The Dread Line

by Bruce DeSilva

  Still, whenever the boys were outside, I went to the window every few minutes to check on them.

  This time, I peered out the kitchen window and saw Brady and Rondo prowling along the back fence. On the other side, the stray cat kneaded the snow with his paws. Suddenly, he sprang to the top of the fence. Brady turned tail and ran for the porch. Rondo leaped at the cat, jaws snapping. The cat dropped something, jumped to safety, and calmly slinked away.

  I walked out to the fence, picked up a headless blue jay, and wrapped it in a paper towel.

  “What’s that?” Yolanda asked as I entered the kitchen. So I told her about my war with Cat the Ripper—except for the part about the ear.

  Afterward, I urged Yolanda to relax at the kitchen table. She scanned the news on The Ocean State Rag Web site and called out the headlines she thought would interest me. I rifled the fridge, found the makings for scrambled eggs and bacon, and got a pan sizzling on the stove. Brady rested his head on Yolanda’s thigh, but Rondo kept his distance and eyed her suspiciously, as if he thought she might try to steal something.

  “Brady’s a sweetie,” she said, “but I think Rondo needs diversity training.”

  “He just needs time to get used to you.”

  And sure enough, that afternoon, right after we trimmed the tree, Rondo climbed onto my new couch, laid his head in Yolanda’s lap, and thumped his massive tail. I sat on the floor, leaned against her legs, and draped an arm around Brady.

  And we talked. Yolanda told me how much she enjoyed teaching, how much she loathed the tedious faculty meetings, and what her favorite students were like. I filled her in on the frustrating cases I’d been working.

  “I get the feeling you’re leaving something out,” she said.

  “I don’t like to worry you.”

  “Tell me.”

  So I described the run-ins McCracken and I’d had with the thugs who’d been tailing us.

  “What do you know about them?” Yolanda asked.

  I spilled the details about their criminal records and what I’d learned by calling the numbers on the Vaccas’ cell phones.

  “Back up a second,” she said. “Romeo Vacca made frequent calls to what law firm?”

  “Dunst and Moran in Boston.”

  “Do you know which lawyer they talked to there?”

  “Morris Dunst.”

  “Huh. That’s odd.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know Dunst, but I am familiar with the firm. They specialize in business law. Contracts, patents, incorporations, asset protection. That sort of thing.”

  “Not criminal cases?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I guess they must be branching out.”

  Yolanda nodded, then said, “I am worried about you.”

  “You always are.”

  “Because you keep giving me reasons. Those thugs. Do they know where you live?”

  “I don’t see how they could. Except for you, McCracken, and a couple of other people I trust, no one does. You know how careful I’ve been to keep this place secret.”

  “That’s good. You need to be very careful in your line of work.”

  She meant detective work, but I flashed on what Meghan Falco had said about men who keep secrets from their wives and girlfriends. I needed to come clean with Yolanda about the bookmaking racket, but how could I find the words to put a positive spin on it?

  That evening was Christmas Eve. After dinner, I put James Taylor’s holiday album on the sound system and popped the cork on a bottle of Antonio Galloni champagne. We carried our glasses to the living room, sat on the floor next to the tree, and exchanged presents.

  Yolanda gave me a case of Locke’s single malt, my favorite Irish whiskey. She also gave me a Christmas sweater with the New England Patriots’ logo on it that was so breathtakingly ugly that it was actually cool. After I put it on, I had her open a small box wrapped in shiny green foil paper.

  “Oh, my god,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Do you know what it is?’

  “You mean, other than being a silver charm bracelet?”

  “I do.”

  “Then, no.”

  “It’s a Victorian love token bracelet.”

  “It’s antique?”

  “It was made in the 1880s. Each of the nine charms is a Liberty-seated dime that was smoothed on one side and then hand engraved with a name, date, or symbol that meant something to the original owner. See, this one says ‘Fanny,’ and here’s another that says ‘Lilly’—probably the names of her children. This one depicts a cottage, perhaps the place she grew up in.”

  “And look at this one,” Yolanda said. “It’s a wreath with the words ‘Christmas 1881’ inside.”

  “Probably the year her husband gave it to her,” I said. “It must have meant a great deal to both of them.”

  “And now, a hundred and twenty-five years later, you’re giving it to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Think our love will last that long?”

  “Now you’re just being sappy.”

  She punched me in the shoulder, then straddled me and planted a kiss on my lips. The smooching didn’t last. Brady, who craved petting, and Rondo, a rampant kisser, wormed their way between us, demanding their share of affection.

  I laughed, pulled down two red felt Christmas stockings I’d hung from the mantel, and tossed them to the dogs. Inside each was a pull toy, a new collar, a real beef bone stuffed with peanut butter, and a dozen loose Beggin’ Strips that were gobbled up in seconds.

  * * *

  Three blissful days later, Joseph DeLucca paid us a surprise morning visit. He stomped the snow from his boots, stepped into the kitchen, and ruffled Brady’s coat while Rondo circled and woofed at him.

