The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer

by Rick Boyer

  "Mmmmm. But remember, it's only a little more than an hour from there to here," I said. "That doesn't necessarily clear him."

  "No. But let's face it, Doc: it helps him."

  "Sure does. I don't think he's the killer, anyway. Never did."

  Joe finished his coffee and looked skyward, stroking his stubbled chin.

  "But this leaves an interesting blank," he mused. "If not Whitesides, then who? For all their motivation, it wasn't Henderson or Chisholm. They have an airtight alibi for that Friday night; they were seen together in a bar in Falmouth until after midnight. They may have killed the kid by doctoring his pills, but they weren't up here the night he died. So if it wasn't them, then who was it Andy met outside in the rain?"

  "Maybe it was nobody," offered Mary. "Maybe Andy was just so pissed off and upset he went out for a solo walk in the rain."

  "Yeah . . . shit," said Joe, lighting a Benson and Hedges.

  "And then you thought the other two must've cooked it up together," I added. "But now, even that seems shaky. If they'd acted together, there'd be a trip-up by this time, wouldn't there?"

  "Sure would. There'd be a catch in their stories. Or more agreement in their stories. You know, something to indicate that they'd worked out an alibi in advance. So far, we're getting neither coordination nor contradiction in each story. Just a bunch of chickenshit name calling and bad mouthing, with each guy saying the other must've done it because he's such a sneaky, mean, low-down son of a bitch. Typical partners in crime, I guess."

  "Maybe they didn't kill Andy," I said. "I've had the feeling for some time that these things from the USGS lab weren't worth murder. Maybe Paul was right the first time; maybe old man Hartzell did do it."

  "That's what poor Boyd Cunningham thinks," replied Joe.

  "He keeps calling me, crying and blubbering about his son, saying he's sure Hartzell's the guy. He wants to know when we're gonna lock him up."

  "Poor guy; I really feel for him. But the fact that there's no hard evidence to support it makes it hard to swallow."

  "Don't I know it," said Joe, dragging on his cigarette.

  "You know, speaking of Lionel Hartzell, it's a shame," said Mary. "It turns out he's another casualty of this whole business. Jack says that he's clearing out his office this weekend, getting ready to leave the MBL. I guess he was just caught in the crossfire. Listen Joey: Bill Henderson's the guy. He did it, either with Chisholm or alone. Keep the pressure on; he'll crack eventually."

  "I will, Mare. You know that. We'll get Jackie cleared. The way things stand now, too much has happened, too much is revealed for things to grind to a halt. We're at a slow spot, but it's not over. You watch: something's gonna turn up."

  One hour later, after we'd done the dishes and were sitting in the living room, it did.

  * * *

  There was a muted crackle of crushed stone in the drive outside; the dogs jumped up, barking and raising hell. Joe got up from his chair, turned down the Bach on the radio, and lifted a corner of the curtain to peer outside.

  "Well whadduyuh know," he grunted, "it's Moby Dick himself."

  "Moby Dick? What're you talking about, Joey?"

  "It's the great white whale. C'mere."

  "You're right," Mary said, joining him at the window. "it is the great white whale!"

  "What the—I said, hopping up and peering out between them. They were right.

  There it was: the big white Caddy Eldo, replete with smoked glass windows, wire wheel covers, continental kit, television, and broken phone.

  It was our old pal, Slinky.

  THIRTY

  "Now what the fuck's he want?" murmured Joe. "Shit, this makes my fuckin' day."

  "Tch! Tch! Joey! You really should watch your rnouth!"

  Mary saying this. Right.

  Eddie Falcone got out of the passenger's side. When the driver, Vinnie, came out from behind the wheel, the big Eldo cased up on its shocks about four notches. I could almost hear it sigh with relief.

  "Hmmph! I see he's brought his gorilla with him," said Joe with a closed mouth. He sidestepped quickly over to the chair where his sport coat was draped and jerked it away. Underneath was his shoulder rig holding the Beretta. He withdrew the pistol from the holster and set it on the end table, put his sport coat on, then stuck the automatic inside his belt on his left side, butt forward. All this was done in a flash, with no sound and no wasted motion. Watching him, you knew he'd done it a few times before. Still, it always makes me nervous when anybody jams a loaded gun into their pants like that.

  "Should we go somewhere?" asked Mary softly.

  "Hell no. It's your house, isn't it?"

