The Dread Line Read online

  After the robbery, when Cargill was busy with the police, Yuri would have had plenty of time to ditch a sweatshirt and jeans and climb back into a suit. But what about before the robbery? Could he have changed into a sweatshirt and jeans and made it into the bank in time to pull the job?

  Maybe.

  I thanked Cargill for his cooperation, left my martini unfinished on the table, and hiked back to the street. When I got there, the Mustang’s taillights were shattered. I hoped the vandalism had slaked Yuri’s thirst for revenge. I’d be no match for him in a fair fight.

  7

  Over the next few days, I left Brady home alone for hours while I worked the case. Each time I returned, he hurled himself at me, licking my face and whining as if he’d been afraid that he was never going to see me again. I could tell he was lonely. On Saturday I rose at dawn, intending to give him a lot of attention.

  I let the big guy out to do his business, filled his food and water dishes, and carried them to the porch. As soon as I stepped outside, I saw them, Brady and the big tabby nose to nose down by the waterline, their coats shimmering in the golden morning light. Brady’s tail wagged as if he were eager to play with a new friend. The cat, something dead gripped in his jaws, hissed and arched his back.

  “Brady, no!” I shouted. But I was too late.

  The tabby raked its claws across Brady’s face. The big dog howled, turned tail, and dashed for the porch. He clambered up the steps and cowered behind my back. The cat stood stock still, studying us. I knelt and took Brady’s head in my hands. Blood seeped from a four-inch gash. The claws had just missed his left eye.

  I led him inside, washed the wound, and dabbed it with hydrogen peroxide. When that was done, I stepped back onto the porch. Brady hesitated at the door and then cautiously followed me out. The cat was gone now, but he’d deposited the headless corpse of a chipmunk in Brady’s water dish.

  My plan to deter Cat the Ripper was not working.

  After breakfast, Brady and I went for a run, five laps around the perimeter of the property. Brady was jaunty, his momentary fright seemingly forgotten. Then I showered, dressed, took the newspaper out to the porch to enjoy the unseasonably warm weather, and waited for company to arrive.

  At nine o’clock, my cell played the opening riff of “Who Are You,” by the Who, my ringtone for unknown callers.

  “Mulligan.”

  “It’s Ford Crowder. I hear you been waitin’ on my call.”

  “I have.”

  “I’m fixin’ to have a sit-down with the insurance investigator on Monday. Y’all might want to sit in.” His accent suggested Kentucky, or maybe West Virginia.

  “Can’t do Monday,” I said. “Can we make it Tuesday instead?”

  “Half past ten Tuesday mornin’. Village Hearth Bakery on Watson Avenue.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, and he clicked off.

  A few minutes later, a red Toyota Tundra rolled down my drive, and Joseph DeLucca, one of only two people I trusted with the keypad code for my gate, jumped out with a brown paper bag in his fist. He climbed the porch, gave me a fist bump, and dropped the bag in my lap.

  “Feels overweight,” I said.

  “Yeah. Eight grand this month.”

  “It’s supposed to be only six.”

  “We had a big September,” he said, “what with the baseball playoffs, college football, and the start of the NFL season. Figured you oughta share the wealth.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know.”

  When I first met him six years ago, Joseph had been unemployed. Since then, he’d found temporary work as a mall cop and a strip-club bouncer. But recently he’d found his calling running the day to day for me from the back room of Zerilli’s Market on Hope Street in Providence. Our deal was that he’d keep whatever was left of the bookmaking profits after expenses, which included payoffs to the cops; a taste for the local mob boss, Giuseppe Arena; and the six grand a month for me. My role was to wire half of the monthly take to my old friend Zerilli’s bank account in the Caymans and deal with any trouble that might arise. So far, there hadn’t been any. The arrangement put Joseph’s cut at more than double mine. Since he was doing all of the work and taking most of the risk, it seemed only fair.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Beer.”

  “Of course. What was I thinking?”

