The Dread Line

by Bruce DeSilva

  I slid Massachusetts drivers’ licenses from the wallets, looked them over, and tucked them into my pants pocket. Porn mustache’s name is Romeo Vacca, and the other one is Dante Vacca. They live at the same address in Somerville, Massachusetts.”

  “You two look a lot alike,” McCracken said. “Are you brothers?”

  No answer.

  I grabbed their cell phones from the bureau and tucked them in my jacket pockets. Then I opened the closet and pulled out a sawed-off double-barrel Ithaca shotgun.

  “Another felony,” McCracken said. “That illegal gun is worth ten years’ federal time.”

  I finished my search, found nothing else of interest, and snatched the keys to the Hummer from the bureau top.

  “I’m gonna toss the car,” I said, and went out the door.

  In the glove compartment, rental papers from Avis. In the back, greasy takeout food cartons, a dozen crushed Pabst Blue Ribbon empties, a stash of gay child-porn magazines, two boxes of shotgun shells, and another sawed-off Ithaca.

  I returned to the room in time to see Joseph looming over Dante Vacca, whose nose now resembled his brother’s. “Want me to put a slug in his kneecap?” Joseph asked. “Maybe that’ll get the fucker to open up a little.”

  McCracken shook his head. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I think we’re done here.”

  I nodded and gathered up their weapons.

  “We can always get more guns,” Dante Vacca said. “You three ain’t seen the last of us.”

  “Yes we have,” McCracken said. “More guns won’t do you any good if you can’t shoot.”

  Taking the cue, Joseph pounced on the bed, sat on Dante, grabbed his right wrist, and bent his trigger finger back until the bone snapped. Then he did the same thing to Romeo.

  “What if they’re left-handed?” McCracken said.

  Joseph grinned and repeated the procedure, which was accompanied by a lot of shrieking.

  I’d never seen McCracken condone such violence. Guess he was still miffed about that broken wrist. Given the Vaccas’ taste in sex partners, I didn’t have a problem with it.

  Outside, I locked the Vaccas’ firearms in the back of the Hummer and stuffed their car keys in my pocket. As we headed for our cars, I pulled out my burner phone, punched in the number for the Warwick PD, asked for the duty officer, and told him where he could find the Vaccas.

  “They’re a couple of strong-arm types from Somerville, Massachusetts. They’re in possession of child-porn magazines, two illegal sawed-off shotguns, and a pair of handguns they don’t appear to have permits for. You’ll find it all stashed in a rented Hummer that’s parked in the lot. And if you can track down two teenage prostitutes named Carl and Anton, you can probably add attempted child rape to the list of charges.”

  “May I have your name, sir?”

  “Afraid not,” I said, and hung up.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting in a booth at the twenty-four-hour IHOP on Pleasant Valley Parkway in Providence while the kitchen whipped up our orders. Country-fried steak and eggs for McCracken and me. And for Joseph, the egg, ham, and cheese omelet; the chocolate chip pancakes; and two sides of sausage. As we waited, McCracken and I sipped coffee. Joseph guzzled a can of ’Gansett from a paper bag.

  “So now what?” I asked as the waitress slapped our plates on the table.

  “Now I run the punks’ names through my sources at the Boston PD and the Massachusetts State Police,” McCracken said. “Maybe that gets us something. Maybe it doesn’t. You go through their cell phones and find out who they’ve been talking to.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Joseph asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We’ll call if we need you.”

  McCracken and I were halfway through our meals when Joseph shoveled in his last forkful and looked longingly at the empty plates. For a moment, I thought he was going to lick them. Instead, he got up, went out to the Mustang, and returned with another can of beer.

  “Maybe we made a mistake taking the Vaccas off the board,” I said.

  “How so?” McCracken asked.

  “With them, we knew who to watch out for. Whoever sent them is going to send somebody else now.”

  “And it probably wasn’t Bowditch,” McCracken said.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. He’s a college kid with a gambling jones. I doubt he’s got the cash to hire a couple of pros, and guys like the Vaccas don’t work on credit.”

  “Remember what Dante Vacca said?” Joseph asked.

  “That we’ve got no fuckin’ idea who we’re dealing with,” McCracken said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Guess we better find out.”

  “For our sake and Bowditch’s,” McCracken said. “Looks like the kid’s gotten himself into some serious trouble.”

  After we finished our meals, McCracken and I lingered over second cups of coffee while Joseph polished off two more cans of ’Gansett. When I drained my cup, I called the Warwick PD again.

  “Did you grab the Vaccas?”

  “We found the Hummer, and all the stuff you told us about was inside. But the two guys had bolted. Even left some of their clothes behind.”

  “Aw, shit.”

  He asked for my name again, and I hung up.

  18

  When I finally got home that morning, I found more bad news. Brady had disemboweled my easy chair. I cleaned up the mess, tore off my shoes, jumped into bed with my clothes on, and fell right to sleep.

  It was well past noon when Brady woke me by dropping his food bowl on my head. I hugged him, apologized for the late breakfast, and fed him. After he gobbled it down, I let him out into a cold, sunny day, the trees bending under a load of wet show. I tugged on my Timberlands and joined him.

