The Dread Line

by Bruce DeSilva

  “Doing what?”

  “Two years walking a waterfront beat, four in a patrol car, the rest in the criminal investigations division.”

  “You were a detective?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you any good at it?”

  “I knew my way around. I’d like to think I still do.”

  “Ever seen anything like the stickup at the bank?”

  He grinned. “I been wondering when you’d finally get around to me.”

  “Want to know why it took so long?”

  “If you want to tell me.”

  “Ragsdale let me read your witness statement.”

  “And there wasn’t anything helpful in it,” he said.

  “Hell, Owen. You didn’t even realize the place had been robbed until Veiga ran out of the vault and started yelling.”

  “Yeah. Fuckin’ embarrassing.”

  “And I bet you’ve been brooding about that ever since,” I said.

  “Every damned day.”

  “And?”

  “And I heard you got fired today.”

  “I did.”

  “But you can’t let go of it either,” he said.

  “Nope.”

  The waitress came by to take our orders, stuffed quahogs and chicken parmesan for McGowan, clam cakes and a strip steak for me, and a refill on the beers. In the back corner, someone was setting up a drum set for the evening performance by Sally and the Tall Boys. For now, the only percussion accompanying our conversation was the click of balls on the pool table.

  “I’ve asked Ragsdale for updates,” McGowan said, “but he’s shutting me out. How about filling me in on what you’ve got?”

  “It’s not much,” I said, and gave him the facts, leaving out my suspicions.

  When I was done, he rubbed his face and said, “None of the swag has hit the market yet?”

  “Not that we’ve heard.”

  “Smart. If it was me, I’d definitely be laying low until the heat dies down.”

  “It wasn’t you, was it?”

  He narrowed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “And here I thought we were having a friendly conversation. Why in hell would you ask me a thing like that?”

  “Because it smells like an inside job.”

  He nodded. “Smells that way to me, too.”

  “Got anything to go on besides your nose?”

  “I might.”

  “I’m listening.”

  He grinned. “Guess you didn’t notice that my glass is empty. And when I’m done with this chicken, I’m gonna have a hankering for some apple pie.”

  I waved the waitress over and ordered the same for both of us.

  “First thing’s the way the perp knew how to avoid the five surveillance cameras,” McGowan said.

  “That’s been bothering me, too.”

  “Don’t see how he could have done it without help.”

  “Me either.”

  “Has Ragsdale shown you the video?” he asked.

  “No. Did you get a chance to look at it before it was grabbed by the police?”

  He shook his head. “A few weeks ago I got to chewing on this, so I spent an hour studying the video feeds in the security office, checking out all the camera angles. The longer I watched, the surer I got that he couldn’t have pulled this off unless he’d sat right there in front of those monitors and done the same damned thing.”

  “Do the cameras cover the security office?” I asked.

  “No. Not the hallway leading to it, either.”

  “Too bad. Is the office kept locked?”

  “Supposed to be.”

  “Who has keys?”

  “Carson, Veiga, and Philpot.”

  “The head teller?”

  “Yeah. The crew that takes out the trash and mops the floors after hours has keys, too.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “Two or three. Come to think of it, I suppose some of the five hundred vice presidents wasting office space in Providence could have keys. Might even be a corporate vice president for keys and locks, ’cause they got one for every other fucking thing.”

  “Anyone else you can think of?”

  “Me, of course.”

  “Well,” I said, “at least this narrows it down some.”

  “Not really. Nothing valuable is kept back there, so we’ve been careless with the keys. Leaving them on desktops. Stashing them in unlocked drawers. Any bank employee could have snatched one and had a copy made. Hell, a customer probably could have done it, too.”

  “Shit.”

  “’Course, to go back there and watch the monitors, you’d have to work here. Anybody else would have been noticed. Most likely, it was done after hours, somebody coming in early or working late.”

  “Did anyone work extra hours in the weeks before the robbery?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Who?”

  “Carson stayed late most nights. But everybody puts in long days from time to time.”

  I finished my pie, paid the check, thanked him for his time, and rose to leave.

  “Hang on there, pal.”

  “What?”

  “I got more.”

  I settled back in my chair and ordered us both another beer.

  “When I studied the monitors, I noticed that the camera above the vault entrance, the one that would have been hardest for the perp to avoid, was tilted downward so it covered only about six feet of the approach. So I went back and looked at the video from the weeks before the robbery. Sure enough, the camera was picking up people a good twenty feet from the vault. But three days before the robbery, the angle changed.”

  “Is the angle controlled remotely from the security room?” I asked.

  “No. To change it, you’d have to do it manually.”

  “Could you do that without being picked up by the camera?”

  “Yeah,” he said. Just stand out of camera range in the vault door, reach up, and give it a tug.”

  “Did you tell Ragsdale about this?”

  “I did. He didn’t seem to think it was important, but I kept bugging him about it. Finally he came by, looked at the camera, and noticed the bracket that holds it in place was a little loose. Said that meant the camera probably slipped on its own.”

  “But you don’t think that’s what happened,” I said.

  “It’s too damned convenient. I think the hardware loosened when somebody yanked on the camera to change the angle.”

