A Scourge of Vipers (20 page)

“The one about you pressuring the DOT to turn down the low bid and hire a paving company from your district?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“I know it caused problems for you, but it
was
fair, wasn't it?”

She sighed and uncrossed her arms.

“Maybe so,” she said.

“So what do you say?”

“First show me exactly how you plan to quote me.”

*   *   *

The conversation with Joseph Longo, head of the Senate Finance Committee, went pretty much the same way—minus the part about the DOT bill.

“Okay,” he said. “Go ahead and use my name. Be good to finally get this dirt out in the open.”

*   *   *

At Warwick police headquarters, I found Chief Hernandez in his office, reviewing the results of the latest sergeant's exam and puffing on a Cuban.

“Any chance you can get me more of these?” he asked.

“Sure thing, Oscar, but first I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“I need you on the record about Lucan Alfano.”

“What about him, exactly?”

“The part about the briefcase full of cash and the list you found in his pocket.”

“How are you going to use it?” he asked.

So I told him.

“Your work got this whole thing started,” I said. “You ought to get the credit for it.”

“I'm not looking for credit.”

“Fine. Be humble. But can you help me out here?”

“Okay,” he said. “I'm good with this.”

On the way out, I glanced at his bulletin board and saw that the photo of Ted Cruz was riddled with fresh holes.

*   *   *

Parisi slid his car window down, listened to my pitch, and shook his head.

“Forget it, Mulligan. The state police do not comment on ongoing investigations.”

“Except when it serves your interests,” I said.

“Which this time it doesn't.”

“It might. The story's going to shake the trees, and something ripe might fall out.”

Five seconds, and then, “Do you have enough to run with if I decline to comment?”

“No.”

Five seconds again. “Why not?”

“My editor's skittish. No way he's going to press with something this big unless he has official confirmation.”

Ten seconds, and then, “If I tell you anything—and I'm not saying I'm going to—you can't use my name. It would have to be attributed to a high-ranking state police official.”

“That works.”

“So what's the absolute minimum you've got to have from me?”

“I need confirmation that Templeton, Pichardo, and Longo reported bribery attempts and that the state police are conducting an investigation.”

“Sorry. I'm not confirming any names.”

“Can you at least say that there were three?”

Ten seconds this time, and then, “No. That would not be accurate.”

“There were more?”

Five seconds. “There were.”

How many?

“Five more so far.”

“Who am I missing?”

“You'll have to get that from somebody else. Are we done here?”

“Do you know who the Alfanos were working for?”

“I thought you already had that,” he said.

“Atlantic City casinos, yeah,” I said. “But which ones?”

“I'm not going there.”

“I'm guessing you don't know.”

Ten seconds. “Do you?”

“No.”

With that, he turned away and cranked the ignition.

“One last thing,” I said.

“I think I've said enough.”

“Not quite, Captain. I need you to confirm that Mario Zerilli is your chief suspect in the Templeton and Romeo Alfano murders.”

Five seconds. “The Providence PD thinks you shot them.”

“But you know better,” I said.

He turned away and stared out the windshield.

“Mario Zerilli is being sought for questioning in both killings,” he said. “That's as far as I'm willing to go.”

“Thanks. And Captain? Take care.”

*   *   *

Late that evening, I called McCracken and invited him to meet me for a beer.

“Trinity Brewhouse at eight,” he said.

“Too noisy. We need a quiet place to talk.”

So a half hour later, we slipped into Hopes and found it nearly deserted. Just one alkie hunched over the bar and a couple of off-duty cops taking turns at the pinball machine. None of them had fed the jukebox. We picked up bottles of Killian's at the bar and claimed a wobbly table by the back door.

“What's up?” McCracken said. So I filled him in.

“When I write the part about our visit to Romeo Alfano's hotel room,” I said, “is it okay if I use your name?”

“Can you leave out the part about me roughing up Mario?” he asked. “I don't want to expose myself to an assault charge.”

“I can do that.”

“Then you're good to go. Ready for another round? I'm buying.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I need to keep a clear head tonight.”

I swallowed the last of my beer, left him alone at the table, and walked back to the newspaper in the dark.

*   *   *

By one
A.M
., the newsroom had cleared out. I was the only one in the place.

I wrote mostly from memory, referring to my notes occasionally for dates and verbatim quotes. I got up from the keyboard only to fortify myself with vile vending-machine coffee. Finally, around four
A.M.
, I was finished.

I e-mailed the story to Twisdale, drove home, and poured myself a shot of Bushmills. Then I tore off my clothes, flopped onto my mattress, pulled the pillow over my head to muffle Joseph's snoring, and fell right to sleep.

 

32

“Kinda late for breakfast, ain't it?” Charlie asked.

I checked my watch—two
P.M
.

“You still got eggs, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Bacon?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then,” I said.

Charlie poured me some coffee, then cracked three eggs on the grill and slapped five strips of bacon down beside a dozen sizzling burgers.

Someone had left the day's
Dispatch
behind on the counter. I opened it to the sports page, caught up with last night's Red Sox win over the Blue Jays, then browsed through the rest of the paper. An ad from the super PAC funded by Atlantic City casinos took up all of page five.

So this must be Thursday. That's when the group's ad was scheduled to start.

I shoveled in Charlie's masterpiece without tasting it, swigged my coffee, and walked three blocks to the newspaper. There, I found Twisdale hunched over his computer screen. He was concentrating so hard that he didn't hear me step into his office.

“Boss?”

“What is it now? Oh, hey, Mulligan. Thanks for dropping by.”

“I still work here, right? I found my time card next to the punch clock.”

