“Sounds like a plan,” Crowder said. “Are we done?”
“One last thing,” I said. “What if I recover the stolen jewelry?”
“If you can pull that off,” Booth said, “you’ll get a fat check and our everlasting gratitude.”
Crowder raised one bushy eyebrow. “Got a lead you’re not telling us about, pardner?”
“No. Just thought I’d ask.”
I was still wondering if Bukov and Belinda’s friend Dmitry knew each other, but their shared ethnicity wasn’t much to go on. The fact that Belinda Veiga and Alexander Cargill were acquainted was intriguing, too, but it was hardly surprising. She was a fox and he was a hound dog, so they were bound to run into each other on the small island.
I decided to keep those thoughts to myself.
* * *
I thanked Booth and Crowder for their cooperation, walked out of the breakfast spot, fetched Brady, and pulled out my cell phone.
“Ocean State Rag, Mason speaking.”
“I’ve got that figure for you, and it’s a big one.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Six point three million.”
He whistled. “You sure?”
“That’s what they were insured for.”
“Okay. The story will be online within the hour. Have you got anything else for me?”
“Some nut’s been setting dogs on fire on the island. Could you use a few graphs on that?”
“Are you kidding? Readers eat up animal stories. How many dogs are we talking about?”
“Three so far.”
“When can I have it?”
“I’ll try to get it to you by tomorrow,” I said, and clicked off.
I drove Brady to Petco in Middletown and blew a hundred and seventy bucks on two twenty-four-pound bags of premium dog food, five bags of treats, and assorted doggie toys.
Afterward, I drove back to Jamestown and parked beside the Beavertail Lighthouse. I grabbed my laptop from the backseat, logged on to The Ocean State Rag site, and saw that my story was online, along with the photos of the stolen jewelry.
Then I scanned a couple of skateboarding sites and familiarized myself with the lingo. When that was done, Brady and I sat together on the shore and watched the surf beat on the rocks. A half hour later, I drove home and played tug-of-war with my pal until it was time for school to let out.
11
The Jamestown Skate Park was located behind the Lawn Avenue School. Most of the teens carving and grinding around the mega-ramp were boys. A coven of girls lined the edge, some of them cheering, others making snide remarks. I sidled over and struck up a conversation.
“The skinny dude in the blue helmet is sick,” I said. “That was an awesome laser flip.”
“That’s Frankie,” one of the girls said. “I’ve seen him do it better.” She was pimply and overweight, the only girl at the park who didn’t look like she needed to be force-fed cheeseburgers through a tube. “Look, he’s gonna try it again.”
I turned in time to see Frankie flip in the air, bail, and land hard on the concrete surface. He grimaced and clutched his knee. The other boys whizzed by and laughed at him.
“Poser!” one of them shouted.
Frankie smirked, bounced up, and got back on his board.
“Who’s the top gun around here?” I asked.
“That would be Buster,” one of the skinny girls said. “He ain’t here today ’cause he got detention.… So which one is your kid?”
“I don’t have a kid. Just a dog.”
“Then what are you doing here? You some kinda perv?”
“I’m on a case.”
“You a cop?”
“I’m a private detective.”
The girls exchanged glances.
“What kind of case?” the heavy girl asked.
“Somebody’s been grabbing dogs off the street and setting them on fire. I’ve been hired to find out who and put a stop to it.”
“Yeah?” one of the skinny girls said. “I ain’t heard nothin’ about that.”
I slid my cell phone out of my pants and showed her the photo of Crispy.
“Oh, hell, no,” she said.
“I’m afraid so. There have been three attacks already. This little pooch is the only one that survived.”
A short wraith with blue hair slid a vape pipe out of her mouth and said, “Lemme see that.”
I handed her the phone, and the others crowed around for a look.
“Jesus,” blue hair said. “Whoever’s doing this needs an ass kicking.”
“Any idea who it could be?” I asked.
They all shook their heads.
“You sure? Maybe one of you heard somebody talking.”
Nothing.
“How many of you have dogs?” I asked.
They all did.
“Better keep a close eye on them.” I handed out my business cards and added, “If you do hear anything, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”
The heavy girl had my phone in her hand now, her thumb flying across the keyboard.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Posting Crispy’s photo on my Facebook page. Maybe somebody out there knows something.”
“What’s your name?”
“Clara.”
“Clara what?”
“Clara Martin.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“That was good thinking, Clara. Thanks. If something comes of it, you know how to find me.”
* * *
It was dusk by the time I got home, climbed the porch steps, and heard Brady yipping on the other side of door. When I opened it, he lunged at me, whimpering and rubbing his head against my legs. Behind him, my sitting room floor was covered with mounds of something white and fluffy.
Brady had ripped my sofa cushions to shreds.
After I cleaned up, I took the big guy on our daily run around the property. Then I logged on to Facebook and found that two dozen of Clara’s friends had already commented on the news about Crispy. None of them had anything helpful to offer, but most of them had “shared” her posting on their own pages.