  I took the paper bag inside, deposited the bundle of hundred-dollar bills in my floor safe, fetched a coffee for myself and a beer for Joseph, and rejoined him.

  Brady followed me out and immediately took a liking to Joseph. Before I knew it, the two of them were rolling around on the porch, growling and play-fighting like litter mates. After ten minutes of this, Joseph pulled himself to his feet, brushed a bushel of dog hair from his size triple-X Boston Celtics game jersey, and said, “Beautiful day, ain’t it.”

  “Want to take the boat out? Could be our last chance till spring.”

  “Fuck, yeah.”

  He helped me stock an ice chest, Narragansett for him and Killian’s Irish Red for me. As I loaded it onto the boat, Brady leaped aboard. I let Joseph take the helm as we chugged north toward Bristol, Brady sniffing the salt air and barking at the swooping gulls.

  We chatted about sports—who the Red Sox might chase on the free agent market, the Patriots’ chances of making it to the Super Bowl again, and Danny Ainge’s struggle to rebuild the Celtics’ roster.

  “Any problems at the store?” I finally asked as we cruised along the east coast of Prudence Island.

  “Not really. One of my regulars is on the hook for eight grand, but I ain’t worried. He’s good for it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I mean, he ain’t got it now, but he will soon as he gets drafted.”

  “Drafted? Who are we talking about?”

  “Conner Bowditch.”

  “The Conner Bowditch.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Jesus! What’s he been betting on?”

  “Last winter, basketball and hockey. Since then, mostly baseball.”

  “No football?”

  “No.”

  “You sure he hasn’t bet on any Boston College football games?”

  “Fuck, no. If he tried betting on his own team, I wouldn’t have let him.”

  “Good thinking.… Could he be laying bets with anyone else?”

  “No idea.”

  “Maybe you should cut him off.”

  “Naw. He’s the best defensive tackle in the country. Gonna be one of the first five players taken in the NFL draft next spring. That means a four-year deal for at least eighteen mill. And probably a twelve-million-dollar signing bonus.”

  “Next spring? He’s just a junior, right?”

  “Yeah, but the word is he’s gonna declare for the draft a year early.”

  “Okay, then. I trust your judgment.”

  I took the wheel on the way back, Joseph too blitzed on ’Gansett to be trusted. When we got home, I poured coffee into him, sobering him up for his drive home to Providence.

  * * *

  Once Joseph was gone, I fed the dog and chowed down on some leftover Chinese takeout. Then Brady and I sat together and watched the sun go down. As the moon rose over the bay, I locked him inside and drove the Mustang to the Narragansett Café.

  Roomful of Blues was already a couple of songs into the first set when I pushed through the door, squeezed into the packed house, and ordered my first Sam Adams. I was on my third when I spotted Belinda Veiga.

  She was wearing a tight blue dress and sipping a cocktail at a two-top she shared with a tall, ruggedly handsome twentysomething who sported a short auburn beard. Ellington Cargill’s son, Alexander, was standing over them, his face contorted in anger.

  I considered making my way over there to eavesdrop, but I would have needed the Patriots’ offensive line to clear a path through the crowd. Besides, the music was too loud for me to hear anything anyway.

  When t
he band took a break between sets, I slipped outside for a short smoke. I’d just set fire to a stubby Arturo Fuente Perfecto when Veiga came out and poked a cigarette between her lips. I whipped out my Colibri and gave her a light.

  “Great band, huh?” she said.

  “You bet.”

  “I’m loving that lead singer.”

  “Phil Pemberton,” I said. “Roomful has been tearing it up since he joined them a couple of years ago.”

  “How’s the investigation going?”

  “Slow.”

  “Learn anything new?”

  “A little.”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing I’m ready to talk about.”

  “Come on. You can tell me.”

  “There’s not much to tell, Belinda.”

  “Oh.… Okay.”

  “Was that Alexander Cargill I saw standing at your table a few minutes ago?”

  “You noticed that, huh?”

  “I did. Looked to me like he was mad about something.”

