Shotgun Lullaby (A Conway Sax Mystery) (28 page)

“That's not the most gracious or politically correct way to put it,” Rinn said, dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex. “But it's accurate enough.” She blew her nose.

Randall said, “It appears the experiment was a success?”

“A dismal failure. In every way.”

He looked a question at her.

Rinn shrugged. “Gus and I gave it the old college try. No luck. Our sessions became grotesque reenactments of my efforts with Peter. Can you see how miserable that would be for Gus?”

Randall said, “Not so hot for you, either.”

“By then, you'd told Gus all about how his dad couldn't get it up,” I said. “I'm betting it was one of the things you all made fun of Peter for.”

“Gus always thought of himself as pansexual, an if-it-feels-good-do-it type,” Rinn said. “Our epic bedroom failures forced him to reevaluate. They ruined our friendship, of course. They made Brad hate my guts. He was always much more into Gus than Gus was into him.”

Freaks.

Rinn half-laughed. “About the time I was ready to break out the turkey baster, along came an opportunity that seemed to solve everything.”

“Charlie Goddamn Pundo,” Randall said.

I took an easy guess. “Somewhere along the line, during your big cocaine spree, Charlie fell for you.”

“We met at the Hi Hat and fell for each
other
.” Now she locked eyes with me. “I
told
you, this is not a one-way street for me and never has been. Charlie has been places. He's done things. He's got this … he's got something similar to what
you
have.”

I said, “A truck payment he can't afford and a drinking problem?”

Neither of them laughed.

“Did Pundo know you were pregnant? And that the baby was his?”

Rinn nodded.

“How'd he react?”

“He was thrilled. He'd always wanted a girl, believe it or not.”

“I can see where he would have struck you as impressive,” Randall said. “Especially after you'd been palling around with Peters and Guses and Brads.”

“Half-men and boys and potheads,” I said. “And you've got that bad-girl side to you.”

“Exactly.” She shook her head to clear it. “Charlie and I became a furtive item. Meanwhile, I was procuring coke from Teddy on a regular basis, and Charlie knew nothing about that—he would have killed Teddy if he had. When I learned I was pregnant, I confided in Gus. It seemed so …
elegant
to have the baby.”

“Peter would think she was Gus's, with that lovely Biletnikov DNA,” Randall said. “The rest of the world would think Peter was a testosterone champ, makin' whoopee with his gorgeous young wife.”

“And you and Gus would pocket a million apiece,” I said. “But what did Pundo think of the plan?”

“It didn't bother him. He said he wanted a daughter, not
credit
for a daughter.”

We said nothing for awhile. “There's one other thing I want you to know,” Rinn said, “though I assume it's too late for you to ever respect me. The minute, no, the
instant
the pregnancy was confirmed, I quit the cocaine like that.” Finger snap. “Everything else, too, including booze. I found I didn't want it anymore.”

She sneaked a glance at me.

“You're a goddamn saint is what you are,” I said.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“The mind reels,” Randall said as we walked the path to the cemetery.

“Freaks,” I said.

“So what's our move?”

I thought about that as we stepped from woods onto manicured grass. His car and my truck were maybe fifty yards away.

“From the get-go, Donald acted like he had dirt on Peter Biletnikov,” I said.

“And?”

“Not ‘and.' ‘But.' He was vague as hell. I put it down to con man's instinct, the urge to always hold back. Maybe it was something else, though. What if he suspected this freak show but hadn't confirmed anything when I first met him?”

Randall knew where I was headed. “He did confirm it eventually. And the confirmation got him killed.”

“By whoever killed Gus, most likely. Anybody who looked ready to blow the secret got wiped out.”

“And who wanted the secret kept in the worst way?”

“Peter Biletnikov,” I said. “And Charlie Pundo.”

He leaned on his car. “Peter I'll buy. The man's all about appearances, and the second wife with the bouncing baby means
way
more to him than it should. He's got inadequacy issues, paranoia issues. Maybe he goes a little crazy when the secret looks shaky.”

