The Dread Line Page 20

  “Jesus! If some of my boys made this mistake, is there any chance you can get them out of it?”

  “Not our job,” McCracken said.

  “True,” I said, “but there might be something we can do.”

  40

  I stepped into the Narragansett Café and found Ford Crowder waiting for me at the bar. He was sipping a cocktail from a dainty stemmed glass with a pearl onion floating in it.

  I straddled the adjoining stool and said, “Really? I figured you for Maker’s Mark and a beer back.”

  “You figured wrong. I got you figured for Irish whiskey straight up and a Sam Adams.”

  “You figured right.”

  “Jameson?”

  “I prefer Locke’s, but they don’t serve it here.”

  “Bushmills, then?”

  “That’ll do.”

  He waved the barkeep over, placed my order, and put it on his tab.

  “Ragsdale’s stab at hornswoggling Souza into a confession went nowhere,” he said.

  “I heard. That why you asked for a meet? To tell me something I already know?”

  “Nope.”

  “What, then?”

  “Ellington Cargill’s back in town.”

  “So?”

  “He wants to hire you.”

  “Hire me? What the hell for?”

  “The man wants to tell you himself. He’s waitin’ on us at the mansion.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “He’ll tear me a new one if’en I don’t show up with you.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Look, pardner. Can you do me a good turn and just hear the man out?”

  No way I wanted to work for Cargill, but curiosity was getting the best of me. “Okay, Crowder. Soon as I finish my drink.”

  “But after you hear his proposition, I want you to turn him down.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because I don’t like you. After the stunt you pulled with the safe deposit box, I don’t trust you none, either.”

  “But he does?”

  “I ain’t told him about what you done.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause if I did, he’d find a way to blame it on me.”

  * * *

  The butler ushered us into a mahogany-paneled room that he called the library, but I didn’t see any books. Instead, the walls were hung with modern art. To my eye, it was indistinguishable from the finger paintings that are proudly displayed in every kindergarten—except for one small detail. Instead of being stuck up with masking tape, the childish smears were mounted in gold-leaf frames.

  Ellington Cargill was seated in a throne-like chair, a crystal carafe beside him on an end table and a half-empty goblet in his hand. He did not get up to greet us. He did not offer to shake hands. He just waved us into an upholstered couch across from him and asked if we’d care for some wine. Crowder and I both declined.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Has Mr. Crowder informed you about the purpose of our meeting?”

  “Not in any detail.”

  “Well, then, let’s proceed. I propose to retain you to investigate the murder of my son.”

  Oh, fuck, I thought. For a second, I was afraid I’d said it out loud. I took a moment to compose myself and asked, “Why me?”

  “Because I have been informed that McCracken and Associates is the most respected private investigative firm in Rhode Island. And because you singlehandedly deduced the whereabouts of the stolen jewelry, a feat that proved to be beyond the capabilities of both the local authorities and my security staff.”

  “I see.”

  “If I may, sir,” Crowder broke in, “I still don’t think this course of action is advisable. Chief Ragsdale has asked the Rhode Island State Police to assist him in the investigation, and I and my three best men are devoting all of our time to it.”

  I noticed that Crowder dropped the shitkicker act when addressing his boss.

  “I have made my decision, Mr. Crowder.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you amenable, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “I’m sorry, but no.”

  Cargill’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh? And why would that be?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “On?”

  “I’m in the middle of a complex investigation for an important client, and it’s going to keep me tied up for several months.”

  “More important than me? Surely not, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “Client confidentially prevents me from being more explicit, Mr. Cargill. All I can say is that it’s a very big case.”

  Cargill lifted his glass and sipped. Then he reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a check. “Crowder, please take this and hand it to Mr. Mulligan.”

  Crowder sprang from the sofa, glanced at the check, blanched at the sum, and did as he’d been told.

  “I am prepared to pay you three thousand dollars a day for your services,” Cargill said. “The retainer you have in your hand is an advance to cover the first month of our arrangement. I trust it will be sufficient to get you started.”

  I glanced at the check and saw that it was made out for ninety thousand dollars.

  “One more thing, Mr. Mulligan. I am offering a reward of a quarter of a million dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the killer. If you are successful in your investigation, you might be able to claim that as a bonus.”

  * * *

  “I thought we agreed you’d turn him down,” Crowder said as we walked across the paving stones to our cars.

  “Really? I don’t recall agreeing to anything.”

  “Well, I don’t like it, but I can’t say I blame you none,” Crowder said. “That was way too much cabbage for a workin’ man to walk away from. I reckon you’re as happy as a puppy with two peckers.”

  It was too much to walk away from. If I’d declined Cargill’s offer, Crowder would have wondered why. With Alexander’s blood on my hands, I couldn’t risk having the security expert poking into my business.

  Still, accepting the money wasn’t enough. Now I was going to have to make a show of pretending to earn it.

  * * *

  “A whole box of Cubans this time?” Ragsdale said. “You must be after a bigger favor than usual.”

