The Dread Line Page 10

  “Does he seem preoccupied? Worried about something?”

  “Not at all. Why should he be?” A worried look crossed her face. “Mr. Mulligan, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  I paused to consider how much I should reveal to her and decided to give her most of it. “The background check the Patriots hired us to conduct should have been routine, but as soon as we got started, a couple of thugs from Massachusetts came to town. They broke into my boss’s office, roughed him up, and told him he’d get more of the same if he persisted in looking at Conner.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Do you have any idea why they did that, Meghan?”

  “No.”

  “No idea who might have sent them?”

  “No,” her voice smaller now. “Do you think Conner is in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m afraid he might be.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it has something to do with his gambling.”

  “Conner doesn’t gamble.”

  “He does, Meghan. He owes a Providence bookie eight thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I know it for a fact.”

  “Jesus! Why would he keep something like that from me?”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t want to worry you.”

  “Eight thousand dollars is a lot of money. More than half of my annual tuition.”

  “It’s peanuts compared to what he’ll get when he signs his first NFL contract,” I said.

  “I guess. But still … Do you think the bookie is going to break his legs or something?”

  “He won’t, Meghan. He’s a decent guy, actually, and he knows Conner will be good for it.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I am, but not all bookies are that patient. Is there any chance Conner could have placed bets with someone else?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe I don’t know him as well as I thought.”

  I sat quietly for a moment, giving her time to process what she’d heard.

  “Please tell me he hasn’t bet on B.C. games,” she said.

  “Just hockey, baseball, and basketball as far as I know. If that’s all there is to it, his draft status probably won’t be affected.”

  “Well, thank God for that, at least.”

  And then she started to cry.

  “Don’t take this so hard, Meghan. Every guy has secrets. Hell, I’ve got one I’ve been keeping from my girl.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, and it’s a big one.”

  “Whatever it is, you better tell her before she hears it from somebody else.”

  I got up and fetched each of us another cup of coffee. When I returned to the table, Meghan’s brow was furrowed in concentration.

  “I’m confused,” she said. “Something about this doesn’t make sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If those thugs came to town because of Conner’s gambling, why would they go after your boss instead of him?”

  “I can’t make sense of it either,” I said, “and that has me worried. I’m thinking there must be something else going on with Conner that I haven’t tumbled to yet.”

  “Like what?”

  “No idea, but whatever it is, I can help. I’ve left several messages for him, but he hasn’t returned them. Would you mind telling him that he should talk to me? And that I don’t bite?”

  “I will. I’ll ask him to promise me that he’ll call you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I can’t be sure he’ll do it, Mr. Mulligan. And if he does, you probably won’t hear from him until after his last game. During the football season, Conner tries to block out all distractions.”

  “Except for you,” I said.

  “Yes. Except for me.”

  She fell quiet again, then asked, “Do you really think the Patriots might draft him? I know he’d love to play for Belichick.”

  I flashed on Cruze’s warning not to reveal that the Patriots might trade up in the draft. “I doubt they’ll be picking high enough to get Conner,” I said, “but if they have a chance to grab him, they’d be fools not to. Of course, it also will depend on what we put in our report. Is there anyone else you think I should talk to about Conner?”

  She rattled off some names, all of them in Boston. Coaches, professors, teammates, the two roommates with whom he shared an off-campus apartment.

  “What about his old friends at Classical?”

  “Other than me, he doesn’t see them anymore.”

  “Oh? Did something happen? I heard he and Ricky Santos used to be tight.”

  “No, not really,” Meghan said. “He was just a sad little queer Conner stuck up for when other kids picked on him.”

  Damn. Until then, I’d been starting to like her. I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. The slur rankled, but if I called her on it, she might not be so cooperative if I needed to talk to her again.

  20

  The plowed streets around Jamestown’s town hall were so choked with parked cars that I had to leave mine at Artillery Park and walk back on ice-slick sidewalks. As I crunched up the salted front steps and pushed through the door, a special meeting of the town council was about to get under way.

  More than two hundred people, some of them waving handmade signs reading JUSTICE FOR CASPER and PRAY FOR CRISPY, filled all the folding metal chairs. A couple dozen more lined the walls. From the looks on their faces, they were in a sour mood.

  Cameras from three of Providence’s broadcast TV affiliates had been set up in the aisles, and the long oak table that stretched across the dais bristled with microphones from area radio stations. The dognappings had become a big local story. I pulled out a new iPhone Mason had given me to take news video for The Ocean State Rag. As far as Verizon knew, the device belonged to Richard Harding Davis.

  On the dais, Chief Ragsdale, Tracy O’Malley, and the town’s animal control officer, Kip Shepherd, were seated beside the five members of the town council. I was surprised to see Clara Martin, the teenager I’d met at the skate park, up there, too.

