“I’m here because my father thought I could help you.”
“Yes, he told me. And how is it he thinks you can help?”
“Well . . . at first he thought I could help find Ron.”
“He’s been found.”
“Yes,” Justin said. “I think the idea is that now I might be able to find out what happened to him. And why. If you want me to.”
Victoria didn’t answer. He didn’t mind; he was content just to look at her, to fool himself for these few moments that he was looking at Alicia. As hard as he tried to resist, his mind drifted away into the past. To the day he’d met Alicia on campus. It was summer and her legs were bare. But it had also turned cool, and she had goose bumps running up and down her calves. It was the way he had always thought of her, for years, if they were apart and he conjured up her image: tanned, bare legs, a line of goose bumps. That ended when she killed herself. Since then, when he thought of her, the image he conjured up was of his wife sprawled on the floor, bloody, one side of her face gone from the self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Again, it was as if Victoria read his mind. Justin remembered that she’d always had that knack. In some ways, even when she was just a kid, she knew him better than Alicia did. She teased him with references that Alicia didn’t understand. She always seemed to know what he was thinking about, particularly when he was thinking about things he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about. He smiled at the memory, picturing her as a fourteen-year-old girl, kind of a tomboy, wanting to hang out with him and her older sister because they could do cooler things: drink and go to dirty movies.
“I look like her, don’t I?”
Justin nodded. The word “yes” came out like a quick, sad sigh.
“I see it every day. I see her every time I look in the mirror.”
Justin closed his eyes for a moment. It made it easier to talk with his eyes closed. “You and I, we used to be good friends, didn’t we?” And when she was the one who nodded this time, he said, “It’s weird. I don’t let myself miss too many things. It’s too dangerous. But I miss you.”
“Well, I miss my sister,” she said. There was an iciness to her voice, a meanness that he would never have thought her capable of. Her words were like a slap to his face, and he sat up straighter and tried not to let the hurt show.
“Is there anything you want to tell me about Ronald?” he asked.
“What should I tell you?”
“Vicky—”
“I’m Victoria now. People call me Victoria.”
“Okay,” Justin said. “Victoria. Do you want me to find out what happened to Ronald? Or do you just want me and it to go away?”
It was Victoria’s turn now to close her eyes. When she opened them, she said, “I’m pregnant.”
Startled, Justin said, “I didn’t know. No one told me.”
“No one knows. Six weeks. That’s all. We were waiting before we said anything, to make sure everything was all right.”
“It’s hard to know what to say. Congratulations doesn’t seem to be the right thing, but I’m happy for you.”
“If it’s a girl, Ron and I agreed we’d name her Alicia.”
“I’m glad. It’s a nice thing to do.”
He could see her lower jaw trembling. Whatever it was she wanted to say was extremely difficult.
“I don’t want to know what happened to Ronald. I don’t care what he did or who did it or why. All I care about is that he got himself killed.” Her whole body was trembling now, beginning to shake violently as if a fever were running through her. “That’s all that matters to me. First my sister, now my husband. How can such a thing happen?”
“Vicky . . .” He moved to go toward her, but she held up her hand, stopping him in his tracks.
She steeled herself. The trembling didn’t stop completely but it lessened considerably. It looked as if she might burst from the effort of keeping herself still. “But I’m going to have a child,” Victoria now said. “A child who is never going to know his father. And I have to be able to tell him—or her—something about Ron. So I don’t want to know the truth . . . but I need to know the truth.”
“Then let me help you.”
There was another silence. And finally Victoria nodded.
“Tell me about Ron,” Justin said quietly.
“What kind of things do you need to know?” She was calm now. She sounded the way some people sounded after a good cry: both drained and relieved, weak but resolved.
“Remember, I knew him slightly when he was a kid. I didn’t know him as a grown-up. I don’t really know anything about him. But let’s start with work. What did he do?”
“Mostly he was a financial analyst. He did work for your father sometimes.”
“What kind of work?”
“He did a lot of things—research, analyzing various kinds of companies and products. For potential investors. To see what their upside was.”
“Or their downside.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“So if he gave a bad report to an investor, someone could have been unhappy.”
She frowned and shook her head. “I suppose. But not really. For one thing, companies don’t really know who’s checking them out. And it would be hard to pin it on one person if, say, a fund manager decided not to invest in a specific company. A lot of people have input into those decisions.”
“Was there a specific area he specialized in?”
“No. Whatever interested him or his clients. He didn’t always do research for other people. Lately he’d been investing OPM as well, for his firm.” She stopped when she saw the faint smile on his face. “Something funny?”
He wiped the grin away. “No, of course not. It’s just that I haven’t heard that phrase in a long time. Other people’s money. And I guess I’m not totally used to you as a thirty-year-old. So it’s odd to me to hear you talk like that. I’m sorry, I’m a little bit stuck in the past up here.”
There was no humor in her voice, no easing up on him, when she said, “Well, I’d prefer to stay in the present, if you don’t mind.” And when he nodded his assent, she continued as if there’d been no interruption. “There were things he was better at, areas he was more knowledgeable about. He was very good at his job; there was nothing he couldn’t dig into.”