  “I am.”

  He pried the top off the box, drew out a San Cristóbal de la Habana, and sniffed it.

  “Okay,” he said. “Spill it.”

  “I’d like to see your interview notes on the Alexander Cargill murder.”

  “No can do.”

  “Come on, Chief. Nobody has to know.”

  “Gunning for that big reward the prick’s father is offering?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I can’t help you.”

  “Ellington Cargill hired me to investigate his son’s death,” I said. “I’m sure he’d appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Should I have him give you a call? See if you’ll bend the rules again for the richest guy in town?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He slid open a drawer, pulled out a file, and shoved it across the desk to me.

  “Who have you questioned?” I asked.

  “I started with Jenks and the members of his vigilante committee who were out prowling that night. They’re all sticking to their stories.”

  “Who else?”

  “I talked to Belinda Veiga’s father and her friends on the off chance that one of them decided to go after Alexander for stalking her. But that didn’t go anywhere.”

  “Was one of the friends Souza?”

  “Yeah. Turns out, he’s got a solid alibi for the night Alexander was killed. Other than them, I couldn’t think of anybody with either motive or opportunity.”

  “Maybe it was just a random act of violence,” I said.

  “If that’s what it was, we’re pr
obably never going to find the killer.”

  “No physical evidence besides the dog hair in Alexander’s car?”

  “Nope.”

  “The state police haven’t been any help?”

  “They sent down a detective named Eddie Spikes. He nosed around for a few days, interviewed everyone I’d already talked to, came up empty, and left town. Said I should give him a call if anything turns up.”

  “So you’re nowhere.”

  He nodded. “Take a seat in the hall and look the file over. But don’t make any copies, and bring it back when you’re done.”

  So that’s what I did. When I returned, he said something that took me by surprise.

  “So, Mulligan, how are you enjoying life in Jamestown?”

  “You know where I live?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’ve been following me?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that.”

  “How, then?”

  “I was driving along East Shore Road one evening when I saw your RAV4 turn into a driveway. Thought maybe you were visiting somebody; but a week or two later, I passed by and saw a Bernese mountain dog in the yard.”

  “Aw, shit.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t know it was some big fucking secret.”

  “Well,” I said, “I don’t like to advertise it.”

  “Because you make enemies in your line of work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I won’t tell anybody,” he said. “I promise.”

  41

  “Mr. Dunst will see you now.”

  We tossed aside the magazines we’d been skimming for the last half hour—The American Lawyer for McCracken and an out-of-date Sports Illustrated for me—and entered an inner office.

  Dunst rose to greet us with a handshake. He was one of those guys who works your arm as if it were a water pump and then holds the grip long enough to make you uncomfortable. I put him at five-ten, one-eighty with long brown hair slicked straight back and tied off in a ponytail. His suit was a navy chalk stripe and looked expensive.

  The office was uglied up in postmodern, lots of blue and yellow plastic furniture molded into shapes they never taught you about in geometry class. The desk resembled a span of wings salvaged from a Klingon battle cruiser. I wondered if it had a cloaking device.

  A huge flat-screen suspended from a sea-green wall was tuned to ESPN with the sound turned off. On either side of it, autographed photos of college football players were mounted in yellow plastic frames.

  “Your clients?” McCracken asked.

  “Yes,” Dunst said.

  “I recognize Bowditch and Gabriel. Who are the other two?”

  “Therman Hendricks, a UConn linebacker, and Marvis Styles, a safety at UMass.”

  “Are those the only players you have under contract?”

  “At the moment, yes, but I’m in discussions with several others. But I’m forgetting my manners. Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”

  Seeing nothing that looked comfortable, I planted my butt on a yellow blob. A minute later, my back began to ache.

  “Can I offer you a refreshment? Coffee? Water? Or perhaps you’d prefer something stronger.”

  “We’re fine,” McCracken said.

  Dunst wedged himself into something I’d mistaken for a planter and crossed his legs, displaying a pair of garish argyle socks. Behind his head, his diploma from Suffolk University Law School hung in a walnut burl frame.

  “So, then,” he said, “I understand you represent the New England Patriots. What is it that I can do for you today?”

  “For starters,” McCracken said, “we’re curious how you managed to land Conner Bowditch. He could have signed with Jimmy Sexton, Jason Fletcher, Joel Segal or any of the other big names in the business. Why did he choose a business lawyer with no experience as an agent?”

  “I assume he liked my pitch,” Dunst said. “But maybe you should ask him.”

  “I did,” I said. “He claims he never heard of you.”

  “I can’t imagine why he’d tell you that,” Dunst said, “but I can assure you he’s a client.”

  “Do you have anything to confirm that?”

  He rose, went to his desk, opened and drawer, returned with several stapled sheets of paper, and handed them to me.