  The front door chimed and the dogs put up a racket. Joe opened the door. Slinky stood in the doorway. He was wearing a modified zoot suit with wide, padded shoulders and pleated pants. An outfit you'd see on Miami Vice. Figured. But at least he didn't have a black shirt and yellow tie. Vinnie, clad in a bronze-tone silk suit that seemed stretched over his wide body, stood two steps behind him, off to his right. just like Gunga Din in the Kipling poem, I thought, the regimental water boy who was always found waiting "right flank, rear." Only Vinnie was a hell of a lot bigger than poor old Gunga.

  "Lieutenant Brindelli. I was told you might be here. I want to talk to the doctor."

  "About what?"

  "About Andy Cunningham," said Falcone.

  Joe turned and looked at us. "Well? Shall we let him in?"

  "Why sure, Joey," said Mary. "Hi Eddie. How are you, dear?"

  Joe frowned at his sister, then stepped back from the doorway. "Okay, but tell Gloria Vanderbilt here to wait in the car, huh?"

  Vinnie's jaw dropped at the mention of Ms. Vanderbilt.

  "Get the name right, pal," he managed, rocking up and down on his toes.

  "It's okay, Vinnie," said Falcone, crossing the threshold. "Wait out here." Vinnie turned sullenly and went back to the Eldo.

  "Ah, Dr. Adams, it is indeed a pleasure," Slinky cooed as he entered the cottage. "And Mrs. Adams . . . so nice to see you again. I hope you are well. My, how lovely you look this evening."

  "Cut the shit," snapped Joe in a quiet voice. "What's up Falcone? You're facing five to ten. I'm gonna see you get inside. Now you come in here and disturb my family; I'm gonna make it ten to twenty.”

  Slinky held up his hand in polite resignation. Held it up as if to stop Joe's unseemly references to incarceration. He was nice as pie, was Slinky, and polite as a debutante.

  "See, what it is, I want to talk to you, Dr. Adams, on account of the kid. Everybody knows the kid owed me money. And like I said before, for some silly reason I have no paperwork on the loan."

  "Tch! Tch! How careless of you, Eddie," Joe chided, wagging his thick, hairy finger at the young man. "I understand completely. You want maybe we should take it up with the Better Business Bureau?"

  Falcone waved him off, and Mary offered him a seat at the kitchen table. He sat down and accepted a cup of coffee, tasting it and smacking his lips.

  "Wow, Mrs. Adams. You're as good a cook as you are beautiful."

  "Aw shucks," she said, smoothing down her skirt. She was smiling. Falcone kept sipping his java and oooing and ahhing. Joe was drumming his fingers and glaring at the kid. He wanted to throttle him; I could tell. I just sat there, eager to hear about Slinky and the kid. Falcone's dark, thinning hair was blown back over his head, as if he'd been riding a motorcycle without a helmet. He wore a cream-colored shirt, no tie, and his upper chest was covered with gold chains over a rug of dark hair. I looked again at his head and saw the inevitable bald spot beginning to spread on the back of his crown. Happens every time; you got a hairy chest, you get a bald head.

  "Okay, so here it is," he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "Andy Cunningham wasn't paying me back. He said he didn't have the money. I pushed him a little on it. Once Vinnie and me made a big push. But he still couldn't come across, so I knew he just didn't have it. Lieutenant, I'm saying this v
oluntarily, and will say the same thing in court. But. I hope you aren't taping this conversation. Are you?"

  Joe shook his head, lighting a cigarette and looking out the window. He didn't want to look at Slinky, didn't wish to acknowledge his presence more than he had to.

  "So I figured what the hey? Let him be a doctor, then he can pay me, you know? Basically, I knew he was a good kid, and not trying to pull any shit. Well, five, maybe six weeks ago, I get a call from him. He says he's going up to Eastham over the weekend with his friend Jack. Says they'll be staying at Jack's parents' cottage on the beach, right? He asks me could I come up there and meet him for a few minutes. Says he's got something for me that could be worth a lot of money."

  Joe was leaning forward now, elbows on the table, looking hard at Falcone.

  "Do you remember what day it was, exactly?" he asked.

  "When he called? Sure. It was Friday. The day of the big storm."

  "Andy was murdered that same night."

  "Uh-huh. I found that out later. So I'm taking a chance telling you this. But believe me, I didn't kill him."

