Bad Thoughts (15 page)

      
“What about his personnel record?” Dornich asked with a thin smile.

      
A pained expression formed over the desk sergeant’s face, like he had gas. Dornich pulled out Susan Shannon’s retainer check and showed it to him.

      
“He just disappeared?” the desk sergeant asked. “Just like that?”

      
“That’s right.”

      
“And you think there’s something in his folder that could help find him?”

      
“I think so.” Dornich shifted his weight so he was leaning casually against the wall. “Maybe he went to his hometown or something. His wife doesn’t even know where he grew up.”

      
The sergeant said he was going to make some phone calls and he turned three quarters of the way around on Dornich. The first call was obviously to Susan. It was short and polite. The next call was longer. The way the sergeant joked around and by the language he used, it was to another cop. When he got off the phone he turned back to Dornich grinning widely.

      
“Shannon’s wife said she hired you,” he said, his shit-eating grin growing as he spoke. Dornich just smiled back.

      
“I also called a friend of mine who works out of narcotics in East Boston. Joe Wiley. He said you were a hell of a cop when you were on the force. That before you retired, you were head of detectives.”

      
The name was only vaguely familiar. Dornich kept his smile intact. “Joe’s a hell of a guy himself,” he said.

      
“Yeah, sure. He wanted me to ask you how you got the nickname Pig?”

      
The fat detective’s smile dulled a bit. “It’s because of the way I sweat.”

      
“You’re sure that’s the reason?”

      
“I’m sure.”

      
“Nothing else?”

      
“No, nothing else. It’s because I sweat like a pig.”

      
The desk sergeant broke out laughing. “Quite a nickname,” he said as he rubbed some wetness from his eyes. “Wait here. I’ll see what I can get you.”

      
Dornich waited patiently. He hated that nickname. Hated it more than anything. Even though he’d never admit it to himself, it was the reason he retired from the force. Head of detectives at fifty and retired at fifty-one. All because of a rotten nickname.

      
The desk sergeant wandered back. He stood very close to Dornich and pushed a wad of paper into his hand. “Slip this inside your jacket,” he said, winking. The paper disappeared quickly into the fat man’s jacket.

      
“What do you think about Bill Shannon?” Dornich asked after the sergeant got back behind his desk.

      
“A smart guy. Maybe too smart. But he’s a good cop when he’s not acting like a wacko.”

      
“Does he have a girlfriend?”

      
The sergeant shrugged. “I wouldn’t be the guy to ask.”

      
“Any sort of reputation with hookers?”

      
A cautiousness darkened the sergeant’s features. “Again, I wouldn’t know,” he said, his voice guarded.

      
“I can appreciate that.” Dornich showed the few teeth he had left as he smiled broadly. “Of course, nothing I find out goes back to his wife. I just want to bring him home.”

      
“I’ve never heard anything about Shannon playing with hookers,” the sergeant said stubbornly.

      
Dornich took out his handkerchief and rubbed it quickly along the back of his neck. A grin crept along the sergeant’s face as he watched. “Quite a nickname,” he said.

      
“Sure was,” Dornich agreed. “By the way, his partner . . . ?”

      
“Joe DiGrazia.”

      
“Is he around? I’d like to ask him a few things.”

      
“Sorry, he took the day off. Not feeling well.”

      
Dornich couldn’t keep from smiling. A real smile this time. Big surprise about DiGrazia. Obviously, the party was still going on. He asked the sergeant for a home number and the sergeant told him no problem, consulted a directory and scribbled the number down for him.

      
“Let me leave my number in case he calls in,” Dornich said.

      
“Sure, go ahead.”

      
Dornich wrote it down and handed it to the sergeant. He hesitated. “I’ll tell you,” he started, a playful smile forming over his round face, “the world has changed since I left the force. Eight years ago murders meant something. Maybe a domestic situation that got out of hand or some scumbag trying to muscle in on some other scumbag’s territory. But there was always something behind them. Nowadays they mean nothing. It can be simply because you look at a punk the wrong way. These days, words lead straight to gunplay.”

