Haunted Hearts

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  Joe,

  Ollie’s been fed and he’s comfortable. I’m not apologizing any more for what I did or where I’m going. I tried and I just couldn’t do it (you know what I’m talking about). If you think I’m a selfish, unfaithful bitch, well that’s just too bad. There’s a possibility you could be reading this tomorrow morning, and if you are, why don’t you go down the hall right now and change his diaper and see what I’ve been doing for years?

  I’m telling him tomorrow. Just to spare you the agony. If you’re still acting so noble maybe you can do it for me. It’s up to you.

  R.

  McGuire crumpled the note into a ball and tossed across the room. Then he reached for the telephone directory, stared up at the ceiling while he recalled the name, and began flipping through the pages.

  “Damn her,” he whispered. “Goddamn her to hell.”

  There was a C. Simoni listed as the proprietor of Cedar Lane Gallery on Charles Street near Mt. Vernon. McGuire dialed first the number of the gallery and then the residence, counting nine rings each time before hanging up. After changing into a pair of worn jeans, low-cut Reeboks, a navy turtleneck sweater, and leather jacket, he left the house.

  He found a parking spot on Chestnut Street and walked back to Charles. The evening had turned cool and damp, and couples on their way to dinner in one of the brass-and-wicker Beacon Hill bars walked with their arms locked together, huddling against the chill.

  Cedar Lane Gallery was in a low storefront building, green, with a small gilt-painted sign on the door. Several paintings and prints were displayed in the window and hung in the one-room gallery itself. They were visible to McGuire through the glass, lit by small ceiling-mounted track lights, the only source of illumination inside the gallery. McGuire knocked on the front door several times, then stepped back to look up at the second floor, where a dim glow shone through curtained windows.

  He examined the paintings on display. A few caught his eye because of their familiar style: semi-abstract watercolours executed with casual strokes and in subtle tones. He admired one of a harbour scene, another of an old farmhouse, a third of a seashore. Leaning against the window glass and shielding his eyes, he could read “C. Simoni” at the base of the watercolours, and, on the harbour scene, a price tag that said $3,000.

  He walked across Charles Street, then east towards Cambridge and the Longfellow Bridge, which he had driven across with Susan just two hours earlier. He passed florists and antique shops and a small, dark bar crowded with couples, the buzz of their conversation spilling out through the doors towards him. He walked on, past a hardware store and another art gallery, to a sandwich shop almost as crowded as the bar, and he remembered that he hadn’t eaten since his lunch with Sleeman. The sandwich shop had large plate-glass windows on either side of the entrance and he stood for a moment, thinking if he sat at a table near the window, he could watch the gallery across the street for Ronnie and her lover to arrive, if they weren’t already upstairs in the near-darkness, ignoring telephone calls and knocks on the door.

  He wasn’t interested in seeing Ronnie. He wanted to see him, wanted to see the man who was threatening to destroy, whether he knew it or not, the only part of Ollie’s life worth saving.

  The door to the bar opened long enough for the chatter and laughter inside to spill into the street, and in the silence after it closed, McGuire heard a woman’s voice, laughing.

  He saw Ronnie with her arm locked in the arm of a man barely her own height. The man wore a denim jacket and jeans, and a patterned open-neck shirt beneath the jacket.

  They stopped at the curb and the man withdrew a package of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket, popped one into his mouth, and spoke around it to Ronnie, saying something that made her laugh again. Then he lit a match and cupped it in his hands, bending to light the cigarette. In the glow McGuire saw an aging but still-handsome face, the nose small and straight, set between two eyes that darted back to Ronnie’s when the cigarette was lit. His hair was auburn, flecked with silver, a full head of hair that swept over his ears and down the back of his head. She spoke to him and he withdrew the cigarette. He placed it in her mouth and she inhaled, her head back and her eyes closed, while her lover watched her.

  Carl Simoni spoke to her again, and when Ronnie erupted in a fit of coughing and laughing, Simoni’s expression changed from delight to concern. He placed his hand behind her head, pulled her to him and patted her back. In that moment, his eyes met McGuire’s without expression and McGuire watched Simoni comfort her.

