“I haven’t got around to telling him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’d order me to stop.”
“Maybe it’s time you confided in him,” she said.
“Why would I want to do that?”
She picked up her cup and sipped some coffee before deciding how to answer.
“Usually, I tell murder suspects to keep their mouths shut,” she said, “but most of them don’t have the big megaphone you’ve got to get your story out. I think your best move now is to get out ahead of this.”
“How do you suggest I do that?”
“By putting what you know about the Alfanos, the bribery, and the Templeton murder in the paper.”
“I don’t have it nailed down yet.”
“Are you close?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” she asked.
“On whether I can talk a few reluctant sources into going on the record.”
Charlie dropped the check on the table. I beat Yolanda to it and threw down a twenty. The Capital Grille was out of my price range, but I could spring for half a grapefruit without taking out a loan.
“How about dinner later this week?” I said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh. Did I say something stupid again?”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
“The things you told me last time? That stuff about why you value the differences between us?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
31
Next morning, I punched the clock and was promptly summoned to Twisdale’s office.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Later, Chuckie. There are some people I’ve gotta see first.”
“No. We have to do this now.”
I shrugged and flopped into the chair across from his desk.
“What’s on your mind?”
“A couple of little things,” he said.
“Like?”
“Like why the cops dragged you out of my newsroom again.”
“What do you know about the murder at the Omni,” I asked.
“Just this,” Chuckie said. He folded The Dispatch to the metro front and pointed to a one-column headline. The story beneath it was thin on details, saying only that Romeo Alfano, a businessman from Atlantic City, had been found shot to death in his hotel room and that police were investigating.
“The Providence cops questioned me about it,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I might have been the last person to see him alive.”
“Are you a suspect?”
“The homicide twins seem to think so.”
“Holy shit!”
“Yeah.”
“Who is this Romeo Alfano?”
“A mobster who’s been bribing state legislators to change their votes on the sports gambling bill.”
“Jesus! And you’ve been looking into this behind my back?”
“On my own time, yeah.”
Chuckie stared at me for a moment. His eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles clenched. When he spoke, his voice was an octave lower.
“Okay, Mulligan. You’re going to have to start trusting me. I need you to turn your cards over and tell me everything.”
“Not yet. I need a few days to tie up loose ends first.”
“We don’t have a few days. If corporate gets wind that you’re a suspect in a murder case, they’ll want me to fire you. I won’t be able to protect you unless I know what the hell’s going on.”
“Protect me? You’re just trying to cover your ass.”
“That too,” he said.
The determined look on his face made it clear that I was out of options. Reluctantly, I ran it all down for him: The suitcase full of cash pried from Lucan Alfano’s lap. The list of public officials found in his pocket. His attempts to bribe Lisa Pichardo, Joseph Longo, and Phil Templeton. My confrontation with Mario Zerilli and Lucan Alfano’s brother Romeo at the Omni. New Jersey state cops’ assertion that the Alfanos were fixers for Atlantic City casinos. And my suspicion that Mario had killed both Romeo Alfano and Templeton.
With each revelation, Twisdale’s eyes got a little bigger. When I was done, he put his hands on his head, leaned back in his chair, and studied the ceiling.
“That’s one hell of a story,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“How much of it can you prove?”
“With a little more time, most of it. Maybe all of it.”
“Why did you keep me in the dark about this?”
“Because you would have called me off.”
“You got that right.”
“Coward.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Do you have any idea how lucky you’ve been, Mulligan?”
“It’s not luck, Chuckie. I’m good at this.”
“I know you are. What I mean is that you got to work here back in the days when The Dispatch was a real newspaper.”
“How would you know what it was like?”
“I’ve been reading through the archives,” he said. “Twenty, fifteen, even ten years ago, there was something amazing in the paper almost every day. Great beat reporting. Remarkable explanatory journalism. Superb storytelling. Blockbuster exposés.” He sighed. “You have no idea how much I wish I could have been part of that.”
At first, I thought he was blowing smoke. Then I caught the way his eyes lit up. I slid two cigars out of my pocket, clipped the ends, and tossed him one. He surprised me by picking it up and sticking it in his jaw. I gave him a light, then got mine going. We smoked in silence for a couple of minutes, blatantly disregarding both company policy and state law. Reporters stationed at nearby desks stared at us openmouthed through the aquarium’s glass walls.
“I know you don’t respect me,” Twisdale said. “If I were in your shoes, I’d probably feel the same way. But you don’t understand the pressure I’m under. Corporate doesn’t give a rat’s ass about covering the news or serving the public. All they care about is the bottom line.”
“You knew that when you took this job,” I said. “It’s what you signed up for. But maybe it’s not too late to grow some balls.”
