A Scourge of Vipers (32 page)

“There's nothing finer than a wet woman,” I said.

“Any wet woman?”

“Pretty much, but I've got a crazy thing for this one.”

“Maybe this will make you crazier,” she said. She smiled mischievously and slid to her knees.

After we toweled off, we slipped into terry-cloth robes, sat at the kitchen table, and devoured the cheese omelets she'd prepared.

“This is wonderful,” I said, “but you know what would be better?”

“What?”

“If we moved in together. Then every morning could be like this one.”

She fell silent. I held my breath.

“You haven't said the words,” she said.

“I love you, Yolanda.”

“I think maybe I love you, too.”

“What will it take to get you to hit the delete button on maybe?”

“I don't know.”

“I'll wait,” I said.

“How long? They say black women are stubborn.”

“However long it takes.”

 

50

I was helping Yolanda clear the dishes when Johnny Rivers's “Secret Agent Man,” my ringtone for McCracken, started playing on my cell phone.

“Haven't seen your face for more than a week,” he said.

“I've been busy.”

“Think you could drop by the office Monday? We should talk.”

So shortly after noon on Monday, I pushed through the door to McCracken & Associates.

“Good morning, Mr. Mulligan,” Sharise said. “Mr. McCracken is with a client now, but he'll join you in your office momentarily.”

I opened the door with my name on it and stepped inside. A large butcher block desk, a black leather office chair, two matching visitor's chairs, and two oak file cabinets were tastefully arranged on a maroon carpet that looked as if it had never been trod on.

I sank into my chair and examined the items on the desk. A new HP desktop computer with a twenty-inch flat screen. A humidor with twenty Ashtons inside and plenty of room for more. An unopened box containing a 9-millimeter Walther PPQ M2, the latest update on the PPK—James Bond's gun. And two boxes of ammunition. I left the semi-auto in the box. Until I found time to get comfortable with it, I was going to carry the Kel-Tec.

“Like your new digs?” McCracken asked as he stepped into the office.

“A lot nicer than I'm used to.”

We shook hands, and he dropped into one of the visitor's chairs.

“Been working the Mario Zerilli case?”

“I have,” I lied.

“And?”

“I'm not getting anywhere.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“Any ideas? I'm fresh out.”

“Well,” he said, “you could always confess to shooting Romeo Alfano and stealing the two hundred grand.
That
would certainly make the client happy.”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“Hey! I was just kidding.”

“Were you?”

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

“I have to confess, Mulligan. The possibility did occur to me.”

“Because I could have returned to the hotel room after we parted ways in front of the Omni,” I said.

“You could have.”

“You could have, too,” I said.

“Fuck you, Mulligan. The cops didn't find any of Alfano's cash in
my
apartment.”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“From a source in the detective division.”

“It was planted.”

“Probably,” he said, “but you'd say that either way.”

“Of course I would.”

“I wonder why the cops haven't arrested you yet.”

“I've been wondering the same thing.”

He leaned back in the chair and laced his big hands behind his head.

“Maybe the homicide twins think we're in this together,” he said.

“Have they brought you in for questioning?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“Seems odd.”

“It does.”

“Occam's razor says the simplest answer is the right one,” I said.

“Meaning Mario is guilty.”

“Yeah.”

“Not what our client wants to hear.”

“He probably doesn't give a shit,” I said. “Annunzio gets paid either way.”

McCracken nodded.

“This isn't getting us anywhere,” I said.

“No.”

“Something I should tell you.”

“What?”

“I bought a new Mustang convertible this week.”

“You know I gotta ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“Where'd the money come from?”

“Yolanda got me a fat wrongful termination settlement from
The Dispatch.
”

“Really?”

“Go ahead and ask her.”

“Aw, fuck,” he said. “We're both getting paranoid.”

“No way to start a partnership,” I said.

“No it's not. We need to trust each other.”

“But we don't,” I said.

“So what are we going to do?”

“I don't know about you,” I said, “but I'm gonna take another crack at the hotel staff. Ask if any of them saw somebody go into Romeo Alfano's room before the cops arrived. Or maybe saw one of the homicide twins sneak out with a briefcase before Parisi showed up.”

“Grab photos of Freitas and Wargart off the
Dispatch
website and show them around,” McCracken said.

“Good idea.”

“And Mulligan?”

“Yeah?”

“Go ahead and take a snapshot of me with your cell phone. You might as well show that around, too.”

 

51

I'd already struck out earlier with the desk clerk, the concierge, and the hotel dick, so this time around I tried my luck with the housekeeping staff. That didn't get me anywhere either. Most of them were Mexicans who didn't understand English. Or maybe pretended they didn't. They probably thought I was from the INS. I couldn't even get them to
look
at the photos.

I was striding through the hotel lobby, heading for the exit, when Fergie, the hotel detective, stepped into my path and put a hand on my chest.

“I'd like a word,” he said. “Please step into my office.”

Fergie wedged his rump into his swivel chair and plunked his Buster Browns on his desk. I plucked a stack of manila file folders off the visitor's chair, dropped them on the floor, and sat. Behind him, a citation for bravery he'd earned when he was a Providence detective was mounted on the wall.

“You've been questioning our housekeeping staff,” he said.

“I have.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why.”

“You're not a reporter anymore, Mulligan. How come you're still sticking your nose into this?”

I pulled out my wallet and flashed my P.I. credentials.

“Who are you working for?” he asked.

“Bruce McCracken.”

“I meant, who's the client?”

“Mario Zerilli's lawyer.”

“Humpf.”

He removed a soft pack from his shirt pocket, shook out a Marlboro, and lit it with a Bic. I took that as permission to clip the tip from an Ashton.

“There's no smoking in here,” he said.

“Could have fooled me.”

“I make an exception for the hotel detective.”