  The first page was labeled “NFL Players Association Standard Representation Agreement.” I flipped through it and saw that it guaranteed Dunst three percent of Bowditch’s earnings. With the kid’s first NFL contract expected to be eighteen million a year for four years, plus a twelve-million-dollar signing bonus, Dunst stood to make a cool two and a half million. I checked the last page and found Dunst’s and Bowditch’s scrawls on the signature lines.

  I smirked, tore the contract in half, and stuffed it in my jeans.

  “Why on earth did you do that?” Dunst said.

  “Because I don’t like you.”

  “Well, it was just a copy. The originals are stored in a secure place.”

  “Go get them,” I said. “And while you’re at it, fetch the original contracts for the other three players too.”

  “I don’t know what the hell your problem is,” Dunst said, “but I must ask you two gentlemen to leave my office immediately.”

  “We’re not gentlemen,” I said. “You know exactly who we are. You’ve had your hired thugs tailing us for weeks.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “The Vacca brothers weren’t up to the job,” I said, “so now you’ve sicced Michael McNulty and Efrain Vargas on us. If you’re trying to intimidate us, it’s not working.”

  “I don’t know anyone named McNulty or Vargas.”

  “I suggest you call them off,” McCracken said. “If you don’t, better make sure they’ve signed up for Obamacare.”

  “I don’t appreciate your threats and unfounded accusations. Get out, or I’ll be forced to call security.” As we headed for the door, Dunst snarled his parting shot: “And don’t come back.”

  “Oh, you’ll be seeing us again, counselor,” I said. “We’re not finished with you yet.”

  * * *

  “So now what?” I asked as McCracken pulled the Acura onto the jammed Southeast Expressway and inched south.

  “Now we wait for McNulty and Vargas to show up.”

  “Think they’ll have more in mind than just tailing us this time?”

  “Depends on their marching orders. But considering what’s at stake…”

  I finished his thought: “We just gave Dunst two and a half million reasons to take us off the board. I guess I better call Joseph.”

  42

  Early next morning, I boarded my dogs at the Jamestown Animal Clinic and drove to Providence. There, McCracken and I sat in his office sipping hot coffee and cleaning our guns. Every few minutes, I went to the window and studied the street.

  “Think they’ll try something here?” I asked.

  “No way,” McCracken said. “Too many witnesses. And they’ll want to avoid the security cameras in the lobby.”

  “So we pick the spot.” I said.

  I finished cleaning my Kel-Tec, dropped it on the desk beside my Walther, fired up the desktop, called up Google Maps, and found a street view of Wetherill State Park.

  McCracken moseyed over and studied the screen.

  “Know the place?” I asked.

  “Yeah. The perfect spot for a picnic.… Or a gunfight.”

  Just after noon, Joseph strode in carrying four large pizzas in one hand and a case of ’Gansett in the other. He had his forty-four magnum stuck in his waistband and a nine mil in a shoulder holster.

  We downed a few slices and then sat together to review the plan.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked.

  “Should work,” Joseph said. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “There’s more than two thugs in Boston, Mulligan. What if they bring help this time?”

  I thought abo
ut it a moment, pulled out my cell, and placed a call.

  “Anything else we’ll need?” the guy on the line asked after I laid it out for him.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Bring an ambulance.”

  * * *

  We spent the next two days ordering takeout, sleeping in the office, and taking turns looking out the windows. Late Thursday afternoon, Joseph spotted McNulty lurking in the entrance to the Bank of America building across the street.

  It was time.

  At six P.M., we rechecked our guns and stuffed extra ammunition into our pockets. Then we rode the elevator down, dashed across a sidewalk teeming with pedestrians, and climbed into the Acura. McCracken navigated the congested city streets, turned onto the interstate, and headed south through the heavy commuter traffic.

  Fifty minutes later, we cruised across the Jamestown Verrazzano Bridge that spanned Narragansett Bay’s west passage. It was dusk now, the overcast sky burning red in the west.

  “Spot a tail yet?” Joseph asked.

  McCracken glanced in the rearview. “Can’t be sure, but there’s a black SUV four car lengths back. It’s been on us for a dozen miles now.”

  “How many men?” Joseph asked.

  “Can’t tell. The windshield is tinted.”

  As we pulled off the bridge, McCracken floored it, not wanting to risk a confrontation until we reached our chosen terrain. We screeched to a stop at the butt end of the Fort Wetherill parking lot and spilled out of the car. Twenty minutes later, we were waiting in the dark, McCracken and I crouching behind a boulder and Joseph lying prone behind a tree.

  “Still think they’re coming?” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” McCracken said. “They’re just being cautious. They know they’ve got us cornered, but they also know we picked the place.”

  Another ten minutes crawled by before I sensed something moving in the gloom. Four men, spread out in military formation, were skulking toward us through the lot. When they drew within forty yards, I saw that they were carrying shotguns.

  They inched closer, just thirty yards away now. And then, from somewhere off to our right, a shout: “Jamestown Police. Drop your weapons.”

  “Cops my ass,” one of the thugs hollered. He swung his shotgun in the direction of the voice and fired.

  * * *