Robert B. Parker's Little White Lies

by Ace Atkins

  “Of course he is,” I said. “And the Feds.”

  “Is that official?”

  “He hasn’t been named in the indictment against Reverend Ridgeway, EDGE Corp, and church officials,” I said. “They’re waiting for him to slip up.”

  “And so far?”

  “Not a peep,” I said. “ATF believes he may be in Orlando.”

  “My friend at the publisher said everything is cloak-and-dagger,” she said. “He calls using a scrambled phone. He says his life is in danger.”

  “How has he been paid?”

  “He was paid a partial advance,” Rachel said. “But he’ll expect another payment when the book is published.”

  “And where will that go?”

  “Apparently, he has an attorney in Atlanta,” Rachel said. “Details are in the notes I gave you.”

  “I’m a slow reader.”

  “But a fast drinker.”

  I looked down at my empty glass and hers only filled with ice. For some reason I seemed to consume all liquid at the same speed. Whether water or whiskey. I raised my eyebrows and nodded to the bartender. We watched him deftly pour my beer and then reach for a bottle of Blanton’s.

  “What would draw him out?” Rachel said. “Is there anyone who might make contact?”

  “The wife and family are still in Georgia,” I said. “The ATF is all over that.”

  “And what else?”

  “Money.”

  “Aha.”

  “That’s usually my line.”

  “Could he have money stashed somewhere?”

  “Not that I know about,” I said. “The church’s assets have been frozen. We have no idea where he might have gone. Or who he might’ve become.”

  “How much did he take from your client again?”

  “Almost three hundred grand.”

  “Was she wealthy?”

  “No,” I said. “Although Wells didn’t know that.”

  “Could she have had more?”

  I shook my head. I drank some more beer. I tilted my head and looked at Rachel. She and I smiled at exactly the same moment.

  “Perhaps she might’ve left him something?” she said.

  “In her will.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I don’t know if she even had a will.”

  “Do you know someone who might concoct one?”

  “I only fraternize with highly ethical attorneys.”

  “But as a favor?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s a big favor. That might get them disbarred.”

  “Wells would have to fly to Boston,” she said. “For the reading.”

  “And he’d insist on money on the spot.”

  “A wire transfer,” Rachel said, tilting her head in the low light. “Do you think he’d fall for it?”

  “I think he’s full of more bravado than common sense.”

  “Mmm,” she said. “I’ll find out more on the Atlanta attorney.”

  “And I’ll twist the arm of one of my lawyer pals.”

  “Lovely.”

  We clinked glasses and drank. She downed her bourbon in an impressive manner.

  “I’d walk through a snowstorm for you, Rachel Wallace.”

  “And did.”

  I winked at her. I could have sworn Rachel blushed.

  62

  Vince Haller hated the idea. And said he took great umbrage that I would even suggest involving him in such a scam.

  I promised him two weeks of pro bono sleuthing and free tickets at Fenway at his leisure. He passed. I promised him a month of my services. Again, he passed.

  “All I need is a formal letter and a will.”

  “No way.”

  “Do you know everything Wells has done?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” he said. “Not a prosecutor.”

  “This man stole more than a quarter of a million dollars from my client,” I said. “She forgave him. When that got messy, he had her killed.”

  Vince was silent. I told him more about what I’d learned down south.

  “The wheels of justice grind slowly,” I said.

  “Unless you cheat.”

  “It’s not cheating,” I said. “It’s facilitating.”

  “Can you get her family to agree?” he said. “If her estate is involved in the bait, I’m less likely to be run out of Boston on a rail.”

  “In other words, the money would be offered from her estate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once Wells signs the documents, they could be turned over to the family’s financial advisers.”

  “That, of course, would be up to the family,” he said. “I’d be a simple emissary for the estate. I wouldn’t handle the money.”

  “Ah.”

  “You know some good financial advisers?”

