A Scourge of Vipers (33 page)

“You don't want to do this,” I said. “It violates everything your life has stood for.”

Ten seconds, and then, “I know.” His voice was a mix of regret and determination.

“Let me out, and we can both walk away. I don't have a thing on you. Nothing I can prove, anyway.”

Silence.

“I'll never mention my suspicions to anyone.”

Five seconds. “Sure you will.”

“No I won't,” I said, and I might even have meant it. “The state screwed you out of your retirement by mismanaging the pension system. You saw a chance to secure your future, and you grabbed it. I'm
glad
you took that money, Captain. It's not like it belonged somebody who deserves to get it back.”

Nothing.

Had Parisi found Romeo Alfano dead? Probably. Had he killed him for the money? Until now, I wouldn't have believed he was capable of murder.

I twisted around in the seat. As usual, Allens Avenue was nearly deserted at this time of night. Only one car was behind us now, and it had fallen back about a hundred yards.

Parisi turned left into a cluster of unlit waterfront warehouses. Some of them were abandoned, and at this hour, all of them were empty. He punched the headlights off and drove slowly toward the water, the car rocking over pavement riddled with potholes.

“You haven't thought this through,” I said.

“I think everything through.”

Not this time, I thought, but I kept that to myself.

It was a black night, so dark that I could barely see the outlines of the warehouses against an overcast sky. Parisi braked to a stop, shoved the car into park, opened his door, and climbed out. It was so quiet that I could hear the waters of upper Narragansett Bay lap against the shore.

He pulled my Kel-Tec from his jacket pocket and opened the back door on the driver's side. He was going to shoot me with my own gun.

I was on the verge of panic now. I took two deep breaths, and it helped a little.

“Get out of the car.”

“No.”

“Do it!”

I retreated to the passenger side and swung my legs onto the backseat, my cuffed hands trapped beneath me.

“If you're going to shoot me, you're going to have to do it right here.”

“You think I won't?”

“I think you'll have a hell of a time explaining the blood spatter on the backseat.”

“I'll clean it up.”

“You'll never get all of it, Captain. There'll always be a trace.”

“Get out of there, or I'll drag you out.”

I had a dozen years, four inches, and thirty pounds on him. I didn't think he was up to it. He hesitated a beat, then decided that he was. He transferred my gun to his left fist, leaned in, and grabbed my left ankle with his right hand.

I kicked him square in the face with my right foot.

His nose exploded.

The gun discharged.

For a moment, I thought I was dead; but the round had gone wild, crashing through the window behind me.

Suddenly, two flashlight beams lit us up.

“Providence PD. Drop your weapon.”

The order resonated in two-part harmony, the sweetest sound I'd heard since Yolanda played Norah Jones for me.

“Down on your knees, hands behind your head.”

I swung my feet to the floor, stuck my head out the door, and saw Parisi kneeling on the pavement. Freitas and Wargart stood over him, their guns drawn. Wargart swung his pistol my way.

“Get out of the car and drop to your knees.”

“He was going to kill me,” I said.

“That's a lie,” Parisi said.

“Just do it, Mulligan,” Freitas said. “By and by, we'll all pop into the station for a nice little chat. See if we can get this thing sorted out.”

Freitas covered us while Wargart cuffed Parisi. Ten minutes later, a squad car with two patrolmen inside pulled up. Wargart shoved Parisi into the backseat, and we watched it roll away. The homicide twins holstered their weapons, gripped my arms, and led me through the gloom, lighting the way with their flashlights. They'd left their car near the street.

It was a gray Honda Civic.

Wargart shoved me into the backseat and climbed in beside me as Freitas took the wheel.

“Where's your Crown Vic?” I asked.

“At the station,” Wargart said.

“Where'd you get this heap?”

“Borrowed it from impound. Been using it for undercover.”

“For tailing me, you mean.”

“From time to time.”

“Why?”

“We thought you'd eventually lead us to the rest of Alfano's money.”

“So why were you following Parisi tonight?”

“We weren't. We were sitting on your Mustang outside the Omni. When Parisi grabbed you, we decided to tag along. See what was up.”

“Lucky for me,” I said.

*   *   *

At the station, the homicide twins escorted me to an interrogation room, removed Parisi's handcuffs, and recuffed me with my hands in front. Then they nudged me into a chair, locked me inside the room, and swaggered off to get Parisi's side of the story. I figured they'd be gone for an hour or two. But in five minutes they were back.

“Parisi must have lawyered up,” I said.

“Good guess,” Freitas said.

“Going to read me my rights?”

“Why would we do that?” Wargart said. “I thought you were claiming to be the victim here.”

“I've got nothing to say until I speak with my lawyer.”

Yolanda stormed in a half hour later, kicked the homicide twins out, sat across the interrogation table from me, and took notes as I spilled my story. When I was done, and she finally looked up, her face was a battlefield of fear and suppressed rage. She reached into her bag for a tissue to wipe tears from her eyes.

“I almost lost you tonight.”

“You can't get rid of me that easily.”

She reached across the table and held my cuffed hands in hers for a moment. Then she regained her composure, summoned the homicide dicks, and stood in the corner while I answered a barrage of hostile questions.

“That's quite a tale,” Wargart finally said.

“It's not a tale,” Yolanda said. “Charge him or release him.”

“We're gonna need more time to sort this out,” Wargart said. “So for the time being, we're charging him with possession of stolen goods.”

“Stolen goods?” Yolanda said. “What stolen goods?”

“The money we found in his apartment,” Freitas said.

“That was planted,” Yolanda said.

“We don't know that,” Freitas said.

“Can you hold Parisi as well?” Yolanda asked.

“For illegally discharging a firearm,” Freitas said. “It's a bullshit charge, but it will have to do for now.”

