by Ace Atkins
“Yep.”
“She didn’t care for me much.”
“I imagine you’re an acquired taste, Glass.”
“I don’t have the time,” Glass said. “I’m the captain of BPD Homicide. A dead person isn’t a joke and I don’t have time to jack around with some PI all day. I need to know what Welles told you.”
“Probably the same thing he told you,” I said. “That a death squad is trying to hunt him down and he fears for his life. Right?”
“Something like that,” Belson said. He bit the end of a Tampa Nugget cigar and plugged it into his mouth. When he lit it, Glass looked annoyed. As did the man sitting at a nearby table. The cigar smelled of a decomposing trash heap.
“I believe some of it,” I said. “I have the holes in my Land Cruiser to prove it.”
“But I don’t believe the why,” Glass said. “Or the who. Welles blames everything on John Gredoni stiffing some gunrunners. He says these guys are blaming him, too.”
“Yep, that’s what he’s saying.”
“I think he’s completely full of shit.”
“He hasn’t exactly gained my trust.”
Belson looked across the table at Glass. Glass looked annoyed but nodded back. She reached into her purse and pulled out a thin file. She shoved it across the small table to me with a bit of distaste.
“What’s this?”
“Welles’s file,” Glass said. “He told us his real name is Michael Wells. Without the E. His middle name is Bertrand. He has at least three civil suits against him in Georgia and South Carolina. He’s swindled a few other women before he met Ms. Kelly. Sometimes he’s a minister. Sometimes he’s a financial consultant. He’s been arrested three times for practicing law without a license.”
“Shocking.”
“Military service?” I said.
“None,” Belson said.
“I couldn’t find anything, either,” I said. “But I was looking under the other name.”
“CIA?” I said.
“Great thing about that old chestnut,” Belson said, “is that the Agency can’t confirm or deny. Wells is sticking by it. He says he changed his name to throw off his enemies.”
“Of course.”
“Harvard?”
“Ha,” Glass said. “Two years at the University of Georgia in the seventies. And a couple years at Kennesaw Junior College. Animal husbandry.”
“What did he say about all this?” I said.
“We had to let him go,” Glass said.
“You’re kidding me,” I said.
“We couldn’t charge him with being an asshole,” Belson said.
“Or being a fraud,” Glass said. “I think he has plenty of civil matters to answer for. But all I care about is finding out who killed Johnny Gredoni.”
“And what did he say?”
“He gave us a couple aliases of shooters he knows,” Glass said. “Not a single name that we could run. Got a couple descriptions and some slim leads. But that’s about it. The funny thing about him is that even when we told him we knew his real identity, he didn’t budge. He claimed to have been doing covert business in Vietnam and South America throughout the eighties. Real Miami Vice stuff.”
“Do you like him for Gredoni’s murder?” I said.
“He’s a person of interest for sure,” Glass said.
“But we don’t have a motive?”
She shook her head. I drained half the bottle of water. I nodded my appreciation to Belson.
“What about Gredoni’s body?” I said.
Belson and Glass exchanged a long look. Glass was much slower to trust any cop business with me. It would take time, but my charm would wear her down.
“A single shot with a .22,” Belson said.
“Not exactly the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral,” I said.
“No sign of a struggle,” Glass said. “It was quick and effective.”
“And cowardly and impersonal,” I said.
“If Wells did it,” Belson said, “we’ll get him. Despite all the bullshit and bravado, he ain’t that smart.”
“He’s going to disappear,” I said.
Glass nodded. Belson didn’t answer. He just puffed on the cigar and looked out at the Charles River. All three of us sat at the table for a while. The wind off the river rattled the branches of the trees. Red and yellow leaves twirled and floated down in ticker tape succession.
“I hear the water’s getting so clean that they’ll allow swimming next year,” Belson said.
“Would you jump in?” I said.
“Hell, no,” Belson said. “I know how many bodies are down there.”
32
A week later, I had been paid by Connie Kelly and closed the books on her case. Although still watching my back, Hawk widened his circle a bit. I was at my office. Hawk was at the gym. I was still changing up my routine, taking different routes home, and Hawk would show up at unexpected times and places. At night, the cops rolled by the Navy Yard courtesy of Belson. I was sick and tired of M. Brooks Welles, Mike Wells, and Connie Kelly. I was sick of head games and misdirection. I was sick of the back-and-forth and attempts to pull me into the drama. I wasn’t a fan of getting shot at. But more than that, I resented not being able to expose a fraud. Connie’s check cleared and I was looking forward to some mundane, hopefully pedestrian, insurance work for Vince Haller.
It was early fall, but the Sox were still in the hunt. They were battling it out for first place in the division despite not being able to pull out the clutch games. I was listening to a pretty disappointing sixth inning against the Blue Jays when M. Brooks Welles—I still thought of him by that name—walked into my office.
