He walked off, and I let him. Damn it, that could have gone better. The man had just buried his sister, and I'd practically accused him of killing her. Not my finest hour.
Someone cleared his throat behind me. I turned to see Wesley Cummings holding the cat carrier and looking uncomfortable.
"That was…nice. What you said about Lois."
I offered him a smile. It wasn't my best, not after the run-in with the congressman, but his assistant was trying to be decent. "She was a complicated woman. But no one I talked to had a bad thing to say about her. Not even her ex-husband. Just based on that, it's hard to imagine why anyone would kill her."
He shifted from foot to foot, probably looking for a dignified way to ask me to leave Alan Whitmore the hell alone.
I nodded at the cage. "What's going to happen to him? Hercules, I mean."
"The congressman will keep him, pamper him to honor her."
I nodded, though I still had reservations. "He won't eat Finicky Feline, but he's fond of leftovers, especially Italian."
From inside the carrier, the fat cat hissed.
I crouched down so I could see him, but not close enough that he could swat me. "Yeah, in spite of everything, I'll miss you too."
He growled low in his throat. Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt like he was trying to tell me something. Probably to kiss off.
"You there." Wesley shifted the carrier to his other hand and waved to someone over my shoulder. The gesture highlighted a deep scar on his hand, identical to the one on mine.
"Looks like he tagged you too." I nodded to the mark.
"A while back." He turned to the side, as though closing down any follow-up question I might have.
Wesley handed the carrier over to an outstretched hand. "Here, take him back to the house. I need to ride with the congressman. He's going directly to the DA's office from here. Meet us there after you drop him off."
I took the opportunity to slip a bug into his pocket as well. It might be wasteful since I'd just tagged Alan, but his vague reply combined with the abrupt dismissal made me want to keep tabs on him too.
Then I recognized the hand holding the cat carrier, and the man attached to it.
"Yes, sir," Hunter Black said as he took the hissing carrier.
Wesley turned and hurried away, back in the role of professional gopher.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I hissed to Hunter.
"Walk with me, Red." He didn't look at me as he strode down the hill at an easy gait so I could keep pace.
"This is your undercover gig, playing security for Alan Whitmore?"
"I'm gathering information on him and his staff." He didn't look at me. "Do you think he killed her?"
"It's possible. He had the motive. His sister was acting as a financial dominatrix, had a website called Lady L. That's the sort of scandal that, if it went mainstream, it could ruin a career politician. And according to Mr. Awkward McGreasy there"—I nodded at Wesley Cummings' retreating back—"he has no alibi for the time of death. While he said his driver and security team can vouch for him, I think he still could have gotten around them if he wanted to badly enough."
"What does your gut tell you?"
"That he didn't do it. He loved her, Hunter. I think he would have rather rolled the dice on the scandal than hurt her. But you've been around him more than I have. What do you think?"
We were almost at the cars. A few more feet and he would break off to the left and the long line of black SUVs that were part of the congressman's entourage, while I headed right, back to where Helga waited.
"Did you hear about Daniel O'Flannigan?" I asked.
He nodded. "That wasn't Alan Whitmore."
"No." But I was pretty sure I know who it was.
Hunter looked my way in a brief but intense manner. "Be very careful, Red. This is well above your pay grade."
"Yeah, I'm more about checking up on Crystal's druggie dad in a sketchy neighborhood than hobnobbing with the powerful movers and shakers." My tone was tart.
He just stared at me.
"That's why she's hiding at your place. She flushed his stash, and he went after her. I swung by to make sure he wasn't lying there in a coma. According to a neighbor, he's been missing for days."
"Thanks for that." His eyes held a world of emotion.
"Better me than you. The sooner I help her, the sooner she vacates. I don't like her in your space." I moved as close as I dared. Though I wanted to touch him, to reach out and connect, I didn't. This was neither the time, nor the place. I nodded to the cat carrier. "Watch out for him, for me."
Hunter looked down at the cat, who oddly had quit his yowling once the large man had ahold of him. "Anything for you, Red."
I watched as he walked away, oblivious to the bug I'd slipped into his coat pocket.
Maybe I was paranoid, but I didn't like not knowing where he was, what with people getting killed and all. Having a bead on him gave me a little bit more control.
Plus, if he caught me, I could lord it over him, that little old amateur Mackenzie had bugged him.
As long as both men kept their coats on—which, considering the dreary forecast, the chances were good—I could track them from a distance.
I texted Mac. Four bugs down, one to go.
She replied instantly. My mom's the coolest.
No arguing with that.
* * *
Traffic on the highways stood still. At this rate it would take me hours to get to Brett's to pick up Mac. I inched along the next exit just as the rain started coming down. Lights were out. People were darting to and fro regardless of the crosswalk signs. It was on the third turn through the wet and crowded streets of Boston that I noticed the tail. It was, of all things, a minivan. Probably why it'd taken me so long to spot. You don't tend to think of a mom-jean-wearing minivan driver as someone who will shadow you.
Then again, the vehicle might have been stolen.
I knew what I should do, what all the safety manuals and even Uncle Al's unpublished manuscript advised. When someone's tailing you, pull in to a police station. If you can, get the license plate and a look at the driver and report them.