“How about recently? Anything different or interesting going on with his business?”
She shrugged. “He’d spent more time traveling lately.”
“How lately?”
“Over the past year, the last six months or so in particular.”
“Where was he going?”
“Wherever he had to. California . . . Europe. He spent some time in South Africa over the past month or so for clients.” He saw her eyes water briefly, but she pulled herself together immediately. “I kept telling him he’d better come back with a diamond.”
“Would you say he was an honest person?”
He knew as soon as he said it that he should have phrased it better. The water was definitely gone from her eyes now, replaced again by anger. “Are you trying to make him responsible for what happened to him? Is that how you handle things, drag people down into the gutter?”
“No,” Justin said. “And I apologize for being so blunt. I know things are raw. But if I’m going to find out what happened, I have to know as much as I can. About Ronald, about his work, about the people he surrounded himself with. And I have to ask questions. I’m not looking for any particular answer—I just need to ask the questions, if for no other reason than just so I can eliminate something. I’m starting with a blank canvas and somehow I’ve got to come up with a finished picture.”
She nodded curtly. Didn’t acknowledge his lengthy explanation, just said, “He was honest with me. He was honest about us. That’s the only way I knew him, so I’d have to say yes, he was an honest person.”
“Did he deal with a lot of powerful people?”
“He dealt with rich people. If money makes them powerf
ul, then, yes, he did.” She inhaled deeply. “I know what you’re trying to do. See if he crossed a line with someone, see if he did anything foolish or careless. He didn’t. Ronald was the least foolish or careless person who ever lived. He didn’t drive fast; he always wore a seat belt; he kept an umbrella in the car at all times. He was safe. It’s why I married him, because I knew nothing bad could happen around him. And now—now . . .” The tears began to stream down her cheeks. “Goddammit. I wasn’t going to cry.”
“There’s nothing wrong with crying,” he told her.
Her anger and her stiffness and her sorrow now erupted in sudden rage. “Don’t tell me how to grieve!” she spat. “Don’t tell me about crying and sadness. My sister’s dead! My husband’s dead! Don’t tell me it’s okay to cry. Does crying bring them back? Does crying make the rest of my life safe and happy . . . Does it keep people like you away from me?”
“No,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t do that.” He waited until her tears were done and her breathing was back to normal. “Do you want me to stop?” Justin asked.
She shook her head. “No. I want you to ask what you have to ask.”
“Do you have a list of his clients?”
She exhaled deeply, as if frustrated that, now that it was too late, she knew so little about her husband. “His assistant would have that, I’m sure. Or one of the analysts who worked for him. There were a few social occasions where we’d go out with clients—Ron would entertain them—but I never had much contact with them.”
“Did he have his own firm?”
“Yes,” Victoria said. “For the last year. Maybe a little more.”
“All right. I’ll get the client information from the people at the company, if that’s all right.”
“I’ll call them, tell them to cooperate with you. Is there anything else?”
“Not right now. If I think of something, is it all right if I call you?”
She nodded and he stood up. As he took his first step toward the entryway, she said, “It’s come full circle, hasn’t it?”
His foot stopped in midair and he turned back toward her. “What has?”
“Your wife was murdered because of something you did. Now you murder someone’s husband—he dies because of something she did. Full circle.” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Yes, I cry while I’m grieving. But I can also read the paper.”
Justin stood there frozen, agonizing for what seemed like hours but was merely seconds. He said, “I’ll call you if I need anything.” Then he found his own way to the front door, leaving her on the couch, back straight, legs crossed, unbending and not moving. When he stepped outside, for a moment he thought he was going to be sick, and he doubled over. But he wasn’t sick. Not physically. So he stood back up, rubbed off the beads of sweat that were soaking his forehead, got in his car, and drove away.
He didn’t think he’d be back for quite some time.
16
In keeping with the rest of his day, Justin’s conversation with Billy DiPezio did not start out as a raging success.
Billy was not much on exchanging pleasantries—Billy was not much on pleasantries in general—so the first thing he said to Justin was, “You look like shit.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Justin said. “The last few days have been so pleasant and stress free.”
“What do you want?” Billy said. Then, “No, never mind. You want whatever the hell I know about Ronnie LaSalle’s murder.”
“I want a couple of things. But that’s a good place to start.”
“No problem,” Billy said. “Here’s every single thing I know.” He held up his index finger so it touched his thumb, forming a circle. “Zero. Zilch. Nada. You beginning to understand what I’m saying?”
“Not such a good start then,” Justin said.
“I’ve had better.”
“You got a theory?”
“You’ve known me a long time, Jay,” Billy said. “I got theories on everything. On life, on Ronnie LaSalle . . . you want my theory on why you came up here?”
“No,” Justin said.
“’Cause you think if you solve this little crime, then the colder-than-fuckin’-ice Vicky LaSalle is gonna forgive you for something you don’t need to be forgiven for.”
“What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”
“I’m just givin’ you some free advice, my friend. Whatever you do, you aren’t gonna change the look in Vicky’s eyes. You don’t deserve that look, and the sooner you accept that, the better. But you ain’t gettin’ rid of it.”
