Rogue Island

by Bruce DeSilva

  “You got it with you?”

  “It’s in a safe place.”

  He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  “Let me know when your flight is coming in,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “Vinnie,” I said, “I suspect that beneath that cynical shell you are at heart a sentimentalist.”

  “Huh?”

  Hard to believe there was someone out there who had never seen Casablanca.

  I hung up and returned my attention to the game in time to see the Sox pull out a 7–6 win in their last at bat.

  Wednesday I got up late, called the hospital, and then wandered over to Doherty’s East Avenue Irish Pub for pastrami on rye and a club soda. That evening, I went back to Doherty’s to watch the Angels beat our young left-hander, John Lester, 6–4. But we were still in first place, two and a half games up on the Yankees. Except for last night’s threat on my life, Dorcas’s threat to send Rewrite to the pound, Rosie’s condition, and the fact that Veronica hadn’t returned my calls, everything was just peachy.

  69

  Late Wednesday afternoon found me lurking in Burnside Park again. This time I was wearing my new blazer, Dockers, and bogus Ray-Bans. I looked almost fashionable. For me, it was a disguise.

  The same bums asked me for spare change. The same drug dealers offered their wares. The same teenage hooker strolled by, this time on a city councilman’s arm. The pit bull was a no-show.

  When the cell rang, I recognized the number.

  “Hi, Veronica.”

  “Hi, baby. Sorry I didn’t return your calls the last couple of days. I was busy.”

  That word again.

  “I gather you’ve decided to take Woodward’s advice.”

  “I want to be with you, but we’ll have to be discreet. Logan Bedford bursting in on us at Hopes freaked me out. But this is all going to blow over soon, right? I miss you, baby.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Any news about Rosie today?”

  “I called the hospital a half hour ago. She’s still critical.”

  “She’s gonna beat this, baby. She’s a fighter.”

  “That she is.”

  “Where are you, anyway?”

  I almost blurted the truth before realizing she’d be safer if she didn’t know.

  “Tampa,” I said.

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Following the Red Sox.”

  “I should have known. When are you getting back?”

  “I’m not quite sure.”

  “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I was hoping we could have a secret rendezvous this weekend. Next week I start at The Post.”

  Shit. Could we manage a long-distance relationship? Woodward certainly wouldn’t be hiring me now. I was damaged goods.

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, as soon as I get the mess I’m in straightened away, how about I come down there for a weekend of unbridled lust?”

  “I’d really like that.”

  After we hung up, I strolled around the park some more. It was shortly after six when a statuesque black woman came through the Textron Tower’s revolving door, cut across the park, and entered the Capital Grille. I recognized her from her photo on the law firm’s Web site. I waited a few minutes, then followed her in.

  Yolanda Mosley-Jones was sitting alone at the end of the bar, looking both professional and lusty in a hunter-green business suit. I chose a stool at the other end, asked the bartender for a club soda, and feigned interest in the menu. Mosley-Jones picked up what looked like a martini, took a small sip, and set it back down on a cocktail napkin.

  Behind her, four suits were crammed into a booth, consuming vile, neon-colored drinks from highball glasses. From their furtive glances, it was apparent they were interested. Finally one of them got up, lurched over to the bar, and sat down beside her. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but whatever it was didn’t take. He got back up, shoulders slumping a little, and rejoined his friends.

  A half hour ticked by. She never checked her watch. Never looked up at the clock over the bar. She didn’t seem to be waiting for anybody. I walked over, sat down next to her, and asked the bartender to bring her another on me.

  “Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t date white guys.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She spun the bar stool to face me, looked me over, and frowned. Suddenly I didn’t feel fashionable anymore.

  “Oh,” she said. “I know who you are. I saw you on the news. You were in handcuffs.”

  “Not my finest moment.”

  “Brady Coyle said you might try to pump me for information. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “So don’t say anything. Just listen.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She twisted away, stood, and gathered her purse and BlackBerry from the bar.

  “You filed the incorporation papers for Little Rhody Realty.”

  She looked back over her shoulder.

  “What if I did?”

  “Little Rhody is a front for mobsters who are buying up property in Mount Hope. They’re the ones behind the fires.”

  That got her attention. Eyes fixed on mine, she settled back onto the bar stool.

  “They’re burning out the families that won’t sell. They’re burning down the buildings they buy to collect the insurance. And they don’t care who gets killed.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, but she kept her seat.

  The bartender placed a fresh martini in front of her and cleared away her empty glass. I waited for him to wander down the bar before I gave her the rest of it.

  When I was done, she shook her head slowly like maybe she still didn’t believe it. Or didn’t want to.

  “Why tell me?” she said.

  “Because I did my homework. I know your best friend Amy’s place burned down on Hell Night, and I thought you might want to do something about it. I need you to get something for me.”

  When I told her what it was, she shook her head so hard her hair bounced.

  “Not a chance. Maybe I believe you and maybe I don’t, but what you’re asking could get me fired. Even disbarred.”