Problem was, the crowds on the street weren't helping me go anywhere fast. Pub and bar patrons wearing sparkling green top hats, oversized glasses, and green from head to toe were getting their Irish on, staggering from event to event, heedless of cars, drivers, or anything else. I'd done okay on the highway, but the city itself was a hot mess of drunken revelry.
I made a left down a one-way street and had to slam on my brakes as a couple of college-age kids posed for a group selfie. Headlights picked up in my rearview mirror.
I laid on the horn. They gave me the finger. Tires squealed behind me as the van barreled toward me. Screams emitted from the college kids as they scattered like roaches when the lights came on. The crazy bastard was going to ram me. Desperately, I threw Helga into reverse and cut the wheel sharply, backing the Hellcat up into a bakery delivery entrance. The minivan sailed by, the driver looking shocked.
Elijah Hawthorn, the unhinged bastard.
I turned the opposite way up the one way and made my way back out toward the highway. My phone went off, "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." Mac's song. With trembling fingers, I activated the hands-free device.
"I found out who owns the black car," Mac announced, her voice coated in triumph.
"Elijah Hawthorn."
"How did you know?"
"Because the little bastard just tried to mow me down in North Boston."
"Mom, call the police. They're already looking for him. They found his car abandoned a few miles outside the city."
"I will. Just as soon as I stop shaking."
"Should I send Dad?" Mac offered, as though Brett could somehow help me hide from a lunatic.
"No, babe, I'll be fine. Try not to worry."
"I'm telling him."
"Mac, don't," I protested.
There was a scuffling soun
d, and then Brett came on the line. "Mackenzie? Mac said someone just tried to run you over."
"Elijah Hawthorn, Daniel's bandmate, the one who'd been in love with Lois. I spoke at her funeral, and I think it sent him over the edge." Either that or like a rabid dog, he had a taste for blood after killing Daniel via vehicular homicide. I'd had my suspicions after what Cliff had told me, but between him trying to kill me and Mac's confirmation that he did indeed own a small black car, I knew it was so."
"Where are you?"
"Off North Church, near the Faneuil Hall Marketplace."
"Okay, good. Park somewhere out of sight and blend in with the crowd. Mac and I will be there as soon as possible to pick you up."
"Spoken like someone who hasn't seen the parking situation around here." I inched forward, afraid to turn down any side streets. I felt safer in the car. I had no idea how far gone Elijah was, but I remembered the way Daniel's body flew up over the hood of the car and crumpled in the street, and I shivered. Would he gun for me exclusively, or would he take out dozens of innocents who got in his way?
Brett was right, though. Helga was a hot car, a sheer pleasure to drive and highly visible. Elijah might not be tracking me via bug, but since I was moving at less than a mile per hour, it wouldn't take him long to pick me out of the crowd as long as I was behind the wheel.
"Park at the Harbor Garage," I heard Mac call out.
"Are you crazy? I'll have to carve out a major organ to spring the car." The Harbor Garage was the lone parking structure for this end of the Boston Harbor. Normally, the costs were astronomical, but on St. Patrick's Day weekend?
"Better than having all of your organs smeared across Atlantic Avenue like pâté," Brett pointed out.
I grimaced and cut the wheel toward the New England Aquarium. "Fine, but you're paying the fee."
"I'm giving you over to Mac," Brett said. "We'll be there soon."
"No!" I called out. "Don't you dare bring Mac here. I can take the Blue Line home. It's only four stops from the aquarium T station. You two can meet me there."
"You better stay in constant contact." Mac had taken the phone back. "I mean it, Mom. Call or text me every five minutes so I know you're safe."
"Call the police." She'd feel better if she had something to do. "I didn't get the plate, but Elijah is driving a beige minivan, last seen a few blocks south of my current location. They probably have officers all over the area for crowd control. Maybe we'll get lucky and they can pick him up."
"Dad's calling. I want you to stay on the line."
I turned into the line of cars waiting to get into the garage. It wasn't too long, being early afternoon still, but long enough that I was worried there wouldn't be any parking spaces left. I craned my neck but didn't see any minivans. A couple of sedans, hatchbacks, and a truck all with out-of-state plates. The car at the gate seemed to be having trouble with the automatic parking pass machine.
An SUV got in line behind me, followed by another sedan. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I realized how trapped and visible I was in this position.
"Come on, come on. Judas Priest, what is taking so frigging long?" Now that I'd settled on a plan, I wanted off the streets, ASAP. Only a tourist would pay the obscene prices on St. Patrick's Day weekend.
A tourist or a desperate PI.
Finally, a garage attendant appeared to unclog the automotive backlog. Up went the gate. The next car in line crept forward.
"Are you parked?" Mac's tone was anxious.
"About to be. Mac, you know I'm a garbage multitasker. Let me call you back."
"Every five minutes or else." Mac said and hung up.
The couple in the sedan in front of me appeared to be having car trouble. The man got out of the driver's side and lifted the hood, the woman shrieking at him in a voice so high-pitched it sounded like a train whistle on the fritz.