  “Good to see you again, Yolanda,” Joseph said as he set a brown paper grocery bag on the kitchen table.

  “Oh-oh,” I thought. Or maybe I said it out loud.

  “Nice to see you, too, Joseph,” Yolanda said. “I was about to start a late breakfast. Did you bring us some goodies?”

  “Uh.… Not exactly, but if you want, I could run out for something.”

  That’s when Rondo’s tail swept across the table. Two empty coffee mugs fell to the floor and shattered. The paper bag tipped over. And dozens of hundred-dollar bills sailed out.

  “Aw, hell,” Joseph muttered. “Sorry about that, boss.”

  Rondo lunged forward, snatched a mawful of bills, and bolted for the sitting room. Joseph cursed and thudded after him. For a moment, Yolanda and I stared wordlessly at each other and listened to shouts, growls, and what sounded like a lamp crashing to the floor. Then I got down on my knees, gathered the remaining bills, and returned them to the bag.

  “Mulligan?”

  “Um?”

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  I took her hand, led her to the sitting room, sat beside her on the couch, and watched Joseph pry drool-soaked bills from Rondo’s jaws. Then he righted the fallen floor lamp and twisted the metal shade into a facsimile of its original shape.

  “I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you,” I said.

  “You mean she don’t know?” Joseph said.

  “Know what?” Yolanda said.

  Joseph sadly shook his head. Then he tossed the wet bills in my lap and flopped into the recliner.

  “Yolanda,” I said. “Remember last year, when the Providence cops accused me of shooting somebody?”

  “I do,” she said. “You gave me five bucks as a retainer before telling me the story.”

  “Does that mean you’re still my lawyer?”

  “Among other things, yes I am.”

  “Joseph, give Yolanda a five-dollar bill.”

  “Don’t think I got one.”

  “Give her this, then,” I said. I scrunched one of the hundreds into a ball and threw it to him. He caught it, nodded, and tossed it into Yolanda’s lap.

  “Jesus, Mulligan,” she said.
“What have you two boys gotten yourselves into this time?”

  “Joseph works for me,” I said.

  “Doing what?”

  I sucked in a deep breath and gave her all of it.

  When I was done, she sat quietly for what was probably a half a minute. To me, it felt like an hour. Finally, she narrowed her eyes and said, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I was concerned about how you’d take it.”

  “So you let Rondo break the news?” she said. And then she laughed. A minute later, she was still giggling.

  “Does this mean you’re not dumping me?”

  “Of course I’m not.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “But you should have told me earlier, baby. I can help.”

  Now that was a surprise. “Help how?”

  “By making you legal.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “You’ve got my full attention.”

  “Under Rhode Island’s gambling laws,” Yolanda said, “it’s not illegal to place a bet on a sporting event. What’s outlawed is operating an enterprise that accepts those bets.”

  “Which is what we do,” Joseph said.

  “Yes, but you could set up an online gambling site with an IP address in the Bahamas or the Caymans. When bettors call you or come into the store to place their bets, just tell them you’re going digital and give them the Web site address.”

  “And that would get around the state law?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t know,” Joseph said. “A lot of my regulars are old-timers. They don’t know nothin’ about computers.”

  “You can teach them.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about computers either.”

  “You can learn, Joseph. It’s easy.”

  “What about the ones that ain’t got computers?” Joseph asked.

  “They can log in at any public library,” Yolanda said. “Or you could let them use a computer at your store.”

  “Then I guess I better get one,” Joseph said.

  “Hold on a minute,” I said. “What about federal law?”

  “That’s more complicated,” Yolanda said.

  “Go on.”

  “First off, the Wire Act of 1961 prohibits using telegraph and telephone lines to place sports bets.”

  “That sounds like trouble,” I said.

  “Not really. Since the Internet didn’t exist back then, it’s not clear that the law can be applied to online gambling.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then there’s the Unlawful Internet Gambling Enforcement Act of 2006,” Yolanda said. “But all it does is prohibit U.S. banks from processing online sports-gambling payments.”

  “So how do we pay off the winners and collect from the losers?” Joseph asked.

  “With prepaid cards or wire transfers that don’t go through U.S. banks. I can show you. It’s really easy.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “The federal Professional and Amateur Sports Protection Act of 1992 outlaws sports betting everywhere but in Nevada and three other states that were grandfathered in. But it’s unclear that it can be applied to bets placed on Web sites located outside the country.”

  “How unclear?” I asked.

  “It’s never been adjudicated,” Yolanda said, “but the bottom line is that no one has ever faced federal prosecution for online sports gambling.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said. “Know anyone who could set up a Web site for us?”

  “No, but I can make some calls.”

  I rubbed my jaw and thought about it for a moment. “If we do this, I assume our profits will end up in some bank in the Caribbean. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “The foreign bank will issue you an ATM card that you can use anywhere.”

  “And you’re telling me all this is legal?”

  “As long as you pay taxes on your income.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Yolanda laughed. “Mulligan, you said that already.”

  24

  “Speed up,” Yolanda said. “You don’t want me to miss my flight, do you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “It’s only five more months, baby.”

