Robert B. Parker's Little White Lies

by Ace Atkins

  “We did some excellent work,” Nguyen said. “This second shipment was supposed to be even bigger. Maybe a hundred assault rifles. Not to mention countless handguns and possibly a fucking grenade launcher.”

  “That’s rocket-propelled grenades, Spenser,” Lundquist said.

  I nodded my appreciation. Lundquist grinned.

  “We know the guns made it to Boston,” Nguyen said. “And we planned to intercept the guns once a buyer, or buyers, were in place.”

  “But the best laid plans,” I said. “And all that.”

  “Unfortunately,” Nguyen said, “with Gredoni dead, we hoped you might help us understand exactly what the hell is going on.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “As in you can’t help?” Nguyen said. “Or won’t?”

  “Can’t,” I said. “I don’t know anything. Gredoni didn’t exactly trust me. But since I came when called, perhaps you can share what you know about Mr. Welles?”

  Everyone but me turned and looked at Cardillo. Cardillo coughed into his hand to clear his throat. “We know who he is,” Cardillo said. “But not sure how he fits into all this.”

  “As in, you know who he says he is?” I said. “Or you know who he really is?”

  Cardillo frowned even more than I thought was possible. “We know he’s been quite popular on TV,” he said. “And that he was a partner of some sort with Gredoni.”

  “That’s it?”

  “He’s part of this gun pipeline into Boston,” Cardillo said. “But we can’t seem to find out his real name or where he’s getting these guns. That’s ongoing.”

  “Just out of curiosity,” I said. “Were you guys watching my place in the Navy Yard a few nights ago?”

  The agents didn’t answer. Lundquist finished off his glass of water and reached again for the carafe. “Oh, hell, Bobby,” he said. “Just say you boys lost the guns. And haven’t a goddamn clue where they’ve gone.”

  “Whoops,” I said.

  Nguyen looked over at his two agents. He shook his head and swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “A big fucking whoops for us.”

  26

  It was dark and raining when I left my office late that night. After removing a ticket from the windshield and tossing it in the nearest receptacle, I drove toward the Common on Boylston. The streets were slick and gutters full as traffic inched past the Four Seasons and toward Charles. My thoughts turned to dinner as the iron lamps glowed in the Public Garden and people milled about carrying umbrellas. I was planning on picking up a loaf of good bread and a six-pack of dark beer and making chicken-salad sandwiches when I spotted the tail.

  I didn’t wish to be suspicious or paranoid, but I was pretty sure one of the ATF agents decided to have me followed. I couldn’t imagine why a trustworthy, taxpaying citizen like myself would merit such scrutiny. Maybe it was more than just my dealings with Gredoni. Maybe they thought I was in cahoots with Welles. Or perhaps they’d found out about Connie Kelly and believed we’d done the Feathered Peacock pose in Toledo and somehow violated the Mann Act.

  I followed Charles along the Public Garden and Common toward Beacon Hill. A black sedan, looking very government-issue, turned with me onto Beacon and as I threaded my way to Storrow. I thought about stopping off at The Four Seasons and inviting them in for a quick one. But if they didn’t have a sense of humor, I doubted they drank on the job.

  I didn’t have a second thought about who was following me until the sedan clipped the rear bumper of my Land Cruiser. It jacked me forward a bit, my seat belt catching my chest, as I uttered an obscenity, pressed my accelerator, and sped forward. They sped up, too. I turned my windshield wipers on high, crossing over the river locks into East Cambridge.

  I tried to recall if I’d offended any of the men I’d met earlier. Did I mumble? Slump in my seat? Did I spit on the sidewalk when leaving the office? Or perhaps they knew I’d tossed my parking ticket in the trash? The sedan nicked my bumper again. I knocked it into third, hit the gas, and threaded through two, then three more cars. The rain fell harder, pinging off my hood, making it tough to see who was following. I moved in and out of more cars, stopping for a long moment at a stoplight before breaking the law and shooting through a gap in the traffic.