He looked dandy in a tailored gray wool suit, a crisp white shirt with cuff links, and shiny black loafers. He had on a crimson tie adorned with the Harvard insignia. I didn’t say anything. I’m sure it was a lot flashier than one from Kennesaw Junior College.
“Good afternoon,” Wells said.
I nodded.
He took a seat in a client’s chair without being asked. I reached over and flicked off the radio.
“Not good,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“The Sox,” he said. “Down by two. I don’t think it’s their year.”
“I only get nervous when they win,” I said. “This streak keeps ’em hungry.”
He didn’t seem to understand, blandly smiling. He crossed his legs and kept the bemused smile on his face. I had half of a turkey grinder on my desk and an empty coffee cup. My .357 sat next to my table lamp, where I’d been oiling it. Happiness was a clean gun.
“I understand why you called the police the other night.”
“I’m so glad,” I said.
“I know you’re an honorable man and have a reputation to uphold with the locals.”
I didn’t care for the way he’d said “locals,” as in saying something was small. I nodded and let him continue. I had time. I wasn’t meeting Hawk for another hour.
“I know they told you some things about me that you may, or may not, have known.”
I shrugged. Chatty Cathy. Lee Van Cleef had more lines.
“But I want you to understand that my exact name or where I’m from doesn’t change who I am,” he said. “Or what I’ve done.”
“Nice tie,” I said.
He didn’t look down. Nothing showed on his face, only a grim little smile. “I was recruited at a very early age to be in a nasty war,” he said. “The sacrifices we made to stop Communism almost seem quaint today.”
“Are you trying to sell me a book in the Time-Life series or do you have a point?”
“Connie is safe.”
“Okay.”
“And very much loved.”
“As much as the two socialites suing you in Atlanta?�
�
“That was a misunderstanding,” he said. “Connie is very different. We have something very, very special. Those women were shallow and coarse.”
“Sure.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Wells, if you were to tell me we were sitting in the Berkeley Building at this very moment, I may begin to have doubts.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I don’t need you or anyone else to believe me. I used to have a family, and my wife and children had no idea what I did on these so-called business trips. They believed I worked for Gillette and was selling razors in third-world countries. Isn’t that funny? I would come home after equipping guerrillas with U.S. weapons and go to PTA meetings and baseball games. No one knew then. Few believe me now.”
“Maybe you should write a book?” I said. “You could call it American Patriot. Catchy as hell.”
“This book is going to illuminate a lot of people about what we were doing in Vietnam.”
“You and Oliver Stone.”
“And also won’t make excuses about arming the Contras,” he said. “Reagan was right. We all know that now.”
“Ever see Cattle Queen of Montana?” I said. “Reagan and Barbara Stanwyck. Stanwyck was just terrific.”
“I didn’t kill Johnny Gredoni,” he said. “I tried to protect him. He sold some bad guns to some bad hombres and paid the price. I liked him. He was very impressionable and very passionate. I think he would have sold his soul to do what I’ve done with my life.”
“Be a professional liar?”
Wells laughed. It was deep and hearty, a man laughing at his own in-joke. If I hadn’t been behind my desk, I would have slapped my knee.
“You can believe me or not,” Wells said. “I came here to let you know you can now relax. Your life is no longer in danger. The men who killed Gredoni understand he did what he did alone. I just met with them personally. They know you were working for Connie and had no idea what was going on. They have left Boston and will never bother you again.”
“Whew,” I said. “That’s a relief.”
“Some pressure was applied,” he said. “I called in favors to some old friends.”
“Thank God.”
“Can we just shake hands?” he said. “I think under different circumstances, we might actually be friends.”
“No,” I said. “That would never happen.”
“Connie loves me,” he said. “And I love her.”
“So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.”
“Who said that?”
“I did,” I said. “I just said it.”
“It’s real.”
“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”
Wells stood, put on his two-dollar smile, and offered me a facsimile of the old Harvard handshake. I stood up and looked at his empty hand. “You are right about one thing.”
The smile hung on his weathered face.
“If you hurt her, or steal from her again, no one will be able to call me off.”
33
Is it possible for a person to lie to themselves so constantly and deeply that at some point they believe it?” I said.
“You’re kidding,” Susan said. “Right?”
“No,” I said. “I’m serious. Do you think at some point Mike Wells, aka M. Brooks Welles, believes he really has gone on all these adventures? That he really believes he’s an American patriot?”
We strolled through the Public Garden at twilight. The reflection of the yellow and red leaves shimmered on the lagoon. Susan had on a black jumpsuit with tan clogs and a matching tan leather jacket. Her inky hair was pulled back in a bun, enormous gold earrings dangling from her ears. I was glad she was on my arm as we walked over the Lagoon Bridge. A jogger rushed past us. Two men held hands as they passed and smiled at us. They had an elderly corgi on a leash who sniffed at our legs.
“Need I remind you I have a practice dealing with people who lie to themselves every day,” Susan said. “Sometimes people lie to themselves for good. Sometimes people lie to themselves to cover up guilt or deal with some kind of childhood trauma. We could probably speak indefinitely about all the ways a person can lie to themselves.”