  At eight P.M. on the dot, First Warden Kenneth Franco gaveled the meeting to order. “Let me begin by assuring you that all of us sitting up here share your outrage about the unconscionable acts of animal cruelty that are plaguing our community. Most of us have dogs of our own.” He paused, drew a deep breath, and added, “It is with deep regret that I must inform you of another incident that occurred earlier this evening.”

  That drew gasps and cries of “Oh, no!”

  “Hamlet, George Baxter’s labradoodle, was snatched from his yard sometime after five P.M. The police found him dead beside Fox Hill Pond less than an hour ago. He’d been set on fire, just like the others.”

  The news stunned the crowd into silence.

  “Understandably, these events have aroused strong emotions, but I must request that you maintain decorum so that tonight’s speakers have the opportunity to be heard.”

  And with that, everyone began shouting at once. In the pandemonium, I scanned the crowd, searching in vain for someone with only one ear. It took Franco several minutes to gavel the crowd to silence.

  “Chief,” he said, “please bring us up to date on the status of the police investigation.”

  “Unfortunately, we have little to go on,” Ragsdale said. “We found no probative physical evidence at any of the crime scenes, and no witnesses to the abductions have come forward. If anyone has information that could assist us in the investigation, please contact my office. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open for suspicious activity and take steps to protect your animals. When you let them loose in your yards, keep a close watch on them. Don’t leave them alone for a minute—not even for a short run to the grocery store.”

  Ragsdale then introduced the dog officer, who urged everyone to have their pets microchipped. “Unfortunately, the chip can’t be used to track missing animals,” he said. �
�It is not a GPS. However, it identifies your dog, making it more likely that a missing animal will be returned home.”

  Then he turned the microphone over to Clara Martin, who announced that she had created a Facebook page under the name “Save Our Dogs.”

  “It’s a sounding board for information about the dog abductions,” she said. “Chief Ragsdale and Mr. Shepherd have promised to post frequent updates. The first post, which went up this afternoon, lists the names of local veterinarians who can insert microchips in your pets.”

  When she was done, Franco asked Tracy O’Malley for an update on Crispy’s condition.

  “Crispy is recovering and will soon be well enough to be placed with a family,” she said. “Anyone interested in adopting this sweet one-eyed dog should contact me at the Animal Rescue League of Southern Rhode Island in Peace Dale.”

  Six people leaped to their feet and declared their eagerness to give Crispy a new home. After Tracy jotted down their names, Franco asked if anyone in the crowd would like the floor. Several dozen hands shot up.

  “The chair recognizes Mr. Cargill,” Franco said. Alexander, whom I hadn’t spotted before, rose to his feet.

  “My father and I love animals,” he said. “We’ve got three Karelian bear dogs at our estate in Aspen and a dozen quarter horses on our farm in Montana. We are appalled by the recent events in Jamestown and are offering a twenty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible.”

  That drew the evening’s first burst of applause.

  “Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Cargill,” Franco said. “Would anyone else like to speak?… The floor recognizes Marlon Jenks.”

  “Me and some of the boys got to talkin’ at the Narragansett Café yesterday evenin’,” Jenks said, “and we decided we can’t keep sittin’ around with our thumbs up our butts while this shit is goin’ down. So we’re forming a posse to patrol the streets. A dozen guys already signed up. Anybody interested in joining us, come see me at my hardware store. If enough of you sign up, we can cover twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  Ragsdale vigorously shook his head. “Mr. Jenks, I urge you to reconsider. Nothing good can come of this. You should leave police work to the professionals.”

  “Bullshit!” Jenks shouted. “That ain’t gotten us nowhere so far.”

  “If you insist on going ahead with this,” Ragsdale said, “I’m going to ask that you leave your guns at home.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen, Chief.”

  And with that, everybody started shouting again.

  They were still at it when I slipped out the door, skipped down the steps, and spotted Alexander Cargill muttering to Belinda Veiga on the sidewalk. She turned her back on him and started to walk away. He stretched out a hand and grabbed her shoulder.

  “Get your hands off her, Alexander.”

  “Mind your own fucking business.”

  “You did a good thing tonight, kid. Don’t spoil it by being a jerk.”

  He turned then and looked at me. That’s when I noticed that he stood an inch taller than Belinda. I glanced at his shoes and saw that he was wearing lifts.

  “I know you,” he said. “You’re that private detective.”

  “Then you should know better than to mess with Belinda when I’m standing here.”

  “Why? Are you fucking her, too?”

  “He’s not,” Belinda said. “But he’d be a big step up from your puny ass.”

  “Bitch!” Alexander’s face scrunched up, and for a moment I thought he was going to cry. Then he spun on his heels, stomped down the sidewalk, and climbed into a black Mercedes S-Class coupe. Apparently, he’d garaged the Ferrari for the winter and was driving one of Daddy’s cars.

  “Belinda,” I asked, “are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “I heard talk you might be getting a restraining order against him.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, he just violated it. Want me to fetch Ragsdale?”

  “What good would that do? His father’s lawyers would spring him before the cell door slammed shut.”

  “At least let me walk you to your car, then.”

