by Linda Barnes
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www.minotaurbooks.com
Outstanding Praise for Linda Barnes
and Her Mysteries
LIE DOWN WITH THE DEVIL
“All the action and suspense you expect from a Linda Barnes book are here in spades.”
—BookPage
“Carlotta Carlyle was one of the first female private detectives…and her 12th outing shows why she’s still one of the standards against which subsequent female PIs measure themselves.”
—Baltimore Sun
“Things get moving quickly…It’s still Carlyle’s show; her courage and vulnerability are both on full display as she grapples with a change that promises a refreshing…shift in her already turbulent life.”
—Booklist
“A startling new chapter in the heroine’s checkered personal life.”
—Kirkus Reviews
HEART OF THE WORLD
“This mystery has both timeless and contemporary appeal…a winner.”
—Boston Herald
“An emotionally cliff-hanging ending.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The breakout book of the series…that will shock and surprise the reader. Essential reading.”
MORE…
—Library Journal
“With every novel, Linda Barnes reminds us of two key facts—she was one of the first and she remains one of the best. Heart of the World has everything that Carlotta Carlyle fans have come to expect from this seminal series. Barnes has never been better, and that’s saying a lot.”
—Laura Lippman, author of To the Power of Three
“Linda Barnes has long been one of the most skilled and artful writers of the crime novel. With Heart of the World she proves it and takes it up to a new level. This is her best.”
—Michael Connelly, author of The Lincoln Lawyer
“Heart of the World illuminates the power of our deepest regrets and the fleeting chances we sometimes get to fill the emptiness in our souls. Writing with sensitivity and grace, Linda Barnes once more demonstrates why ex-cop Carlotta Carlyle has become a treasured mainstay in the field of crime fiction.”
—Robert Crais, author of The Forgotten Man
DEEP POCKETS
“[There’s] plenty to keep a reader chasing after the delightful Carlyle while she chases after the bad guys.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Barnes weaves an intricate web with a pleasingly poisonous spider at its center…Barnes makes superb use of the town-gown tensions…the twists and turns in this nail-biter are at once startling without ever becoming absurd.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With Deep Pockets, Barnes locks in her position as one of the foremost practitioners of middle-of-the-road, character-based mystery…I suppose I could have put it down. But I didn’t want to.”
—Orson Scott Card
THE BIG DIG
“Pure pleasure.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A true page-turner…nobody knows Boston like Linda Barnes’s red-haired private investigator Carlotta Carlyle…Barnes’s knack for crisp, snappy dialogue, and devising a mystery that has both timeless and contemporary appeal, is a winner.”
—Boston Herald
“Barnes grabs the detective genre by the throat but rarely lets style overtake substance. The plot is thick and original and sure to surprise.”
—Washington Times
“Carlotta Carlyle combines the sensitivity of Robert Parker’s Spenser with the stubbornness of Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawski and she’s rapidly carving out a place of her own.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A shrewd piece of writing, well-researched and smartly told.”
—Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review
“Carlotta is an engaging narrator with a brisk, easygoing style…a worthy competitor in the private eye business.”
—The Washington Post
COLD CASE
“[A] vivid puzzler and a walloping good read…lay in the supply of midnight oil before you pick up this book.”
—Albuquerque Journal
“A satisfyingly complex tale!”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A must for every mystery fan. Barnes is a master storyteller, and her latest—in a series that just keeps getting better—is a riveting read that is at once poignant, funny, sad, suspenseful, and hopeful.”
—Booklist
“Barnes continues to write some of the best female detective mysteries on the market today. Readers will dive into the action from start to finish. Carlotta is a great female sleuth and the supporting cast adds dichotomous local color to the tale.”
—Harriet Klausner, Painted Rock Reviews
“Engrossing…. The pages keep turning.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Compelling.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Absorbing…Barnes keeps readers flipping pages…. The quickly paced tale neatly balances thought and action, past events and present consequences.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“Cold Case is as good as it gets! Linda Barnes is one of today’s best authors, mystery or not. Each new book gives us the best in writing, plot and character development.”
—Kate’s Mystery Books
HARDWARE
“Ms. Barnes makes a fist and puts some muscle in this strong plot about an extortionist scheme to corner the market in the taxi medallions.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Warning, this is a difficult book to put down!”
—Kansas Ledger
“Barnes’s knack for crisp, snappy dialogue and devising a mystery that has both timeless and contemporary appeal is a winner.”
—Boston Herald
“More than Grafton and far more than Paretsky, Barnes manages to overcome the too-tough tendencies of her detective with salvos of self-deprecating wit.”