  Simoni kissed her on the cheek, and when her coughing subsided she began to laugh again, her back to McGuire. They kissed before Simoni guided her through the traffic across Charles Street. McGuire followed, several paces behind.

  McGuire watched the man unlock the front door of the gallery and wait for Ronnie to enter before following her, slipping the night latch behind them. He watched Ronnie walk through the gallery towards a door on the far wall, and up the stairs, Simoni following her. He watched the lights glow suddenly bright through the windows of the second floor.

  The lights would be extinguished soon, McGuire knew, and he walked away, not wanting to see it happen and know what it meant.

  He walked to the end of Charles Street and up Cambridge to a bar, where he ordered pizza and a beer. Half an hour later he was sitting back in his car on Chestnut Street, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, recalling the sound of Ronnie’s laughter and the look of concern on her lover’s face when she began to cough.

  He had never seen Ronnie smoke before, and he had not heard her laugh like that, so easy and relaxed and genuine, in a very long time. He loved the idea that she could revel in such easy joy. He hated what she had to do to experience it. But now he understood.

  Twenty minutes later he was back in the small white house in Revere Beach. Before he could slip out of his jacket, he heard Ollie’s voice call his name.

  “What’s up?” McGuire asked when he entered Ollie’s room.

  “Little bit of excitement, put a fire under your buns,” Ollie said, grinning up at him. “You know that guy, lawyer named Flanigan, down at that place where you’re puttin’ in time?”

  “What about him?” McGuire asked, dreading the answer.

  “He’s in the river, under the Charlestown Bridge. That’s where they found him this afternoon.”

  “How’d you hear?”

  “Guy named Pinnington called, said you oughta know about it. Said he’s going down to Berkeley Street, give the police whatever they need to know. That’s how he put it. Said he’ll do whatever it takes. Thought you should know, maybe join him there. I said I’d tell you if you showed up before the sun did.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What’s your name again?” The night cop at the entrance to Boston Police Headquarters on Berkeley Street was still in his twenties, pink-cheeked and sullen-eyed. He ran his finger down a printed list.

  “McGuire. Joe McGuire. I used to be in homicide here.”

  “That right?” The young cop didn’t even look up. “Well, your name’s not here, and if your name’s not here, I can’t let you up without permission.”

  “Then get permission,” McGuire hissed.

  The cop looked at him, his eyes like glass marbles. “Look, if you’ve got a problem, take it up with the citizen’s commission . . .

  “You found a body in the river tonight,” McGuire said. “I may know something about the circumstances, which makes me a citizen with information relating to a possible homicide. Now you get me in touch with the investigating team or I’ll talk to somebody about putting your ass back directing traffic at the airport.”

  “Just who the hell do you think . . .” the cop began, until a voice behind McGuire said, “Joe?”

  McGuire turned to face a middle-aged man in an oversized tweed topcoat, a wide grin beneath his salt-and-pepper mustache.
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  “Barton,” McGuire said.

  “Barnston.” The man’s smile wavered a little. “It’s Barnston. Jerry Barnston.”

  “Yeah, right.” McGuire shook the detective’s hand. “Listen, I have to talk to whoever’s working on the guy they fished out of the river an hour or so ago . . .”

  “The lawyer,” Barnston nodded. “I think it’s Donovan’s case. Come on up. Jeez, it’s good to see you again.”

  Without looking back, McGuire raised a hand and twisted it around, over his shoulder, waving farewell to the duty cop, who said “Big deal” to McGuire’s back and turned away, pulling at a thumbnail with his teeth.

  Phil Donovan had been just another ambitious junior detective years earlier when McGuire and Ollie Schantz were the hottest homicide team on the force. Now he was a full lieutenant, adding another layer of arrogance to the personality of the thin, red-haired man who looked up from his desk as McGuire approached.

  “What the hell is this?” Donovan sneered.

  Across from him Richard Pinnington sat cross-legged, his open Burberry topcoat slung over his shoulders like a cape.