      
“Yeah, these kids out there now are nuts.”

      
“Not just the kids. You can just call someone the wrong name and have a Magnum .357 shoved up your ass. I’ll tell you, though, it will clear away hemorrhoids better than anything I know. You might want to tell your asshole buddy Joe Wiley that.”

      
The desk sergeant had the look of a man badly wronged. He reluctantly accepted Pig Dornich’s sweaty extended hand.

* * * * *

      
It wasn’t until after five o’clock that Dornich was able to reach Joe DiGrazia at home. He told DiGrazia what he wanted and DiGrazia gave him his home address and invited him to come over.

      
When DiGrazia answered his door, Pig Dornich knew he was on the right track. Eyes were bloodshot red, bags heavy enough to check in at the airport, and a hungover complexion that gave the cop’s skin a feverish look. The general haggard appearance of a man who’s been screwing and snorting hard all night.

      
DiGrazia gave the fat, smug detective a quick look up and down before stepping aside for him. “Susie hired you, huh?” he asked.

      
“She’s worried about her husband. I was hoping you could help.”

      
“Hey, anything I can do.” DiGrazia seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment as his eyes wandered away. When they focused back he asked Dornich if he wanted a beer. Dornich said okay and DiGrazia asked him to follow him, that they could talk in the kitchen.

      
He tossed a beer can to the fat man and took one for himself, then sat down at the table and held the can firmly against the side of his face. “Got a real bad headache,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been out all night and day looking for that sonofabitch. Just got home a half hour ago. I was going to take a quick nap and go out again tonight.”

      
“Rough day,” Pig Dornich agreed.

      
DiGrazia still had the beer can pressed against the side of his face. His eyes were half closed and dropping fast. He shrugged.

      
“You find anything?”

      
DiGrazia slowly opened his eyes. He stared silently at the fat man for a few seconds, his face hardening. “What the hell do you think?” he said at last. “If I found anything, you think Susie would’ve wasted her money hiring you?”

      
“I was hoping maybe you found something.”

      
“That’s not what you meant,” DiGrazia said. “Don’t try and be a wise guy with me. You got something in your throat, spit it out. Otherwise, in the mood I’m in I’d be more than happy to do the fucking Heimlich on you.”

      
“I was hoping you could tell me about his girlfriend,” Pig Dornich said defensively.

      
“What do you mean girlfriend?”

      
“Just what I said. Who’s he with now?”

      
DiGrazia stared long and hard at Dornich before shaking his head slowly. “Susie knows better than that,” he said. “Where the hell you get that idea?”

      
“I don’t have to tell the wife any of it. I just want to find him and bring him home. If his party ends a few days earlier than expected, that’s too bad.”

      
DiGrazia stared at the fat detective incredulously and then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “There’s no girlfriend,” he said in a tired voice. “What did you think, that the two of us had a couple of hookers and some coke and were partying it up?”

      
“No.” Pig Dornich hesitated. “I was just asking—”

      
“Yeah, sure. Let me tell you something. Bill does this every goddamn year. Completely flips out for a couple of weeks. Right now he’s out there without a clue. You don’t believe me, you can talk to his therapist. I’m sure Susie can get you her name and number.”

      
Pig Dornich fidgeted uncomfortably. He knew he screwed up, that he could’ve played his hand much better, but that wasn’t what was bothering him. Doubt was beginning to work on him. “What have you been doing to find him?”

      
“Barhopped all over the goddamn place showing Bill’s picture. Didn’t get anywhere. I thought it might help if I knew where he’d been drinking last. That’s the way it always works. He loses it while drinking. After last call I drove around places in Boston, Revere, and Charlestown where he’s ended up in the past. Nothing there, either. But there probably wasn’t any chance of there being anything. I don’t think there’s any pattern to what he does after he flips.”