  “Thanks, Mulligan.”

  Her Honda Civic was parked less than a block away. As she opened the door, she turned to me.

  “Could you stop by the bank tomorrow morning? We need an update on the robbery investigation.”

  “I’ll be there. Can you give me a lift to my car so I can follow you? I want to be sure you get home safely.”

  “Join me for a nightcap? We can crack a new bottle of Knob Creek.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but no.”

  “I can’t believe it either,” she said.

  After seeing her home, I hustled back to my place and put Buddy Guy’s “Skin Deep” on the sound system. Then I banged out Richard Harding Davis’s meeting story for the Web site while Brady and Rondo sat at my feet.

  21

  Just past ten, I strode into Pell Savings & Trust, tossed a hearty good morning to the bank guard, and approached the manager’s office. Mildred Carson wasn’t in. Instead, Belinda Veiga sat behind the desk, her nose buried in what looked like a mortgage application.

  “Where’s Mrs. Carson?”

  “On maternity leave.”

  “Oh. What did she have?”

  “Twin baby girls, Alice and Anna.”

  “I should send her something. Can I have her address?”

  “That would be against company policy, but if you drop the gift off here, I’ll be sure that she gets it.”

  “She gave me her home phone number, Belinda. I can always run it through a reverse directory to find out where she lives.”

  “Sorry, but I still can’t give it to you.”

  “So are you in charge here now?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “They say I’m too inexperienced to run the branch on my own, so they’re sending somebody down from Providence twice a week to check up on me. But if I don’t screw up, I could be in line for a promotion.”

  “Good for you.”

  “So how about that update? From what I’ve heard, you must have grilled everybody on the island by now.”

  “Not quite,” I said.

  “And?”

  In the office, the sexy flirt was no longer in evidence. Belinda was all business now.

  “I haven’t turned up any solid leads, but I do have a suspicion.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m thinking it was probably an inside job.”

  Judging by the look on her face, that shocked her.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The stickup man knew a lot about bank operations. How to avoid the surveillance cameras, for example.”

  “Couldn’t he have figured that out by, what do they call it? Casing the joint?”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” I said, “but I’ve walked through the lobby several times looking at the cameras. I can sort of tell where they are pointing, but I can’t be sure how much area each one covers. I can make a rough guess about how to avoid them, but I could never be sure.”

  “And the robber was sure?”

  “Looks that way. He avoided them perfectly. I doubt he could have done that unless he, or an accomplice, had spent time studying the monitors to see what each camera picks up.”

  “I find it hard to believe any of my colleagues could be involved in anything like this.”

  “No teller with a sketchy boyfriend? Nobody having money problems?”

  “The pay here sucks. All of us have money problems.”

  “I also think the perp knew the bank’s rule against anyone entering the vault when a safe deposit box is being opened,” I said. “Otherwise, he was taking a hell of a risk, and this guy doesn’t strike me as the reckless type.”

  “Anyone with a box could have known that.”


  “Well, can you give me a list of the box holders? Maybe a name will leap out at me.”

  “No can do. That would be a violation of our privacy policy.”

  “Okay. I’ll just keep digging to see what else I can turn up.”

  Belinda sighed. “You’ve been at this since September, Mulligan, and all you’ve got is a wild theory. Corporate is telling me that unless you’ve got something solid, they can no longer justify the expense. Just send me your final report in writing. And your bill.”

  I hadn’t expected that. “Look, Belinda. Suppose I keep poking around on my own? If I don’t figure it out, you don’t have to pay me. If I do, I’ll bill the bank for the hours I put in.”

  “Sorry, but it’s still no. Ellington Cargill’s security chief and an investigator for the insurance company are both still working on this. And so is Chief Ragsdale. Headquarters wants to let them take it from here.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Thank you for your business. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to accomplish more.”

  But I was too intrigued by the mystery to let it go. On my way out, I invited the bank guard, Owen McGowan, to meet me for dinner at the Narragansett Café.

  * * *

  That afternoon, I stopped in at the hardware store, introduced myself to Marlon Jenks, and asked how his vigilante committee was shaping up.

  “Sorry, bud, but we can’t use you. Forty-eight guys signed up this morning, which is all we need. Already had to turn six people away.”

  “How have you organized them?”

  “Two guys to a car, four-hour shifts. Gives us four cars on the road at all times.”

  “Did you take the chief’s advice about guns?”

  “Hell, no. Half the guys are carrying pistols or shotguns. The rest are lugging crowbars or baseball bats.… Oh, and I equipped each car with a Kidde fire extinguisher from my stock.”

  * * *

  When I entered the Narragansett Café that evening, Owen McGowan was already seated at a two-top, foam from a glass of Buzzards Bay coating his upper lip. I grabbed a Sam Adams at the bar and joined him.

  “Dinner’s on me,” I said.

  “Bet your ass it is.”

  “I hear you were on the job.”

  “Put in my thirty at the Newport PD.”