  The Bernese mountain dog breed originated in Switzerland, so it came as no surprise that Brady loved snow. He flopped on his back and rolled in it. Then he burrowed into a drift, disappeared, and popped out on the other side. I tossed snowballs at him. He leaped and caught them in his jaws.

  After an hour of this, my feet were frozen, so I tried to coax Brady to come in with me. He tossed me a look that said I had to be kidding and plunged back into a snowdrift. I went inside alone and made a cup of coffee.

  Then I put Etta James on the sound system, turned the volume down low, sat at the kitchen table with the Vaccas’ cell phones, and dialed the numbers on their recent-calls list. The first was answered by a male voice.

  “Romeo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t tell me you need more toys already.”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “What’s wrong with the ones I sold you last week?”

  “Had to ditch them in a storm drain.”

  “You sound weird. Got a cold or something?”

  “Just the sniffles.”

  “Fuck you. You ain’t Vacca.” And then he hung up.

  I grabbed my laptop, looked for the number in a reverse directory, and couldn’t find it. Probably an untraceable burner phone. Like bookies and tycoons, dealers who supply criminals with firearms also value their privacy.

  My next call was answered by a woman.

  “Dunst and Moran. How may I direct your call?”

  “Uh.… Mr. Dunst, please.”

  “One moment, sir, and I’ll connect you.”

  Two excruciating minutes of Barry Manilow crooning “Looks Like We Made It,” and then: “Morris Dunst’s office. How may I assist you?”

  “I need a word with Mr. Dunst.”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  “Romeo Vacca.”

  “Oh. How are you, Romeo? I didn’t recognize your voice. Do you have a cold or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hope you’re taking something for it. “

  “Bed rest and bourbon.”

  “Excellent choice. Mr. Dunst is in consultation with another client at the moment. Can he return your call this afternoon?”

  “No t
hanks. I’ll call back later.”

  After we hung up, I googled Dunst and Moran and learned that it was a small law firm with offices on Milk Street in Boston. Given Romeo Vacca’s line of work, I wasn’t surprised that he was on a first-name basis with his lawyer’s secretary.

  The next two numbers belonged to outfits that supplied male escorts. The rest were for friends and family members. As it turned out, the number the brothers called most was their mother’s.

  When I was done, I called McCracken, and we filled each other in on what we’d learned.

  “The Vaccas have sheets,” he said. “They’ve both got assault and battery convictions, and Dante took a fall six years ago for possession of child pornography.”

  “They’ve done time?”

  “Yeah. Short stretches in Cedar Junction. According to the Massachusetts State Police intelligence unit, they’re freelancers. My guy says they work mostly for what’s left of Somerville’s Winter Hill Gang, the outfit made famous by Howie Winter and Stephen “the Rifleman” Flemmi. But they’ve also done jobs for the Angiulo mob in Boston and for one of the youth gangs warring for control of the New Bedford heroin trade.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Debt collection, shaking down strip club owners, persuading witnesses to keep their mouths shut. That kind of thing.”

  “And murder for hire?”

  “Not that my guy knows of, but he wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Shortly after we hung up, I heard scratching at the back door. When I opened it, Brady burst in looking cold but happy.

  I gave him a few minutes to warm up, attached his leash, and led him to the RAV4. The snow hadn’t drifted across my driveway, so the all-wheel-drive vehicle managed to churn its way to the street. I stopped there, left the gate open, and made a call to have the driveway plowed.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the rescue kennel’s parking lot and led Brady inside.

  “Don’t tell me you’re bringing him back,” Tracy said.

  “Of course not, but I need some advice.”

  She listened carefully as I explained the problem.

  “Well,” she said, “you could always crate him when you leave the house.”

  “Brady would hate that,” I said. “Besides, he’s awfully strong. I doubt they make a crate that can hold him.”

  “Then if you want him to stop eating your furniture, the best solution is to get him some company.”

  “Another dog?”

  “Unless you want to hire a dog sitter.”

  “You really think that would work?”

  “Depends on how they get along. Sometimes, a dog resents it when you bring another animal into the house.”

  “I don’t suppose you still have Rondo,” I said.

  Tracy laughed. “You do like them big, don’t you.”

  “Sure do.”

  “Come on. Let’s see how it goes when we introduce them.”

  When Tracy let Rondo out of his cage, I couldn’t believe how much he’d grown. He was already nearly half Brady’s size. After the two dogs sniffed each other’s behinds, the doggie version of shaking hands, we led them outside and set them loose in the fenced yard.

  Rondo crouched, growled, and launched himself at Brady, jaws snapping at the bigger dog’s ears. Brady raised one massive paw and batted Rondo, sending him sprawling through the snow. Rondo scrambled to his feet and attacked again. At first, I was alarmed. Then I noticed that their tails were wagging.

  Brady could have easily overpowered the big puppy, but as they continued to play-fight, it became apparent that he knew just how rough he could be without hurting his new friend. We let them go at each other for ten minutes before Tracy helped me brush the snow from their coats and load them into the back of the SUV.

