Another five minutes passed before Wargat and Freitas came back down the stairs, she holding the hands of two hollow-eyed little boys and he with a little girl in his arms. The detectives loaded them into the back of an ambulance that had just rolled up. Freitas pulled a notebook out of her back pocket and climbed in with them.
Wargat watched the ambulance roll down Pumgansett Street toward Douglas Avenue. Then he turned and headed straight for me.
“Step out of the car, please.”
So I did.
“Place your hands against the side of the car and spread your legs.”
By noon, the lot in front of 442 Pumgansett was filling. Camera crews spilled out of three TV vans and set up on the sidewalk across the street. Gloria sat Buddha-style on top of her little blue Ford Focus and studied the scene through a long lens. Tedesco climbed out of his meat wagon and lugged his big steel case inside. Parisi and two of his detectives arrived in an unmarked car, spoke briefly with the uniformed Providence cops guarding the door, and then followed Tedesco in. From the back of a locked patrol car, I had a good seat for the show.
Twenty minutes later, Parisi and Wargat emerged together and headed my way. Parisi looked into the backseat of the patrol car and then turned back to Wargat.
“Why is Mulligan hooked up?”
“I don’t want him going anywhere,” Wargat said, “till we get this sorted out.”
“Uncuff him.”
“Sorry, Captain. He’s in Providence police custody.”
“He’s in my custody now,” Parisi said. “This is my crime scene and my investigation, Wargat. Get used to it.”
* * *
The interrogation room at state police headquarters in Scituate smelled like fear, sweat, and nicotine. Parisi sat across from me at a heavy oak table scarred with cigarette burns and coffee cup rings. We were drinking coffee and going over my story for the third time.
“Could you recognize the tipster’s voice if you heard it again?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Any idea why he called you?”
“The answer’s still no.”
“Think he’s involved in this?”
“My gut says he is. A citizen would have called the police.”
We reached for our paper coffee cups, then put them down when we found they were both empty. Parisi pulled my cell phone out of his shirt pocket, placed it on the table, and said, “Put it on speaker and try calling him.”
The tipster’s number was listed first under received calls. I hit send. After eight rings, a recorded voice: “I’m sorry, but the person you have called has a voice mail mailbox that has not been set up yet. Good-bye.”
Parisi slammed his palm on the table. The empty coffee cups jumped. A zebra plant on the windowsill seemed to wither. I withered a little myself.
“If he was smart,” I said, “he used an untraceable prepaid and then threw it in a Dumpster.”
“Most criminals aren’t smart.”
“Some are.”
“Yeah,” he said. “They’re the ones who keep me in business.”
“So,” I said, “are we done?”
“Not yet.”
He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put them back on again.
“In fifteen years as a detective, I never had a homicide case with a pornographer as the intended victim. Now I’ve got two of them.”
“Think this case and the hit on Maniella’s double are related?” I asked.
“There’s no evidence tying them together, but I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Why do cops always say that? Coincidences happen every day.”
We sat quietly and thought about that for a minute.
“So,” I said, “are we done now?”
“Not just yet. Sit tight.”
He snatched the phone from my hand to stop me from calling the Dispatch with what I knew, sprang to his feet, and went through the door.
Time crawled. My ulcer growled. Someone had left a newspaper on the floor. I picked it up, opened it to the sports section to pass the time, and found a feature on the Boston Bruins’ new forward, a Slovak named Miro Satan. The third paragraph read:
Satan looks fit and is skating fluidly.
After today, I couldn’t argue with that.
It was nearly an hour before Parisi returned and placed my phone, car keys, and camera on the table. He took the Nikon out of its case, switched it on, examined all the photos on the LED screen, said, “Humph,” and put it back in the case.
“Mulligan,” he said, “I’m going to ask you not to write about what you saw inside that apartment.”
“But you know I have to.”
He sighed. “Would it kill you to omit a few details—some things only the perps could know?”
“Perps? You think there was more than one?”
“Slip of the tongue,” he said. “Don’t read anything into it.”
“Okay.”
“So can you leave some things out for me?”
“Such as?”
“The snuff film.”
“Sorry, but I have to mention that.”
“Ah, shit. Well, how about this? Can you leave out the smashed laptops? And the note that was left for you? And the fact that there were no shell casings at the scene?”
“Meaning the killer used a revolver or picked up his brass,” I said.
“Yeah.”
I’d been too much in shock to notice that. “Sure,” I said, “I can leave those things out.”
“Screw me on this, and you and I are done.”
“Understood,” I said. “Can you release the names of the shooting victims?”
A five-second pause. “Local lowlifes. Can’t release the names till we notify their lowlife next of kin. And no way we’re gonna release the names of the kids we pulled out of there alive.”
“We wouldn’t print them if you did,” I said. “What about the little girl in the snuff film?”
“Not a clue.”
“Think maybe she got fed to Scalici’s pigs?”
“I won’t speculate.”
“So, can I go now?”
