What the fuck?” Joseph said. “Think he’s got an injury he’s been keeping secret?”
“Either that or his head isn’t in it today.”
The game was in the fourth quarter when McCracken called.
“I went on a beer run a few minutes ago,” he said, “and somebody followed me to the liquor store and back. A silver Hummer with Rhode Island plates. It’s parked on my street now, a couple of houses down.”
“A Hummer? Stupid car for a tail job. Too easy to spot.”
“Yeah.”
“Think it’s the same guys who roughed you up?”
“Seems likely.”
“How do you want to handle this, boss?”
“Take a run up here and call when you get close. I’ll take my car out. They’ll follow me, and you’ll follow them. I’ll lead us into Haines Park in East Providence, where we can box them in on a deserted road.”
“And if they turn out to be the guys who roughed you up?”
“We return the favor.”
“We could,” I said, “but if we do, we’re not going to learn anything.”
“Got a better idea?”
“Yeah. You shake the tail, and I’ll follow them. Maybe they’ll lead me to the person who sent them.”
“I thought we figured they must be working for Bowditch.”
“Most likely they are, but there could be some moving parts to this thing that we haven’t gotten a glimpse of yet.”
“Okay, we’ll try it your way.”
“But let’s wait till dark,” I said. “They won’t be expecting a tail, so I might be able to get away with it, but it’ll be easier once the sun goes down.”
“Makes sense.”
“Oh, and Joseph’s here, so I’ll bring him along. With your arm in a sling, we could use the extra muscle.”
“Is he armed?”
“I’ll lend him my Kel-Tec.”
“Can he shoot?”
“Better than me.”
“Mulligan, Stevie Wonder shoots better than you.”
* * *
Just past eight P.M., I switched off the RAV4’s headlights and turned onto McCracken’s street in the little bayside town of Warren. Fifty yards dead ahead, the silhouette of a Hummer was backlit by a streetlight. I pulled to the curb, called McCracken, and asked him to keep the line open.
A minute later he moseyed out his front door, slid into his silver Acura, and backed out of his driveway. The Hummer gave him a block-long head start and then pulled away from the curb. I waited until the little caravan made a left turn before I snapped on my headlights and followed.
“Can you see how many people are in the car?” McCracken asked.
“Give me a second,” I said, and drew within twenty yards of the Hummer. “Two guys wearing ball caps.” Then I fell back about forty yards.
We cut through several suburban streets, picked up route 114 north, and crossed the little bridge over the Barrington River. About ten minutes later, we turned east on County Road in Riverside, drove a couple of miles, and cut north on Willett Avenue. From there, it took McCracken less than five minutes to shake the tail in a confusing maze of residential streets.
“What are they doing now?” McCracken asked.
“They just turned around and are heading east on County Road.… Hold on. They just turned south on the Wampanoag Trail.”
“Sounds like they’re backtracking to my place.”
Sure enough, fifteen minutes later they turned onto McCracken’s street, parked a few houses down, and turned off the lights.
“What do you think they’re up to?” McCracken asked.
“Waiting for you to come home. Why don’t you find a place to hang out for a few hours until they give it up? Then we’ll see where they go.”
“Okay. I’ll have a couple of brews at Lucky’s on Warren Avenue and wait for your call.”
We were still sitting in the dark a half hour later when I heard the unmistakable pssst of a beer can opening.
“Go slow with that stuff, Joseph. I’ll need you to be sharp if we decide to confront these guys.”
“You didn’t say that to McCracken.”
“Unlike you, he doesn’t need to be told.”
“Can you turn on the radio? Maybe we can catch one of the West Coast games on ESPN.”
“Bad idea,” I said. “Sound really carries on cold, overcast nights.”
“But I’m fuckin’ bored.”
“Why don’t you take a nap?”
A few minutes later, he began to snore.
I sat in the dark and watched the Hummer. Nothing stirred. I was getting cold now, but I didn’t dare start the engine to run the heater. After a couple of hours, I woke Joseph, asked him to take the next watch, and caught a little shut-eye myself.
* * *
A poke in the ribs jolted me awake.
“They’re moving,” Joseph said.
I glanced at my watch. Just past two P.M. I cranked the ignition and handed my phone to Joseph. “Call McCracken, and put him on speaker.”
Fifteen minutes later, snow began to fall as we cruised north through East Providence on the winding Wampanoag Trail, the Barrington River a black ribbon off to our right.
“We’re heading in your direction,” Joseph told McCracken. “Sit tight.”