  McGuire nodded at Pinnington and glared at Donovan. More than a year earlier, Donovan had shot Dan Scrignoli, a Boston cop gone bad, in front of McGuire’s eyes. Scrignoli had been in the process of surrendering his weapon, withdrawing it from inside his jacket. Donovan claimed the action had been aggressive and threatening, and that he fired in self-defense. McGuire knew better. Scrignoli died later that day. Donovan received a public commendation for his heroic actions. McGuire and Donovan hadn’t met since.

  “I hear you’re the guy to see about Orin Flanigan,” McGuire said.

  “McGuire,” Donovan said, “I’m the guy you gotta talk to if you wanta take a leak in this place, okay?” The Irish detective was wearing a knit tie pulled away from the collar of his striped dress shirt, and his brown leather shoulder holster was unbuckled. A cheap black blazer hung over the back of a folding chair behind him.

  McGuire seized the empty chair next to Pinnington, swung it around, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. “How’d they find him?” he asked Pinnington.

  “They found him dead, you dink.” Donovan placed his feet onto the corner of his desk. “And smelly.”

  Pinnington’s face turned crimson, and he avoided McGuire’s and Donovan’s eyes. “He was caught in some old reinforcing rod under the bridge. The body . . .” Pinnington brought his hand to his eyes and cleared his throat. “The body was mostly underwater. He could have been there several days.”

  “Made like a barge on the ol’ Mississippi, just a-floatin’ downstream.” Donovan was watching McGuire, the grin frozen on his face.

  “Suicide?” McGuire asked, although he didn’t believe it.

  “They don’t . . .” Pinnington began.

  “Sure, suicide.” Donovan’s voice had a serrated edge. “Guy parks his car in Weymouth, maybe hitchhikes twenty miles downtown, bops himself on the back of his head, and jumps in the river. Sure he does.”

  “Who identified him?” McGuire asked.

  “I did,” the lawyer said. “I couldn’t ask his wife to do that.” Pinnington stroked his forehead, his voice almost breaking. “It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

  “Was there any identification on him?” McGuire said. “His wallet maybe?”

  “Hey, McGuire.” Donovan jabbed a finger in his direction. “Last I heard, your name wasn’t back on the roster here, was it?”

  “Was he carrying any ID?” McGuire said, speaking slowly.

  “Yeah, he had ID,” Donovan said. “What’s that tell you, hotshot?”

  McGuire shrugged.

  Pinnington stood up. “Will you need anything else from me?” he said to Donovan.

  The detective lifted a pad of lined yellow paper from his desk and looked at his notes. “Not right away. We’ll be in, talk to you tomorrow.”

  Pinnington nodded. McGuire touched the lawyer’s arm as he walked past. “Anything I can do?” he asked.

  “No.” Pinnington breathed deeply and seemed to rise in height. “I’m going to visit Nancy now. Orin’s wife. This isn’t going to be easy. You’ll be in tomorrow morning?” McGuire nodded. “See me, first thing,” Pinnington said.

  “What else is there?” McGuire asked Donovan when Pinnington left.

  “You can read about it in the papers.” Donovan swung his feet off the desk and flipped his notepad to a fresh sheet. “So, what’ve you got to tell me?”

  “How long had the body been in the water?”

  “Hey.” Donovan jabbed at the top of his desk as he spoke. “You wanta come in here like a concerned citizen and help with this investigation, you can do it. You wanta know anything else, you do like the rest of the city and wait your turn.”

  McGuire stood up. “Where’s Eddie?”

  “Probably home, pickin’ his toes. What the hell do you want with Eddie Vance?”

  “See you.” McGuire turned and began walking away.

  Donovan called McGuire’s name. When McGuire kept walking, Donovan shouted again, and two detectives looked up from their computer terminals. “Hey, old man. You didn’t find out shit in Annapolis, you know.”

  McGuire stopped and looked back at Donovan, who rose from his desk and approached McGuire, carrying his notepad with him.

  “You went looking for some guy name Myers? Told Flanigan he was down there selling yachts? Well, that outfit never heard of him. Nobody’s heard of him.”