  I thought I’d lost them at the overpass. But traffic slowed again and soon they were back. I spotted two figures in the front seat. And now it appeared two black SUVs were joining us. They looked very much like the Yukon that tried to run down Welles in Lynn. Lovely.

  I might’ve outmaneuvered them on the crooked streets of Charlestown, a neighborhood I knew very well. But I’d made great effort to hide my new address and few knew where I lived. I headed up onto the expressway toward the Mystic River Bridge and onward into Chelsea.

  I crossed the river and took the Fourth Street exit. All three vehicles followed. I made a quick right turn onto Pearl and then shot back up onto Park and then to Central Avenue. I raced down Central, past the big cemetery, the sedan passing me in the opposing lane and sliding ahead, leaving the width of a prosciutto slice between us. One SUV took the same path in the wrong lane, scattering an oncoming car up onto the sidewalk. The second SUV moved close behind, the crew boxing me in. Storefronts, packies, and triple-deckers whizzed by my window as the SUV bumped me.

  My Toyota was an older model, what some might call a classic, that had a retrofitted V8 and a new suspension. They’d have tough going on denting in the hood. I had a big grille guard and a winch out front. If I found a break in the parked cars, I could run up on the sidewalk and race ahead. But after seeing The French Connection, I had a weak stomach for pedestrians and baby carriages.

  Their box maneuver didn’t last long on the narrow streets. A delivery truck lurched forward in the opposite lane, slowing the SUV and sending it to the rear of the class.

  We were headed fast and hard for the Chelsea Bridge, seeing the tall lit towers now visible far in the darkness. I slowed to put more space between me and the sedan. The SUV bumped me from behind but it was too late. I had at least twenty feet between me and the sedan. I zipped forward, clipping the sedan hard at the left taillight, sending it spinning out at the next intersection. The back end swung around three times before stopping and crashing into a parked car.

  The two SUVs tightened up the chase as I zipped around the car.

  I downshifted into third at a red light, the second SUV and I barely making it though. As we raced forward, the second SUV got T-boned by a white van, sending it reeling and spinning in the rearview. Unless the last SUV was equipped with a gun turret, I could lose them. We both headed over the Chelsea Bridge and into East Boston. I heard sirens but did not look back.

  We were out of the narrow neighborhood streets and deep into a no-man’s-land of metal warehouses and big oil tanks, gated lots locked with high chain-link fences. My plan was to keep driving and trying to evade, all the way to Canada if necessary. The driver grew more aggressive in the open space, coming up fast in my rearview mirror. The SUV nudged me again, the driver trying to duplicate my pit maneuver, but wasn’t quite able to gather enough speed. I was going at least ninety along the long fence line, the SUV right behind me, our headlights stretching into the rain and darkness.

  Ahead, two pickup trucks exited an access road, blocking my path and making me brake hard into a long sideways skid. It was enough for the SUV to pick me off, knocking my car up off the road and careening toward and through a chain-link fence.

  My head hit the steering wheel and my ears flushed with blood. I caught my breath, unlatched the seat belt, and reached for the door handle. I ran from the Toyota across a gravel lot to behind the wide expanse of an oil tank. I heard car doors jack open and turned in time to see two men, again with ski masks and brandishing automatic rifles, exit the Yukon.

  I dove Pete Rose–style into the dirt by the tank and bear-crawled twenty yards around the circular tank. They opened
up with the guns, undeterred by the FLAMMABLE signs, bullets plinking off the metal holding thousands of gallons of oil. I didn’t even realize I already had my .38 in my hand. I found a metal staircase to hide under and wait and pray we weren’t blown all the way to Nantucket.

  My breath was harsh and lousy in my ears. The rain was in my eyes. I wiped my face and found blood and sweat on my sleeve. I waited. I heard footsteps and yelling.

  I found a spot to level my .38 on a metal step, waiting for the first one, who rushed forward in the blackness.