  “That jerk’s been hitting on me all night,” she said. “I finally told him to fuck off, and he didn’t take it well.”

  “Most young women would have leaped at the chance.”

  “Because his daddy’s rich?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yeah,” she said, stringing the word out. “That’s why I let him take me out a couple of times last summer.”

  “It didn’t work out?”

  She shook her head, those dreads bouncing on her bare shoulders. “Money’s nice, but it can’t buy a personality. And he’s shorter than me even when I’m wearing flats. Money can’t fix that, either.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I prefer tall men. How come you haven’t asked me to dance?”

  “I thought you were with the guy with the red beard.”

  “Dmitry? He’s just a friend.”

  That sounded like another Russian name, a rarity in Rhode Island. Did Yuri and Dmitry know each other?

  “I was tempted.” I said. “But I’m not in the market. I’ve got a steady.”

  “Oh, really? Then how come you’re alone tonight?”

  “She’s a visiting law professor at the University of Chicago this year,” I said. “I won’t see her again till Christmas break.”

  Belinda tossed me a stern look. “There’s not something else going on here, is there?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe you’ve got something against colored girls.”

  “Far from it,” I said. I fished out my wallet and showed her a photo of Yolanda.

  “So I’m your type, then.” Her lips curled in a mischievous smile. “I won’t rat you out to your girlfriend. I promise.”

  “This place is too crowded for dancing,” I said.

  “Come on. We’ll make it work.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me inside.

  As Roomful began its second set, Belinda stood in front of me and moved to the rhythm, her ass rotating against my groin. I told myself that getting close to Belinda might help with the investigation. I knew it was a lame excuse, but it was the best I could do on short notice.

  Later, as Pemberton crooned a sexy ballad, Belinda draped her arms around my neck. I caught Cargill and Dmitry staring at us. Judging by the looks on their faces, neither of them liked what they saw.

  As usual, Pemberton closed the last set with Sam Cooke’s classic “A Change Is Gonna Come,” his voice dripping soul. As the band packed up, Belinda planted a wet kiss on my lips and insisted that I take her home with me. She was a fine-looking woman, but she was no match for Yolanda. Nobody was.

  I drove home alone and spent a few minutes cuddling with Brady. Then I crawled into bed with my cell phone and checked the time. It wasn’t midnight yet in Chicago.

  “Hi, baby.” The warmth in her voice sent a ripple straight through me.

  “Hi, Yolanda.”

  “Where you been? I tried calling earlier.”

  “Roomful was playing a little club on the island.”

  “Damn! Wish I’d been there with you.”

  “Me too.”

  “Who’d you go with?”

  I told her everything—except the part about the kiss.

  * * *

  On Sunday, I dropped the Mustang at Art’s Auto Body and took a cab to Barry’s Auto Group in Newport. There, I checked out the sports utility vehicles and made a deal for a black five-year-old all-wheel-drive RAV4 with seventy thousand miles on the odometer. A second car was a luxury, but I figured Brady would be growing out of the Mustang before long. The manager let me drive the car off the lot with dealer plates and promised to call when the paperwork went through.

  On the way home, I stopped off at a hardware store and bought a kid’s lever-action Daisy air rifle. I didn’t relish the thought of hurting an animal, not even by stinging it with nonlethal BBs, but Cat the Ripper had no such qualms. I wasn’t about to let him maul my new pal again.

  8

  “That’s one hell of a disguise,” McCracken said. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve never seen you in a suit before.”

  “Just bought it last week,” I said. “First one I ever owned.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Hoping to make a good impression on our new client?”

  “I was worried they might not take me seriously unless I look the part.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s why I wore Armani today.”

  I was seated in a leather visitor’s chair in front of McCracken’s glass slab of a desk on the fourteenth floor of the Turks Head Building in downtown Providence. Behind him, high windows looked down on a neighborhood of restored colonial homes nestled just across the shit-brown ribbon of the Providence River.