  “A woman at the yacht brokerage . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Broad named . . .” Donovan flipped a page on his notepad. “Diamond. Talked to her already. She never heard of the guy either. But she remembers you. Says you looked like just another cheap talker, come in acting like you want to lay a hundred grand on a yacht when you couldn’t afford to buy a pair of oars, so she gave you the brush-off.”

  “You talked to people down there already?”

  “Talked to Diamond and talked to her boss. Then we talked to the local dicks. They checked around, said Myers has dropped out of sight. He’d been spreadin’ the word about sellin’ yachts, maybe down in Miami or Lauderdale. Now we’ve got Florida checkin’ up on him, runnin’ their tracer program. He’ll turn up soon. You’ve been out of the loop too long, you geezer. Everything’s on computers now. We got rid of a lot of you dead-asses so we could get things done, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “When’s the autopsy?”

  “Why, you wanta go down, show Mel Doitch your crochet stitch or something?”

  McGuire stared back at Donovan, who returned the look with a grin for a moment, then called across at two detectives who had been watching them over their computer terminals. “You guys heard of the famous Joseph P. McGuire? Hotshot homicide Louie? Well, here he is. Used to be a medicine man, poppin’ pills in the combat zone. Now he plays skip tracer for a bunch of lawyers. Except he couldn’t find his ass if the directions were printed on his hand.”

  Leave it, McGuire told himself. Just leave it. He turned to walk towards the elevator.

  “’Course, you could tell us about that little piece you’ve been seen with lately,” Donovan called to his back. “What’s her name? Oh yeah. Schaeffer. Heard all about her.”

  “What?” McGuire turned to face Donovan. “What have you heard?”

  “She and the victim used to play pinch-and-giggle in his office at noon.”

  “That’s crap.”

  “Crap?” Donovan approached McGuire almost warily and his voice dropped in volume. “You think it’s crap? How about this for crap, McGuire. Flanigan was the lawyer who acted for her ex-husband, to help seize her kids. He got custody of them for his client two, three years ago. Didn’t Pinnington tell you that? How’s that for a picture, McGuire? Lawyer helps a husband steal the kids and disappear, and the ex-wife starts cozyin
g up to him, couple of years later. Course, the lawyer shouldn’t have anything to do with an ex-adversary, should he? Except maybe he’ll take a few quickie BJs in his office from some desperate broad who wants her kids back . . .”

  McGuire’s hand shot out and seized Donovan’s neck, the same motion he had used when he bloodied Donovan’s nose in the basement interrogation room more than a year earlier. At that time, Donovan had been so surprised when McGuire lunged at him that he had fallen backwards against the wall and it was McGuire’s forehead, not his fist, that collided with Donovan’s nose. Others in the room, including a perturbed Eddie Vance, had separated the two men before Donovan could react.

  But this time the detective’s hand went to his holster and withdrew his 9mm Glock. He pressed the muzzle against McGuire’s head. The two detectives leapt out of their chairs and ran towards Donovan and McGuire, one shouting, “What the hell!”

  Donovan kept the gun pressed against McGuire’s temple and said, “You think I wouldn’t do it, asshole? You think I wouldn’t?”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on with you?” Ollie said.

  McGuire sat staring down at his feet. His hands were still shaking.

  “Assault an armed cop with two juniors as witnesses?” Ollie Schantz was a teacher lecturing an errant student, a father trying to talk sense to a delinquent son. “Those juniors woulda said you looked armed as a Nazi platoon, it came down to an inquiry. They woulda nailed you as a nutcase, a dead nutcase, and Donovan would be golden, get a couple of weeks off to let his nerves settle, maybe he’d go to Hawaii or something, and he’d come back in harness and you’d still be worm food.” He watched McGuire in silence for a moment, then said, “Why the hell’d you let a pus-hole like Donovan get to you?”

  McGuire knew why. He just couldn’t explain it to Ollie. He was having trouble explaining it to himself. It was almost eleven o’clock. “I’m going to bed,” he said.