“Not yet. Wargat and Freitas want a crack at you. When they finish playing detective, I’ll have a trooper drive you back to your car.”
* * *
By the time I got back to the newsroom that evening, it was too late to update the sketchy murder story Mason had written for the next day’s paper.
“The cops are keeping a lid on this one,” Lomax said. “All they’re saying is they’ve got three bodies, and foul play is suspected.”
“I’ve got a few details I can add,” I said.
“Give it to Mason so he can update our Web site.”
“You don’t want me to write it?”
“No way,” Lomax said. “You found the bodies, so you’re part of the story now. Mason’s gonna interview you—treat you as a source.”
“Okay,” I said. “Soon as I get something in my stomach.”
The something was Maalox chugged straight from the bottle. Earlier, I’d retrieved my Nikon’s memory card from its hiding place. Now I carried my laptop to a vacant office off the newsroom for privacy, slipped the card in a card reader, plugged it into the computer, and downloaded the photographs. I spent ten minutes studying them, jotting down a few notes for my chat with Mason. When I was done, I sprinted for the bathroom. The dry heaves reminded me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
* * *
When I finally got home it was after ten. I picked up a Michael Connelly novel, hoping it would take my mind off the snuff film. It didn’t work, but I kept reading anyway. Harry Bosch was about to lose his temper with his by-the-book boss when “Bitch” started playing on my cell phone. Not even Dorcas could make this day any worse, so I picked up the phone and said, “Hello.”
“You sent them, didn’t you, you sonuvabitch!”
“Sent who?”
“You know who!”
“I’m afra
id I don’t.”
“I thought they were gonna kill me.”
“What? Okay, why don’t you calm down and tell me what happened?”
“Like you don’t fuckin’ know!”
“I really don’t.”
She drew a deep breath. “There were two of them,” she said. “They knocked on the door, and when I opened it they pushed me aside and forced their way in.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, but I’m still shaking.”
“What did they look like?”
“Big. Really, really big.”
“John Goodman big or WWF SmackDown! big?”
“You trying to tell me you don’t know anything about this?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“You’re a fucking liar,” she said. And then she hung up.
What the hell was that about?
I went to my bedroom window, opened it, sucked in a lungful of frigid air, and slowly let it out. I’m not sure how long I stood there before I heard a police siren cut the dark. It sounded close, but all I could see were the black windows of the tenement next door. I closed the window, flopped on my bed, and read for an hour. Then I put down the book and fiddled with the cell phone, trying to decide on a ringtone for Yolanda. I finally settled on a spare acoustic version of “Dance with Me” by Tuck & Patti. Of course, I had no reason to think Yolanda would call.
First thing next morning, she did.
36
“Mulligan? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Yolanda.”
“You don’t sound fine. Where are you?”
I was slumped on a stool at my favorite diner, reading Mason’s update about the murders on the paper’s Web site and struggling to keep Charlie’s scrambled eggs down.
“Sit tight,” she said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I finished Mason’s story and then checked the other headlines. The bishop was enraged at an enterprising young man who had leased an abandoned Fotomat drive-through across the street from St. Mark’s in Cranston, laid in a new line of merchandise, and renamed it the Condom Shed. According to a survey of top fashion designers, cleavage was back in style again. And a national newsmagazine was reporting that New Jersey was the most corrupt state in the Union but that Little Rhody led the nation in scandals per capita. Finally we were number one at something besides doughnut shops. I was checking the betting line for the Patriots-Panthers game when Yolanda strolled in on those long, long legs.
She was wearing a frown and a gray business suit with the top two buttons of her blouse undone. When she bent to kiss my cheek, Charlie sneaked a peek. She plopped her alligator tote on the counter, took the stool next to mine, and asked for black coffee.
“I read the story on the Web this morning,” she said.
“The one about how cleavage is in this season?”
“Good news for the fry cook,” she said, “but it’s not the one I meant.”
Mason had done a fine job with the murder update, laying out the facts and going easy on the gore. Still, it was grim reading.
“It must have been horrible for you,” she said.
“A police reporter sees lots of blood, Yolanda. You get used to it.”
“Bullshit. This wasn’t a car crash or a Mob hit. A murdered child is not something you get used to. It’s haunting you. I can hear it in your voice.”
My phone was on the counter beside my cold, half-empty mug of coffee. It began to play “Dirty Laundry.” I reached for it and grabbed a fistful of air.
“Mr. Mulligan’s office,” Yolanda said. “How may I be of assistance?… I’m a friend of his.… Yes, I’m with him now.… He says he’s fine, but he’s not.… Actually, I think a couple of days would be better.… Okay, I’ll let him know,” she said, and flipped the cell closed.
“What did Lomax want?” I asked.
“He said to take today off. I tried to get you a couple of days, but he insisted he can’t spare you that long.”
“Of course he can’t. I’m indispensable.”
“Is ‘Dirty Laundry’ your ringtone for everything, or just for your editor?”
“Just him.”
“Perfect choice,” she said. “Do you have a special one for me, too?”