  22

  The way Ricky Santos told it, Meghan Falco’s claim that he and Conner Bowditch were never tight was far from the truth.

  “She really told you that?” he said.

  “She did.”

  Santos sadly shook his head.

  Midafternoon, we were seated in the sunroom of Kabob and Curry, an Indian restaurant just up College Hill from the Rhode Island School of Design, where Santos was enrolled. We were both drinking Jaipur lager, an Indian brew that Santos recommended. I pretended to like it.

  “What do you think he sees in her?” I asked.

  “You know, I’ve always wondered about that. I mean, with that body of his, and with all the moolah he stands to make, he ought to be screwing movie stars and supermodels by now.”

  “Maybe he values intelligence more than looks,” I said.

  “Could be. She is a smart girl. You gotta give her that. But she never did like me.”

  “Because you’re gay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the hell is her problem? Is it a religious thing?”

  “I don’t know, man. I guess her old man’s bigotry rubbed off on her.”

  “Think she sees you as a threat?”

  “As competition for Conner?” He laughed and shook his head.

  “Nothing sexual between you two? You never experimented even a little?”

  “God, no. Don’t get me wrong. Conner’s wicked hot. I would have gone for that in a second. But he’s as straight as
they come.”

  “How long have you been friends?”

  “We were tight all through high school,” Santos said, and went on to confirm Coach Shroyer’s account of Conner defending him from homophobic bullies—except, apparently, Meghan.

  “Are you still in touch?”

  “We talk on the phone a couple of times a month. Summers, when he comes home from Boston, we hang out sometimes. Conner lies to Meghan about that. Just, you know, to avoid getting into an argument.”

  The way he told it, Santos knew nothing about Bowditch’s gambling, had no sense that he was worried about anything, and could think of no reason why he should be.

  * * *

  After I paid the bill, I stepped outside, scanned the student-infested sidewalks, and spotted a middle-aged brute who had wandered into the wrong movie. He was sucking on an e-cigarette and leaning against the window of Antonio’s Pizza across the street. When he saw me pull out my phone and snap his picture, he turned and pretended to find something worth watching inside. I put him at six-one, two-thirty, with a Gold’s Gym body that strained the seams of his trench coat. There was a telltale bulge under his left arm.

  I strolled down the sidewalk, crossed Thayer Street, found Mister Ed parked unticketed at an expired meter, and got behind the wheel. Through the windshield, I watched the gym rat turn and climb into the passenger seat of a white Honda Accord.

  I pulled from the curb, crawled down Thayer, made three quick left turns, and led the Honda into a baffling web of narrow one-way streets lined with Victorian and colonial-era houses. Once I shook the tale, I circled back to Thayer and scooted down the Indian restaurant’s driveway. There, I parked in the area reserved for deliveries, took my Walther from the glove box, jacked a round into the chamber, and called McCracken.

  “Where are you right now?” I asked.

  “In Boston doing more interviews on the Bowditch case.”

  “Learning anything?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning. You?’

  “I’m parked behind Kabob and Curry in Providence with a pistol in my hand.”

  “Planning to stick up the place?”

  “Maybe later. Right now, I’m waiting to make sure I shook the tail I picked up a few minutes ago.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Two guys in a Honda Accord with Massachusetts plates.”

  “One of the most common cars on the road,” McCracken said. “Guess they aren’t as dumb as the first two. Get a look at them?”

  “Just one. I’m texting you his picture now.”

  “So what are you planning to do about this?”

  “Once I’m sure I’ve lost them, I’m heading home.”

  “You could call Joseph and give them the same treatment we gave the last pair.”

  “Yeah, but what good would that do?”

  “Well, listen. I might have picked up a tail myself. I noticed it behind me when I was driving through the BC campus in Chestnut Hill. When I pulled into the lot at state police headquarters in Framingham a few minutes ago, I saw it again. At least I think it was the same car.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “No. If they’re on me, they’re good.”

  “Watch your ass, McCracken.”

  “You too.”

  Later, as I cruised south on I-95, I spotted an occasional white Accord in my mirror, but when I took the turnoff for the Jamestown Verrazzano Bridge, I was confident I wasn’t being followed. I’d just pulled into my driveway when McCracken called back.

  “According to my Massachusetts state police source, the guy in your photo is Michael “Mickey Scars” McNulty, forty-six, of Brockton, another freelance strong arm loosely affiliated with the Winter Hill Gang.”

  “I didn’t notice any scars,” I said.

  “The nickname comes from the marks he leaves on other people. Got a rap sheet that includes extortion, assault, and an attempted murder rap he beat at trial.”

  “Swell.”

  “They say he usually runs with another charmer named Efrain Vargas, thirty-four, also of Brockton. Chances are, that’s who was driving.”

  23

  If the next couple of weeks had been erased from my life, I wouldn’t have missed much. No likely suspects for the bank job had suggested themselves. Conner Bowditch hadn’t called, and each time I dialed his cell number, it went straight to voice mail. I still hadn’t found anyone who was missing an ear. And except for those rare mornings when I rose before sunup to let Rondo out, Cat the Ripper always left a fresh carcass on my porch.