  “I know a few guys who hang out down at the Tennessee Tavern,” I said. “They know creative ways to keep books.”

  “Won’t he suspect something?”

  “As far as Wells knows, he walked away scot-free,” I said. “Can you make it imperative he claims the money in person?”

  “I can certainly try,” he said. “And Spenser?”

  I waited.

  “Please keep all other details to yourself,” he said. “I really don’t want to know.”

  Haller hung up. Four days later, he told me Wells’s Atlanta attorney had called. The meeting had been set. Wells would claim his reward.

  —

  IT WAS A BRIGHT AND COLD February afternoon, sidewalks scraped clean of snow and ice. As I drove up Boylston, steam rose from under sewer grates and manholes. I wasn’t sure if Wells would show. But the promise of nearly half a million from Connie’s estate might get him over his stage fright. After I parked under Post Office Square, I waited on a park bench watching the lobby of Vince’s office. If Wells got close, even to make sure all was clear, I’d be there.

  Shadows stretched through the park and over snow mounds as an early darkness fell. Wells didn’t show. Thirty minutes passed. And then an hour. It was cold, even colder because I couldn’t move. I began to fantasize about a hot pizza and a cold beer with Susan.

  As I was about to leave, I saw a man of Wells’s size and build walk down Franklin Street. The man wore a blue wool coat and an Irish walking cap. Two minutes later, Haller called me to let me know Wells had arrived.

  A half-hour passed. No Wells. No call from Haller.

  I stood to stamp my feet in the cold. My Red Wing boots were crusted with snow. I leaned against the park bench and stretched my legs. I tucked my hands into my jacket and attempted to get warm. Haller called. All had gone according to Hoyle. Wells had signed documents and confirmed accounts for a wire transfer.

  Within a few minutes, Wells walked from the old New England Telephone & Telegraph building and crossed Franklin Street. He moved within twenty feet of me without taking notice. I watched while he headed toward the parking garage entrance. I noted a big smile on his face.

  He disappeared into the glass box leading down deep into the garage built beneath the park. I followed him out of the cold and into the depths below Post Office Square. I moved steadily down the steps, turning and turning down the underground stairs.

  He walked into the garage whistling an unrecognizable tune. When he reached into his pocket and I heard a car alarm chirp, I was within ten yards. He idly looked over his shoulder as I got closer and stopped cold.

  “Spenser,” he said.

  “Pastor Wells.”

  He grinned some more. Somewhat amused by the whole thing. Two old pals running into each other.

  “You’ve been following me.”

  “It was either me or ISIS,” I said. “I figured you’d be happier to see me.”

  His eyes loo
ked over me and then around the parking deck. Red neon lights by the elevators glowed an ominous red. Wells just stood there in the middle of the garage, hands in his pockets looking to all the world like a prosperous businessman. Navy wool coat. Irish cap. Hair once again going gray at the temples.

  “You should have never come back.”

  “She was a waste,” Wells said. “She wasn’t worth your time.”

  “But you had her killed?”

  “She was going to destroy my family,” he said. “The church and our mission. Bliss made the call. I didn’t kill her. I swear to Christ.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “They used me,” Wells said. “Ridgeway. Bliss. They brought me in because of my work with the Agency. But I knew it was wrong. I was putting together evidence to stop them.”

  “Did you kill Gredoni?”

  “That was Bliss,” Wells said. “He killed him, Connie, and that man working for the Feds. I’ve given my life to the United States government. I am a patriot who’s had to work in some very dark places. Listen to me. Listen to me, goddamn it.”

  I didn’t speak. I observed him.

  After a moment, Wells said, “What now?”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “Oh,” Wells said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Some people want to ask you some questions.”

  “Then let them find me.”

  He began to turn. I pulled my .38 from my hip and shook my head. Wells’s hands had not left his pockets. I watched him look me over and swallow. All our movements and voices echoed on the concrete, five stories down into the earth.

  “Connie’s money?”

  I shook my head.