—Booklist
SNAPSHOT
“Barnes’ best work yet…some of the best detective fiction you’ll read.”
—Detroit Free Press
“A stunner!”
—Denver Post
“Irresistible!”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Barnes scored a direct hit with Steel Guitar, and her P.I. is in top form here.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Snapshot is destined to secure Barnes’ position in the hotshot ranks of detective fiction.”
—Arizona Republic
CARLOTTA CARLYLE BOOKS
BY LINDA BARNES
Lie Down with the Devil
Flashpoint
Heart of the World
Deep Pockets
The Big Dig
Cold Case
Hardware
Snapshot
Steel Guitar
Coyote
The Snake Tattoo
A Trouble of Fools
LIE DOWN
WITH THE
DEVIL
Linda Barnes
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as �
�unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
LIE DOWN WITH THE DEVIL
Copyright © 2008 by Linda Appelblatt Barnes.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2008018091
ISBN: 0-312-35645-5
EAN: 978-0-312-35645-3
Printed in the United States of America
Minotaur Books edition / August 2008
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / August 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Luis Gabriel
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank many of the usual suspects, including Richard Barnes, Sam Barnes, Gina Maccoby, Kelley Ragland, Matt Martz, and Sarah Smith. She would also like to thank Kate Mattes for book signings, Christmas parties, and moral support.
PART ONE
ONE
When my fare hauled himself out of the cab near Up-hams Corner, I took it as a sign, but face it, even if the fat man’s destination had been fifty miles from my goal, I’d have found another convenient omen. I’d made the decision late last night. I needed to have it out with Mooney.
The rump end of a minor hangover beat a tattoo in my left temple, and I knew that if I didn’t take action, I’d stay home tonight, sprawled on the sofa like a dead-beat, watching old movie reruns, pouring too many Rolling Rocks down my throat. Again. Since it’s my considered opinion that it’s better to do anything than nothing, I was determined to find out why Mooney wasn’t answering his phone, why he hadn’t replied to my increasingly urgent messages. Mooney’s a guy you can count on, reliable as taxes, so his unresponsiveness was alarming.
I buttoned my sweater closer to my chin and tried for more warmth from the heater. It gave a gasp and a shudder. Tepid air trickled out near my icy feet.
I didn’t want to track Moon down at Headquarters. I had mixed feelings about my former place of employment, plus there was the parking. Fact: Parking at the new Crosstown site is laughable, nonexistent and maddening, the subject of lawsuits by irritated officers. Nor did I relish the thought of hanging out at Moon’s apartment building, spooking his neighbors. So I took advantage of my drop-off point to head farther south, swerving over the Neponset River Bridge to Quincy Shore Drive. Stopped at a traffic light, I squinted into the rearview mirror, ran a hand through my disheveled hair, then cupped it over my mouth and smelled my breath. I hadn’t had a drink in hours, but it seemed like the smell of beer was seeping from my pores.
I popped the center armrest console, hoping for breath mints, and found nothing but crumpled gas receipts and wadded tissues. If it had been my car, instead of one of Gloria’s crummy Fords, breath mints would have nested sweetly among the tapes, CDs, tampons, and apple cores, but my vintage red Toyota was dead at the bottom of a New Hampshire ravine and I still hadn’t purchased a replacement. I’d planned to do it, made a list of possibilities, but a mad dash out of the country had put it and everything else in my life on hold.
Gloria’s voice chimed over the two-way, asking any available cab to do a pickup in Maverick Square. I switched her off with barely a flicker of guilt. East Squantum Street changed its name to Dorchester Street without so much as a by-your-leave, and then the Long Island Causeway stretched its skinny neck out to Moon Island, home of the Boston Police Department Firing Range.
When I drive, I listen to music. Maybe it was because the cab didn’t have a working radio that my thoughts strayed, replaying the conversation I’d had last night just before the six-pack beckoned from the refrigerator.
Sam Gianelli, phoning from who knows where. When I’d asked his location, I got silence, meaningful silence, a warning silence I resented.
“You think I wouldn’t know if my line was tapped?” I’d said.
I’d heard him sigh, but he hadn’t answered. And yes, it had been a stupid thing to say. Maybe they’ve got some new gizmo I can’t test for; maybe they’re one step ahead. So I didn’t press for his location, but I’d tried to press on other things, like when he was coming back to the States, like what I could do to unravel the mess that was keeping him out of the country.
That had gotten a response, a quick one.
“Nothing, Carlotta. That’s exactly why I called. I mean, I called to see how you’re doing, how Paolina’s doing, too, but I want it clear. Don’t get involved. Don’t mess with this.”
Hell with that, I’d thought; I was involved.