“It is if I want to keep working here.”
“A paycheck means more to you than self-respect?”
Twisdale grabbed the picture frame on his desk and turned it around to show me his pretty blond wife and three towheaded little boys. “No,” he said, “but they do.” He frowned and slowly shook his head. “Besides, I don’t have the resources to let you run around chasing long shots.”
“Like I said, it was all on my own time.”
“Only if we don’t count your bullshit sick days,” he said.
“Fair enough.”
“But this isn’t a long shot anymore, is it.”
“No.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. Maybe trying to decide what to do about me. Maybe searching for some courage up there.
“What’s left to do before you can write?”
“I need to get a few key sources to go on the record.”
“Then I guess you better get cracking.”
This time I didn’t feel the urge to crack his head.
“One last thing,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell anybody else what you’re working on. If word gets out around the building, I’ll get pressure from the business side to kill the story.”
“Why?”
“That super PAC you say is funded by Atlantic City casinos? They’ve scheduled a series of full-page ads that start on Thursday.”
“And if my story pisses them off,” I said, “they might pull them.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re prepared to take the heat for that?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Twisdale said. “You know the saying—‘Act now, apologize later.’”
As I w
alked back to my desk, I wondered. Chuckie-boy had shown some guts today, but would he stand up when the heat came down?
* * *
Lisa Pichardo sat behind her desk in the House minority leader’s office, arms folded defensively across her chest.
“No way, Mulligan,” she said. “You promised everything I gave you would stay off the record.”
“That was before,” I said. “Things have changed.”
“In what way?”
“The bribery story’s going to break any day now. If you go on the record, people will know you blew the whistle. Otherwise, they might think you took the money.”
“I still don’t like it,” she said. “I’ve been threatened. If my name comes out, somebody might come after me.”
“Your name’s going to come out anyway once the state police make their case,” I said. With the Alfanos both dead, Parisi’s bribery investigation probably had stalled, but I was hoping Pichardo didn’t realize that.
“How can I be sure you’ll be fair with me?” she asked.
“Haven’t I always?”
She shook her head emphatically.
“You’ve made a lot of trouble for me over the years,” she said. “For one thing, I didn’t much like how I came off in that highway contract story last winter.”
“The one about you pressuring the DOT to turn down the low bid and hire a paving company from your district?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“I know it caused problems for you, but it was fair, wasn’t it?”
She sighed and uncrossed her arms.
“Maybe so,” she said.
“So what do you say?”
“First show me exactly how you plan to quote me.”
* * *
The conversation with Joseph Longo, head of the Senate Finance Committee, went pretty much the same way—minus the part about the DOT bill.
“Okay,” he said. “Go ahead and use my name. Be good to finally get this dirt out in the open.”
* * *
At Warwick police headquarters, I found Chief Hernandez in his office, reviewing the results of the latest sergeant’s exam and puffing on a Cuban.
“Any chance you can get me more of these?” he asked.
“Sure thing, Oscar, but first I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need you on the record about Lucan Alfano.”
“What about him, exactly?”
“The part about the briefcase full of cash and the list you found in his pocket.”
“How are you going to use it?” he asked.
So I told him.
“Your work got this whole thing started,” I said. “You ought to get the credit for it.”
“I’m not looking for credit.”
“Fine. Be humble. But can you help me out here?”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m good with this.”
On the way out, I glanced at his bulletin board and saw that the photo of Ted Cruz was riddled with fresh holes.
* * *
Parisi slid his car window down, listened to my pitch, and shook his head.
“Forget it, Mulligan. The state police do not comment on ongoing investigations.”
“Except when it serves your interests,” I said.
“Which this time it doesn’t.”
“It might. The story’s going to shake the trees, and something ripe might fall out.”
Five seconds, and then, “Do you have enough to run with if I decline to comment?”
“No.”
Five seconds again. “Why not?”
“My editor’s skittish. No way he’s going to press with something this big unless he has official confirmation.”
Ten seconds, and then, “If I tell you anything—and I’m not saying I’m going to—you can’t use my name. It would have to be attributed to a high-ranking state police official.”
“That works.”
“So what’s the absolute minimum you’ve got to have from me?”
“I need confirmation that Templeton, Pichardo, and Longo reported bribery attempts and that the state police are conducting an investigation.”
“Sorry. I’m not confirming any names.”
“Can you at least say that there were three?”
Ten seconds this time, and then, “No. That would not be accurate.”
“There were more?”
Five seconds. “There were.”
How many?
“Five more so far.”
“Who am I missing?”
“You’ll have to get that from somebody else. Are we done here?”
“Do you know who the Alfanos were working for?”
“I thought you already had that,” he said.