“But you're not sold on Charlie Pundo?”

He shrugged. “A wiseguy bangs a young broad who digs outlaw types. This is not unprecedented.” Randall's voice: bitter, brittle.

“I guess. But the iPods. That's Harry High School stuff. Mixtapes, remember those?”

“It was mix
CDs
when I came along, gramps. But okay. Point taken. It's out of character.”

“Unless it's not.”

He looked at me.

“Unless,” I said, “there's more to that character than we know.”

I climbed in my truck and headed for Charlene's place.

*   *   *

Charlene wasn't home. I found Sophie in her room, laying out her cheerleading uniform and gear.

“Almost forgot,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Big competition tomorrow. Worcester?”

“Springfield.” She didn't look at me. She grabbed a can of hairspray and a brush that had rolled toward my hip when I sat, moved them a few feet. Davey, who spent twenty-three hours a day on the bed, opened one eye. I knew my other cat, Dale, would be under the bed, ready to swat my ankle when I rose.

Sophie looked over her array, still not lifting her eyes.

“What's wrong?” I said.

“Jessie's gone again.”

Hell. “Same guys?”

“No, she left with Kaydee. She borrowed a hundred dollars from me.”

“Where's your mom?”

“Where do you think?”

Work.

“There's nothing we can do,” Sophie said. “Is there?”

“I guess not.”

I stood. Sure enough, Dale took a rip at my boot. It's how he asks for attention.

I carried him downstairs, told him he could help me put a frozen pizza in the oven. He lay in my arms like a baby, white belly up, and chirped. He does that.

*   *   *

While the pizza heated, Charlene texted. She'd be home in fifteen minutes. I texted back that dinner was under control. Then I looked at my cell, weighed it in my hand. What the hell. I dialed Lima.

“Where do you stand on the shotgun?” I said when he picked up.

“At the corner of Who's Asking and Go Fuck Yourself,” he said. “You got a set of balls, Sax.”

“I'm going to tell you something you don't know.”

Pause. “Okay. Listening.”

I hit Lima with the bomb about Charlie Pundo and Rinn Biletnikov. I hard-sold, starting with the iPods.

“You saw those iPods while you tossed the Biletnikov place,” he said when I finished. “Just like you said you would.”

I said nothing.

The line was quiet awhile.

“It's interesting shit, I'll give you that,” Lima finally said. “But where does it
take
us? Where does it hook up to Almost Home or the Biletnikov kid?”

“Seems to me,” I said, “a few more steps will get you there. Somebody's jealous. Somebody's being squeezed for dough.”

He sighed. “My first homicide. Why couldn't I get a gangbanger blasting a gangbanger while a dozen wits and a security cam watched the whole thing?”

“Where are you with the shotgun?”

“The tat for your tit.” He laughed.

I said nothing.

“Good news, bad news,” Lima said. “The good's that ATF, DHS, and FBI jumped when they heard about the piece. Turns out there's this cat in the Czech Republic. A little man, they say, 'bout ninety years old. He starts with a single stainless-steel billet, crafts a shotgun in any configuration you like, ships 'em all over the world. All the customer needs is a suitcase full of money. Price per gun starts at a hundred grand. The Feds would love to cream this dude mostly because he makes fools of them—he's got a bunch of tricks for shipping the weapons one piece at a time.”

“What's the bad news?”

“The Feds have about as much sway in the Czech Republic as they do on the moon. They know exactly who made the piece, but there's not a damn thing they can do about it.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit.”

“Let me nail something down,” I said. “Just for the hell of it. Is the shotgun from Crump's SUV the one from Almost Home and Gus?”

He said nothing.

“I'm not asking for court-of-law proof,” I said. “Come on, Lima. You know, or think you know. Same gun?”

“It has not been ruled out.”

Now
I
said nothing.

“It's all I'm allowed to say.” He sounded sorry about it.

I didn't give a rat's ass if he was sorry.

“My pizza's ready,” I said. And clicked off.