“Maybe I do.”
She dug her BlackBerry out of her purse and punched in my number.
“That sounds like ‘Dance with Me’ by Tuck and Patti,” she said.
“It is.”
“She’s black and he’s white,” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Aren’t they married?”
“To one another, yeah.”
She let out a long sigh. “I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah, you don’t date white guys. But you do dance, don’t you?”
She averted her eyes and sipped her joe.
Charlie turned from the grill, swept my cold coffee off the counter, dumped it, and gave me a refill. When I picked up the cup, my hand was shaking. As I raised the coffee to my lips, a few drops slopped over the rim and fell on the front of my Bruins sweatshirt.
“Still got that klutzy charm,” I said.
I thought that would get a smile out of her, but it didn’t. She plucked napkins from the dispenser and patted me dry. Then she called her office, told her secretary to cancel her afternoon appointments, and spun on her stool to face me.
“I’ve got a couple of things this morning that I can’t get out of,” she said, “but when I’m done, I’m buying you lunch.”
Charlie watched me watch her as she exited the diner and strode down the sidewalk toward the Textron Tower, where she had an office on the fourteenth floor. I kept looking until she was out of sight.
“Classy dame,” he said.
“I agree.”
“And she’s black.”
“Very.”
“The little doll you used to come in here with last year was Asian,” he said.
“She was.”
“Got something against white girls?”
“I like ’em all, Charlie. White, black, yellow, and brown are my favorite colors.”
“I like ’em all, too,” he said, “but you seem to have a taste for the exotic.” He put his hands on the counter and leaned toward me, wanting a serious answer.
“It’s not about skin color, Charlie. Most guys want a woman who votes like they do, cheers for the same team, likes the same kind of movies, drinks the same brand of beer. I prefer women who aren’t like me. They’re more interesting both in and out of bed.”
Charlie furrowed his brow and thought it over. Then he nodded to show he understood and turned back to the grill.
I wandered over to the Biltmore, bought The New York Times and Sports Illustrated at the newsstand off the lobby, carried them back to the diner, and read them over cups of Charlie’s decaf. I was admiring the magazine’s photo spread on the ten greatest fights of all time when Yolanda called and said to meet her at the Capital Grille.
* * *
The place was packed with bankers, lawyers, politicians, and ladies who lunch, so we had to wait at the bar for ten minutes before the maître d’ showed us to a table. At first Yolanda stuck to small talk, chatting about music, movies, and the weather while wolfing down the cedar-planked salmon with fennel relish. I played along as I nursed a Coke and managed a few bites of the lobster-and-crab burger. After Claus, the pint-size waiter, smirked at my Bruins sweatshirt and served us Irish coffees, the conversation turned serious.
“Did you always want to be a reporter?”
“I always wanted to play for the Celtics. Journalism was my backup plan.”
“Why that?”
“It’s the only thing I’m any good at.”
“Oh, come on! You’re a smart guy. You could have done anything.”
“Not true. I can’t sing worth a damn, I suck at math, I have a short attention span, and I hate wearing a tie. My options were limited.”
“It takes a lot of courage to do
what you do.”
“Courage? My friend Brad Clift has courage. He was water-boarded by the Sudanese for photographing the genocide in Darfur for the Hartford Courant. Daniel Pearl had courage. He investigated al-Qaeda for The Wall Street Journal, and terrorists in Afghanistan cut off his head. I’ve never dared to chase stories like that. I’m a coward, Yolanda. I stayed right here in Little Rhody, where the worst thing likely to happen to me is a paper cut.”
Yolanda grabbed my hand and looked into my eyes.
“Baby,” she said, “you don’t have to travel to Darfur or Afghanistan to fight evil. There’s plenty of it right here.”
That was a thought worth pondering, but all I could focus on was that she’d called me “baby.”
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
She turned her jacket collar up against the chill and took my hand as we strolled along the river. For a while, we didn’t speak. It was a comfortable silence. I stroked her palm with my thumb, craving the contact.
“I have to ask you something,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Do you think your clients are involved in this?”
“The murders?”
“Yeah.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be able to say.”
“What about the snuff film?”
“If I thought they were capable of that, they wouldn’t be my clients.”
We walked on in silence. I tried to turn off the bloody slide show that was flashing through my brain. Overhead, a jetliner minutes from takeoff at T. F. Green Airport climbed through an impossibly blue sky. I wanted to toss the bloody images into its cargo hold and send them into the stratosphere. Sensing my agitation, Yolanda squeezed my hand tighter.
By a pedestrian bridge that arched over the river, she bought a hot pretzel from a street vendor, tore it into pieces, and tossed the scraps to a pair of mallards that had grown too fat on handouts to fly south for the winter.
“You look like you could use a drink,” she said, so we rode the elevator to the top of the Renaissance Hotel and settled into a booth with a view of the statehouse dome. She ordered an apple martini. I ordered a Bushmills straight up. The first sip felt good on the way down and then tore into my stomach lining like a dagger.
Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel Page 16