by Parker
"Address?"
"Mr. Patton's."
"No, the pickup address in Swampscott."
"33 King's Beach Terrace."
"Who's the driver?"
"College kid, Ray Jourdan, lives on St. Paul Street in Brookline."
She gave us the address. We left and got back in Brian's car and drove back to my loft. I got out. Brian got out and came around and stood next to me.
"I got to check in at the station," he said.
"I think I can take it from here," I said. "The driver will talk because his employer sent me."
"I don't think you should brace Kragan alone."
"I'll have less chance to learn anything," I said, "if there's a Boston cop standing around."
"How about your ex-husband," Brian said. "Kragan might walk a little softer if he was around."
"He's baby-sitting Millicent," I said, "while Spike's working lunch."
"Everything we know about Kragan says he's dangerous," Brian said.
"Remember how we met," I said.
Brian put his arms around me.
"I remember," he said.
"So you know, I am not without resources."
"I know," Brian said.
We hugged each other for a moment. Then Brian pulled back a little and grinned down at me.
"In a pinch," he said, "you could probably love him to death."
I smiled, and said "You should know."
"Yeah," he said. "The voice of experience. Will I see you tonight?"
"I'll call you," I said.
Ray Jourdan lived on the second floor of a three-story walk-up off Washington Street. He was a light-skinned black man with merely the implication of an accent, which I guessed was Caribbean. He told me he was a graduate student at B.U. "I always drove for Mr. Patton," he said.
"You ferry his girls back and forth."
"Girls?"
"When Mrs. Patton was out, Mr. Patton would have girls brought out to the house," I said. "They'd come in a limo. License tag says Crowley-8. You always drive for Patton..."
"Yes. I brought the girls."
"Where did you pick them up?"
"In the parking lot outside the Chestnut Hill Mall. Front entrance."
"Same girls each time?"
"I'm not sure."
"You can't tell one from another? Didn't you get out and hold the door?"
"They were always Asian," Ray said. "They tend to look alike to me."
"Well, aren't you politically incorrect."
Ray smiled. He was nervous about this, but he was contained. "And me a minority myself," he said. "But it's true. I don't think they were the same girls, but I couldn't tell for sure."
"Did you deliver them back to the mall?"
"Yes."
"How long did they stay?"
"Usually I'd have them back to the mall about one-thirty, two o'clock in the morning."
"You have no idea wh they were visiting."
"No."
I thought about it for a while. Albert, from Providence.
"This is a good job for a guy needs to work part-time," Ray said. "Lot of time sitting and waiting, you can study. If you tell Mr. Patton you've been talking to me, I'm pretty sure he'll have me fired."
"I don't see why I'd have to tell him," I said.
"At least until I get my degree," Ray said.
CHAPTER 42
In Massachusetts, the record of political campaign contributions for all candidates is available to the public from the Secretary of State's office. With Millicent and Rosie in the car I parked illegally outside the statehouse. A cop came over. I rolled the window down just enough for Rosie to stick her head out and try to lap the cop. "Lady," he said. "Can you read ... Sunny darlin'!"
"Tommy, this is Rosie, and this is my friend Millicent. I just have to run in for a couple minutes."
Tommy Hannigan put his hand out and let Rosie lap it.
"Put yourself right there, darlin'," Tommy said. "Next to the Buick. Space is reserved for a guy shows up every year for the Christmas party."
"Good, Tommy. Can you keep an eye on my dog and my friend?"
"Certainly," he said. "How's your dad?"
"Just fine," I said. "You know he's retired."
"Two more years for me," Tommy said. "Take your time. I'll be right here till then."
I went in and got the list of political contributors for Brock Patton. I went back, gave Tommy a kiss, got in my car, and went on down the back of Beacon Hill to Cambridge Street. I parked at a hydrant outside the Starbucks on Cambridge, and went in and got two oatmeal maple scones and two cups of Guatemalan coffee. I brought them out, gave coffee and a scone to Millicent, and a half a scone to Rosie, and kept the other half for me.
"We going to sit here while you read that stuff?" Millicent said.
"Yep."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Drink your coffee. Eat your scone. Give bites of it to Rosie. Watch the people passing by. Savor the moment of uncompromised leisure that you're afforded."
Millicent sighed loudly.
"Can I play the radio?" she said.
"Sure. Anything but talk radio. I can't stand talk radio."
She fiddled with the radio, moving irritably from one station that played hideous music to another station that played hideous music. Where's Neil Diamond when you need him.
I had just taken a bite of the scone and a short slurp of Guatemalan coffee, and Millicent had just tuned in her fifth hideous heavy metal station, when I came across the name Albert Antonioni, of Providence, Rhode Island. I was two names past it, someone named Amaral, when I stopped and went back. Albert, from Providence. That's what the driver had said about who was with Cathal Kragan in the back of the limo when they called on Brock Patton. I was orderly and patient. I went through the whole list, which took a second scone and trips for two more cups of coffee. There were other Alberts, and there were other people from Providence. But none that were both.
