Rush took it and introduced the two of them.
Hoffman looked down at me. “All lawyered up, now. Eh? When did you call him?”
Pujol spoke up. “He doesn’t have to say anything, now does he?”
“He needs to come down with us,” Hoffman growled.
“‘Down’, meaning Boston? Or ‘down’, meaning Gloucester?”
Hoffman didn’t answer.
“May I see the warrant?”
Hoffman sourly gave it to him.
“Ah,” said Pujol. “Perfectly legal. Are you through?”
Hoffman looked at me, then at Pujol. “Yeah. We’re done.” Hoffman went to the front door and called inside. A moment later the troupe of policemen came outside. Hoffman came over to us. “Sorry about the mess.”
“Did you find anything?” asked Pujol pleasantly.
“We don’t have to tell you that,” said Hoffman in a nasty voice.
The two of them walked off the porch. My contingent of the Boston Police Department got in their cars and drove off.
Pujol sat down. “Son of a bitch,” he said. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his face. “I really didn’t know if that would work.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re not used to this.”
“I only passed the bar a week ago.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
He waggled his hand. “Barely. Legally.”
“You sounded good.”
“Yeah,” he said in a shaky voice. “I majored in drama at Connecticut College before I went to Suffolk. Fortunately for you I only get flop-sweat after a performance. Used to be a basket case at the cast parties. I owed Frieda a favor.”
“Does rum help flop-sweat?”
“It is the finest cure.”
“Come on. I’ve got some I brought back from Puerto Rico.”
oOo
I got the Ron del Barrilito from the cabinet and a glass. I poured a glass for him and topped off my coffee. We sat at the table.
“Who’s Abraham Dooley?” Pujol asked after he’d drank half the glass.
“Did you overhear that?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“You read the warrant quickly.”
He tapped the side of his head. “Eidetic memory. Got me through law school. The drama major didn’t help much.”
“I think Dooley’s someone they’re looking for. They think I know where he is.”
“Do you?”
I didn’t say anything.
Pujol took a long pull of rum. “Okay,” he said presently. “It’s interesting the warrant didn’t mention Dooley at all—it only mentions Oscar Plante and Tim Rabbitt. Even if they found this Dooley character, his arrest might be problematic because the reasons for the arrest did not derive from the search. Of course, they may have other warrants. While the law compels us to tell the truth to policemen, it does not compel them to tell the truth to us.” He drank again. “The sourcing of warrants is, at best, a questionable defense. One of these days the Supreme Judicial Court is going to rule on it. As soon as they can get an Essex County judge they’re going to come up here with the full cooperation of the Gloucester Police Department and a warrant for your arrest. That’s not the time to have a drama major lawyer wannabe to represent you. This is the guy I clerk for.” He turned over the card and wrote on it. “This is my cell. When they come back, you call me. I will call my boss and let him know we’re going to have to represent you. Then, we’ll see what happens. Say nothing until you talk to us.”
“That must be some favor you owe Frieda.”
He drained his glass. “It is.”
I looked at the card: Emilio Pujol. I turned the card over and read the number on the back.
“Is Emilio your father?”
“Uncle. You know Pujol Fish? That’s my dad. I worked there until I went off to college.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. “Your dad knew my dad.”
“Yeah,” Roger said dryly. “He knew Guillermo Sabado. So did I. Talk to you soon.”
It was like there was an entire world hidden from my view only now becoming visible.
oOo
Katelin had woken up in the middle of the night like she did sometimes. She snuggled up to me. Licked my nipple. Moved further down.
“Hey,” I murmured.
“Shh,” she said. “Don’t wake up.”
“Okay.” I was agreeable.
I lay on my back and Katelin straddled me, eased me inside her. Slow. A long tease until she broke loose.
I shuddered and held on to her hips as she moved. It didn’t take long.
At the big moment, when we both seemed to explode, Misty looked down at me with a wicked smile and it wasn’t Katelin at all.