  “There are worse fates,” I said.

  I told her how I watched Rosie carry Tony DePrisco’s burned and broken body out of a smoldering triple-decker. I told her what Rosie looked like when they slid her out of the ambulance. I described what it must have been like for my favorite English teacher, old Mr. McCready, when he drew his last lungful of smoke. I told her about Efrain and Graciela Rueda’s dreams for their children. I told her how Scott’s body looked when the fireman carried him down the ladder. I told her how the smoke rose right through the sheet Melissa was wrapped in. I told her what it was like to watch them go into the ground.

  I was starting to tell her about the bullet holes in Scibelli’s corpse when she said, “Please stop.” She picked up her drink and took a long swallow.

  “Why me?” she said. “Why don’t you talk to the lawyers who filed the papers for the other four dummy corporations?”

  “I tried them already.”

  She didn’t say anything, just fingered the stem of her martini glass. She had beautiful eyes. Her voice had smoke in it. And as best I could tell in that suit, her legs went on awhile.

  “I’m not really white,” I said. “I’m passing.”

  She laughed softly, but there was no joy in it. I took out one of my business cards, crossed out the address, wrote in another, and slid it into her purse. Then I took a twenty from my wallet and laid it on the bar.

  70

  McCracken’s secretary celebrated an unseasonably warm Thursday in April by squeezing into a short, low-cut yellow sundress. Her nipples showed dark against the thin fabric.

  “She might as well have come to work naked,” he said, after closing his inner door.

  “Maybe she’s working her way up to that.”

 
“Something to look forward to,” he said. “Listen, I’ve been worried about you. Are you all right?”

  “I’ve got four broken ribs. I’ve been identified as a person of interest in a series of heinous crimes. The paper has suspended me without pay. My best friend is in the hospital. My best girl doesn’t want to be seen with me. And I’m pretty sure Vinnie Giordano is planning to shoot me. But the Sox are in first place, so on balance I guess I’m doing okay.”

  “Why would Giordano want to shoot you?”

  “Because of the documents I lifted from Brady Coyle’s office.”

  “You stole documents from Brady Coyle’s office?”

  “Gee. When you put it that way, it almost sounds illegal.”

  McCracken sat down behind his desk, opened his humidor, extracted two maduro torpedoes, clipped the ends, and offered me one. I took it and collapsed into a visitor’s chair.

  “Tell me all about it,” he said, and I was about to when Mason came through the door with a big yellow envelope under his arm.

  “Did you look at it?” I asked him after handling the introductions.

  “I did.”

  “Then you might as well stay.”

  He dropped into the other visitor’s chair and handed me the envelope. I opened it, pulled out the papers, and started to unfold them.

  “Wait a minute,” McCracken said. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you had him bring it here?”

  “I figured you’d want to have a look.”

  “Christ! What if he was followed?”

  “I wasn’t,” Mason said.

  “No reason he would be,” I said. “No one knew I was having him hold it. I’m the one they are looking for, and so far I’ve got them fooled into thinking I’m out of state.”

  “What if someone spotted you coming in here?”

  “That’s the reason for the disguise,” I said. I stood, removed the blazer, draped it over the back of the chair, and took off the sunglasses. McCracken stared at me now like he thought I was an idiot. He might have been on to something.

  “Look,” I said. “Do you want to see this or not?”

  He shoved some papers aside to clear desk space, and I smoothed the first document out in front of him. Anyone who’d been stuck in Providence as long as we had could recognize it as a plat map of Mount Hope’s southeast quarter. The existing buildings were gone, though, replaced by a rough layout of what appeared to be a large real estate development. In the lower right hand corner, a name and address: “Dio Construction Corp., 245 Pocasset Avenue, Providence, RI.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Wait. There’s more.”

  Four more documents, in fact, each an exterior architectural rendering or floor plan for what looked to be very expensive condominiums.

  “I removed it from a mailing tube addressed to Brady Coyle. The return address was Rosabella Development.”

  “Isn’t that Vinnie Giordano’s company?”

  “It is.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Speaking of Giordano, give this a listen,” I said. I laid the phone recorder on the desk and pressed play.

  When I clicked it off a few minutes later, McCracken said it again: “Holy shit!”

  “My Latin’s a little rusty,” I told Mason, “but I think that’s Roman Catholic for ‘Wowie.’ ”

  “I don’t get it,” Mason said.

  “Get what?”

  “How could they think they could keep this a secret? When the buildings start to go up, the developer and the builder will be a matter of public record.”

  “It’ll go something like this,” McCracken said. “The five dummy corporations will keep buying up property. When they’ve got everything they need, the arsons will stop. In the aftermath, there’ll be a lot of public hand-wringing about how to rebuild the neighborhood. Giordano and Dio will come to the rescue, offering to build something Providence can be proud of. They’ll buy the property from the five dummy companies, and no one will know they’ll actually just be buying it from themselves.”

  “Except us,” I said.