“But to believe it,” I said. “To actually believe you are actually someone else.”
“Like George Washington?” Susan said, pointing up at the statue. “Or even God?”
“Don’t get too deep on me here, sister,” I said. “I just can’t figure out why Wells continues to stick by the ruse to someone who knows the facts.”
“What are the facts?”
Susan linked her arm tighter in mine as we moved. The swan boats had been put up for the winter and soon the lagoon would be drained for an annual cleaning. I wondered where all the ducks had gone down south. Did they always go to the same lakes and ponds? Like all Bostonians with time shares in Florida.
“The man never finished college,” I said, “but he wears a Harvard tie.”
“A lot of people lie about their education.”
“And he claims to be a decorated vet,” I said. “About as close to Vietnam he got was a bowl of pho at Dong Khanh.”
“Are you asking, is he a sociopath?” Susan said.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps,” Susan said. “But Connie Kelly has her own issues. Maybe larger than his.”
“Do they deserve each other?” I said. “When push came to shove, she sided with Wells.”
“I don’t know what Connie deserves,” Susan said. “She’s a special case. But she no longer wants my help. I can’t force therapy upon her.”
We stopped walking. I looked to her. A willow tree at the edge of the lagoon flitted in a brisk wind, just touching the surface of the water.
“She’s leaving town,” Susan said. “She’s quitting her job and running off with Wells.”
“Might be good to know if she, or this case, were still my problem.”
“No white-knight dilemma this time?” she said. “To right the wrongs and uncover the truth.”
“And avenge Johnny Two Guns?”
“Exactly.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “As I get older, I realize I have a limited amount of time and a limited number of cases. This is Belson’s and Glass’s problem now.”
She squeezed my arm and leaned up to kiss me.
“What’s that for?”
“An apology,” Susan said. “For admitting you into the circus.”
“Always knew she was nuts?”
“Like I said, she’s a complex case.”
“How so?”
“When it comes to people shooting at you, I’m glad to let you know,” Susan said. “But opening up a patient’s case history isn’t something I like to do. It’s bad for business.”
“A good reason to be nuts?”
“I told you I can’t discuss it.”
“Some really dark stuff?”
Susan didn’t answer, silence showing her annoyance. We kept walking. We were headed to the old apartment on Marlborough to see how the renovation was going. I had no illusions about getting my place back, but we were both curious. After that, we had reservations at our table upstairs at Grill 23. I had my mind set on the scallops for an appetizer and a small filet for dinner.
“She had been routinely and consistently abused,” Susan said. “That makes a person susceptible to putting their immediate trust in a person of power.”
“Even if the power is fake?”
“Confidence is a draw for many.”
“And why didn’t she throw herself at me?”
“You were off the market,” she said. “Taken by another key authority figure.”
“Ah,” I said. “Did I tell you Wells has at least three other lawsuits against him? All women. All former lovers who he conned.�
�
“I imagine it will be lovely until the cash runs out.”
“Some people aren’t happy unless they get back to what they know.”
“Abuse.”
“Abuse by those in power.”
“And for children,” I said, “that would be a parent. A father. Or an uncle?”
Susan pulled me in tighter and said, “You’re pretty smart for a guy with an eighteen-inch neck,” she said. “But let’s change the subject. It’s making me feel uncomfortable.”
“Scallops?”
“Yes.”
“And a gimlet?” I said.
“Of course,” Susan said. “Fresh lime juice and Ketel One.”
“Stick to what you know.”
“As a comely Jewish woman,” Susan said, “I expect nothing less.”
“It’s nice to have the best.”
“You bet your ass.”
34
Ten days before Christmas, I drove Henry Cimoli to Logan. He was spending a week with Zebulon Sixkill out in LaLa Land.
“You’ll like it,” I said. “Everyone is short out there. Alan Ladd was only four feet tall.”
“Five-six.”
“I stand corrected.”
“Veronica Lake was wasn’t even five feet,” Henry said. “Now, that was a broad.”
“I figured you were more a Mary Pickford man,” I said. “When did you see your first talkie?”
“Christ,” Henry said. “Why’d I ask you for a ride? I should have taken a cab. At least a cab would’ve had heat.”
“They fixed the back end,” I said. “The heater works on its own time.”
“Only you would go out and buy a dinosaur,” Henry said. “I’m freezing my nuts off here.”
“Maybe why Z moved back out West?”
“It’ll be good to see the kid,” Henry said. “Thank God he got away from you and Hawk. Pretty soon he would’ve been sitting around and drinking a fucking pinot noir and talking about fucking luxury cheese.”
“We did our best.”
“I’ll let him know,” Henry said.
I drove up to ticketing, popped the back hatch, and walked around to the rear of the Toyota. The body shop had done nice work. I couldn’t tell where the damage had been. And the paint had much improved on the original. I lifted out Henry’s suitcase, pulled out the telescopic handle, and pushed it toward him.