  On the first day of Christmas

  The tabby gave to me

  One headless squirrel.

  At least there hadn’t been more dognappings. Either the creep had been scared off by Jenks’s vigilantes or his heart was bursting with the spirit of the holidays.

  When I wasn’t obsessing over unsolved cases, I amused myself by studying the strengthening bond between Rondo and Brady. Whenever I let them out to explore my two snowbound acres, they rarely strayed more than five feet apart. At night, Brady no longer climbed in with me. Now, he snuggled with Rondo on the braided rug by the foot of my bed.

  One morning, I locked Rondo in the house so I could drive Brady to the vet for a routine checkup. Neither took it well. Rondo pressed his nose to the kitchen window and howled. Brady rooted himself in the driveway and refused to move. It took me five minutes to drag, push, and lift him into the back of the SUV. When we returned home an hour later, the dogs leaped at each other, yipping and crying as if they’d been afraid they were never going to see each other again.

  In our absence, Rondo had tried to break out of the house. He’d ripped the molding from both outside doorjambs. He’d crushed the brass doorknobs in his jaws, chipping one of his teeth. That afternoon, I replaced the molding, installed new hardware, and vowed never to separate them again.

  Although they were as close as brothers, their personalities were startlingly different. Rondo was protective and territorial, displaying his suspicion of strangers by barking incessantly at them. Brady was gregarious and affectionate with everyone he met. Rondo was eager to please, constantly studying me for clues about what he should do next. Brady was stubborn and independent, obeying commands to come or stay only when it suited him. Rondo loved to fetch, gleefully chasing tennis balls across the yard and carrying them back to me. Brady watched the balls sail over his head and tossed me a look that said, “You expect me to get that?”

  Rondo was nearly as big as Brady now. I’d never seen anything grow so fast. I swear I could stand in the kitchen and almost watch him grow.

  Two days before Christmas it snowed again—just a couple of inches this time, but enough to cover the yellow stains the dogs had made in the yard. I rummaged through my storage shed, found my bow saw, trudged to a cluster of four- and five-foot-tall white pines that had seeded themselves on the west side of the property, and cut down the one that was too close to a towering white maple to ever amount to much. I was dragging it toward the house when the gate at the top of my driveway rolled open and a wine-red Lexus GS pulled in.

  The driver’s door swung open, and Yolanda burst out. She hooted, churned across the yard on long legs, and hurled herself at me. I caught her in my arms, swung her in a circle, slipped, and toppled into the snow. Yolanda landed on top of me.

  Two minutes later, she pulled her lips from mine and said, “Let’s take the make-out session inside. I’m getting cold.”

  “Really? Because I’m getting hot.”

  While Yolanda fetched her suitcase from the car, I dragged the pine to the house, dropped it on the porch, and let the dogs out to greet her. Brady met Yolanda’s eyes, held them, and rubbed his body against her hips. Rondo woofed at her, then glanced over his shoulder for any sign that I might want him to drive her off. Yolanda rubbed Brady behind the ears and reached out to Rondo with her other hand. He retreated a step and eyed her with suspicion.

  “You told me they were big,” she said, “but I
had no idea.”

  “They’re going to get bigger.”

  “What’s it cost you to feed them?”

  “Nearly enough to make the monthly payment on your Lexus.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  With that, we stepped inside, dashed for the bedroom, shut the door, and tore off our clothes. A few minutes later, Yolanda’s cries alarmed the dogs. The door thudded as they hurled their bodies against it, trying to break it down. Lucky for me, it was a strong door.

  That night we didn’t talk, we never thought about dinner, and I forgot to feed Brady and Rondo. I didn’t even let the boys out to do their business.

  About seven o’clock the next morning, their barking woke us. I threw on a robe and I found them jitterbugging around the kitchen the way they did when the need to urinate grew urgent. As I opened the door to let them out, Yolanda drifted out of the bedroom wearing nothing at all and padded wordlessly to the bathroom.

  Every time I looked at her, something caught in my throat. She was sleek and sinewy, her hair a soft explosion, all of her the hue of shadow. I couldn’t explain my good fortune, but I’d finally learned not to question it. I got a pot of coffee started and joined her in the shower. I grabbed a washcloth and ran it over her skin, lingering on her backside.

  “I could do this all day,” I said. “There’s nothing better than a wet woman.”

  “Any wet woman?”

  “Well, yeah, but I’ve got a special thing for this one.”

  “Didn’t we have this same conversation once before?”

  “Move in and we can have it every morning.”

  Yolanda hesitated, and for just a moment I thought she was going to say yes. “Don’t rush me, baby. I’m not ready to give up my own place.… But it makes sense to leave some of my things in your closet.”

  I knew I shouldn’t have read too much into that, but I did anyway.

  While we dressed, the dogs raised a ruckus outside. Brady yipped excitedly. Rondo’s bark was low and menacing.

  I’d never worried about them being snatched from the yard—not as long as the front gate was locked. A dognapper would need to vault a four-foot fence, pick up a squirming Brady, and somehow transport him to the other side while Rondo’s jaws were locked on his leg. Unless, of course, he decided to risk burning them on the spot. But that wasn’t his MO.