  Shortly after one o’clock, Sharise, McCracken’s secretary, buzzed to alert us that the representatives from the New England Patriots had arrived.

  “Show them in,” McCracken said.

  The door swung open, and a fiftyish bruiser with a shaved head and a gray handlebar mustache strutted in. He was trailed by a slim, somewhat younger man who wore his hair in a brush cut. Both sported New England Patriots T-shirts under unzipped Patriots warm-up jackets. It was apparent that our sartorial splendor was wasted on them.

  The bruiser introduced himself as Marcus Eliason, the assistant director of player personnel. The younger man was Ellis Cruze, the team’s chief of security.

  Sharise stuck her head in the door and asked if she could get us anything. “Coffee,” Eliason barked. “We both take it black.” Sharise raised an eyebrow. She was not accustomed to being barked at.

  Our guests took a moment to admire the framed, autographed photos that lined the off-white office walls. Action shots of Ernie DiGregorio, John Thompson, Jimmy Walker, Marvin Barnes, Johnny Egan, Lenny Wilkens, and a half dozen more basketball legends from Providence College, where McCracken and I had been undergrads half a lifetime ago. Then they settled into the tan calfskin couch. As McCracken and I took easy chairs opposite them, Sharise popped in, curtly delivered the coffee, and departed, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  “So how can we be of assistance?” McCracken said.

  “Are you football fans?” Eliason asked.

  “We both are,” I said.

  “Then you must be aware of the character problems the NFL has been dealing with the last few years.”

  “Of course,” McCracken said. “Adrian Peterson’s child abuse case. Domestic violence charges against Greg Hardy and Ray Rice. Assault charges against T. J. Ward and Pacman Jones. LeGarrette Blount’s and Kellen Winslow Jr.’s drug cases. The gun charge against Aldon Smith. Michael Vick’s dog-fighting conviction. To say nothing of the three murder charges against your former tight end, Aaron Hernandez.”

  “Those would be some of the highlights,” Eliason said.

  “The league has been getting a bad rap on thi
s,” Cruze said. “Fewer than three percent of all professional football players ever get arrested. They’re much less likely than the average American male to get into legal trouble.”

  “But we aren’t trying to minimize this,” Eliason broke in. “Incidents like these damage the NFL brand. And when teams are forced to suspend players for off-field behavior, on-field performance suffers.”

  “Not to mention the havoc it wreaks with my fantasy football team,” McCracken said. “How can we help?”

  “In previous years,” Eliason said, “the Patriots have relied on our scouting department to conduct background checks on all of the players on our draft board.”

  “The NFL security department helps, too,” Cruze said. “Every year, they provide all thirty-two teams with investigative reports on two thousand draft-eligible players.”

  “But clearly, some red flags have been missed,” Eliason said. “This year, we’ve decided to hire professional investigators to supplement our research. What we’d like you to do is run a thorough background check on one particular player we’ve got our eye on.”

  And then it dawned on me. “Conner Bowditch,” I said.

  Eliason’s eyes widened in surprise. “How’d you know?”

  “He’s the only Rhode Island kid likely to be taken high in the draft.”

  “I guess you do know football,” Eliason said. “Looks like we came to the right place.”

  “Our corporate rate is twenty-two hundred a day plus expenses,” McCracken said. “And we’ll need a thirty-thousand-dollar retainer to get started.”

  Cruze nodded and pulled out a checkbook.

  “Our scouting department has compiled a preliminary report on Bowditch,” Eliason said. “I’ll FedEx it to you, but there’s not much in it. As far as we can tell, the kid’s a choirboy.”

  “He’s not,” I said. “He’s into a Providence bookie for eight grand.”

  Eliason and Cruze exchanged glances.

  “You know this how?” Cruze asked.

  “I figured you’d be asking about Bowditch,” I lied, “so I’ve already done some digging.”

  “Your information is solid?” Eliason asked.

  “It is.”

  “What’s the kid been betting on?” Cruze asked.

  “Hockey, basketball, and baseball.”