  "Why should we believe you, Slinky?" asked Joe. "And why are you coming here to tell us this?"

  Falcone stirred uneasily and ran his fingers through his hair. I asked him if he'd like a drink. He brightened at the offer, and asked for a vodka and tonic.

  "Why am I here? Because, as you know, Lieutenant, I'm in a little bit of trouble. What I'm thinking is, I help you on this other business, you'll help me cut a deal later on. Okay?"

  "Maybe," said Joe sleepily, "can't promise anything, but there's a chance."

  "Well, what the hey. I mean, it can't hurt. That pile of shit he gave me isn't worth anything that I can tell. just a notebook and bunch of papers. But maybe it'll help you guys find his killer, you know?"

  "Stuff he gave you?"

  "Yeah. Said I could hold onto it for him, for collateral, he said. And when he was ready, then we could sell it for a bundle."

  "And this stuff he gave you was a bunch of papers? It wasn't rocks and graphs?" asked Mary.

  "Rocks? Hell no, Mrs. Adams. There wasn't any rocks. just a notebook and whole bunch of papers in one of those cardboard cases that tie up with a shoelace. Bunch of writing and numbers was all it was. I didn't even look at it hardly. You know?"

  "And he gave you these? For you to keep? asked Joe, leaning over the table again.

  "Yeah. I just said that."

  "And you've still got this stuff?"

  "Maybe."

  Joe let out a long, soft sigh.

  "Look," said Falcone, clasping his fingers together as if about to pray, "I know I got some time coming. I just don't wanta go to Atlanta on a federal rap. I get my ticket punched for Atlanta, I kill myself first. You get it?"

  "Gee, I can't imagine why you feel that way, Eddie. just because a young, cute guy like you, with all those delicate manners of yours, is gonna be in the slammer with all those scuzzbags who haven't seen a broad in half a lifetime. So you're gonna have to play drop the soap for all those—

  "Stop it, Joey!" snapped Mary. She was boiling mad, and I knew why. She was thinking about what could happen to her own son. Then she collected herself. "Go ahead, Eddie. Tell us everything."

  "Thanks, Mrs. Adams. Hey, where's your family from?"

  "Schenectady."

  "No, I mean, where're you from?"

  "San Mango, in Calabria."

  "Ahhh, calabrese! Even Sicilians fear the Calabrians."

  "For good reason," Mary answered.

  Eddie Falcone laughed. Little did he know . . .

  "So c'mon, Eddie. What happened that night?" asked Mary.

  "Well, let's see. He called me earlier that day, Friday. I think it was late in the morning, or maybe early afternoon. Wait. Yeah, it was afternoon, because he called me at a place I go to in Pawtucket. I remember sitting at the bar there when they brought the phone to me, and I remember looking at the clock. Well, I wasn't real anxious to drive up to the Cape then, you know? So I says, what is it? He says I can't explain it now, but you'll hafta trust me, and if you'll keep it for me safe and hidden, then at the end of the summer or whatever, I'll help you sell it for a lot more scratch than I owe you. That's what he told me. In a nutshell. And so then what I realize is, I realize I gotta go up there because you know why? Because him not paying me back, well, it looks bad, you know? Guy like me's got a rep to keep up. I mean, it gets around guys aren't paying Slinky back, it gets worse, you know?"

  "Yeah. Or, you could always go to the authorities and complain, couldn't you, Eddie?"

  "Hey yeah, right. Funny. So funny I should write it down. So we're talking and he tells me how to get here. You know, to this place, here. I says no, too obvious. I says name a place I can't miss, I'll meet you there. He says the windmill. Meet me at the Eastham windmill. I says where the hell is that? He says it's right off the highway, on your left. Can't miss it. So I says okay but it better be good. Can I have another, Mrs. Adams?"

  Mary got him some more Destroyer and Slinky rattled right along, not missing a beat.

  "So I leave the bar after dinner. First thing I realize when I go outside—Holy Christ! It's raining and blowing like crazy. I almost don't go. But then I figure what the hey; I'll have Vinnie drive while I watch movies in the back. So we're riding up here in the thunder and rain and I'm having a drink or two in the back, you know, watching some skin flicks. So finally Vinnie—"

  "You were watching skin flicks all by yourself?" said Mary. "Poor baby."

  "Lay off, Mare," said Joe.