I stared at her.
“No,” I said. I pushed her off of me. I stood up, shaking with anger.
Misty grinned at me from the bed, naked. “Pretty fine, lover. Was it ever that good without me?”
I had abandoned Misty for Katelin. Katelin had then abandoned me. That all welled up. I turned and slapped her.
Katelin fell back against the bed. She lay there, shocked, sat up and shook her head. Stared at me.
I raised my hand in a fist. I wanted to hurt her. Hurt her badly, Katelin and Misty both. But I stared at her big eyes and her tiny face. I was suddenly struck by how small Katelin was. How small she had always been.
I felt sick. Slowly, I lowered my fist, unclenched it. I stared at my hand, then looked back at her.
“Get out of my house,” I said.
She didn’t move.
I leaned down until my face was an inch from hers. “Go!”
Katelin/Misty grabbed her clothes and ran out of the room. I heard her down the stairs. A moment of silence. Then, I heard the front door slam.
I felt dirty. Ashamed both of the sex and striking Katelin. I badly wanted a shower.
oOo
Dawn had broken some time ago. There was no possibility of resuming sleep. I sat at the kitchen, poured a cup of cold coffee into a cup and put it in the nuke. When it was ready, I touched it up with a little Barrilito and sat at the table. I hadn’t known how angry I was. Hadn’t known what I was capable of. Again, I wished that I smoked or had some other equally self-destructive habit. Instead, I stared at the bottle of Barrilito and wondered if I should just finish it off and go to the rehearsal drunk. That would put a nice little coda to my career.
I heard pounding on the door. Pujol’s card was still on the table. I turned the card over and called the number on the back.
“Roger Pujol.”
“Somebody’s knocking on the door.”
“It’s me. Let me in.”
Pujol slipped in past me. I looked on the porch. Uncle Emilio was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s your boss?” I asked.
“Not coming,” Pujol said shortly. “He says I can do all the leg work until it’s a court case.”
“He must have a lot of faith in you.”
“Yeah,” he said shortly. “Much faith. Boat loads.” He looked at me. “What did your dad do to Emilio to piss him off?”
“What?”
Pujol paced in the hallway. “I go to Uncle Emilio this morning for help and he says, and I quote, ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell when I help Guillermo Sabado’s son.’ Unquote.” Pujol shook his head. “I called Dad and he was as surprised as I was.”
“So you can’t help me?”
“We’ll see. I can’t practice in front of a court of law but I can advise you. Got any coffee?”
oOo
That morning, we expected two of Boston’s finest to show up along with a platoon of Gloucester’s best. We expected to be handcuffed, carefully folded into the back of a BPD cruiser and escorted by the GPD all the way to route 128 where the Gloucester entourage would drop away as we roared south towards the city.
Instead, Albert Hoffman stood on the porch alone looking like he hadn’t slept in a week.
Pujol
opened the door.
“I need to speak with Sabado.”
Pujol shook his head. “Do you have a warrant for his arrest? Otherwise, you cannot see him.”
Hoffman didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I’m here on my own. I know Sabado helped Dooley and I’m glad he did. Now, I need to help Dooley, too.”
“You’re not here in your official capacity?”
“No.”
Pujol arched an eyebrow. “You do realize that means nothing? You cannot be other than an officer of the court.”
Hoffman rubbed his hand over his face. He looked gray. “I swear to you, anything you say to me now I won’t tell a soul.”
Pujol’s face was like flint.
“Come on!” Hoffman pleaded. “Tom Dooley is like my family, for Christ’s sake!”
I came up behind Pujol. “Just a moment.”
Pujol turned a disapproving eye on me. “I don’t advise this, Mr. Sabado.”
“I know.” I turned back to Hoffman. “You know Tom Dooley?”
“I grew up on Winter Hill. Who do you think babysat little Abe when Tom went to ground?”
“Officer Dooley never said anything about you.”