“Victoria.”
“What?”
“She calls herself Victoria now. Not Vicky. She’s a grown-up.”
“But she still thinks like a kid when it comes to you and Alicia.”
“Shut up, Billy. I’m not kidding. End of conversation.”
“You want to talk about somethin’ else, name your subject.”
“Let’s try to stick to Ron LaSalle. You got any of your famous theories on what happened?”
“Yeah. He was screwin’ around and someone thought they could take him for big bucks. His girlfriend, his girlfriend’s boyfriend, somebody. Somethin’ went wrong somewhere and Ronnie winds up in Drogan’s lot.”
“Who leaves his house before dawn, with his wife still in bed, to go see a girlfriend? Or a blackmailer?”
“Shit, Jay, who leaves his house before dawn for any reason?”
“That’s my point. You don’t. Unless you have to. And unless you don’t care if your wife finds out you’re doing something screwy.”
“So maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he was leaving her.”
“Billy, it’s not the way people like that work. Somebody like Ronald leaves like that because he has no choice. Because he doesn’t see any other way. The alternative—say something or just stay—is worse.”
“You know rich people better than I do, Jay, I’ll grant you that.”
“With all the graft you’ve taken, I’ll bet your bank account’s bigger than most of the people paying you off.”
“I resent that.” Billy grinned his best wolfish smile. “But I wouldn’t take the bet.”
“So you gonna stick with your borderline-insane theory or are you going to follow this up and see what really happened?”
“You ever know me to let a murderer get away with something in my town?”
“No,” Justin said. “Never. Unless he paid you enough.”
“They couldn’t pay me enough on this one.”
Justin cocked his head. Billy sounded serious. “And why’s that?”
“’Cause this one’s nasty.”
“How nasty?”
“The ME said most of LaSalle’s organs were crushed.” When Justin winced involuntarily, Billy said, “Yeah, I know. It had to be excruciating. And slow.”
“Beaten to death?”
“Except hardly any marks on him.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Tell me somethin’ about murder and death that makes sense,” Billy said.
Justin took a sip from the small glass of single malt scotch that Billy had put in front of him when they’d sat down. Most conversations in Billy’s office were conducted over a glass of single malt. Didn’t matter whether it was morning, afternoon, or night. “Were you this philosophical when you were young?” Justin asked.
“I was never young,” Billy DiPezio said. “You and me, we were born old. We’re just gonna die young.”
They sat in silence for a moment, pondering the truth of Billy’s statement. Justin finally said, “You do talk a lot of bullshit.”
“Yes, I do,” Billy said. “And why are you carryin’ around a Rhode Island guidebook? Doing some sightseeing while you’re up here?”
Justin held up the book, still partially wrapped in the white and red cloth napkin from Dolce. “Can you run this for fingerprints?”
“I can do anything I want. What’s it about?”
“Nothing connected to Ron
LaSalle. Just something to help me out.”
“Always happy to help you out, Jay. But am I missing something? Don’t you have a little police station of your own with, you know, all those modern accoutrements?”
“I’ve been suspended.”
“What a bunch of assholes.”
“No argument there. Will you run the prints?”
“If you tell me you’re not bein’ an asshole, too. We don’t lie to our friends, do we?”
“No, we don’t. This has nothing to do with Ron LaSalle.”
“All right. I’ll run ’em.”
“And, Billy . . .”
The Providence police chief shook his head. “What else do you want?”
“Are you kind of shorthanded these days?”
“I’m always shorthanded. Why?”
“You interested in a pretty good cop who needs a job?”
“Talk to the goddamn politicians. They control the budget.”
“Luckily, I don’t need the money,” Justin said.
“You? You want to come back here?”
“In a way,” Justin said.
“What the hell kind of way?”
Justin told him. It was what he’d come up here to say, why he’d come back home. When he was done explaining, Billy had the biggest smile on his face that Justin had seen in a long time.
Justin was feeling extremely clever. He’d gotten Billy to agree to pay him the princely sum of one whole dollar a week. For that sum, he was now a consultant to the Providence PD and, as such, had an official way in to the murder of Evan Harmon. And, as a side benefit, of Ron LaSalle as well. Larry Silverbush could go to hell. Justin was going to get to H. R. Harmon and Lincoln Berdon, the head of Rockworth and Williams, and anyone else he wanted to reach. And Silverbush couldn’t stop him now. The only thing Justin was feeling a little bad about was that he hadn’t planted a big kiss on the top of Billy DiPizio’s silver-haired head. He’d just gone ahead and shaken his hand and said thanks.
As Justin was walking down the imposing cement steps from the station house, he was enjoying his own cleverness. And he was picturing breaking the news to DA Silverbush. That was the reason he didn’t see the man walking up quickly behind him on his left. The man’s eyes were hidden by Ray-Ban sunglasses and he was wearing a lightweight gray suit. As he came upon Justin, the man in the gray suit said, quietly, “Just keep walking.” And when Justin instinctively hesitated, the man said, just a little bit louder, “Don’t stop. Walk. There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
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