I’d been scooped by a sixteen-year-old girl, but I batted out my dog-burnings story anyway. Then I e-mailed it to Mason, included the photo of Crispy, and asked him to preserve my cover on the island by running it under the Davis pen name.
When that was done, I researched destructive dogs online and learned that sofa demolition was usually caused by separation anxiety. No doubt about it. When I left him at home, best pal got lonely.
* * *
Next morning, I was jolted awake by a sharp jab in the ribs. I rolled over and looked directly into two moist brown eyes. Sometime during the night, Brady had abandoned his spot at the foot of my bed and climbed in with me.
I dug my fingers into the fur at the nape of his neck and nuzzled him. The closeness was comforting, but once Yolanda returned from Chicago, Brady and I would need to renegotiate the sleeping the arrangements.
I got up to shower and was toweling off when my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mornin’, Mr. Davis.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Wrong number.”
“I don’t think so, pardner.”
“Crowder?’’
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s up?”
“Ellington Cargill’s in a lather about that little story of yours in The Ocean State Rag.”
“My story? I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Aw, sure you did. You wrote the dang thing.”
“You’re mistaken. Didn’t you see the byline? My name’s not Richard Harding Davis.”
“Yeah? Well, I looked up your Mr. Davis. Turns out he was a hotshot scribbler back in the 1890s. He’d be more’n a hundred and fifty years old by now, so I can’t quite buy the notion that he’s still workin’ a beat.”
“That does seem unlikely.”
“I wen
t ahead and looked you up, too,” Crowder said. “Found out you’ve done a little freelancing for that Web site from time to time. I’m disappointed in you, Mulligan. Would’ve figured you’d be better at covering your tracks.”
“If it was me, how’d they get the photos of the jewelry? Booth hasn’t sent them to me yet.”
“I was just askin’ him about that. He said I should tell you they’ll be comin’ your way this morning.”
“So?”
“So I figure you must of got ’em from Ragsdale.”
“I suppose you talked to him, too.”
“Yep. The chief claims he never heard of you. Can’t say I found him all that convincing.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that.
“But what the hell,” Crowder said. “Publishing the photos wasn’t a bad move. Makes it harder to fence the merchandise.”
“You and I are okay, then?”
“I’ll let this one slide ’cause I still think you might be of some use. If Cargill knew what you done, he’d order me to freeze you out, so I’m gonna go ahead and blame the leak on Ragsdale.”
“Okay, then.”
“Keep me in the loop from now on, Mulligan. I don’t want any more damned surprises.”
12
Brass Balls, Carmine Grasso’s pawnshop, was located on Allens Avenue in a Providence neighborhood of tank farms, salvage yards, medical supply companies, strip clubs, and abandoned warehouses. I parked the recently repaired Mustang at the curb, clipped a leash to Brady’s collar, and led him to the front door. We passed under three dangling brass balls, the traditional pawnbroker symbol, and stepped inside.
The place was empty except for a lanky young guy with a shaved head and sleeve tattoos who slouched behind a glass case filled with smartphones and computer tablets.
“Hey, dude,” he said. “No dogs allowed in here.”
“He’s a seeing-eye dog.”
“Yeah? You don’t look blind to me.”
“Then I guess he must be really good at his job.”
“Come on, man. I don’t want no trouble.”
“Then don’t start something you can’t finish. Just pick up the phone and tell your boss Mulligan’s here to see him.”
He shrugged, grabbed the phone, and mumbled into it. Then he hung up and said, “You can go right on back.”
I led Brady past a wall display of electric guitars, pushed through a swinging door, and entered a high-ceilinged warehouse. Brady surged forward. I pulled him back as a forklift carrying cases of Crown Royal chugged past. Then I walked him down an aisle stacked with boxes of liquor, flat-screen TVs, and laptop computers. Judging by appearances, the stolen-goods racket was booming.
At the end of the aisle, a refrigerator in a blue suit stood guard in front of a frosted-glass door.
“Hey, Mulligan,” he said. “What’s with the dog?”
“Last time I left him home alone, he tore up my couch, so I decided to bring him along today.”
“You carrying?”
“No.”
“The boss says I gotta check.”
I raised my arms, and he patted me down. Then he opened the door and ushered us inside.
Except for the fact that it had been built inside a warehouse and had no windows, Grasso’s office was something a captain of industry would covet. Expensive leather chairs, a well-stocked bar, a Persian rug, and framed Ansel Adams prints on the walls. He rose from behind his huge ebony desk to shake my hand.
“Who’s your friend?”
“My new pal Brady.”
Grasso rubbed the dog behind the ears, pointed me to a visitor’s chair, and plopped back down behind the desk. I told Brady to sit and dropped a hand on his shoulder.
“So how’s business?” Grasso asked.
“Good. September was a strong month. October’s shaping up even better.”
“The kid you got running the book still working out?”
“He’s no kid, Carmine. He’s nearly forty.”