“So what are you saying, Sam? Goodbye? Are we going to limit the relationship to phone sex from now on?”
“Don’t do anything.”
“But, Sam—”
“I’ll call again.”
A click. A hang-up. A dead end. So I’d drunk my beers and decided that nothing was harder than doing nothing. Remembering, I steered one-handed through heavy traffic, brooding and yanking at a strand of hair. Wherever Sam was, I decided, it was probably warmer than Boston. Most likely piles of snow hadn’t turned brown and muddy, with a top layer of dingy gray. I was only planning to ask Mooney a few questions, and asking wasn’t doing. If Sam inquired, I could still say I’d done nothing, respected his wishes, foolish as they were.
Mooney was my old boss at the BPD. I’d worked for him—with him—for six years before I turned in the badge and went private. I was the restless one, the woman in a hurry, the one who needed change to survive. He was the creature of habit and I was counting on that habit now: The last Thursday of the month, first thing in the morning, Mooney shot at the Moon Island range.
In the 1700s, Boston’s Harbor Islands served as military outposts to protect the then-bustling seaport. Today, most of them form a chain of national parks. Some, like Bumpkin, Hangman, Snake, Nixes Mate, and Worlds End, in addition to the more mundanely named Thompson and Spectacle, are open to the public. Moon Island, a bump connecting Long Island to the mainland, is more a peninsula than an island, thanks to the causeway. There’s a firefighter training facility at the eastern end, right before the Long Island Bridge, and a nineteenth-century wastewater treatment plant. The firing range is tucked in between the two.
Pulling into a space in the level gravel lot, I opened the cab door and sniffed an unexpectedly salty breeze. Living in Cambridge, the way I do, you can almost forget the proximity of the Atlantic. I inhaled the sea air gratefully. There’s something cleansing about the ocean, all that green water licking the shore, endless and timeless, soothing and hypnotizing. It would be here forever. It didn’t care.
I sucked in a deep breath, trying to summon some of the Atlantic’s cool indifference for my upcoming encounter, attempting to submerge my feelings, keep them hidden like the secret reefs and rocks beneath the surface of the sea. I suspected that my ex-boss had gotten every single one of my messages, that he’d decided to ignore them because he didn’t want to part with information. I needed to make him understand that he needed to answer my questions. I needed to stay calm in spite of emotion that roiled like the great white waves breaking near the shore.
I slammed the car door harder than I intended to, and the noise reverberated. My parka, too heavy to drive in, was stowed in the trunk. I pulled it on and zipped it shut against the wind.
Since I was no longer a member of the force, I technically had no right to pass through the small white bungalow and visit the range. I didn’t think anyone would bother to stop me since members of the general public, while not welcome to shoot at will, are required to make the occasional appearance. The Moon Island range is where citizens go to get their gun licenses renewed. I could always lie and giv
e that as my purpose, but I didn’t think I’d need deception. A smile, a wave, a confident walk, they fool even cops.
My luck was in; I didn’t need a cover story because I knew the guy on the desk.
“Mooney,” I said, coming in the front door, continuing out the rear.
He was in the third lane, wearing dark glasses and ear protectors, firing, spent cartridges flying from his Glock. He didn’t notice me and that was fine.
For half a second I was sorry I hadn’t brought my Smith. I like to shoot; I like the smell of the range. I’m not crazy about target shooting; I don’t get off on it the way some of the guys used to—I am the best and all that competitive malarkey. I’m good. I’ve got a good eye for spotting a volleyball on a court, a good eye for a target, but I know target is just a sport, like volleyball. It’s not street.
I watched Mooney out of the corner of one eye. I took his wardrobe for granted, the navy pants and light blue shirt that might as well be a uniform. I knew his routine: 120 rounds, three times the limit carried on the street, fourteen in the gun and two thirteen-round clips. Moon’s not a street cop anymore, but he talks about going back, says he’d rather be moved down the ranks than up. Lots of guys say that, talk about the good old days, but I believe Mooney. He’s good at working the streets, better at streets than bureaucracy, and he excels at bureaucracy. When the suits bring pressure to bear, he tells the uncomfortable truth, ready to step down to the detective bureau or walk a beat and wear the uniform again. So far he’s kept his position as head of Homicide, but he walks a fine line. I thought I saw him notice me, and I wondered what my presence would do for his numbers.
“Hey, I figured that was you.”
The instructor approached; what was his name? Harry, right, Harry something. A nice broad-beamed guy who’d lost his partner in a shootout and decided to teach other cops how and, more important, when to use their weapons. I smiled and nodded. What are you supposed to say when someone says, “I figured that was you”?
