The Dread Line

by Bruce DeSilva

  “True.”

  “But if we toss the office, we might learn something.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “We know all we need to know about Morris fucking Dunst.”

  “So we come back again tomorrow,” McCracken said.

  * * *

  That evening, we dined on shellfish and Samuel Adams Summer Ale at the Union Oyster House near Faneuil Hall. After the entree dishes were cleared away, we chatted over cups of Irish coffee.

  “So,” McCracken said, “how are you making out with that Jenks thing?”

  I ran it down for him.

  “What are you going to do next?” he asked.

  “No idea.”

  He rubbed his jaw and considered my problem. “If I were you, I’d try to get a peek inside his medicine cabinet.”

  After dinner, we checked into the Boston Harbor Hotel. McCracken planned to charge the extravagance to the Patriots as a business expense.

  * * *

  Seven A.M. found us parked at Milk and Devonshire again, taking turns reading The Boston Globe and watching the building. By four in the afternoon, Dunst still hadn’t appeared, so I pulled out my cell phone and called his office.

  “Dunst and Moran. How may I direct your call?”

  “Mr. Dunst, please.”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Elliot Crabtree. I’m with the New York Jets, and I’d like a word with Mr. Dunst about one of the players he represents.”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s not in the office today.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “He’s out of town conferring with clients. I don’t expect him back for at least a week.”

  I thanked her and signed off.

  “Well,” McCracken said, “we may as well give the Patriots our final report. We can always deal with Dunst after the draft if it comes to that.”

  I nodded and called Eliason’s number.

  “Okay,” he said. “Drop by my office in Foxboro next week.”

  “Next week? I thought you were in a rush.”

  “No need to hurry now,” he said. “The Jaguars just traded the third pick to the Texans, who’ve got their eye on the star wide receiver from Florida State. We’re still stuck at the bottom of the first round, so unless we can work something out with Houston, which ain’t likely, the fucking Jets will grab Bowditch with the seventh pick. No way he’ll be suiting up as a Patriot.”

  50

  Next morning, there was nothing dead waiting for me on my porch. Five days later, Cat the Ripper still hadn’t appeared with his daily offering. Maybe he’d tired of tangling with Rondo and had found another dumping spot for his kills.

  I spent the week playing with my dogs, putting the Sundowner in the water, and puttering around in the yard. I turned up a plot of earth in the field in front of the house, planted some tomatoes and green peppers, and strung a wire fence to discourage the rabbits. Raised in the city, I’d never tried gardening before. There was something oddly peaceful about putting things in the ground and watching them grow.

  Early Saturday evening, I drove to Clinton Avenue, strolled up a front walk lined with tulips and daffodils, and rapped on the door of a gray-shingled ranch house. Angie Jenks opened the door with a spatula in her hand and a “King of the Grill” apron tied around her ample waist.

  “Can I help you?”

  “My name is Mulligan. I’m a private detective, and I’d like to talk to you about your husband’s case.”

  “What case? He confessed.”

  “I’d still like a word.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and looked me up and down.

  “I think I recognize you,” she said. “Didn’t you buy some tomato plants at the store this week?”

  “Some pepper plants and wire fencing too.”

  “I appreciate your business, but there’s really nothing to talk about.”

  “Ellington Cargill hired me to look into the death of his son,” I said. “He wants to be sure that everything’s on the up and up before he releases the reward money.”

  She hesitated again, then said, “I’ve got chicken and hamburgers on the grill. Walk around back, and I’ll give you a few minutes.”

  The spicy smell of good barbecue hit me before I turned the corner of the house and found the Jenks boys, Jake and Dougie, sprawled in the grass beside an aboveground pool. They were playing with a beagle puppy, a replacement for the pooch Alexander Cargill had killed. Angie was at the grill, turning burgers with a spatula. She plunged her hand into an ice chest, extracted a can of Budweiser, and placed it in my hand.

  “I’ve only got enough chicken for the boys,” she said, “but I can spare a burger or two.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” I cracked open the beer and asked, “How are you holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected, I guess.”

  “Why do you think your husband confessed?”

  “Because he couldn’t live with the guilt,” she said, keeping her voice low so her children couldn’t overhear.

  “You’re sure he did it?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  She turned from her work and stared at me. “And why would that be?”

  “I read his confession. He didn’t seem to know any of the details the police withheld from the press.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  I took a pull of my beer and didn’t speak, hoping she’d feel the need to fill the silence.

  “Marlon is going to be sentenced next week. It’s over, Mr. Mulligan. Can you please leave my family in peace?”

  “Okay, then. I’m sorry for your troubles, Mrs. Jenks.” I finished the beer and dropped the empty into a trash can. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I go?”

  “Sure thing.” She pointed at the rear entrance and said, “It’s the second door on your left.”