Hoffman shrugged. “That’s the way he is. Keeps to himself. Come on. He’s going to Walpole for the rest of his life if he doesn’t get help.”
I watched him for a moment. It could be Hoffman was a good actor—I remembered his performance interrogating me. “Do you have a warrant for my arrest?”
“There’s not going to be any fucking warrant. The only thing you could help with is finding him. The warrant’s a threat to make you talk. Arresting you would only prevent you from leading us to him. Instead, we’ll just stake you out and watch. We arrest you after we find him.” Hoffman looked around the porch. “Let me in. They’re not here yet but they’re going to be.”
“Okay.”
“Mr. Sabado—” began Pujol.
“I know. I know.” I waved him away. “I’m probably going to regret this.”
I brought Hoffman into the kitchen and sat him down. I sat across from him. “Talk.”
“Christ,” said Hoffman. “They got everything they need. The first couple of murders didn’t have anything—no DNA. No fingerprints. No fibers. Very clean. But the Rabbitt scene is lousy with clues. And Dooley’s fiber, hair and fingerprints are all over everything at the Gifford scene. Even Rabbitt’s keys with Rabbitt’s blood and Dooley’s fingerprints on them—tying him neatly to the Rabbitt murder along with Gifford’s murder. In addition, we have a witness—”
“Katelin Loquess.”
Hoffman stopped a moment and looked at me. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Have you been talking to Loquess?”
“No.”
“Dooley then?”
I didn’t say anything. “What do you want from me?”
“Everything says Dooley is the mastermind for it and the actual killer in two of the murders. They are going to put him away.” Hoffman took a deep breath. “You spent time with him—don’t try to deny it. I know. Did he kill them?”
“No.” I thought a moment. “Not exactly. He’s not responsible for their deaths.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t,” I said. “Not yet. I don’t know enough.”
“Okay.” Hoffman didn’t say anything for a minute. “Can you prove he didn’t do it?”
“Maybe. Probably not.” I shook my head. “Hell, I’m a pianist. I’m not sure I know what ‘proof’ means in something like this.”
Hoffman nodded. It seemed like the wind came out of him and he shrank like some ancient, flesh-colored balloon. “Shit.”
I had an idea. “There might be a way you can help me.”
Pujol had been watching us with baleful eyes all this time. “Mr. Sabado?”
I looked up. “Yes.”
“A word.” Pujol dragged me into the living room. “Are you out of your mind? He’s an officer of the court! He can’t not be. Everything you say to him is evidence. Everything you show him is evidence. Right here, in this room, he is a walking, talking videocam that can be used in a court of law.”
“I know.” I sighed. “I think I need him.”
“For God’s sake, what for?”
“If I know anything about attorney/client privilege, it’s something you’d be happier not knowing.”
“Shit.” Pujol ran his hand through his hair. “You know where Dooley is, don’t you?”
“Not exactly.”
“You know that he killed two people?”
“He didn’t. Not exactly.”
“You’re a great fucking comfort. Do you know that?”
I smiled wanly. “Yeah.”
“Fuck it. In for a penny; in for a pound.” He followed me back to the kitchen.
“Okay, Hoffman,” I said as I sat down.
“Wait,” said Pujol. He looked at Hoffman. “Give me your gun.”
Hoffman jerked back as if stung. “Why would you want that?”
“It’s insurance. It’s our word against yours if anything goes south. But if I have your gun, I can say you gave it to me as proof as good faith.”
“I’ll just report it stolen.”
“Right,” Pujol said sarcastically. “That’ll look good on your record. You’ll do what any other cop would do. You’ll pick up a gun from a friend or on the street or borrow one from the firing range. We’ll keep the gun and when this is all through you get your gun back, free and clear.”
Hoffman hesitated.
“Come on,” said Pujol. “How much of a friend to Dooley are you, anyway?”
“No cop would ever do that.”