  When we got home, Brady led Rondo on a tour: Here’s the field where I chase quail, the oak tree where I take my morning dump, the rope toy I love to pull, the water dish I drink from. He was displaying the same joy a child does when you give him a puppy.

  When the tour was over, I sat on the porch and watched them play-fight again. This time, they went at it for a half hour before they collapsed in a heap and fell asleep in the snow, Rondo’s head resting on Brady’s chest.

  Over the next few days, I left them alone in the house for hours, returning each time to find what was left of my furniture intact. Brady’s vandalism spree appeared to be over. I picked out a new black leather couch and matching chairs on Amazon.com and arranged for them to be delivered.

  * * *

  Early Thursday morning, Brady and I awoke to the sound of frantic barking. We jumped out of bed, ran into the kitchen, and found an agitated Rondo peering out the back door. I snapped on the porch light and saw the tabby dash down the porch steps.

  I grabbed my air gun and threw the door open. Brady warily peered out. Rondo bolted past him, raced down the steps, and tore through the snow after the intruder. The cat leaped the new back fence just ahead of Rondo’s jaws and skittered away.

  I scanned the porch floor for Cat the Ripper’s latest gift and spotted it in Brady’s water dish. Then I went back into the kitchen to fetch a spatula and a plastic sandwich bag. I scooped the gift from the bowl and slipped it into the bag.

  * * *

  “An ear?” McCracken said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure it’s human?”

  “I don’t see how it could be anything else. Heard of anybody who’s missing one?”

  “Not lately. What did you do with it?”

  “I put it in a baggie and stuck it under an ice tray in my freezer.”

  “Did you notify the police?”

  “No way. If I had, they’d be crawling all over my place right now.”

  “And you wouldn’t want that,” McCracken said.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Because you’ve got secrets,” he said.

  “From everyone but you and Joseph, my love.”

  “Now ain’t that sweet.”

  I killed the call, sat at my computer, and searched the online news sites that cover Rhode Island and nearby towns in Massachusetts. No news about somebody losing an ear in a bar fight or a boating accident. No reports of anyone falling overboard in the bay or getting swept away by the surf. I called the hospital contacts I’d made in my reporting days. No one had walked into any area emergency room whining about a severed ear.

  I decided to keep it on ice and wait for developments.

  19

  Meghan Falco, Bowditch’s fiancée, agreed to meet me at the 193 Coffee House on Lower College Road in the village of North Kingston, just off the University of Rhode Island campus.

  The first thing she told me was that the coffeehouse’s name referred to the temperature of the coffee. She also informed me that the place was a student-run cooperative and that it served only fair-trade coffee.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  “They use coffee beans certified as coming from producers who do not use child labor and who employ environmentally sustainable farming practices.”

  “Certified by whom?” I didn’t care, but pretending I did was a way to break the ice.

  The football star’s girl wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Average figure, turned up nose, mousy brown hair, big hazel eyes behind oversize horn-rims. She was pretty enough in a conventional schoolgirl sort of way, but no one would have mistaken her for Gisele Bündchen.

  We were sitting on oak Windsor chairs, our hands clutching mugs of 193-degree coffee. A copy of The Secret Life of Lobsters, by Trevor Corson, rested beside her on the small round table.

  “I’m going to make a wild guess here and say you’re a marine biology major.”

  “I am.”

  “What do you plan to do when you graduate?”

  “You mean other than see how fast I can spend Conner’s money?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Oh.… Sorry about being so defensive.”
<
br />   “I gather the word gold digger has been thrown at you.”

  “That and worse. Got so bad I had to cancel my Twitter account.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “To answer your question, I plan on pursuing a Ph.D. so I can teach at a university and do research on how climate change is impacting ocean currents and marine life.”

  “Does Conner support your ambitions?”

  “Of course he does. He’s not some big dumb football player, Mr. Mulligan. He plans on going back to school to finish his biochemistry degree after his playing days are over. The average NFL career lasts only three and a half years, you know.”

  “True, but the average career of a first-round draft pick lasts nine seasons. I looked it up.”

  “If Conner avoids serious injury and plays for a decade, he’ll be thirty-one when he retires from the game,” Meghan said. “He’ll have plenty of time to finish his education.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “When I was six, my dad went to work as a foreman at Bowditch Construction, Conner’s father’s company. We were always getting invited to their big house on the East Side. Barbecues, pool parties, that sort of thing. I’ve known Conner nearly all my life.”

  “You started dating in high school?”

  “Junior high if you count holding hands at soccer games and stealing a kiss under the bleachers. In high school, Conner had flings with other girls, but he always came back to me. The others chased him because he was a football star. I fell for him because he’s so kind and so smart. In the fall of our senior year, he gave me his class ring to wear on a chain around my neck. We’ve been together ever since.”

  The class ring had since been supplanted by a modest diamond on her left ring finger. I figured it would be replaced with a much bigger one once Conner signed his first pro contract.

  “How often do you see each other now?”

  “With our class schedules and his commitment to football, it’s tough—even though B.C. is just ninety minutes up the interstate. But I drive up there or he comes down here at least one weekend a month. And we Skype or talk on the phone every night.”

  “Has he been himself lately?”

  “What do you mean?”