"Do you know anyone named Albert Antonioni?" I said to Millicent.
"No."
"He might have been a friend of your father's?"
"No."
She fiddled with the dial some more.
Albert Antonioni. The name seemed familiar. There was some kind of Italian movie guy named Antonioni, but the name was familiar in a different context.
"I have to make some calls," I said to Millicent.
She didn't react, so I reached over and turned the radio off. "Just while I call," I said.
She slumped in the front seat and stared out the window. Rosie climbed around from the back seat and got in her lap. Before she could catch herself Millicent patted her. I picked up the car phone my mother had given me for Christmas last year, and made some phone calls and ended up talking to a detective in the Providence Police intelligence unit named Kathy DeMarco.
"He's the man down here," Kathy told me. "When the old man died, and junior went to jail, Antonioni was the guy who had to run things for the mob. At first it was temporary but pretty soon Albert was consolidating. And he consolidated the opposition right out of existence. And now he's the man."
"The usual way?" I said.
"Of consolidating? Yeah: bang, bang."
"Might he be expanding?" I said.
"Be his style," Kathy said.
"Is he connected at all to Brock Patton?" I said. "Who used to be the president of Roger Williams Trust?"
"Not that I know. Lemme bring it up on the screen." I waited.
"Got nothing under Antonioni," Kathy said. "Lemme look under Patton."
I waited some more.
"No Brock Patton," Kathy said. "How about Cathal Kragan?"
"Who?"
I spelled it.
"That his real name?"
"I don't know," I said. "Just a guy I'm trying to locate."
"What are we," Kathy said. "A dating service?"
"I don't want to date Cathal Kragan," I said. Kathy looked it up.
"No Cathal Kragan," she said.
/>
"Thank you," I said. "Can I get a picture of Antonioni?"
"Sure, Sunny, all part of the service," Kathy said.
"Actually," I said, "I know it isn't. So thank you."
"You're welcome," she said. I gave her my address.
"If I come across the elusive Cathal," Kathy said, "I'll give you a buzz."
"Be sure it's the right Cathal Kragan," I said.
"I'll try to sort them out."
We hung up. I left it in the cradle and pushed the speakerphone button and called the answering machine in my loft. I pictured the empty loft with a new canvas sitting and waiting on the new easel. I felt displaced, drinking yuppie coffee with my yuppie cell phone listening to messages from my empty home.
There was a message from my mother saying that they were worried because I was never home when they called.
The next message said, "If you do not return Millicent Patton to her parents, you will be killed."
"It's him," Millicent said next to me.
"Who."
"The man in the bathroom that looked right at me. The man was with my mother, when you know ... him."
I rewound the message and we listened again. The voice was deep and contemptuous and full of power.
"It's him," Millicent said again. "What are you going to do?"
"Let me just hear my messages," I said. "Then we'll talk."
The last message was from Anderson, the Framingham cop who had let me into Kevin Humphries' plumbing office.
"Got something you might be interested in," Anderson said. "Gimme a call."
I shut off the phone. And sat back and took a breath.
"Clues are pouring in," I said to Millicent.
"What you going to do about him? The man? He said he was going to kill you."
"I won't bring you back," I said. "If that's worrying you."
"No. I knew you wouldn't," Millicent said. "But he said he'd kill you."
"Actually he said I'd be killed."
"Whatever," Millicent said. "What are you going to do?"
"Sooner or later," I said, "I'm going to have to confront him."
"No."
"Yes."
"You can't. He'll kill you."
"I'll arrange it so he won't," I said. "You know who he is."
"I believe he's a man named Cathal Kragan. I think he sent those men that came to our door. I believe he killed a man that I talked with named Bucko Meehan. And he might have killed a man in Framingham named Kevin Humphries."
"Don't go."
"I have to go," I said. "This is what I do."
"But what about me? What if he kills you?"
"I won't go yet," I said.
CHAPTER 43
On Thursday nights, I took an art history class at Boston University, and Julie had evening office hours for people who could see her at no other time. Afterward we would usually meet for a glass of wine somewhere in Harvard Square near Julie's office. Tonight we were at the bar in the new Harvest. "I feel like all of a sudden I'm a mother," I said to Julie. "It's so exciting to be out by myself without Millicent."
"Is she with Spike?"
"No, Richie. Spike's working and Richie was coming by anyway to visit Rosie."
Julie nodded. "Out and about," she said.
"You have real kids of your own." I said. "But you must feel that way sometimes."
"God yes," Julie said. "Anytime I'm away from them. Except of course when I'm feeling that way I'm also feeling guilty that I'm feeling that way."
"I know."
"I wonder if fathers feel that way?"
"Well," I said. "They have more of a tradition of being away from the kids, supporting them and all that."
"I know," Julie said, "But I swear Michael is a better mother than I am."
"Maybe he's just a good father," I said.
"He seems to want to be with them all the time. He likes to take them with us when we go places."
"Which makes you feel selfish and unloving," I said. "You bet."
Julie finished her wine and gestured at the bartender for another glass.