  Inside, I turned on the water to muffle my snooping and opened the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste, ibuprofen, Band-Aids, nasal spray, Maalox, sanitary napkins … but nothing out of the ordinary. I gently closed the cabinet, padded down the hall, opened the first door I came to, and peered into a bedroom furnished with unmade bunk beds, the floor a tangle of boys’ clothing and sports equipment. The door across the hall opened onto the master bedroom. I stepped inside and started with the drawer in the bedside table. Nothing but a Bible and a pair of reading glasses. Next, I tried the top drawer of a tall men’s bureau. Tucked beneath the socks, I found five vials. I plucked them out, shook them, and discovered that they were nearly empty. The labels told me they’d been prescribed two months ago. Each was for a different drug I didn’t recognize. I pulled out a pad and jotted down the particulars, including the name of the prescribing doctor. Then I returned the vials to the drawer, tiptoed to the bathroom, flushed, and stepped back into the yard.

  * * *

  Dr. Chase C. Utley plucked reading glasses from his nose, tossed them on his desk, and said, “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can tell you.”

  “The fact that we’re sitting in the Newport Hospital Comprehensive Cancer Center already tells me something,” I said.

  “Perhaps.”

  “You’re an oncologist?”

  “I am.”

  I pulled a notebook from my shirt pocket, tore out a page, and pushed it across the desk. “And you prescribed these drugs for Marlon Jenks?”

  “I can’t confirm that.”

  “I saw your name on the vials, Doctor.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “Is Jenks dying?”

  He frowned and shook his head.

  “Look,” I said. “I think Jenks confessed to a murder he didn’t commit. I’m trying to figure out why he would have done that.”

  Utley steepled his fingers on his desktop and thought for a moment.

  “As I am sure you are aware, confidentiality laws prevent me from disclosing anything about a patient, Mr. Mulligan. However, I am free
to cite publicly available statistics. Sadly, the median survival rate for patients with stage-four lung cancer is eight months.”

  * * *

  When I got home, I let Brady and Rondo outside to run. A few minutes later, I heard them barking. I found them pawing at something under the cluster of white pines on the west side of the property.

  “What is it, boys?”

  And then I saw it, the headless corpse of a big tabby. At first, I thought he must have fallen victim to one of the island’s ravenous coyotes. But when I kneeled in the pine needles for a closer look, I saw that the body was as flat as a deflated balloon. Something had crawled in through the neck and hollowed it out.

  Brady cocked his head, puzzled by the scent of death. Rondo whimpered as if in mourning for a worthy adversary.

  I fetched an old blanket and a pointed shovel, wrapped what was left of the big cat, and buried him beside the pines. Then I went inside, called the animal shelter, and told Tracy what I’d found.

  “What could do that to an animal?” I asked.

  “It definitely wasn’t a coyote,” she said. “They don’t kill like that.”

  “Then what?”

  “A fisher cat.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A predator related to the American martin.”

  “I’m still drawing a blank.”

  “It looks like a big weasel,” she said.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that around here.”

  “They’re out there,” she said, “but they’re stealthy. Very hard to spot.”

  “Could they hurt my dogs?”

  “Small dogs, sure, but not your boys. Fisher cats are too smart to challenge anything that big.”

  After we signed off, I removed a large chunk of slate from the stone wall beside my shed and placed it on the grave, marking the spot. Killing had been Cat the Ripper’s nature, so I’d never held it against him. It was in the nature of fisher cats, too. But what about Alexander Cargill? And Michael “Mickey Scars” McNulty? And Efrain Vargas? Were they killers by nature? For that matter, what about me?

  None of us, I decided, could use that as an excuse.

  51

  I entered Ragsdale’s office unannounced and tossed a couple of Cubans on his desk.

  “What is it this time?” he said.

  “I think you know.”

  “Jesus! I hope you’re not here about Jenks again, I told you to stay the hell away from that.”

  “You did,” I said, “but I suck at following directions.”

  “Goddammit, Mulligan. Leave well enough alone.”

  “Why? Are you so hard up to close the case that you’re willing to let an innocent man go down for murder?”

  “Screw you. Get the hell out of my office, or I’ll arrest you for interfering with a police investigation.”

  “Marlon Jenks is dying,” I said.

  “No shit.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Long enough.”

  “How much time has he got?”

  “A month, maybe. Two at the most.”

  “And that makes this okay with you?”

  “Look,” he said, “maybe Marlon is guilty, and maybe he isn’t. If he didn’t kill Alexander Cargill, we’ll never know who did. There are no witnesses, and there’s not a shred of physical evidence. Except for the confession, I’ve got zilch.”

  “So?”

  “So now Angie’s stuck with trying to keep the hardware store afloat while she raises two boys on her own. They’re smart kids, Mulligan. She’ll be wanting to send them to college in a few years.”

  “Which is where that fat reward comes in,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I figured it was something like that.”

  “So, are we good?”

  I wasn’t feeling all that good about it, but I had to admit he had a point. “We are,” I said.

  Then I stuck out my hand, and he shook it.

  * * *

  I found Ellington Cargill where I’d first met him, sitting by his Lake Erie–size pool with a stemmed glass in hand. A half-full pitcher of martinis stood beside him on that same bamboo table.

