A Scourge of Vipers (25 page)

“Mulligan?” she said, her voice a tentative whisper. “Twisdale assigned me to write the breaking story about you and the governor, and I was hoping you could give me a comment.”

A story about me and the governor?

“Sorry, Kate,” I said. “In my twenty-two years in the news business, I've learned one important lesson.
Never
talk to a reporter.”

The rest of the staff stared at me as I trudged to the elevator. Nobody said good-bye.

Outside, I stood at the curb for a moment and looked up at the red-brick newspaper building. Nearly fourteen feet above the sidewalk, a brass plaque marked the high-water mark of the flood that had inundated downtown Providence during the 1938 hurricane. Meteorology was a primitive science when that storm formed in the Atlantic, so it had slammed into the New England coast without warning. But why hadn't I seen today's storm coming?

I pulled the cell from my pocket and realized I hadn't turned it back on since I shut the power off last night. There were two dozen new messages. Three from the governor insisted that I call her right away. A couple from McCracken and my buddy Mason at
The Ocean State Rag
asked if I was all right. The rest were from Iggy Rock and from reporters at the Associated Press,
The Pawtucket Times
, and the state's TV affiliates, each of them asking me to call back with my comment on “the scandal.”

I turned toward the street and whistled for Secretariat. When he didn't come, I went looking and found him grazing in a nearby parking lot. I slumped behind the wheel and wondered whom I should call first. McCracken, Mason, or the governor? I decided not to call any of them.

Instead, I spurred the Bronco toward Chestnut Street, where
The Ocean State Rag
occupied half the second floor of an old jewelry factory that recently had been renovated for office space.

*   *   *

Mason greeted me with a furrowed brow and a bear hug.

“Jesus, Mulligan. Are you all right?”

“I don't know,” I said.

He ushered me into a leather chair across from his desk. Then he turned to his bar, poured some bourbon into a glass, and handed it to me.

“Really?” I said. “It's awfully early for hard liquor, don't you think?”

“Not today, it isn't.”

“Maybe so,” I said, and gulped half of it down.

“I assume
The Dispatch
fired you this morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you've got a job here, Mulligan. But not just yet. I can't bring you on board until this bullshit gets straightened out.”

“And what bullshit is that?”

“You mean you don't know?”

“Apparently I'm the only one who doesn't. Twisdale just told me to get out. Never gave me a reason.”

“You haven't seen the TV news this morning?”

“No.”

“Didn't listen to Iggy Rock or check the news online?”

“Uh-uh.”

He drew a deep breath and blew it out through his nose.

“Okay, then. Step over here and have a look at this.”

He tapped at his keyboard and called up the
Ocean State Rag
website. The top headline screamed
ALLEGED SEX SCANDAL ROCKS R.I. GOVERNOR
.

“What the hell?”

Accompanying the story was a color photograph of the governor and me sitting together at a table at Hopes. Two bottles of beer, both half empty, stood on the table between us. I was holding Fiona's hand.

“The photo was e-mailed to every news outlet in the state early this morning,” Mason said. “With it, there was an audio file.”

He clicked on it and let it play.

Fiona's voice: “I'm disappointed. I was hoping you were going to stroll in wearing those black-and-yellow Bruins boxers.”

My voice: “I could drop my pants if you want to have a look at them.”

Fiona: “I better lock the door first. It wouldn't do to have anyone walk in on us.”

Me: “Do it. I've always wanted to fool around in the governor's office, but until now, the opportunity never came up.”

Fiona: “How come?”

Me: “Because we never had a girl governor before.”

Fiona: “If you keep teasing me, I might not be able to keep my hands to myself.”

The audio stopped there, leaving the rest to the listener's imagination.

“Our story suggests this could be just playful banter between old friends,” Mason said, “but all the other outlets are treating it as gospel.”

“Where'd this come from?” I asked, although I thought I already knew.

“It was sent anonymously.”

“Swell.”

“Give me a statement denying that you slept with the governor,” he said, “and I'll stick it in the story right up top.”

“I'm thinking about it.”

“What's there to think about?”

“Tell me what the governor said about it first.”

“So far, she has refused to comment.”

“Huh. I wonder why she hasn't issued a denial.”

“Me too,” Mason said. Then he paused and gave me a quizzical look. “I mean, it's not true, right?”

“Are you asking as a friend or as a journalist?”

“Both.”

“To a journalist, I have no comment.”

“To a friend, then?

“Of course it's not true.”

I walked back around the desk, flopped into the visitor's chair, and swallowed the rest of the bourbon.

“So what's the play?” Mason asked.

“First, let's see if we can prove where this crap came from,” I said. “Would you mind if I ask McCracken to look at the e-mail? He might be able to track the IP address.”

“Call him,” Mason said.

The first thing McCracken said was, “How are you holding up?”

“I'm fine and dandy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Get fired yet?”

“Of course.”

“It's for the best, buddy. You don't belong there anymore, anyway. You can start work here tomorrow morning. I'll have Sharise mount the nameplate on your door soon as we hang up.”

“You don't want to wait until this thing blows over?”

“What for? Clients like to believe private detectives are at least a little bit shady. Makes 'em think we won't hesitate to bend the rules for them.” And then he chortled. “You gotta admit, this is pretty funny. I mean, you and the governor? The woman's built like a twelve-year-old boy.”

When he finished trying to cheer me up, I told him Mason had offered me a job, too, and that I needed time to consider my options. Then I told him why I'd called. He said he'd be right over.

With that, I pulled myself out of the chair, thanked Mason for handling the story responsibly, and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the statehouse to talk dirty with the governor.”

But first, I had an urgent call to make.

 

38

“McDougall, Young, and Limone. How may I direct your call?”