“For now, anyway, but you're six hours and forty-five minutes late.”

“Gonna dock my pay again?”

“Perhaps I can let it slide this time.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think I need another hour or so to finish going over this. There's a stack of press releases on your desk. I'll call for you when I'm ready.”

Ninety minutes later, he did.

“I've got some concerns,” he said.

“I thought you might.”

“I want to make sure we've eliminated any libel risk.”

“You're not running it by the company lawyers?”

“If I do, they'll advise me not to run it. They won't care whether the story actually libels anyone. They're paid to forestall any risk that somebody
might
sue. If they catch the slightest whiff that I'm not taking their advice, they'll rat me out to corporate.”

“The Alfanos are libel-proof,” I said. “Dead men can't sue.”

“What about Mario Zerilli?”

“He's on the run from the cops. Hiring a libel lawyer is the last thing on his mind now.”

“But he might get around to it later,” Twisdale said. “The story
does
implicate him in two murders.”

“All I say is that he's wanted for questioning.”

“Yeah, but the suggestion of guilt is clearly there. And that's not all. You say flat out that he was doing strong-arm work for two Jersey mobsters who were offering bribes to public officials. You've got to admit that tends to damage his reputation.”

“Not really,” I said. “Mario is a drunk driver, a domestic abuser, and a gay-basher. The whole town knows he's a violent punk. There's not much we can say that would make people think worse of him.”

“I see your point.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Yeah. I think we need to cut out the part about the Alfanos working for Atlantic City casinos.”

“Why? The information's solid.”

“Because we don't know which casinos,” he said. “As written, the story throws suspicion on all of them.”

“Okay, I'll give you that one,” I said. “How about changing ‘casinos' to ‘New Jersey gambling interests'?”

“That does the trick,” he said.

“So when will it run?”

“I'm stripping it across the top of page one on Sunday,” he said. “With mug shots of the bad guys and photos of Parisi, Hernandez, and Templeton, it'll eat up a full page inside.”

“Okay,” I said, and got up to leave. Then something else occurred to me. “Who's going to copyedit this?”

“Good question. No way I can send it to the copy center in Wichita. They might squeal to corporate. Guess I better take it home and do it myself.”

“Thanks,
Mister
Twisdale.”

“Aw, what the hell. Go ahead and call me Chuck.”

*   *   *

I owed three people a heads-up.

That afternoon, I batted out the day's weather story—warm and sunny with an 85 percent chance of bribery—and rushed through a stack of press releases. When that was done, I called Judy Abbruzzi at
The Atlantic City Press.

“Things are moving fast, here,” I said. “We're breaking the story about the Alfanos' bribery scheme on Sunday. I'm e-mailing a copy to you now. It's got enough named sources for you to match it if you hurry. Just don't break anything until we do, okay?”

“I promise. Thanks.”

“And Judy?”

“Yeah?”

“If you dig up anything I don't have, give me a call, okay?”

“Count on it.”

*   *   *

Four o'clock found me sitting in an antique visitor's chair across from the governor's desk. Fiona was in a foul mood.

“You know I have the Capitol Police sweep my office for bugs every month, right?”

“I've heard that, yeah.”

“Yesterday they found something.”

“What, exactly?”

“Voice-activated listening devices. One in the lamp beside the couch. One stitched into a corner of the state flag. And another concealed inside the desk phone.”

“Any idea who put them there?”

“At first I thought the state police might have done it as part of their bribery investigation.”

“Because your name was on Lucan Alfano's list,” I said.

“Yeah, but Captain Parisi swears it wasn't them.”

“Are we talking high-end, super-spy stuff?”

“Parisi came by himself to look them over. According to him, they're devices anybody can buy over the Internet. Says they would have picked up pretty much everything that was said in the office.”

“And both sides of every telephone conversation?”

“That's right.”

“It was all being broadcast to an outside receiver?”

“With a range of about three thousand feet,” she said.

“So whoever was listening in could have been sitting behind any desk in the statehouse or hanging out in the parking lot,” I said. “Any idea what they were after?”

“Everything lately seems to have something to do with the gambling bill.”

“A bug in the governor's office is big news,” I said. “Okay if I write about this?”

“Not just yet. Parisi wants to keep it under wraps for now.”

“Too bad. It would have made a nice sidebar to the story I'm breaking Sunday.”

“Oh?”

So I laid it out for her.

“Wow,” she said. “That's going to shake things up.”

“How do you think it will affect the gambling bill?”

“Hard to say.”

“It could cost the privatization advocates some votes,” I said.

“Because anyone who votes for privatization now will risk being suspected of taking payoffs?”

“That's what I'm thinking.”

“But it also might encourage others to walk around with their hands out, hoping to grab a share of the dirty money.”

“Probably will,” I said.

“Think the anti-gambling side is handing out bribes, too?” she asked.

“I don't have anything solid on that, but it wouldn't surprise me.”

“I'd be surprised if they aren't,” Fiona said.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I didn't want to submit the bill until I was sure I had the votes,” she said, “but I can't get a solid count. A dozen senators and House members keep switching positions, and about a third of them won't get off the fence.”

“Probably hoping to milk cash cows from both sides,” I said.

“So I don't see the point in waiting any longer,” Fiona said. “I'm going to submit the bill next week and let the chips fall where they may.”

“Okay if I print that?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

*   *   *

A half hour later, Zerilli buzzed me into his inner sanctum. I lured Shortstop out of the visitor's chair with a peanut butter–stuffed beef bone I'd picked up at Petco for the occasion. The dog snatched it and retreated to a corner. I brushed the hair off the plank oak seat and sat down.