“Since I turned sixty-five, you all look like kids to me.”
“Joseph’s doing great. I got no complaints.”
“So to what do I owe the honor?” he asked.
“I’m wondering if you’ve heard anything about the Jamestown jewelry heist.”
“All I know is what I saw on the news.”
“It was quite a haul,” I said.
“So they say.… You got?”
“Of course not.”
“Too bad. For a second there, I thought maybe you been branching out.”
“Armed robbery’s not my style.”
“So you come to me about this why?”
“I’m trying to get a line on who does have it,” I said.
“And you figured whoever stole it might seek me out?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“If they had, you think I would tell you?”
“You might if I made it worth your while.”
“What’s your interest in this, Mulligan?”
“You know I do some work on the side for McCracken, right?”
“Yeah. I heard something about that.”
“The bank hired us to investigate the robbery.”
“And you come to me for help?”
“I come to you with an offer. You heard that the loot is insured for six point three million, right?”
“I’m with you so far.”
“The insurance company will pay fifteen percent of that to anyone who recovers the goods. That’s nine hundred and forty-five thousand dollars just for making a phone call, Carmine.”
“No questions asked?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll put some feelers out, see if anything turns up. If it does, maybe I give you a call. Or maybe I don’t.”
13
Providence’s two biggest high schools, Classical and Central, share a large plot of land on the edge of the city’s downtown. Each serves over a thousand students. Classical grooms kids for four-year colleges. Central prepares them for the rigors of technical training, nail school, burger flipping, or the unemployment line. Both of the high schools usually have decent football teams. The Central team is called the Knights. The Classical team is absurdly dubbed the Purples.
Steve Shroyer, Classical’s head coach, had packed on a few pounds since his playing days as a fullback at the University of Rhode Island. As he waddled across the empty practice field in a purple Classical High hoodie, he resembled an enormous grape.
“You Mulligan?” he asked.
“I am. Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
“What’s this about?”
“I’ve been hired to conduct a background investigation on one of your former players.”
“Which one?”
“Conner Bowditch.”
He nodded. “What kind of dog is that?”
“A Bernese mountain dog.”
“Purebred?”
“He is.”
Shroyer got down on one knee and ruffled Brady’s coat. “How ya doing, big fella?” Then he rose and asked, “What’s his name?”
“Brady.”
“For Tom Brady?”
“He had the name when I got him, but it’s a good bet. Half the dogs in Rhode Island are named after Boston sports heroes.”
“Got a five-year-old Rottweiler myself. His name is Gronk.”
“After Rob Gronkowski?”
“Yeah, but if I had it to do over again, I’d name him Conner. Best athlete I ever coached. Come on. We can talk in my office.”
“Mind if I bring Brady? I don’t want to leave him in the car.”
“Okay by me.”
As we strode down an empty corridor lined with student lockers, a janitor emerged from a classroom carrying a wastebasket. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but dogs aren’t allowed in the school.”
Shroyer waved him off. “Making an exception for this guy, Hank. He’s built like a middle linebacker, so I’m trying to recruit him.”
The coach’s office, located just off the locker room, was lined with framed photos of his team in action. Plastic cases holding footballs signed by Classical teams dating back decades were stacked waist-high along one wall. The oak desk was bare except for a photo of canine Gronk and a folder containing the game plan for Saturday’s contest against Ponaganset. As Shroyer seated himself behind his desk, his office chair shrieked in agony. I settled into a visitor’s chair across from him and told Brady to sit.
“Scouts from a dozen NFL teams already showed up here to ask me about Bowditch,” Shroyer said. “Which one sent you?”
“The Patriots.”
“Why you instead of somebody from their scouting department?”
“Their screwup with Adrian Hernandez has made them skittish. They figure a professional investigator is better equipped than a football scout to find any skeletons Bowditch might have in his closet.”
“Well, there aren’t any.”
“Tell me about him.”
“During his four years here, Conner was very focused—and not just on football. The kid was a leader both on and off the field. Team captain. Senior class president. National Honor Society. Active in Students Against Drunk Driving. Volunteered to tutor kids struggling with physics and calculus. Graduated fourth in his class, just a hair short of valedictorian.”
“He must have had a lot of scholarship offers.”
“Oh, hell yeah. All the top football schools recruited him. Alabama, Florida State, Auburn, LSU, Baylor, Ohio State, Oregon, Mississippi State, Notre Dame, TCU. You name it.”
“Why’d he choose Boston College?”
“He wanted to play big-time college football, but he also wanted to stay close to home. Only schools he considered seriously were UConn and B.C.”
“He ever get into any trouble?”
“Never.”
“Substance abuse?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Gambling problems?”
“Not that I ever heard.”
“Did he get into scrapes with anybody?”
“A few shoving matches after the whistle, sure, but nothing serious.”
“Never anything off the field?”
“No.”
“Who were his friends?”
“Most everybody liked Conner,” he said, “but the kid he was closest to was Ricky Santos.”
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