Except for some long-haul truckers, there were few vehicles on the road. I gave the Hummer a sixty-yard lead as we crossed the Washington Bridge over the Providence River. The city’s skyscrapers were barely visible through the thickening storm.
“We just turned south on I-95,” Joseph said.
“Got it,” McCracken said. “I’m on the way.”
As we crawled down the slick interstate, I lost control on the treacherous Thurbers Avenue curve and narrowly missed bouncing off the Jersey barrier. We passed through Cranston, took the airport exit in Warwick, and turned south on the Post Road commercial strip.
There, the Hummer pulled into the parking lot of a shabby two-story motel with an ancient sign that boasted FREE TV IN EVERY ROOM. As I rolled by, two tall men in brown Windbreakers climbed out and trudged up the stairs toward a second-floor room.
“Only two other cars in the lot,” Joseph said. “And the lights are out in the office.”
“Perfect.”
I continued three blocks south and turned into the parking lot of a closed convenience store. Ten minutes later, McCracken pulled in beside us and lowered his window.
“So now what?” he asked.
“We give them time to get undressed and go to bed, and then we bust in on them.”
17
A half hour later, we turned back north, parked both cars in front of a liquor store thirty yards south of the motel, and trudged through the snow. As we reached the motel, a rusted Toyota Celica drove into the lot, and two teenagers in jeans and parkas got out.
“Recognize them?”
“No,” McCracken said.
“I do,” Joseph said. “Couple of rent-a-boys who go in for rough trade.”
“You know this how?” I asked.
“They bet football.”
The boys started up the stairs to the second floor, where light glowed through the shades in only one room. Sleep apparently wasn’t in our prey’s immediate plans. We followed the boys up, stopped them at the top of the landing, and showed them our guns.
“How old are you two?” McCracken asked.
“Nineteen,” the taller one said.
“Liar. You’re not even shaving yet.”
“You cops?”
“No,” McCracken said. “It’s your lucky day.”
“You the guys who called us?”
“Not that lucky,” McCracken said.
“So what do you want with us?”
“We want you to knock on the door and let the occupants get a good look at you through the peephole,” McCracken said. “When the door opens, turn tail and run like hell.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want to know.”
The boys exchanged looks. “Okay. I guess we can do that.”
We took our positions: Joseph to the right of the door, me to the left, and McCracken, his gun arm in a sling and his pistol in his left, just behind me. I gave the b
oys a nod, and one of them knocked.
Inside, someone switched off the TV.
“Who is it?”
“Carl and Anton.”
The door swung open. The boys bolted. Joseph and I burst in, leading with our guns, McCracken following close behind. The man who’d opened the door stumbled backward, tripped over a tear in the threadbare carpet, and fell to the floor. The other guy was sprawled on the bed, his face draining of color. Both were naked except for their boxer shorts. They stared at our guns and didn’t say anything.
“Prostitution is a misdemeanor in Rhode Island,” McCracken said, “but soliciting underage boys for sex is attempted rape. That can get you hard time.”
The one with the porn mustache pulled himself off the floor and sat on the bed beside his partner. “You’re not cops,” he said.
“No, but we can have them here in five minutes.”
“Busting in on us with guns is a crime, too,” the clean-shaven one said, “so I’m betting you don’t want to do that.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure my friends at the Warwick PD would overlook our indiscretion in exchange for a sex-crime bust,” McCracken said. “But why don’t we have a chat first? Perhaps we can come to an understanding.”
“We got nothing to say to you assholes,” porn mustache said.
McCracken grinned, raised his pistol, and whacked him across the bridge of his nose.
“Want I should tune up the other one?” Joseph asked.
“Maybe later,” McCracken said.
I walked into the bathroom, found a damp towel, and tossed it to porn mustache. He caught it and pressed it against his gushing honker.
“What are your names?” McCracken asked.
Nothing.
“Why have you been tailing me?”
Nothing.
“Who hired you?”
Still nothing.
“Was it Bowditch?”
The clean-shaven one emitted a mirthless laugh. “Man, you got no fuckin’ idea who you’re dealing with.”
“So tell me.”
Silence.
As McCracken hurled more questions, I tossed the room. In the bedside-table drawer, two loaded Ruger LCP pistols and two boxes of ammunition.
“Got permits for those?” McCracken asked.
Silence.
I scooped their wallets from the bureau top and rifled through them. “Don’t see any,” I said. “Looks like maybe we’ve got another felony.”
The Dread Line Page 8