  “Only?”

  “I’ll miss you, too,” she said, and rested her hand on my thigh. I sighed and gave her Lexus a little more gas as we cruised north on Interstate 95 toward Green Airport.

  “Can’t you tell the dean you’ve got a family emergency?”

  “And what emergency would that be?”

  “That your man can’t live without you.”

  “I think you’ll survive.”

  “What will I do for sex?”

  “Internet porn and hand lotion.”

  “It’s not quite the same.”

  “Good to know.”

  I was about to reintroduce the subject of living arrangements once the semester ended, but Yolanda had something else on her mind.

  “Mulligan? Tell me about the jewelry robbery again.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m not sure. Something about it’s been nagging at me.”

  So I ran through the details again.

  “And none of the jewelry has hit the market yet?” she asked.

  “Not as far as we know. What are you thinking?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  She remained silent until I pulled the car to the curb in front of the terminal. Then she leaned over for a kiss and told me again how much she’d miss me. I fetched her bag from the back, placed it beside her on the sidewalk, and wrapped my arms around her. When I finally let go, she grabbed the bag and briskly walked away, her thoughts about the robbery seemingly forgotten.

  I’d just started the car when someone rapped on the passenger-side door. I turned, saw Yolanda standing there, and lowered the window. She stuck her head inside.

  “Mulligan?”

  “Um?”

  “Has it occurred to you that the jewelry could still be inside the bank?”

  * * *

  After I dropped Yolanda’s car at her condo in Providence, Joseph picked me up and drove me home in his truck. As far as I could tell, we weren’t followed.

  While Joseph horsed around in the snow with Brady and Rondo, I placed another call to Bowditch, got his voice mail again, and left another message. Then I stretched out in bed, closed my eyes, and mulled over Yolanda’s question about the bank job. I was still at it a half hour later when I heard Joseph open the door and come inside. Then I heard the dogs’ nails skittering on the kitchen floor. They burst into the bedroom, leaped on me, and shook themselves, scattering snow all over the bedspread.

  Joseph stuck his head in, said “Sorry, boss,” and tossed me a beer. I popped the top, took a gulp, grabbed my cell phone, and called Crowder.

  “It’s Mulligan. Got a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Were Cargill’s jewels loose in the safe deposit box, or did he keep them wrapped in something?”

  “No idea.”

  “Can you ask him?”

  “Now, why would you be wanting me to do that?”

  “I’ve got a hunch.”

  “Gonna tell me about it?”

  “Not just yet.”

  “The man don’t like to be bothered with small stuff, pardner. This had better be important.”

  “I won’t know if it is until you ask him. Check it out and call me back.”

  Two hours later, he did.

  “According to Cargill, six pairs of diamond earrings were in clear Mylar bags. The other twenty pieces—mostly bracelets and necklaces—were sealed in bubble wrap.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Wanna tell me why?”

  “I will once I figure it out.”

  * * *

  Just after midnight, the burner on my bedside table rang.

  “Mulligan.
”

  “The little freak’s been inside my apartment.”

  “Belinda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he there now?”

  “No.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “A patrol officer just left. He looked in all the closets and checked under the bed. Told me I should call again if I needed him and promised to drive by my place a couple of times during the night.”

  “But you’re still scared.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Should I come over?”

  “Please.”

  Ten minutes later, I knocked on her apartment door. She peered through the peephole, unlatched the chain lock, grabbed my arm, and pulled me inside. Then she wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me. I felt her body shaking.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “I was out drinking with some girlfriends tonight. When I got home, the front door was unlocked.”

  “Could you have forgotten to secure it?”

  “With Alexander stalking me? No fucking way.”

  I opened the door, examined the lock, and saw tool marks.

  “Find anything out of place?” I asked.

  “Hell, yeah. The creep opened my bureau drawers and pulled out all my bras and panties. I think a few of them are missing.”

  “Show me.”

  She grabbed my hand and led me into the bedroom. All the bureau drawers yawned open. Several dozen undergarments were strewn on the floor and across the blue chenille bedspread. I watched as she stooped to pick them up, folded them, and returned them to the drawers.

  “Can you stay?”

  With Cargill gone, the report filed, and a cop promising to check on her, it didn’t look like Belinda needed me. And after seeing Yolanda off, it felt wrong to be in another woman’s apartment—especially a woman like this one.

  “I think you’ll be fine, Belinda. You can call me if…” But she’d disappeared.

  Just as I was about to shout “take it easy” and leave, John Legend began moaning from her sound system. She returned wearing a yellow terry-cloth robe and clutching a bottle of Knob Creek.

  “A drink would calm my nerves,” she said. “I keep picturing that creep in here, clawing through my things.” She put two glasses on the coffee table, plopped down on the couch, and lifted an inquiring eye in my direction.

  A drink wouldn’t hurt, right? I seated myself at a respectable distance, which Belinda quickly and efficiently closed. Before I knew it, her head was in my lap. I couldn’t help thinking of the way Rondo had laid his head in Yolanda’s lap once he’d decided it was okay to be in love with her.