A Scourge of Vipers (11 page)

“But you're not sure?”

“No.”

“The legislature is in recess now,” she said, “but you can find Longo at home in Bristol or in his office at Bayside Construction.”

“What about Templeton?”

“I don't know. I've got something I need to run by him; but his cell goes straight to voice mail, and he's not answering his home phone either.”

“He's a bachelor, isn't he?”

“He's gay.”

“I hadn't heard that,” I said.

“He's not exactly in the closet,” Fiona said, “but he's private about his personal life. Far as I know, he lives alone.”

“Any idea at all where he might be?”

“No.”

*   *   *

Forty minutes later, I parked Secretariat at the curb outside McCracken's condo and punched his number into my cell phone.

“Hey, Mulligan. What's up?”

“It's a glorious spring afternoon. How about taking a drive with me?”

“Where are we going?”

“To visit your client—the one you advised to go to the state police about Alfano.”

“You figured out who it is?”

“I've got it narrowed down to two, and I'm right outside.”

“Aw, hell. Sit tight. I'll be right out.”

Five minutes later, he lumbered through his front door in a Red Sox T-shirt and cap that matched my own and climbed into the passenger seat.

“It's Longo or Templeton,” I said. “You could save us both time by telling me which one.”

“Sorry,” he said, “but I'm a still stickler for client confidentiality.”

I smirked and cranked the ignition. Secretariat sputtered to life and galloped south on Route 114.

“Any news about the airport surveillance video yet?” I asked.

“No, but I might have something for you later this week.”

Longo lived in a McMansion in Bristol Highlands, a fashionable neighborhood that abuts Colt State Park. He answered the door in a sky-blue Nike sweatsuit, looked me up and down, and growled, “Oh my God, it's the press!” Then he laughed heartily, ushered us in, and said, “And who might this be? Your photographer?”

I made the introductions. From the looks on their faces as they shook hands, I was pretty sure Longo and McCracken hadn't met before.

“So, what brings you two out here on a Sunday afternoon?” Longo asked.

“The gambling bill,” I said.

“Sorry. Can't help you with that. I don't mean to be uncooperative, but anything I might say on that subject would be premature. The governor hasn't even sent it to the legislature yet.”

“I understand that,” I said, “but perhaps you can tell me if you recognize this man.”

I showed him the photo on my cell phone. He studied it for a moment, frowned, and said, “Please come this way.”

He led us down a gleaming, porcelain-tiled hallway that emptied into a sunny family room with a view of a tulip bed and a kidney-shaped swimming pool. He waved us into a black leather sofa, turned the sound down on a seventy-two-inch flatscreen tuned to the Red Sox–Orioles game, and seated himself across from us in a matching recliner.

“I take it you already know something about this, or you wouldn't be here,” he said.

“That's right,” I said.

“The scuttlebutt around town is that you've got a high-ranking source at state police headquarters. Is that where you're getting your information?”

Parisi hadn't told me much, but I figured it was best to let Longo think otherwise.

“You told the state cops about Lucan Alfano's bribe offer,” I bluffed. “Isn't that right?”

“Lucan Alfano?” he said.

“The man in the photo.”

“The greasy bastard didn't give me his name.”

“But you recognized the picture?”

Longo hesitated. “Can we go off the record?” he asked.

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“All right,” I said.

“In that case, yeah.”

“He offered you a bribe to hold up the gambling bill until the governor agrees to turn sports betting over to private enterprise. Is that right?”

“He did.”

“Did he specify who he had in mind to run things?” McCracken asked.

“He did not. He said he'd let me know who to throw my weight behind when the time came.”

“Can you confirm the amount of the bribe offer?” I asked.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars. But if the people he represented got the contract, he'd slip me another twenty-five on the back end.”

“How did he approach you?” McCracken asked.

“He walked into my company unannounced and placed several bundles of bills on my desk.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“He told me what the money was for and threatened me when I declined to accept it.”

“How did he word the threat, exactly?” McCracken asked.

“He said things would go badly for me if I didn't agree to his proposition.”

“Clever,” the P.I. said. “It could be explained away as a warning that things could go badly politically.”

“Yes, but I'm sure that's not how he meant it,” Longo said. “From his tone of voice and the look on his face, I took it as a threat to do bodily harm.”

“What happened next?” I asked.

“I told him to leave, and I called the state police. I spoke to someone in the detective division. I forget the name. But a couple of hours later, Captain Parisi arrived to take my statement.”

“Are you aware of anyone else getting similar bribe offers?” I asked.

“No, but I have my suspicions.”

“Tell me about that.”

“A few weeks after I met with—what was that name again? Albano?”

“Alfano.”

“A few weeks later—it was after that website broke the news about the bill—a couple of legislators who initially voiced support for the governor changed their positions. Suddenly they were insisting that sports gambling should be privatized.”

“Can you tell me their names?” I asked.

“I'd rather not. They could have had legitimate reasons for changing their minds. I'm not one to publicly cast aspersions that I can't prove.”

“Did you tell Parisi about your suspicions?” I asked.

“Somewhat hesitantly, but yes. It seemed to me it was something he should look into.”

With that, we thanked him, and he led us to the door.

“He was helpful,” McCracken said as we settled into the Bronco.

“He was.”

“So I guess we're going to go see my client now, huh?” he said.

“Yup.”

“Fine,” he said, “but can we grab an early dinner first?”

We drove back north on 114 and stopped at Jack's on Child Street in Warren for clam chowder, littlenecks, and beverages. As one Killian's led to another, and then to several more, the conversation turned to my possible future as a McCracken & Associates operative. By the time McCracken ponied up for the tab, the sun was setting, and a steady rain had begun to fall.