  "Anyway, so Vinnie, he spots the windmill. We stop the car and wait. Finally, here comes the kid, soaked through and lugging this case with him, which he's holding under his raincoat. He gets in the car with me; I offer him a drink. He says no; he feels like shit. Says he's feeling so bad he wants to go right back and crash. So I say okay, let's see. Well, like I said before, it was nothing I could dig. I says you better not be yanking my chain, kid. 'Cause if you are, it's bye-bye time—"

  He paused suddenly in his narrative and looked up at Joe. "Not that I woulda done anything. You know. just an expression. So it winds up like this: I say let's meet in a coupla months and go over this together when we got more time. Meanwhile, don't get the idea you're off the hook because personally, I mean, speaking for myself, this don't look like shit."

  "And?” said Joe.

  "And . . . and so I drop the kid off at the bottom of this little road here, watch him walking back up to this house, and that's the last I ever saw of him."

  "So where's the stuff he gave you?"

  "You'll gimme a break?"

  "I'll do all I can," said Joe. "That's my promise, and you've got two family witnesses."

  Eddie Falcone slapped his two hands down on the table.

  "That's good enough for me,” he said. "But mind if I get my own witness?"

  "Not him," I said. "Does it have to be him?"

  "Who the hell else I got?"

  "Okay," growled Joe, "but tell Tinkerbell to leave all his toys in the car, okay? And also, remind him not to eat the door on his way in."

  So Falcone left and returned shortly with Godzilla, who stood near the table and nodded evenly at all that was said, sipping sullenly on a glass of red Mary had poured for him. How he was supposed to remember everything was beyond me, but then Falcone stood up, telling us to come along. We approached Slinky's mob-mobile as Vinnie raised the trunk and withdrew a brown cardboard file case and handed it to Joe. I looked over his shoulder as he opened it. He took the notebook out first, then bundle after bundle of papers. Some were typed, most were written in longhand. We saw crude diagrams, chemical and mathematical formulas, and miscellaneous scribblings and jottings. But no matter how apparently sloppy and haphazard the file appeared, there was no doubt as to what it was.

  "Son of a bitch," said Joe. "The research notes of Lionel Hartzell."

  "Good God. The kid was ripping off everything he could lay his hands on."


  "Is it what we thought?" Mary asked.

  "Yeah, it's what we thought. jeeez, Mare, who'd ever think that a kid as charming and smart as Andy Cunningham would be trying to hold up everybody in his path. Maybe it's just as well he's dead. I know, I know, it's a shitty thing to say. But what kind of

  doctor would he have made?"

  We said goodbye to Slinky. Joe told him not to get any bright ideas and take off. Mary gave him a hug, saying the dinner offer still held. Then she held up the paper bag he'd given her and thanked him.

  "Aw, it's nothing," he said. "Hope you enjoy them."

  "By the way, Eddie," I said, "how come everybody calls you Slinky?”

  "Oh, well I'm not real proud of it. About six years ago, I got real drunk at my cousin's wedding? Well, the reception was up on the second floor of this big hotel in Providence? Anyways, I got so bombed I passed out as I was getting ready to go down the stairs? So what happened, I fell over and rolled, bump, bump, bump, bump, you know, all the way down this wicked high staircase. Shit! Lucky it was carpeted thick. So anyways, afterwards they said I looked like a Slinky. You know, a Slinky is a kinda toy. It's a spring that goes—"

  "Yeah yeah yeah," said Joe. "Take off, Falcone. And stick around for your hearing. As for Twinkletoes over there, get him to watch Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. Maybe it'll help."

  The big white caddy rolled away from the Breakers, and we went inside. The first thing Joe did was to call Paul Keegan's office in Hyannis to tell him to reopen Lionel Hartzell's file.

  "So you were right all along, Paul. It was the old guy. He looks better for it now than anybody. Our mistake was in assuming the burglaries and the murder were connected. Andy Cunningham was playing all sides against the middle, and lots of people had reason to kill him. What? Yeah. That's what I'd do; I'd start right now."

  He hung up, and Mary went to the phone.

  "I'm going to call Jackie and tell him," she said.

  "Well, while you're at it, tell him to steer clear of old man Hartzell until Paul Keegan gets there," I said. 'Joe, what'll he do tonight? Take him in?"

  "Well where is he then?" said Mary into the phone. "Can you ask his brother? Is Tony there?"