  McCracken offered Mason a cigar, and he surprised me by accepting. I leaned over to give him a light, and the three of us smoked for a while. Suddenly McCracken’s face changed as if he’d just remembered something. He slid open his top drawer, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it to me.

  “This came by messenger this morning,” he said.

  It had been sent to my attention at McCracken’s office. The address was printed in block letters. There was no return address.

  Inside was a computer printout of billing records from McDougall, Young, Coyle, and Limone. If I was right, they were going to show that the fees for incorporating the five dummy corporations had been charged to Dio or Giordano. But I was wrong.

  They had been paid for personally by Brady Coyle.

  I handed it to Mason. He looked at it and then passed it to McCracken.

  “Giordano to Dio to Coyle,” I said.

  “The three of them are in it together,” McCracken said.

  “So,” I said. “How do we make them pay?”

  McCracken got up, took three glasses down from a cabinet, filled them with ice from his minifridge, and poured us each three inches of Bushmills. We smoked, sipped our drinks, and thought about it for a while.

  It was McCracken who broke the silence.

  “Legally, I think we’re screwed.”

  “I think so, too,” I said.

  “Why’s that?” Mason said.

  “The billing records were delivered anonymously,” McCracken said. “No way to prove they’re genuine.”

  “Besides,” I said, “once Coyle realizes we have them, he’ll delete the records from the firm’s computer.”

  “The building plans are stolen property,” McCracken said. “Might make it difficult to get them admitted as evidence. Worse, they were stolen from Dio’s lawyer, which probably means they are protected by lawyer-client privilege.”

  “What about the recording?” Mason said.

  “It’s illegal,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “Rhode Island is one of a handful of states in which it’s a crime to record your own phone conversation unless you inform the other party. Besides, who does it incriminate? The way the cops will hear it, I stole some documents and used them to shake down Giordano.”

  “Use what we’ve got,” McCracken said, “and Mulligan’s the one who ends up doing time.”

  “When you add all this up,” I said, passing my hand over the documents and digital recorder, “what does it really prove, anyway? Just that Giordano, Dio, and Coyle have a secret plan to build pricey condos in Mount Hope. We don’t have any hard evidence that they’re behind the arsons.”

  “But we know they are,” McCracken said.

  “Yeah. We do.”

  “If we can’t go to the authorities,” Mason said, “is there any way we can get what we know into the newspaper?”

  It was worth a try. The three of us worked until midnight, pouring everything we had into an exposé under Mason’s byline.

  71

  In the morning, I bought some flowers at Downtown Florist and caught a cab to Warwick.

  “She’ll be happy to see you,” Gloria’s mother said as she ushered me into the house. “She’s been following the news, and she’s been worrying about you.”

  She’s been worrying about me?

  Gloria rose from the couch, where she’d been watching TV, met me in the middle of the living room, wrapped her arms around me, and gave me a squeeze. That’s when it dawned on me that my ribs were feeling better. I guess hers were too.

  We sat together on the couch and caught up. I told her there was still no news about Rosie but that I hoped to be exonerated and back to work soon. She told me the surgery on her hand had gone well and that she was scheduled for her first plastic surgery next week. Her bruises were faded now, and the fear was no lo
nger in her eyes. She was animated. She seemed hopeful. Her smile was lopsided, but it was still a smile.

  Before I left, I asked her if I could borrow her car.

  “Keep it as long as you like,” she said. “With one good eye, it’ll be a while before I get up the nerve to drive.”

  She took the keys from her purse and dropped them in my palm.

  72

  That afternoon I hid out in McCracken’s office, smoking and killing time. I fiddled with my cell, changing the ringtone to the “Peter Gunn Theme.” By five, I still hadn’t heard from Mason, and I was starting to get anxious.

  Then the orchestra began to play: “Waaaaah, wah! Waaaaah, wah-wah!”

  “So how’d it go?”

  “Not good.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  “Yeah. After Lomax and Pemberton killed the story, I went upstairs to see Dad and got the same song and dance.”

  “Start from the beginning and give me all of it, Edward.”

  “Hey! That’s the first time you called me by my real name.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just tell me what happened.”

  “First off, Lomax kept asking if I had really come up with all this on my own. Wanted to know, did I have help from you.”

  “And you said?”

  “That it was my work.”

  “He believe you?”

  “I don’t think so, but he let it slide.”

  “Then what?”

  “He had a lot of questions about sourcing. Where did I get the architectural drawings? Where did the billing records come from? How did I know they were genuine?”

  “And you said?”

  “That I couldn’t reveal my confidential sources.”

  “And then?”

  “Lomax said there was no way the paper would put its reputation on the line based on the work of a cub reporter who couldn’t disclose his sources. Not even a cub reporter whose daddy was the publisher. When I pressed the argument, he backed off and said he’d discuss it with Pemberton. He walked into the aquarium, and the two of them went into a huddle. In the middle of it, Pemberton took a call, talked for a few minutes, and hung up. After a half hour or so, they both walked over to my cubicle looking pretty mad.”