“Atlantic City casinos, yeah,” I said. “But which ones?”
“I’m not going there.”
“I’m guessing you don’t know.”
Ten seconds. “Do you?”
“No.”
With that, he turned away and cranked the ignition.
“One last thing,” I said.
“I think I’ve said enough.”
“Not quite, Captain. I need you to confirm that Mario Zerilli is your chief suspect in the Templeton and Romeo Alfano murders.”
Five seconds. “The Providence PD thinks you shot them.”
“But you know better,” I said.
He turned away and stared out the windshield.
“Mario Zerilli is being sought for questioning in both killings,” he said. “That’s as far as I’m willing to go.”
“Thanks. And Captain? Take care.”
* * *
Late that evening, I called McCracken and invited him to meet me for a beer.
“Trinity Brewhouse at eight,” he said.
“Too noisy. We need a quiet place to talk.”
So a half hour later, we slipped into Hopes and found it nearly deserted. Just one alkie hunched over the bar and a couple of off-duty cops taking turns at the pinball machine. None of them had fed the jukebox. We picked up bottles of Killian’s at the bar and claimed a wobbly table by the back door.
“What’s up?” McCracken said. So I filled him in.
“When I write the part about our visit to Romeo Alfano’s hotel room,” I said, “is it okay if I use your name?”
“Can you leave out the part about me roughing up Mario?” he asked. “I don’t want to expose myself to an assault charge.”
“I can do that.”
“Then you’re good to go. Ready for another round? I’m buying.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I need to keep a clear head tonight.”
I swallowed the last of my beer, left him alone at the table, and walked back to the newspaper in the dark.
* * *
By one A.M., the newsroom had cleared out. I was the only one in the place.
I wrote mostly from memory, referring to my notes occasionally for dates and verbatim quotes. I got up from the keyboard only to fortify myself with vile vending-machine coffee. Finally, around four A.M., I was finished.
I e-mailed the story to Twisdale, drove home, and poured myself a shot of Bushmills. Then I tore off my clothes, flopped onto my mattress, pulled the pillow over my head to muffle Joseph’s snoring, and fell right to sleep.
32
“Kinda late for breakfast, ain’t it?” Charlie asked.
I checked my watch—two P.M.
“You still got eggs, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Bacon?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, then,” I said.
Charlie poured me some coffee, then cracked three eggs on the grill and slapped five strips of bacon down beside a dozen sizzling burgers.
Someone had left the day’s Dispatch behind on the counter. I opened it to the sports page, caught up with last night’s Red Sox win over the Blue Jays, then browsed through the rest of the paper. An ad from the super PAC funded by Atlantic City casinos took up all of page five.
So this must be Thursday. That’s when the group’s ad was scheduled to start.
I shoveled in Charlie’s masterpiece without tasting it, swigged my coffee, and walked three blocks to the newspaper. There, I found Twisdale hunched over his computer screen. He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t hear me step into his office.
“Boss?”
“What is it now? Oh, hey, Mulligan. Thanks for dropping by.”
“I still work here, right? I found my time card next to the punch clock.”
“For now, anyway, but you’re six hours and forty-five minutes late.”
“Gonna dock my pay again?”
“Perhaps I can let it slide this time.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think I need another hour or so to finish going over this. There’s a stack of press releases on your desk. I’ll call for you when I’m ready.”
Ninety minutes later, he did.
“I’ve got some concerns,” he said.
“I thought you might.”
“I want to make sure we’ve eliminated any libel risk.”
“You’re not running it by the company lawyers?”
“If I do, they’ll advise me not to run it. They won’t care whether the story actually libels anyone. They’re paid to forestall any risk that somebody might sue. If they catch the slightest whiff that I’m not taking their advice, they’ll rat me out to corporate.”
“The Alfanos are libel-proof,” I said. “Dead men can’t sue.”
“What about Mario Zerilli?”
“He’s on the run from the cops. Hiring a libel lawyer is the last thing on his mind now.”
“But he might get around to it later,” Twisdale said. “The story does implicate him in two murders.”
“All I say is that he’s wanted for questioning.”
“Yeah, but the suggestion of guilt is clearly there. And that’s not all. You say flat out that he was doing strong-arm work for two Jersey mobsters who were offering bribes to public officials. You’ve got to admit that tends to damage his reputation.”
“Not really,” I said. “Mario is a drunk driver, a domestic abuser, and a gay-basher. The whole town knows he’s a violent punk. There’s not much we can say that would make people think worse of him.”
“I see your point.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Yeah. I think we need to cut out the part about the Alfanos working for Atlantic City casinos.”
“Why? The information’s solid.”
A Scourge of Vipers Page 15