*   *   *

It wasn't a good night, what with the cardboard pizza and Sophie mourning and me thinking about the case and Charlene trying to pretend everything was okay.

But we got through it.

At two in the morning, the home phone and my cell rang at the same time. The cell was a Framingham cop. The home line was a reporter from the
MetroWest Daily News
.

Both callers said my shop was on fire.

It was two thirty by the time I got there.

Ladder trucks, engines, pumpers, ambulances, cop cars. Half a dozen sirens screaming at each other. The fire crew had axed a hole in the roll-up door, busted out all the windows. They were hosing like crazy. It looked like the fire was under control, and this was mop-up time.

I stepped. I stared. I felt heat on my face.

My jaw: slack.

A cop asked who the hell did I think I was and tried to chase me off.

Another cop told him I was the owner.

I said nothing to either of them. I just stood and watched and thought.

There were at least two customer cars inside. They were junk. It looked like more customer cars in the parking lot were goners, too, between the hoses and the heat. I wondered if Floriano had backed up the computer. I wondered about my insurance. I wondered if we'd kept up with all the EPA and OSHA bullshit. The insurance companies love to find a regulation you missed, then screw you with it.

I wondered, in other words, the things you wonder while you watch your business burn.

With no warning, I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. I dropped to a knee. The nearest cop asked if I was okay. I nodded. He said wait here, then left. Came back in thirty seconds with what had to be the boss firefighter.

I stood. We shook hands.

He said he was sorry, then yelled in my ear. “How many waste-oil drums you got?”

I held up one finger.

“How full?”

I had to yell myself. “Been two weeks and change since they pumped it out. Must be pretty full by now.”

He mouthed:
Fuck
.

On cue came a deep, dull thump as forty gallons of dirty oil caught fire.

A new round of flames jetted from the windows and the bashed-in door. Neighbors screamed. Firemen backed up, controlled but fast. Every cop in sight started herding civilians away.

I backed from the heat on my face. Matt Bogardis, the cop, came over. He walked me to a cruiser where we didn't have to yell.

“Your neighbor saw something,” Matt said. “Or heard, actually.”

“Which neighbor?”

“The guy owns the aquarium-supply store. He sleeps on a cot in his back room. I guess his family life ain't so hot.”

“What'd he hear?”

“A window breaking. Just before she caught.”

I looked at Matt.

“While the fire was under control,” he said, “I took a quick look at the window. I wanted to see if maybe it popped once the heat built up.”

“Did it?”

He shook his head. “There's no glass in the alley. It broke from the outside in. Your place was firebombed, Conway.”

Then Matt patted my shoulder and asked what I needed and said things about nobody being hurt and thank God for insurance, huh?

I wasn't listening, and I wasn't thinking about insurance.

I was thinking about the Pundos.

I was thinking about how they were going to pay.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

This was the third shop I'd owned. It was the most successful by far, but I wasn't married to it the way I'd been to the previous two. Maybe because we'd been up and running less than a year. Maybe because we worked mostly on Japanese cars, rather than the BMWs and Mercedes I loved.

Maybe because Charlene had bankrolled this one.

By the time the cops and the firemen were done interviewing me, there was no sense trying to sleep.

Besides, I was enjoying my revenge plan. Savoring it. Felt like I
finally
had a clean target: the House of Pundo. Sure, I'd had my eye on Peter Biletnikov for Gus's murder. But this changed that. A firebombing was a gangster move all the way. I would've tipped to that even if I hadn't watched Charlie Pundo's guys torch his warehouse.

No way would I call Randall this time. He'd just talk me out of it.

I was going west hard and hot, and if the Pundos weren't nervous about it, they ought to be.

That was the plan, anyway. The 4:30
A.M.
, false-dawn, shivering-on-the-bumper-of-a-fire-truck plan.

But false dawn's a rough time.

All the gung ho had trickled from me, leaving me instead with the image of Gus dead in his backyard, a few feet from the motocross track he made as a kid.