*   *   *

Phil Templeton lived in a raised ranch on Pace Court in Lincoln, just a few miles from the North Central State Airport. I parked the Bronco in a turnaround at the end of the cul-de-sac and took a moment to study the dark house. Then I fetched my flashlight from the glove box, and together McCracken and I splashed up the flagstone walk.

McCracken rang the bell, then spotted jimmy marks on the front door. He nudged it open with his shoe, and we stepped into the foyer.

“Mr. Templeton?” he called out. “Hello? Is anybody home?”

We crept down a short hallway, and I swept the flashlight beam over the living room. The coffee table had been knocked over. Shards from a broken carafe and a shattered wineglass or two sparkled against a red stain on the hardwood floor.

“Blood?” I asked.

McCracken dropped to one knee, slid a cheap ballpoint from his pocket, and scraped the end of it against the stain. Then he raised the pen to his nose and sniffed.

“Wine, I think.”

He rose and slid the Glock from his shoulder holster. I tugged the Kel-Tec from my waistband. Together, we prowled the house.

The other six rooms were dark and empty. Upstairs, we found Templeton's home office, a computer humming on his keyhole desk. McCracken pulled on a pair of latex gloves and tapped a key. The screen came to life. He took several minutes to search the legislator's e-mail but found nothing of interest.

We backed out without touching anything else, skipped down the stairs, and left the way we had come. I waited until we were half a mile down the road before I flicked on the headlights.

“So what do you think?” I asked.

“Could be anything,” McCracken said. “A simple break-in. A fight. Maybe he just threw a tantrum when his latest pickup wouldn't sleep with him.”

“Doesn't feel like a housebreak,” I said. “The place wasn't tossed.”

“And you say he hasn't been answering his phone?”

“Yeah. For a couple of weeks.” My mind flashed on the still-unidentified floater. If it wasn't Mario, then maybe—“I've got a bad feeling about this.”

“I don't suppose you have a burner phone,” McCracken said.

“In the glove box.”

“Smart,” he said. “It's always good to have a cheap prepaid handy in case you need to make a call that can't be traced back to you.”

He popped open the box, grabbed the phone, and called the Lincoln PD.

“I'd like to report a housebreak at number six Pace Court.… No, the intruder is no longer present.… No, you can't have my name.”

With that, he clicked off.

*   *   *

I dropped McCracken off at home and drove back to Providence in the rain. By the time I parked in front of my place, it was nearly ten
P.M.
I tromped up the stairs, walked down the short second-floor hallway, and stopped dead in front of my apartment.

The door yawned wide open. I stole a quick glance and saw that the wood around the deadbolt was splintered.

I slipped the pistol from my waistband, raised it, and stood six inches to the left of the doorframe for a minute, maybe two. I heard nothing but the hum from the refrigerator.

Leading with the gun, I stepped inside and hit the switch for the overhead kitchen light. The refrigerator gaped open. The bottles of beer and jars of pickles and tomato sauce that had been inside were now a swamp of shards and goop on the linoleum floor. A heap of metal and plastic that used to be my microwave had been hurled into a corner. The kitchen chairs and table had been tipped over, shattering Tuukka's aquarium.

I stepped into the bedroom and snapped on the light. The bureau drawers had been dumped, the chest tipped over on top of them. The mattress was ripped to shreds, a butcher knife from my kitchen tossed onto the stuffing.

In the sitting room, my battered sofa and stuffed chair had been given the same treatment. The TV lay in pieces between them. My books had been yanked from their shelves and thrown around the room. My turntable lay twisted and broken on the floor, and my treasured collection of vintage blues vinyl, which I'd been picking up at flea markets for years, had been stomped to pieces.

I tucked my pistol back in my waistband and returned to the kitchen. My first thought was of Tuukka. I'd grown fond of the little guy, and now he was on the loose. I rushed to close the apartment door, just in case he was still inside.

And there he was, hanging from the back of the door, his body still twitching. A steak knife from my kitchen drawer had been driven straight through his skull.

Tuukka was just a snake. A cold-blooded reptile. He didn't bark or purr. He didn't greet me with a thumping tail when I came home. He didn't even want to be petted. But I liked him. After years of living alone, I'd taken comfort in his company. He hadn't deserved to be stabbed through the head—but whoever murdered him did. I yanked the knife out and gently laid his body on the counter.

Suddenly I realized I was forgetting something. I sprinted back to the bedroom and threw open the footlocker. It was empty. My grandfather's gun was gone.

 

16

Next morning, I curled Tuukka into a shoebox and buried him in the dirt in the narrow, grassless yard behind my building. A half hour later I was bent over my desk in the newsroom, sorting through the day's press releases, when the security guard called from the lobby.

“Mulligan?”

“Yeah?”

“A couple of Providence police detectives just came in looking for you. I asked them to wait till I called up, but they brushed past me and got on the elevator.”

“It's okay, Johnny. Thanks for the heads-up.”

The homicide twins, Wargart and Freitas, were stepping off the elevator now. They scanned the newsroom, spotted me, and swaggered to my cubicle.

“You need to come with us,” Wargart said.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not just yet.”

“Then you're shit out of luck.”

“You've got some questions to answer, asshole,” Freitas said.

“Come with me,” I said.

I led the detectives to a small, vacant meeting room where we sat at a round butcher-block table with a computer on it.

“You reported a break-in at your apartment last night,” Freitas said.

“I did.”

“And you claimed that your forty-five was stolen,” she said.

“It was.”

“The same gun we asked you about the last time we paid you a visit,” Wargart said.

“Uh-huh.”

“How convenient,” he said.

“Not for me. You must have read the incident report, so you know my place was completely trashed. The bastard even killed Tuukka.”

“Who the hell is that?” Wargart said.

“My snake. You must remember Tuukka. The one without the feathers.”

“Nice cover story,” Freitas said.

“You think I did all that to myself?”