      
The phone rang. DiGrazia reached for it. “What is it? Ah, shit, I’m beat . . . No kidding? In the mouth? Yeah, does sound similar. Doesn’t make sense, though. We got our guy locked away . . . Okay, sure, I better check it out . . . Thanks.”

      
He put the receiver down and stared expressionlessly at Pig Dornich. “I have to go,” he said, his voice dead tired. “Police work. Give me a call in a few hours. Maybe I’ll drive around with you and fill you in some more. Maybe we can even find the sonofabitch.”
 
 

Chapter 16
 

      
February 12. Midday.

      
The first thing he felt was the throbbing in his fingers; next he felt the cold. Shannon lifted his head and found himself squinting against the sunlight. As his eyes adjusted to the light he realized he was lying in a basement of what was probably an abandoned building. The sunlight he was squinting against was coming through a broken window.

      
The overall effect was disorienting. After all, one second Shannon had been in the Black Rose working on a bottle of bourbon the slow way, shot by shot, and the next he was lying on a hard, cold floor in some foreign basement.

      
He knew what had happened. That he had been gone since that second at the Black Rose. He pushed himself into a sitting position and looked over his hands, making sure there were no gashes or cuts. He quickly checked his fingers, feeling for frostbite and then felt over his body probing for any injuries or broken bones. It brought to mind a story he once read about a leper who was constantly checking himself for cuts, always worried about gangrene setting in. That was what it had come to for Shannon also, being unaware of what damage, if any, he had been doing to his body. For all he knew he could’ve been sitting there bleeding to death.

      
But he wasn’t. His skin felt cold and raw but there were no cuts or broken bones. He ran a hand over his face and felt that his skin was intact; a few day’s growth but no damage. His nose and ears felt numb but they didn’t feel frostbitten.

      
He pulled himself to his feet. Other than the throbbing in the fingers of his right hand, he didn’t feel that bad. Kind of dry in the mouth and his legs a little wobbly, but other than that, not that bad.

      
He was still wearing the same clothes as when he was drinking at the Black Rose. They were pretty much a mess. With some relief he found his wallet and badge were still in his pockets. He pulled out his wallet. There was still money in it.

      
The basement had a dank, musty smell. It was, for the most part, empty; a few broken bottles and some bags of garbage but not much else. He walked over to the broken window. There were pieces of glass lying along the floor underneath it.

      
Shannon walked up a small flight of stairs and found the door nailed shut. The wood, though, was rotting. He braced himself and then kicked it down. A couple of crack heads were sitting in the hallway smoking some stone. One of them was completely oblivious to him, the other one looked up from his pipe, kind of surprised.

      
“Hey, man,” he asked, “what were you doing down there?”

      
“Hell if I know,” Shannon said. He walked over them. The oblivious crack head never looked up. The other crack head started swearing.

      
“That’s right,” he sputtered out, indignant. “Just walk over us like we’re trash.”

      
Shannon ignored him. He heard some more crack heads upstairs arguing about who owed who for what they were smoking. The front entranceway had been boarded up but some of the boards had been pulled loose. As Shannon was squeezing through the opening, he heard the indignant crack head yelling at him.

      
“Just kick down other people’s doors like they’re your own,” he was yelling. “No respect for other people’s property. No goddamn respect.”

* * * * *

      
It turned out he wasn’t that far from home. The abandoned building was in Roxbury, a section of Boston located only a few miles from Cambridge. He bought a newspaper and was relieved to see that he’d only been gone five days. Five days was better than a week. Still, it was five days that were lost to him. Five days of doing God knows what. A chill ran through him. Like usual, whatever he was doing, he wasn’t eating a hell of a lot. His clothes felt loose on him. At least this time, though, he wasn’t sick. At least he made it past February tenth in one piece. He had to be thankful for little favors. When he tried hailing down a cab, the driver attempted to swerve past him, but Shannon stepped out in front of the cab and held out his police badge. The driver pulled over and Shannon climbed in and gave him his address.