“Sounds like Dooley is pretty close to family. Which is it? Loyalty to the blue or loyalty to family?”
“If I didn’t owe Tom Dooley pretty much everything...” Hoffman swore, pulled out his weapon, unloaded it and gave the gun to Pujol.
Pujol took it, cracked it open and checked the mechanism in some mysterious way that seemed to look like he knew what he was doing—Hoffman seemed to relax, anyway. “What do you owe Tom Dooley?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Fair enough.” Pujol looked at me. “Okay, David. Your move.”
“I have a concert on Sunday at Symphony Hall. Rehearsal is tomorrow. I need to see someone after the rehearsal privately. So I need to get away with him without being followed.”
Hoffman chewed his lip. “Who is it?”
“Eli Boor.”
“The shrink?”
I nodded, wincing.
Hoffman thought for a moment. “He’s in Dooley’s report. He and Loquess looked him up as part of the Wallace investigation. What’s he got to do with this?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“This will clear Dooley?”
I shrugged. “It might. Boor knows more about this sort of thing than any man alive.”
“What ‘sort of thing’?”
“I can’t tell you that, either.”
“Oh, yeah. This is easy. This is like shooting fish in a barrel,” Hoffman said bitterly. “At midnight, blindfolded and without a gun. I can’t do this.”
“I just need to talk to him. An hour. No more, I’m sure.”
“No,” said Hoffman. “Give me something.”
Dooley is innocent because he was possessed by a malevolent spirit that used to be part of my multiple personality disorder. I thought about telling him. I really did.
“Dooley killed Gifford,” I said. “But he wasn’t in his right mind. I know it. Eli can prove it.”
“Ah, Christ. Oh, Christ.” Hoffman covered his face with his hands. “This’ll kill Tom.”
“Dooley won’t come in until he’s talked with Eli.”
Hoffman lowered his hands. “Dooley wants to talk with Boor?”
I nodded. “He’ll turn himself in if you let him.”
“That’s a promise?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know? You only met hi
m yesterday!”
I stared at Hoffman. “We share a common affliction. That’s all I can say.”
“Okay.” Hoffman looked at Pujol. “You know that if this goes south, both of us go down.”
“Yeah,” said Pujol, sighing. “Yeah. I know that.”
Hoffman was silent for a moment. “You can’t dodge a debt. I’m in.”
“Yay,” I said, channeling Dooley. “The next step in an incredibly complex plan doomed to failure.”
oOo
A car rolled up at the end of the block while we were talking. Hoffman looked out the window.
“Yeah. That’s the stakeout. Mixed group, too: a guy from BPD and a guy from Gloucester. Rush isn’t leaving anything to chance.”
“What did you tell Rush?”
Hoffman looked as if he were eating something sour. “I told him I got drunk with Tom last night. About Abe. Today I was hung over.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked if I’d talked to my sponsor.” Hoffman snorted. “Lies on lies—I haven’t had a drop since my third wife left.”
“You can tell him the truth after this is all over.”
“Yeah. We’ll see how that goes down.” Hoffman took a deep breath and turned away from the window. “When you finish the rehearsal I’ll be in the back. Look at me and I’ll give you a high sign left or right as to which side you should exit.”
“How will Eli know where to go?”
“I’ll send him. You can exit out the back from the side I indicate. I can give you a corridor to that exit and just outside. After that you’re on your own.”
I shook his hand. “Thanks.”
“Screw that,” he said sourly. “If you can get Dooley to come in without me having to shoot him, we’ll call it square.”
Hoffman had parked a few blocks away. He’d already planned to escape out the back door and through the back neighbor’s yard.
“They have a dog,” I said.
“I have a gun.”
Pujol spoke up. “No, you don’t.”
Hoffman looked venomously at Pujol. “Shows what you know. I’ll manage.” With that, he left.
Pujol and I looked at one another.
“With no arrest,” he said, “what do you need me here for?”
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