  His trophy wife was stretched out on a chaise longue, her nose buried in a Timothy Hallinan mystery novel. Sadly, she wasn’t half-naked this time, her figure sheathed in something sleek and silky on this cool early April evening. Beyond her, the sun was dropping below the ocean. She pushed her sunglasses down her nose, gave me the once-over, saw nothing of interest, and returned to her reading.

  Cargill waved me into a chair across from him, poured me a glass, and slid it across the table. I drew a manila envelope from my jacket and placed it beside the pitcher.

  “I finished the job you hired me for, Mr. Cargill,” I said. “This is the full report on my investigation.”

  “What’s the bottom line?”

  “I’m satisfied that Marlon Jenks’s confession is genuine.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “He was angry that Alexander killed his dog.”

  “I still don’t believe my son was capable of that.”

  “I understand,” I said. “If it helps, you should go right on thinking that.”

  “You think I’m wrong?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  His upper lip quivered, and for a moment I thought he was going to weep. Then he sucked in a breath and pulled himself together.

  “As I’m sure you’ve heard, Jenks’s wife is the one who turned him in,” I said. “I trust you’ll be honoring the reward you offered.”

  “I’ll have the check cut in the morning.”

  I nodded and placed a letter-size envelope on the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “It took only a few days’ work for me to figure things out,” I said. “At the three-grand-a-day rate we agreed on, my fee comes to fifteen thousand dollars, so I’m returning the balance of your advance.”

  He nodded, picked up his martini, and dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

  On the drive home, I stopped at the Jamestown post office and dropped another envelope into the outside mail box. The letter was addressed to the Animal Rescue League of Southern Rhode Island. Inside was a check for fifteen thousand dollars.

  Blood money.

  52

  Two days before we were scheduled to meet with the Patriots, McCracken and I paid Conner Bowditch and his dad a visit at their house on the East Side.

  “You were right, Conner,” I said. “Elliot Crabtree planted the story with ESPN so you’d fall in the draft. That way, the Jets can grab you with the seventh pick.”

  “Then I won’t sign with the bastards,” Conner said.

  “Hold on now, son,” his father said. “Mr. Mulligan, do you think the Jets management was in on this, or did Crabtree do it on his own?”

  “No idea,” I said.

  “Can you find out?”

  “I don’t see how we could,” McCracken said.

  “It doesn’t matter, Dad,” Conner said. “After what Crabtree pulled, there’s no way I’m ever putting on that fucking green uniform.”

  “Still want to play for Belichick?” I asked.

  “Oh, hell, yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you kidding me? He’s the best coach in the league. Maybe the best football coach ever. Before he’s done, he’s going to add to all those Super Bowl rings he’s got, Mr. Mulligan. I want one on my finger too, and playing for him is the best way to make that happen.”

  “The way things stand, the Patriots won’t be picking high enough to draft you,” I said. “But I might be able to fix that.”

  “How?”

  “By pulling the same kind of trick on the Jets that they pulled on the rest of the league. Would you be okay with that?”

  “It would serve them right.”

  “Even if costs you a few million dollars on your rookie contract?”

  “Even then.
Besides, if I have to sign for less up front, you can bet I’ll make up for it in my second deal.”

  “Exactly what have you got in mind, Mr. Mulligan?” Conner’s dad asked.

  * * *

  On Tuesday morning, it took McCracken and me well over an hour to spill everything we’d learned about Conner Bowditch in the past six months. When we were done, Eliason and Ellis Cruze had questions.

  “You’re sure the kid doesn’t have a gambling problem?” Cruz asked.

  “We are,” McCracken said.

  “And that he’s not gay?” Eliason said.

  “That, too,” I said.

  “I’m still bothered by the point-shaving thing,” Cruze said.

  “I get that,” I said. “But like I told you, the kid was coerced. He was just trying to protect the people he loves.”

  “What if it comes out?”

  “It won’t,” McCracken said. “The only people who know about it are Bowditch, Lance Gabriel, and the Vacca brothers. All four of them have good reasons to keep their mouths shut.”

  “Besides,” I said, “if it ever does come out, Bowditch is going to come off as more of a victim than a bad guy.”

  “What about Dunst?” Eliason said. “No way we’re going to sit across the negotiating table from him.”

  “You won’t have to,” McCracken said.

  “You’re going to get Bowditch out of that?” Cruze said.

  “We are.”

  “How?”

  “You don’t want to know,” McCracken said.

  Cruze and Eliason exchanged glances.

  “Well,” Eliason said, “the Jets are going to draft him, so none of this matters anyway.”

  “Maybe they won’t,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if we could fix it so he falls to the Patriots?”

  “How?”

  “You really don’t want to know that,” McCracken said.

  Eliason gave us both a long look. “After Spygate and Deflategate, the Patriots can’t afford another scandal,” he said. “Whatever you’ve got in mind, it can’t blow back on us.”

  “It won’t,” McCracken said.

  “How can you be sure?” Cruze asked.

  “You’ll just have to trust us on that,” I said.

  “Would you be breaking any laws?” Cruze asked. “We couldn’t condone that.”