  As he appeared, I fired off two shots.

  I caught him high in the chest and he tumbled backward. Four more shots from the other guy. I waited. I steadied my breath. I swallowed.

  There were sirens. A lot of sirens coming from the Chelsea Bridge.

  The black SUV raced forward and I aimed my gun right at the driver, squeezing off three shots. And then another. It slid to a stop and I reloaded. The driver leaped out, tossed the downed man in the GMC, and took off. I ran out, aiming for a back tire. But missed. The car fishtailed out onto the slick street and headed out of sight.

  I walked back to my Toyota. My head felt like I’d just gone twelve rounds with Jake LaMotta. I wiped my face, blood coming from my nose.

  My Land Cruiser sat crooked in a ditch, a long stretch of chain-link fence caught up under the back tires. The lights glowed and the windshield wipers slapped back and forth.

  I spit out some blood, reached inside for my phone, and called Belson.

  27

  And how long did that shit jam you up?” Hawk said.

  “Only six hours,” I said. “I left BPD this morning at two.”

  “Be me,” Hawk said, “and my ass still be in the tank.”

  “You don’t think it’s my stellar and unblemished record with local law enforcement?”

  “Sure,” Hawk said. “That must be it. And your lily-white Irish ass.”

  We were sitting in a booth at the S&S at Inman Square. I’d had the Parisian French toast with a cup of black coffee. Hawk ordered the Nova Scotia omelet with a glass of champagne. It was eleven in the morning.

  “You think you killed him?” Hawk said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Belson is checking all the hospitals.”

  “Of course he is,” Hawk said. “But if he’s a pro, he ain’t going to no hospital.”

  I looked down at his plate. “What exactly is in a Nova Scotia omelet?”

  “Eggs with lox and onions,” he said. “Figured you’d know, as you into Jewish women.”

  “Just because I have sex with a Jewish woman doesn’t make me kosher.”

  “Okay, white boy,” Hawk said. “Next time it’ll be the gefilte salad.”

  “Oy vey.”

  Hawk sipped his champagne. A gathering of old women in a nearby booth eyed him as if they’d just spotted a rare jaguar. He lifted his glass toward them and grinned. The women smiled back and nervously looked away. They chittered away among their little group. “You got some kind of trouble, Spenser,” Hawk said.

  “Do tell.”

  “And I ain’t talking about the radiator on that old rattletrap you driving.”

  “It’s a classic.”

  “Nothing but another word for old,” Hawk said, taking a bite of his eggs. He grinned and sipped some champagne. “Might look into buying a tank. These boys you dealt with ain’t like homegrown talent.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Soldiers of fortune,” Hawk said. “That’s what Sergeant hearing. Maybe working for Gredoni and mighty pissed when he ended up dead.”

  “They think I killed him?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe they did it. I only run across one of them in my travels. Fella named Brother Bliss.”

  “Bliss?”

  “Former Army sniper,” Hawk said. “Been around a long while. His passport look like a kids’ coloring book.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Same thing I do,” Hawk said.

  “Winning hearts and minds?”

  “Sure,” he said. “That what you want to call it. Heard Bliss took out three ISIS motherfuckers last year with a machete.”

  “And the others?”

  “Figure he got a crew,” Hawk said. “Don’t know names.” He motioned the waitress for another glass of champagne.

  Hawk could probably drink a tanker full of the stuff and not feel it. I’d been up late. I stuck to black coffee.

  “Bliss works out of North Carolina,” Hawk said. “Cold-blooded. Covered in tattoos. Real good with a gun. Urban warfare. Blowing shit up. Why these folks want you dead?”

  “Professional jealousy.”

  Hawk didn’t laugh. He toyed with the stem of the champagne glass.

  “They must have me mistaken for someone else.”

  “As in you working for Mr. Welles?” Hawk said. “Not against.”

  “Something like that.”

  “How about you try and explain it to them?”

  “I tried,” I said. “But it was hard to talk as they were running me off the road and shooting at me with assault rifles.”