I spent the next three days in a holding cell.

*   *   *

Late Thursday afternoon, the homicide twins cut me loose without an explanation or apology. When I walked out of the station house, I found Yolanda waiting at the door. She hugged me hard and drove me to the Omni to pick up Mister Ed. Three parking tickets were tucked under the wipers.

That evening she cooked for me again. This time, the music was by Michael Bublé, but the dinner conversation was all business.

“Parisi has been charged with kidnapping and attempted murder,” she said.

“Can they make it stick? It's just my word against his.”

“They've got more than that,” she said. “For one thing, he broke into your apartment before he scooped you up and left a suicide note on your computer.”

“How can they be sure
he
wrote it?”

“One of your neighbors spotted him sneaking down the fire escape. The time stamp on the note is a match for the time and date.”

“Have you seen the note?”

“No, but Freitas pulled me aside and described what was in it.”

“Tell me.”

“You confessed to killing Romeo Alfano and stealing the two hundred grand. You knew the cops had found some of the money in your apartment, and you felt the walls closing in. You didn't see any way out. So you decided to take your own life.”

“Anything else?”

“He included a sorrowful farewell to the woman you love.”

“That would be you,” I said.

“So I've heard.”

“Okay,” I said. “Now I get how he was planning to get away with it. He was going to say that he picked me up for questioning and then cut me loose. His questions panicked me, so I wandered down to the waterfront and shot myself with my gun.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Has he confessed?”

“No. But there's more.”

“What?”

“Freitas and Wargart got a court order to open Parisi's safe deposit box at Citibank. Inside, they found nearly two hundred grand in hundreds. Romeo Alfano's prints were on a few of the bank bands.”

“They're charging him with that, too?”

“With grand larceny.”

“What about Alfano's murder?”

“They still don't know if it was Parisi or Mario Zerilli,” she said. “From the sound of it, they may never find out.”

“But chances are, Parisi's going to die in prison,” I said.

“Yes.”

“It's a shame, really.”

“Why on earth would you say that?”

“Stephen Parisi was a damned good cop, Yolanda. For thirty years, he was relentless and flat-out incorruptible. And how was the state of Rhode Island prepared to reward him for his years of faithful service? By slashing the pension he and his wife were going to retire on. He didn't plan his crime. He just walked into a hotel room
I
sent him to and stumbled on two hundred grand in cash. And in a moment of weakness, he took it. Under the same circumstances, I might have done the same thing.”

“He was going to
kill
you, Mulligan.”

“It wasn't personal. He needed a patsy to pin the crime on, and I happened to be handy. I'll never forget the tortured expression on his face when he pointed the gun at me and ordered me out of the car. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I can't help but wonder, when it came right down to it, if he could have pulled the trigger.”

“I guess we'll never know,” she said.

“I bet he doesn't know either.”

Whatever Mario Zerilli's part in the drama had been, he was apparently going to get away with most of it. He may not have shot Romeo Alfano, but he probably killed Templeton. Yet the only charges pending against him were last spring's gay-bashing outside the Stable and the assault and gun charges from the incident at Whoosh's store. He'd probably serve less than ten years for all that. And when he gets out, I thought, he'll be back to making trouble for me about the bookmaking business.

I was relieved that it was all over for now, but nothing about the way things had turned out felt right.

After I helped Yolanda clear the dishes, she put Tony Bennett on the stereo. We held each other on the couch for a while, but when Bennett started crooning “Tender Is the Night,” we got up and danced.

That night, she wasn't the tender lover I had grown accustomed to. This time, she responded with urgency. She even bit me.

 

53

“You look like you could use a drink,” McCracken said.

I made a show of looking at my watch. “It's still morning.”

“But you had quite a scare this week.”

“Aw, you know me. Nerves of steel.”

He smirked, got up from behind his desk, and strolled to the bar.

“What's your poison?”

I turned and ran my eyes over the options.

“Knob Creek,” I said. “But if you want to keep me working here, you better lay in some Irish whiskey.”

“Bushmills, right?”

“That's my usual, but Locke's Single Malt would be better.”

“Done.”

He poured and handed me the bourbon. For now, it would have to do.

“How are you with the way things turned out?”

“Happy to be alive. Otherwise, everything pretty much sucks.”

“A shame about Parisi,” he said.

“Templeton, too.”

“At least our client's happy.”

“I'll bet,” I said. “No way the cops can hang murder and robbery charges on Mario now.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Um.”

“Annunzio sent over a check, and he threw in a thousand-dollar bonus.”

“How nice.”

“He's putting us on retainer, too.”

“Good to hear.”

“Do you need a few days off, or can I toss you another case?”

I took a moment to think about it, then said, “I'd like to stay busy.”

“But nothing too heavy?”

“For now, I think that would be best.”

“Got a call from Walmart yesterday. Somebody's been pilfering electronics from their store on Silver Spring. The manager will set you up with a job in the storeroom next week.”

“I dunno. Someone's bound to recognize me.”

“Shear off that mop and shave your head,” he said. “And I'll get you a pair of horn-rims with window-glass lenses. Not even Yolanda will recognize you then.”

“Unless I take my pants off,” I said.

*   *   *

I wandered into my office, opened the box containing the new Walther, and dry-fired it, testing the trigger pull. Then I fired up the computer, logged on to
The Ocean State Rag,
and caught up on the local news I'd missed while I was in lockup. Parisi's arrest had been the main story for three days running. I picked up the desk phone and dialed.

“Mulligan? I was hoping you'd call.”

“Hi, Mason.”

“Are you okay?”

“It was touch-and-go for a while, but I'm fine now.”

“Are you up to writing a first-person account of your ride with Parisi?”

“I was on a case for McCracken when it happened,” I said. “He can be a sticker for confidentiality. I'll have to check with him first.”