"You love the kids," I said.
"Yes."
"And Michael loves them."
"Yes."
"That's all each of you can do," I said. "Love them the way you can."
"Sometimes I think it's easier if you don't love them."
"It's not," I said.
The bartender brought Julie her wine. Julie studied me for a moment before she picked up her glass and drank.
"This thing with Millicent is riding you, isn't it?" she said.
"Of course," I said.
"Want to talk about it?"
"I thought you'd never ask. I'm trying to save her and the only way I can is to solve the crime she's a part of, and I can't solve it if I'm taking care of her all the time. And I can't take the risks I would normally be willing to take, because all of a sudden I have to worry about her."
"You've always had to worry about Rosie," Julie said.
"Yes, but if something happened to me, Richie would take her and in a little while she'd be fine."
"Dogs are good that way."
"But who would take Millicent?" I said.
"She does have a mother and father," Julie said.
"She can't be with them," I said.
Julie stared at her wine. The bar was crowded. The two bartenders were busy.
"And Richie can't take her."
"No. Why would he? He barely knows her."
"That was true of you when you took her."
I didn't say anything.
"Wasn't it?" Julie said.
"There was no one else to do it," I said.
"And it had to be done." I had a second glass of wine. Julie had a third.
"Too bad you and Richie can't work it out," Julie said.
"Maybe we will," I said.
"Tell me again why you're not together?"
"Well for one thing he won't give up the family business."
"And neither will you," Julie said.
"Me?"
"How many people in your family have been cops?"
"Besides my father?"
"Un huh."
"Two uncles, and my grandfather."
"Un huh."
"I'm not a cop."
"Sure."
"Always a damned therapist," I said. Julie was quiet.
"So maybe there's some fault on both sides," I said. "It still means that one of us needs to change to be with the other one."
"What's wrong with that?"
I shook my head.
"I can't think about that now," I said. "I have to figure out what to do with Millicent."
"How about private school?"
"Private school costs a lot of money."
"Maybe you can get money from the parents."
"I can't send her away now. She's in too much danger."
"Do you really think so?"
"I think when those men came to my door, they weren't trying to take her back to her parents. I think they were going to kill her."
"Because?"
"Because of what she saw," I said.
"The man with her mother?"
"Yes. There are some big-league players involved."
"And Richie can't help you?"
"I don't know if he can or can't. But I'm pretty sure he shouldn't."
"Because you're separated?"
"Yes. I won't live with him, won't sleep with him. But I can ask him to take care of me, help with anything I can't handle myself?"
"You talk as if sleeping with someone were a tradeoff for something else," Julie said.
"It just isn't right for me to have it both ways."
"What's Richie think?" Julie said.
"I don't know."
"Maybe you should ask him," she said.
CHAPTER 44
I was sitting with Bob Anderson in a frosted-glass cubicle in the detective unit in the Framingham Police Station. "Humphries," Anderson was saying, "the plu
mber got killed on Route 9."
"Yes," I said.
"He had a mailbox at one of those private mail services, wife didn't know anything about it, except the bill came this month. And since he's not around to pay it, the wife gets it. Well, she says she's got no use for a private mailbox and she wants to cancel it and the service says fine, but you need to clean the box out. So she does and all she finds is this big fat envelope. And when she opens it she figures she better bring it to us, which she did, and I thought you might want to take a gander."
"I do," I said.
Anderson slid the envelope toward me. It was a big one, whatever the next bigger size is to 8 1/2 by 11. It was addressed to Kevin Humphries, care of the private mailbox service. It was full of pictures and the pictures were of Betty Patton and a man having sex. Having sex doesn't really do them justice. They were having every variety of sex mammals were capable of having. I looked at the pictures for a time, turned a couple of them upside down, or maybe right side up, I couldn't be sure.
"This is, I take it, the late Kevin Humphries," I said. "Yep."
"You know the woman?" I said.
"Nope. You?"
I shook my head.
"Doesn't look anything like your client, does it?" I shook my head again. Anderson shrugged.
"Who's seen these pictures," I said.
"Mrs. Humphries," Anderson said.
"And maybe a few guys in the station," I said.
"Maybe all the guys in the station," Anderson said. "And nobody knows the woman?"
"That's what they say," Anderson said. "Just like you."
"Well," I said, "she gets credit for inventive, whoever she is."
"Yeah. The picture of them in the rocking chair, I'm not exactly sure what they're doing ... you?"
"Well, not specifically," I said, "though I recognize the general, ah, thrust."
Anderson smiled.
"You know what I'm betting, Sunny?" he said.
"What?"
"I'm betting that you do know who that woman is, and sooner or later, when it suits with whatever you're working on, that you'll tell me."
"Really?" I said. "Could I have a copy of these pictures?"
"Sunny," Anderson said, "there's forty-one pictures there. Evidence in a murder case. You know I can't give you any."
"I only need one," I said. Anderson nodded.
"I got to go wash my hands, Sunny. You better not even think of taking any of those pictures while I'm gone. 'Cause I got them counted."