  “Her estate?”

  I shook my head again. He chuckled and shook his head.

  “My attorney will fight this,” he said. “I will sue you. I will sue the federal agents who continue to try and harass my family. I will sue everyone.”

  I nodded. “Hand me your keys,” I said. “Slowly.”

  His eyes flicked over mine. Both hands in his pockets. We were still alone in the garage, only the intermittent squeal and turn of tires on the exit ramp.

  “Slow,” I said.

  His eyes leveled at mine. Serious. He swallowed again. His left hand emerged holding the keys. He dangled them before me. I stepped forward slowly. His right elbow lifted a bit.

  “Nope,” I said. “Really a terrible idea, preacher.”

  His eyes dropped. He nodded. His right hand came out empty. I snatched up the keys and reached into his coat pocket to find a Taurus G2. Lightweight and slight, but effective with .40-caliber ammo.

  I popped the trunk to a nearby BMW sedan. I motioned him toward the opening.

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “I’m in a sentimental mood.”

  “I have friends,” he said. “People who owe me favors in Washington. I’ll be out by morning. I had been working against Bliss for years. He and Ridgeway had fooled a lot of people. Including you and your hoodlum friends.”

  I helped him into the trunk. His Irish walking cap fell onto the pavement. I picked it up and tossed it inside before I slammed the trunk closed. He was still talking as it shut.

  I started the car and drove toward the nearby ATF offices. I left the keys in the car and headed toward the Charlestown Bridge. Halfway over the bridge, I called Nguyen and told him I’d left him a late Christmas present.

  It was very cold and silent over the Charles River, frozen and unmoving below me. As I walked home, the lights along the old Navy Yard glowed warm and welcoming in the distance.

  63

  I thought you hated these things,” Susan said.

  “This is a special occasion,” I said.

  “Not to mention, it’s an open bar,” Susan said.

  “Oh,” I said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  I handed her a vodka gimlet. I had a bottle of Harpoon ale, a wet napkin wrapped around the cold bottle. We stood at the edge of the banquet room of the Boston Harbor Hotel. The sun was setting and the guests of the Jumpstart event were making the most of the bar before the speeches. Susan wore a knee-length sequined black dress that doubled my heart rate. The windows filled with an ethereal orange light.

  “Did you ever doubt Wells would give the right account?”

  I shrugged. “I only wanted to catch him,” I said. “The fact he had siphoned off some of the church’s funds was a bonus.”

  “Which worked out very well for Jumpstart.”

  “I told Connie I’d get her money back.”

  “That,” Susan said. “And then some.”

  I nodded and drank some beer. A friend of mine named Bill Barke walked over. We shook hands and talked for a while about hunting dogs and bourbon. Not to mention Connie’s posthumous gift of half a million dollars. Soon, the sunlight started to fade and guests were called into the event. Overhead lights flickered. Men in tuxedos and women in glimmering gowns headed into the great room.

  I watched the harbor go from orange to a dark black. Choppy waves and the twinkling of bright lights of the airport. A coldness spread across my chest and my lungs started to tighten.

  “Are you okay?” Susan said.

  “Ah, what pleasant visions haunt me.”

  Susan nodded. “It’s done.”

  I nodded. She walked up to me and placed her arms around my back. I took her in close, smelling the good soap and shampoo. Lilac. The cold was gone. It was warmth and heat and now I could breathe.

  “You promised to get me drunk,” she said.

  “And then let you take advantage of me?”

  “How hard can that be?”

  “I’m an easy mark.”

  “Will you tell me lies?”

  “Never.”

  “We’re all susceptible to little ones.”

  “We don’t need them.”

  “No,” she said. “We don’t. And never have.”

  “Don’t you feel sorry for all the other saps?”

  “Honestly, my dear,” Susan said, “I don’t really give a shit.”

  I grabbed her hand and we strolled back to the empty cash bar. I ordered another round to make good on my promise.

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