“Yolanda Mosely-Jones, please.”

“One moment, sir.”

And then, as if the day hadn't already gone badly enough, I slumped behind the wheel in Secretariat and suffered through a minute or two of Kenny G's nausea-inducing “Forever in Love.”

“Miss Mosley-Jones's office.”

“Is she in?”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Mr. Mulligan.”

“Liam Mulligan?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but Miss Jones asked me to inform you that she is not accepting your calls.”

I clicked off, twisted the rearview mirror, and took a hard look at myself. Same Sox T-shirt that was pressed into duty five years ago. Same lanky guy with a rakish lock of hair that wouldn't stay off his forehead. Same sucker who'd married badly and suffered through a contentious divorce. Same damned fool who'd stumbled so badly with love that he'd all but given up on it. Same bastard who'd resorted to treating his infrequent overnight guests as conquests. But the lady who'd finally welcomed him into her bed a few days ago was a revelation. This time, it was the guy in the mirror who'd been conquered.

Poor bastard.

I readjusted the mirror and tried Yolanda's personal cell. It went straight to voice mail. I didn't leave a message.

If Yolanda didn't trust me, what good would a message do?

 

39

For once, Fiona didn't keep me waiting. I was ushered straight into her office, where I found her sitting primly on the couch of infamy. The one where our “scandal” began.

She looked up at me and burst out laughing.

At first, I was too worried about what Yolanda was thinking to appreciate the humor in the situation; but once I seated myself beside the governor, the hilarity proved to be infectious. I don't know how long we sat there, arms wrapped around each other, our bodies shaking.

“Oh, my God!” she finally said. “I haven't laughed that hard in years.”

“It's not
all
funny. I got fired this morning. And Yolanda isn't speaking to me.”

“I'm so sorry. If I could have debunked the story before it got out, I would have; but once Iggy Rock went on the air with the audio file this morning, it was too late.”

“Has Parisi figured out who bugged your office yet?”

“No, but he bullied Channel 10 into giving him the IP address the audio file and photo were sent from, and he's trying to trace it.”

“I've got McCracken working on that, too,” I said, “but we already know who's behind this.”

“Yeah. The same person who took our photo at Hopes.”

“Cheryl Grandison,” I said. “She's trying to destroy you so you won't be able to get the gambling bill passed. The NCAA and the pro sports leagues will probably give her a bonus for this.”

“But as always, Mrs. Grandison, if you or any of your Stop Sports Gambling Now super PAC force should be caught or killed, the commissioners will disavow any knowledge of your actions.”

And we both laughed again.

“So what now?” I asked.

“I'm leaving for Trenton tomorrow.”

“Trenton? What for?”

“To confer with Governor Christie.”

“Why?”

“To see if we can come up with a joint strategy for derailing the opposition to our gambling bills. But mainly to duck reporters for a few days.”

“Duck them? Why? The move here is to tell them that the audio file is harmless kidding between friends and that your enemies obtained it by illegally bugging your office. You've got to act fast to change the narrative, Fiona. If you don't, this thing is gonna get a lot worse.”

“That's exactly what I want, Mulligan. Let the scandalmongers have their fun for a few more days.”

“Why?”

“Because this so-called scandal is going to guarantee my reelection.”

She shot me a sly smile.

“Okay, Fiona. What's up your sleeve?”

When she laid it out, I had to admit it was worthy of her nickname. The plan was both brilliant and diabolical.

 

40

While Fiona was out of town, I spent my time ducking reporters, applying for unemployment insurance, listening to Iggy Rock rant about our slut governor and her disgraced boy-toy, following the news about the legislative hearings on the gambling bill, trying unsuccessfully to reach out to Yolanda, and getting drunk with Joseph. We turned the TV news into a drinking game. Every time somebody said “disgraced boy-toy,” we each chugged a 'Gansett.

Reporters had staked out the front of my tenement building, so whenever we went on a pizza and beer run, we sneaked down the fire escape, jumped the back fence, and jogged to Joseph's truck. Almost everywhere we went, a gray Honda Civic was lurking. I figured I was getting paranoid. I wasn't an investigative reporter anymore. Except for the press, no one had a reason to tail me now—unless Mario or Marco Alfano still held a grudge. And the last I time I saw Alfano, he was driving a black SUV.

Each night, I lay awake in bed and wondered about the same few things.

Would Yolanda ever speak to me again?

Was there life after journalism?

Should I give it up and take a job with McCracken?

Should I stick with it and go to work for Mason?

Or should I go for the money and take over for Whoosh if the gambling bill failed?

It was nearly a week before I stopped obsessing about myself and started wondering about more important things.

Would McCracken or Parisi be able to trace the source of the e-mail?

Would the cops find Mario before Marco Alfano put a bullet in his head?

Did Mario kill Romeo Alfano and make off with the two hundred grand? Despite what Whoosh had told me, I still thought yes. But if Mario didn't do it, who did?

Then something else occurred to me. What the hell had been in that grocery bag the Providence cops had lugged out of my apartment?

On Friday, McCracken called with one of the answers. The IP address belonged to a computer in the Providence Public Library reading room. After we hung up, I rang Parisi.

“What now, lover boy?”

“I hear the IP address is a dead end.”

“No comment.”

“The governor told you who snapped the photo of us at Hopes, right?”

“So?”

“Is that enough to make an arrest?”

“For what? Last I checked, photography isn't illegal.”

“It ties Grandison to the audio file. They were both in the same e-mail.”

A ten-second delay. And then, “It's not probative.”

“Why not?”

“All it tells us is that she, or maybe somebody she gave the picture to, sent the e-mail. Doesn't prove she planted the listening devices.”

“Any leads on the money from Romeo Alfano's briefcase?”

“No comment.”