I put my lighter away, shoved the cigar in my mouth, and gnawed the tip.

“The maids tell you anything?” he asked.

“No.”

“Pretended not to speak English, did they?”

“That they did.”

“Haven't told me a damned thing either,” he said.

“Think they know something?”

“No, but I suppose it's possible. I get the feeling a couple of 'em are scared. Like maybe somebody threatened them with deportation.”

“They don't have green cards?”

“Of course they do, but I don't look too hard at them. Some of the documents could be phony.”

“I hope you're gonna keep letting that slide.”

“Long as the INS doesn't come snooping,” he said.

“Any chance one of the housekeepers grabbed the money? Maybe stuck it under some towels and rolled it downstairs in a laundry cart?”

“Anything's possible.”

“I don't suppose one of them up and quit recently.”

“Didn't happen.”

“Okay, then. Are we done? Your secondhand smoke is thin on nicotine. I need to go outside and light this baby.”

“One last thing,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Remember asking me whether the Providence dicks or the state cop got here first?”

“I do.”

“I been thinking about that. Might be that Parisi beat the homicide twins by a few minutes.”

“But you're not sure?”

“No.”

The hotel surveillance video would tell the story, but Freitas and Wargart had made off with it, and they weren't the kind to share.

“The first cop on the scene could have shot Alfano and stolen the money.” I said.

“I doubt that happened.”

“But you've got to be wondering.”

“I'm still pretty sure Mario did it,” he said, “but the thought has crossed my mind.”

I left Fergie's office and strolled slowly across the lobby. Was the hotel dick trying to make me suspicious of Parisi to divert my attention from his old Providence PD pals? I wouldn't put it past him.

By the time I pushed through the hotel door, the sun had fled to its hideout in the west. The downtown streetlights were burning. I turned right on the sidewalk and was startled to find Parisi leaning, arms crossed, against a new, unmarked Chevy Cruze—the model his department had chosen to phase out the Crown Vics. Why GM decided to spell
cruise
wrong, I had no idea.

“Good evening, Captain.”

“Not for you, it isn't. Turn around and place your hands on the wall.”

 

52

Across the street, a yellow North Kingstown School District bus was disgorging a swarm of squealing teen girls. The pom-poms they carried told me they'd come to town for the state cheerleader competition at the Dunkin' Donuts Center.

“What's this about, Captain?”

“Do as you're told, Mulligan. I'd hate to have to shoot you in front of the kids.”

“I'd prefer it if you didn't shoot me at all.”

I turned and laid my palms flat on the hotel wall. Before I could spread my legs, Parisi kicked them apart, patted me down, and jerked the Kel-Tec from the small of my back. I glanced over my left shoulder and saw the cheerleaders staring wide-eyed at the big-city drama as their handlers tried to hustle them away down the sidewalk.

“Empty your pockets.”

I pulled out my keys, wallet, and cell phone.

“Drop them,” he said, so I let them clatter to the pavement.

Parisi grabbed my right wrist, twisted it behind my back, and cuffed it. Then he did the same with my left.

“I thought this wasn't your case,” I said.

“Shut up and get in the car.”

He grabbed me by the cuffs, bulled me toward the Cruze, opened the back door, and shoved me inside. After locking me in, he retrieved my belongings from the sidewalk, stuffed them in his pockets, and got in behind the wheel.

I expected him to turn right at the first intersection and work his way toward Route 10 for the dreary forty-minute drive west to state police headquarters in Scituate. Instead, he blew straight through the light.

“You haven't told me that I'm under arrest.”

He didn't speak. Ignoring the next opportunity to turn, he kept driving east through downtown Providence.

“You haven't read me my rights.”

Nothing.

“Hey, Captain?”

Still nothing. I was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

“Where are you taking me?”

No reply.

As we crossed Francis Street, a gray Honda Civic pulled in behind us, but when Parisi swung south onto Dyer, it peeled off. Just south of downtown, Parisi picked up Eddy Street, drove past the entrance to Point Street Bridge, and swung left at the Eddy Street–Allens Avenue split. To our right, a low-end strip club and a few shabby retail stores, some of them boarded up. To our left, the docks, oil tanks, and warehouses of the Port of Providence. Behind us, just a couple of cars on the road now. I couldn't make out the models or colors through the glare of their headlights.

“Are you planning to shoot me?”

Nothing again. But this time, nothing sounded like an answer.

“You'll never get away with it, Captain.”

More silence. And then, “Of course I will.”

“At least twenty people saw you scoop me up.”

“I've got that covered.”

“How are you going to tell it? That you shot me for resisting arrest? For trying to escape? It won't pass the smell test, Captain. Too many witnesses saw me cuffed and secured in the backseat.”

Silence.

“Can you at least tell me why?”

Nothing.

“Too bad about your pension, Captain.”

No response.

“But I guess Alfano's two hundred grand will make up for it.”

So it wasn't the homicide twins who'd stolen Alfano's money and set me up to take the fall. But why had Parisi targeted me? Wasn't Mario a more credible suspect? Oh, wait. When Mario was on the run and living out of stolen cars, there was no way to plant evidence on
him.
I saw all that clearly now. What I didn't get was why Parisi need to kill me to make his plan work.

He drove in silence for another minute, maybe two. Then he said, “How did you figure it out?”

“I didn't. Except for Pope Francis, you were the last one I suspected.”

Ten seconds, and then, “If you didn't, you would have eventually. You're way too persistent for your own good.”

Your life is supposed to flash before your eyes in a moment like this, but what I flashed on was the things I'd never done. I'd never strolled the streets of Paris. Never danced at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Never researched my family tree. Never climbed an active volcano. Never learned to ski. Never swam with dolphins. Never walked on the Great Wall of China. Never fathered a child. But it was too late for a bucket list.