"Java have mercy." I did another scan of the area. Was that a tan minivan that just rolled by?
The guy behind me honked. I gripped the wheel, feeling the blood pounding in my temples.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing. Gotta go." Tired of being a sitting duck, I hung up and opened the car door then made my way to the arguing couple. "Anything I can do to help?"
The man gave me a doubtful look. "Thanks, I got this."
His wife with her mousy brown bob and painful voice asked, "Do you know anything about cars?"
"A bit." I stuck my head under the hood as the vehicle two behind me reversed and roared off, probably looking for easier parking. "Can you try to turn the engine over?"
"Huh?" the dumbass who was still playing his man card and pretending he knew diddly freaking squat about cars asked.
"Turn the key, see if it catches."
Thankfully he did as instructed. The smell of gas hit me full in the face.
"It's flooded."
"I knew that." The mechanic of the year nodded like a bobblehead. "I was just trying to decide what to do about it."
Their plates were from Jersey, and his skin was way too dark for a Caucasian male at the end of winter. Most likely somewhere near the shore where mystic tans were all the rage. "Only thing you can do is wait."
"Right. Uh, how long?"
"Twenty minutes at least before we try again." Only I didn't have twenty minutes to screw around with the Jersey Shore dumbass. In twenty minutes I intended to be seated on the Blue Line a few miles out from home.
I looked to where the garage attendant, a senior citizen with a wizened face and a yellow reflective vest, sat in the booth, presumably to take tickets on the other side. "Open the gate so we can push them in."
He cast me a sour expression. "First level is full up."
As he said that, two cars exited the row on the other side.
"Is not," I said. "I can see a space from here." Granted it was probably handicapped, but any port in a storm, right?
"Is too." The stubborn old codger folded his arms over his chest.
I spotted the minivan with crazy Elijah Hawthorn sailing down a side street like Cruella de Vil looking for dalmatians to skin. I tried appealing to his humanity. "Look, pal. These folks have come a long way to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, and now they're having car trouble in a strange city, and how scary is that?"
"I was born here," squeaky bob lady said.
"Not helping," I hissed out of the corner of my mouth.
The car behind me honked as if I was the one being the problem. One more minute and then I would have abandoned poor Helga where she sat. I didn't want to, but neither could I wait around to be taken out like a fish in a barrel.
"Come on. Just let me get them out of the way, at least until AAA gets here to tow them. I need to park here. It's a matter of life and death."
He threw his arthritic hands up. "Fine, just spare me the theatrics."
I helped Jersey Dumbass and Squeaky Bob girl push their useless lump of a vehicle inside the garage and out of the way. Then I ran back, jumped behind Helga's wheel, and shot forward before the door was fully closed. The gate went up, and I surged into the dark automotive womb of the parking deck.
I found one of the last few spaces on the uppermost deck between a cement piling and an extended edition SUV. With any luck, even if Elijah did come in here to hunt for me, he wouldn't spot Helga.
Walking at a brisk pace, I kept my head down as I wound my way down through the twisting stairwells and back onto Atlantic Avenue. If anything, the crowds were growing thicker—not to mention drunker—and the traffic trying desperately to merge onto I-95 was standing still. I dashed up Milk Street toward the Rose Kennedy Greenway so I could blend in with the crowds as I made my way alongside Atlantic toward the nearest T and scanning for the minivan.
All clear.
I breathed a sigh as the familiar stink of the underground train station assailed me. The crowds were even thicker down here, locals and tourists alike using public transit to ferry them to their next drinking spot. One guy was puking on the st
eps, his buddies all ribbing him for being a lightweight, as the crowd surged past, some looking on in disgust, others completely oblivious.
"The next train to Wonderland leaves in two minutes," the automated voice announced over the loud speakers.
Frick, that was my ride, and I still had to cross to the opposite platform. I double-timed it back up the stairs, huffing and wishing I'd worked a little harder during CrossFit with Cliff if it would get me out of the North End before insane Elijah found me.
I envisioned the trek, to cross the walkway above the tracks and then down once more, hustling, moving along with all the other patrons desperate to make this train, some with luggage heading for Logan International Airport, others with small children who'd had enough excitement for one day, still others ready to really cut loose and let their shamrock flags fly.
I passed by the creepy restrooms almost at a dead run. Almost there.
A hand grabbed me by the hair and hauled me into the restroom. I could hear the squeal of the train braking as it came into the station then the prick of a needle in my neck. My vision blurred, and I slumped to the floor, one thought in my head.
So damn close.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Don't give up. Persistence solves cases long after insight and luck have left for the day." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI
I was moving. More accurately someone was moving me. The locomotion wasn't happening under my own power. My brain didn't seem to be connected with my feet, floating as if it was in a liquid cloud. Other senses were spotty at best. My vision dimmed to a tiny pinprick, and my tongue had somehow swollen up inside my mouth until it felt like it was twice the size of normal.
Someone was touching me. A hand on my back, leading me to God alone knew where. Were we still in the underground? A light bobbed along in front of us. Occasionally there was some overhead action as well.
And there was music. "Ain't No Mountain High Enough."
Mac. My five minutes must have passed, because Mac was calling me.
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