  “Complicates things.”

  “You know a way of reaching out to them?” I said. “See what they want?”

  “I’ll talk to Sarge.”

  “I met with some ATF agents yesterday,” I said. “They told me a big shipment of guns had gone missing. Probably what this Boy Scout troop is looking for.”

  Hawk nodded. He drank some champagne. One of the old women wandered up and asked if he played for the Patriots. She had a pen and paper in her hand. Her grandson apparently was a big fan.

  I laughed. Hawk didn’t.

  He took the pen and paper, signed it with flourish, and gave it back. The woman beamed and wandered back to her table.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Motherfucking Tom Brady.”

  “I could tell from your UGGs.”

  Hawk jutted his leg out and showed off his black crocodile cowboy boots. I picked up the bill and pulled out my wallet. Hawk looked at me.

  “Only fair,” I said.

  “Where you think you’re going?”

  “Home.”

  “Nope.”

  “They don’t know where I live.”

  “They will.”

  “I didn’t ask you to jump into this mess.”

  “Too late.”

  I nodded. “Your standard rate?”

  Hawk grinned. I paid the check and we left together.

  28

  Don’t you feel bad?” Susan said.

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re in bed naked with me,” she said. “And Hawk is out there. Somewhere.”

  “Would it be better if I were punishing myself with some form self-flagellation?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He’d still be out there,” I said. “Watching. If he’s not, then he won’t do any good.”

  “I still feel bad.”

  “He’s Hawk,” I said. “Not a puppy.”

  “Can I bring him some coffee?” she said.

  “I’ll bring him some coffee,” I said. “I’d like you to be clear of all this mess until it’s over.”

  “I’m already in it,” she said. “In fact, I was in it before you.”

  “Have you spoken with Connie?”

  Susan’s head was on my chest. I was drinking a bottle of water. Pearl was out in the family room, snoring on Susan’s couch. I could hear the TV playing Animal Planet. Pearl was a big fan of Animal Planet, particularly shows about rare or endangered species.

  “I don’t think it violates any ethics if you confirm she’s had an appointment.”

  Susan didn’t answer. I stroked her slick hair and handed her the water bottle. She drank down most of
what was left and turned on her stomach, looking up at me through a tangle of black hair. “You didn’t tell me about your visit with Connie the other night.”

  “Not much to tell.”

  “She’s pretty tough on herself,” Susan said. “Being taken for that kind of money by a man no one seems to really know has hit her hard. Her confidence. Her self-esteem. She’s pretty lost and desperate.”

  “Welles, or whatever his name is, is a true predator,” I said. “He was looking for a woman just like her to con.”

  “Do you think he might hurt her?”

  “Physically?” I said. “I don’t think so. But I can’t figure out why he’d want to see her again. He has her money, after all. I don’t believe it had anything to do with calling me off.”

  “Ego,” Susan said. “He must make her understand that what he did was right. And in her best interest.”

  “A true con man would’ve been long gone,” I said. “And wouldn’t look back.”

  “Do you think he might have killed Gredoni?”

  “At this point, everything is on the table,” I said. “But as Gredoni continued to sing his praises, I believe these men just happened to get to him first. They were partners. Welles is next on their list.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll try and keep a wide berth until I sort it out.”

  “All about guns?”

  “It seems that way,” I said. “The ATF believes Welles was Gredoni’s supplier. A few of their guns ended up in some gang action in Boston.”

  “Did Connie discuss leaving this alone?”

  “No,” I said. “Unless you know something I don’t?”

  “Perhaps you need to discuss the matter with her,” Susan said. “If she were to drop the case, about getting her money back, what would you do?”

  “Leave it to the Feds,” I said. “This isn’t my job.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I know you can’t say,” I said. “But can you give me a hint just exactly what the hell is going on? It seems I can’t get a straight answer from anyone these days. Welles, Connie, the Feds, and now the woman who shares in my carnal delights?”